Merry Late Christmas/Happy Hanukkah, Katherine and Elisabeth!
So here's your Carton/Darnay. :D
This was SO WEIRD to write, because a) I hate Dickens, and b) I don't believe in this pairing. And I kept having them speak Shakespeare-ese instead of Victorian-Formal-ese a la Dickens.
And allow me the blatant innuendo scattered throughout...
...and I don't know where Wordplay!Sydney Carton came from. Probably Shakespeare again; he's sort of Mercutio-ish here, except with TEH DEPRESSION.
Concrit is welcome and appreciated.
The knocking came in the darkest hour of night, when a drunk, dissheveled Sydney Carton would have liked nothing better than to be allowed to sleep undisturbed. He groaned and rolled over in his alarmingly unmade bed and pulled a pillow over his head, thinking perhaps he would smother himself and never have to get up and greet anyone, ever again.
But the visitor was persistent, and the knocking grew louder. Carton, submitting to the pounding that the noise was raising in his head, staggered to his feet and pulled his tangled hair roughly out of his eyes. He didn’t keep a mirror in the dismal little apartment - why would he ever want to look at himself? - so he glanced at the window instead. With his features darkened by the glass, he looked like death.
Still the knocking persisted. Carton roared something unintelligible even to him, made his way to the door, and flung it carelessly open.
The doorknob made a loud bang when it hit the wall, and Charles Darnay jumped, startled. Not more startled than Carton was to see him, though, nor did he have an inkling of the mortification Carton felt at greeting him in this state. Darnay was impeccably dressed and groomed as usual, and there was an unsettled air about him.
“Good evening, sir,” said Darnay, the epitome of propriety.
“It’s morning,” Carton informed him.
“Ah. Yes. It may be.” There was something strange about his voice, Carton noticed - an accent?
When Carton just stared morosely at him in response, Darnay continued, “Pardon me, sir, truly, your pardon, please. I do not mean to arouse you at such an unseemly time of night, but I must - I must beg of you -”
“Come to your point,” said the tired Sydney.
“I must tell someone,” said Darnay, and there was such a sudden panic in his voice that Carton stepped aside at once to let the man he might have been into his house.
Darnay, murmuring thank-yous, entered and seemed not to notice the dismal state of the house, He sat down on a threadbare couch in the living room where Carton never entertained anyone, and began nervously trying to crack his knuckles, and apparently he’d been at it before; they were all cracked out and made no sound.
Carton went back into the bedroom and pulled a blanket around his shoulders. He was the king of disorder, he thought to himself, and pulling his royal robes about him, he sat absolutely as far as possible on the other end of the couch from Darnay, and frowned at him, not wanting to show his true concern. Probably a drunken emotion, he thought.
“I am sorry to impose,” said Darnay.
“You are not imposing in any sense of the word,” said Carton, and laughed at himself.
Darnay, a bit disconcerted, shifted in his seat and said urgently, “I find myself - there is a matter of some concern - are you quite all right? My good man, look at me.”
Carton realized he’d been letting his eyes cross. He tried to focus them on Darnay’s face, but found it too painful and slumped back on the couch. “Just tired,” he mumbled.
“I am sorry,” said Darnay in the agonized good-hearted way of his, “so sorry to wake you. I - I pray that you will listen, I need only an ear.” He leaned forward, and Carton watched as just a single dark strand of hair escaped from the perfect ribbon at the back of Darnay’s head, and thought in an odd self-satisfied way, Now I see you at your worst.
“I have two ears,” he said, still trying to bring his eyes into focus, “to offer you; you are welcome to them both.”
“I could not tell Lucie,” said Darnay. “She would not be able to endure it, and I do love her so - and you have been such a true friend to us, Carton, whatever you will say to slander yourself, and I felt you could be trusted, whatever your condition; you are a much better man than you allow yourself to think.”
Sydney Carton smiled, and if there was anything bitter in that smile, it was because it was the middle of the night, and he was drunk and uninhibited, and nothing more.
What he said was, “If there is anything about you, Darnay, that could cause a man any amount of shock, consider me shocked at that.”
“My name,” said Darnay suddenly, as if exorcising demons, “is Evremonde.”
Carton frowned, confused. “French?” When Darnay nodded, he frowned further and said, “Well, that explains the... the accent, I suppose it is, you have sometimes. But why on earth should you hide such an innocuous... well, I suppose some Englishmen would say otherwise, but I would say such an innocuous trait as... Frenchness?”
“We are a noble family, of some prestige,” said Darnay, a tremor in his tone. “We have done some... regrettable things... there is talk of revolution. My uncle has been killed. Oh God, Sydney -” Darnay suddenly moved forward on the couch and caught Sydney’s wrists in his hands. “I fear I shall be called back. I fear they shall not rest until all of my name have been killed, for what we have done -”
“Lucie,” said Carton softly, taking Darnay’s hands and cradling them in his own, because perhaps he could warm them both that way; it was very cold in the apartment - “Lucie would mourn greatly, you’re right.”
There was a heavy silence, and then Darnay said, “You think nothing worse of me, for being so secretive, then?”
“There are some secrets that men must keep,” murmured Carton. “I know this.”
Darnay smiled, and it was a genuine, altogether charming and unsarcastic smile, a feature as different from Sydney Carton as it was possible to be. It might have cleft Carton’s heart, if such a thing were possible in such an indifferent man. “I shall leave you, then,” Darnay said.
“You wanted nothing more?” asked an incredulous Sydney Carton.
“Nothing more than your ears to hear me, my good man. I have said,” said Darnay gently. “You listen like no one I know, and never retaliate afterwards.”
A good quality, thought Sydney wryly. How ironic, that he is the only one to notice it.
“I am very much in your debt,” said Darnay as he rose awkwardly and moved toward the door.
“And I in yours,” said Carton quietly to himself, following Darnay. “I will see you out,” he told Darnay decisively, and proceeded to lead him down the dark staircase and out onto the street, only swaying slightly on his feet.
It had begun to snow, and the streetlights, their glass cases foggy with condensation, cast faint circles of yellow light amid the whiteness. The barren wasteland, filled with light. Snowflakes collected in Charles Darnay’s hair as he thanked Sydney Carton yet again for his hospitality.
Then, impulsively, without reason or sense, Carton stumbled forward and kissed him, kissed him in an aspiring way, as if questioning whether the kiss was worthy of the lips of so good a man. And the brisk snow landed on his face but did not sting, and he didn’t know if it was because of the alcohol or Darnay’s presence, and for just a moment he was kissing greatness, kissing opportunity and happiness and life.
And then Darnay pulled away, and Sydney Carton wasn’t even sure whether or not he had returned the kiss. “I must - I must return to Lucie,” he stammered, lurching backward, looking alarmed. He hesitated, then managed, “I will see you again soon, I hope,” before turning and hurrying away.
Sydney Carton watched him go, then absent-mindedly caught a few snowflakes on his tongue. He felt purged of all feelings, longings, bitternesses, and he slept more deeply that night than he could ever remember having done.
___________________________________________________________________________
This was SO WEIRD to write, because a) I hate Dickens, and b) I don't believe in this pairing. And I kept having them speak Shakespeare-ese instead of Victorian-Formal-ese a la Dickens.
And allow me the blatant innuendo scattered throughout...
...and I don't know where Wordplay!Sydney Carton came from. Probably Shakespeare again; he's sort of Mercutio-ish here, except with TEH DEPRESSION.
Concrit is welcome and appreciated.
The knocking came in the darkest hour of night, when a drunk, dissheveled Sydney Carton would have liked nothing better than to be allowed to sleep undisturbed. He groaned and rolled over in his alarmingly unmade bed and pulled a pillow over his head, thinking perhaps he would smother himself and never have to get up and greet anyone, ever again.
But the visitor was persistent, and the knocking grew louder. Carton, submitting to the pounding that the noise was raising in his head, staggered to his feet and pulled his tangled hair roughly out of his eyes. He didn’t keep a mirror in the dismal little apartment - why would he ever want to look at himself? - so he glanced at the window instead. With his features darkened by the glass, he looked like death.
Still the knocking persisted. Carton roared something unintelligible even to him, made his way to the door, and flung it carelessly open.
The doorknob made a loud bang when it hit the wall, and Charles Darnay jumped, startled. Not more startled than Carton was to see him, though, nor did he have an inkling of the mortification Carton felt at greeting him in this state. Darnay was impeccably dressed and groomed as usual, and there was an unsettled air about him.
“Good evening, sir,” said Darnay, the epitome of propriety.
“It’s morning,” Carton informed him.
“Ah. Yes. It may be.” There was something strange about his voice, Carton noticed - an accent?
When Carton just stared morosely at him in response, Darnay continued, “Pardon me, sir, truly, your pardon, please. I do not mean to arouse you at such an unseemly time of night, but I must - I must beg of you -”
“Come to your point,” said the tired Sydney.
“I must tell someone,” said Darnay, and there was such a sudden panic in his voice that Carton stepped aside at once to let the man he might have been into his house.
Darnay, murmuring thank-yous, entered and seemed not to notice the dismal state of the house, He sat down on a threadbare couch in the living room where Carton never entertained anyone, and began nervously trying to crack his knuckles, and apparently he’d been at it before; they were all cracked out and made no sound.
