Fanfic: And Here's the Twist of Fate
So, I was in York with my BFF rhin_ariel the other day, and we took a trip to the York Castle Museum and the dungeons. And I was promptly afflicted with Dick/James feelings. And then fic happened. Slightly pointless fic, but fic nonetheless.
Title: And Here’s the Twist of Fate
Fandom: Horrible Histories (CBBC)
Pairing: Dick Turpin/James Smith
Rating: I’ll say R, mostly for language.
Warnings: um... spoilers for history?
Word count: 1644
Disclaimer: I don’t own either the Horrible Histories books or TV series.
Summary: Dick has a visitor from an old acquaintance in prison... but not for the reason he expects.
Comments: Slight historical inaccuracy in this, in that according to Smith’s testimony, he picked Turpin out from a group of prisoners. I’ll plead artistic license on this one. But to be fair, this is a Dick Turpin who wears eyeliner, so I suppose I can get away with it. :P
-
“Good news, Palmer.” The gaoler’s voice put a strange, smirking emphasis on his borrowed surname. He frowned, but he forgot about it in an instant as the man went on, “You’ve got a visitor.”
“A visitor?” His eyebrows flew up in surprise, then he smirked. “It’s not the chicken, is it?”
The gaoler smirked right back. Huh. That didn’t usually happen. “Two visitors, actually. The magistrate, and another fellow who reckons he knows you.”
Dick forgot whatever smart retort had been on the tip of his tongue, thinking fast now. He hadn’t had many visitors since they’d chucked him in here; most of his cronies in the horse-stealing game had scarpered as soon as he’d been brought in.
But... it had been a while since he’d sent off his letter to his brother-in-law down in Essex. Long enough for even that idiot to round up the help he’d asked for. And if they were here with the magistrate...
He grinned. “That’ll be my reprieve, then. Told you I’d be out of here by the end of the month, didn’t I, mate? Bring ’em in!”
The gaoler leered slightly as he pulled open the heavy cell door and called out into the passageway, “All right, sirs, in you come.”
He heard the shuffling of footsteps out in the passage, before the first familiar figure stepped in. Dick knew him well enough - it was the same bastard of a magistrate who’d sent him down in the first place. But it was the other man he wanted to see, the other man who was still outside in the passage, masked by the shadows even as Dick craned to see him.
That was when the magistrate said it. As he hitched the hem of his dark gown free from the dirt on the floor, his long, haughty nose curling at the smell, he looked back and said, “This way, Mr. Smith.”
Smith. Just that one name was enough to have him drawing in a sharp breath. Not that it was a rare name, obviously, but there was only one Smith it could be, only one who mattered...
And so he stood there, tense and fidgeting, his pulse suddenly beating high in his throat, as James stepped into his cell.
He hadn’t seen James for years, not since the last night he’d turned up at James’ door, a brief stop on his escape north. And whenever Dick had thought of him since - not that he ever thought of James much, of course, he hardly ever did - he’d wonder, just idly, if James had changed at all since they’d last met. And to look at him now, it was obvious he hadn’t changed a bit. Same plain, sensible, boring clothes, same sickeningly good manners. And his face still had that mild-mannered, too-decent-for-his-own-good expression that made Dick want to lunge at him and tear his clothes off right here and now, fuck the gaoler and the magistrate standing just a few paces away.
Infuriatingly, the magistrate decided to choose that moment to speak, cutting off Dick’s thoughts before they could get more interesting. “Mr. Smith, here is the prisoner calling himself John Palmer. Do you know him?”
That was when, for the first time since entering the cell, James raised his eyes and met Dick’s own. Still the same grey-blue, with that same look of constant conflict that Dick knew from before whenever James had looked at him, that same little worried pinch between his eyes where he frowned.
“Yes, Your Honour. I know him.”
James’ voice was quiet, but Dick hardly noticed. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was cackle out loud. Oh, this was too good! He’d expected his brother-in-law to write him a nice character reference, or at least get his father to do it, but to send up James - James Smith, the most honest, law-abiding man in Essex, to come up and speak on his behalf... it was perfect.
