(no subject)
Title: Island Holiday
Fandom:LXG
Characters: Rodney Skinner, Brigitte Fitzgerald, mentions of others
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: +1500
Author's Notes: Gift for nightmare_gal as part of Christmas Gift Fic Exchange 2008. Warnings for gore, language, and Victorian lingo.
The sharp edge of her English ancestral profile moved in miniscule increments, nostrils testing the air in a manner he had only before seen possessed by starving hounds in Tottenham Square. Her eyes were wide and frantic-a shaking mess of black pointed fear if Rodney could allow himself a moment to be poetic within a truly terrifying hour of his roguish life-the penultimate sign on her almost washed-white face that she expected to fight for her continued survival. Skinner wasn't sure he could debate that either, not with what he had just seen, but there was no possibility in the seven rings of papist hell that he was dying on this insignificant native island surrounded by mutated freaks and doctors that made Harry and Harker seem normal.
Brigitte Fitzgerald would just have to push any thoughts of killing him out of her pretty little raven head.
And she was pretty in a malnourished, beaten, just-left-Whitechapel sort of way, ragged clothes stained but with a semblance of washing, like she had jumped in a river or pond to try and feel human again. Human. Feckin' bloody Finn playing the crooked cross on all of them. Or maybe it had only been he and Gaudon made the fool; Skinner's companions had been downy before and he had an idea that Miss Fitzgerald had been tricked by those Yankee bastards too.
Christ, she'd gotten the upper hand on them fast enough. . .though outsmarting a drunken Cockney thief and stinking Frenchman wasn't really that hard in the big scheme of things. That's not how he would explain her abduction of Nemo's baby Nautilus if they ever made it back to London alive however. "Celebratory sociable" with Tom, Huck, and the rest of Louisiana probably wouldn't cut it with the Captain. How the Canadian had actually steered the damn machine and why she had brought it here had been a complete mystery in itself, but after witnessing the evisceration of three presumably innocent men Skinner had reassessed his priorities.
His side hurt from where the she-beast had bowled him over; his arse and knees were scratched, burned from sliding through the tall rough yellowed grass. Feckin' brilliant. Rodney raised his hands slowly, then, as her head jerked to stare a hole through his invisible chest, thought better of it and simply opened his fat gob.
"Don't worry luv, everythin's goin' to be-"
"No lies ghost. What did Finn have planned when he sent you and the other dog to fetch me?"
Her voice was a hiss, low and waspish, mouth barely moving as if to conceal what lay beneath those thin lips. Skinner had a good idea. The rise and drop of her small chest had quickened and Rodney sighed with only slight frustration. She was a moon-driven fiend. And a werewolf. She could be forgiven the 'ghost' comment this once. And anyone who could insult the Frenchman while knowing he was probably being burned by electrodes at that very moment couldn't be all bad. "I know ya got no reason to trust me Brigitte-" she flinched at the sound of her own name, "but I'm in the same boat even though you stole mine an' I'm willin' to give you the benefit of the doubt." Her already stiff spine straightened and Rodney felt his sunburned shoulders tense, preparing for what had to be said next. "Now you brought us here luv, an' my," he grimaced, "partner is goin' to end up like those other poor sots if you don't help me get him out."
Images of tortured flesh, torn, mutated bodies and animalistic forms flashed across Skinner's vision and he quickly shook his head, filing the pictures away in the dark recesses of his nightmares. Just several more of many for this gentleman thief. Brigitte's countenance was shifting, wheels turning, and Rodney shrugged.
"We're your best bet of pissin' off Finn you know."
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Getting in to the cottage-cum-slaughter house was easier than Skinner had expected, but with a girl-wolf looking to rip out throats as your rear-guard anything seems possible. Not that there were many throats to rip out (two lackeys left outside with more of Hyde than Jekyll about them) or that the thief had been successful in getting the near-waif to transform. "It could be useful luv, 'specially if they haul out the big guns or let loose a few starved bears--" "I'd rather gauge out my own eyes than put myself in a position where you would see me naked." "And what pretty eyes they are." "Shut up."
