Snippety thingamy
Dec. 29th, 2011 11:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyThis is a thing that I made. It is sadly an unfinished thing and likely to remain so; I started it for the Fall Fandom Free-For-All but never got around to finishing it, so I'm grateful no one made me anything either or I should have felt deplorably guilty.
Mostly a snippet that I'm proud of for the voices.
Lord Peter Wimsey had always been an observer first and foremost, and that was reason enough in itself to be so enrapt, but it was rather more that the man had been at least thirty seconds in the doorway and had yet to realise that it was his battered tweed sleeve caught around the polished brass of the door handle that prevented his entrance. Peter was more than passing familiar with that level of tiredness.
“Please allow me,” he murmured, coming forward to unhook the sleeve with the deft fingers of his right hand, the fingers of his left tucked between yellowing pages; there was a special hell, Peter had always believed, reserved for those who broke the spines of books by leaving them open over the arms of chairs. The man looked down, his face painted with a comic surprise that suggested Peter was performing some sort of magic.
“Never quite managed to get the hang of them,” he said, almost to himself, and Peter couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow.
“Door handles?”
“Knobs especially,” and there was a smile of a delight entirely unwarranted by the circumstances tugging his face into shape. He thrust out a hand, the one not holding the pale and oddly shaped hat, and twisted it jerkily to the left. “There’s a knack.”
“And usually it happens to be clockwise,” Peter pointed out.
“People,” the man said, with a dismissive sort of sigh, and brushed past Peter that he might lay claim to the larger part of the dark green sofa in front of the fireplace. “You’re all so dreadfully parochial.”
“Speaking of,” Peter said, making his rather more sedate way back to the wing-backed chair he had previously occupied, nestled into the wood-panelled corner of the saloon, “can’t say I’ve seen your phiz around here before.”
“Yes!” He rose abruptly from the careless sprawl he had affected. “Manners! Yes, sorry. Never can remember if it’s a handshake or a how’s-yer-father. I’m the Doctor.”
It was easy enough to see it in the bony wrists emerging from the ancient tweed of his jacket, the quite absurdly unfashionable hat he was clutching, the way his rough trousers sat inches above the inelegant black boots. A country practitioner perhaps, one whose practice had fallen on rather hard times; it explained, too, his awkward manner, but as a final conclusion it lacked a certain something.
“And I’m the Peerage,” Peter replied, half his mouth twitching upward, “or the amateur botherer of felonious folks, depending rather on which of the daily rags you subscribe to. Peter Wimsey.”
“Just the Doctor,” said the Doctor, which also seemed lacking. “Sort of a nom de guerre, if you will.” He leaned forward and steepled his fingers, staring at Peter over the top of them. “So, Wimsey. Wimsey by name and whimsy by nature, if the cut of your jib is any indication, which I thoroughly hope it is. Don’t get the jibs you used to, not in this part of the Universe anyway. How d’you feel about going on a bit of a treasure hunt?”
*
The Bellona club was actually rather bigger on the inside than it appeared from without, which was – according to the Doctor, in any case – why it was far superior to most of the other establishments he’d so far patronised.
“Apart,” he had added cheerfully, “from a little place built on the ruins of Frogstar World B; always have to be careful with reservations though. Theoretically you shouldn’t run into yourself but it’s a little more complicated with me. Still,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin, “at least the meat’s always friendly.”
The Doctor was, Peter had worked out in fairly short order, a very queer sort of bird. He’d led them through any number of doors without any apparent regard for the appearance of politeness, forming a rear-guard for himself built of outraged cries and the muttered nonsense of Peter’s apologies. Interesting fellow, though; they were currently descending a staircase that even Peter’s feted observational skills had never caught wind of. If the cobwebs were any indication, of course, neither had any other of the multitude that passed through the Bellona’s doors. Peter really wouldn’t care to consider how Bunter might react to the dust dimming his wingtips and clinging to the shoulders of his jacket. They had been walking for ages, quite possible of the geological sort, and Peter judged that they were far deeper underground than architecture had any business being.
“You wouldn’t do a feller a favour and remind me what we’re toddling about in search of?” he asked, without much hope of any sensical sort of a reply.
