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fandomweekly2016-04-09 01:33 am
inevitableentresol) wrote in fandomweekly2016-04-09 01:33 am
Entry tags:
[#010] Fill Your Eye (Fingersmith by Sarah Waters)
Theme Prompt: Truth or Dare
Title: Fill Your Eye
Fandom: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters (John Vroom/Gentleman)
Rating/Warnings: R, spoilers for the novel, betrayal, infidelity, paid sex, pseudo-Victorian prose
Bonus: No
Word Count: just under 1000
Summary:
A short fix-it fic, in which the dramatic events involving John Vroom and Gentleman at the end of the book never took place. In this fic they're both still free to continue their covert liaisons, older but not much wiser.
~*~*~FILL YOUR EYE ~*~*~
When the message arrives, John thinks there might be enough coin in it today to make it worth his while. He tells everyone he hasn't seen Gentleman for nigh on years. Sometimes he almost makes himself believe that's the truth.
Other days, he's just had enough of one cramped room with five screaming brats and Dainty about to burst out another. On those days, something inside him makes him dare to risk it, to fall in with a rotten flimflam merchant who wouldn't blink but betray him, just as long as there’s coach wheels involved, winking bright enough to convince John to look the other way, to close his two eyes tight, even as his other one is opening up, as Gentleman said once, before John threatened to floor him if he didn't shut his piehole.
So John puts on his boots and heads out.
The squinny-faced look of the messenger boy is a promising sight as they stroll fast down the alleys. John sees that the runt has been dazzled, a common enough reaction from those who don't know Gentleman the way that he does.
John used to find it a frolic, the ladies so ready to swoon, the gentlemen so taken in, the servants as well. All the while the Gentleman's true secret was just for the two of them, or so John thought.
The boy puts his hand out for another copper before he takes John to the spot - a job well done, sir, if you please, he says, and that’s reassurance as well, that this boy has already learnt that there's plentiful coin to be got. It's been a long time since John's been given an “if you please”, far less a “sir”. So the boy gets a cuff round the ear for that, but not too hard. Everything is shaping up most satisfactory and respectable-like.
“How much blunt did you already get off him who sent you?” John wants to make sure.
“Thrups, sir.” the boy nods. “From a v'rry good-looking toff.”
John snorts. "Good-looking? My arse."
“No, sir. He was, I swear. And in a silver w'stcoat, and a thick gold chain to his w'stcoat pocket. Is he a duke, sir? Mebbey a prince?”
John gives the runt another blow for flanneling. “You thought he was a prince, and all you got was a thruppenny dud from him, was it?”
A little more cajoling round the lughole, ever so gentle, and the boy admits to a stag.
The infantry these days. Beggars and liars to a man. John’s got five of the villains of his own at home. God preserve them, he hopes they grow up even more worse than this little bleeder right here in front of him. Five of them on the make, and they’ll bring it all back to their loving pa.
John doesn't even shake down the boy and empty out his pockets, he's so happy now. So not only is Gentleman feeling spooney, if he's sent for John to come as soon as can, if he’s employing greedy little cupid's messengers he must be desperate.
Desperate is how John likes it. He might even toy with Gentleman, get some value out of that sly mouth, those trickster fingers, before he finally makes Gentleman kiss his dust.
That bootboy was years ago, but John's still not forgot. He wasn't even tall or nothing, not even anything special. That's what made it worse.
These days, the Gentleman's going to be the flat. See how he likes that.
***
There’s a shop up Milsom Road end, painted in that Ashes of Roses that Dainty has a scarf in. John sends the boy off as soon as he picks out his man, sending the boy to the roundabout by giving him a kick to the fundament.
It’s Gentleman, all right, talking to an old man with a tray. The wall behind them throws a glow upon their faces, turning Gentleman pink-cheeked. John wrinkles up his nose. Nasty, filthy trash, that old man's tray, sulphur sticks all lined up. John trusts that Gentleman isn't buying any. Even Dainty wont have nothing but safety matches in the house, not after what happened over in Cheapside.
There was a spunk seller who stood at the crossroads, and one day out of nowhere he went up in smoke. His body was full of unwholesomeness, they said, from the sulphur on his tray. The fumes had drawn up into him, years and years, all without him knowing.
John don't know if that can really happen, a man just to burst into flame of his own accord. The Gentleman turns his head slightly to the side, his sleek dark hair tickling his jaw, a knowing tilt to his eyes, and John could swear he feels the fire.
The crowd passes and holds them apart a little while longer. A young boy hitting a hoop, several gentlemen, a group of mollies in feathered hats. Not a single one of them would give a brass farthing for a second with John Vroom. Not one would give him kisses along with soft, mocking words.
John steps forward, drawn in despite his intentions. Then he notices under the wide brim of Gentleman's poncey wide-awake that there’s grey hair among the black.
That's new. John’s not seen that before. Gentleman's grown old. Both of them have. They must have been doing this for ever so long now.
Gentleman finally turns, and smiles.
“Well, John. You're a sight to fill the eye.”
John's cheeks darken. He grows hot, so hot.
When the spunk seller went up in flame, one of the shops nearby had insurance. Most of the damage had been by the over-eager pumpers.