It was eerily quiet, as if Moreau's accomplices had heard them coming on the breeze and escaped on the fly, but whatever had happened it was clear the exodus had occurred in a hurry-papers smouldered in a small hearth and two half-formed cat people had their throats slit pointed ear to pointed ear, bodies still shackled to chairs and blood only beginning to congeal on hairy chests. Don't think about it, keep moving. Bloody waste and ugly as hell but Rodney wasn't looking for either of these unfortunates. Brigitte was already scrambling through singed scraps rustling over the floor, bringing the thief's gaze to a dirty Oriental rug.
"Basement?"
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"Oh my God, the smell."
"Cover your snout luv. It can't get much worse."
"I've seen worse, ghost. Don't patronize me!"
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"Can't you make this death trap go any faster?"
They had been silent for nearly an hour, nothing but the sound of his and Brigitte's heavy panting-not from anything pleasant that his mind and hands could conjure, simply from dwindling adrenaline and the happy thought that they had lived to fight another day at least-and Gaudon's shaky breaths. Skinner had been glad for the quiet, concentrating on steering the Nautiloid through treacherous waters, getting back to America and punching Secret Agent Huckleberry Finn in the bloody mug; it was easy to keep the nightmares at bay when you weren't constantly reminded of the soaked unconscious bleeding Frenchman wrapped up on the floor.
". . . His heartbeat isn't right," she kept babbling. "He doesn't sound right or smell right--"
"Well that's nothin' new," Rodney quipped, frustrated and edgy at his impotence. None of this should have happened.
"Who knows what those bastards injected him with! Damnit, this is just like the-"
She stopped abruptly and Skinner couldn't help but cock an ear. Finn had mentioned her mission had been in an asylum, looking into the dealings of and spying on a Doctor Beaumont who had recently died in the inferno that had levelled his own institution. That was the official word. From what Nicholas imparted before getting kidnapped by freakish goons, Miss Fitzgerald had more blood on her hands than she was admitting, and her own frightening animosity towards Finn was a dead give-away.
Rodney doubted her stint in New Orleans had been voluntary.
So of course he had to respond with great sympathy and understanding.
"Stop harpin' at me an' let me do my bloody job! That's all you Yankee women like to do: talk, talk, talk! Little wonder you aren't married." He flipped a bronze switch and listened to the engine surge with extra speed. It was a miracle the bloody machine had been where they had left it. ". . . You aren't married, right luv?"
She didn't dignify his question with words.
She growled.
"Oi! All isn't lost luv!"
"What are you talking about?" she hissed. "I came here to put a stop to those experiments and instead we have no idea where those butchers. . .monsters are and everything was destroyed-"
"Ah! Ah!" Skinner clucked, shaking his head. "Not everything."
"Idiot. You saw the smoke! Your friend here is lucky he's still breathing, there was so much-"
"The Frog inhales more smoke before breakfast daily," the thief snorted. Nick would live, they'd joke about it later, and the Frenchman would just have more scars to try and impress the dollybirds. Try. Skinner shrugged. He really hadn't been worried. It was just hard to find someone to drink with, what with the poufs that made up the rest of the League now. "An' you're still wrong." Skinner made a gesture, realized the futility of such an act and cursed. "Check his feckin' trousers!"
"Excuse me?"
"I doubt he's got the glim luv, just check his bloody pants!"
As gingerly as she could-though the Frog groaned anyway-Brigitte peeled off a wet corner of the blanket, and, with a look of distaste, slipped one long hand underneath the waistband of Gaudon's soiled trousers. Her eyes widened suddenly and she hastily brought out a slim journal bound with twine. "Better than what most find down there I'm sure," Skinner grinned.
"How did you. . ." She trailed off, flipping the blanket back over the injured werewolf.
"Never underestimate a gentleman thief, luv."
There was a chuckle.
"When you show me one I'll remember to keep that in mind."
"An' I'll remember to wrap a ribbon 'round your neck before handin' you back to Finn!"
How many hours did he have left in this bloody bubble?
