Red
Title: Red
Fandom: Farscape - AU
Characters/Pairing: Braca/Grayza
Orientation: Het
Rating: PG
Word Count: 857
Notes: for Farscape_land
farscape_land challenge “...My Calendar Boy”
Also for AU Bingo Fill: “Turn of the Century”
She had once been his world, the Lady Grayza. But slowly, she turned away from him. She stopped accompanying him to the clubs each night; she made excuses when he invited her to the opera, his letters went unanswered. He walked the gas-lit streets alone as the new century rolled in and the old one faded to memory. Everywhere else in the city, lovers were together, celebrating the dawn of a new age, but Meeklo was alone this night. His feet crunched on the light layer of snow that covered the ground.
He had been about to ask for her hand, had she sensed that? Was she frightened by his ardor? Had his overwhelming love for her scared his delicate flower away? He pondered these thoughts as he walked near the Opera House. The crowd was spilling out of the doors into the street, the special holiday performance and champagne party over. He saw a flash of red, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the splash of color in the midst of the unrelenting field of proper black and white.
A wide brimmed hat, festooned with feathers, wings and netting topped a long, pale neck. A thick fur-collared black wrap draped around shoulders, leaving the pale throat and décolletage bared to public view. Shimmering red gemstones, like droplets of blood on snow caught his eye. A red dress peeped out from the folds of the black wool. How daring, how scandalous to appear at the Opera in such a color!
Her companion, a man Meeklo recognized from his dealings with Braca Investments as a Man of Political Importance, released her elbow and stepped away to open the door to the carriage that had pulled up to the curb. She turned away from the crowd towards Meeklo, raising one red gloved She raised her head and looked straight at him from beneath the brim of the hat and his heart stopped. Behind the red netting were familiar and beloved black eyes, lined by black brows, the swoop of one jet black curl across a pale face, a face that he had held dearer than his own.
Mele’on? Here, with that man, wearing that dress? On a night that should have been theirs? How could this be? He raised a hand, reaching towards her across the widening distance between them. “Mele’on?” he called, still not understanding, still unwilling to see what was before him.
The Man of Political Importance wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her away. Her eyes held Meeklo’s as she moved. She blinked and then an expression crossed her face that he had never seen there before. Her lips twisted into a sneer, red painted lips that had once been beautiful in his eyes became ugly and hard and hateful in that moment before she turned away and climbed up into the carriage. Dismissed, his use was apparently at an end, for she had found another.
The last vestiges of tenderness that he had held in his heart for her dissipated. The cold of the winter night crept into the cracks and filled the hole there. He had been played for a fool.
His hand slipped into his pocket and his gloved fingers touched the hard metal of the pistol that he carried for protection against brigands in the night. An image crept into his mind; a plan, a way to purge his heart of the poison.
As the carriage of The Man of Political Importance rolled past him, Meeklo reached out and caught hold of the iron bar at the back corner, swinging himself up onto the luggage rack. Unbeknownst to the driver huddled in blankets at the front, or to the passengers laughing loudly within the coach, Meeklo clung to the rocking carriage as it passed through the city streets.
When the carriage stopped before an elegant brownstone in the fashionable part of town, Meeklo swung down to the paving stones and waited. The door opened and The Man of Political Importance Stepped down and reached for her. There was a swirl of red and black in the glow from the streetlamp. Meeklo raised his hand and squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp scream and a shout of surprise as he squeezed it once again.
The carriage jolted away, the driver screaming “Murder, murder! Police, police!” Lights flared in the windows of the houses along the road. He slipped the gun into his pocket.
The second bullet had been truly aimed; the career of the thieving politician was at an end. Meeklo slowly approached the heap of red satin and black wool. A pool of red spread out beneath her on the white snow. He knelt beside her, looking down into her face as she struggled and gasped for breath, clutching the wound at her belly.
He whispered one word to her. “Why?”
On the verge of death, as she was drawing her last breath, she spilled venom at him. “You were convenient.”
Braca stood and stared as she died, then he turned and walked away, edging through the gathering crowd as he made his escape into the night.
