Very Strange Enchanted Boys, Part Two
Disclaimer: The following log-recounting the adventures of Juilliard and Alden-is very long. Very long. Twenty pages, as it happens, in one day. Our boys are verbose. ^^
The man did not look up right away, though even someone nearly deaf would have heard the glass shatter.
Instead Alden raised his head slowly, seemingly far more interested in his bleeding arm than in the noise. Then he did look up, and a look of pure shock passed across his face.
“Most people enter rather more elegantly,” he said at length.
Juilliard controlled the urge to knock the man unconscious and simply drag him out of the building; it would be far more trouble than it was worth. “Nonsense,” he drawled instead, assessing the damage done to Alden’s arm and rummaging in his jacket pocket for bandaging. “I cannot always be utterly elegant, Alden. At times I have to settle for merely dramatic. How many people know that you are here, do you think?”
“At least two,” the man replied, and held out his arm obligingly. “They’re the same sort of people, Vichy. This lovely line’s from one of their pretty little knives.”
Juilliard paused in his bandaging to hold forth the knife he’d bought in the marketplace. “I know. And how very pretty these knives are indeed. I think, at least, we’ve located a center of activity.” He tied the bandage perhaps rather tighter than was necessary.
Alden winced slightly. “And you’ve nicely broadcast that you’ve found it. Frankly I’m surprised no one’s come running to see what that noise was about yet.” He got rather painfully to his feet. “More will be accomplished if they don’t catch you, at least, though I shouldn’t mind getting out of here myself. Shall we?”
“I am deeply apologetic that I could not be quieter. On the whole, you seem very unsatisfied with this rescue. Should I start again?” He tossed a sheathed knife from another pocket at Alden’s head. “Here, I brought a spare. Are you in any shape to defend yourself? We shall certainly have to.” The sound in the corridor, he noted absently, was swelling. Presumably the fun was about to begin.
“For God’s sake, this isn’t the time to be polite about things,” Alden snapped. “Thank you for crashing in here and bandaging my arm, Vichy. Yes, I can use this.” He hefted the knife thoughtfully. “I’ve always wondered if I could manage a decent fight left-handed.”
“You are, my lord, about to find out,” Juilliard said, and straightened up, smirking.
“Indeed,” Alden muttered, and the door crashed open.
There weren’t as many people as Juilliard had expected, given the noise. In fact, there were only five of them, which was nearly offensive; were they really only as much of a threat as that?
Perhaps. Alden, at least, was not looking particularly threatening, and Juilliard was not entirely sure whether to be scornful or surprised. He’d heard a good deal about the man over the years he’d been working for T.H.E.Y., and one of the more frequently repeated little sayings was that it was a very, very bad idea to get into a fight with him. Yet here Alden was, certainly holding that knife like he knew how to use it, but back pressed against the wall, wary, frame weak. Surely he could not have lost that much blood. Surely the lack of magic in this place couldn’t be having such a strong effect.
Juilliard was only given an instant to ponder any of this, however, before three of the five men in the doorway rushed at him.
He had fought before, and thus recognised the state his mind slipped into. The world very suddenly became a collection of geometric shapes. Knife, he thought, and moved it, watching its path towards the nearest-The man fell and he turned on the next, slicing towards him, but being parried. Through the haze he could see Alden ducking suddenly, much swifter than Juilliard would have expected given his prior weakness-tricks and strategies then, Juilliard thought distractedly-and then one of the two men going after Alden was down, and there was something savagely triumphant in Alden’s face-only for a moment, before he whirled towards his other opponent.
He struck, and missed, and struck and hit, and felt a cut open along his leg. Then along his ribs. But his opponent fell, and there was another behind him, turn, slice, stab, parryduckdodgefight. Until he was facing nobody at all, and the world shuddered and settled around him. He panted, and wiped the blood on his hand off on the wall.
Alden was standing near the door, shaking visibly. “Right,” he said, and shot Juilliard a little grin. “I’m afraid I rather favour my right hand. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Seconded,” said Juilliard shortly, and slipped out the door. Well, he admitted very grudgingly to himself, the man could at least fight, if nothing else. And fight well.
Alden was breathing raggedly, but followed readily enough. “I hope you know a quick way out of here, Vichy. Very soon I may start tracking blood on the floor, and I’m sure we can imagine how unfortunate that would be.”
“Well,” he said, quietly, as they tried to look purposeful, “we have two options. One is to use a window which it is entirely possible that they have found and barred. The second is to use the front door. I prefer the second.”
“You’re fucking mad,” Alden returned, quite conversationally. “We both look as though we have just been in a fight, which, if I may point out, we indeed have been.”
“Yes,” Juilliard returned, rather enjoying in a hazy way the reaction he was receiving. “That is why we are detouring to-” he accompanied that with a shove against a door he’d noted on the way in-”this lovely smoking lounge. Or whatever it was initially intended for.” Calmly, he closed the door behind them and locked it, then tossed his jacket to Alden, inverting his shirt to hide some of the bloodstains. “I brought cosmetics,” he added, and gestured at a pocket. “Just swab the concealer over your face. It’ll do at a pinch.”
“Inelegant,” Alden muttered, pulling on the jacket with a wince, and pulled the concealer out of the indicated coat pocket. “I thought,” he added, peering rather skeptically into the little mirror that accompanied the concealer, as he dabbed it gently over a bruise rising on his cheek, “that you were terribly concerned with elegance.”
“My lord, has anyone ever told you that it is impolite to criticise someone’s rescuing technique-? Oh, wait, I believe that I have? Merely-ten minutes ago, as watches measure time, was it not?” He contented himself with raising an eyebrow at the insufferable man, instead of, say, attacking him wholesale and claiming him as prisoner.” At any rate, I find the use of the front door inexpressibly elegant myself. Why, it even has a taste of dramatic irony to it.”
“Conceded,” Alden retorted, snapping the makeup case closed with finality and stuffing it back in his pocket. “To all points, if that should please you. Do I look passable?”
Juilliard scanned him sceptically. “You don’t look as though you’ve been in an immediate fight, if that’s what you mean, dear Alden. I highly doubt you ever quite reach ‘passable’.” He scratched a stubborn bloodstain on his hand.
Shockingly, the man grinned, a real grin and rueful. “I have been told that. I have also been told it is quite charming. Let’s go, then.”
“Ah, yes,” said Juilliard, partway between amused and shocked, insofar as he was capable of proper emotional response at the moment. He unlocked the door and strolled out, calmly.
Alden followed him. “Alibi?” he asked quietly. “Why are we here, in case anyone asks?”
“We were recruited directly from T.H.E.Y., and we are reporting on our successful infiltration. I’d prefer it if it was more solid and coherent, but have I mentioned how much I detest that jacket, Alfred?” He smiled and nodded at the passing person. “It’s absolutely-Right. Any suggestions?”
“None whatsoever,” Alden murmured. “I still have the knife, and your charm, of course, and that shall have to be good enough.”
“I am glad to hear that your trust in me is so well-founded. One more right and we’re out, then continue towards the marketplace, at which point we can run, if we get that far.”
“I don’t trust you in the least,” Alden said quietly, and Juilliard could hear the smile in the man’s voice, though he didn’t dare look. They were trying to be unobtrusive. “You’re just better than the alternative.” A pause, and then, even more quietly, though Juilliard suspected it wasn’t for secrecy in this crowded corridor as much as it was because Alden was having difficulty saying it, “...Juilliard, I don’t think I can run, never mind whether we should. I’m having trouble walking.”
“Ah, I see,” said Juilliard, calmly, collectedly, smiling. “That does rather put a crimp in our plans.” Briefly, he wondered what Finn’s reaction would be to their deaths. It would probably be far too dramatic. Ah, well, there were no helping some things. “Well, then, there will be...more fighting involved. Looking forward to it?”
“Not particularly. You’re horribly pessimistic, Vichy.” They were nearing the doors. Alden straightened slightly, a spring in his step. Enthusiastic and energetic and purposeful and, Juilliard understood, putting every single last bit of effort into this one moment.
Juilliard grinned as widely as he could manage at the bored guards, watching the streets. He hadn’t expected danger from them, really. He’d more expected-And yes, there they were, coming up the steps. Two people clearly quite a bit higher up in the organization than the previous assistants. And the look of recognition on their faces. Murphy’s Law, yet another reason to never trust those damned British Isles. He bowed, formally, to them. Well, this was as good a way as any to bring up his imminent peril pay, was it not?
The man did not look up right away, though even someone nearly deaf would have heard the glass shatter.
Instead Alden raised his head slowly, seemingly far more interested in his bleeding arm than in the noise. Then he did look up, and a look of pure shock passed across his face.
“Most people enter rather more elegantly,” he said at length.
Juilliard controlled the urge to knock the man unconscious and simply drag him out of the building; it would be far more trouble than it was worth. “Nonsense,” he drawled instead, assessing the damage done to Alden’s arm and rummaging in his jacket pocket for bandaging. “I cannot always be utterly elegant, Alden. At times I have to settle for merely dramatic. How many people know that you are here, do you think?”
“At least two,” the man replied, and held out his arm obligingly. “They’re the same sort of people, Vichy. This lovely line’s from one of their pretty little knives.”
Juilliard paused in his bandaging to hold forth the knife he’d bought in the marketplace. “I know. And how very pretty these knives are indeed. I think, at least, we’ve located a center of activity.” He tied the bandage perhaps rather tighter than was necessary.
Alden winced slightly. “And you’ve nicely broadcast that you’ve found it. Frankly I’m surprised no one’s come running to see what that noise was about yet.” He got rather painfully to his feet. “More will be accomplished if they don’t catch you, at least, though I shouldn’t mind getting out of here myself. Shall we?”
“I am deeply apologetic that I could not be quieter. On the whole, you seem very unsatisfied with this rescue. Should I start again?” He tossed a sheathed knife from another pocket at Alden’s head. “Here, I brought a spare. Are you in any shape to defend yourself? We shall certainly have to.” The sound in the corridor, he noted absently, was swelling. Presumably the fun was about to begin.
“For God’s sake, this isn’t the time to be polite about things,” Alden snapped. “Thank you for crashing in here and bandaging my arm, Vichy. Yes, I can use this.” He hefted the knife thoughtfully. “I’ve always wondered if I could manage a decent fight left-handed.”
“You are, my lord, about to find out,” Juilliard said, and straightened up, smirking.
“Indeed,” Alden muttered, and the door crashed open.
There weren’t as many people as Juilliard had expected, given the noise. In fact, there were only five of them, which was nearly offensive; were they really only as much of a threat as that?
Perhaps. Alden, at least, was not looking particularly threatening, and Juilliard was not entirely sure whether to be scornful or surprised. He’d heard a good deal about the man over the years he’d been working for T.H.E.Y., and one of the more frequently repeated little sayings was that it was a very, very bad idea to get into a fight with him. Yet here Alden was, certainly holding that knife like he knew how to use it, but back pressed against the wall, wary, frame weak. Surely he could not have lost that much blood. Surely the lack of magic in this place couldn’t be having such a strong effect.
Juilliard was only given an instant to ponder any of this, however, before three of the five men in the doorway rushed at him.
He had fought before, and thus recognised the state his mind slipped into. The world very suddenly became a collection of geometric shapes. Knife, he thought, and moved it, watching its path towards the nearest-The man fell and he turned on the next, slicing towards him, but being parried. Through the haze he could see Alden ducking suddenly, much swifter than Juilliard would have expected given his prior weakness-tricks and strategies then, Juilliard thought distractedly-and then one of the two men going after Alden was down, and there was something savagely triumphant in Alden’s face-only for a moment, before he whirled towards his other opponent.
He struck, and missed, and struck and hit, and felt a cut open along his leg. Then along his ribs. But his opponent fell, and there was another behind him, turn, slice, stab, parryduckdodgefight. Until he was facing nobody at all, and the world shuddered and settled around him. He panted, and wiped the blood on his hand off on the wall.
Alden was standing near the door, shaking visibly. “Right,” he said, and shot Juilliard a little grin. “I’m afraid I rather favour my right hand. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Seconded,” said Juilliard shortly, and slipped out the door. Well, he admitted very grudgingly to himself, the man could at least fight, if nothing else. And fight well.
Alden was breathing raggedly, but followed readily enough. “I hope you know a quick way out of here, Vichy. Very soon I may start tracking blood on the floor, and I’m sure we can imagine how unfortunate that would be.”
