[fic] Occult Couture; or An American in America | 10
Bart was discovering that being an author was harder than it seemed. It wasn’t the writing. It was the being read.
Usually enthralled by watching the scenery pass by, Bart was finding this train ride excruciatingly slow. Every second seemed to crawl by. The smart, fresh decorations of the second-class coach offered little by way of distraction, and even something so little as the conductor asking for their tickets was a welcome event.
Grayson said nothing, turning over the pages of Bart’s manuscript with excruciating slowness. He seemed to pause over every line, his expression composed. It was the same expression he wore when manning the desk in the Foundation’s offices, weeding out the need-to-knows from the need-not-knows. Was he amused? Annoyed? Had Bart crossed a line? Was he in trouble? Was Drake going to know about this? Worse, was the Director … ?
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Grayson cleared his throat and looked up.
“I can’t concentrate with you leaning over me like that.”
“I was just wondering what you thought -“
“It’s been five minutes, Bartholemew. I’ve only just got into your description of the castle.”
“Just five minutes?”
“Why not take a walk to the observation desk or something? This is your first time in the United States, you should see something of it.”
“But-“
“Go, Bartholemew.”
The observation deck was deserted, it being early in the journey. Most of the passengers in the coaches that Bart had passed were still arranging their skirts, or choosing their reading material or even still putting their bags away. Bart leaned over the railing, enjoying the feeling of the wind tugging in his hair.
He’d always enjoyed travelling by train, revelling in the rapid movement of the train. Drake had teased him about this preference but indulged it, finding ways to make sure that their journeys included rapid trains wherever possible. Bart had secretly suspected that Drake enjoyed it just as much as he did.
Drake. Bart bit his lip. He was worried but Grayson had talked him through the Director’s likely plans and if not exactly comforted, Bart knew that Drake would not be neglected. He’d find being confined to a hospital bed terribly dull. Bart had already written him one letter, but he could write another on the train.
Though - it was strange. In London, they’d been so close, it was hard to imagine Drake hurt and Bart not rushing to join him immediately. Here - he was worried, but not overwhelmingly so. Was it the knowledge of the distance between them? If so, why did he feel they were so near?
Leaning back against the safety railing, Bart stared up at the blue sky above. He could see Drake almost as clearly as he could see the clouds rushing by overhead. Bandaged, resting on his side on a sofa made up as a bed, a mug of tea beside him. Even recovering Drake would be busy, and Bart allowed himself a smile at the thought. Though really, he was being silly. What possible reason would Drake have to be recovering in Lord Queen’s library?
More practically, he could accomplish much more by finding Kon and seeing that they both rejoined Drake in London where they could put a stop to this ‘getting injured’ nonsense. Bart spent a happy few minutes brooding on the satisfactoriness of this plan, before wondering how he was to put it into practice.
It had seemed so simple on the boat. As Drake kept pointing out, Kon had proposed to Beth - more than once. Bart hadn’t appreciated it at the time. He’d said he was never going to use her again and meant that but - well, it was different. Kon knew now. He liked Bart. He had to like Drake despite claims to the contrary because what other reason could he have for staying around? So reminding him that what he had liked in Beth still existed-
Bart hesitated. It was a new game. One they’d not played before - not for these stakes or on these terms, at least. Complicating it further was the Director’s claims. Drake had briskly dismissed them, but even in broad daylight, even knowing that he was alive and in control, Bart couldn’t help but feel doubt. If what the Director said was true, then Bart was the last person Kon wanted to see.
It was all too complicated. “Why couldn’t we have stayed in Castle Cadmus, slaying vampyres,” Bart complained to the sky. “I liked that.”
The sky seemed unmoved. He must have been outside hours at least, Bart decided. He could safely return to the carriage now. Even if Grayson didn’t have an opinion for him on his work, he should hopefully have some insight into the Director’s vendetta against his charges having lives of their own. Satisfied with this decision, Bart stretched, letting go of the railing as he turned to re-enter the cabin.
A bright patch of orange caught his attention and he turned to look back, catching for a second one of those split second pictures you caught momentarily from the train before it ploughed on, leaving the image in your memory and the reality behind. A man with bright ginger hair, perhaps about Grayson’s age, perched atop a wooden fence. He wore rough working clothes, a white shirt half open, but he grinned with lazy self-confidence as the train rattled past, swinging down off the fence.
