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slashthedrabble Feb. 11th, 2005 10:53 pm)
eloise-bright.livejournal.com posting in slashthedrabble Feb. 11th, 2005 10:53 pm)This little ficlet is based on a comment Wesley made in Babes in the Wood, the fic that ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bethynyc and I are co-writing. You don't need to read it to enjoy this little trip down Quentin's psyche...
TITLE:Trading Places
RATING: PG13 with a hint of D/s
PAIRING: Quentin Travers/Roger Wyndam-Pryce
NOTES: set pre series.
“It’s a ridiculous notion.”
Travers nodded vehemently; took another sip of the reassuringly expensive claret. “You’re right, of course, Roger. This new-fangled idea that they should be allowed to conduct a social life; it’s just the sort of woolly-minded liberal thinking that’s ruined this country.”
“Exactly. The slayer’s duty is to her sacred calling; it requires dedication, preparation and, above all, discipline.”
Travers shifted in his seat a little. Across the table, Pryce’s boy put a hand up to his glasses and pushed them up to the bridge of his nose.
“But they’re so young. And only one of them will actually become the slayer…”
There was ice in his father’s glare. “Don’t interrupt, Wesley.” Travers heard an unspoken warning in the deceptively mild reprimand.
Wesley bent his head briefly, and toyed with his fork, as if working up the courage to speak. When he looked up again, Travers was quite impressed by the determination in his face. “I didn’t actually interrupt, Father.”
“Wesley!” The quiet fury in Pryce’s voice was evident in the slightly hissed sibilants, causing the boy to jump. His hand knocked his glass of water, sending its contents across the pristine linen tablecloth.
Wesley was on his feet instantly, simultaneously apologizing and attempting to mop up the spill with his napkin.
“Stop that immediately.” Travers honestly hadn’t thought Pryce could sound any colder. The boy obeyed immediately, recognizing the futility of his actions. He stood very still, two bright pink spots blossoming on his cheeks.
“You will go to the kitchens and apologize to Mrs Cates for your clumsiness. Then you will go directly to my study and wait for me.” There was a pause, during which young Wesley clearly suffered many things. “You will find the cane behind the bookcase.”
“Yes, Father.” Wesley’s face was flushed a deep red now. He left the room meekly, his previous bravado dissipated in the anticipation of the reprimand.
Pryce leaned across the table. “More wine, Quentin?”
“Thank you, Roger.” The Waterford crystal glittered delicately with reflected candlelight. “I’m sure Wesley didn’t mean to spill his water.”
“Quentin.” He sounded a little pained. “I’m sure you would never presume to advise me on the discipline of my son.”
Travers looked into those hard blue eyes and felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed convulsively. “No, no. Of course not.”
Pryce gave him a final stern glance. “I thought not.”
Travers controlled the impulse to squirm in his seat quite successfully. They finished their meal in affable conversation, and were approaching the coffee and cigars when Mrs Cates entered with business-like determination.
“Young Wesley told me what happened, sir.” She whipped the tablecloth back expertly and began to dab at the spill.
Pryce stood up and took off his jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt cuffs carefully.
“If you’ll excuse me, Quentin. My son and I have some business to attend to.”
Travers nodded and swirled the wine in his glass, wondering idly about tipping it over the snowy white tablecloth.
bethynyc and I are co-writing. You don't need to read it to enjoy this little trip down Quentin's psyche...TITLE:Trading Places
RATING: PG13 with a hint of D/s
PAIRING: Quentin Travers/Roger Wyndam-Pryce
NOTES: set pre series.
“It’s a ridiculous notion.”
Travers nodded vehemently; took another sip of the reassuringly expensive claret. “You’re right, of course, Roger. This new-fangled idea that they should be allowed to conduct a social life; it’s just the sort of woolly-minded liberal thinking that’s ruined this country.”
“Exactly. The slayer’s duty is to her sacred calling; it requires dedication, preparation and, above all, discipline.”
Travers shifted in his seat a little. Across the table, Pryce’s boy put a hand up to his glasses and pushed them up to the bridge of his nose.
“But they’re so young. And only one of them will actually become the slayer…”
There was ice in his father’s glare. “Don’t interrupt, Wesley.” Travers heard an unspoken warning in the deceptively mild reprimand.
Wesley bent his head briefly, and toyed with his fork, as if working up the courage to speak. When he looked up again, Travers was quite impressed by the determination in his face. “I didn’t actually interrupt, Father.”
“Wesley!” The quiet fury in Pryce’s voice was evident in the slightly hissed sibilants, causing the boy to jump. His hand knocked his glass of water, sending its contents across the pristine linen tablecloth.
Wesley was on his feet instantly, simultaneously apologizing and attempting to mop up the spill with his napkin.
“Stop that immediately.” Travers honestly hadn’t thought Pryce could sound any colder. The boy obeyed immediately, recognizing the futility of his actions. He stood very still, two bright pink spots blossoming on his cheeks.
“You will go to the kitchens and apologize to Mrs Cates for your clumsiness. Then you will go directly to my study and wait for me.” There was a pause, during which young Wesley clearly suffered many things. “You will find the cane behind the bookcase.”
“Yes, Father.” Wesley’s face was flushed a deep red now. He left the room meekly, his previous bravado dissipated in the anticipation of the reprimand.
Pryce leaned across the table. “More wine, Quentin?”
“Thank you, Roger.” The Waterford crystal glittered delicately with reflected candlelight. “I’m sure Wesley didn’t mean to spill his water.”
“Quentin.” He sounded a little pained. “I’m sure you would never presume to advise me on the discipline of my son.”
Travers looked into those hard blue eyes and felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed convulsively. “No, no. Of course not.”
Pryce gave him a final stern glance. “I thought not.”
Travers controlled the impulse to squirm in his seat quite successfully. They finished their meal in affable conversation, and were approaching the coffee and cigars when Mrs Cates entered with business-like determination.
“Young Wesley told me what happened, sir.” She whipped the tablecloth back expertly and began to dab at the spill.
Pryce stood up and took off his jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt cuffs carefully.
“If you’ll excuse me, Quentin. My son and I have some business to attend to.”
Travers nodded and swirled the wine in his glass, wondering idly about tipping it over the snowy white tablecloth.
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From:
no subject
Thank you for the rec. I'm rather ashamed of this horrid little ficlet.
From:
no subject
Yes, the last line turns it into horror. At least for me *shudders*
In my other fic, Travers is caught in a rather compromising position in a D/s club in London - so I simply enlarged on a theme here.
Wow. Note to self: root through Eloise's Memories.
Thank you for the rec. I'm rather ashamed of this horrid little ficlet.
You shouldn't be. It's really, really good. I've pimped it in my journal and I don't just go around pimping any-old-thing.
The squick factor for this is so high, yet subtle. I mean - gah! And guh!
Please don't be ashamed, this was truly dark and awesome. Perfect.
Diggin' your icon, too.