The Hound of the D'Urbervilles fic
Title: Fifi, French.
Fandom: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles, a fabulous novel by Kim Newman, Sherlock Holmes too.
Pairing: Moran/Fifi, maybe hints of some weird strain of Moriarty/Moran?
Rating: PGish
Warnings: none? spoilers for the book, I guess.
Note: Okay, so I love this book, and love Newman's interpretation of Moran. This is just a bit of Moran and Fifi, the french girl he likes at Mrs. Halifax's, and a third-party perspective on Moran and Moriarty.
Summary: Ah. Colonel Moran. My favorite client. And I like to think I was his favorite whore.
Ah. Colonel Moran. My favorite client. And I like to think I was his favorite whore.
You might not think that counts for much, but it kept me out of prison. And it got me a little jaunt around Europe on the arm of a war hero. Quite lovely, all in all.
Colonel Moran came to the Firm when I was twenty-four. Already not the youngest whore in Mrs. Halifax's brothel, nor the prettiest, nor the shapeliest... but I faked French better than the rest of them. And the good Colonel took a fancy to me. He was just over forty at the time, as handsome and rugged as the best of them. An older man never bothered me.
He worked for the Firm for ten years, and his employment only ended, like mine, when the Firm collapsed. For most of those ten years, he was a regular visitor to my rooms, dealing out what he had affectionately titled "The Basher Moran Special," which was quite nice all in all. As a tart, it's not often you get a man who knows what he's doing, but ooh, did Basher know. It really was quite, quite nice. I'm not teasing. It was.
At the end of our ten years together-- I say 'our', but that's not right. It was more like the end of the ten years Colonel Moran lived at Conduit Street with the Professor-- his face was more worn, his eyes far more tired and his moustache was fuller. He had come back from a job once with a sorely busted hand and had grown his beard out. The Professor had helped keep his moustache trimmed then, but I have to say, the dear Colonel looked very good with his beard filled in. I tried to convince him to keep it, once his hand was healed, but he shook his head at me and tapped me on the nose like a good dog.
Sweet man, that Colonel Moran.
At the end of those ten years, the Colonel was less likely to deliver the Basher Moran Special, and more likely to simply keep me company, for example, while I was in the bath. I would sit in a warm tub and soap my legs and shave all over, and he would sit at the side, still in his suit though often with his jacket off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and dip his fingers into the water and touch my skin. We would talk, but about nothing in particular. I would play with his hands and clean underneath his fingernails and giggle. His hands were covered in lots of lovely freckles and we would trace shapes amongst the little brown dots. A tiger here, he would point out. A dragon, I would counter. A rifle. A bird. An oriental temple. A pair of lips.
Sometimes, especially during these quiet, intimate moments while I was in the bath, I tried to convince him that the Professor valued him and cared for him, in his own way. I'd been around a long time; I knew how the Professor looked at his subordinates, his lackeys. He looked at them with a general sense of distaste. He looked at them like they were dirt. He never looked at Colonel Moran that way. He liked Moran, and respected him, and would never throw him over, just as Moran would never throw Moriarty over. The Professor was a mean, cold man, but he was human. He had a heart in him, though it was hidden beneath chalk dust and cruelty. He and Moran were intimate acquaintances. They had a strange sort of friendship between them. That was clear even to me. But it was never entirely clear to my sweet Colonel.
Friendship is not the right word. They weren't friends, per se. But there was something like love between them, as much as men like that can love. They enjoyed each others' company; having breakfast or taking tea in that upstairs sitting room, their silences always seemed comfortable and cheery. Sometimes they laughed together. Moran was perhaps mildly afraid of the Professor (and well, weren't we all?), but I could tell that Moriarty felt nothing but warmth for his Number Two. Or, again, as close as warmth as that strange old man could feel. That's why Moran was invited to live at Conduit Street. It wasn't just any assassin who got to share rooms with the elusive Napoleon of Crime.
The day before the Professor dashed off to Switzerland, taking my Colonel with him, Moran visited me in my rooms. He delivered to me, for the last time, his Basher Special and then laid with me for most of the afternoon. I wouldn't charge him for this time. The Firm was in bad shape-- meaning I knew he probably didn't have the cash to spend on whores-- and I enjoyed his company enough to give up a few hours. Mrs. Halifax wouldn't be happy, but I wasn't concerned with her. I had missed his birthday, after all. So I considered that free afternoon my gift to him.
