mattersverymuch | 13 ɂ spam

Entry tags:

13 ɂ spam

[As a child, Marcus called himself a marquis. He did this as a way of laying claim to his territory, which, in his opinion, was the entirety not just of Oxford but of England as a whole. It's his, always has been.]

[As an adult, with a cleaner face and more deliberately false manners, he has learned to claim it in different ways.]

[Marcus Cardona is a smuggler, and this is a poorly-kept secret. He has allies and enemies in strange places. He has currently made an enemy of the Church (to which he has never been particularly attached; religion disconcerts him, as does the concept of faith in general) for refusing to commit certain unsavory acts of smuggling. The General Oblation Board seems like thinly-disguised sadism. And really - why hide oneself under the guise of religiosity, when in truth all you want to do is prod things to see what they do?]

[There is also the unfortunate fact that he now has several children in his custody - slightly stolen, or taken under false pretenses at least - none of which he considers to be even halfway decent company.]

[So he sends a letter to a young woman of his distant acquaintance, whose name makes him wonder in a serious way about her parents' creative abilities. It reads:]

My lady Snow,

I have recently come into possession of several children under the age of twelve. If you'd be so good, refrain from asking how; be content in the knowledge that they're better off with me than where they were. That should tell you enough, really.

That said, they can't stay with me or I fear I'll weigh them down and drop them in the river. They would, at least, be cleaner that way. Please come and take them away as quickly as possible. Should you be unable to remove all of the little worms, I have a backup plan. But then I always do.

Yours incredibly sincerely,
Cardona

[After which meeting, Marcus shows up at Dean Winchester's doorstep with a baby in a basket. Yes. Literally. It's not his basket, either.]

[Later in the day, he can be found at the docks, unloading his slightly less illegal cargo; later still, he is at the market, delivering said cargo to vendors. None of them look at him with particular enthusiasm, and many don't even meet his eye. That might, of course, have something to do with Catalina, whose piercing eye belies Marcus's casual, flamboyant demeanor. She looks ruthless, as though she would gladly break the taboo against touch to sink her beak into a danger to herself or to Marcus. This is part - though only part - of why he is feared.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Snow doesn't know what she expected when the letter was brought to her. She knew who it was from the moment it was placed in her hand without even having to look at the seal. He never addressed his letters. She always expects something outrageous that he would like her assistance with though he rarely puts it that way in his letters and it's more like her willing participation. But she certainly hadn't been expecting to discover he had managed to "come into the possession" of children.]

[Unlike the time he happened to acquire twenty cages worth of carrier pigeons that she was also requested not to ask about the means, she can't turn him away or refuse though she is even less inclined to ask about how. Not that refusal did much good. He preferred her willful participation. That didn't mean he required it.]

[When he turns up a while later after the delivery of the letter, she dismisses her butler and closes her study's doors.]

This is not your usual fare.

[For starters, it's humans. For another, it's fairly high-profile against a very powerful entity.]

[Marcus moves around the study, inspecting every last corner, never quite looking at her. He never quite looks at anyone unless he wants to intimidate them, and Snow doesn't need to be intimidated. She understands him, on some level - certainly as deeply as he wants anyone to.]

[He also doesn't want to answer questions, strictly speaking. He'll have to answer some, but. Not the implicit ones.]

True, [he allows.] What an excellent observation.

Take them.

[They are not here. Only a fool would openly bring such cargo across town, and Marcus is many things, but a fool is not one of them.]

[She watches him move about the study.]

Marcus, you know that I cannot turn my back on these children. [She folds her arms across her stomach.] But as much as I don't truly wish to know anything, I must know how safe these children will be to place with the others.

[She cannot have him passing off the children purely for the sake of getting out of trouble himself. It won't do them or the children already under her care any good.]

[Rolling his eyes, he begins sifting through her books with clever fingers. He speaks as though distracted, but he is very, very focused.]

To my in-depth knowledge, there was only one person who knew the children were to be taken in by me. A contact. Also the only one who knew their exact identities - as well as one can know the identities of urchins.

[He clears his throat, inspects his nails, and pulls a book off the shelf to check its binding.]

That contact has been disposed of. They will be safe.

[Nope, she really didn't need or want to know that. But she asked, so she's going to have to just numbly nod a little.]

Where have you left them?

Somewhere safe.

[He narrows his eyes.]

I'm not going to show you where until you assure me they'll be safe here, my lady.

Marcus...

[With anyone else, she might be offended at the notion that she would ever harm a child. Anyone who has ever met Snow knows that she does not lend herself towards such actions unless deeply necessary with no other alternative. But certainly never towards a child.]

[But with Marcus, her concern lies in the mere fact he seems to actually care about the welfare of these children. It's one thing to acknowledge what it is happening to the children in the streets as wrong, but it's another to care.]

You have my word. No harm shall come to them under my care. They will be provided for with food, clothes, shelter, and education.

[He watches her intent and unblinking for a moment until he seems convinced that she's telling the truth. At which, he nods curtly at her and turns on his heel out the door. She'll follow or she won't.]

[Follows him, she does. She knows better than to ask any further questions or to engage him in any conversation he doesn't start.]

[Mostly because he'll start to gripe and complain that she's speaking when he feels she shouldn't. Silence is preferred in that case.]

[They slip into the sewers, quickly enough that those passing on the street likely won't notice anything unusual has happened. If she hesitates, Marcus will push her. They slide through muck and mud and human waste until they come to a sideway in the sewers that is miraculously clean and decently lit through a grate that leads to the street.]

