no_sin_but | (no subject)

(no subject)

Marlowe has been many things, but one of the things that people forget is scholar. Student. Oh, yes, the boy wrote plays, but he was Kit Marlowe. He brawled, he snarked, he twisted people around with nothing but words until they believed in no God, he, hell, he even teamed up with another poet to kill a man on record.

But Marlowe, reading? Having a genuine love for words and text and the scent of leather and paper? People forget about that.

For a while, so did he.

Now he's free to indulge, and indulging he is; lying on the bed, eyes and mind intent on nothing but the page in front of him.

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Enters, Darren Nichols, through the door that he purposefully didn't lock because you can get a doorknob with your fingers while you're holding a box, but a key, on the other hand, is a little different.

Yes, holding a box. A box that gets dropped on the nearest available surface the minute he walks in.

A box full of books.

"Want these anywhere in particular?"

Marlowe glances up, opening his mouth to snarl about the unlocked door and then he stops.

And stares.

"Huh?"

Darren won that argument before it even started, and looks appropriately smug. Mwah.

"Do you want these anywhere in particular?"

"Uh. No. That full of books?"

"Entirely. Rather heavy, actually."

He cracks his knuckles and takes out the first stack. Of seven paperbacks.

There are more than a few stacks.

"Do I need to build bookshelves?" Marlowe asks, but his tone is somewhat distracted.

"I have one. I'll drag it over. For now," pulling out the second stack, he carries the two over to an end table, and lies them flat so they're at the back, against the wall.

"Anywhere will have to do. You're welcome to any of these."

"Well, I should hope so."

Darren grins, and tosses Heart of Darkness onto the bed. Yes, tosses, Darren tosses all his books. And trips on them, and bookmarks them, and writes angry notes and ideas for plays in the margins, and occasionally drops them into ponds and bathtubs.

It's a testament to the books that they're still alive.

"Start there."

"Interesting title," he says, sitting up and putting his own book to one side for the moment.

"Had they found Africa yet, when you're from?"

Darren is not a history buff, let it be known.

"This is essentially a criticism of colonialism. That is, the white man's assumption that he can sail his boats over to Africa, enslave the population, make off with all the ivory and have a nice cup of tea in the afternoon. It's written by a Polish man, I believe, though you'd never know English wasn't his first language. This is one of the first real criticisms of this sort."

A very important book, a younger Darren would have been sure to note.

"We have Africa. Not very much of it, as far as I understand, but we have it."

"Idiots."

Darren makes a face, and continues unloading books.

"It's going to cause you years of trouble, and nearly get me killed in a riot."

"Yes, I'm sure getting you nearly killed was one of the forseeable problems of encouraging Drake and his cannons, Darren."

"Read that book and you'll be agreeing with me in no time. Africa was senseless. The presumption of mankind that he can judge a whole different culture and find it unworthy or substandard is completely ridiculous."

He starts digging through the boxes. He knows he he has that other one, the Barbara Kingsolver.

"Well, that is humanity for you, and from what you've told me, it doesn't get any better, so probably deeply rooted in our nature."

"Of course it is. Why do you think idiots feel compelled to give advice?"

He finds the Poisonwood Bible and sets it aside, before grabbing another few handfuls, for the dresser top.

"I don't normally contemplate the thought-processes of idiots."

His tone suggests that he may have to start.

"Innate vanity."

He resumes unpacking. Eventually, the box is empty. Marlowe is up a few dozen books.

"Thank you for that insight," but the snippiness has been diluted by books.

Darren frowns at him, and starts unfolding the box so it can be slipped under the bed and saved for another day. People always need boxes.

"I'll see what I can do about a shelf."

"I can build one myself..." Curious, he picks up a book and flicks idly through it.

Darren has really, really weird books. That one happens to 1984.

If Darren saw him looking at it he would warn him. But for the tucking the box under the bed.

"Or you could help me carry it, and save the wood."

"Least I could do."

"Or, least I could do."

They haven't discussed Marlowe's... putting up with this.

No, they haven't.

"That to." And now Darren gets a look from over the book cover, the one with the slightly raised eyebrow.

Darren Nichols is not an uncertain man. Darren Nichols hasn't been uncertain about anything since he kissed Johnny Everett under the bleachers and the whole world clicked into one large, happy 'oh. so that's how it's supposed to work.'

But fuck, in the past week he's been rejected by Shakespeare, nearly sold to Satan, tossed around by said person like a ragdoll (and hiding the fact that he's moving gingerly because of it) and generally fucked around with. His perspective is a little warped. His feathers are, as they say, ruffled.

"About that."

"Mmmm?"

"Is it a problem?"

His fingers curl around a really, really old copy of the Hobbit. It has 'Happy Christmas Darren, love Dad' scrawled in the front.

"No."

"Exquisite."

He'd forgotten about this book, actually, it gets thumbed open. A receipt/bookmark falls out.

A lot of these books have strange bookmarks in them. Snapshots, gum wrappers, sticky notes, bits of string... whatever he had in his pockets, or on the table, usually.

"Well, as long as that is settled..."

Darren shrugs, feels a twinge in his shoulder, and smiles despite it.

"Are you wanting to start?"

"Darren, Darren, Darren. You hand me all these books and say that there are as mine...what do you think?

"I'll leave you to it, then."

He pauses,

"And when you're done with them, tuck them somewhere out of the way, or back into the box. We'll swap them out."

"...exactly how many books do you have?"

"I have rooms where the walls are just shelves, Marlowe. Three."

Darren never throws any of them out, is the problem.

"Three?"

"I'll show you."

Whenever he wants.

"Oh, you'd never get me out."

"It's my flat in Montreal. It's where I keep my base, you could say."

He travels out of it. With as many books as he has, and odds and ends, it only makes sense.

"Whenever you feel like a trip to Canada, mention."

"Oh, I will."

Never fear about that.

"Good."

He turns the book over in his hands, and comes to join him, on the other side of the bed.

He could stand to do some reading too.

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