Portrait of a Lady
Author: Tinuviel Henneth
Rating: PG, for sexual references
Disclaimer: It's not mine. Don't bother. I'm just pretending it is for right now.
Summary: AU; A bored London socialite and her kidnapper banter. Vaguely Literati. Full of British jargon.
Improv 26: daisy dapple daughter delight descend
*
"This isn't funny," she called out into the darkness surrounding her. The power had just gone out. She wasn't afraid yet, but she could sense that there was enough stuff going on to merit fear on her part. Thing was, she couldn't really figure out why. Her voice didn't even waver.
"Oh, shut up," a male voice said. His tone made her visualize someone rolling his eyes. She didn't know who he was.
"See, I don't really feel like it. Being that I can't see my own nose or my hands in front of my face, I have to talk or I'll get scared and you don't want me to get scared." She was starting to feel the fear creep up her back, its icy tendrils wrapping around her spinal column. As it rose, her muscles quivered.
"Nobody in attendance currently cares what you feel like doing. Shut up."
"It's bloody cold in here," she complained. It wasn't really, she was perfectly comfortable, but she needed to find something to whine about.
Suddenly, about ten feet to her left a small flame sparked to life. Her eyes flew to it instantly, but she was dismayed to find it was only his lighter. He had a cigarette between his lips and was preparing to light it. He glanced up at her and raised his eyebrows. "What are you looking at?" he said, his voice slightly muffled by the cigarette.
"I was just hoping that you wouldn't smoke around me. I've got asthma, you know. I'll cough myself to death if you light that. You don't want me dead." She raised an eyebrow at him.
"How do you know that?" he asked, removing the cigarette from his lips, but not putting it away. He left the lighter burn longer while he studied her face in the dimness.
She smirked. "Because if you wanted me dead, I'd already be so. I'm not a novice at this business. This is my third go at it, actually. I'm thinking that you are a virgin, though."
He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I'm hoping you mean that I've never kidnapped someone before. If not, you'll be dismayed to learn that I'm not a virgin in any sense. I hope you haven't got any bets resting on it."
"Have you been to America?" she asked rather abruptly.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
She sighed. "If you've never been to America, then you're clearly an American virgin, now aren't you?" She gave him a strange look.
"Oh, don't look at me that way. I'm not daft. Anyway, what do you mean this is your third go at it?"
She grinned. "I'm quite the commodity, evidently. Although you're the only candidate so far who might inspire any bit of Stockholm syndrome in me. The other two were codgy old men."
"Why, thank you," he said, glaring at her. He flipped the lighter closed. The room was dark again. She sighed and sat down exactly where she stood.
"This isn't fun," she said.
"Obviously. How fun do you think this is for me, exactly? Are you stuck in a dark little room with a whiny, wretched little rich girl because you fucked up and had to do that one more job to get your bollocks out of the pepper mill?"
"I'm not wretched," she said in a small voice a few tense moments later. "How did you fuck up?"
"Bugger off. I don't know what I'm talking about."
"What? Are you a madman?"
"Maybe. Would that make you nervous?"
"I think that it's sexy to be mad," she said.
"Well that explains it. You're mad, so therefore you want someone else who is mad so you can go on and be mad together with matching Westies and machetes. Christ, am I flypaper for freaks or what?"
"I still think you're off your head," she told him.
"That's lovely," he replied.
"Oh, come on. Have I really hurt your feelings?"
"What's it to you? I'm your kidnapper, if you haven't forgotten. You ought to want to hurt my feelings. Maybe I'll get angry with you and send you on your way."
She rolled her eyes. "Like I said, this is my third go at it. I know how your lot works. What I say doesn't matter a lot because you're all oblivious to me, eyes on the ransom, et cetera."
"What makes you think that? You said for yourself the others were codgy old men. I'm no older than you are."
"That's different."
"I don't see how, except that, yes, it is completely different."
"We're bantering. You're breaking a most important rule of kidnapper etiquette."
"Am I?" he asked.
"Yes, you are. You're conversating with me. As I see it, you ought to have gagged me earlier before I started to talk. You'll never get to gag me, now, of course because I've started talking."
"You're Pringles, then," he said. He could feel her staring blankly at him. "Pringles. You know. . .American crisp thing. Once you pop, you can't stop."
"You aren't an American virgin, then," she said, her voice put off.
"Well, I did say that I wasn't a virgin in any sense, now didn't I?"
"You're being difficult," she replied. "I stick by my theory that you're mad."
"I reiterate: how does that make you feel?"
"If I said that it makes me bloody uncomfortable and that I would kill myself straight off if I had access to a dagger, then would you leave me alone?"
He stayed quiet a few moments, pretending to digest her speech. "If you were more sincere, I might consider. As it is, you seem to be enjoying this conversation."
"What's your name?" she asked. She wasn't terribly interested, but conversation with him was entertaining to say the least.
"What?"
"You heard me. Don't try to dodge your way out of this one, you sodding anti-virgin. I can see straight through you. What's your name?"
"It's Jess," he said after a moment, wondering why she was asking. "I'd ask you yours, but I already know it, considering I'm the kidnapper and you're the kidnap-ee."
"Fine then. What is my name?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Just making sure you know it. So what is it?"
