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nineveh_ukI have a weakness for Wimsey AU. This is unfortunate, as there is so very little out there. If this were the Potter fandom, I would not only be able to find Barbara/Paul Delagardie, there’d be a choice*. Therefore instead of doing something important the other evening, I did this. It isn’t Barbara/Paul, alas, but it is cheap and vulgar and occupied me when I ought to have been writing more important things.
Set some time between the end of Strong Poison and what was probably a rather different Have His Carcase. Peter and Harriet make a really bad decision…
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t.”
Harriet was crying, her face pressed into the pillow; great jagging sobs that she tried unsuccessfully to stifle. She lay curled in on herself, nightdress pulled tight around her. He found a dressing gown, not the silk thing he had been wearing, but an old woollen one, warm and reassuring, and draped it over her. He thought about brandy, but rejected it – it might give the wrong impression – and settled for a glass of water. She drank it gulping, almost spilling it so that he had to hold it for her, and calmed, still crying but quieter now, face hidden beneath the heavy cloth. He sat perched on the edge of the bed, a brute and an idiot, and wondered how he could ever have thought this might work, that by saying yes to this he could have persuaded her to say yes to what he really wanted. He’d never have it now; he’d ruined everything. She was still crying, and there was nothing he could do. He reached out to touch her shoulder through the gown and she flinched away.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and sat up suddenly and was sick.
He ran a hot bath for her, laid out her clothes in the dressing room, checked the keys in the locks and pointed out the usually superfluous bolts. He heard her slide them home and hated himself. He’d thought he could make it work, that he could show her this and convince her somehow of the rest. The flowers, exuberant narcissi, mocked him. His hands as he dressed sickened him.
She emerged pale but composed. She had washed her hair, and damp tendrils hung over her ears. She put on her coat herself, but let him come down to find her a taxi. He considered and dismissed the wisdom of offering her the spare room.
“I’m sorry,” she said, again.
“Don’t … Harriet - I do love you.” He smiled bitterly. “You’ll never believe that now.”
“It isn’t you,” she said. “It’s myself I’m sick of. I don’t know – what I am anymore.”
“Harriet – ” He shook his head. “I’ve nothing to say to that; I’ve run away from myself too long. It doesn’t work. Only promise - you'll take care.”
“I promise,” she said, and “I’m sorry,” and was gone.
He couldn’t hope he would ever see her again.
***
*Alas, there’d also be fic after fic along the lines of ‘Henry Weldon rapes Harriet, who is then comforted by Peter,’ so this is clearly a swings and roundabouts situation.
Set some time between the end of Strong Poison and what was probably a rather different Have His Carcase. Peter and Harriet make a really bad decision…
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t.”
Harriet was crying, her face pressed into the pillow; great jagging sobs that she tried unsuccessfully to stifle. She lay curled in on herself, nightdress pulled tight around her. He found a dressing gown, not the silk thing he had been wearing, but an old woollen one, warm and reassuring, and draped it over her. He thought about brandy, but rejected it – it might give the wrong impression – and settled for a glass of water. She drank it gulping, almost spilling it so that he had to hold it for her, and calmed, still crying but quieter now, face hidden beneath the heavy cloth. He sat perched on the edge of the bed, a brute and an idiot, and wondered how he could ever have thought this might work, that by saying yes to this he could have persuaded her to say yes to what he really wanted. He’d never have it now; he’d ruined everything. She was still crying, and there was nothing he could do. He reached out to touch her shoulder through the gown and she flinched away.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and sat up suddenly and was sick.
He ran a hot bath for her, laid out her clothes in the dressing room, checked the keys in the locks and pointed out the usually superfluous bolts. He heard her slide them home and hated himself. He’d thought he could make it work, that he could show her this and convince her somehow of the rest. The flowers, exuberant narcissi, mocked him. His hands as he dressed sickened him.
She emerged pale but composed. She had washed her hair, and damp tendrils hung over her ears. She put on her coat herself, but let him come down to find her a taxi. He considered and dismissed the wisdom of offering her the spare room.
“I’m sorry,” she said, again.
“Don’t … Harriet - I do love you.” He smiled bitterly. “You’ll never believe that now.”
“It isn’t you,” she said. “It’s myself I’m sick of. I don’t know – what I am anymore.”
“Harriet – ” He shook his head. “I’ve nothing to say to that; I’ve run away from myself too long. It doesn’t work. Only promise - you'll take care.”
“I promise,” she said, and “I’m sorry,” and was gone.
He couldn’t hope he would ever see her again.
***
*Alas, there’d also be fic after fic along the lines of ‘Henry Weldon rapes Harriet, who is then comforted by Peter,’ so this is clearly a swings and roundabouts situation.
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-11 02:16 pm (UTC)And if DLS fandom were JKR fandom, rapefic would probably be one of the more common and harmless things you'd get to read...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-11 02:36 pm (UTC)Well, in honour of a certain Potter fic (http://nineveh-uk.livejournal.com/13050.html) that horrified I do mean to one day write “The Were-Leopard of Whemmeling Fell”.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-11 02:42 pm (UTC)