Dickensian crack!fic chapter 3.1
Gah!! Okay, this is the first half of chapter 3, and I hope it isn't too dull with too much description etc. As ever, I've got myself way too much plot, and not enough...well, sex, I guess ;) Also, lashings of apologies for non-angst fans, but I don't think this chapter will be for you. About half of it is mopey James and Jezza!ghost but there's way too much sick!Richard, I guess...and the next half is just as bad. But, anyway, I'll stop apologising and, if anybody dare go on, cut to the chase:
Title: Deathly Expectations, chapter 3, part 1.
Words: 1,943 (okay that's enough for a whole chapter, I guess!)
Pairing: James/Other
Rating: oh, um, R-ish.
Warnings: death!fic, ghost!fic, drug-use, bad prose, bad language, sick!Richard. The usual, then ;)
Chapter 3.1
‘I’ll show you, you stupid, bloody whore!’ muttered Richard, edging his way up the cast-iron drainpipe on the murky rear of the Covent Garden town-house. ‘It’s a good job your manservant is so drunk he left a window open…’
Richard wasn’t quite sober himself at this moment. Having put monumental effort into scraping himself off the steps of the opium den, he had, almost by accident, fumbled his way into a nearby gin-joint and spent his hard-earned pennies on several shots of their stomach-churning ‘finest’ to revive himself. Under its spell, Richard’s anger had rapidly strangled the remnants of his sense, and even made him forget his ambition. Revenge was now all that mattered, so he had hatched a plan.
Clinging on precariously with one hand, he grasped for the first floor window sill with the other, before forcing one boot into the opening at the bottom of the sash. Propelled by a large dose of luck and a bodily contortion that would have hurt much more if he was not intoxicated, Richard pushed the window up as far as he could, hurled himself over, and wriggled through.
Finding himself in a linen closet, he slapped the pocket of his jacket to make-sure the reassuring bulge of dead rat was still safely ensconced. Then, as silently as possible so as not to arouse the servants, he crept into the dark house.
He’d been here before, so it took little time to relocate Scott-Thomas’s boudoir, its spaciousness absorbed in a gaudy concoction of cerise, silken drapes, tiger-skin rugs, and ornate, gold-framed mirrors. Lighting a single candle-lamp, Richard headed straight for the walk-in wardrobe. Then he pulled out a small, silver pen-knife, deeply inadequate for the task, and began hacking apart the delectable selection of chiffon and taffeta gowns contained therein.
Nevertheless, after the initial rush of fury and adrenaline had faded in a shower of cotton, fur and feathers, Richard tired of this activity and decided to cut to the business of off-loading his rat. Ideally, he would have offered a not-so-recently-deceased cat or dog, or even a turgid corpse from the Thames, but he couldn’t quite find the will to drag one of those so far, and getting it through the window would have been tricky. So, he pulled back the bedclothes, and deposited the maggot-ridden object betwixt the black, satin sheets.
He was expecting it to stink. The fetid odour had been hovering around him like a bad spirit since he had snagged the dead creature from the gutter. But now its sheer, gut-wrenching pungency, juxtaposed with bedchambers’ strong scent of lavender water and snuff, caught him off-guard. He gagged, even as breath jarred in his throat like iron.
‘Shit!’
The word was lost in the inevitable onslaught of coughing. Richard buried his face in the pillow, narrowly avoiding grinding his stomach into the decaying rodent, and did the best he could to not bring the whole household and the neighbours running.
After several minutes of painful incapacitation, in which he been truly scared he may suffocate, Richard rolled over onto his back and vacantly wiped the blood from his chin onto the back of his hand. His breath ragged, his skin beaded with cold sweat, he stared unfocusedly up at the ceiling, trying to locate the dwindling reserves of strength that let him carry on and pretend it wasn’t happening. It was then he felt the lump under the pillow.
Almost relieved at the distraction, Richard levered himself up and slipped his hand under the luxuriant fabric. He pulled out an exquisite miniature portrait in a silver-gilt frame. He inhaled sharply and it was all he could do to not dissolve into another coughing fit.
The portrait was of Jeremy.
…………………
‘Oh cock!’
James gave a heartfelt groan as he stepped down from the carriage, smoggy night air intermingling with the unmistakable stench of sin. He glanced down the uneven steps towards the peeling, painted door of the opium den. ‘Do I really have to go into that dump?’