Fandom:LXG
Characters: Rodney Skinner, Brigitte Fitzgerald, mentions of others
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: +1500
Author's Notes: Gift for nightmare_gal as part of Christmas Gift Fic Exchange 2008. Warnings for gore, language, and Victorian lingo.
The sharp edge of her English ancestral profile moved in miniscule increments, nostrils testing the air in a manner he had only before seen possessed by starving hounds in Tottenham Square. Her eyes were wide and frantic-a shaking mess of black pointed fear if Rodney could allow himself a moment to be poetic within a truly terrifying hour of his roguish life-the penultimate sign on her almost washed-white face that she expected to fight for her continued survival. Skinner wasn't sure he could debate that either, not with what he had just seen, but there was no possibility in the seven rings of papist hell that he was dying on this insignificant native island surrounded by mutated freaks and doctors that made Harry and Harker seem normal.
Brigitte Fitzgerald would just have to push any thoughts of killing him out of her pretty little raven head.
And she was pretty in a malnourished, beaten, just-left-Whitechapel sort of way, ragged clothes stained but with a semblance of washing, like she had jumped in a river or pond to try and feel human again. Human. Feckin' bloody Finn playing the crooked cross on all of them. Or maybe it had only been he and Gaudon made the fool; Skinner's companions had been downy before and he had an idea that Miss Fitzgerald had been tricked by those Yankee bastards too.
Christ, she'd gotten the upper hand on them fast enough. . .though outsmarting a drunken Cockney thief and stinking Frenchman wasn't really that hard in the big scheme of things. That's not how he would explain her abduction of Nemo's baby Nautilus if they ever made it back to London alive however. "Celebratory sociable" with Tom, Huck, and the rest of Louisiana probably wouldn't cut it with the Captain. How the Canadian had actually steered the damn machine and why she had brought it here had been a complete mystery in itself, but after witnessing the evisceration of three presumably innocent men Skinner had reassessed his priorities.
His side hurt from where the she-beast had bowled him over; his arse and knees were scratched, burned from sliding through the tall rough yellowed grass. Feckin' brilliant. Rodney raised his hands slowly, then, as her head jerked to stare a hole through his invisible chest, thought better of it and simply opened his fat gob.
"Don't worry luv, everythin's goin' to be-"
"No lies ghost. What did Finn have planned when he sent you and the other dog to fetch me?"
Her voice was a hiss, low and waspish, mouth barely moving as if to conceal what lay beneath those thin lips. Skinner had a good idea. The rise and drop of her small chest had quickened and Rodney sighed with only slight frustration. She was a moon-driven fiend. And a werewolf. She could be forgiven the 'ghost' comment this once. And anyone who could insult the Frenchman while knowing he was probably being burned by electrodes at that very moment couldn't be all bad. "I know ya got no reason to trust me Brigitte-" she flinched at the sound of her own name, "but I'm in the same boat even though you stole mine an' I'm willin' to give you the benefit of the doubt." Her already stiff spine straightened and Rodney felt his sunburned shoulders tense, preparing for what had to be said next. "Now you brought us here luv, an' my," he grimaced, "partner is goin' to end up like those other poor sots if you don't help me get him out."
Images of tortured flesh, torn, mutated bodies and animalistic forms flashed across Skinner's vision and he quickly shook his head, filing the pictures away in the dark recesses of his nightmares. Just several more of many for this gentleman thief. Brigitte's countenance was shifting, wheels turning, and Rodney shrugged.
"We're your best bet of pissin' off Finn you know."
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Getting in to the cottage-cum-slaughter house was easier than Skinner had expected, but with a girl-wolf looking to rip out throats as your rear-guard anything seems possible. Not that there were many throats to rip out (two lackeys left outside with more of Hyde than Jekyll about them) or that the thief had been successful in getting the near-waif to transform. "It could be useful luv, 'specially if they haul out the big guns or let loose a few starved bears--" "I'd rather gauge out my own eyes than put myself in a position where you would see me naked." "And what pretty eyes they are." "Shut up."