Moran played with my hair and kept his hands on my hips. I twirled his moustache for him and laughed and counted his scars. I love a man with scars. Too many of these English city boys think they're tough, but they're not unless they've got scars to show, and most of them don't. But my Colonel! He had more scars than he could remember the stories for. Moran had retained his Indian tan for ten years, it seemed, for he was always brown as a nut, all over, always hard lined and squinting against a sun which didn't shine so bright in London as it had in India, I expect. I placed my fingers on the tiger scratches which had sent him back to dreary England. My little hand just aligned with the paw of the big cat, my palm settling over the curve of his chest and the strange, smooth spot where the cat had taken his nipple. He touched my hand.
I kissed him on the mouth.
He put his hands on my breast and dug his nails in. He clawed at me like the tiger had clawed at him, and he left me a set of pink scratches to match his own wounds. He marked me as his just as the tiger in the Indian drain had done. He claimed me as his own.
I wouldn't have minded him making that ownership a bit more permanent, if you get my meaning, but war heroes and ambassadors sons (even ones who turn to crime) don't marry old tarts, so my silly hopes went no further than the land of lazy afternoon dreams.
As he was leaving, my Colonel kissed his finger and pressed it to my forehead.
"See you soon, Fifi," he said. "Once all this mess with the meddling detective is settled, I'll see you."
He left me a note, after that long, languid afternoon.
DON'T BE HERE ON MONDAY, it said in his sharp, precise, efficient hand. MEET ME IN PARIS IN A WEEK.
Along with the note was enough cash to get me across the channel, and to take first class trains all the way to Paris. Thanks to that note I wasn't in Conduit Street when the police raided. I was on a train to Brighton, to spend a few days with a spinster aunt before catching a ferry and heading off to Paris and a European vacation. I had my thirty-fifth birthday on a tour of the French Riviera. As a gift to me, he grew his beard out that entire week.
I told you he liked me.
Fandom: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles, a fabulous novel by Kim Newman, Sherlock Holmes too.
Pairing: Moran/Fifi, maybe hints of some weird strain of Moriarty/Moran?
Rating: PGish
Warnings: none? spoilers for the book, I guess.
Note: Okay, so I love this book, and love Newman's interpretation of Moran. This is just a bit of Moran and Fifi, the french girl he likes at Mrs. Halifax's, and a third-party perspective on Moran and Moriarty.
Summary: Ah. Colonel Moran. My favorite client. And I like to think I was his favorite whore.
Ah. Colonel Moran. My favorite client. And I like to think I was his favorite whore.
You might not think that counts for much, but it kept me out of prison. And it got me a little jaunt around Europe on the arm of a war hero. Quite lovely, all in all.
Colonel Moran came to the Firm when I was twenty-four. Already not the youngest whore in Mrs. Halifax's brothel, nor the prettiest, nor the shapeliest... but I faked French better than the rest of them. And the good Colonel took a fancy to me. He was just over forty at the time, as handsome and rugged as the best of them. An older man never bothered me.
He worked for the Firm for ten years, and his employment only ended, like mine, when the Firm collapsed. For most of those ten years, he was a regular visitor to my rooms, dealing out what he had affectionately titled "The Basher Moran Special," which was quite nice all in all. As a tart, it's not often you get a man who knows what he's doing, but ooh, did Basher know. It really was quite, quite nice. I'm not teasing. It was.
At the end of our ten years together-- I say 'our', but that's not right. It was more like the end of the ten years Colonel Moran lived at Conduit Street with the Professor-- his face was more worn, his eyes far more tired and his moustache was fuller. He had come back from a job once with a sorely busted hand and had grown his beard out. The Professor had helped keep his moustache trimmed then, but I have to say, the dear Colonel looked very good with his beard filled in. I tried to convince him to keep it, once his hand was healed, but he shook his head at me and tapped me on the nose like a good dog.
Sweet man, that Colonel Moran.
