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fandomweekly2020-09-21 05:33 am
fleuretteffoulkes) wrote in fandomweekly2020-09-21 05:33 am
Entry tags:
[#067] The Shattering of Shovelin' (Scarlet Pimpernel)
Theme Prompt: #067 - Shattered
Title: The Shattering of Shovelin'
Fandom: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 750
Summary: In which Chauvelin is in London, and the Scarlet Pimpernel is definitely in Paris. Definitely.
This is a reconnaissance mission. Uncowed by his (multitudinous) previous failures, Citizen Chauvelin prowls through the halls off of one of London's smaller ballrooms. He keeps an eye out for any and all members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, just in case they might be skulking behind one of the statuettes or lurid vases that he passes. All his plans are going to succeed this time, he feels sure of it.
Due to some of his past misadventures in this city, he is wearing a disguise, extensive enough that perhaps even the Scarlet Pimpernel himself would be jealous. Wax paint distorts his face. A wig lightens and lengthens his hair. His clothing is far more gaudy and his lace far more exquisite than anyone (Blakeney, Chauvelin's traitorous mind substitutes, with an assortment of curses for good measure) would ever imagine Chauvelin wearing. Even his shoes have enough padding to add a few inches to his height, though Chauvelin doubts Blakeney would notice much difference since he'll tower over him in any event.
Or he would, if he met Chauvelin. But he's not going to. This mission is just for observing. Chauvelin is one of the greatest agents France has ever produced, and he is going to do everything just right. He is going to observe and tally the movements of every single member of Blakeney's cursed gang. He is going to wait until he can predict their every move, and then—only then—will he strike. This time, he will recover his reputation. This time, he will bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to his knees. This time—
There is a godawful crash directly behind him, and then an all-too-familiar voice exclaims, "Gadzooks, mind the glass!"
Chauvelin orders himself to make no movement, though he fears that Blakeney's keen eyes have already spied the sudden tension of his shoulders. He realizes his fists are clenched, and he slowly uncurls his fingers. Blakeney was not supposed to be at this ball. The Scarlet Pimpernel is supposed to be in Paris, rescuing the Comte de Chavigny who has been waved in front of his nose by Chauvelin's own orders as bait so that Chauvelin would be free to work here in London.
Blakeney is kneeling on the floor next to him, picking up pieces of a ci-devant vase and setting them upon the side table where that vase had once stood in its turn. "Ah, Monsieur, uh, Shovelin', was it?" he comments brightly, gazing up at Chauvelin and holding a quizzing-glass to his eye with his free hand. "Be careful where you step. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."
The glass of the vase is scattered all about Chauvelin's feet—Blakeney's only bothering to pick up the larger pieces—but Chauvelin knows all too well that Blakeney knows that Chauvelin knows that's not what he's talking about. Damn the man, why couldn't he have been fooled for at least five minutes by this disguise? Goodness knows it took Chauvelin ten times that just to get into the disguise.
Chauvelin doesn't bother to deny his identity, nor to correct its pronunciation. There's no chance that Blakeney isn't entirely certain of the identification, and any protest Chauvelin might make will only be a cue for further humiliation. And in any event, Chauvelin doesn't entirely trust his voice at the moment.
"Oh, look, here's Ffoulkes and Dewhurst! Fancy you boys dropping by just now," Blakeney says, still in that disagreeably exuberant tone of voice. "Monsieur Shovelin' seems to have lost his way. He would have hurt himself on all this glass if I hadn't been here to save him. Perhaps you'd like to help him see his way clear of it?"
The two men are taller than him, and even without them Chauvelin has no doubt that Blakeney could leave his current crouched position as quickly as he entered it and knock him down without even breathing hard. And so he says nothing, and lets Blakeney's lieutenants seize his arms and drag him off down the hall to an uncertain fate. He casts about for a new plan to deal with this new situation, but finds nothing. All of the plans he had treasured moments ago are now worthless, shattered into a million pieces on the floor with that vase. Once again, Chauvelin has failed.