Honest, law-abiding James... and here he was, about to lie through his teeth to get a convicted horse-thief (and infamous highwayman, not that anyone knew about that, of course) off the hook. He couldn’t help but grin at that thought. He was going to crow about this to James later, after he’d been let off and they were lying tangled up together after an amazing reunion fuck. He grinned at the magistrate, then grinned at James.
“Afternoon, James! Long time, no see.”
But James didn’t smile back. Not even that faint, reluctant smile that Dick remembered from before whenever they were together. If anything, his features became tight and drawn. Dick’s grin wavered.
“James?”
“Mr. Smith,” said the magistrate curtly, “you told us that you had grounds to believe that this prisoner, the man who calls himself John Palmer, is in fact notorious highwayman Richard Turpin.”
“What?” Now the grin slid straight off Dick’s face as the sound of his name - his real name - fell on his ears. His blood was still beating hotly, but he could barely feel it for the cold sweat suddenly prickling his skin. He looked from the magistrate to James, but James refused to look at him now.
If James’ voice had been quiet before, it was barely a whisper now. "Yes, Your Honour."
The ground beneath Dick’s feet seemed to disappear. What the fuck was going on? He knew for a fact that neither his father or his sister could have betrayed him. They might not approve of his chosen profession, but they wouldn’t want to see him on the gallows, either. As for his idiot brother-in-law, well, he’d successfully scared the shit out of him enough to make sure that he’d keep his mouth shut and do exactly as he was told.
His family wouldn’t betray him. And they were the only ones who’d known his alias. So how the hell could James be here in York? How the hell could he know?
Oh.
Oh, God.
Oh, God. How could he have been so fucking stupid? The letter would have ended up in the post office... of course James would have seen it. And of course he’d have recognised the handwriting. How many times had he sighed and shook his head and told him that no one else had a hope in hell of making any sense of it?
“Mr. Smith.” The magistrate’s voice sliced coldly through the silence. “Is this man Richard Turpin?”
Now James did look at him, and Dick could see the strain, the struggle, the sheer effort etched into every line of his face as he wrestled with his conscience. Well, fuck his conscience! Dick glared back at him, blazingly, daring him to say anything.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not after all the years they had spent growing up together, all the days they had spent with no one but each other, all the nights they had spent entangled in each other? James was the sentimental one, he wouldn’t forget all of that. Not James. He might be boring and law-abiding, but he wouldn’t send him to the gallows. He, Dick, was the cold-hearted bastard who destroyed other people’s lives. Not James. For everything that had ever passed between them, he couldn’t, he fucking couldn’t...
But then James looked him square in the eye, and Dick saw the expression there. Sadness maybe, regret definitely, but overwhelmingly - resolve. He knew that set of James’ jaw only too well.
“Yes. It’s him, Your Honour. It’s Dick Turpin.”
Dick barely heard what happened next, barely heard the magistrate turning on him and issuing the new charges - highway robbery, two counts of murder. None of it mattered. None of it.
“Bastard!” He lunged forwards, but the next thing he knew, the gaoler’s fist collided with his stomach and he went down onto the cell floor, hacking and clutching his abdomen.
Over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears, he heard the magistrate say, “Thank you, Mr. Smith. You have been a great help to us. We should leave; there will be formalities to observe now that you have identified him...”
Dick didn’t hear James’ reply - he was too busy choking on his own guts - but he caught the swish of black as the magistrate swept out of the cell. He glanced up, and for an instant - a fraction of a second, no more - he met James’ eyes, looking down at him with... pity? Remorse?
But whatever it was, it didn’t matter, as the look was broken almost as soon as it was made, and James left the cell, followed closely by the gaoler. Clutching his stomach, Dick hauled himself across the cell and practically threw himself at the door just as it slammed shut. Never one to be defeated, he pounded his fists against the solid oak and hollered through the grating.
“James! James!”
He got no reply, but that didn’t stop him as he kept on hammering, throwing behind it every ounce of rage in his body. Only when the echoes of their retreating footsteps had died away up the passage did he stop, hands aching and breath rasping in his chest. The red mist had burned away, and now all he could see was that final, terrible look in James’ eyes.
Judas. That’s all he was. Fuck the law and morality and decency, James Smith was nothing but a back-stabbing, cowardly, cock-sucking traitor. He shouldn’t have expected anything less. He’d always known not to trust anyone, always known that there was no one in this world who would look out for him but himself. That was just how it was when you were a wanted criminal.
