Fic: Lucky Hand
I figure it’s time to give these fic-writing brain cells a bit of an exercise, ready for the go_exchange which is looming ever closer. So here’s a lil’ ficlet I wrote the majority of in work.
Title: Lucky Hand
Fandom: Good Omens
Word count:1,100
Summary: Playing poker with a demon.
Warnings: None, seriously. This is the most harmless fic I’ve wrote in a long time.
Sam looked at his hand, sweat beading his brow. In the tavern, light filtered in through dirty windows, illuminating specks of dust as they floated through the air. In the background, many conversations were muted into one mumbled noise, it was hard to filter out individual speakers. [1]
The hand was a good one, he was sure of it. Though he tried not to delve into the dark world of poker too often, he prided himself on behind able to read his opponents well. A slight tic of the jaw, a crinkle of the forehead, there were so many tell-tale signs to show a bluffer. Unfortunately, this skill was useless on the man sitting across the table from him. The expression of stranger in the dark glasses had not changed from the lazy smirk he had worn the second he walked through the door. He didn’t give Sam his name, nor did Sam ask for one.
Sam still wasn’t sure how the game had started, or how the stakes had become so high. Perhaps it was the stranger’s flawless charm, the way he made it seem that winning a game against him meant winning big. He certainly looked wealthy enough. [2]
The game had gone well. Sam had won two games already. The stranger showed neither surprise nor disappointment at his loss, merely shrugged and suggested another game. Sam shouldn’t have upped the stakes this time. He knew he shouldn’t have. But the stranger had put a large wad of cash on the table, and in Sam’s world, money was a precious commodity.
Isabelle, his wife, would no doubt chew his ear off if she found out he’d put their tickets down as his part of the bargain. Those tickets were their way to a new life, a bright future overseas. Of course, if he won this game, she didn’t have to find out he’d bartered them. He could lie about where he got the money. Perhaps he could say the boys sent a pot around for a leaving gift. He took a deep breath, it was no use trying to read the stranger, so he might as well get it over with.
“Call them,” he said, trying to keep the nervous waver from his voice and not quite making it.
The stranger said nothing, simply laying his cards on the table. That smug grin ever-more smug. Sam’s heart sank. How could the man have such a hand? The odds were near-on impossible. And yet…he’d done it. Sam placed his cards down, his eyes not leaving the dirty, wooden surface. He’d lost everything, the future he had worked so hard for.
Isabelle would be here within the hour, ready to set off for their new home. What could he tell her? That he’d had a moment of weakness? No, perhaps he could say he was mugged. After all, the tickets were greatly sort after. It was perfectly feasible for someone to try and take them from him. But could he really lie to her? After all the hope she’d put into leaving this country? He closed his eyes, letting out a breath. Of course he couldn’t.
If the stranger noticed his crestfallen expression, he didn’t show it. He simply poured the winnings into a coat pocket and stood. His seemingly unmoveable smirk turned in Sam’s direction.
“Well, I’ll be off then,” he said.
A Londoner, thought Sam. Upper-class, by the sounds of it. He felt anger start to bubble away inside him. This man could afford ten tickets, if he so wished. All in first class, at that. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man already had a ticket, and was just taking his own as some sort of toff-game. No doubt he had friends to show them to, and laugh over…caviar, or whatever it was that toffs ate. [3]
“Yes,” said Sam bitterly. “You’d best be off.”
The stranger gave a lazy wave, sauntering towards the door. Cocky young bastard. He wasn’t very big, only a lanky young lad. Sam thought for a moment of just following him out and pulling him into a dark alley. The streets were cruel, and workers did what they had to. A well thrown punch…
No. The young man won fair and square. If he did that, he would be no better than the people he wanted to get away from. The whole world he wanted to get away from. He sighed, he would just have to come clean. They could get another set of tickets, it would take years, but they could do it. The trip of a lifetime would have to be put on a backburner.
Crowley glanced up at the ship as he stepped outside the pub. With four enormous funnels reaching to the sky, he had to admit it was an impressive sight. They certainly didn’t hold back in letting the world know this was an incredible vessel. He sighed, bloody humans, always so sure of themselves.
He pulled the tickets he’d won, albeit by a little bit of occult magic, out of his coat pocket. Third class, he thought as much. Crowley snapped the fingers of his free hand and the tickets ignited, burning to nothing in the blink of an eye. No one seemed to notice.
Crowley gave the ship one last look, before shrugging his shoulders, walking through the already heaving crowd. They were all so excited to see it off. Everyone certain that this would be a day they would never forget. Well, they were right there. 1912 would be a very memorable year for the human race.
When the story of that poker game would be retold to friends and relatives for years afterwards, a guardian angel would be given the credit for it. They always were. Crowley didn’t especially mind, though. He probably owed Aziraphale one, anyway.
[1] - Though this was the sort of place which suggested that trying to listen in on those individual conversations was a one-way ticket into your head having an unfortunate collision with someone’s fist.
[2] - Far too wealthy to be in this dockside tavern, amongst workers, for whom having enough money to buy one drink was a rare treat. A man like that was asking to be mugged, or at the least pick pocketed. Yet no one went near him, the man seemed to exude confidence, and…something else. Something which suggested it would be a bad idea to try and steal from him.
[3] - What Sam didn’t know was that the man in question wouldn’t have touched caviar if someone had paid him to do so. There was something…freakish about eating fish eggs.
