sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 12:59 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 12:59 am
Entry tags:
Nothing Constant, Ch. 3
Title: Nothing Constant, Ch. 3
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.
Note: Some people may have noticed that these chapters are far shorter than my normal chapter-length; because I'm doing this mainly for my own amusement, I basically write until I come to a likely stopping place and then post. So it's not your imagination :D
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2
***
Constantine doesn't drive. I do, but my Ruby's unreliable and I'd come up to London on the train, so neither of us had ready transportation. Wimsey's digs are in what even I know is the "fashionable" side, and I was wondering whether we were going to be forced into the Underground, but when we stepped out of the pub Constantine raised his hand and a cab not only appeared but stopped like magic in front of us. They never stop for me, the bastards.
I tried to keep as far from him as I could, not because I didn't like the bloke -- under my fear I had the idea of a certain kinship-of-the-miserable between us. It was just that he was setting off sensations I don't normally get from things that can move on their own. Bells in my head and gongs in my chest. Even when I followed him up the steps to the front door, I kept my distance. The fact that he was bankrolling the food, the beer, and the cab made me suspicious too.
The door to Wimsey's townhouse was opened by a youngish bird in a dark suit who looked as if she wanted to tell us to go round to the service entry. We weren't the most presentable pair, I will give her that much.
"Constantine and Lovejoy to see Lord Death," Constantine said smoothly, entering the front hallway of the house. I admired his brass and tried not to snigger. Lord Death.
"His Lordship is not at home," she replied, politely but clearly barring the way further. "Would you care to leave your card?"
"No," Constantine said, but he wasn't answering the question; he was denying her polite lie. "I think that if you happened to take this in, love, you'll find His Lordship suddenly very much at home."
He offered her a page-sized envelope from his inside pocket. She took it, bowed, and left us in the hall.
I didn't know where to look first. Practically everthing sang out at me of pricelessness or passion or both, though the Sargent on the far wall was a fake and the end-table next to us was a replica. The flowers and vase on it were real, however.
"What was that, anyway?" I asked, idly lusting after the vase.
"Trinket," he grunted. "It'll get his attention if nothing else."
"Yeah, but what was it?"
"A hymn," Constantine replied cryptically. The bird reappeared.
"This way, gentlemen," she said, and we followed. Lucky dog Wimsey, I thought, he gets to see that arse wiggle every day. This was an irony that would slap me in the head sometime later in the narrative. Constantine didn't seem to notice her, or perhaps he just didn't care; he was looking around and I realised that with every step he took, he was charting exit plans. Right, I thought; when the explosion comes (there is no 'if' about that, not in my world) I'm following Johnny.
We were shown into a room lined with bookshelves, not quite a library; the books were leatherbound and very pretty, but they weren't antiques. This isn't the Wimsey library, I thought. It's a receiving room.
Almost an entire wall was set with enormous windows that let the afternoon light in, rather more blue than golden. There were several roomy chairs decked out in leather and brass studs, a couple of tables, a cart with coffee service on it, and a baby grand piano. Hello, Sailor, said the piano. Come over and see me, handsome.
Resisting was hard, but I thought the man standing at the piano wouldn't appreciate it.
He met us not with a greeting or a threat, the two things I'd been expecting. Instead he looked at us, taking his time and our measure. We looked back. It wasn't hard; the room was impressive, but he commanded it completely.
He was wearing a grey three-piece suit without the jacket, sleeves rolled up over slim forearms and elegant hands. He wasn't particularly tall, though he had a few inches on me and maybe one and a half on Constantine. He had clever blue eyes between a beaky nose and a short crop of yellow hair. The whole package was sleek and way out of my normal circle, whatever Constantine might think of him or have on him.
He gave us one last cool once-over like a cat examining intruders on his turf, then decided to smile.
"Gentlemen," he said. "Welcome. Mr. Constantine and Mr. Lovejoy, I understand? Do be seated. Thank you, Meredith, that will be all for now."
He gestured elegantly to a pair of chairs by the window. I settled into one; Constantine sat on the arm of the other and took out a cigarette, tapping it on the pack. Wimsey produced a silver lighter and offered it to him.
"I'm Constantine. That's Lovejoy," Constantine said.