So why - fuck’s sake, why - did it feel as if his heart had just been ripped out of his chest?
Title: And Here’s the Twist of Fate
Fandom: Horrible Histories (CBBC)
Pairing: Dick Turpin/James Smith
Rating: I’ll say R, mostly for language.
Warnings: um... spoilers for history?
Word count: 1644
Disclaimer: I don’t own either the Horrible Histories books or TV series.
Summary: Dick has a visitor from an old acquaintance in prison... but not for the reason he expects.
Comments: Slight historical inaccuracy in this, in that according to Smith’s testimony, he picked Turpin out from a group of prisoners. I’ll plead artistic license on this one. But to be fair, this is a Dick Turpin who wears eyeliner, so I suppose I can get away with it. :P
-
“Good news, Palmer.” The gaoler’s voice put a strange, smirking emphasis on his borrowed surname. He frowned, but he forgot about it in an instant as the man went on, “You’ve got a visitor.”
“A visitor?” His eyebrows flew up in surprise, then he smirked. “It’s not the chicken, is it?”
The gaoler smirked right back. Huh. That didn’t usually happen. “Two visitors, actually. The magistrate, and another fellow who reckons he knows you.”
Dick forgot whatever smart retort had been on the tip of his tongue, thinking fast now. He hadn’t had many visitors since they’d chucked him in here; most of his cronies in the horse-stealing game had scarpered as soon as he’d been brought in.
But... it had been a while since he’d sent off his letter to his brother-in-law down in Essex. Long enough for even that idiot to round up the help he’d asked for. And if they were here with the magistrate...
He grinned. “That’ll be my reprieve, then. Told you I’d be out of here by the end of the month, didn’t I, mate? Bring ’em in!”
The gaoler leered slightly as he pulled open the heavy cell door and called out into the passageway, “All right, sirs, in you come.”
He heard the shuffling of footsteps out in the passage, before the first familiar figure stepped in. Dick knew him well enough - it was the same bastard of a magistrate who’d sent him down in the first place. But it was the other man he wanted to see, the other man who was still outside in the passage, masked by the shadows even as Dick craned to see him.
That was when the magistrate said it. As he hitched the hem of his dark gown free from the dirt on the floor, his long, haughty nose curling at the smell, he looked back and said, “This way, Mr. Smith.”
Smith. Just that one name was enough to have him drawing in a sharp breath. Not that it was a rare name, obviously, but there was only one Smith it could be, only one who mattered...
And so he stood there, tense and fidgeting, his pulse suddenly beating high in his throat, as James stepped into his cell.
He hadn’t seen James for years, not since the last night he’d turned up at James’ door, a brief stop on his escape north. And whenever Dick had thought of him since - not that he ever thought of James much, of course, he hardly ever did - he’d wonder, just idly, if James had changed at all since they’d last met. And to look at him now, it was obvious he hadn’t changed a bit. Same plain, sensible, boring clothes, same sickeningly good manners. And his face still had that mild-mannered, too-decent-for-his-own-good expression that made Dick want to lunge at him and tear his clothes off right here and now, fuck the gaoler and the magistrate standing just a few paces away.
Infuriatingly, the magistrate decided to choose that moment to speak, cutting off Dick’s thoughts before they could get more interesting. “Mr. Smith, here is the prisoner calling himself John Palmer. Do you know him?”
That was when, for the first time since entering the cell, James raised his eyes and met Dick’s own. Still the same grey-blue, with that same look of constant conflict that Dick knew from before whenever James had looked at him, that same little worried pinch between his eyes where he frowned.
“Yes, Your Honour. I know him.”
James’ voice was quiet, but Dick hardly noticed. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was cackle out loud. Oh, this was too good! He’d expected his brother-in-law to write him a nice character reference, or at least get his father to do it, but to send up James - James Smith, the most honest, law-abiding man in Essex, to come up and speak on his behalf... it was perfect.
Honest, law-abiding James... and here he was, about to lie through his teeth to get a convicted horse-thief (and infamous highwayman, not that anyone knew about that, of course) off the hook. He couldn’t help but grin at that thought. He was going to crow about this to James later, after he’d been let off and they were lying tangled up together after an amazing reunion fuck. He grinned at the magistrate, then grinned at James.