Up in the driver’s seat, Stig, as ever, said nothing. James regarded him wearily, wishing that the chief coach-tester wasn’t quite such an enigma. According to Jeremy, some said he was a notorious highwayman, who’d committed his greatest feats of robbery over one hundred years ago, before rescuing over one thousand French aristocrats from the jaws of the guillotine. Others claimed he was actually Prince Albert, having faked his own death and forsaken a life of rampant sex and Christmas trees with the dour Queen, in favour of laughter, licentious buggery and speed.
Whoever he was, he merely stared straight at the entrance to the club, his face shielded by a pure-white scarf as always, and his head was concealed under a drooping and decidedly American-looking hat.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ sighed James. ‘Are you, uh, going to come in with me?’
This time, the response was a decided shake of the head.
‘Well, thanks awfully! If I get garrotted or… or…horribly violated by some lice-ridden, foreign sailor or something, it’ll be all your fault…well, actually, it will be Richard’s fault, I suppose…oh sod it!’
James was still grumbling as he pushed the door open and stumbled into the club, which was much as he expected. In the low-lit, smoky basement were at least three dozen people. Sailors, business men and the odd baronet, some in expensive suits and uniforms, others in little more than rags, were draped across settees and chaises-longues, interspersed with whores in gaudy makeup, unkempt ringlets, faded lace ruffles and feathers. Most were as drowsy and desolate as the punters, and snored, hiccupped or moaned softly. The collective effect was pathetically haunting. James founded himself veering dangerously near a semi-naked red-head, who had just extracted themselves from the loins of a middle-aged Tory politician.
‘Good god,’ spluttered James, as a hand emerged out of nowhere and began kneading his backside. He hurried forward, making a bee-line for the bar.
‘Richard always had terrible taste!’ grinned Jeremy, hovering at James’ shoulder. ‘The girls and boys have to still be wearing their corsets for it to be truly sordid, so this is half-baked, as ever…but, whatever it is they’re smoking, I want some.’ He groaned, realising he could not even get a whiff of noxious substances filling the air. ‘What I would give for decent drag of tobacco. Or anything really. Bloody smog would do!’
His lip curling miserably, Jeremy forced his attention back to the compensations of being dead: the sight of James who, in ghost-vision, was still completely naked, slipping tentatively onto a high bar-stool and trying to catch the eye of sleepy-looking serving wench.
Jeremy zoomed in on the way the muscles tautened on the back of his lover’s pale thighs. ‘Nice!’ he growled.
James, however, was still enjoying himself far, far less. He wanted to ask if the girl had seen anybody answering to Richard’s description and order a much-needed drink, but failed miserably. In fact, she was so stoned she mistook his shiny, green frock-coat for one of those new-fangled, red posting boxes and began muttering something about writing to her grandmother. James was about to give up and leave when something - or rather somebody - captured his attention.
Slithering up the bar towards him was one of the most strikingly handsome persons he had ever-seen. Well-moulded beauty was marred only by a slightly purple-ish tint about a heavily powdered nose. James’ jaw dropped, although he decided that the dapper being would have been more to Jeremy’s taste than his own.
One side of the man’s wide-yet-perfectly-formed mouth curved into a smile. ‘Hello, Mr. May.’
‘Uh…hello,’ said James, suspicious without quite knowing why - beyond the matter of course, that this man dwelt in the most deplorable places he’d ever been in his life. ‘Do I know you? Err, oh. Thank you.’
Not wanting to be impolite, James graciously took the lit cigarette holder offered him and inhaled deeply. He felt the other man’s eyes probe into him.
‘Do you know me? You would if you ever left the house, darling! But let me forestall the next question: how do I know you. You are, or I should say, you were Clarkson’s…partner.’ The new man offered him his hand. ‘I’m the woman he loved.’
‘Kristin!’
Scott-Thomas gave a thin lipped laugh, not quite modest. He dropped his hand to James’ knee. ‘So, in fact, you know all about me.’
‘He…he never said much,’ lied James. ‘Uh, you know Jeremy.’
‘Yes I do know Jeremy,’ answered Scott-Thomas huskily, his hand worming its way upwards, ever more intimate. He leant forwards, parted lips closing in James’ fixed grimace. ‘So you must be aware of everything, right down to the lingerie, the whips, the soft-leather slippers and the …’
‘He doesn’t know about the donkey!’ shouted Jeremy, attempting to lean casually upon the bar without falling straight through.
At the interjection, Scott-Thomas’s blanched in horror, drawing away quickly. ‘What did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ protested James ingenuously. ‘Look, its lovely meeting you and everything, but I really only came here for one thing.’
‘So does everybody, darling…are you sure you didn’t mention donkeys?’
