Fic: "Traces," Pendergast, age 22
May. 2nd, 2009 01:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kleenexwomanI wrote this for the Yuletide Treasure thing last year. I totally love this series, but for some reason, this is the only thing I've ever written on my own for it. Most of the squeeing and storytelling I do for it is with drworm over IM, and that's really how I like it. Even this was based off our conversations. I do think it turned out well.
For a long time, D'Agosta doesn't hear from Pendergast at all. Not that it's surprising. He imagines his friend on the white sands of the isle of Capria, Viola in his arms, too busy and lovestruck to write a postcard. It's a relief, in a way; even the traces of Pendergast's presence usually announce disaster and peril, something D'Agosta thinks he's getting far too old for. He stops scrutinizing doormen and delivery boys for traces of a Southern accent or the familiar curve of an aquiline nose, stops wondering whether the steam coming from sewer vents is the breath of a mutated subterranean monster. Starts outlining another novel, and then stops that, too; there's only one person he cares to show it to, and that person doesn't need to be bothered any more than he does.
It's not Pendergast who finally contacts him, hidden in someone else's skin. It's Constance, through a letter, slipped under his door and folded in thirds in a way that makes his heart stop just for a moment. He knows it's her even before he reads her signature because the ink is faded, as though it was written long ago. The message is couched in the most euphemistic terms possible, but the overall intent is clear: Pendergast needs him. He's halfway to Riverside Drive before he realizes what that doesn't necessarily mean.
***
There are teacups, half-full and dusty, set on tables and on top of books, a trail stretching from the foyer to the parlor to the kitchen. It's not the least obvious trail he's ever had to follow. They lead him, eventually, to the library.
There are books stacked in a semicircle on the floor, carefully arranged by size. D'Agosta can just barely see Pendergast's pale hair in the center, his striking blue eyes visible behind the stacks and following D'Agosta's progress across the room. It reminds D'Agosta absurdly of his son making forts out of empty cereal boxes, sequestering himself in the middle and daring his parents to breach his fortress.
At first, he worries Pendergast doesn't recognize him, somehow; his expression is blank and wary, devoid of the subtle warmth he's long since stopped having to search for in his face, and he flinches slightly when D'Agosta kneels down next to him. Then he just looks distracted, distant, and that's still better than the blankness.
"I wasn't expecting you," he says, softly. "Pardon the disarray."
"Yeah," D'Agosta says, "Constance sent me a note." He takes the nearest book and flips through it. Most of it is in French. "What do you need?"
Pendergast gently turns the pages back to the flyleaf. There are florid letters written on it, all loops and twirls: D.D.B.P. "Those letters were not there a month ago," he says. "They're in every book now, somewhere." He grabs another book from the stack and flips to a page in the middle, where there's a border of continuous DDBP along the margins, written like grapes growing out of an inky vine. Another one, thick and leather-bound, has AXLP scored into the cover in blocky leaden letters with a wreath of arrows and swords aimed at each letter. Another, carefully sketched out on the back of a table of contents, features a stick figure trapped inside of a welter of gears, lines, and loops; Pendergast takes that one away from him before he can quite figure out what's going to happen to the stickman.
They leaf through books for what seems like hours, marking each vandalized page carefully; Pendergast insists that the pages have some kind of significance, that Diogenes would not perpetrate such a tedious form of vandalism without having some meaning behind it, some code. Page numbers, certain letters, important themes. D'Agosta can find nothing.
***
He nearly bumps into Constance while he's going to the kitchen to make coffee. She's carrying a silver tray, half-empty cups of green tea stacked carefully on it.
"Did you talk to him?" she asks, without prelude.
D'Agosta nods, and falls into step with her. "A little bit. We looked through his books, mostly."
Constance sighs. "I'd hoped you could talk him out of it," she says. They enter the kitchen, and she puts the tray on the table hard enough to rattle the cups. "I told him Diogenes is gone, that he's wasting his time." She sounds almost wistful. "Now he won't talk to me at all."
She leaves before he can respond. When he passes the tray with his coffee, he notices things floating in the cups, just barely there, and goes to take a closer look. In each cup is a single hair, short and bright red.
When he brings Pendergast into the kitchen to show him, the cups are all stacked in the sink, upside-down and bone dry. Neither of them see Constance again that night.
***
The windows in the library go from black to blue to white as the sun rises, and eventually Pendergast puts down the book he's flipping through and leans against D'Agosta, announcing that he needs to rest for a few moments.
"How long's it been since you slept?" D'Agosta asks.
Pendergast blinks. His eyes are rimmed with red, and when D'Agosta touches his hair, it's greasy and thick, as though he hasn't watched it for days. "I cannot afford to," he says, and closes his eyes. D'Agosta waits until his breathing becomes deep and regular, signifying sleep, and slips out from under him, gently pushing the weight of his body onto the armchair behind them both.
He begins to make plans-drag Pendergast back to D'Agosta's apartment, to the apartment at the Dakota, even contact Viola and see if she'll take him back. Get him away from Riverside Drive and the old graffiti in the books, the red hairs floating around, the ghosts in each room. It's no wonder Pendergast is starting to go crazy, in this crumbling tomb. He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling, wondering how long Pendergast has spent in here, how long he's obsessed over the books and history in this place, and before long his eyes close, too.