[The children are content enough, although they look a little baffled. When they see Marcus, they don't shrink away; they look at him with something like wonder.]

[He stays on the opposite side of the room.]

There.

[The push isn't necessary. Snow goes in willingly and without hesitation. The sewers aren't somewhere she'd like to stay personally, but they don't frighten her either.]

How long have you had them?

[Because there better be a good reason for not keeping them somewhere not!sewers, Marcus. 8|]

Five hours.

[Because he does not waste time. He secured a few things, did the aforementioned removal of obstacles, and went directly to her.]

[...Of course not...]

And you have means of transporting them discreetly?

Yes. Very discreetly.

[He knows people.]

Are you willing to do this? Truly.

[Dean and Hannah have had their own meeting this day that has given them reason to be a bit more cautious than they normally would. Instead of opening his forge to the public as he would normally when he has any amount of work to do, Dean has kept the Closed sign over the window and retreated to do the smaller works he can do without needing to open the big double-barred, double doors to the street.

There's a small, smoked glass window in the bottom of each door, the glass loose in the iron frames to allow for air to go in and out. Behind one of these, Hannah sits motionless and wary, watching the street and the people that walk by on it - and the people that don't.]

Dean. Marcus is back in town, too.

Stay there, I'll get the flintlock.

I know. Only...

Only what?

He's got a child with him.

...shit.

[Dean yanks the man-sized door to one side of the big shop doors open before Marcus can even reach it, Hannah crouched low at his feet with her border collie stare fixed in search of the smuggler's daemon. Dean isn't particularly angry, but he still has his pistol in hand. Marcus will understand. He always has before.]

What the hell is that and where did you get it?

[He wouldn't have knocked, anyway. He just expects that Hannah will be watching, or that Dean will - either way, someone will let him in. That's the one benefit of this particular cargo.]

[Which he is currently holding at a precarious angle, one perfect eyebrow cocked.]

I conjured it from the ether of reality itself. Are you going to let me in?

I'd actually believe that before much else. [Dean admits, glancing around and behind Marcus, searching for any signs of anyone paying too much attention. Hannah waits, unmoving.]

That depends - is anyone going to be chasing you in here? [But Dean already knows the answer for that - for as ill kept as the secret of his reputation is, Marcus is perfectly capable of slipping pursuit, and wouldn't sacrifice a safehouse frivolously - and he's stepping back, making room for the other man to come through into the receiving room of the workshop. Hannah backs out of the way as well, standing but with head and tail still lowered, alert.]

[Marcus doesn't bother answering that but for a put-upon shake of his head. Of course not, Dean knows better. He slips inside, past Hannah and Dean both, moving like a ghost.]

I wasn't able to find place for all of them, [he murmurs, almost to himself, before setting the basket down on one of the workshop's many tables. Then he turns to face Dean with a snap, as though he's remembered something.]

But you like children, don't you? You can have this one. Free of charge. I certainly don't want it.

[And truly, he doesn't. But Catalina has placed herself squarely by the table and is watching the door unblinkingly. Anyone who walks in uninvited will find its daemon's throat torn out.]

What? Wait.

[Of the things Marcus is saying, both aloud and silently, Dean believes only one of them and that is that he does not want this child. He didn't just remember that Dean likes children. He found places for all of them. He's here.

Dean doesn't think it will be free of charge, either. For several reasons. Hannah's head lowers and she paces closer, heavy stare on the basket itself, coming around to creep with a straight back and swift feet straight at Catalina, but from a side rather than head-on. She'll press close. She doesn't fear the bird, just as Dean doesn't truly fear Marcus.

In fact he's staring. And then, a moment later, he backs up to drop the deadbolt into place across the door before turning to point at Marcus with the pistol, though it's not really a threat. It just happens to still be in his hand, where it's going to stay until he understands.]

Where. Did you get it. Them. Start at the beginning.

[It's not really a threat. It's more . . . punctuation. And Marcus doesn't mind it, exactly, but it's annoying, an interruption, why can't Dean just do as he asks--]

Put the gun down, [he says wearily, pressing his fingers dramatically to his temple,] you'll just damage yourself.

I won't tell you where I got them.

[He is snide and viciously protective. Of Dean, not the child. The less Dean knows, the better.]

[Dean is not the sort that ever just does as he's asked. Not, anyway, in any kind of obvious way. Not without it being a business transaction.

He's a blacksmith, not a nanny, so this can't possibly count as that. He squints at Marcus for a moment, Hannah sniffing Catalina's chest, then crosses the room to stash the pistol back beside the cashbox where it goes.]

And I don't suppose you'll tell me, either, what you did with the others.

What do I need to do? Does she belong somewhere?

No. She doesn't belong anywhere.

[In that sense, he feels a strange sort of kinship with the little thing. Not enough to want to take care of her by any stretch of the imagination, but - he also doesn't belong the sort of anywhere people tend to mean when they say what Dean's just said. Just to the city and the streets.]

The others are safe. Your type of safe, not mine.

You need to protect her. There are those who want to tear her apart, and I do mean that literally.

What?

[That definitely gets Dean's attention, and even Hannah glances over abruptly, plumed ears askew as she stands. He understands abruptly why it's his doorstep Marcus has shown up on, and he moves directly to the basket, reaching in to move the blanket - careful, so careful despite his spark-scarred and iron-callused hands - so he can see her face, dark hazelgreen eyes searching for any damage, any marks.

Hannah watches the man while her human is distracted, unintentionally intense, tail low.]

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

13 ɂ spam

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject