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sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 01:00 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 01:00 am
Entry tags:
Nothing Constant, Ch. 2
Title: Nothing Constant, ch. 2
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.
Chapter 1
***
John Constantine's the sort of bloke who always has a dog-end dangling from the corner of his lips and if he doesn't, you still think he does. He reminds me of me, if I weren't a coward.
"Give up the auction for the day," he said to me, sitting on the auction-house steps. "It's a bad do."
"There are some nice -- " I started, but he shook his head and I knew it wasn't worth the argument, if I was even arguing the proper thing. Which I probably wasn't.
"S'fate, damn her," he continued. "Be told, Lovejoy."
"I'll lose my commission."
"Sod the commission."
He was right, of course. I was still looking for evidence of why he'd thrown me so strange -- rings, pocketwatch, cigarette case, even his hat or shoes could have been what set me off. But they weren't, because aside from the shoes he wasn't carrying any of those things. And I had to know. I always do, when it's antiques.
"Buy you a pint," he offered.
"Cheers," I answered. He shoved himself off the stairs and started walking, so I followed. My ears buzzed. I would lose the commission, but I could always tell my temporary employers that it had been a washout. It wasn't like they'd know the difference. If they had, they wouldn't have needed me.
We found a pub close enough, dim and filthy, and I sat dumb while he asked for two pints and a fry-up -- chicken and chips, I think it was. Doesn't actually matter.
"You're a divvy, then," he said, when the drinks were set in front of us. I couldn't tell whether he was still smoking the same dog-end or a new one, but he offered me another fag and I took it.
"Aye," I answered, because it was no use lying. Anyone in the business for miles around would have told him that anyway.
"Never seen one alive before."
I swallowed.
"Job or straight-up?" he continued.
"Straight," I said, injured. If I had been planning to steal something I would have been subtle enough that you wouldn't notice it.
"Rum old world," Constantine mused. He didn't ask me if it was true, about divvys, which most everyone does. "Why were you leaving?"
"Nature calling," I said, which was true in fact if not in euphemism.
"Something calling," he corrected.
"Are you one?" I asked. I'd known others before and this wasn't the normal way of things.
"Bit," he said noncommitally. "Not strictly speaking, no."
"You either are or you aren't," I replied, taking a deep swig from the pint glass for courage. "It's not like you can be half a divvy."
He looked at me sharply.
"Well, you can't," I repeated. He was making me stroppy as well as dizzy.
"Technically," he drawled slowly, "You can. Not a living half a divvy, mind."
I took his meaning and shut right up. It was probably my good fortune that the food arrived then and I fell on it hungrily. Fear starves a man. He ate singlemindedly but slowly, not looking at me.
"I will go with you and be your guide," he muttered. I didn't bother asking. I recognised the line. "What's your fee, Lovejoy?"
"For what?"
"Divvying. Per diem, percentage, what?"
"You want to hire me?" I asked incredulously.
"Listen, mate, I don't believe in blind chance. I believe in Chance with both her ugly, bloodshot eyes open. What're the odds that I go to an auction I know'll be a dead end and walk into a divvy after all of thirty seconds?"
I looked at him, really looked, past the haze he was putting out. He looked almost desperate, though you wouldn't know it unless you heard that edge in his voice. I'm not in the rescuing-puppies business, but he was no puppy -- more like a fully grown junkyard mutt.
I can see trouble coming almost as well as I can see a fake Van Eyck, and when trouble barrels down on you like it was about to barrel down on John Constantine and yours truly, I like to have a dog in my corner with me.
"What was it you were wanting?" I asked again, hating myself.
"Consulting, on-call," he said promptly. "Starting this afternoon. Cracksman's assistant if it comes to that. Cash on delivery -- if you run off, you leave your cut behind."
"Where, this afternoon?" I asked. He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
"Ever met a man named Death Wimsey?"
"Sounds like a stage name," I said, lighting another cigarette. Then the coin dropped. "Oh bugger, not Lord Wimsey. What's he got to do with all this?"
"You know him?"
"Only by reputation. What I wouldn't give for an hour alone in his private library -- his grandfather collected incunabulae..." Just the thought of the Wimsey collection made me salivate. Some of the finest pre-Gutenberg books in the world reposed under glass in Lord Death Wimsey's library, not to mention the most complete set of period erotic engravings ever held in man's trembling hand.
"Sell your soul for it?" Constantine asked. I had the feeling he wasn't joking.
"Why, has someone made an offer? Mine's a bit wrinkled but the seams are all intact," I said.
"Yes," he said matter-of-factly. I stared at him, not quite sure what to reply. "And I want to know why. You're going to tell me, Lovejoy."
