sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 01:01 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 01:01 am
Entry tags:
Nothing Constant, Ch. 1
Fic in progress; this'll be updated sporadically in segments, probably.
Title: Nothing Constant, part 1
Rating: PG, probably upgrading to R eventually
Fandoms: Lovejoy (by Jonathan Gash), Hellblazer (featuring John Constantine), Lord Peter Wimsey (by Dorothy L Sayers)
Summary: Lovejoy has never met an antique human being before, but John Constantine has bigger worries on his mind than what one divvy thinks. Lord Death Bredon Wimsey has a book he wants, but that poor antique book is only the beginning of the trouble for the three men caught in its grip.
Warnings: None.
PLEASE NOTE: This story is incomplete, and I have no intentions to finish it at this time.
***
Divvying's a funny thing.
Nobody speaks about it much, divvys themselves least of all. It's like luck in a casino -- mention it and you might lose it. And if we did talk about it, people might figure out how it works. Not that I think you could, myself, because it's not a learned skill as I've had reason to tell people before. It's a born talent, and it doesn't seem to crop up amongst those as have anything else -- wealth, fame, education. Divvying goes to those who need it. If anyone could divvy, we'd be out of a job and probably starve.
Divvys don't just tell real from fake in the antiques world. They tell old from new and valuable from worthless. A bit of broken gate-iron might come from the same forge as a priceless wrought-iron firescreen, but only one sets off the old heartstrings. I'm not educated enough to tell you what is art and what isn't according to the great thinkers, but this thinker knows what's beautiful from what's ugly.
If I could just shut up about it once in a while.
The job was supposed to be easy, and it more or less was. A straightforward commission, like thousands I'd done before: go to the estate auction, mark out the fakes so as not to bid on them, mark out the true antiques that nobody'll look twice at so as to bid low on them, then handle the auction bidding within certain budgetary bounds. You wouldn't think it'd be necessary to have a divvy at an auction of someone high-class like the Earl of Severn and Thames, but statistics say and the law of averages approves that about a quarter of all art in collections, particularly in museums, is fake. Why not pay me a few pounds and be certain?
I'd got through the sorting-out process no problem and snagged a good seat in back where I could keep an eye on everyone else -- only amateurs sit in the front, just like at dame school. It was going well, in fact. So well that something would happen to cock it up.
They brought in a new lot which I happened to know was fake, pretty but forged, mainly because I'd forged them myself about ten years previous. But just as the auctioneer opened his mouth, suddenly my stomach did a flip-flop and my heart sang out. Nonsense, I told myself, you did that vase yourself and a right ruddy time you had getting the proper kiln to fire it in. Someone just sat down next to you with an old pocket-watch in their trousers or something.
But my nerves were pulling me into the centre aisle, and like a right berk I went. With a couple of excuse-mes and sorry-coming-pasts I got out and nearly ran into a tall, sandy-haired bloke smoking a dog-end fag and standing in front of the door, which was still closing after him.
Our shoulders went slam into each other as these things will happen, and in the street I'd have walked away with a curse thrown over my shoulder for good measure, but in the more polite society of the auction house it's better to pardon oneself and wander on.
I'd hardly opened my mouth to apologise, however, when he'd grabbed my arm to steady me and blue sparks went off. I mean real blue static sparks, between his hand and my arm, not to mention in my head.
"Steady on, mate," he muttered, not letting go when he ought. "What have we here?"
Now, when I'm near antiques I get a bit heady, but I'd never had another person do that before. After all, people aren't -- well, hah, they are made by other people, but not crafted-like. You don't get antique human beings is what I'm saying. But here I was knocking sparks off this strapping hard-faced chap and going loopy over a living, breathing person.
"You all right?" the man asked, maneuvering me out of the aisle as someone else went past. I rubbed the back of my head and pulled out of his grip, stumbling away and out the door and down the hall to the outdoors for a bit of fresh air.
The bastard followed me, of course. I could tell he was coming before he opened the door to step out, but I hoped he'd just walk past me and go away. No such luck.
"Smoke?" he asked, dropping down onto the steps next to me and offering a nearly-empty pack of fags. I tried not to show him shaking hands as I took one, but he had to light the bloody thing for me. "Sorry about..." he jerked his thumb in the direction of the auction room, where one of my marked lots was probably being bid on right now. Just my luck.