Bart grinned, watching as the man began to run. Racing the train? Futile, but it might be fun to try. He’d often wished that there were more chances to simply run in the city, move without having to check your speed for pedestrians or passers-by or even-
He was keeping pace. The ginger-haired man was keeping pace with the train.
Bart found himself reaching again for the railing.
Keeping pace - and not even trying too hard to do it.
The man seemed to generate his own energy. There was an aura about him that seemed strangely familiar. Strangely compelling. It seemed almost like-
The man glanced up. His green eyes met Bart’s yellow one’s and he came to an instant halt. The momentum of the train continued and he was lost, out of sight in moments, long before Bart could shake his startled self into action.
“Wait-“
No chance of that.
“Grayson! What would a man have to do to run as fast as a train?”
“Good lord, Bartholemew! Is half an hour too much to ask?”
“It’s an important enquiry!”
“I do not know how Tim manages.” Grayson tugged at his vest pocket, freeing his pocketbook and throwing it at Bartholemew. “Find the dining carriage. Order yourself morning tea or something. Whatever you do, do it someplace else.”
I do not know how you manage, Tim. I know you regard Grayson as the older brother you never had and look up to him as much as you do the Director, but really. I discover a previously unheard of phenomenon, you’d think he would be a little bit interested! Or at least know better than to give me his pocketbook.
Still, what the colonies lack in muffins, they make up for in dessert. We really should have come here before now! It’s almost civilised, though of course not nearly so much fun as if you were here. Bart paused thoughtfully to consider his next line, glancing up as someone slid into the empty seat at his table. “Oh. Grayson.”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to see you holding writing implements and feel safe again,” his companion observed, removing his handkerchief from his vest pocket with a business-like air. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a very vindictive streak?”
“Kon said I possess a ‘lurid imagination.’ Tea?”
“Please. Your manuscript is a libel case in waiting. No publisher in Britain would touch it.”
Bart pushed the full tea cup over to Grayson. “I changed the names.”
“Not enough. Then there’s the flaunting of morality, your dubious plot twists and heavy reliance on supernatural themes.”
“You don’t think it’s publishable?”
“Au contraire. We’ll have to make a few changes - Lord Brayne’s deathbed confession could be safely cut for one-- but I think it could be very successful.” Grayson paused for a sip of tea and finding it satisfactory set it down. “I see scones. Is there butter?”
Bart was lost. “But you said - we?”
“Ostensibly I’m here to extend the Wayne conglomerate’s business empire,” Grayson said briskly, discovering the butter. “That includes publishing. Copyright and libel laws are much looser here than in Britain, and with a few strategic changes, I think we should manage adequately.”
“And the rest of it? The flaunting of morality and dubious plot twists?”
“Sure to draw critical scorn - which means we’ve got every chance of becoming a popular success.” Grayson patted him on the shoulder. “Now think of what nom de plume you fancy and return my pocketbook. I need it to write you an advance.”
--oOo-
The fuss that had been made of them after they’d been picked up by the fishing boat had been one thing. The crowds of photographers and press waiting on the pier as they arrived in harbour was something else entirely.
“Slade Wilson’s a living legend,” the first mate said, smirking at Kon’s obvious discomfort. “And the disappearance of the Alicia one of those once-in-a-lifetime stories. The pair of you are going to be in every paper around the globe come morning.”
“Ha,” said Kon and went to look for Cass.
He found her just about to jump ship.
“What are you doing? You can’t disappear - well, you could, but then everyone’d be looking for you! There’s protocol. I’m reasonably certain we have to talk to the harbour master at the very least.”
“Talk?”
“Well, all right. I’d talk but they’d still want to see you, at least.”
Cass patted his cheek. “Worry too much,” she said, swinging expertly up onto the railing. “All fine.”
She moved to dive and Kon reacted instinctively. His hand was on the railing, his strange power reached out before he’d realized he was not ready to say goodbye.
“Hey. Uh-“
Cass knelt deliberately on the railing, putting her hand over his. She gently but firmly uncurled his fingers from the railing, wrapping them in her own.
Kon couldn’t look at her. He was ashamed, both of his action in wilfully using his power against someone who couldn’t resist it and of the need that it suggested. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I just - well, I guess, I didn’t want you to go without saying goodbye.”