"You're the Gilmore heiress, descended from some Jane Austen-era, biscuit-munching viscount. Of course I know your name. Everybody in the bloody British Commonwealth knows your name."
"My first name, Jess," she said, smiling.
"Fine. You caught me. I haven't the faintest inkling what your first name is. Happy, you name Nazi?"
"Rapturous," she deadpanned. "Have you got anything for us to eat? I mean, we're bound to be in here a while. My grandfather never wires the money until at least three days after he receives the note. He's not a complete moron, you know. A partial one, I'll say, though, because he'll let his precious granddaughter suffer for three days, but whatever. So, since we're stuck here in this miserable little room, have we got anything to eat, or will we end up chopping off each other's feet and frying them up over a quaint little fire built from your cigarettes and our mutual clothing?"
"Graphic imagery, there," he said, snorting. "You wouldn't want my feet. I went about too much barefoot when I was a kid. I've got Hobbit feet by now."
"Hairy?"
"Slightly. Does that bother you?"
"I think that if you were on top of me and my feet touched you, it might be a little off-putting. Considering the circumstances of you being on top of me, I bet I'd have other things to worry about."
"How did the codgy old men stand you?" he wondered aloud.
She laughed, delighted. "The first one kept feeding me sweets to shut me up. The second one shoved a sock in my mouth. It wasn't very pleasant. It was clean, and all, but it was woolen and argyle and so ugly."
"Oh yes, argyle. Very offensive," he said sarcastically. "I'd have tried to swallow it and kill myself, I would have."
"Why on earth would you bother to do that?"
"Not sure." He laughed a short, odd laugh. "Anyway, about the food thing. The storm's over now, I think, so the power should be back on by morning. We can have a look around then. We should go to sleep for now, though."
"Are you going to tie me up?" she asked.
"No. The doors are locked from the outside, the windows are barred, the knives are locked into kitchen drawers by combination locks you don't know the combination to. I'm not really worried, although we do have to share a bed. Plus I'm not all that interested in the bondage thing, to tell you the truth."
"That's hardly fair. You sleep on the floor."
"Bugger off, princess. I've got to deal with you. I'll be damned if I'm not sleeping in a bed."
"What a shame. I'm not sharing the bed."
"Then enjoy the floor."
"Where's your sense of chivalry?" she whined.
"It's dead, love. Dead as a bloody doornail. The bed's deluxe-sized. I promise not to touch you or look at you or call out the first name I don't know in my sleep while I dream dirty dreams about you."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't flatter yourself. I'm not worried about you touching me."
"Then what's the fuss about?"
"It's funny. You're taken this not funny, dark-- no pun intended-- situation and made it funny. I'll share a bed with anyone who can do that."
"I bet you do this with all your kidnappers," he teased.
"Nope, only the ones under fifty-eight," she said seriously.
He flicked the lighter on again and led the way down a narrow hallway to a miniscule bedroom. The room was almost entirely taken up by the massive bed in the middle of it. "Fully clothed?" he asked.
"I'm wearing jeans right now. I'm not about to sleep in my jeans."
"You're not sharing a bed with me wearing just your underwear," he told her definitely.
"That settles it. You can sleep on the floor."
"We've been over this--" he started to say.
"I know. You're fun to mess with."
"You're a demon." He closed the lighter. There was a little battery lamp in this room, and there was no reason to waste his precious butane.
"Perhaps that's so. Anyway, I'll sleep in your shirt-- it's bigger than my jumper-- and my underwear and you can sleep in those pants because they're obviously not jeans." Without waiting for him to reply in assent or disagreement, she kicked off her shoes and pulled her top up over her head.
He watched her in amazement. She was so ambivalent to his presence. He shook his head and turned his back on her to shuck off his own trainers and tee shirt. "Are you a lesbian?" he asked nervously, turning back around.
He more or less got his answer from the way her eyes traced up his torso, but she laughed and shook her head anyway. "No. Are you a fairy?"
"Why?"
"You haven't looked at my tits once since I took my jumper off. I'm rather off-put about that."
"Well, you're still wearing your bra. I haven't got a lot to look at, now have I?"
She shrugged. "I can take it off if that'd make you feel better."
"No, that's all right. We don't want you to fall victim to Stockholm and all." He held out his shirt. She took it with a smile and pulled it over her head. It fell to her mid-thigh. There were daisies doodled onto the knees of her jeans. She took them off and neatly folded them with her jumper and shoes. He went around to the left side of the bed and climbed in, ignoring her.
She climbed in on her own side. "If at any point during the night I feel those hairy feet of yours touching me, I won't hesitate to chop them off and fry them up."
"I've got socks on," he reminded her. "Plus, what would you chop them off with, anyway?"
"It's the principle of the idea," she replied. "Now shut off the light and go to sleep."
A few minutes later, she rolled over to face him. The room was very dark, but she could just make out his features. "My first name is Rory, by the way."
He smiled, although he wasn't sure if she could see or not. "That's terrific. Go to sleep. Dream not-kidnapped sort of dreams."
"Dream of dappled gray ponies," she advised him. "They're the best sort."
"I'll remember that."
Finis.
Tinuviel Henneth / 29-30 May 2003