Disclaimer: Blackwood and Coward are property of loads of Hollywood people who can give their movie sequels rather juvenile names, but are unable to give Coward a first name... Anyway, they make loads of money off their movies, etc, whilst I make nothing off this fic.
This was written for an LJ prompt asking for "post-movie villain fluff." At first, I wondered how that could possibly work. Then, I thought about it and...
Nothing.
The word surrounded him, filled him. Defined him. The only reason that the man who had once been Lord Henry Blackwood knew that the word had not consumed him was that he was far too wet and cold to be dead.
Fire, he thought as a stronger shiver wracked his body, setting his teeth to chattering. He didn't dare light one, though – the smoke and glow of flames in a supposedly unoccupied house would draw unwanted attention. Light... That would have been useful as well. If he'd had light, he could have found a blanket or rug or towel – anything to remove the damp chill of the Thames from his clothing.
Ugh. The memory of cold murky water sent a more violent shudder through his body as he remembered how he'd gotten into this state. Damn Holmes. The thought was abstract, with no more heat than the air about him. The detective had moved to save Blackwood from his ultimate plunge into the river, but the man had made his decision a breath too late. The last thing Blackwood had seen before closing his eyes against wind and impact had been Holmes' face, pale and impassive. The man's expression had shown no sign of the triumph he must have felt at his utter defeat of Blackwood. There'd been no arrogant gloating that might ignite the heat of anger in the lord now... or might have driven him to fight his fate.
Yet I live... The idea sparked no wonder, no joy. In truth, it was as if another thing had been taken from him: his relatively clean, honorable death. What is this life worth? He had no title now – indeed, no name. Lord Henry Blackwood, if he were alive, would lay under a sentence of death. He had no home but the squalid, putrid-smelling rooms he'd once given over to Reordan.
Hmph. He apparently had enough energy left for a snort at the irony of the situation. It really was immensely amusing that, in thwarting Blackwood's plans for the destruction of these rooms, the detective had provided his nemesis with their dubious shelter. My mighty empire, he mocked himself as another snort of laughter caused him to gag and choke on the foul air of the room. At least Coward isn't here to see the depths of my disgrace.
"Coward." Something sharp and painful lanced his chest at the sound of that name. It was many seconds before Blackwood could place the unfamiliar emotion: regret. I failed in our glorious plan. I abandoned him to our enemies to pursue vengeance, then failed even in that revenge. Now, Coward would be sitting in some filthy cell, awaiting Her Majesty's justice.
"No." The thought of the proud young lord being manhandled by common policemen... Led through a throng of jeering ruffians, head bowed with the shame and pain of his lord's failure and betrayal... And finally having all the light of loyalty and adoration drained out of those brilliant eyes, choked to death by the ignominy of the rope. Provided his lovely neck didn't snap like a twig."NO!"
There was something left to him after all. A debt, Blackwood thought, rage and determination firing his veins. He owed a debt of life and freedom to the man who'd shared his dreams (and his bed) with such-single-minded devotion. And I and anyone who stands in my way will pay it.
A little over a day later, as the first muted light of dawn filtered through a light mist, Blackwood stood, robed, outside the prison where he'd learned Coward was being kept. He'd filled the intervening hours with plans and preparations made by both by candle and the dim light that came through grimy windows. He'd used all his stealth as he searched Reordan's workroom for the weapons he would need and stole from other places what he could not find there. He'd made his way to the prison, still chilled from his near death but no longer shivering, in the chill predawn.
There's my man, he thought with satisfaction as the gate guard stepped outside the gate to shower the walls with foul yellow water. Silently, he crept up behind the likely inebriated guard, opening a bottle and wetting a handkerchief with its contents. When he reached the man, he placed the cloth over his mouth and nose, holding the startled guard with his other arm.
What an unfortunate waste, Blackwood thought about Reordan as his quarry slumped virtually lifeless in his arms. He dragged the man inside the gate and hid him in a dark corner. If the man woke up (he might not – Blackwood may have held the cloth over his mouth a few seconds too long), he would experience the worst physical pain and illness of his otherwise unremarkable life.
Now to work. He made his quiet way across the small, empty yard to the heavy door to the prison building. At least they've granted Coward a cell in something like a proper prison. The notion of Lord Coward mixing with thieving, whoring scum sent another flash of anger through Blackwood. Focus, he reprimanded himself when his tired eyes misted with red. The type of prison had a more important meaning: no prisoners in the yard meant no one to notice him.