“Afternoon, James! Long time, no see.”
But James didn’t smile back. Not even that faint, reluctant smile that Dick remembered from before whenever they were together. If anything, his features became tight and drawn. Dick’s grin wavered.
“James?”
“Mr. Smith,” said the magistrate curtly, “you told us that you had grounds to believe that this prisoner, the man who calls himself John Palmer, is in fact notorious highwayman Richard Turpin.”
“What?” Now the grin slid straight off Dick’s face as the sound of his name - his real name - fell on his ears. His blood was still beating hotly, but he could barely feel it for the cold sweat suddenly prickling his skin. He looked from the magistrate to James, but James refused to look at him now.
If James’ voice had been quiet before, it was barely a whisper now. "Yes, Your Honour."
The ground beneath Dick’s feet seemed to disappear. What the fuck was going on? He knew for a fact that neither his father or his sister could have betrayed him. They might not approve of his chosen profession, but they wouldn’t want to see him on the gallows, either. As for his idiot brother-in-law, well, he’d successfully scared the shit out of him enough to make sure that he’d keep his mouth shut and do exactly as he was told.
His family wouldn’t betray him. And they were the only ones who’d known his alias. So how the hell could James be here in York? How the hell could he know?
Oh.
Oh, God.
Oh, God. How could he have been so fucking stupid? The letter would have ended up in the post office... of course James would have seen it. And of course he’d have recognised the handwriting. How many times had he sighed and shook his head and told him that no one else had a hope in hell of making any sense of it?
“Mr. Smith.” The magistrate’s voice sliced coldly through the silence. “Is this man Richard Turpin?”
Now James did look at him, and Dick could see the strain, the struggle, the sheer effort etched into every line of his face as he wrestled with his conscience. Well, fuck his conscience! Dick glared back at him, blazingly, daring him to say anything.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not after all the years they had spent growing up together, all the days they had spent with no one but each other, all the nights they had spent entangled in each other? James was the sentimental one, he wouldn’t forget all of that. Not James. He might be boring and law-abiding, but he wouldn’t send him to the gallows. He, Dick, was the cold-hearted bastard who destroyed other people’s lives. Not James. For everything that had ever passed between them, he couldn’t, he fucking couldn’t...
But then James looked him square in the eye, and Dick saw the expression there. Sadness maybe, regret definitely, but overwhelmingly - resolve. He knew that set of James’ jaw only too well.
“Yes. It’s him, Your Honour. It’s Dick Turpin.”
Dick barely heard what happened next, barely heard the magistrate turning on him and issuing the new charges - highway robbery, two counts of murder. None of it mattered. None of it.
“Bastard!” He lunged forwards, but the next thing he knew, the gaoler’s fist collided with his stomach and he went down onto the cell floor, hacking and clutching his abdomen.
Over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears, he heard the magistrate say, “Thank you, Mr. Smith. You have been a great help to us. We should leave; there will be formalities to observe now that you have identified him...”
Dick didn’t hear James’ reply - he was too busy choking on his own guts - but he caught the swish of black as the magistrate swept out of the cell. He glanced up, and for an instant - a fraction of a second, no more - he met James’ eyes, looking down at him with... pity? Remorse?
But whatever it was, it didn’t matter, as the look was broken almost as soon as it was made, and James left the cell, followed closely by the gaoler. Clutching his stomach, Dick hauled himself across the cell and practically threw himself at the door just as it slammed shut. Never one to be defeated, he pounded his fists against the solid oak and hollered through the grating.
“James! James!”
He got no reply, but that didn’t stop him as he kept on hammering, throwing behind it every ounce of rage in his body. Only when the echoes of their retreating footsteps had died away up the passage did he stop, hands aching and breath rasping in his chest. The red mist had burned away, and now all he could see was that final, terrible look in James’ eyes.
Judas. That’s all he was. Fuck the law and morality and decency, James Smith was nothing but a back-stabbing, cowardly, cock-sucking traitor. He shouldn’t have expected anything less. He’d always known not to trust anyone, always known that there was no one in this world who would look out for him but himself. That was just how it was when you were a wanted criminal.
So why - fuck’s sake, why - did it feel as if his heart had just been ripped out of his chest?