“Goodbye?”
“Don’t laugh at me! Okay, so maybe not just goodbye.” Kon stole a glance up at Cass, but she was watching him with the same consideration she gave everything else. “You know, most girls at least pretend to consider the proposal before vanishing. You’re not even going to let me.”
Cass’s eyebrow raise was unimpressed. “Conner. Talk-“
“I know, I know. I just - it’s hard. I thought we’d have more time. I didn’t have time to think about this. Us.” Conner sighed, fingers tightening around the hand he held. “I know it would be difficult. You don’t do things like regular girls do. Not the sort of girl you could bring home to mother. Well, I could because Ma Kent is kind of surprising. You’d like her a lot! I think the first thing she’d say is that you look like you could do with a meal - not that I’m saying you proportions are anything short of excellent mind you. But mothers. Even adopted ones. Uh.”
Kon risked a glance, but Cass wasn’t looking deadly. Rather she seemed bemused. This was a positive.
“And then there’s me. I know my prospects aren’t the best, but they’re not the worst either. And - well, you figured out I’m not a regular man either. I don’t even know what I am, let alone if you could take me home to meet your parents. Do you have parents? These are important considerations. I know I’m not putting my case very well here, but what I mean to say is that not-withstanding all the above, I’d do my best to make you happy.”
Cass’s head tilt was curious.
Kon sighed. “You know,” he said, pausing to kiss the fingers he held. “I don’t know-“ Moving to her wrist. “How you women do it. A man speaks of love and all-“
Cass moved with sudden, painful speed. The hand that gripped his hair was forceful, bringing them face to face before Kon was entirely aware of her intent. “Love?”
She was so fierce, Kon fully expected to find himself slammed into the railing. Come this far, however, he decided there was nothing else for it. “Love,” he agreed, bracing himself for the killing blow. “Cass, I-“
She moved with characteristic speed and certainty and it was only belatedly that Kon realised that he was not being killed, rather kissed. He couldn’t contain his elation, pulling her tight, and Cass reciprocating, melding her body to his in a very satisfactory way. Relief and joy were dizzying and it was some time before either of them were willing to let go.
Eventually, Cass stirred, nudging Kon’s shoulder with her cheek. “Floating.”
“Tell me about it. Cass, you might just have made me the happiest man-“
Cass tugged his arm. “Conner. Floating.” She looked down.
There was at least a metre of air between them and the deck.
Was that … ? Kon’s immediate panic lost him his latent hold on whatever was keeping them airbourne. In his panic, he somehow managed to propel himself backwards, slamming into the engineer’s cabin with force, while Cass was sent flying backwards over the railing. A splash moments later indicated exactly where she’d ended up.
Kon groaned, head in hands.
“What’s the commotion? Mr Kent? Are you all right?”
Kon kept his head in his hands. “Fine.”
“Not quite got your sea-legs still? Well, you can stay put for the moment. Harbourmaster’s orders. You’re to remain on board until the Navy and the Police get here. They’ll want to interview you and the Cook before letting the media parade on shore get their turn. The Captain’s giving you his cabin for the interviews. Why not go ahead and wait there? I’ll go and find the cook.”
Not just the police and a naval representative, as it turned out, but a doctor too. “No visible signs of trauma. You’re in remarkable health for a man your age, the ordeal you’ve suffered notwithstanding. And yet you say you can’t remember anything?”
“I remember flashes,” Kon admitted as he buttoned up his shirt. “Things like there being some sort of confusion. Possibly a fight? I remember the crew getting into the first two boats. I was ordered to lower them.”
“Lower them? By who - Captain Wilson?”
Kon hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think so - but I don’t remember.”
“And after that?” The policeman was a seasoned hand, not about to let anyone get away with anything.
“Just the boat and - the cook there with me.”
“You must have spent a lot of time with the cook on the voyage. The other men said you acted as an assistant to him, is that correct? Did he give any hint of intending to jump ship once we got ashore? Any sign of him anticipating trouble?”
Kon shook his head. He was pretty confident that if Cass had any idea of what his panic had been about to do, that it would have been him falling from the deck. “No sir. I didn’t see anything of the sort.”
