The Ides of March fic, part 2
Title: Revenge is Sweet.
Author: constantmuse
Words: 1000
Pairing: Raffles/Bunny
Disclaimer: Raffles and Bunny are the creations of E.W. Hornung, and were reincarnated in the Yorkshire Television series, “Raffles” (1975 and 1977).
Note: Written for the inaugural crimeandcricket challenge, The Ides of March.
In the story “The Ides of March”, the card-players are not named. Tremayne and Alec Carruthers are characters in the television episode “The First Step”.
“Parnell, Pankhurst, Lucas, Alton …”
As Raffles intoned the names from the list before him at his bureau, I was moved to lower the morning’s Times I was perusing, and interject.
“I say, Raffles, is that the Hampshire side for the county match?”
Raffles pursed his lips, struggling with himself to refrain from telling me I was a complete ass. The internal battle won, Raffles replied curtly,
“No, Bunny, it is not.”
“Oh, right you are then.”
I made to return to the day’s news, but Raffles continued, the seriousness of his tone compelling my attention.
“Bunny, your name would have been added to this list, but for…” already sombre, he actually choked at this point, “a… marvellous chance of fate.”
His eyes never leaving my face, Raffles rose from his bureau and crossed the carpet to where I was comfortably settled in his best armchair. He took my arms and pulled me to my feet. I dropped the newspaper and went willingly, of course, and his arms went around me, holding me close. With his face buried in my shoulder, Raffles’ next words were somewhat muffled.
“I can’t bear to think of it, Bunny. If the night that brought you back to me had also been the night of your… undoing… I should never have forgiven myself.”
An emotional Raffles was not something to which I was accustomed. I rubbed his back in what I hoped was a soothing fashion and asked gently what he was talking about. Raffles took my hand and led me to the bureau.
“This list of names, Bunny,” he began, still unsteady, “These … these decent, honourable fellows, have all over the past year or two been the victims, and I use the word advisedly, the victims, of those scoundrels Tremayne and Carruthers.”
“But Raffles, how do you know? You knew of my encounter with those two because it happened here, in this very room.” I shuddered even to think of it.
“Yes, and I should have taken action to stop it, to stop them, before they took you for all the money you didn’t have.” Raffles was grim.
“But,” I continued, “how do you know the same happened to these others?”
“Well, they were all chaps around town, of course, and in one way or another all of them were getting into trouble with gambling and living beyond their means. That was no secret to their fellow clubmen. But I have also found out that each one of them had played cards with Tremayne and Carruthers in the weeks before.”
“Before what?”
Raffles ticked off each name with an elegant fingertip:
“Parnell, threw himself off Tower Bridge… Pankhurst, last heard of taking ship to Australia… Lucas, went home to the family pile and shot himself with his father’s hunting rifle… Alton, emigrated to the United States of America last year, he set up in business, but his creditors followed him out there. Last month he too shot himself.
“Bunny, look at the calendar. In a very few days it will be the fifteenth of March, the anniversary of that fateful night when you were nearly added to this role call of infamy. And I have it in mind to mark the occasion in a fitting manner.”
Thus it was that in the small hours of the ides of March, Raffles and I donned our black jerseys and broke into Nigel Tremayne’s rooms. It was an expedition that, for once, I felt proud to join. This time, our quest was not to remove items of value, but rather to substitute the corrupt with the sound.
Raffles had procured two decks of cards identical to those used by Tremayne when fleecing his victims. Identical, that is, except that the new packs were of the regulation 52 cards, just as they had been manufactured, after we had treated them to a few hours of judicious shuffling to achieve a suitably played-in appearance.
Raffles eased open the first-floor window and we entered silently. Moonlight fell upon the spacious and richly furnished chamber. The sinister cards were stacked in innocent repose atop the dresser. Raffles moved towards it, while I turned to keep watch over the large four-poster bed. There was Tremayne, as expected, deep in a drunken stupor, apparently dead to the world. But there too was a young lady. She was on her side, asleep, curled sensuously beside Tremayne, her thick blonde hair coiled over the pillow. The curves of her bare shoulder and back were exposed, as pale and smooth as ivory, with just the beginning of the softness of a breast showing.
I had forgotten to breathe. When I went to swallow, my mouth was dry. I felt Raffles’ hand on my arm, bringing me back to the job at hand, but he too was looking at the tableau before us. I saw the tip of his tongue flick across his lips, before he gave me a little tug to signal he had achieved his mission and it was time to depart.
I have no recollection of how we made our way back to Raffles’ studio. My senses were in turmoil - the joy of revenge, delight at bearding Tremayne in his lair, relief at getting away unscathed yet again, but over and through it all came the image of that fair body pressed, sated, against another.
With the door locked behind us, Raffles pushed me up against the wall, his hands inside my jersey, smoothing firmly over my body, his hardness meeting mine. I was well used to how Raffles would be taken by the success of an adventure, but I had never met with such intensity. He released his teeth from my neck to murmur,
“Revenge is sweet, Bunny. And it will sweeter still with you tucked up beside me, after I have loved you into oblivion.”
