no_sin_but | (no subject)

Darren enters.

Or rather, tries to open the door, finds it's locked, swears, has to dig for his keys, and then enters.

And then instead of snapping at Kit, crosses the room in four strides, snatches the book out of his hands and holds it behind his back.

Because that sort of reading can only end in tears.

Cue Marlowe staring at him.

Yep, that's it.

"And then they all lived happily ever after," explains Darren, backing himself and the book out of reach.

"The end."

"No one ever lives happily ever after."

"This book gave me nightmares for three solid weeks."

He folds the corner of the page down, just in case, and stuffs the thing into the nearest drawer.

"The torture sequence practically put me into hysterics. And I grew up very, very far removed from such things, and it hit me that hard. I don't think you should read it."

Marlowe ducks his head slightly forward, slightly to the side, and looks at Darren with his remaining eye very, very sharp.

And then he waits.

"Winston and Julia are discovered. He gives her up. They both do, after."

Everything.

Just.

"I don't think you should read it."

"So they torture him and he gives her up, is what you are saying."

"And it's graphic and vile and terrifying. Because you see, the thing is, they threaten him with his worst nightmare and don't tell him why, and the way he gets out of it, the way it turns out, is by saying 'do it to Julia' and before it had been all true love and nobility and such, and as soon as he decides this he's let go. And then a long time later, the two of them meet in the coffee shop, both utterly broken, and they know what they did to each other,"

and Darren is getting pretty hysterical just remembering it, actually. Well, gesturing urgently and expressively, anyways.

"I understand," and that soft voice of his is pure ice.

"I forgot it was in there," admits Darren, sorry and quiet.

"Well," he says, settling himself back against the bed, "you do have an awful lot of books."

"You should read Candide. Voltaire's a very interesting writer."

He has it in here somewhere. He'll look in a moment, once he's better convinced Marlowe isn't upset.

"Oh?"

He's an actor. Lets see how this goes.

The awkward thing about sharing a bed is Darren always feels like there's nowhere really to sit.

So instead he goes digging about for Candide. Ends up with Sherlock Holmes instead, but that's just as good.

Marlowe just watches him, and very carefully tries to keep his mind blank.

It helps thinking in Latin.

And if he ends up half whispering it, well.

It's Latin.

And here's the Voltaire, and Darren rejoins Marlowe on the bed, settling down next to him, skin brushing his in a way that's clearly completely accidental (and that happens with hella frequency) because Darren is not having sex still and couldn't possibly want to jump Marlowe's bones, could he?

Right!

"Take your pick."

Accidental?

Of course.

It doesn't mean that it's any less distracting. Or frustrating.

"Who's Sherlock Holmes when he's at home?"

"An intellectual. A great detective, whose business it is to suss out who actually commited the crime when the judicial system fails."

Darren sounds rather affectionate. About the book.

Of course.

"Well, of course it fails."

"No. In the mid seventeen eighties, Cesare Beccaria put forth the amazing proposition that torture was unethical and that confessions obtained under it might be useless. From then on, there was a general tide towards fair punishment, and actual search for the truth. The ideas were expanded upon from there; innocent until proven guilty, that human beings naturally seek to avoid punishment, etcetera. With that came the legal system we know today, of a series of perscribed punishments to be given when a full jury convicts a man, beyond all reasonable doubt."

"Reasonable doubt?"

"Left to the men and women of the jury to decide. The system does have its flaws, but it's arguably the best one yet."

Darren has faith it will continue to refine itself.

"Well, well, well."

"Don't be mysterious with me. I'm too old. Vagueness and cagey remarks just come across as sanctimonious."

He gives up on the idea of reading, and slides down the bed, one ankle crossing over the other, as is customary when he plans on an afternoon nap.

He pulls off the glasses and starts on the scarf.

"I'm wounded, Master Nichols. And besides, I was merely wondering how often those good people were bribed."

"Wounded indeed, Master Marlowe. Jury members are under scrutiny for the duration of trials. They're not allowed to be seen speaking to the lawyers. They're not allowed to be seen speaking to anyone connected to the cas, as a matter of fact. They're selected at random from the population, specifically because they have no connection to the proceedings. Once it was discovered that a jury person had been the ex-lover of a man on trial, and failed to admit it. She was charged in turn with hampering the judicial process. That was in Montreal, a few years or ten or so ago."

"And the paperworms dance in delight, I'm sure."

"Well, yes. Everything nowadays is nine tenths paper."

He sets the glasses down on the dresser with precise care. This time he will not forget where they are.

Of course.

"It's getting there in my time. All little pieces of paper with little men controlling far too much."

"It'll all work out in the long run."

Just, the run is very, very, very long.

Amused,

"How long are we talking?"

"If I knew that I'd be a much happier man than I am."

Though he has had a certain mellowness recently that he hasn't felt in a very long time.

"I shall keep that in mind for whenever I work it out."

"And share it with me when you do. I'm sure you'd make a better philosopher than I."

Darren gets too hooked up on the small details. The hovering, the sequins.

"Years of training for the priesthood."

Darren snorts, and lifts an arm to cover his eyes.

Priesthood. Marlowe. Right.

"That would have gone well."

A quick smile.

"Don't you think the robes would have suited me?"

Darren lifts his arms and looks Marlowe up and down very deliberately. Almost undressing him with his eyes, one might say. Then, without fuss, the arm goes over his eyes again.

"Shamefully modest."

Sometimes, Marlowe wishes that he really wouldn't do things like that. And othertimes, his brain says 'well, it's better than nothing'.

"Not...quite the word I was after."

"I'm just saying it would be a shame."

He makes it sound perfectly innocent, too. Because it is, of course. He's not doing the sex thing right now. Marlowe is just a roommate. Of course.

"But the robes make striding through places ever so dramatic."

Trust him, he knows.

"How many chances to be dramatic does a priest get?"

Maybe they had different kinds of priests.

"Every sermon." Smug.

"That would be why I stopped going to church."

In case Marlowe was wondering.

And that?

Just gets a laugh, and Marlowe turns to Sherlock Holmes.