John's got no insurance. There is none to be had for this, no fireman that can put this out.
John stands a little distance apart from Gentleman, but the old flame has already grown bright.
“So where are we off to?” he asks.
~*~*~
Title: Fill Your Eye
Fandom: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters (John Vroom/Gentleman)
Rating/Warnings: R, spoilers for the novel, betrayal, infidelity, paid sex, pseudo-Victorian prose
Bonus: No
Word Count: just under 1000
Summary:
A short fix-it fic, in which the dramatic events involving John Vroom and Gentleman at the end of the book never took place. In this fic they're both still free to continue their covert liaisons, older but not much wiser.
When the message arrives, John thinks there might be enough coin in it today to make it worth his while. He tells everyone he hasn't seen Gentleman for nigh on years. Sometimes he almost makes himself believe that's the truth.
Other days, he's just had enough of one cramped room with five screaming brats and Dainty about to burst out another. On those days, something inside him makes him dare to risk it, to fall in with a rotten flimflam merchant who wouldn't blink but betray him, just as long as there’s coach wheels involved, winking bright enough to convince John to look the other way, to close his two eyes tight, even as his other one is opening up, as Gentleman said once, before John threatened to floor him if he didn't shut his piehole.
So John puts on his boots and heads out.
The squinny-faced look of the messenger boy is a promising sight as they stroll fast down the alleys. John sees that the runt has been dazzled, a common enough reaction from those who don't know Gentleman the way that he does.
John used to find it a frolic, the ladies so ready to swoon, the gentlemen so taken in, the servants as well. All the while the Gentleman's true secret was just for the two of them, or so John thought.
The boy puts his hand out for another copper before he takes John to the spot - a job well done, sir, if you please, he says, and that’s reassurance as well, that this boy has already learnt that there's plentiful coin to be got. It's been a long time since John's been given an “if you please”, far less a “sir”. So the boy gets a cuff round the ear for that, but not too hard. Everything is shaping up most satisfactory and respectable-like.
“How much blunt did you already get off him who sent you?” John wants to make sure.
“Thrups, sir.” the boy nods. “From a v'rry good-looking toff.”
John snorts. "Good-looking? My arse."
“No, sir. He was, I swear. And in a silver w'stcoat, and a thick gold chain to his w'stcoat pocket. Is he a duke, sir? Mebbey a prince?”
John gives the runt another blow for flanneling. “You thought he was a prince, and all you got was a thruppenny dud from him, was it?”
A little more cajoling round the lughole, ever so gentle, and the boy admits to a stag.
The infantry these days. Beggars and liars to a man. John’s got five of the villains of his own at home. God preserve them, he hopes they grow up even more worse than this little bleeder right here in front of him. Five of them on the make, and they’ll bring it all back to their loving pa.
John doesn't even shake down the boy and empty out his pockets, he's so happy now. So not only is Gentleman feeling spooney, if he's sent for John to come as soon as can, if he’s employing greedy little cupid's messengers he must be desperate.
Desperate is how John likes it. He might even toy with Gentleman, get some value out of that sly mouth, those trickster fingers, before he finally makes Gentleman kiss his dust.
That bootboy was years ago, but John's still not forgot. He wasn't even tall or nothing, not even anything special. That's what made it worse.
These days, the Gentleman's going to be the flat. See how he likes that.
***
There’s a shop up Milsom Road end, painted in that Ashes of Roses that Dainty has a scarf in. John sends the boy off as soon as he picks out his man, sending the boy to the roundabout by giving him a kick to the fundament.
It’s Gentleman, all right, talking to an old man with a tray. The wall behind them throws a glow upon their faces, turning Gentleman pink-cheeked. John wrinkles up his nose. Nasty, filthy trash, that old man's tray, sulphur sticks all lined up. John trusts that Gentleman isn't buying any. Even Dainty wont have nothing but safety matches in the house, not after what happened over in Cheapside.
There was a spunk seller who stood at the crossroads, and one day out of nowhere he went up in smoke. His body was full of unwholesomeness, they said, from the sulphur on his tray. The fumes had drawn up into him, years and years, all without him knowing.
John don't know if that can really happen, a man just to burst into flame of his own accord. The Gentleman turns his head slightly to the side, his sleek dark hair tickling his jaw, a knowing tilt to his eyes, and John could swear he feels the fire.
The crowd passes and holds them apart a little while longer. A young boy hitting a hoop, several gentlemen, a group of mollies in feathered hats. Not a single one of them would give a brass farthing for a second with John Vroom. Not one would give him kisses along with soft, mocking words.
John steps forward, drawn in despite his intentions. Then he notices under the wide brim of Gentleman's poncey wide-awake that there’s grey hair among the black.
That's new. John’s not seen that before. Gentleman's grown old. Both of them have. They must have been doing this for ever so long now.
Gentleman finally turns, and smiles.
“Well, John. You're a sight to fill the eye.”
John's cheeks darken. He grows hot, so hot.
When the spunk seller went up in flame, one of the shops nearby had insurance. Most of the damage had been by the over-eager pumpers.
John's got no insurance. There is none to be had for this, no fireman that can put this out.
John stands a little distance apart from Gentleman, but the old flame has already grown bright.
“So where are we off to?” he asks.
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