------------
15 March 2010
Author: constantmuse
Words: 1000
Pairing: Raffles/Bunny
Disclaimer: Raffles and Bunny are the creations of E.W. Hornung, and were reincarnated in the Yorkshire Television series, “Raffles” (1975 and 1977).
Note: Written for the inaugural crimeandcricket challenge, The Ides of March.
In the story “The Ides of March”, the card-players are not named. Tremayne and Alec Carruthers are characters in the television episode “The First Step”.
“Parnell, Pankhurst, Lucas, Alton …”
As Raffles intoned the names from the list before him at his bureau, I was moved to lower the morning’s Times I was perusing, and interject.
“I say, Raffles, is that the Hampshire side for the county match?”
Raffles pursed his lips, struggling with himself to refrain from telling me I was a complete ass. The internal battle won, Raffles replied curtly,
“No, Bunny, it is not.”
“Oh, right you are then.”
I made to return to the day’s news, but Raffles continued, the seriousness of his tone compelling my attention.
“Bunny, your name would have been added to this list, but for…” already sombre, he actually choked at this point, “a… marvellous chance of fate.”
His eyes never leaving my face, Raffles rose from his bureau and crossed the carpet to where I was comfortably settled in his best armchair. He took my arms and pulled me to my feet. I dropped the newspaper and went willingly, of course, and his arms went around me, holding me close. With his face buried in my shoulder, Raffles’ next words were somewhat muffled.
“I can’t bear to think of it, Bunny. If the night that brought you back to me had also been the night of your… undoing… I should never have forgiven myself.”
An emotional Raffles was not something to which I was accustomed. I rubbed his back in what I hoped was a soothing fashion and asked gently what he was talking about. Raffles took my hand and led me to the bureau.
“This list of names, Bunny,” he began, still unsteady, “These … these decent, honourable fellows, have all over the past year or two been the victims, and I use the word advisedly, the victims, of those scoundrels Tremayne and Carruthers.”
“But Raffles, how do you know? You knew of my encounter with those two because it happened here, in this very room.” I shuddered even to think of it.
“Yes, and I should have taken action to stop it, to stop them, before they took you for all the money you didn’t have.” Raffles was grim.
“But,” I continued, “how do you know the same happened to these others?”
“Well, they were all chaps around town, of course, and in one way or another all of them were getting into trouble with gambling and living beyond their means. That was no secret to their fellow clubmen. But I have also found out that each one of them had played cards with Tremayne and Carruthers in the weeks before.”
“Before what?”
Raffles ticked off each name with an elegant fingertip:
“Parnell, threw himself off Tower Bridge… Pankhurst, last heard of taking ship to Australia… Lucas, went home to the family pile and shot himself with his father’s hunting rifle… Alton, emigrated to the United States of America last year, he set up in business, but his creditors followed him out there. Last month he too shot himself.
“Bunny, look at the calendar. In a very few days it will be the fifteenth of March, the anniversary of that fateful night when you were nearly added to this role call of infamy. And I have it in mind to mark the occasion in a fitting manner.”
Thus it was that in the small hours of the ides of March, Raffles and I donned our black jerseys and broke into Nigel Tremayne’s rooms. It was an expedition that, for once, I felt proud to join. This time, our quest was not to remove items of value, but rather to substitute the corrupt with the sound.
Raffles had procured two decks of cards identical to those used by Tremayne when fleecing his victims. Identical, that is, except that the new packs were of the regulation 52 cards, just as they had been manufactured, after we had treated them to a few hours of judicious shuffling to achieve a suitably played-in appearance.
Raffles eased open the first-floor window and we entered silently. Moonlight fell upon the spacious and richly furnished chamber. The sinister cards were stacked in innocent repose atop the dresser. Raffles moved towards it, while I turned to keep watch over the large four-poster bed. There was Tremayne, as expected, deep in a drunken stupor, apparently dead to the world. But there too was a young lady. She was on her side, asleep, curled sensuously beside Tremayne, her thick blonde hair coiled over the pillow. The curves of her bare shoulder and back were exposed, as pale and smooth as ivory, with just the beginning of the softness of a breast showing.
I had forgotten to breathe. When I went to swallow, my mouth was dry. I felt Raffles’ hand on my arm, bringing me back to the job at hand, but he too was looking at the tableau before us. I saw the tip of his tongue flick across his lips, before he gave me a little tug to signal he had achieved his mission and it was time to depart.
I have no recollection of how we made our way back to Raffles’ studio. My senses were in turmoil - the joy of revenge, delight at bearding Tremayne in his lair, relief at getting away unscathed yet again, but over and through it all came the image of that fair body pressed, sated, against another.
With the door locked behind us, Raffles pushed me up against the wall, his hands inside my jersey, smoothing firmly over my body, his hardness meeting mine. I was well used to how Raffles would be taken by the success of an adventure, but I had never met with such intensity. He released his teeth from my neck to murmur,
“Revenge is sweet, Bunny. And it will sweeter still with you tucked up beside me, after I have loved you into oblivion.”
------------
15 March 2010