Fanfic 100, 076. Who?
May. 6th, 2006 01:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanTitle: Memory
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Sweeney, Beggar Woman, various O.C.s
Prompt: 076, Who?
Word Count: 1,537
Rating: G
Summary: A chance encounter leaves an impression.
Author's Notes: This is actually not at all the fic I intended to write. I intended to write some humorous crackfic inspired by the discussion over at the Sweeney Todd community. And then I started writing and this popped out instead. Go figure. It's much longer than I expected, and neither humorous nor any sort of crossover (though, as usual, there are plenty of original characters - I should stop that). But I spent some time on it...and the fic pleasantly surprised me.
Not many children played on Fleet Street. It was a busy place, mainly full of people with business to conduct, staring at pocket watches and trying not to make eye contact with the tattered human refuse who had lost, along with everything else, any need for haste. The sun barely penetrated the layer of greenish yellow haze, even when there were no clouds to hide it, and those looking for recreation had best look elsewhere. London had many glamorous boulevards and elegant facades, but Fleet Street was not designed to be looked at. It was designed for use, and the grimy brick and soot-covered shutters were of little concern. Sunshine was fenced into parks and private gardens, well-regulated like the rest of London’s bustling economy.
He had promised her a park, when they were through. He had been granted a holiday in honor of his employer’s recent marriage, and he knew how seldom they could afford any sort of pleasure. But the entire day couldn’t be devoted to leisure, and so he held the park out as a shining prospect for the afternoon.
It was Christmas evening, after the games had been well played, the songs had been well sung, and the pudding had been well and truly devoured down to the last morsel. The very young and the very old had all, with fond kisses and smiles, retired for the evening to dream away the last few hours of the blessed holiday, while the young host, his wife, and their especial friends had gathered around the slowly dimming fire. As was expected, eventually their talk turned to the ghostly, the supernatural, the bizarre, and the downright horrifying.
The firelight caught on the honeyed curls of the hostess’ closest friend as she shook her head at the end of one particularly gruesome tale. She spoke softly, but looked at her friend’s husband with a peculiar little half smile. “Truly, a horrific story. But you know…truth can do much worse than fiction on the charge of sheer awfulness.”
He had initially planned to leave her out in the street to play, but there was no one to play with, and he didn’t like the look of the pauper woman he saw poking about in the ash cans. She had been eying his daughter’s golden curls hungrily, as if staring at a fresh loaf of bread through a shop window. So, even knowing that she would more than likely get fidgety while waiting, he slipped his large hand around his girl’s delicate fingers, and led her up the stairs.
She smiled up at him, gap-toothed while waiting for her adult canine to come in. He smiled back, gently, his low voice rumbling just loud enough to be heard over the ruckus of the street below. “Father’s just going to get a shave and a haircut, my dear, and then we’ll go somewhere you can play.” The wooden sign above them creaked restlessly in the breeze that did nothing to disperse the haze or the smell.
He raised an aristocratic eyebrow as he let his arm steal clandestinely around his wife’s tiny cinched waist, the dim, flickering light encouraging such liberties. “The truth? Have you been tearing through the gallows sheets looking for the next Fagin, my dear?” he asked, with a pleasant but subdued laugh.
His wife’s friend continued to smile enigmatically. “I hardly merit comparison to our good Mr. Dickens, sir, but our esteemed novelist knows as well as any man writing penny dreadfuls that reality can supply all that the most bloodthirsty audience could require.” She inclined her head to the robust man on her right, who had just finished a ghostly tale of supernatural revenge and was currently engaged in drinking perhaps slightly more port than was strictly good for him. “Do you recall hearing about the horrific business of the Fleet Street butcher, that happened about fifteen years back?”
The barber was weary-looking, but alert, very highly so. He offered a polite smile and a nod that was almost a bow, though his eyes flicked to the little girl, some ill-defined expression tugging at his lips when he though he was unobserved. Once his customer was seated, however, the barber himself lifted the small girl onto a stool, where she could watch her father receive his shave.
“You have a beautiful daughter, sir.” He mixed the foamy lather in a small bowl, movements practiced and efficient. The customer smiled and nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. The little girl looked all the cuter for a small pink flush of embarrassment, but she said nothing, simply watching with interest and swinging her legs several inches above the floor.
The hostess let out a small, demure shriek, such as she had practiced countless times in her youth for just such an occasion; it had the calculated effect of her husband tightening his hold ever so slightly. “You mean that dreadful man who chopped up people and put them in pies? My brother showed it to me in the paper and I had nightmares for months afterwards. Can you imagine? It’s just too awful.”
Her friend lowered her voice, though the ghostly smile lingered on her lips. “I saw him. I sat in a room with him just as close as I am to you now while he pulled his famous razor across my father’s chin as careful as you please.”
The barber whistled absently as he drew his razor across the leather strap, testing the edge with his thumb more than once before he was satisfied. The little girl watched, wide-eyed, as the perfectly shined blade caught the hazy light and threw little diamonds on the wall. Her father had closed his eyes, his head tilted back as he felt the slightly sticky lather begin to dry just a little.