"May I offer you a cigarette, Mr. Lovejoy?" he asked politely, taking out a case that matched the lighter as he sat on the piano bench facing us. Wimsey was class through and through, while I was worrying about leaving grime from my trousers-seat on the leather. The case and lighter twanged lightly, but with Constantine in the room I hardly noticed.
"Ta," I said, taking a smoke carefully. He lit it for me and I noticed the engraving on the lighter -- P.D.B.W. from H.
"I'm intrigued by your extremely effective calling card," Wimsey said. He picked up a thin sheaf of paper from the bench next to him and examined it. "May I ask where you acquired it?"
"I have a mate," Constantine said. "Librarian named Lucien. He specialises in rare documents."
The papers weren't setting off any alarms, so they couldn't be antique; I craned my neck. Music of some kind.
"Very rare indeed," Wimsey replied. "Rare enough that, if you'll excuse me, I'm a little suspicious."
Constantine watched him, expressionless, cigarette hanging from his lips.
"My grandfather was not a composer, Mr. Constantine," Wimsey continued. "And while it does appear to be his handwriting, this is the only musical notation I have ever seen in grandfather's hand. Added to this that the lyrics make no sense..."
"It comes from an archive of unique documents. Distinct collector," he said.
"Mmh. It sounds like something Grandfather would cook up," Wimsey allowed, humming from the notes. "And it's written for harpsichord, which he always liked. Who was this collector?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Constantine answered.
"Very well," Wimsey said. "I presume you've put a price to it?"
"No price," Constantine said. "S'a gift."
"A gift? You don't intend to sell it to me? Surely it must have cost you something."
"Nah. Lucien owed me."
Wimsey glanced at me as if he suspected I was hired muscle. I tried to look intimidating.
"Then I'd like very much to know the aim of your visit, Mr. Constantine," he said. "Presumably it is not to present me with a harpsichord composition by my grandfather free of charge or obligation."
"The sheet music was to get your attention."
"It certainly succeeded."
Wimsey still looked like a cat, but Constantine did too, now -- two pale tabbies hissing a little at each other while they sorted out their boundary lines. I had a sinking sensation that I was the mouse.
"Didn't think you'd see us otherwise," Constantine said. "I've come to warn you."
"Warn me?" Wimsey asked, looking surprised. "About what?"
Constantine glanced at me.
"Would you be willing to show us your library, your lordship?" he asked.
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.
Note: Some people may have noticed that these chapters are far shorter than my normal chapter-length; because I'm doing this mainly for my own amusement, I basically write until I come to a likely stopping place and then post. So it's not your imagination :D
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2
***
Constantine doesn't drive. I do, but my Ruby's unreliable and I'd come up to London on the train, so neither of us had ready transportation. Wimsey's digs are in what even I know is the "fashionable" side, and I was wondering whether we were going to be forced into the Underground, but when we stepped out of the pub Constantine raised his hand and a cab not only appeared but stopped like magic in front of us. They never stop for me, the bastards.
I tried to keep as far from him as I could, not because I didn't like the bloke -- under my fear I had the idea of a certain kinship-of-the-miserable between us. It was just that he was setting off sensations I don't normally get from things that can move on their own. Bells in my head and gongs in my chest. Even when I followed him up the steps to the front door, I kept my distance. The fact that he was bankrolling the food, the beer, and the cab made me suspicious too.
The door to Wimsey's townhouse was opened by a youngish bird in a dark suit who looked as if she wanted to tell us to go round to the service entry. We weren't the most presentable pair, I will give her that much.
"Constantine and Lovejoy to see Lord Death," Constantine said smoothly, entering the front hallway of the house. I admired his brass and tried not to snigger. Lord Death.
"His Lordship is not at home," she replied, politely but clearly barring the way further. "Would you care to leave your card?"
"No," Constantine said, but he wasn't answering the question; he was denying her polite lie. "I think that if you happened to take this in, love, you'll find His Lordship suddenly very much at home."
He offered her a page-sized envelope from his inside pocket. She took it, bowed, and left us in the hall.
I didn't know where to look first. Practically everthing sang out at me of pricelessness or passion or both, though the Sargent on the far wall was a fake and the end-table next to us was a replica. The flowers and vase on it were real, however.
"What was that, anyway?" I asked, idly lusting after the vase.
"Trinket," he grunted. "It'll get his attention if nothing else."
"Yeah, but what was it?"
"A hymn," Constantine replied cryptically. The bird reappeared.