With a grim smile, he rapped hard on the door. "What?" a rough voice asked as the grate in the door was opened to reveal a lazy, pockmarked face. Blackwood carefully removed a folded piece of paper from a pocket.
"I'm here to see to the… spiritual wellbeing of Lord Coward," he told the sleepy guard, holding out the paper. The man took it, unfolded it, and held it close to his face.
"Where's…?" The question trailed off as an even vaguer expression filled the man's unattractive features. "Sir?" he asked distractedly.
"Spiritual counsel for Lord Coward. You are to take me to him at once, quickly and quietly." The man nodded slowly as he unlocked and opened the door. Truly, Blackwood mused regretfully as he watched the dazed guard, yours was an unfortunate loss, Reordan. The fluid with which part of the paper had been saturated was a hypnotic of the midget's invention. Its fumes would rapidly put the person breathing them into a highly suggestible state. At least his work can yet bear fruit.
Drawing two more handkerchiefs and a vial of the hypnotic from the pockets of the course monk's habit he'd stolen, Blackwood followed the guard inside. As they walked, he held one of the squares of cloth over his nose and mouth – to block out both the drug and the stench of the docks. The other, he soaked with the contents of the vial: a precaution against the other guards they were likely to meet. At this concentration, the chemical would likely cause a welcome state of forgetfulness – welcome to Blackwood, that was.
They did indeed pass a few other guards and not a few prisoners on their way to Coward's cell. The mumbled repetition of Blackwood's supposed purpose and a waft of the drug-soaked handkerchief did for the former. The latter, if awake, were obliging enough to press close to the bars, where a wave of the kerchief in their general direction served to set them dreaming of more interesting scenes.
"Here we are, sir," the guard said abstractedly as he stopped in front of a cell. There was nothing to distinguish it from any of the other dark, dank holes around it.
Lord Coward, in a block with common murderers and brigands? Rage again flowed through Blackwood's veins and it took conscious effort not to snap the neck of his hapless guide. Easy, easy... It suits my purposes much better that it is so. "Open the door," he commanded, voice muffled by hand and cloth.
"What?" Asked a raspy voice from inside the cell as the key grated in the lock. "Starting your inane preaching and useless questioning early today?" Blackwood's heart beat faster in his chest and some giddy emotion he could not name set his tired head spinning. Though the voice was harsh from privation, the haughty tone of Coward's voice was unchanged.
"Spiritual counsel for Lord Coward," the guard repeated yet again as he opened the door. The noble prisoner looked up as the guard entered and Blackwood stepped into the doorway. Confusion warred with the disdain in his eyes as he surveyed his visitors. Though the weak light from the high grate in the room just illuminated Coward's face, it did not quite reach the dark shape at the entrance.
"Remove your jacket and hat," Blackwood ordered the guard. Coward started at the muffled sound of his voice. Surprise, hope, dismissal, and despair: his expression passed through the four emotions in as many heartbeats. "Give them, your keys, and your weapon to Lord Coward." There was a rougher sound to his voice, audible even through the handkerchief.
Go to him, a soft voice in his mind whispered. Take him in your arms. But it was not the time for that yet – if ever. "Put them on, Lord Coward. And bid the guard good night." The impulse kept him from drawing closer, so he watched from the corridor as Coward, after reaching an apparent decision of his own, followed the instructions. With a grimace of distaste, he donned the dark uniform jacket and hat, hooked the guard's keys to his belt, and finally gave the man a sound blow to the head with his own truncheon. "Put him on the bed and cover him with the blanket." These orders were also complied with, though with more difficulty. "Now, cover your mouth and nose with this," Blackwood tossed him yet another handkerchief, "and lead the way out."
Striving to keep whatever light there was to his back (whether Coward's reaction to their reunion be anger or joy, it was best to save it for the safehouse he'd prepared), Blackwood backed out of the doorway. A tumultuous mix of excitement, hope, and confusion still chasing itself across his expression, Coward stepped out of the cell, with his face covered as instructed, and closed the door behind him. He cast one desperate look in Blackwood's direction, but a brusque wave of the robed and shadowed man's hand deterred him. "It's a straight shot to the outer door," he half-growled, again fighting the inexplicable urge to embrace the younger man. With an equally curt nod, Coward started walking.
Their path out, continuously eased by Reordan's hypnotic, was as smooth as the one in. Seeing the effects of the drug, Coward's step faltered now and again and once, he began to turn back to Blackwood.
"We're not yet out of the Underworld," Blackwood said, recalling a scene from Coward's favorite opera. The younger man stopped altogether then, visibly trembling, but he did not turn. A deep, shaky breath shuddered through his thin frame and he moved on.