"It's fine," I muttered, dragging gratefully on the cigarette. He tapped me on the arm. Where his hand had gripped, my jacket was scorched.
"Let's not have any faffing about now," he said. Christ, I thought, he was probably after me for something or other. I ran down my list of enemies, never inconsiderable, but I couldn't think of anyone who would bother sending a professional assassin. "Who are you, and why're you here?"
I looked sidelong at him. "Me? I'm nobody."
He rolled his eyes and held out his free hand. "John Constantine. I'm not here to kill you."
"Lovejoy," I said weakly. He shook hands like he was measuring tensile bone strength. "I'm not here to die."
Continue to the next part
Title: Nothing Constant, part 1
Rating: PG, probably upgrading to R eventually
Fandoms: Lovejoy (by Jonathan Gash), Hellblazer (featuring John Constantine), Lord Peter Wimsey (by Dorothy L Sayers)
Summary: Lovejoy has never met an antique human being before, but John Constantine has bigger worries on his mind than what one divvy thinks. Lord Death Bredon Wimsey has a book he wants, but that poor antique book is only the beginning of the trouble for the three men caught in its grip.
Warnings: None.
PLEASE NOTE: This story is incomplete, and I have no intentions to finish it at this time.
***
Divvying's a funny thing.
Nobody speaks about it much, divvys themselves least of all. It's like luck in a casino -- mention it and you might lose it. And if we did talk about it, people might figure out how it works. Not that I think you could, myself, because it's not a learned skill as I've had reason to tell people before. It's a born talent, and it doesn't seem to crop up amongst those as have anything else -- wealth, fame, education. Divvying goes to those who need it. If anyone could divvy, we'd be out of a job and probably starve.
Divvys don't just tell real from fake in the antiques world. They tell old from new and valuable from worthless. A bit of broken gate-iron might come from the same forge as a priceless wrought-iron firescreen, but only one sets off the old heartstrings. I'm not educated enough to tell you what is art and what isn't according to the great thinkers, but this thinker knows what's beautiful from what's ugly.
If I could just shut up about it once in a while.
The job was supposed to be easy, and it more or less was. A straightforward commission, like thousands I'd done before: go to the estate auction, mark out the fakes so as not to bid on them, mark out the true antiques that nobody'll look twice at so as to bid low on them, then handle the auction bidding within certain budgetary bounds. You wouldn't think it'd be necessary to have a divvy at an auction of someone high-class like the Earl of Severn and Thames, but statistics say and the law of averages approves that about a quarter of all art in collections, particularly in museums, is fake. Why not pay me a few pounds and be certain?
I'd got through the sorting-out process no problem and snagged a good seat in back where I could keep an eye on everyone else -- only amateurs sit in the front, just like at dame school. It was going well, in fact. So well that something would happen to cock it up.
They brought in a new lot which I happened to know was fake, pretty but forged, mainly because I'd forged them myself about ten years previous. But just as the auctioneer opened his mouth, suddenly my stomach did a flip-flop and my heart sang out. Nonsense, I told myself, you did that vase yourself and a right ruddy time you had getting the proper kiln to fire it in. Someone just sat down next to you with an old pocket-watch in their trousers or something.
But my nerves were pulling me into the centre aisle, and like a right berk I went. With a couple of excuse-mes and sorry-coming-pasts I got out and nearly ran into a tall, sandy-haired bloke smoking a dog-end fag and standing in front of the door, which was still closing after him.
Our shoulders went slam into each other as these things will happen, and in the street I'd have walked away with a curse thrown over my shoulder for good measure, but in the more polite society of the auction house it's better to pardon oneself and wander on.
I'd hardly opened my mouth to apologise, however, when he'd grabbed my arm to steady me and blue sparks went off. I mean real blue static sparks, between his hand and my arm, not to mention in my head.
"Steady on, mate," he muttered, not letting go when he ought. "What have we here?"
Now, when I'm near antiques I get a bit heady, but I'd never had another person do that before. After all, people aren't -- well, hah, they are made by other people, but not crafted-like. You don't get antique human beings is what I'm saying. But here I was knocking sparks off this strapping hard-faced chap and going loopy over a living, breathing person.
"You all right?" the man asked, maneuvering me out of the aisle as someone else went past. I rubbed the back of my head and pulled out of his grip, stumbling away and out the door and down the hall to the outdoors for a bit of fresh air.