The EndOriginally posted at http://rinkafic.dreamwidth.org/
Fandom: Farscape - AU
Characters/Pairing: Braca/Grayza
Orientation: Het
Rating: PG
Word Count: 857
Notes: for Farscape_land
farscape_land challenge “...My Calendar Boy”
Also for AU Bingo Fill: “Turn of the Century”
She had once been his world, the Lady Grayza. But slowly, she turned away from him. She stopped accompanying him to the clubs each night; she made excuses when he invited her to the opera, his letters went unanswered. He walked the gas-lit streets alone as the new century rolled in and the old one faded to memory. Everywhere else in the city, lovers were together, celebrating the dawn of a new age, but Meeklo was alone this night. His feet crunched on the light layer of snow that covered the ground.
He had been about to ask for her hand, had she sensed that? Was she frightened by his ardor? Had his overwhelming love for her scared his delicate flower away? He pondered these thoughts as he walked near the Opera House. The crowd was spilling out of the doors into the street, the special holiday performance and champagne party over. He saw a flash of red, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the splash of color in the midst of the unrelenting field of proper black and white.
A wide brimmed hat, festooned with feathers, wings and netting topped a long, pale neck. A thick fur-collared black wrap draped around shoulders, leaving the pale throat and décolletage bared to public view. Shimmering red gemstones, like droplets of blood on snow caught his eye. A red dress peeped out from the folds of the black wool. How daring, how scandalous to appear at the Opera in such a color!
Her companion, a man Meeklo recognized from his dealings with Braca Investments as a Man of Political Importance, released her elbow and stepped away to open the door to the carriage that had pulled up to the curb. She turned away from the crowd towards Meeklo, raising one red gloved She raised her head and looked straight at him from beneath the brim of the hat and his heart stopped. Behind the red netting were familiar and beloved black eyes, lined by black brows, the swoop of one jet black curl across a pale face, a face that he had held dearer than his own.
Mele’on? Here, with that man, wearing that dress? On a night that should have been theirs? How could this be? He raised a hand, reaching towards her across the widening distance between them. “Mele’on?” he called, still not understanding, still unwilling to see what was before him.
The Man of Political Importance wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her away. Her eyes held Meeklo’s as she moved. She blinked and then an expression crossed her face that he had never seen there before. Her lips twisted into a sneer, red painted lips that had once been beautiful in his eyes became ugly and hard and hateful in that moment before she turned away and climbed up into the carriage. Dismissed, his use was apparently at an end, for she had found another.
The last vestiges of tenderness that he had held in his heart for her dissipated. The cold of the winter night crept into the cracks and filled the hole there. He had been played for a fool.
His hand slipped into his pocket and his gloved fingers touched the hard metal of the pistol that he carried for protection against brigands in the night. An image crept into his mind; a plan, a way to purge his heart of the poison.
As the carriage of The Man of Political Importance rolled past him, Meeklo reached out and caught hold of the iron bar at the back corner, swinging himself up onto the luggage rack. Unbeknownst to the driver huddled in blankets at the front, or to the passengers laughing loudly within the coach, Meeklo clung to the rocking carriage as it passed through the city streets.
When the carriage stopped before an elegant brownstone in the fashionable part of town, Meeklo swung down to the paving stones and waited. The door opened and The Man of Political Importance Stepped down and reached for her. There was a swirl of red and black in the glow from the streetlamp. Meeklo raised his hand and squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp scream and a shout of surprise as he squeezed it once again.
The carriage jolted away, the driver screaming “Murder, murder! Police, police!” Lights flared in the windows of the houses along the road. He slipped the gun into his pocket.
The second bullet had been truly aimed; the career of the thieving politician was at an end. Meeklo slowly approached the heap of red satin and black wool. A pool of red spread out beneath her on the white snow. He knelt beside her, looking down into her face as she struggled and gasped for breath, clutching the wound at her belly.
He whispered one word to her. “Why?”
On the verge of death, as she was drawing her last breath, she spilled venom at him. “You were convenient.”
Braca stood and stared as she died, then he turned and walked away, edging through the gathering crowd as he made his escape into the night.
The EndOriginally posted at http://rinkafic.dreamwidth.org/