"This way, gentlemen," she said, and we followed. Lucky dog Wimsey, I thought, he gets to see that arse wiggle every day. This was an irony that would slap me in the head sometime later in the narrative. Constantine didn't seem to notice her, or perhaps he just didn't care; he was looking around and I realised that with every step he took, he was charting exit plans. Right, I thought; when the explosion comes (there is no 'if' about that, not in my world) I'm following Johnny.
We were shown into a room lined with bookshelves, not quite a library; the books were leatherbound and very pretty, but they weren't antiques. This isn't the Wimsey library, I thought. It's a receiving room.
Almost an entire wall was set with enormous windows that let the afternoon light in, rather more blue than golden. There were several roomy chairs decked out in leather and brass studs, a couple of tables, a cart with coffee service on it, and a baby grand piano. Hello, Sailor, said the piano. Come over and see me, handsome.
Resisting was hard, but I thought the man standing at the piano wouldn't appreciate it.
He met us not with a greeting or a threat, the two things I'd been expecting. Instead he looked at us, taking his time and our measure. We looked back. It wasn't hard; the room was impressive, but he commanded it completely.
He was wearing a grey three-piece suit without the jacket, sleeves rolled up over slim forearms and elegant hands. He wasn't particularly tall, though he had a few inches on me and maybe one and a half on Constantine. He had clever blue eyes between a beaky nose and a short crop of yellow hair. The whole package was sleek and way out of my normal circle, whatever Constantine might think of him or have on him.
He gave us one last cool once-over like a cat examining intruders on his turf, then decided to smile.
"Gentlemen," he said. "Welcome. Mr. Constantine and Mr. Lovejoy, I understand? Do be seated. Thank you, Meredith, that will be all for now."
He gestured elegantly to a pair of chairs by the window. I settled into one; Constantine sat on the arm of the other and took out a cigarette, tapping it on the pack. Wimsey produced a silver lighter and offered it to him.
"I'm Constantine. That's Lovejoy," Constantine said.
"May I offer you a cigarette, Mr. Lovejoy?" he asked politely, taking out a case that matched the lighter as he sat on the piano bench facing us. Wimsey was class through and through, while I was worrying about leaving grime from my trousers-seat on the leather. The case and lighter twanged lightly, but with Constantine in the room I hardly noticed.
"Ta," I said, taking a smoke carefully. He lit it for me and I noticed the engraving on the lighter -- P.D.B.W. from H.
"I'm intrigued by your extremely effective calling card," Wimsey said. He picked up a thin sheaf of paper from the bench next to him and examined it. "May I ask where you acquired it?"
"I have a mate," Constantine said. "Librarian named Lucien. He specialises in rare documents."
The papers weren't setting off any alarms, so they couldn't be antique; I craned my neck. Music of some kind.
"Very rare indeed," Wimsey replied. "Rare enough that, if you'll excuse me, I'm a little suspicious."
Constantine watched him, expressionless, cigarette hanging from his lips.
"My grandfather was not a composer, Mr. Constantine," Wimsey continued. "And while it does appear to be his handwriting, this is the only musical notation I have ever seen in grandfather's hand. Added to this that the lyrics make no sense..."
"It comes from an archive of unique documents. Distinct collector," he said.
"Mmh. It sounds like something Grandfather would cook up," Wimsey allowed, humming from the notes. "And it's written for harpsichord, which he always liked. Who was this collector?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Constantine answered.
"Very well," Wimsey said. "I presume you've put a price to it?"
"No price," Constantine said. "S'a gift."
"A gift? You don't intend to sell it to me? Surely it must have cost you something."
"Nah. Lucien owed me."
Wimsey glanced at me as if he suspected I was hired muscle. I tried to look intimidating.
"Then I'd like very much to know the aim of your visit, Mr. Constantine," he said. "Presumably it is not to present me with a harpsichord composition by my grandfather free of charge or obligation."
"The sheet music was to get your attention."
"It certainly succeeded."
Wimsey still looked like a cat, but Constantine did too, now -- two pale tabbies hissing a little at each other while they sorted out their boundary lines. I had a sinking sensation that I was the mouse.
"Didn't think you'd see us otherwise," Constantine said. "I've come to warn you."
"Warn me?" Wimsey asked, looking surprised. "About what?"
Constantine glanced at me.
"Would you be willing to show us your library, your lordship?" he asked.
Continue to the next part