The bastard followed me, of course. I could tell he was coming before he opened the door to step out, but I hoped he'd just walk past me and go away. No such luck.
"Smoke?" he asked, dropping down onto the steps next to me and offering a nearly-empty pack of fags. I tried not to show him shaking hands as I took one, but he had to light the bloody thing for me. "Sorry about..." he jerked his thumb in the direction of the auction room, where one of my marked lots was probably being bid on right now. Just my luck.
"It's fine," I muttered, dragging gratefully on the cigarette. He tapped me on the arm. Where his hand had gripped, my jacket was scorched.
"Let's not have any faffing about now," he said. Christ, I thought, he was probably after me for something or other. I ran down my list of enemies, never inconsiderable, but I couldn't think of anyone who would bother sending a professional assassin. "Who are you, and why're you here?"
I looked sidelong at him. "Me? I'm nobody."
He rolled his eyes and held out his free hand. "John Constantine. I'm not here to kill you."
"Lovejoy," I said weakly. He shook hands like he was measuring tensile bone strength. "I'm not here to die."
Continue to the next part
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Granted my main exposure to Lovejoy was the 80s TV series with Ian McShane, but that line just made me laugh out loud because - yes! I can see it.
*snicker*
Nice start, Sam! Intriguing and funny :-)
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11:01 am - posts.
So 'WILL NOT' is secret code for 'DOING IT, STAND BACK, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FOR YOUR HEALTH AND SANITY'?
That said, I have never read either universe so I'm off. :)
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Oh man. I cannot wait for more.
This is a wonderful start.
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I can't wait for more. This is the best Sunday ever. *grins*
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(yes. I think. :D)
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But if I did, this would warrant it!
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One of these days I will read the Wimsey books. I will. I have the second one (with all his family in it), but I want to read Whose Body first ... I have Five Red Herrings too, but I hear that one's not a good introduction to Sayers.
(Also: Hee! Sparks are flying - literally! XD)
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:)
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Thank you so, SO much. *scampers off to read, because homework is definitely less important than Wimsey ... XD*
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homework is definitely less important than Wimsey
I must agree.
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I'm hooked (again) and I'll keep reading for as long as you keep writing it.
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Is that a typo? I.e., where's the Peter? I suppose you might be writing about one of the sons, but I believe the youngest of the three would be Paul, not Bredon.
The story looks promising, although I know nothing of Lovejoy and only as much about Constantine as one can pick up hanging about
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Sam will have to tell us whether Peter or Bredon is His Grace the Duke at the time of this story. If the former, I suspect (but don't know for sure) that Death would be Lord Death. If the latter, I think he would be Viscount St George.
Do I know these books too well or what? :)
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Apologies for the nitpick, BTW. I really do want to read the story, and I won't be bent out of shape if we just handwave the title issue.
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The younger sons of earls and all sons of viscounts and barons get "The Honourable," so if Peter were the Duke and still alive at the time of your story, Bredon's son would be The Honourable Death Wimsey. You could always make Bredon the Duke and give Death an older brother, of course, but both scenarios require killing off young Gherkins.
It also works if Bredon marries a duchess or marchioness "in her own right," but that seems highly unlikely. Very few British peerages pass through the heirs-general. There are a few Scottish countesses running about, I believe, but nothing higher.
...I know far too much about this, really. If you decide to go with the hand-wave method, no worries. I love Wimsey-fic in all forms, and promise not to pay any attention if you need to fudge the details. =)
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http://www.chinet.com/~laura/html/titles01.html is full of useful information, if you find yourself in need of more details. The page on correct forms of address is particularly nifty. I have an undying love for all things in chart form.
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*anticipates more*
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Just checked Busman's Honeymoon--first letter, from Mirabelle, Countess of S&T, to Honoria Lucaste, Dowager Duchess of Denver.
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"Lovejoy," I said weakly. He shook hands like he was measuring tensile bone strength. "I'm not here to die."
De-lurking for a moment to comment on a fandom I've never read (although Constantine made an appearance in Sandman, if it's the Constantine I'm thinking of): this line reminded me of Inigo and Wesley's riff before engaging in mortal combat of the Cliffs of Insanity, and I wondered if that's where you'd pulled it from ;o)
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good writing -as always ^^- and interesting plot, I might even look out for this fandoms originals! er... it's in books right? =P
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