Though it seemed an age later, they soon reached the door to the yard. "Not yet," Blackwood repeated when they reached it. And again when arrived at the gates to the outside world. Though the denial seemed to pain Coward – and though that pain, strangely, echoed in his rescuer – he continued to comply.
"Across the street, down the alley, right at the first crossing," Blackwood directed, verbally guiding Coward to lead the way to the small but clean rooms the former lord had obtained – with a quick, judicious murder – nearby. "Enter the first door on the left." Hands shaking, Coward opened the door indicated and stepped inside. Blackwood swiftly followed, dropping the drugged handkerchief in the gutter as he entered, and turned immediately to bolt the door behind them. It was his turn then to draw a deep, steadying breath as he prepared himself for whatever storm might be brewing behind him.
Before he could move, however, surprisingly strong hands caught him from behind, turning him around before violently pulling the hood from his head. "It is you..." Grief, wonder, pain, joy, disbelief... The spectrum of emotion Blackwood heard in those three words twisted a heart he'd long thought withered to dust. He opened his mouth to respond, but was prevented by a warm, desperate mouth covering his own. "Dead" and "Thames" and "jail" and "hope" were barely discernible in the soft, rapid speech between frantic kisses. Coward pressed Blackwood hard against the wooden door, as his tongue darted in to trace the older man's crooked tooth, taste his mouth, and caress the stubble on his chin. His hands clutched at Blackwood's shoulders and his body molded itself to his frame. It was only when the salt of Coward's tears ran into his mouth that Blackwood realized the smaller man was crying.
"How?" he whispered, reluctantly pushing back on Coward's shoulders. He longed to return that passion in kind, but more than that, he had to know. "How can this be?"
A small, hysterical laugh escaped Coward's lips at that. "You're asking me how?"
"No– Yes..." Blackwood placed a shamefully trembling hand over the mouth that was moving back toward his own. "How can you still want me?"
"I–" Coward started to answer, but Blackwood kept his hand over his mouth.
"I used you. I failed you. And then, I abandoned you to pursue a selfish, fruitless revenge. How can you not hate me?"
"You're alive," the younger man stated simply, pulling Blackwood's hand from his mouth. "You're alive." His eyes shone with tears and something unnamed – something that warmed the former lord more truly than any of his rage.
"Dear, dear boy," he whispered, finally giving into the urge to take the other man into his arms. Then it was his tongue in Coward's mouth, tasting, caressing, rejoicing. It was his hands grasping as if the younger man were a spar that might rescue him from the dark depths of the river.
"Henry," Coward whispered in response, insistent hands tugging at his lover, pulling off the habit and towing him inexorably toward the bed on the opposite side of the room. "Henry," he said again, voice louder and rougher with urgency as he lay there and pulled Blackwood down beside him.
"I'm sorry, my dear," Blackwood breathed regretfully. "I'm afraid I'm far too tired to... serve at the moment."
"No matter," Coward whispered against his ear before pillowing his head on Blackwood's chest and wrapping an arm and a leg around him, drawing him closer than ever. "We have all the time in the world..."
Blackwood hummed an affirmative as he raised a hand to Coward's head, twining his fingers in sandy hair and stroking gently. The aftermath of near death, nearly sleepless nights, adrenalin, and emotional turmoil caught up with him and, lulled by his lover's steady breathing against his chest, he started to drift into contented slumber.
Coward's voice interrupted that drift with a quiet observation, "You will rise again, my lord."
"I say," Blackwood protested sleepily, "that's–"
"That's not what I meant." Coward's warm, happy laugh at his aggrieved tone vibrated pleasantly against Blackwood's breastbone. "I meant," he corrected, levering himself up to gaze down into Blackwood's eyes, "we can still achieve glory. Together." His expression was serious now, etched with noble determination.
"Is that what you wish?"
"Not the first thing, no." A well remembered wicked gleam chased some of the seriousness from his face.
"Sex?" Blackwood asked, lazily raising an eyebrow. He laughed then at the fervent affirmative he received. "Revenge?" There was a dangerous hiss of anger to Coward's agreement to that. "Domination?"
"Oh yes, indeed," the younger man breathed, eyes glowing, "But first..."
"First?" Blackwood questioned sleepily, hand absently resuming its stroking of Coward's hair.
"A bath," was the ardent response. "For both of us."
The sound of their joined laughter sang Blackwood to sleep, wrapped tightly in his lover's embrace.