At the end of those ten years, the Colonel was less likely to deliver the Basher Moran Special, and more likely to simply keep me company, for example, while I was in the bath. I would sit in a warm tub and soap my legs and shave all over, and he would sit at the side, still in his suit though often with his jacket off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and dip his fingers into the water and touch my skin. We would talk, but about nothing in particular. I would play with his hands and clean underneath his fingernails and giggle. His hands were covered in lots of lovely freckles and we would trace shapes amongst the little brown dots. A tiger here, he would point out. A dragon, I would counter. A rifle. A bird. An oriental temple. A pair of lips.
Sometimes, especially during these quiet, intimate moments while I was in the bath, I tried to convince him that the Professor valued him and cared for him, in his own way. I'd been around a long time; I knew how the Professor looked at his subordinates, his lackeys. He looked at them with a general sense of distaste. He looked at them like they were dirt. He never looked at Colonel Moran that way. He liked Moran, and respected him, and would never throw him over, just as Moran would never throw Moriarty over. The Professor was a mean, cold man, but he was human. He had a heart in him, though it was hidden beneath chalk dust and cruelty. He and Moran were intimate acquaintances. They had a strange sort of friendship between them. That was clear even to me. But it was never entirely clear to my sweet Colonel.
Friendship is not the right word. They weren't friends, per se. But there was something like love between them, as much as men like that can love. They enjoyed each others' company; having breakfast or taking tea in that upstairs sitting room, their silences always seemed comfortable and cheery. Sometimes they laughed together. Moran was perhaps mildly afraid of the Professor (and well, weren't we all?), but I could tell that Moriarty felt nothing but warmth for his Number Two. Or, again, as close as warmth as that strange old man could feel. That's why Moran was invited to live at Conduit Street. It wasn't just any assassin who got to share rooms with the elusive Napoleon of Crime.
The day before the Professor dashed off to Switzerland, taking my Colonel with him, Moran visited me in my rooms. He delivered to me, for the last time, his Basher Special and then laid with me for most of the afternoon. I wouldn't charge him for this time. The Firm was in bad shape-- meaning I knew he probably didn't have the cash to spend on whores-- and I enjoyed his company enough to give up a few hours. Mrs. Halifax wouldn't be happy, but I wasn't concerned with her. I had missed his birthday, after all. So I considered that free afternoon my gift to him.
Moran played with my hair and kept his hands on my hips. I twirled his moustache for him and laughed and counted his scars. I love a man with scars. Too many of these English city boys think they're tough, but they're not unless they've got scars to show, and most of them don't. But my Colonel! He had more scars than he could remember the stories for. Moran had retained his Indian tan for ten years, it seemed, for he was always brown as a nut, all over, always hard lined and squinting against a sun which didn't shine so bright in London as it had in India, I expect. I placed my fingers on the tiger scratches which had sent him back to dreary England. My little hand just aligned with the paw of the big cat, my palm settling over the curve of his chest and the strange, smooth spot where the cat had taken his nipple. He touched my hand.
I kissed him on the mouth.
He put his hands on my breast and dug his nails in. He clawed at me like the tiger had clawed at him, and he left me a set of pink scratches to match his own wounds. He marked me as his just as the tiger in the Indian drain had done. He claimed me as his own.
I wouldn't have minded him making that ownership a bit more permanent, if you get my meaning, but war heroes and ambassadors sons (even ones who turn to crime) don't marry old tarts, so my silly hopes went no further than the land of lazy afternoon dreams.
As he was leaving, my Colonel kissed his finger and pressed it to my forehead.
"See you soon, Fifi," he said. "Once all this mess with the meddling detective is settled, I'll see you."
He left me a note, after that long, languid afternoon.
DON'T BE HERE ON MONDAY, it said in his sharp, precise, efficient hand. MEET ME IN PARIS IN A WEEK.
Along with the note was enough cash to get me across the channel, and to take first class trains all the way to Paris. Thanks to that note I wasn't in Conduit Street when the police raided. I was on a train to Brighton, to spend a few days with a spinster aunt before catching a ferry and heading off to Paris and a European vacation. I had my thirty-fifth birthday on a tour of the French Riviera. As a gift to me, he grew his beard out that entire week.
I told you he liked me.