‘Quite sure,’ said James. Scott-Thomas narrowed his eyes questioningly, even as James continued. ‘I’m just looking for a friend of mine, Richard. Longish dark hair, black frock-coat, not unhandsome in a worn-yet-still-boyish-looking way and, um, very short. Apparently, he was in here this evening.’
Now the black eyes sharpened irritably. ‘Oh, him. Yes, he was here earlier. Made quite the spectacle of himself, crawling about under the tables, but no doubt earned himself a small fortune. He then left with a twenty-stone docker called Maud.’
‘Maud?’
‘Yes darling. So, I wouldn’t worry. No doubt he’ll come back with his begging bowl when he realises Maud can’t pay his embarrassingly modest fee.’
Scott-Thomas’ palm flew his heart as his ears echoed with a monumental ‘Heee-haaaaaaaaaaw!’
Yet it was James who squealed in horror as the actor’s fingers instantaneously reclaimed the front of his snug-fitting breaches, this time clamping hard around his unguarded crotch. Scott-Thomas snarled stonily. ‘How dare you come here and mock me, lover-boy! So, you know about the donkey, err…incident on Jeremy’s country estate, do you? Well all I need to do is publish the letters he wrote to me about you, trying to make me jealous. Quite obscene they were! I could have you hung for a queer!’
‘She won’t do it,’ bellowed Jeremy in James’ ear. ‘If she started exposing anyone’s arses over that old keg of legal powder, they’d be up hers faster than the greasiest piston on Stevenson’s Rocket. Look, she killed me, and she’s lying about Richard. So, for crying out loud, don’t just sit there with your eyes all watery and bulging - hit her or something! Then get her arrested!’
‘I did not kill anyone,’ spat Scott-Thomas, who was increasingly confused himself. It was evident that James wasn’t saying these things, and that voice was eerily familiar!
‘I never said you did!’ pleaded James, now quite sure the man was insane. ‘Will…you…please let me go!’
By now, the focus of all vaguely compos mentis patrons in the opium-den were on Scott-Thomas and James, who had gone a shade of beetroot that clashed unflatteringly with his dashing, green jacket.
Scott-Thomas released him, but only as a monumental ‘hee-hawing’ rocketed around her brain. Her vision was filled with the leering head of a donkey - which, somehow, unmistakably resembled Jeremy about the eyes. As the actor emitted a disarmingly feminine and ear-piercing scream, James’ made his escape, plunging straight for the door and out in the comforting obscurity of the fog.
On to chapter 3.2
Title: Deathly Expectations, chapter 3, part 1.
Words: 1,943 (okay that's enough for a whole chapter, I guess!)
Pairing: James/Other
Rating: oh, um, R-ish.
Warnings: death!fic, ghost!fic, drug-use, bad prose, bad language, sick!Richard. The usual, then ;)
Chapter 3.1
‘I’ll show you, you stupid, bloody whore!’ muttered Richard, edging his way up the cast-iron drainpipe on the murky rear of the Covent Garden town-house. ‘It’s a good job your manservant is so drunk he left a window open…’
Richard wasn’t quite sober himself at this moment. Having put monumental effort into scraping himself off the steps of the opium den, he had, almost by accident, fumbled his way into a nearby gin-joint and spent his hard-earned pennies on several shots of their stomach-churning ‘finest’ to revive himself. Under its spell, Richard’s anger had rapidly strangled the remnants of his sense, and even made him forget his ambition. Revenge was now all that mattered, so he had hatched a plan.
Clinging on precariously with one hand, he grasped for the first floor window sill with the other, before forcing one boot into the opening at the bottom of the sash. Propelled by a large dose of luck and a bodily contortion that would have hurt much more if he was not intoxicated, Richard pushed the window up as far as he could, hurled himself over, and wriggled through.
Finding himself in a linen closet, he slapped the pocket of his jacket to make-sure the reassuring bulge of dead rat was still safely ensconced. Then, as silently as possible so as not to arouse the servants, he crept into the dark house.
He’d been here before, so it took little time to relocate Scott-Thomas’s boudoir, its spaciousness absorbed in a gaudy concoction of cerise, silken drapes, tiger-skin rugs, and ornate, gold-framed mirrors. Lighting a single candle-lamp, Richard headed straight for the walk-in wardrobe. Then he pulled out a small, silver pen-knife, deeply inadequate for the task, and began hacking apart the delectable selection of chiffon and taffeta gowns contained therein.
