Fanfic 100, 073. Light.
Oct. 1st, 2006 12:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanTitle: My Friends
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Todd, Lovett, OCs
Prompt: 073, Light
Word Count: 1102
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: Living history, perhaps?
Author's Notes: I'm actually pretty pleased with this one. I considered expanding it into a series of stories, but I like them together this way better.
Mark’s father told him that it took years to be a proper silver smith. The trade could not be learned overnight, and it was unrealistic to be frustrated at not being able to make his own creations yet. But logical or not, Mark was nearly sixteen, and felt desire build like an itch in his fingers. He would prove to his father that he could do something really spectacular. Something unforgettable.
And so he inspected every inch of the razor set, from the shining steel blades to the scales, wood so dark it was almost black, waiting for inlay. They were already beautiful, commissioned by one of the richest barbers in London, entrusted to his family to be finished. Completed.
Mark began to draw. The design would be simple; serious yet elegant. It would be perfect. And then his father would trust him. Then he would finally stand at his father’s side, rather than in his shadow.
--
The auction wasn’t loud, but was oppressive nonetheless. Everyone was tense, ready for the big-ticket items, including but not limited to original documents from the court of Victoria and several artifacts believed to be connected to the Ripper. But Elizabeth wasn’t standing at the back of the room for either of the main attractions. The producers needed an authentic or near-authentic shaving basin. So it fell to her to scout around the world, and stand in crowded, anxious rooms, spending money that wasn’t hers on props for a film she wans’t particularly interested in.
Finally, they displayed the lot she’d shown up for. The price inched up, agonizingly, but only one other attendee seemed genuinely interested, most just ready to bite at any bait dangled before them. When she finally won the porcelain bowl, she was a mere hundred dollars under her limit. But that didn’t matter; the prop had been acquired.
She nearly missed the next lot, in her relief. But the shine of silver caught the light as they case opened, and she looked at the razors with interest. From this far back, they gleamed like miniature comets, caught in a galaxy of crushed black velvet. She didn’t technically need them. In fact, she might have to reimburse the film out of her pocket, if the producers didn’t want authenticity. But there was something magnetic, about the blades.
Elizabeth didn’t breathe completely normally until the case was tucked securely under her arm.
--
She would take them out, sometimes, on slow evenings. Opening the worn case, she would look at them, not quite daring to touch the handles. Not quite willing to handle them. It was easy to picture them in his hand; she had seen him at his work from time to time, and more often then not he’d still be holding a blade when he came halfway down the stairs to ask some business question or inquire how the pies were coming in a neighborly, good-natured way.
She could picture him, putting them carefully away, a certain pride in his work hovering about him the way pipe smoke had hovered about her husband. He held them so carefully, his hands so strong, so controlled.
She would look at them. Then she would put them away, go to bed, and envy them, in their cold beauty.
--
Ned Jaspers was utterly bored. Sorting through discarded evidence was one of the least glamorous employments for an officer of Her Majesty’s police force, and he found himself on the bottom rung of the legal process, a janitor sweeping up the mess of a trial long finished.
The battered case wouldn't have caught his eye, except that one of the hinges was broken. It meant a small, tricky beam of light wormed its way in to caress a sliver of silver. The glint caught Jaspers’ eye, and he bent to take a look.
It must have been that trial about the barber. It had been a flashy case, but quick, as the only party left was the boy they had carted off to Bedlam. But even for those who hadn’t been eating in Fleet Street, it gave you the shivers, thinking about it. An entertaining story for your grandchildren, if you lived long enough to have any.
The razors were fine. High quality; not like the junk they were turning out of factories these days. Jaspers held up one to inspect it. He could get five, maybe ten quid for these, any day. More, if he played his connections right. The officer smiled to himself, whistling as he laid the case aside. The day had just taken a decided turn for the pleasant.
--
There were bombs. Getting closer, and clearly bombs. Jason bit his lip, and grabbed his sister’s arm, pulling them into the nearest building, praying there would be a basement. A building without a basement was a deathtrap, but staying in the open wasn’t much better.
It was a warehouse, and Sally blinked, looking around at the dim mountains of junk. “What is this place?”
“Don’t know, Sal.” He started hunting for stairs, a door, anything promising. Sally managed to find a torch, though the lens was cracked, distorting the light. She swung it around, startled by the sound of an explosion, approaching like thunder warning of a storm. Jason cursed softly in frustration.
“We can’t stay here. Come on, bring the torch.” He started to move for the door, but noticed that his own footsteps were the only ones echoing in the cavernous room. He spun, frustration borne of fear raising his voice. “Sal - ”
She was looking at a small, thin box, almost like an oversized cigarette case. One hinge was a little broken, so it opened lopsided, but the torch beam bounced off the silver within. She didn’t look back at her brother. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”
He moved to her shoulder. “Christ, Sal, they’re razors.” Another bomb, close enough to taste. “Let’s go.”
“No!” she shrieked, with the illogical ferocity of her age. “I want them!”
There was no time to argue. Jason grabbed the case, slipping it into the too-large greatcoat his mother had slipped around his shoulders. Who knew? Maybe he’d need a weapon before this was over. But for the moment, he breathed a quick prayer it wouldn't come to that, grabbed his sister’s hand, and ran for safety.
--
He was home. The weight in his hand, so slight, so balanced, was right in a way that nothing had been in the last 15 years. And whatever else happened, he did not intend to part with that shred of rightness. Never again.
