FIC: The Dog at His Command (Tony, Gibbs, Victorian)
Okay, after this, I promise I'll stop bombarding you all with fic for a while, because we're to the end of what I have already written. But people were asking during Gentlemen of Last Resort about why Mr. Anthony is so often "Mad" Mr. Anthony, and this might go towards explaining that. Then there will be a little bit of a break, while I try to write the sequel and some of the other one-shots (and probably some non-Victorian stuff, too).
But for now...
The Dog at His Command
The fight was over very, very quickly.
The man spat out a tooth and a mouthful of blood. “I know who you are.”
Anthony stripped off his stained gloves. He was proud of his steadiness. “I am the man who will break your teeth like so much glass from a windowpane, should you not tell me what I need to know.”
He ran a thumb down the man’s jaw and felt the flesh leap away underneath his touch-that threatened him. He was unaccustomed to being on this end of the violence: always, it had been his own skin that had cringed under someone else’s touch. He thought of the gap in the snow Gibbs’s boots had made right before he’d gotten yanked up in the carriage and pulled away into the road faster than Anthony could follow. That image of emptiness decided him, and he pressed on. He hooked his thumb into the man’s mouth.
“Gracious, what a lot of blood. It’s amazing how these things go, isn’t it? I’ve a friend who does a bit in the way of resurrection-very quietly, of course-and he always does say that people have such a frightful amount of blood in them. I shall have to agree.”
“You aren’t human,” the man said, his words turned to porridge by Anthony’s thumb.
“An avenging angel, like,” Anthony said.
The man turned his head, trying to catch his teeth-or what was left of them-around Anthony’s thumb, but Anthony was too quick for him, and merely dragged his lip away from the rest of his mouth as if testing the versatility of the skin.
“You snap like a dog.”
“And that’s what you are, and all,” the man said. The blood from his mouth ran down Anthony’s wrist. “Mr. Gibbs’s dog, that’s what they say about you, the dog who sleeps on his floor and comes when he calls, who hunts for him.”
“And kills for him?” Anthony asked lightly. He withdrew his hand and patted the man’s cheek. “Sir, I have heard it all before-a dozen times before. If I’m his dog, I daresay I bite far better than you do. Come on, then.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“Not in the least,” Anthony said, resisting the urge to check his pocket-watch and count, again, the minutes of Gibbs’s absence. “I’m letting you stand, I grow so terribly weary of having your blood and your spit on my hand, it’s the ruination of the cuffs, you know. I’ve no fear of you, sir. Three minutes ago, you had a knife. Now you have only your newly charming smile and I-” He turned the blade in the air, examining the way the streetlights turned the tip of it to gold. “Well. I should say I have the advantage, which means that, dog or not, I have soundly beaten you. The only sensible way for you to save your life at this point is to tell me where to find my employer.”
“You’re mad.”
Anthony smiled. It felt, even to his own lips, very wolfish.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I have heard that before, too.”
*
When he did find Gibbs, half-drowned in the Thames like a kitten, he pulled him to the shallows and held him there as he gasped and coughed and vomited up gouts of water so filthy it hurt Anthony to look at it. Both of them were shivering, wracked with the cold, and there was no way they would not come out of it ill and feverish for weeks. Still, Anthony did not have the strength left in him to pull Gibbs the rest of the way to the docks, and so that rest in the low-lit and ankle-deep water was their temporary refuge as he held on hard to Gibbs and felt Gibbs gradually start to hold back as the strength returned to his hands.
Anthony sagged back in the half-frozen water, his chin against Gibbs’s shoulder. “I suppose you thought you were dying, sir.”
Gibbs coughed again. “There is-blood. On your sleeves.”
“Oh,” Anthony said, looking at it. “Don’t concern yourself. None of that is mine.”
Gibbs laughed, and when the laugh turned into a cough Anthony somehow found the strength to drag them both all the way from the water, and they sat on the docks together shivering.