X-Posted @ lower_tadfield
Title: Lucky Hand
Fandom: Good Omens
Word count:1,100
Summary: Playing poker with a demon.
Warnings: None, seriously. This is the most harmless fic I’ve wrote in a long time.
Sam looked at his hand, sweat beading his brow. In the tavern, light filtered in through dirty windows, illuminating specks of dust as they floated through the air. In the background, many conversations were muted into one mumbled noise, it was hard to filter out individual speakers. [1]
The hand was a good one, he was sure of it. Though he tried not to delve into the dark world of poker too often, he prided himself on behind able to read his opponents well. A slight tic of the jaw, a crinkle of the forehead, there were so many tell-tale signs to show a bluffer. Unfortunately, this skill was useless on the man sitting across the table from him. The expression of stranger in the dark glasses had not changed from the lazy smirk he had worn the second he walked through the door. He didn’t give Sam his name, nor did Sam ask for one.
Sam still wasn’t sure how the game had started, or how the stakes had become so high. Perhaps it was the stranger’s flawless charm, the way he made it seem that winning a game against him meant winning big. He certainly looked wealthy enough. [2]
The game had gone well. Sam had won two games already. The stranger showed neither surprise nor disappointment at his loss, merely shrugged and suggested another game. Sam shouldn’t have upped the stakes this time. He knew he shouldn’t have. But the stranger had put a large wad of cash on the table, and in Sam’s world, money was a precious commodity.
Isabelle, his wife, would no doubt chew his ear off if she found out he’d put their tickets down as his part of the bargain. Those tickets were their way to a new life, a bright future overseas. Of course, if he won this game, she didn’t have to find out he’d bartered them. He could lie about where he got the money. Perhaps he could say the boys sent a pot around for a leaving gift. He took a deep breath, it was no use trying to read the stranger, so he might as well get it over with.
“Call them,” he said, trying to keep the nervous waver from his voice and not quite making it.
The stranger said nothing, simply laying his cards on the table. That smug grin ever-more smug. Sam’s heart sank. How could the man have such a hand? The odds were near-on impossible. And yet…he’d done it. Sam placed his cards down, his eyes not leaving the dirty, wooden surface. He’d lost everything, the future he had worked so hard for.
Isabelle would be here within the hour, ready to set off for their new home. What could he tell her? That he’d had a moment of weakness? No, perhaps he could say he was mugged. After all, the tickets were greatly sort after. It was perfectly feasible for someone to try and take them from him. But could he really lie to her? After all the hope she’d put into leaving this country? He closed his eyes, letting out a breath. Of course he couldn’t.
If the stranger noticed his crestfallen expression, he didn’t show it. He simply poured the winnings into a coat pocket and stood. His seemingly unmoveable smirk turned in Sam’s direction.
“Well, I’ll be off then,” he said.
A Londoner, thought Sam. Upper-class, by the sounds of it. He felt anger start to bubble away inside him. This man could afford ten tickets, if he so wished. All in first class, at that. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man already had a ticket, and was just taking his own as some sort of toff-game. No doubt he had friends to show them to, and laugh over…caviar, or whatever it was that toffs ate. [3]
“Yes,” said Sam bitterly. “You’d best be off.”
The stranger gave a lazy wave, sauntering towards the door. Cocky young bastard. He wasn’t very big, only a lanky young lad. Sam thought for a moment of just following him out and pulling him into a dark alley. The streets were cruel, and workers did what they had to. A well thrown punch…
No. The young man won fair and square. If he did that, he would be no better than the people he wanted to get away from. The whole world he wanted to get away from. He sighed, he would just have to come clean. They could get another set of tickets, it would take years, but they could do it. The trip of a lifetime would have to be put on a backburner.
Crowley glanced up at the ship as he stepped outside the pub. With four enormous funnels reaching to the sky, he had to admit it was an impressive sight. They certainly didn’t hold back in letting the world know this was an incredible vessel. He sighed, bloody humans, always so sure of themselves.
He pulled the tickets he’d won, albeit by a little bit of occult magic, out of his coat pocket. Third class, he thought as much. Crowley snapped the fingers of his free hand and the tickets ignited, burning to nothing in the blink of an eye. No one seemed to notice.
Crowley gave the ship one last look, before shrugging his shoulders, walking through the already heaving crowd. They were all so excited to see it off. Everyone certain that this would be a day they would never forget. Well, they were right there. 1912 would be a very memorable year for the human race.
When the story of that poker game would be retold to friends and relatives for years afterwards, a guardian angel would be given the credit for it. They always were. Crowley didn’t especially mind, though. He probably owed Aziraphale one, anyway.
[1] - Though this was the sort of place which suggested that trying to listen in on those individual conversations was a one-way ticket into your head having an unfortunate collision with someone’s fist.
[2] - Far too wealthy to be in this dockside tavern, amongst workers, for whom having enough money to buy one drink was a rare treat. A man like that was asking to be mugged, or at the least pick pocketed. Yet no one went near him, the man seemed to exude confidence, and…something else. Something which suggested it would be a bad idea to try and steal from him.
[3] - What Sam didn’t know was that the man in question wouldn’t have touched caviar if someone had paid him to do so. There was something…freakish about eating fish eggs.
X-Posted @ lower_tadfield