“Metal box. Box with a voice. Voice box I suppose, except not in the throat, not unless you’re particularly unlucky, so not a voice box at all really, forget I said it,” said the Doctor. “Could be brightly coloured. About yay big,” holding up an illustrative hand, “and deathly afraid of jammie dodgers. Powerful things, jammie dodgers. I’d be afraid of them myself if they weren’t so disarmingly delicious.” He gave Peter another over-the-shoulder grin and then took the sort of stumbling step forwards one always manages when there’s one less stair than had been accounted for. He turned it into an ungainly sort of twirl which he obviously liked the effect of, taking the time to plant his hat firmly back on his head and pull a strange tool out of his pocket, one which glowed green and emitted an uncomfortable warbling screech that echoed unsettlingly from the rough brick walls.
“Interestin’ sort of gewgaw,” Peter commented, removing his monocle from its breast pocket home and screwing it into place with every appearance of carelessness. “Flashlight of some kind, what?”
“Sonic screwdriver,” the Doctor answered absently. “Like a screwdriver but – well – sonic,” he finished rather lamely.
“And here’s me with monocle and rather fine walking stick to provide the harmonies,” said Peter, “slapping my chest and singin’ taran-tara.”
“Sorry,” said the Doctor, paying particularly close attention to a brick that looked much like every other brick in the considerable expanse of wall. “Ought to have braved the dreaded basement myself, I suppose. Bad habit.”
“Company?”
“Companions,” he corrected, like the two words were somehow different ideas entirely. “Yes. Thought they suited me, learned I was mistaken. Like hats!” There was a brittle edge to his cheer that made the silences all the sharper, more pointed. Filling them was never a difficulty Peter’d had.
“Can’t fathom fashion,” he said cheerfully. “Sure I’ve got something perfectly acceptable and then Bunter’s tugging my tie this way or that, recommending a different pair of gloves to complement the host’s linens or something of the sort. Hats are their own particular palaver, of course.”
“Of course,” said the Doctor, looking bemused and a little disgruntled and rather as though he’d been beaten at his own game.
“So about this metal box,” Wimsey continued in much the same tone, hoping to catch the Doctor on the back foot as it were. “Expensive, I suppose?”
“Probably about as much as your life’s worth to find one,” was the answer, the Doctor wearing a strange sort of grin.
“Dangerous, then.”
“Very. Dangerous, perpetually annoyed and liable to shoot – on – sight. Er.”
Mostly a snippet that I'm proud of for the voices.
Lord Peter Wimsey had always been an observer first and foremost, and that was reason enough in itself to be so enrapt, but it was rather more that the man had been at least thirty seconds in the doorway and had yet to realise that it was his battered tweed sleeve caught around the polished brass of the door handle that prevented his entrance. Peter was more than passing familiar with that level of tiredness.
“Please allow me,” he murmured, coming forward to unhook the sleeve with the deft fingers of his right hand, the fingers of his left tucked between yellowing pages; there was a special hell, Peter had always believed, reserved for those who broke the spines of books by leaving them open over the arms of chairs. The man looked down, his face painted with a comic surprise that suggested Peter was performing some sort of magic.
“Never quite managed to get the hang of them,” he said, almost to himself, and Peter couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow.
“Door handles?”
“Knobs especially,” and there was a smile of a delight entirely unwarranted by the circumstances tugging his face into shape. He thrust out a hand, the one not holding the pale and oddly shaped hat, and twisted it jerkily to the left. “There’s a knack.”
“And usually it happens to be clockwise,” Peter pointed out.
“People,” the man said, with a dismissive sort of sigh, and brushed past Peter that he might lay claim to the larger part of the dark green sofa in front of the fireplace. “You’re all so dreadfully parochial.”
“Speaking of,” Peter said, making his rather more sedate way back to the wing-backed chair he had previously occupied, nestled into the wood-panelled corner of the saloon, “can’t say I’ve seen your phiz around here before.”
“Yes!” He rose abruptly from the careless sprawl he had affected. “Manners! Yes, sorry. Never can remember if it’s a handshake or a how’s-yer-father. I’m the Doctor.”
It was easy enough to see it in the bony wrists emerging from the ancient tweed of his jacket, the quite absurdly unfashionable hat he was clutching, the way his rough trousers sat inches above the inelegant black boots. A country practitioner perhaps, one whose practice had fallen on rather hard times; it explained, too, his awkward manner, but as a final conclusion it lacked a certain something.
