HOMECOMING DANCE COMMENT FICATHON
I KNOW WHERE EVERYONE IS TONIGHT
THEY'RE ON TUMBLR
TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY MISS LJ
WELL LET'S DO THIS
I OFFICIALLY INVITE YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW TO A MULTIFANDOM COMMENT FICATHON, RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW. We're talking Doctor Who, Sherlock, Elementary, Harry Potter, Avengers, Marvel and DC, Justified, Star Trek, Veronica Mars, Secret Diary of ( Read more... )
THEY'RE ON TUMBLR
TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY MISS LJ
WELL LET'S DO THIS
I OFFICIALLY INVITE YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW TO A MULTIFANDOM COMMENT FICATHON, RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW. We're talking Doctor Who, Sherlock, Elementary, Harry Potter, Avengers, Marvel and DC, Justified, Star Trek, Veronica Mars, Secret Diary of ( Read more... )
Her body convulses, back already against the wall, hands fisted. Her eyes widen as she sees the prisoner, that pale man. The door is open to let his screams through to her, his gag removed. Harry likes the reminder of what happens if she crosses him.
She's slept to his yells these past two nights, and it shows in the welts and blood streaking his face.
But his eyes are brown, dark and kind. Slowly, she edges foward to stand at the doorway, listening carefully for anybody coming towards them.
"No," she says softly, and he nods sadly.
"I thought as much. You're his girl, aren't you?" She likes his tone, it's gentle and respectful. She's almost forgotten what respect was.
"Yes," she murmurs and comes to stand before him. Her nerves are firing, tense for a confrontation. Anybody could be coming, and she shouldn't even be talking to him.
"I'm John," he says, and she wonders how a person who has been beaten can have such a cheerful and lovely smile. It's contagious, and she finds herself smiling back, just a little one, but it's real.
"I'm Rose. I'd shake your hand..." She darts a glance to his arms, bound to the chair.
"Oh, don't bother. You have a lovely name, by the way."
She flushes and mumbles a thank you to the floor.
"I don't suppose, Rose, that you might be able to free me? Only I'm sure you've heard, and being tortured isn't much fun, I'm afraid."
His monologue is so light and glib, but his chest is rising and falling shallowly and she thinks he's having trouble breathing properly.
"I can't...I'm sorry but I can't." She's truly apologetic, but god if Harry ever...
"No, no I quite understand." John gasps in, makes a small sound that resembles a whimper. "Worth-worth a t-try."
On an impulse she finds his limp hand, and curls her fingers around it. "I'm sorry," she says, and he squeezes her hand. His smile makes another appearance and it brightens the room. Moonlight touches his cheek, and she hears laughter and music downstairs. He could be handsome, if he wasn't bloodied and battered, life leaking out through his breaths.
"I'm sorry," she says again, and means it.
*****
"Can I carry it up? You must be awfully busy."
Hanna stares at her suspiciously. Rose isn't in the kitchens normally, and all the maids are on edge, staring at her when they think she's looking the other way.
"I don't know ma'am," drawls Hanna. "The master isn't going to be pleased."
"Oh, but you're so busy."
And here it is, the folding, her twist of the mouth, the grudging nod. Hanna knows her too much to be unkind. There's an unspoken agreement. Rose knows, as Hanna hands her the tray, that if Harry should come asking questions, there wouldn't be any secrets.
But she can pretend she has a friend, at least. The plates clink as she makes her way up to John's room. She knows by now, has snuck in there and talked to him, when she could. He seems to grow happier with each visit, beaming at her like she's his savior.
The house is so pretty, so full of nice things. The wallpaper is fancy and the furnishings are gorgeous, delicate wood and glass. An army of servants, a labyrinth of rooms. Such a lovely prison.
"Hello," says John when she enters. He's looking better; Harry and his friends are on a business deal, and they'll come back with bloodied hands but it won't be John's on the sleeves.
"Hello," she returns shyly. Setting down the tray she retrieves a bowl of soup and a spoon. John makes a face.
"Seems rather undignified, that. You feeding me like some sort of invalid."
"Be glad you can eat," she snaps, remembering the old man who was in here last, with the grey-templed hair and false money. All his cuff links and silver topped canes did him no good when he couldn't speak. She doesn't want John to have that, never.
"They're keeping me," he says after a pause, taking the soup politely. "I don't know why."
"No. It's usually only a week at most, and almost nothing to eat..." Her belly pinches with fear, and she bites her lip and falls silent, air heavy and imposing.
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Ten/Rose mafia!au Attracting Trouble Part Three
LJ is being difficult so the last two parts are both shortish
"Seen a lot of this, then?" Somehow his voice isn't accusing but pitying.