Earlier, standing in the alley, with the man’s blood drying on his skin, he had said, It is true, you know-when he calls, I do come running. But you ought to remember, and tell whomever might mistake me: should there ever come a day when I find he cannot call… then, sir, everyone runs.
But for now...
The Dog at His Command
The fight was over very, very quickly.
The man spat out a tooth and a mouthful of blood. “I know who you are.”
Anthony stripped off his stained gloves. He was proud of his steadiness. “I am the man who will break your teeth like so much glass from a windowpane, should you not tell me what I need to know.”
He ran a thumb down the man’s jaw and felt the flesh leap away underneath his touch-that threatened him. He was unaccustomed to being on this end of the violence: always, it had been his own skin that had cringed under someone else’s touch. He thought of the gap in the snow Gibbs’s boots had made right before he’d gotten yanked up in the carriage and pulled away into the road faster than Anthony could follow. That image of emptiness decided him, and he pressed on. He hooked his thumb into the man’s mouth.
“Gracious, what a lot of blood. It’s amazing how these things go, isn’t it? I’ve a friend who does a bit in the way of resurrection-very quietly, of course-and he always does say that people have such a frightful amount of blood in them. I shall have to agree.”
“You aren’t human,” the man said, his words turned to porridge by Anthony’s thumb.
“An avenging angel, like,” Anthony said.
The man turned his head, trying to catch his teeth-or what was left of them-around Anthony’s thumb, but Anthony was too quick for him, and merely dragged his lip away from the rest of his mouth as if testing the versatility of the skin.
“You snap like a dog.”
“And that’s what you are, and all,” the man said. The blood from his mouth ran down Anthony’s wrist. “Mr. Gibbs’s dog, that’s what they say about you, the dog who sleeps on his floor and comes when he calls, who hunts for him.”
“And kills for him?” Anthony asked lightly. He withdrew his hand and patted the man’s cheek. “Sir, I have heard it all before-a dozen times before. If I’m his dog, I daresay I bite far better than you do. Come on, then.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“Not in the least,” Anthony said, resisting the urge to check his pocket-watch and count, again, the minutes of Gibbs’s absence. “I’m letting you stand, I grow so terribly weary of having your blood and your spit on my hand, it’s the ruination of the cuffs, you know. I’ve no fear of you, sir. Three minutes ago, you had a knife. Now you have only your newly charming smile and I-” He turned the blade in the air, examining the way the streetlights turned the tip of it to gold. “Well. I should say I have the advantage, which means that, dog or not, I have soundly beaten you. The only sensible way for you to save your life at this point is to tell me where to find my employer.”
“You’re mad.”
Anthony smiled. It felt, even to his own lips, very wolfish.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I have heard that before, too.”
*
When he did find Gibbs, half-drowned in the Thames like a kitten, he pulled him to the shallows and held him there as he gasped and coughed and vomited up gouts of water so filthy it hurt Anthony to look at it. Both of them were shivering, wracked with the cold, and there was no way they would not come out of it ill and feverish for weeks. Still, Anthony did not have the strength left in him to pull Gibbs the rest of the way to the docks, and so that rest in the low-lit and ankle-deep water was their temporary refuge as he held on hard to Gibbs and felt Gibbs gradually start to hold back as the strength returned to his hands.
Anthony sagged back in the half-frozen water, his chin against Gibbs’s shoulder. “I suppose you thought you were dying, sir.”
Gibbs coughed again. “There is-blood. On your sleeves.”
“Oh,” Anthony said, looking at it. “Don’t concern yourself. None of that is mine.”
Gibbs laughed, and when the laugh turned into a cough Anthony somehow found the strength to drag them both all the way from the water, and they sat on the docks together shivering.
Earlier, standing in the alley, with the man’s blood drying on his skin, he had said, It is true, you know-when he calls, I do come running. But you ought to remember, and tell whomever might mistake me: should there ever come a day when I find he cannot call… then, sir, everyone runs.