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Todd, Lovett, OCs
Prompt: 073, Light
Word Count: 1102
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: Living history, perhaps?
Author's Notes: I'm actually pretty pleased with this one. I considered expanding it into a series of stories, but I like them together this way better.
Mark’s father told him that it took years to be a proper silver smith. The trade could not be learned overnight, and it was unrealistic to be frustrated at not being able to make his own creations yet. But logical or not, Mark was nearly sixteen, and felt desire build like an itch in his fingers. He would prove to his father that he could do something really spectacular. Something unforgettable.
And so he inspected every inch of the razor set, from the shining steel blades to the scales, wood so dark it was almost black, waiting for inlay. They were already beautiful, commissioned by one of the richest barbers in London, entrusted to his family to be finished. Completed.
Mark began to draw. The design would be simple; serious yet elegant. It would be perfect. And then his father would trust him. Then he would finally stand at his father’s side, rather than in his shadow.
--
The auction wasn’t loud, but was oppressive nonetheless. Everyone was tense, ready for the big-ticket items, including but not limited to original documents from the court of Victoria and several artifacts believed to be connected to the Ripper. But Elizabeth wasn’t standing at the back of the room for either of the main attractions. The producers needed an authentic or near-authentic shaving basin. So it fell to her to scout around the world, and stand in crowded, anxious rooms, spending money that wasn’t hers on props for a film she wans’t particularly interested in.
Finally, they displayed the lot she’d shown up for. The price inched up, agonizingly, but only one other attendee seemed genuinely interested, most just ready to bite at any bait dangled before them. When she finally won the porcelain bowl, she was a mere hundred dollars under her limit. But that didn’t matter; the prop had been acquired.
She nearly missed the next lot, in her relief. But the shine of silver caught the light as they case opened, and she looked at the razors with interest. From this far back, they gleamed like miniature comets, caught in a galaxy of crushed black velvet. She didn’t technically need them. In fact, she might have to reimburse the film out of her pocket, if the producers didn’t want authenticity. But there was something magnetic, about the blades.
Elizabeth didn’t breathe completely normally until the case was tucked securely under her arm.
--
She would take them out, sometimes, on slow evenings. Opening the worn case, she would look at them, not quite daring to touch the handles. Not quite willing to handle them. It was easy to picture them in his hand; she had seen him at his work from time to time, and more often then not he’d still be holding a blade when he came halfway down the stairs to ask some business question or inquire how the pies were coming in a neighborly, good-natured way.
She could picture him, putting them carefully away, a certain pride in his work hovering about him the way pipe smoke had hovered about her husband. He held them so carefully, his hands so strong, so controlled.
She would look at them. Then she would put them away, go to bed, and envy them, in their cold beauty.
--
Ned Jaspers was utterly bored. Sorting through discarded evidence was one of the least glamorous employments for an officer of Her Majesty’s police force, and he found himself on the bottom rung of the legal process, a janitor sweeping up the mess of a trial long finished.
The battered case wouldn't have caught his eye, except that one of the hinges was broken. It meant a small, tricky beam of light wormed its way in to caress a sliver of silver. The glint caught Jaspers’ eye, and he bent to take a look.
It must have been that trial about the barber. It had been a flashy case, but quick, as the only party left was the boy they had carted off to Bedlam. But even for those who hadn’t been eating in Fleet Street, it gave you the shivers, thinking about it. An entertaining story for your grandchildren, if you lived long enough to have any.
The razors were fine. High quality; not like the junk they were turning out of factories these days. Jaspers held up one to inspect it. He could get five, maybe ten quid for these, any day. More, if he played his connections right. The officer smiled to himself, whistling as he laid the case aside. The day had just taken a decided turn for the pleasant.
--
There were bombs. Getting closer, and clearly bombs. Jason bit his lip, and grabbed his sister’s arm, pulling them into the nearest building, praying there would be a basement. A building without a basement was a deathtrap, but staying in the open wasn’t much better.
It was a warehouse, and Sally blinked, looking around at the dim mountains of junk. “What is this place?”
“Don’t know, Sal.” He started hunting for stairs, a door, anything promising. Sally managed to find a torch, though the lens was cracked, distorting the light. She swung it around, startled by the sound of an explosion, approaching like thunder warning of a storm. Jason cursed softly in frustration.
“We can’t stay here. Come on, bring the torch.” He started to move for the door, but noticed that his own footsteps were the only ones echoing in the cavernous room. He spun, frustration borne of fear raising his voice. “Sal - ”
She was looking at a small, thin box, almost like an oversized cigarette case. One hinge was a little broken, so it opened lopsided, but the torch beam bounced off the silver within. She didn’t look back at her brother. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”
He moved to her shoulder. “Christ, Sal, they’re razors.” Another bomb, close enough to taste. “Let’s go.”
“No!” she shrieked, with the illogical ferocity of her age. “I want them!”
There was no time to argue. Jason grabbed the case, slipping it into the too-large greatcoat his mother had slipped around his shoulders. Who knew? Maybe he’d need a weapon before this was over. But for the moment, he breathed a quick prayer it wouldn't come to that, grabbed his sister’s hand, and ran for safety.
--
He was home. The weight in his hand, so slight, so balanced, was right in a way that nothing had been in the last 15 years. And whatever else happened, he did not intend to part with that shred of rightness. Never again.