"Too much."
"Why don't you leave?"
She laughs, bitter as the coffee they've given him. "I can't. I'm his for life, you see. I met him when I was here from London, a year ago. I was stupid...so stupid."
She drops the spoon in the bowl, metal clinking. A moment to compose herself and she continues. She needs to tell someone, and this kind-eyed man with scars running down his neck and long elegant fingers is listening.
"I wanted to be an actress," she confesses and he hums, accepts the next spoonful.
"You'd be a wonderful actress," he replies, smiling at her. Her mouth quirks up; this is the first time anyone's ever supported her in that.
"He told me he was a manager and I believed him. I should have known...all the clubs and guns and cars. There were men around him all the time, but I only learned why much later. I was so in love with him I agreed to move in, agreed to..."
She blushes, twisting her fingers and doesn't look at him. "I've been with him ever since. He likes the way I look, you see. Has a thing for blondes."
"Rose." He's leaning forward now, eager. "I can help. Let me loose and I'll swear I'll take you away from here. You and me, together."
His excitement isn't catching. She would, oh, in a heartbeat. But the last time he hit her so hard it burned and ached and everything trembled.
"He'll hurt me. I'm sorry. But there's a man outside anyway. He'd stop us."
"He hurts you often?" asks John and his voice is wound so tight, straining. There's an almost frightening anger behind those eyes, smoldering.
"Sometimes," she allows, and her cheek throbs and sings where his hand was last night, when she told him she was too tired.
That night when Harry is back she hears John's raised voice, furious and loud. Then a thud and a choked scream. She cries in her bedroom and pretends to be sleeping when Harry comes for her.
Quietly she lies awake and tries to find John's labored breath, imagining she can hear his heartbeat.
The next morning she is told John is never to speak to her, and is given the news of Hanna's retirement. The new cook is American and lanky and scared.
Rose wonders exactly how many people Harry killed yesterday.
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A month passes, parties and clubs, jazz players swinging and cigarette girls handing favors behind beaded curtains. Harry stops coming to her for sex, but the leers of the men never do.
She wanders where she dares in the brief respites when he isn't in the house, searching for him. She never does find him, but sometimes at night she can hear him calling for her, and she says his name when she sleeps.
*****
"Come now Rosie. We've got a treat for you." Harry's hand clamps around her upper arm hard, drawing a stifled whimper. She drops the mirror she was holding and has to run to keep up with him.
With a pooling sense of dread she follows him down past the servant's quarters, into the cellar. It's dusty and cold, insects and rats scuttling along the floor. Harry keeps dragging her past the wine crates.
Oh John.
He's staring at her, tied up and guilty. Fear and something else, something deeper than that. His hand flexes and she remembers the feel of it in hers.
"Please," she begs, not sure who she's taking to. "Oh, please don't."
Harry chuckles and guides her to sit on an upturned crate. The faceless men move to untie John and he stands tall and proud, skin split above his eyebrows. Her heart aches for him.
"Leave us," Harry orders to the men and they turn and melt into the shadows. That's new. He always uses henchmen to do the dirty work.
"What's...going on?"
"Oh!" exclaims Harry, "let's have a little fun shall we? What shall we do, Rose? Strangle him? Beat him? Shoot him...slowly? It's your choice darling."
He's waiting, she realizes, half sick. He's waiting for her to choose how he dies.
"No," she whispers.
"Sorry." The manic grin is fading from Harry's face. "I didn't quite catch that, dear." His fingers dig into her shoulders and she gasps but grits her teeth.
"No," she repeats. "I said no!"
It happens in slow motion. John cries out hoarsely, moving far too slowly to stop him. Harry raises his gun, a flash of cold biting metal and steel but she reaches out and tugs. The gun is in her hands before she knows it. But her trembling fingers are already at the trigger, the barrel aimed and steady.
"I'm not sorry," says Rose, and shoots him, Harry Saxon's body bleeding and falling to the floor. The blast is so final, the silence ringing and definite.
John inhales, and then the gun clatters to the ground and he's embracing her, arms wrapped gently around her, face in her hair. He's warm and solid and safe, murmuring soothing things in her ear.
"I couldn't let him kill you," she whispers. "I couldn't."
"I thought he was going to shoot you," he breathes and then he's kissing her, long and tender and slow. She breaks away from his lips, hugs him tighter.
"What do we do?" she asks, and he tilts up her chin to look at him, fingers and voice gentle.
"Run," he says simply and they do, crashing through the door and sprinting to the exit, sunlight so close and leaving the shadows far behind
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