"Congratulations on having found a decent tailor sometime in the months since I saw you last!" Blakeney calls after him as they go. "You look almost halfway presentable!"
Title: The Shattering of Shovelin'
Fandom: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 750
Summary: In which Chauvelin is in London, and the Scarlet Pimpernel is definitely in Paris. Definitely.
This is a reconnaissance mission. Uncowed by his (multitudinous) previous failures, Citizen Chauvelin prowls through the halls off of one of London's smaller ballrooms. He keeps an eye out for any and all members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, just in case they might be skulking behind one of the statuettes or lurid vases that he passes. All his plans are going to succeed this time, he feels sure of it.
Due to some of his past misadventures in this city, he is wearing a disguise, extensive enough that perhaps even the Scarlet Pimpernel himself would be jealous. Wax paint distorts his face. A wig lightens and lengthens his hair. His clothing is far more gaudy and his lace far more exquisite than anyone (Blakeney, Chauvelin's traitorous mind substitutes, with an assortment of curses for good measure) would ever imagine Chauvelin wearing. Even his shoes have enough padding to add a few inches to his height, though Chauvelin doubts Blakeney would notice much difference since he'll tower over him in any event.
Or he would, if he met Chauvelin. But he's not going to. This mission is just for observing. Chauvelin is one of the greatest agents France has ever produced, and he is going to do everything just right. He is going to observe and tally the movements of every single member of Blakeney's cursed gang. He is going to wait until he can predict their every move, and then—only then—will he strike. This time, he will recover his reputation. This time, he will bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to his knees. This time—
There is a godawful crash directly behind him, and then an all-too-familiar voice exclaims, "Gadzooks, mind the glass!"
Chauvelin orders himself to make no movement, though he fears that Blakeney's keen eyes have already spied the sudden tension of his shoulders. He realizes his fists are clenched, and he slowly uncurls his fingers. Blakeney was not supposed to be at this ball. The Scarlet Pimpernel is supposed to be in Paris, rescuing the Comte de Chavigny who has been waved in front of his nose by Chauvelin's own orders as bait so that Chauvelin would be free to work here in London.
Blakeney is kneeling on the floor next to him, picking up pieces of a ci-devant vase and setting them upon the side table where that vase had once stood in its turn. "Ah, Monsieur, uh, Shovelin', was it?" he comments brightly, gazing up at Chauvelin and holding a quizzing-glass to his eye with his free hand. "Be careful where you step. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."
The glass of the vase is scattered all about Chauvelin's feet—Blakeney's only bothering to pick up the larger pieces—but Chauvelin knows all too well that Blakeney knows that Chauvelin knows that's not what he's talking about. Damn the man, why couldn't he have been fooled for at least five minutes by this disguise? Goodness knows it took Chauvelin ten times that just to get into the disguise.
Chauvelin doesn't bother to deny his identity, nor to correct its pronunciation. There's no chance that Blakeney isn't entirely certain of the identification, and any protest Chauvelin might make will only be a cue for further humiliation. And in any event, Chauvelin doesn't entirely trust his voice at the moment.
"Oh, look, here's Ffoulkes and Dewhurst! Fancy you boys dropping by just now," Blakeney says, still in that disagreeably exuberant tone of voice. "Monsieur Shovelin' seems to have lost his way. He would have hurt himself on all this glass if I hadn't been here to save him. Perhaps you'd like to help him see his way clear of it?"
The two men are taller than him, and even without them Chauvelin has no doubt that Blakeney could leave his current crouched position as quickly as he entered it and knock him down without even breathing hard. And so he says nothing, and lets Blakeney's lieutenants seize his arms and drag him off down the hall to an uncertain fate. He casts about for a new plan to deal with this new situation, but finds nothing. All of the plans he had treasured moments ago are now worthless, shattered into a million pieces on the floor with that vase. Once again, Chauvelin has failed.
"Congratulations on having found a decent tailor sometime in the months since I saw you last!" Blakeney calls after him as they go. "You look almost halfway presentable!"
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