(no subject)
Jul. 10th, 2007 02:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
titusnowlThe first bit - "And Norman?" through the words "Roger moved away," is from the last page of The Avenging Saint. The idea is that Roger basically reacted to Norman's death by becoming a seething ball of resentment, and it finally gets cleared up with:
A Big Fuck-All Finally-Blowing-The-Lid-Off Punch-Up
"And Norman?"
The Saint smiled, a quiet little smile. "There was a letter from Pat this morning," he said. "Posted at Suez. They're going on down the east coast of Africa, and they expect to get around to Madeira in the spring. And I'm going to do something that I think Norman would have wanted far more than vengeance. I'm going adventuring across Europe; and at the end of it I shall find my lady."
Roger moved away, eyes narrowing. "That's it? Oh, goody goody gumdrops, we got Marius arrested or something, now you're going to go on holiday with your girlfriend? You know what, you're right - that IS something Norman would have wanted more than vengeance - I mean, he would have wanted to go wandering around Europe with Patricia. Too bad it's you doing it and not him, eh?"
"Roger," the Saint said softly, steely-eyed.
"Don't 'Roger' me, Templar. You're the one who runs the show, I guess it ain't my job to question, is it? No, you want to give up and run off, I should just smile and get myself a beer and wait for you to come back, is that right?"
He moved back to stand directly in front of Simon, breathing heavily. "I like how you'll only share your plans when they don't involve anyone else but you. You want one of us to get shot at, it's all mystery and magic, but you decide to take off on a bloody holiday with that - that girl of yours, and - "
During this increasingly-heated speech, Roger's hand had crept up as if of its own accord to poke into the Saint's sternum as punctuation. Suddenly, the hand was swatted down to his side. Simon opened his mouth to speak, but before the words were formed, the hand was back up, as a fist. Roger punched him in the jaw, clicking his teeth together harshly.
For a stunned moment they simply looked at each other - Roger with his fists up like a prizefighter, Simon with one hand to his mouth and the other loose at his side. Then Roger swung again, wildly, and Simon sidestepped and gave him a tap that nearly sent him tumbling.
They had put on show-fights before, for the benefits of their enemies, and those were always brilliantly choreographed acts worthy of the stage, with carefully-aimed blows and carefully-timed staggers. This bore about as much resemblence to those as the Hirondel bore to an Austin Seven with a wiring problem.
Roger's punches were hard, but wild; Simon tried to pull his own at first, but soon gave up on it. His second full-strength blow sent Conway stumbling back against the wall with his head reeling.
Roger let himself fall, wiping blood off his lip with the back of his hand, and snarled, between winded gasps, "Is that all you've got?" His face was wet with more than blood, tears making streaks like warpaint.
"Roger," said the Saint again, voice still soft.
"Fuck you, Templar," Roger spat bitterly from behind his hand. He tried to stand, leaning on the wall for support, but the blow that had sent him across the room had done things to his balance. He stumbled, fell to his knees, put his hands back to his face. "Fuck you," he repeated to himself, nearly as quietly as the Saint.
When Simon crossed to kneel beside him, he didn't fight it.
A Big Fuck-All Finally-Blowing-The-Lid-Off Punch-Up
"And Norman?"
The Saint smiled, a quiet little smile. "There was a letter from Pat this morning," he said. "Posted at Suez. They're going on down the east coast of Africa, and they expect to get around to Madeira in the spring. And I'm going to do something that I think Norman would have wanted far more than vengeance. I'm going adventuring across Europe; and at the end of it I shall find my lady."
Roger moved away, eyes narrowing. "That's it? Oh, goody goody gumdrops, we got Marius arrested or something, now you're going to go on holiday with your girlfriend? You know what, you're right - that IS something Norman would have wanted more than vengeance - I mean, he would have wanted to go wandering around Europe with Patricia. Too bad it's you doing it and not him, eh?"
"Roger," the Saint said softly, steely-eyed.
"Don't 'Roger' me, Templar. You're the one who runs the show, I guess it ain't my job to question, is it? No, you want to give up and run off, I should just smile and get myself a beer and wait for you to come back, is that right?"
He moved back to stand directly in front of Simon, breathing heavily. "I like how you'll only share your plans when they don't involve anyone else but you. You want one of us to get shot at, it's all mystery and magic, but you decide to take off on a bloody holiday with that - that girl of yours, and - "
During this increasingly-heated speech, Roger's hand had crept up as if of its own accord to poke into the Saint's sternum as punctuation. Suddenly, the hand was swatted down to his side. Simon opened his mouth to speak, but before the words were formed, the hand was back up, as a fist. Roger punched him in the jaw, clicking his teeth together harshly.
For a stunned moment they simply looked at each other - Roger with his fists up like a prizefighter, Simon with one hand to his mouth and the other loose at his side. Then Roger swung again, wildly, and Simon sidestepped and gave him a tap that nearly sent him tumbling.
They had put on show-fights before, for the benefits of their enemies, and those were always brilliantly choreographed acts worthy of the stage, with carefully-aimed blows and carefully-timed staggers. This bore about as much resemblence to those as the Hirondel bore to an Austin Seven with a wiring problem.
Roger's punches were hard, but wild; Simon tried to pull his own at first, but soon gave up on it. His second full-strength blow sent Conway stumbling back against the wall with his head reeling.
Roger let himself fall, wiping blood off his lip with the back of his hand, and snarled, between winded gasps, "Is that all you've got?" His face was wet with more than blood, tears making streaks like warpaint.
"Roger," said the Saint again, voice still soft.
"Fuck you, Templar," Roger spat bitterly from behind his hand. He tried to stand, leaning on the wall for support, but the blow that had sent him across the room had done things to his balance. He stumbled, fell to his knees, put his hands back to his face. "Fuck you," he repeated to himself, nearly as quietly as the Saint.
When Simon crossed to kneel beside him, he didn't fight it.