When he opens them, there's something red and white and blurry floating over him, a smile and a mismatched pair of eyes he knows all too well. He blinks, and it disappears, nothing but a trace on the back of his eyelids.
drworm over IM, and that's really how I like it. Even this was based off our conversations. I do think it turned out well. For a long time, D'Agosta doesn't hear from Pendergast at all. Not that it's surprising. He imagines his friend on the white sands of the isle of Capria, Viola in his arms, too busy and lovestruck to write a postcard. It's a relief, in a way; even the traces of Pendergast's presence usually announce disaster and peril, something D'Agosta thinks he's getting far too old for. He stops scrutinizing doormen and delivery boys for traces of a Southern accent or the familiar curve of an aquiline nose, stops wondering whether the steam coming from sewer vents is the breath of a mutated subterranean monster. Starts outlining another novel, and then stops that, too; there's only one person he cares to show it to, and that person doesn't need to be bothered any more than he does.
It's not Pendergast who finally contacts him, hidden in someone else's skin. It's Constance, through a letter, slipped under his door and folded in thirds in a way that makes his heart stop just for a moment. He knows it's her even before he reads her signature because the ink is faded, as though it was written long ago. The message is couched in the most euphemistic terms possible, but the overall intent is clear: Pendergast needs him. He's halfway to Riverside Drive before he realizes what that doesn't necessarily mean.
***
There are teacups, half-full and dusty, set on tables and on top of books, a trail stretching from the foyer to the parlor to the kitchen. It's not the least obvious trail he's ever had to follow. They lead him, eventually, to the library.
There are books stacked in a semicircle on the floor, carefully arranged by size. D'Agosta can just barely see Pendergast's pale hair in the center, his striking blue eyes visible behind the stacks and following D'Agosta's progress across the room. It reminds D'Agosta absurdly of his son making forts out of empty cereal boxes, sequestering himself in the middle and daring his parents to breach his fortress.
At first, he worries Pendergast doesn't recognize him, somehow; his expression is blank and wary, devoid of the subtle warmth he's long since stopped having to search for in his face, and he flinches slightly when D'Agosta kneels down next to him. Then he just looks distracted, distant, and that's still better than the blankness.
"I wasn't expecting you," he says, softly. "Pardon the disarray."
"Yeah," D'Agosta says, "Constance sent me a note." He takes the nearest book and flips through it. Most of it is in French. "What do you need?"
Pendergast gently turns the pages back to the flyleaf. There are florid letters written on it, all loops and twirls: D.D.B.P. "Those letters were not there a month ago," he says. "They're in every book now, somewhere." He grabs another book from the stack and flips to a page in the middle, where there's a border of continuous DDBP along the margins, written like grapes growing out of an inky vine. Another one, thick and leather-bound, has AXLP scored into the cover in blocky leaden letters with a wreath of arrows and swords aimed at each letter. Another, carefully sketched out on the back of a table of contents, features a stick figure trapped inside of a welter of gears, lines, and loops; Pendergast takes that one away from him before he can quite figure out what's going to happen to the stickman.
They leaf through books for what seems like hours, marking each vandalized page carefully; Pendergast insists that the pages have some kind of significance, that Diogenes would not perpetrate such a tedious form of vandalism without having some meaning behind it, some code. Page numbers, certain letters, important themes. D'Agosta can find nothing.
***
He nearly bumps into Constance while he's going to the kitchen to make coffee. She's carrying a silver tray, half-empty cups of green tea stacked carefully on it.
"Did you talk to him?" she asks, without prelude.
D'Agosta nods, and falls into step with her. "A little bit. We looked through his books, mostly."
Constance sighs. "I'd hoped you could talk him out of it," she says. They enter the kitchen, and she puts the tray on the table hard enough to rattle the cups. "I told him Diogenes is gone, that he's wasting his time." She sounds almost wistful. "Now he won't talk to me at all."
She leaves before he can respond. When he passes the tray with his coffee, he notices things floating in the cups, just barely there, and goes to take a closer look. In each cup is a single hair, short and bright red.
When he brings Pendergast into the kitchen to show him, the cups are all stacked in the sink, upside-down and bone dry. Neither of them see Constance again that night.
***
The windows in the library go from black to blue to white as the sun rises, and eventually Pendergast puts down the book he's flipping through and leans against D'Agosta, announcing that he needs to rest for a few moments.
"How long's it been since you slept?" D'Agosta asks.
Pendergast blinks. His eyes are rimmed with red, and when D'Agosta touches his hair, it's greasy and thick, as though he hasn't watched it for days. "I cannot afford to," he says, and closes his eyes. D'Agosta waits until his breathing becomes deep and regular, signifying sleep, and slips out from under him, gently pushing the weight of his body onto the armchair behind them both.
He begins to make plans-drag Pendergast back to D'Agosta's apartment, to the apartment at the Dakota, even contact Viola and see if she'll take him back. Get him away from Riverside Drive and the old graffiti in the books, the red hairs floating around, the ghosts in each room. It's no wonder Pendergast is starting to go crazy, in this crumbling tomb. He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling, wondering how long Pendergast has spent in here, how long he's obsessed over the books and history in this place, and before long his eyes close, too.
When he opens them, there's something red and white and blurry floating over him, a smile and a mismatched pair of eyes he knows all too well. He blinks, and it disappears, nothing but a trace on the back of his eyelids.