It was eerily quiet, as if Moreau's accomplices had heard them coming on the breeze and escaped on the fly, but whatever had happened it was clear the exodus had occurred in a hurry-papers smouldered in a small hearth and two half-formed cat people had their throats slit pointed ear to pointed ear, bodies still shackled to chairs and blood only beginning to congeal on hairy chests. Don't think about it, keep moving. Bloody waste and ugly as hell but Rodney wasn't looking for either of these unfortunates. Brigitte was already scrambling through singed scraps rustling over the floor, bringing the thief's gaze to a dirty Oriental rug.
"Basement?"
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"Oh my God, the smell."
"Cover your snout luv. It can't get much worse."
"I've seen worse, ghost. Don't patronize me!"
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"Can't you make this death trap go any faster?"
They had been silent for nearly an hour, nothing but the sound of his and Brigitte's heavy panting-not from anything pleasant that his mind and hands could conjure, simply from dwindling adrenaline and the happy thought that they had lived to fight another day at least-and Gaudon's shaky breaths. Skinner had been glad for the quiet, concentrating on steering the Nautiloid through treacherous waters, getting back to America and punching Secret Agent Huckleberry Finn in the bloody mug; it was easy to keep the nightmares at bay when you weren't constantly reminded of the soaked unconscious bleeding Frenchman wrapped up on the floor.
". . . His heartbeat isn't right," she kept babbling. "He doesn't sound right or smell right--"
"Well that's nothin' new," Rodney quipped, frustrated and edgy at his impotence. None of this should have happened.
"Who knows what those bastards injected him with! Damnit, this is just like the-"
She stopped abruptly and Skinner couldn't help but cock an ear. Finn had mentioned her mission had been in an asylum, looking into the dealings of and spying on a Doctor Beaumont who had recently died in the inferno that had levelled his own institution. That was the official word. From what Nicholas imparted before getting kidnapped by freakish goons, Miss Fitzgerald had more blood on her hands than she was admitting, and her own frightening animosity towards Finn was a dead give-away.
Rodney doubted her stint in New Orleans had been voluntary.
So of course he had to respond with great sympathy and understanding.
"Stop harpin' at me an' let me do my bloody job! That's all you Yankee women like to do: talk, talk, talk! Little wonder you aren't married." He flipped a bronze switch and listened to the engine surge with extra speed. It was a miracle the bloody machine had been where they had left it. ". . . You aren't married, right luv?"
She didn't dignify his question with words.
She growled.
"Oi! All isn't lost luv!"
"What are you talking about?" she hissed. "I came here to put a stop to those experiments and instead we have no idea where those butchers. . .monsters are and everything was destroyed-"
"Ah! Ah!" Skinner clucked, shaking his head. "Not everything."
"Idiot. You saw the smoke! Your friend here is lucky he's still breathing, there was so much-"
"The Frog inhales more smoke before breakfast daily," the thief snorted. Nick would live, they'd joke about it later, and the Frenchman would just have more scars to try and impress the dollybirds. Try. Skinner shrugged. He really hadn't been worried. It was just hard to find someone to drink with, what with the poufs that made up the rest of the League now. "An' you're still wrong." Skinner made a gesture, realized the futility of such an act and cursed. "Check his feckin' trousers!"
"Excuse me?"
"I doubt he's got the glim luv, just check his bloody pants!"
As gingerly as she could-though the Frog groaned anyway-Brigitte peeled off a wet corner of the blanket, and, with a look of distaste, slipped one long hand underneath the waistband of Gaudon's soiled trousers. Her eyes widened suddenly and she hastily brought out a slim journal bound with twine. "Better than what most find down there I'm sure," Skinner grinned.
"How did you. . ." She trailed off, flipping the blanket back over the injured werewolf.
"Never underestimate a gentleman thief, luv."
There was a chuckle.
"When you show me one I'll remember to keep that in mind."
"An' I'll remember to wrap a ribbon 'round your neck before handin' you back to Finn!"
How many hours did he have left in this bloody bubble?