Turning to stand just behind his customer, the barber threw the little girl into the most violent state of shyness by smiling at her for a moment before beginning the shave, his razor resting lightly against the pulse of her father’s throat.
The company was silent, wide-eyed for a moment, until the host broke the pause. “Stuff and nonsense…you’re putting us on, my dear. None of us would have been in Fleet Street, even fifteen years ago.” His voice seemed to break a temporary enchantment, and his young wife leaned against his breast, as if he would shield her from the ghost of the mad barber, leaping out of the flames at them without warning.
The blonde friend looked back into the flames thoughtfully for a moment, expression unchanging, in truth, though it seemed to dance in the firelight. “You might recall that there was a time, after my mother’s death, when my father’s debts required that he put a good deal of his income towards paying them off. For several years, we cut corners where we could, including shaves in Fleet Street. Besides, if you’ll remember…the barber had at this time garnered quite the reputation.”
His movements were swift but not hurried, and he began to whistle again as he plied his trade, deftly scraping away lather and bristle. Once his attention was absorbed in his work, the girl resumed her observation, fascinated by his careful attention to detail. The shave didn’t take more than five minutes, but she watched every second and inch of it, inexplicably drawn to the simple ritual.
Once he had finished, he trimmed the man’s hair and whiskers neatly and professionally. Though an indebted widower couldn’t afford to be overly liberal, the customer left the barber a tip slightly larger than was usual, with assurances that he would recommend the establishment to all his friends. Freshly shorn, he took his daughter’s hand once again.
“Well then,” said the previous storyteller, swirling his port a moment before taking a sustained sip, “if you saw him, what was he like? Did he frighten you dreadfully, as a little girl?”
She didn’t look up from the fire, the flames reflected back in her pale blue eyes. The pause stretched out so that, at first, her companions were afraid she would decline to answer. Finally, however, she spoke, so softly that the listeners all leaned in to pick out the carefully chosen syllables. “He looked sad, I think; sad and tired. I remember wondering when he had last seen any true sunlight. But he was, I recall, an exceptionally good barber, to those who he chose to spare his butchery. He looked at me as if…” She suddenly recalled herself. “But this is all vain speculation. And life may certainly be bloody without being diverting. Come, let us have another story.”
“Come, Dora, I promised you sunshine, and sunshine you shall have.” He led her back down into the squalor of Fleet Street, steering her away from the tattered woman with the hungry gaze. His daughter didn’t notice, however, as she was looking back up at the barber, who was watching them go from the window of his tonsorial parlor. Had either father or daughter looked at the other’s subject of study, they might have noticed that barber and beggar watched the golden-haired little girl with expressions that made them, for a brief moment, twins.
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Sweeney, Beggar Woman, various O.C.s
Prompt: 076, Who?
Word Count: 1,537
Rating: G
Summary: A chance encounter leaves an impression.
Author's Notes: This is actually not at all the fic I intended to write. I intended to write some humorous crackfic inspired by the discussion over at the Sweeney Todd community. And then I started writing and this popped out instead. Go figure. It's much longer than I expected, and neither humorous nor any sort of crossover (though, as usual, there are plenty of original characters - I should stop that). But I spent some time on it...and the fic pleasantly surprised me.
Not many children played on Fleet Street. It was a busy place, mainly full of people with business to conduct, staring at pocket watches and trying not to make eye contact with the tattered human refuse who had lost, along with everything else, any need for haste. The sun barely penetrated the layer of greenish yellow haze, even when there were no clouds to hide it, and those looking for recreation had best look elsewhere. London had many glamorous boulevards and elegant facades, but Fleet Street was not designed to be looked at. It was designed for use, and the grimy brick and soot-covered shutters were of little concern. Sunshine was fenced into parks and private gardens, well-regulated like the rest of London’s bustling economy.
He had promised her a park, when they were through. He had been granted a holiday in honor of his employer’s recent marriage, and he knew how seldom they could afford any sort of pleasure. But the entire day couldn’t be devoted to leisure, and so he held the park out as a shining prospect for the afternoon.
It was Christmas evening, after the games had been well played, the songs had been well sung, and the pudding had been well and truly devoured down to the last morsel. The very young and the very old had all, with fond kisses and smiles, retired for the evening to dream away the last few hours of the blessed holiday, while the young host, his wife, and their especial friends had gathered around the slowly dimming fire. As was expected, eventually their talk turned to the ghostly, the supernatural, the bizarre, and the downright horrifying.
The firelight caught on the honeyed curls of the hostess’ closest friend as she shook her head at the end of one particularly gruesome tale. She spoke softly, but looked at her friend’s husband with a peculiar little half smile. “Truly, a horrific story. But you know…truth can do much worse than fiction on the charge of sheer awfulness.”
He had initially planned to leave her out in the street to play, but there was no one to play with, and he didn’t like the look of the pauper woman he saw poking about in the ash cans. She had been eying his daughter’s golden curls hungrily, as if staring at a fresh loaf of bread through a shop window. So, even knowing that she would more than likely get fidgety while waiting, he slipped his large hand around his girl’s delicate fingers, and led her up the stairs.
