| Sweet Charity Goodie 3/3: 'The Price of Debt' - Neverwhere, PG13 - for Tuesday. |
[Feb. 17th, 2008|09:44 pm] |
Title: The Price of Debt
Fandom: Neverwhere
Characters: Marquis de Carabas (and others)
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This is my third and final pledged Sweet Charity goodie (for Tuesday – many, many thanks!) She requested a Neverwhere story that centers on the Marquis, and this will, as a result, be my first time writing in this fandom (is there anything resembling a Neverwhere fandom? Something to explore, I suppose). In any case, this was hardly a chore, as the Marquis has always been one of my favorite characters.
Summary: A man can learn many things from a brush with death – if he so chooses.
The worst part about it, de Carabas reflected, wasn't even the scar. Scars plural, to be precise. The Black Friars were amongst the finest healers in London Below, true, but there wasn't much you could do for a slit throat beyond a stringent cleaning and some thorough stitching. As for the rest of his scars, well, nobody ever saw those, so who really gave a toss?
Not the Marquis, as he was currently on a rooftop getting really, truly smashed. Beside him, Old Bailey hiccupped thoughtfully and tossed another empty gin-bottle over his shoulder.
"Have you forgotten?" he repeated, nudging de Carabas gently with his elbow.
"Hmmm?" asked de Carabas, jerking out of the half-doze into which he'd drifted. There might actually be something to the loveliness of nightingale-song, although he wasn't about to say that aloud.
"About the shoeses and gloveses," Old Bailey said, almost petulant. "You owes me."
I owe you more than bloody practicalities, thought de Carabas, clearing his throat – which didn't hurt anymore, although he'd acquired the annoying habit of running his fingers over the smooth, uneven-running scar when it happened to be uncovered. He rummaged around behind the brick ledge on which they were sitting and found another bottle of gin. Expensive stuff, bought expressly for the present purpose with his first pay advance from Lady Door, the Duchess of Arch. Having regular income would take some getting used to, but the intrigue – and Richard's bewilderment at suddenly finding himself all at once a Duke and noble consort – would never get old.
"Oh," he said, finally, and opened the new bottle. "Those. I'm afraid I was a bit too, you know, deceased at the last market to remember to pick them up."
"But there's been three markets since that one," Old Bailey pointed out, reaching for the bottle.
The Marquis held it just beyond his reach, helping himself to a generous pull before handing it over. "And I haven't been to any of them because you've kept me holed up on this God-forsaken roof."
"You ain't been in no shape for shopping," said Old Bailey, defensively. "Got to get you back in sorts an' all that. Lady Door's right lucky I lets you make appearances at court, she is."
"You do realize," said de Carabas, fixing Old Bailey with an unsteady look, "that I've got a job to do, and that if I don't get started in earnest before the month is out, her Royal Archness will begin to wonder?"
"What's she got you after, then?"
Swiping back the bottle, the Marquis said simply, "Her sister."
"I thought they was all killed."
"Doesn't look like it. That git Islington had the brat ferried off somewhere…safe."
Old Bailey tilted his head. "You got some leads as to where, don't you?"
"Perhaps," replied de Carabas, and shrugged. "It's classified information."
"You wouldn't be back in tip-top shape if not for me."
"And the Black Friars. We mustn't forget those noble sods – souls – that go about the Lord's work." The Marquis hiccupped, wondering how many bottles he'd drunk. That hadn't come out properly at all.
"What Lord? The Underside's got lots o' those."
"You know," said de Carabas, waving one hand at the stars. "God."
"I ain't thought about Him for decades," said Old Bailey, consolingly. "Me wife was always on about His Mercy an' all that, well, fat load o' good that did her while she still lived and breathed. Me, my faith's in birds. They knows what's what."
The Marquis had the very strong urge to face-plant into something, but seeing as he hadn't yet bothered to risk another trip into the Shepherds' territory to find that terrifying old bush-witch who'd fixed him up with that egg in the first place…
"Birds," he muttered. "It was a duck's, wasn't it?"
"That egg? You bet. Mighty fine one, too. Gives me the shivers, just thinkin' about what was done to shove your life inside."
The Marquis turned his head and blinked. Old Bailey looked more of a feathered fright than usual, but that's because the world had gone rather tipsy and blurred.
"You mean you know what – "
"No, but I can guess. I don't want you goin' into no Shepherds' Bush, you understand me? That place is no good. I hear they eats anybody as wanders in, and…" Old Bailey went slightly teary-eyed, fumbling between them for de Carabas's hand. "Don't you go!"
The Marquis freed his hand, then patted Old Bailey perfunctorily on the shoulder. "There, there. I've come out alive once. Odds are quite favorable I'll survive it again."
"You ain't got that luxury no more," said Old Bailey, darkly and very drunkenly.
However, he did manage to give de Carabas pause.
"It's dangerous work I'll be doing for Lady Door," said the Marquis, carefully. "You do realize that, yes?" As to whether he was talking to Old Bailey or to himself, well…
"I'm not no idiot," muttered Old Bailey, getting up from their perch with some difficulty. "Don't want no more o' your silly gin. Go flyin' without wings for all I care, just you go an' leave me hanging wiv' no – "
Bloody buggering hell, thought de Carabas, and stood up. Fortunately, he staggered a full three paces backward instead of forward. "Listen," he said, holding up one finger and wagging it in what he had thought to be Old Bailey's general direction, only to find that Old Bailey was already halfway to the (rather impressive, for what it was) new hut he'd built in the corner where his ramshackle tent had once been. Otherwise, he'd not have been able to house the ancient bed he'd somehow procured for the purpose of seeing to the remainder of the Marquis's convalescence.
"While I appreciate your concern and your hospitality," he said, staggering after Old Bailey into the oil-lit, feather-strewn hut, "I can't sit around and drink your tea and listen to your blessed birds forever. I've got work to do."
"How d'you 'spect to work when you've got a hangover?" asked Old Bailey, impressively pointedly for as intoxicated as he was. As they both were.
"I haven't gotten that far," said de Carabas, "because you won't let me!"
His shout cut the still, stuffy air between them and settled into startled silence.
"I'm losing my mind," said de Carabas, at length, and sank onto the bed, which was only six inches behind him. "Just imagine: a life as treacherous and exciting as mine reduced to bed-rest, factional loyalty, and daily lessons in avian dialects."
"Imagine a life as pathetic an' boring as mine put to some use," Old Bailey murmured, blowing out the nearest oil-lamp. "And none o' your beak!" he shouted in the direction of the nearest window.
"What did he say?" asked the Marquis, and then wished he hadn't.
Enough moonlight filtered in to let him see that Old Bailey was turning rather pink.
"Nuffing," he muttered, tossing a ratty old blanket at de Carabas. "You needs your rest."
It's a shame I can't work out which of us is Cain and which of us is Abel, thought the Marquis, picking the blanket off his head and replacing it with the ratty pillow.
"Good night, Old Bailey, my friend," he mumbled into the home-gathered down.
"That was almost perfect Nightingale, that was!"
"Do be quiet," hissed de Carabas, suddenly understanding the nature of his second chance all too clearly, "and let's just see who ends up with that hangover."
Unfortunately, Old Bailey was already snoring – which was, indeed, far worse than any scar. |
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