Nevertheless, after the initial rush of fury and adrenaline had faded in a shower of cotton, fur and feathers, Richard tired of this activity and decided to cut to the business of off-loading his rat. Ideally, he would have offered a not-so-recently-deceased cat or dog, or even a turgid corpse from the Thames, but he couldn’t quite find the will to drag one of those so far, and getting it through the window would have been tricky. So, he pulled back the bedclothes, and deposited the maggot-ridden object betwixt the black, satin sheets.
He was expecting it to stink. The fetid odour had been hovering around him like a bad spirit since he had snagged the dead creature from the gutter. But now its sheer, gut-wrenching pungency, juxtaposed with bedchambers’ strong scent of lavender water and snuff, caught him off-guard. He gagged, even as breath jarred in his throat like iron.
‘Shit!’
The word was lost in the inevitable onslaught of coughing. Richard buried his face in the pillow, narrowly avoiding grinding his stomach into the decaying rodent, and did the best he could to not bring the whole household and the neighbours running.
After several minutes of painful incapacitation, in which he been truly scared he may suffocate, Richard rolled over onto his back and vacantly wiped the blood from his chin onto the back of his hand. His breath ragged, his skin beaded with cold sweat, he stared unfocusedly up at the ceiling, trying to locate the dwindling reserves of strength that let him carry on and pretend it wasn’t happening. It was then he felt the lump under the pillow.
Almost relieved at the distraction, Richard levered himself up and slipped his hand under the luxuriant fabric. He pulled out an exquisite miniature portrait in a silver-gilt frame. He inhaled sharply and it was all he could do to not dissolve into another coughing fit.
The portrait was of Jeremy.
…………………
‘Oh cock!’
James gave a heartfelt groan as he stepped down from the carriage, smoggy night air intermingling with the unmistakable stench of sin. He glanced down the uneven steps towards the peeling, painted door of the opium den. ‘Do I really have to go into that dump?’
Up in the driver’s seat, Stig, as ever, said nothing. James regarded him wearily, wishing that the chief coach-tester wasn’t quite such an enigma. According to Jeremy, some said he was a notorious highwayman, who’d committed his greatest feats of robbery over one hundred years ago, before rescuing over one thousand French aristocrats from the jaws of the guillotine. Others claimed he was actually Prince Albert, having faked his own death and forsaken a life of rampant sex and Christmas trees with the dour Queen, in favour of laughter, licentious buggery and speed.
Whoever he was, he merely stared straight at the entrance to the club, his face shielded by a pure-white scarf as always, and his head was concealed under a drooping and decidedly American-looking hat.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ sighed James. ‘Are you, uh, going to come in with me?’
This time, the response was a decided shake of the head.
‘Well, thanks awfully! If I get garrotted or… or…horribly violated by some lice-ridden, foreign sailor or something, it’ll be all your fault…well, actually, it will be Richard’s fault, I suppose…oh sod it!’
James was still grumbling as he pushed the door open and stumbled into the club, which was much as he expected. In the low-lit, smoky basement were at least three dozen people. Sailors, business men and the odd baronet, some in expensive suits and uniforms, others in little more than rags, were draped across settees and chaises-longues, interspersed with whores in gaudy makeup, unkempt ringlets, faded lace ruffles and feathers. Most were as drowsy and desolate as the punters, and snored, hiccupped or moaned softly. The collective effect was pathetically haunting. James founded himself veering dangerously near a semi-naked red-head, who had just extracted themselves from the loins of a middle-aged Tory politician.
‘Good god,’ spluttered James, as a hand emerged out of nowhere and began kneading his backside. He hurried forward, making a bee-line for the bar.
‘Richard always had terrible taste!’ grinned Jeremy, hovering at James’ shoulder. ‘The girls and boys have to still be wearing their corsets for it to be truly sordid, so this is half-baked, as ever…but, whatever it is they’re smoking, I want some.’ He groaned, realising he could not even get a whiff of noxious substances filling the air. ‘What I would give for decent drag of tobacco. Or anything really. Bloody smog would do!’
His lip curling miserably, Jeremy forced his attention back to the compensations of being dead: the sight of James who, in ghost-vision, was still completely naked, slipping tentatively onto a high bar-stool and trying to catch the eye of sleepy-looking serving wench.
Jeremy zoomed in on the way the muscles tautened on the back of his lover’s pale thighs. ‘Nice!’ he growled.
James, however, was still enjoying himself far, far less. He wanted to ask if the girl had seen anybody answering to Richard’s description and order a much-needed drink, but failed miserably. In fact, she was so stoned she mistook his shiny, green frock-coat for one of those new-fangled, red posting boxes and began muttering something about writing to her grandmother. James was about to give up and leave when something - or rather somebody - captured his attention.