She smiled up at him, gap-toothed while waiting for her adult canine to come in. He smiled back, gently, his low voice rumbling just loud enough to be heard over the ruckus of the street below. “Father’s just going to get a shave and a haircut, my dear, and then we’ll go somewhere you can play.” The wooden sign above them creaked restlessly in the breeze that did nothing to disperse the haze or the smell.
He raised an aristocratic eyebrow as he let his arm steal clandestinely around his wife’s tiny cinched waist, the dim, flickering light encouraging such liberties. “The truth? Have you been tearing through the gallows sheets looking for the next Fagin, my dear?” he asked, with a pleasant but subdued laugh.
His wife’s friend continued to smile enigmatically. “I hardly merit comparison to our good Mr. Dickens, sir, but our esteemed novelist knows as well as any man writing penny dreadfuls that reality can supply all that the most bloodthirsty audience could require.” She inclined her head to the robust man on her right, who had just finished a ghostly tale of supernatural revenge and was currently engaged in drinking perhaps slightly more port than was strictly good for him. “Do you recall hearing about the horrific business of the Fleet Street butcher, that happened about fifteen years back?”
The barber was weary-looking, but alert, very highly so. He offered a polite smile and a nod that was almost a bow, though his eyes flicked to the little girl, some ill-defined expression tugging at his lips when he though he was unobserved. Once his customer was seated, however, the barber himself lifted the small girl onto a stool, where she could watch her father receive his shave.
“You have a beautiful daughter, sir.” He mixed the foamy lather in a small bowl, movements practiced and efficient. The customer smiled and nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. The little girl looked all the cuter for a small pink flush of embarrassment, but she said nothing, simply watching with interest and swinging her legs several inches above the floor.
The hostess let out a small, demure shriek, such as she had practiced countless times in her youth for just such an occasion; it had the calculated effect of her husband tightening his hold ever so slightly. “You mean that dreadful man who chopped up people and put them in pies? My brother showed it to me in the paper and I had nightmares for months afterwards. Can you imagine? It’s just too awful.”
Her friend lowered her voice, though the ghostly smile lingered on her lips. “I saw him. I sat in a room with him just as close as I am to you now while he pulled his famous razor across my father’s chin as careful as you please.”
The barber whistled absently as he drew his razor across the leather strap, testing the edge with his thumb more than once before he was satisfied. The little girl watched, wide-eyed, as the perfectly shined blade caught the hazy light and threw little diamonds on the wall. Her father had closed his eyes, his head tilted back as he felt the slightly sticky lather begin to dry just a little.
Turning to stand just behind his customer, the barber threw the little girl into the most violent state of shyness by smiling at her for a moment before beginning the shave, his razor resting lightly against the pulse of her father’s throat.
The company was silent, wide-eyed for a moment, until the host broke the pause. “Stuff and nonsense…you’re putting us on, my dear. None of us would have been in Fleet Street, even fifteen years ago.” His voice seemed to break a temporary enchantment, and his young wife leaned against his breast, as if he would shield her from the ghost of the mad barber, leaping out of the flames at them without warning.
The blonde friend looked back into the flames thoughtfully for a moment, expression unchanging, in truth, though it seemed to dance in the firelight. “You might recall that there was a time, after my mother’s death, when my father’s debts required that he put a good deal of his income towards paying them off. For several years, we cut corners where we could, including shaves in Fleet Street. Besides, if you’ll remember…the barber had at this time garnered quite the reputation.”
His movements were swift but not hurried, and he began to whistle again as he plied his trade, deftly scraping away lather and bristle. Once his attention was absorbed in his work, the girl resumed her observation, fascinated by his careful attention to detail. The shave didn’t take more than five minutes, but she watched every second and inch of it, inexplicably drawn to the simple ritual.
Once he had finished, he trimmed the man’s hair and whiskers neatly and professionally. Though an indebted widower couldn’t afford to be overly liberal, the customer left the barber a tip slightly larger than was usual, with assurances that he would recommend the establishment to all his friends. Freshly shorn, he took his daughter’s hand once again.
“Well then,” said the previous storyteller, swirling his port a moment before taking a sustained sip, “if you saw him, what was he like? Did he frighten you dreadfully, as a little girl?”
She didn’t look up from the fire, the flames reflected back in her pale blue eyes. The pause stretched out so that, at first, her companions were afraid she would decline to answer. Finally, however, she spoke, so softly that the listeners all leaned in to pick out the carefully chosen syllables. “He looked sad, I think; sad and tired. I remember wondering when he had last seen any true sunlight. But he was, I recall, an exceptionally good barber, to those who he chose to spare his butchery. He looked at me as if…” She suddenly recalled herself. “But this is all vain speculation. And life may certainly be bloody without being diverting. Come, let us have another story.”
“Come, Dora, I promised you sunshine, and sunshine you shall have.” He led her back down into the squalor of Fleet Street, steering her away from the tattered woman with the hungry gaze. His daughter didn’t notice, however, as she was looking back up at the barber, who was watching them go from the window of his tonsorial parlor. Had either father or daughter looked at the other’s subject of study, they might have noticed that barber and beggar watched the golden-haired little girl with expressions that made them, for a brief moment, twins.