“Well,” he said, quietly, as they tried to look purposeful, “we have two options. One is to use a window which it is entirely possible that they have found and barred. The second is to use the front door. I prefer the second.”
“You’re fucking mad,” Alden returned, quite conversationally. “We both look as though we have just been in a fight, which, if I may point out, we indeed have been.”
“Yes,” Juilliard returned, rather enjoying in a hazy way the reaction he was receiving. “That is why we are detouring to-” he accompanied that with a shove against a door he’d noted on the way in-”this lovely smoking lounge. Or whatever it was initially intended for.” Calmly, he closed the door behind them and locked it, then tossed his jacket to Alden, inverting his shirt to hide some of the bloodstains. “I brought cosmetics,” he added, and gestured at a pocket. “Just swab the concealer over your face. It’ll do at a pinch.”
“Inelegant,” Alden muttered, pulling on the jacket with a wince, and pulled the concealer out of the indicated coat pocket. “I thought,” he added, peering rather skeptically into the little mirror that accompanied the concealer, as he dabbed it gently over a bruise rising on his cheek, “that you were terribly concerned with elegance.”
“My lord, has anyone ever told you that it is impolite to criticise someone’s rescuing technique-? Oh, wait, I believe that I have? Merely-ten minutes ago, as watches measure time, was it not?” He contented himself with raising an eyebrow at the insufferable man, instead of, say, attacking him wholesale and claiming him as prisoner.” At any rate, I find the use of the front door inexpressibly elegant myself. Why, it even has a taste of dramatic irony to it.”
“Conceded,” Alden retorted, snapping the makeup case closed with finality and stuffing it back in his pocket. “To all points, if that should please you. Do I look passable?”
Juilliard scanned him sceptically. “You don’t look as though you’ve been in an immediate fight, if that’s what you mean, dear Alden. I highly doubt you ever quite reach ‘passable’.” He scratched a stubborn bloodstain on his hand.
Shockingly, the man grinned, a real grin and rueful. “I have been told that. I have also been told it is quite charming. Let’s go, then.”
“Ah, yes,” said Juilliard, partway between amused and shocked, insofar as he was capable of proper emotional response at the moment. He unlocked the door and strolled out, calmly.
Alden followed him. “Alibi?” he asked quietly. “Why are we here, in case anyone asks?”
“We were recruited directly from T.H.E.Y., and we are reporting on our successful infiltration. I’d prefer it if it was more solid and coherent, but have I mentioned how much I detest that jacket, Alfred?” He smiled and nodded at the passing person. “It’s absolutely-Right. Any suggestions?”
“None whatsoever,” Alden murmured. “I still have the knife, and your charm, of course, and that shall have to be good enough.”
“I am glad to hear that your trust in me is so well-founded. One more right and we’re out, then continue towards the marketplace, at which point we can run, if we get that far.”
“I don’t trust you in the least,” Alden said quietly, and Juilliard could hear the smile in the man’s voice, though he didn’t dare look. They were trying to be unobtrusive. “You’re just better than the alternative.” A pause, and then, even more quietly, though Juilliard suspected it wasn’t for secrecy in this crowded corridor as much as it was because Alden was having difficulty saying it, “...Juilliard, I don’t think I can run, never mind whether we should. I’m having trouble walking.”
“Ah, I see,” said Juilliard, calmly, collectedly, smiling. “That does rather put a crimp in our plans.” Briefly, he wondered what Finn’s reaction would be to their deaths. It would probably be far too dramatic. Ah, well, there were no helping some things. “Well, then, there will be...more fighting involved. Looking forward to it?”
“Not particularly. You’re horribly pessimistic, Vichy.” They were nearing the doors. Alden straightened slightly, a spring in his step. Enthusiastic and energetic and purposeful and, Juilliard understood, putting every single last bit of effort into this one moment.
Juilliard grinned as widely as he could manage at the bored guards, watching the streets. He hadn’t expected danger from them, really. He’d more expected-And yes, there they were, coming up the steps. Two people clearly quite a bit higher up in the organization than the previous assistants. And the look of recognition on their faces. Murphy’s Law, yet another reason to never trust those damned British Isles. He bowed, formally, to them. Well, this was as good a way as any to bring up his imminent peril pay, was it not?