Slithering up the bar towards him was one of the most strikingly handsome persons he had ever-seen. Well-moulded beauty was marred only by a slightly purple-ish tint about a heavily powdered nose. James’ jaw dropped, although he decided that the dapper being would have been more to Jeremy’s taste than his own.
One side of the man’s wide-yet-perfectly-formed mouth curved into a smile. ‘Hello, Mr. May.’
‘Uh…hello,’ said James, suspicious without quite knowing why - beyond the matter of course, that this man dwelt in the most deplorable places he’d ever been in his life. ‘Do I know you? Err, oh. Thank you.’
Not wanting to be impolite, James graciously took the lit cigarette holder offered him and inhaled deeply. He felt the other man’s eyes probe into him.
‘Do you know me? You would if you ever left the house, darling! But let me forestall the next question: how do I know you. You are, or I should say, you were Clarkson’s…partner.’ The new man offered him his hand. ‘I’m the woman he loved.’
‘Kristin!’
Scott-Thomas gave a thin lipped laugh, not quite modest. He dropped his hand to James’ knee. ‘So, in fact, you know all about me.’
‘He…he never said much,’ lied James. ‘Uh, you know Jeremy.’
‘Yes I do know Jeremy,’ answered Scott-Thomas huskily, his hand worming its way upwards, ever more intimate. He leant forwards, parted lips closing in James’ fixed grimace. ‘So you must be aware of everything, right down to the lingerie, the whips, the soft-leather slippers and the …’
‘He doesn’t know about the donkey!’ shouted Jeremy, attempting to lean casually upon the bar without falling straight through.
At the interjection, Scott-Thomas’s blanched in horror, drawing away quickly. ‘What did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ protested James ingenuously. ‘Look, its lovely meeting you and everything, but I really only came here for one thing.’
‘So does everybody, darling…are you sure you didn’t mention donkeys?’
‘Quite sure,’ said James. Scott-Thomas narrowed his eyes questioningly, even as James continued. ‘I’m just looking for a friend of mine, Richard. Longish dark hair, black frock-coat, not unhandsome in a worn-yet-still-boyish-looking way and, um, very short. Apparently, he was in here this evening.’
Now the black eyes sharpened irritably. ‘Oh, him. Yes, he was here earlier. Made quite the spectacle of himself, crawling about under the tables, but no doubt earned himself a small fortune. He then left with a twenty-stone docker called Maud.’
‘Maud?’
‘Yes darling. So, I wouldn’t worry. No doubt he’ll come back with his begging bowl when he realises Maud can’t pay his embarrassingly modest fee.’
Scott-Thomas’ palm flew his heart as his ears echoed with a monumental ‘Heee-haaaaaaaaaaw!’
Yet it was James who squealed in horror as the actor’s fingers instantaneously reclaimed the front of his snug-fitting breaches, this time clamping hard around his unguarded crotch. Scott-Thomas snarled stonily. ‘How dare you come here and mock me, lover-boy! So, you know about the donkey, err…incident on Jeremy’s country estate, do you? Well all I need to do is publish the letters he wrote to me about you, trying to make me jealous. Quite obscene they were! I could have you hung for a queer!’
‘She won’t do it,’ bellowed Jeremy in James’ ear. ‘If she started exposing anyone’s arses over that old keg of legal powder, they’d be up hers faster than the greasiest piston on Stevenson’s Rocket. Look, she killed me, and she’s lying about Richard. So, for crying out loud, don’t just sit there with your eyes all watery and bulging - hit her or something! Then get her arrested!’
‘I did not kill anyone,’ spat Scott-Thomas, who was increasingly confused himself. It was evident that James wasn’t saying these things, and that voice was eerily familiar!
‘I never said you did!’ pleaded James, now quite sure the man was insane. ‘Will…you…please let me go!’
By now, the focus of all vaguely compos mentis patrons in the opium-den were on Scott-Thomas and James, who had gone a shade of beetroot that clashed unflatteringly with his dashing, green jacket.
Scott-Thomas released him, but only as a monumental ‘hee-hawing’ rocketed around her brain. Her vision was filled with the leering head of a donkey - which, somehow, unmistakably resembled Jeremy about the eyes. As the actor emitted a disarmingly feminine and ear-piercing scream, James’ made his escape, plunging straight for the door and out in the comforting obscurity of the fog.
On to chapter 3.2