Solitaire
Disclaimer: I do not, unfortunately own the delectable Agent Pendergast. The amazing Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child do.
"Solitaire" courtesy of Neil Sedaka and Phil Cody. The other version here is by Clay Aiken. Apologies to making fun of the Clay, the adorable dork with the best voice in history.
Summary: Agent Pendergast Songfic No, he could never love again. First attempt at fanfic…mushy angst. Sorry.
Sorry, I wrote this at 3am, while studying, fueled up on coffee and the only song I could listen to without losing my concentration was Clay's Solitaire. I thought, hey, Pendergast! Why not?
Decided not to let my empty account molder for any longer.
Anyway, hope it's readable. I'm 16 and my last English teacher said my writing sucked, so try not to expect miracles.
I took the liberty :gasp: of insertng bits of what I thought Mrs P would be like. I er…hope it's to character.
Enjoy!
Please r/r!
There was a man
He stood holding the dusty gramophone. For seven years it had remained silent. There was no one for it to play for now: she was gone.
A lonely man
Alone again.
He traced the single, ornately inscribed word on the base: Pendergast. He owed everything to that name. And it caused him to lose all he had.
Who lost his love
He knew his lineage had enemies. He had his foes.
And he knew that one of them was intricately tied to her death.
Through his indifference
He should have noticed. She looked drawn, haggard weeks before her death. He asked, but she said nothing.
Pendergast had been too caught up in work to press further.
Besides, she was his wife! If she had been brave enough to marry him, she could face whatever it was that was bothering her now.
A heart that cared.
That went unshared
Until it died
In his silence.
He knew now why she didn't tell him. She didn't want him to worry.
Her body.
The ground, splattered with blood.
Soaking her blouse crimson.
Eyes open, staring at the sky, sightless.
When she died, so did his heart.
And solitaire's the only game in town
She used to play that song on the gramophone. Endlessly. Pendergast despite his preference for Brahms, Mozart and Beethoven deemed it platable.
And every road it takes him, takes him down
It wasn't a song one heard often nowadays.
Thank God.
Otherwise he would think of her.
And by himself it's easy to pretend
He'll never love again
She was different. Theonly one who could stand his'uniqueness.' She understood what he had been through. Accepted him, shady background, strange relatives, ill-gotten family fortune and all.
She loved his old-world manners, the intensity, the kindness, his courage.
With her, he could do anything. She was his strength, his rock. But now, with her gone, he was nothing.
She was passionate, independent and intelligent. Those, and other qualities, made her a woman like no other.
He loved her too. Yes, he was capable of such an emotion, contrary to popular belief.
Simply. Infinitely.
And keeping to himself he plays the game.
He drew himself into a shell when she died.
Pendergast over-cultivated his manners, used his oh-so-cliched accent to full effect. Dressed perpetually in black suits. All a shield. The 'uniqueness' to distract others from his weaknesses, how alone he was,after she went. A façade.
It worked, flawlessly. No one saw how weak he was now.
Without her love it always ends the same
Sometimes his emotions slipped through.
Coffey, and the catfish sandwich remark. Did he know she was dead? Did he know she was murdered? No, he didn't. Control, control yourself, Aloysius.
While life goes on around him everywhere
During everyday situations, something reminded him of her. Wracking him with guilt, despair. Loss.
Like when he was hunting the Mbwun with Margo and Frock. Not as if that was an everyday situation, of course.
Remembering how she 'broke' the buffalo down in Tanzania. A flashback so vivid he could almost feel the heat on his skin, the sweat on his brow, his wife beside him. Almost.
He told them how she had immobilized it, knowing how it would help them stop the Mwbum beast.
"I wish you wife was here," said Frock.
"So do I."
He's playing solitaire
Now that she was dead, there was no one for him to love, or be loved by.
Another day
Head down, walking through New York in the dead of winter.
A lonely day
That song.
Sung by a weedy kid with a travesty of a Southern accent on TV in an electronic goods shopfront. The voice carried emotion like a knife piercing through one's soul.
She would have loved this version.
He stopped, despite himself, to listen. And to remember.
So much to say
That goes unspoken.
And through the nights
His sleepless nights.
Turning in bed, the feel of her hair when he reached out to touch her.
He still did that sometimes, by habit after she was gone. A bad habit, but one very hard to break.
His eyes are closed
His heart is broken
Other little things he loved about her.
Like when their eyes first met across the room.
And Solitaire's the only game in town.
And every road it takes him, takes him down.
Her hand on his arm, steadying him, when they walked past the ruins of Maison de la Rochenoire.
And by himself it's easy to pretend
The feel of a mushy snowball thrown at him, mischievously. His retaliation by snatching her hat.
Her frustration at not being able to wear jeans all the time when she went out with him; he always dressed to formally. His exasperation when she did wear denim.
Her bravery. Facing the charging buffalo.
The way her lips tasted. The way her eyelashes rested on her cheekbones when she closed her eyes.
The arguments.
How he was "irascible, proud and an ass who refused to conform to society" and she was a "meddling, impertinent woman whom he must have married in a fit of madness." In the end they would surrender.
That he'll never love again.
He couldn't. He wouldn't.
And keeping to himself he plays the game.
When he shifted out of the Dakota to Riverside Drive, her belongings, kept in a small, locked room, were the last to go, because he couldn't bear moving them again.
He droves his Rolls Royce in the middle of the night to pick them up.
Back at Riverside Drive, he spotted Constance, now like the daughter he never had, peeping out from behind her door, wondering what on earth he was doing. He pretended not to see her.
Pendergast didn't want to answer questions about his wife. He never had, and never would.
He set the boxes down in his room.
And took out a deck of cards. And started playing. Solitaire.
Without her love it always ends the same.
Queen of Hearts on King of Spades.
He seldom could finish a game of Solitaire, despite his aptitude at other card games. It was ironic.
While life goes on around him everywhere
Memories, regrets. Rehashed.
He wished he had pressed her. Everyday, till she spilled the secret.
Only after he discovered the notes the killer had sent her, did he realize.
That he knew the killer. That all the murderer wanted to do was to hurt him.
He's playing Solitaire.
'My stubborn wife. Thought she could solve it on her own. One of her faults.
And mine to be cursed to be born Aloysius Pendergast. To have enemies.
The murderer killed her to spite me.
In a way, I had her killed her.'
A little hope
Viola Maskelene. Could he fall in love again? Perhaps.
Goes up in smoke
No. She wasn't right for him. Besides, he hadn't the heart to love her.
Just how it goes
Goes without saying
He would hunt the killer. Alone.
And by himself
It's easy to pretend
He'll never love again
And keeping to himself he plays the game
Without her love it always ends the same
While life goes on around him everywhere
He's playing solitaire
Solitaire
Now locked up in Fosco's castle.
Left to die.
Panicking. How was he going to stop Diogenes?
He would see her again. But he didn't want to go yet.
'Damn you, Diogenes. I want to die and be with her, but only after I stop you.
For now, I'll continue playing Solitaire.'
-fin-
I hope no one was offended that I thought Mrs P was killed by one of her husband's enemies...Diogenes perhaps?
My apologies to Clay Aiken. Yes, he was the weedy guy singing Solitaire in the TV. I think he's cute with his accent, but I don't think Pendergast would have.
Please review!