They kept him for questioning for several hours, two men taking down everything Kon said in writing before finally letting him go. It was nightfall by then, the flare of camera flashes as Kon walked down the gangplank blinding.
“Mr Kent! Do you have any memory of being abducted by sirens?”
“Mr Kent! A few words for The New York Times?”
“Washington Post! Kent, are the rumours of the Aquaman’s involvement true?”
“The fate of Wilson-“
“Sorry, gentlemen!” An arm slipped around Kon’s shoulders and he found himself guided towards a waiting carriage. “This one’s a Daily Planet exclusive.”
Kon’s relationship with his cousin’s wife was awkward at best, but at the moment he could not have been happier to see her. “Lois! How on earth did you get here so quickly?”
“You’re kidding, right? The moment she saw C. Kent on the list of missing, no power on earth was going to keep Miss Lane from being in port to cover this story.” Jimmy was waiting by the carriage to give Kon a welcome handshake. “Europe’s done wonders for you. You look the spitting image of Clark.”
Kon shot a worried look after Lois, but she’d swung herself up into the carriage without waiting for a hand. Kon mustered courage and followed. “Any word from--?”
“One disappearance at a time, Conner.” Jimmy squeezed up into the carriage next to Kon, and Lois already had her dictophone out. “Now, tell me. What exactly happened on The Alicia?”
There were two interviews. The one that took place in the carriage ride, and covered the basic outline of what events Kon could remember, redrafted by Lois and Jimmy into newspaper copy that would intrigue but not outrage the American public. The second took place in Conner’s hotel room, paid for by the Planet, once Jimmy had left to relay Lois’ article to the Metropolitan Office by wire.
“You’re really telling me you think Wilson was aiming for Aquaman, and that he was planning to sacrifice the crew while he escaped to his underwater vessel but for reasons you’re not fully able to remember, his plan didn’t work? You do realise that you’re accusing one of the most well-liked and admired public figures of this century of plotting mass-murder, Conner?”
“Which is why I didn’t mention it to Jimmy. And that’s only the tip of the ice-berg.”
“The strange manifestations of some sort of tele-kinetic ability? We should get you to a doctor.” Lois flicked through her notebook. “I’m almost certain that there’s someone at the University-“
“No!” Lois looked up from her notes and Kon realised just how sharply his protest had sounded. “I - tried that in London,” he explained, shifting awkwardly in his seat on the foot of his hotel bed. “It didn’t work so well.”
“Clark didn’t say anything about this?”
“I was hoping he might have said something to you. I - asked him once. He said not to worry, that it might not even be the same for me but whether it was or wasn’t, I shouldn’t let it get to me but should concentrate on just being me, learning how to live.” Kon sighed. “I still don’t know what he meant by that.”
Lois abandoned her professional pose, setting her notebook down on the desk and coming over to rest her arm on Kon’s shoulder. “Sure about that?” she asked, and Kon could hear the tiredness in her voice. “Clark can be infuriatingly bull-headed, but he’s not usually oblique.”
“Do you think that maybe - something happened when he found me? Something … bad?”
“I’m a reporter, Conner. I know better than to speculate without facts. You can ask Clark yourself.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Not seen him, but I hear from him occasionally. Thinks he’s getting close to what he’s looking for.”
“So what makes you think-“
“Really, Conner.” Lois paused to ruffle his hair. “You don’t think he is going to miss his cousin’s wedding do you?”
Kon found himself equal parts hopeful and embarrassed. “You really think he’ll come? I mean - I’m not even sure I still have a fiancée.”
Lois snorted, moving to pour herself a drink. Along with the dictophone and notebook, the bottle of gin was an integral part of her journalist kit, used medically, to encourage interviews and to bolster nerve before a not entirely law-abiding investigative attempt. Although appreciative of the beauties he’d encountered in Europe, Kon had to admit that it was a special sort of woman who would pour her own drinks, and an even more special woman who would do so dressed in her custom reporting outfit. Lois’s fitted dress jacket and shirt would not look out of place in the top half of a fashion plate, tucked into a wide hooped skirt or paired with a bustle. Likewise, the trousers she paired them with were crisp, business-like and could easily have been taken directly from the gentleman’s half of the same fashion plate.
Any other woman would be ridiculed for her choices. Lois … got stories. She passed the glass she’d just poured to Kon, pouring herself a second. “I don’t know what it is about you Kent men, but you can take it from one who should know that it will take more than an unexpected dip in the ocean to call off a marriage. In the absence of my husband, I think it falls to me to congratulate you on your engagement, Conner.” She raised her glass. “To the success of your nuptials, and the health of your fiancée.” Lois paused. “Wherever she may be.”
--oOo-
Drake wasn’t the only member of the Foundation family burning the midnight oil. In the room commonly referred to as her ‘office’, Miss Gordon sat before the giant switchboard that was her pride and joy and tried to will herself relaxed. She would not be of any use to Drake or the Director with her nerves rattled - and yet, she could not relax and sleep with the Ripper not yet apprehended. Since his unsuccessful attempt to snatch Drake from his hospital, there had been a dearth of attacks, seemingly pointing towards the truth of Drake’s theory that the Ripper had intended to target him.
It was not a welcome thought knowing any member of their family targeted, and Miss Gordon brooded again over the unfortunate timing. If only Grayson and Cass were not so far away - or was that not a good thing? She was secretly relieved to know that Grayson was out of this particular battle …
As if on cue, the light that signalled an overseas line lit up and Miss Gordon pressed the appropriate switch to connect it. “Speak of the devil, I tell you. Dick, how are you?”
“Wrong devil.”
“Cass! Oh, this is a welcome surprise.” Miss Gordon expertly reached for her telegraph device. The Director would want to know about this as soon as possible. “You’ve arrived state-side then? What’s the situation?”
“Lost Wilson.” There was characteristic pause as Cass sought the word she wanted. Miss Gordon could almost hear her shrug. “Well.”
“It’s been in the papers. You’ll want to rendezvous with Grayson, debrief him in more detail,” Miss Gordon said, recording the location of Cass’s phone-line. “In New York? Is this a public phone?”
“Private now.”
Cass’s nonchalance was indicative of some struggle. Presumably some poor New Yorker had made the mistake of thinking that because she was alone, Cass might be vulnerable.
“I know you know how to deal with these situations, but this isn’t London. Lord Wayne doesn’t have the same sway with the American police force as he does Her Majesty’s representatives. You’ll have to be discreet.”
“Orders?”
“Find Grayson. He’s in charge in the States,” Miss Gordon relayed the apartment address, already tracing maps against the data-signature of Cass’ line. “Once you cross the river, you’ll want to find the train tracks. Follow them towards the city.”
She waited for the click that would be Cass ending the call but instead there was simply silence. “Something bothering you?”
There was more silence as Cass considered this. “Yes.”
“What is it?” Had news of the Ripper reached Cass? Of course - Drake. Cass might not be able to read, but she could recognise the photos, infer from those. She might not have the formal training, but she did have a detective’s instinct.
“A boy.” There was a rather longer pause and then Cass said with a deliberateness that didn’t entirely disguise her wonder. “Loves me.”
“Oh,” Miss Gordon said faintly. “Well.” This was not the situation she was expecting. It took a moment of sheer will to get over the sheer oddness of it and concentrate. “Is it a serious attachment?”
“Proposed.”
“Serious then.” The Director was not going to like this. “And you? How do you feel about him?”
“No guard. Instinct terrible.”
Well, that was the Director’s influence talking. “He’s asked you to marry him, Cass. Not fight him.” Miss Gordon paused. She shouldn’t be encouraging this, but she was curious despite her better instincts. “What is he like? As a man?”
Cass considered carefully. “Wet,” she pronounced at last. “Good man. Prospects.”
“Prospects? You’re - thinking about this seriously.” Again, the rational, logical part of Miss Gordon wanted to protest. Normal relationships might be founded on considerations such as prospects and matrimonial suitability. Foundation members couldn’t afford normality. She was living proof of that. Others had not been so lucky.
And yet - without human desire, human weakness, what differentiated the Foundation from the very demons they fought? “Cass - Cassandra. Be-“ Careful? That hadn’t saved her. “Be sure of yourself,” she advised eventually. “And be gentle on him.”
“Strong.”
“Be that as it may. Does your young man have a name-“ The line had gone still, silent.
Well.
Miss Gordon sat in front of the switchboard wondering whether it was worthwhile trying to raise Grayson again, or whether she’d be better off figuring out how to break the news to the Director that his little girl was growing up.