Carton went back into the bedroom and pulled a blanket around his shoulders. He was the king of disorder, he thought to himself, and pulling his royal robes about him, he sat absolutely as far as possible on the other end of the couch from Darnay, and frowned at him, not wanting to show his true concern. Probably a drunken emotion, he thought.
“I am sorry to impose,” said Darnay.
“You are not imposing in any sense of the word,” said Carton, and laughed at himself.
Darnay, a bit disconcerted, shifted in his seat and said urgently, “I find myself - there is a matter of some concern - are you quite all right? My good man, look at me.”
Carton realized he’d been letting his eyes cross. He tried to focus them on Darnay’s face, but found it too painful and slumped back on the couch. “Just tired,” he mumbled.
“I am sorry,” said Darnay in the agonized good-hearted way of his, “so sorry to wake you. I - I pray that you will listen, I need only an ear.” He leaned forward, and Carton watched as just a single dark strand of hair escaped from the perfect ribbon at the back of Darnay’s head, and thought in an odd self-satisfied way, Now I see you at your worst.
“I have two ears,” he said, still trying to bring his eyes into focus, “to offer you; you are welcome to them both.”
“I could not tell Lucie,” said Darnay. “She would not be able to endure it, and I do love her so - and you have been such a true friend to us, Carton, whatever you will say to slander yourself, and I felt you could be trusted, whatever your condition; you are a much better man than you allow yourself to think.”
Sydney Carton smiled, and if there was anything bitter in that smile, it was because it was the middle of the night, and he was drunk and uninhibited, and nothing more.
What he said was, “If there is anything about you, Darnay, that could cause a man any amount of shock, consider me shocked at that.”
“My name,” said Darnay suddenly, as if exorcising demons, “is Evremonde.”
Carton frowned, confused. “French?” When Darnay nodded, he frowned further and said, “Well, that explains the... the accent, I suppose it is, you have sometimes. But why on earth should you hide such an innocuous... well, I suppose some Englishmen would say otherwise, but I would say such an innocuous trait as... Frenchness?”
“We are a noble family, of some prestige,” said Darnay, a tremor in his tone. “We have done some... regrettable things... there is talk of revolution. My uncle has been killed. Oh God, Sydney -” Darnay suddenly moved forward on the couch and caught Sydney’s wrists in his hands. “I fear I shall be called back. I fear they shall not rest until all of my name have been killed, for what we have done -”
“Lucie,” said Carton softly, taking Darnay’s hands and cradling them in his own, because perhaps he could warm them both that way; it was very cold in the apartment - “Lucie would mourn greatly, you’re right.”
There was a heavy silence, and then Darnay said, “You think nothing worse of me, for being so secretive, then?”
“There are some secrets that men must keep,” murmured Carton. “I know this.”
Darnay smiled, and it was a genuine, altogether charming and unsarcastic smile, a feature as different from Sydney Carton as it was possible to be. It might have cleft Carton’s heart, if such a thing were possible in such an indifferent man. “I shall leave you, then,” Darnay said.
“You wanted nothing more?” asked an incredulous Sydney Carton.
“Nothing more than your ears to hear me, my good man. I have said,” said Darnay gently. “You listen like no one I know, and never retaliate afterwards.”
A good quality, thought Sydney wryly. How ironic, that he is the only one to notice it.
“I am very much in your debt,” said Darnay as he rose awkwardly and moved toward the door.
“And I in yours,” said Carton quietly to himself, following Darnay. “I will see you out,” he told Darnay decisively, and proceeded to lead him down the dark staircase and out onto the street, only swaying slightly on his feet.
It had begun to snow, and the streetlights, their glass cases foggy with condensation, cast faint circles of yellow light amid the whiteness. The barren wasteland, filled with light. Snowflakes collected in Charles Darnay’s hair as he thanked Sydney Carton yet again for his hospitality.
Then, impulsively, without reason or sense, Carton stumbled forward and kissed him, kissed him in an aspiring way, as if questioning whether the kiss was worthy of the lips of so good a man. And the brisk snow landed on his face but did not sting, and he didn’t know if it was because of the alcohol or Darnay’s presence, and for just a moment he was kissing greatness, kissing opportunity and happiness and life.
And then Darnay pulled away, and Sydney Carton wasn’t even sure whether or not he had returned the kiss. “I must - I must return to Lucie,” he stammered, lurching backward, looking alarmed. He hesitated, then managed, “I will see you again soon, I hope,” before turning and hurrying away.
Sydney Carton watched him go, then absent-mindedly caught a few snowflakes on his tongue. He felt purged of all feelings, longings, bitternesses, and he slept more deeply that night than he could ever remember having done.
___________________________________________________________________________