“And I’m the Peerage,” Peter replied, half his mouth twitching upward, “or the amateur botherer of felonious folks, depending rather on which of the daily rags you subscribe to. Peter Wimsey.”
“Just the Doctor,” said the Doctor, which also seemed lacking. “Sort of a nom de guerre, if you will.” He leaned forward and steepled his fingers, staring at Peter over the top of them. “So, Wimsey. Wimsey by name and whimsy by nature, if the cut of your jib is any indication, which I thoroughly hope it is. Don’t get the jibs you used to, not in this part of the Universe anyway. How d’you feel about going on a bit of a treasure hunt?”
*
The Bellona club was actually rather bigger on the inside than it appeared from without, which was – according to the Doctor, in any case – why it was far superior to most of the other establishments he’d so far patronised.
“Apart,” he had added cheerfully, “from a little place built on the ruins of Frogstar World B; always have to be careful with reservations though. Theoretically you shouldn’t run into yourself but it’s a little more complicated with me. Still,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin, “at least the meat’s always friendly.”
The Doctor was, Peter had worked out in fairly short order, a very queer sort of bird. He’d led them through any number of doors without any apparent regard for the appearance of politeness, forming a rear-guard for himself built of outraged cries and the muttered nonsense of Peter’s apologies. Interesting fellow, though; they were currently descending a staircase that even Peter’s feted observational skills had never caught wind of. If the cobwebs were any indication, of course, neither had any other of the multitude that passed through the Bellona’s doors. Peter really wouldn’t care to consider how Bunter might react to the dust dimming his wingtips and clinging to the shoulders of his jacket. They had been walking for ages, quite possible of the geological sort, and Peter judged that they were far deeper underground than architecture had any business being.
“You wouldn’t do a feller a favour and remind me what we’re toddling about in search of?” he asked, without much hope of any sensical sort of a reply.
“Metal box. Box with a voice. Voice box I suppose, except not in the throat, not unless you’re particularly unlucky, so not a voice box at all really, forget I said it,” said the Doctor. “Could be brightly coloured. About yay big,” holding up an illustrative hand, “and deathly afraid of jammie dodgers. Powerful things, jammie dodgers. I’d be afraid of them myself if they weren’t so disarmingly delicious.” He gave Peter another over-the-shoulder grin and then took the sort of stumbling step forwards one always manages when there’s one less stair than had been accounted for. He turned it into an ungainly sort of twirl which he obviously liked the effect of, taking the time to plant his hat firmly back on his head and pull a strange tool out of his pocket, one which glowed green and emitted an uncomfortable warbling screech that echoed unsettlingly from the rough brick walls.
“Interestin’ sort of gewgaw,” Peter commented, removing his monocle from its breast pocket home and screwing it into place with every appearance of carelessness. “Flashlight of some kind, what?”
“Sonic screwdriver,” the Doctor answered absently. “Like a screwdriver but – well – sonic,” he finished rather lamely.
“And here’s me with monocle and rather fine walking stick to provide the harmonies,” said Peter, “slapping my chest and singin’ taran-tara.”
“Sorry,” said the Doctor, paying particularly close attention to a brick that looked much like every other brick in the considerable expanse of wall. “Ought to have braved the dreaded basement myself, I suppose. Bad habit.”
“Company?”
“Companions,” he corrected, like the two words were somehow different ideas entirely. “Yes. Thought they suited me, learned I was mistaken. Like hats!” There was a brittle edge to his cheer that made the silences all the sharper, more pointed. Filling them was never a difficulty Peter’d had.
“Can’t fathom fashion,” he said cheerfully. “Sure I’ve got something perfectly acceptable and then Bunter’s tugging my tie this way or that, recommending a different pair of gloves to complement the host’s linens or something of the sort. Hats are their own particular palaver, of course.”
“Of course,” said the Doctor, looking bemused and a little disgruntled and rather as though he’d been beaten at his own game.
“So about this metal box,” Wimsey continued in much the same tone, hoping to catch the Doctor on the back foot as it were. “Expensive, I suppose?”
“Probably about as much as your life’s worth to find one,” was the answer, the Doctor wearing a strange sort of grin.
“Dangerous, then.”
“Very. Dangerous, perpetually annoyed and liable to shoot – on – sight. Er.”
no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 03:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 04:28 pm (UTC)