Continue to the next part
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.
Chapter 1
***
John Constantine's the sort of bloke who always has a dog-end dangling from the corner of his lips and if he doesn't, you still think he does. He reminds me of me, if I weren't a coward.
"Give up the auction for the day," he said to me, sitting on the auction-house steps. "It's a bad do."
"There are some nice -- " I started, but he shook his head and I knew it wasn't worth the argument, if I was even arguing the proper thing. Which I probably wasn't.
"S'fate, damn her," he continued. "Be told, Lovejoy."
"I'll lose my commission."
"Sod the commission."
He was right, of course. I was still looking for evidence of why he'd thrown me so strange -- rings, pocketwatch, cigarette case, even his hat or shoes could have been what set me off. But they weren't, because aside from the shoes he wasn't carrying any of those things. And I had to know. I always do, when it's antiques.
"Buy you a pint," he offered.
"Cheers," I answered. He shoved himself off the stairs and started walking, so I followed. My ears buzzed. I would lose the commission, but I could always tell my temporary employers that it had been a washout. It wasn't like they'd know the difference. If they had, they wouldn't have needed me.
We found a pub close enough, dim and filthy, and I sat dumb while he asked for two pints and a fry-up -- chicken and chips, I think it was. Doesn't actually matter.
"You're a divvy, then," he said, when the drinks were set in front of us. I couldn't tell whether he was still smoking the same dog-end or a new one, but he offered me another fag and I took it.
"Aye," I answered, because it was no use lying. Anyone in the business for miles around would have told him that anyway.
"Never seen one alive before."
I swallowed.
"Job or straight-up?" he continued.
"Straight," I said, injured. If I had been planning to steal something I would have been subtle enough that you wouldn't notice it.
"Rum old world," Constantine mused. He didn't ask me if it was true, about divvys, which most everyone does. "Why were you leaving?"
"Nature calling," I said, which was true in fact if not in euphemism.
"Something calling," he corrected.
"Are you one?" I asked. I'd known others before and this wasn't the normal way of things.
"Bit," he said noncommitally. "Not strictly speaking, no."
"You either are or you aren't," I replied, taking a deep swig from the pint glass for courage. "It's not like you can be half a divvy."
He looked at me sharply.
"Well, you can't," I repeated. He was making me stroppy as well as dizzy.
"Technically," he drawled slowly, "You can. Not a living half a divvy, mind."
I took his meaning and shut right up. It was probably my good fortune that the food arrived then and I fell on it hungrily. Fear starves a man. He ate singlemindedly but slowly, not looking at me.
"I will go with you and be your guide," he muttered. I didn't bother asking. I recognised the line. "What's your fee, Lovejoy?"
"For what?"
"Divvying. Per diem, percentage, what?"
"You want to hire me?" I asked incredulously.
"Listen, mate, I don't believe in blind chance. I believe in Chance with both her ugly, bloodshot eyes open. What're the odds that I go to an auction I know'll be a dead end and walk into a divvy after all of thirty seconds?"
I looked at him, really looked, past the haze he was putting out. He looked almost desperate, though you wouldn't know it unless you heard that edge in his voice. I'm not in the rescuing-puppies business, but he was no puppy -- more like a fully grown junkyard mutt.
I can see trouble coming almost as well as I can see a fake Van Eyck, and when trouble barrels down on you like it was about to barrel down on John Constantine and yours truly, I like to have a dog in my corner with me.
"What was it you were wanting?" I asked again, hating myself.
"Consulting, on-call," he said promptly. "Starting this afternoon. Cracksman's assistant if it comes to that. Cash on delivery -- if you run off, you leave your cut behind."
"Where, this afternoon?" I asked. He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
"Ever met a man named Death Wimsey?"
"Sounds like a stage name," I said, lighting another cigarette. Then the coin dropped. "Oh bugger, not Lord Wimsey. What's he got to do with all this?"
"You know him?"
"Only by reputation. What I wouldn't give for an hour alone in his private library -- his grandfather collected incunabulae..." Just the thought of the Wimsey collection made me salivate. Some of the finest pre-Gutenberg books in the world reposed under glass in Lord Death Wimsey's library, not to mention the most complete set of period erotic engravings ever held in man's trembling hand.
"Sell your soul for it?" Constantine asked. I had the feeling he wasn't joking.
"Why, has someone made an offer? Mine's a bit wrinkled but the seams are all intact," I said.
"Yes," he said matter-of-factly. I stared at him, not quite sure what to reply. "And I want to know why. You're going to tell me, Lovejoy."
Continue to the next part