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literenTitle: Noir
Fandom: Merlin
Characters: Gwaine, Merlin, Morgana
Words: ~1,100
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: Hardboiled detectives, femmes fatales, shady mob bosses... It's like Merlin meets The Maltese Falcon written by someone who hasn't seen either of those in a while and also had a maximum limit of 1,000 words.
Beta: none
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
camelot_fics's Challenge 3. Prompt: "dreams".
Detective Gwaine took one last drag from his cigarette before dropping it and viciously stomping on it with the heel of his shoe.
The pavement was shining red and gold, reflecting the light from the sign overhead. The Maiden's Dream, this club was called. It was doubtless ironic for the poor girl lying strangled just outside the service door but Gwaine didn't really feel like laughing now.
Next to him the cops were still going over the crime scene, as if this was some kind of crime novel where the shooter had left a monogrammed handkerchief behind or something equally stupid that would lead them to the resolution of this case. As if. Gwaine knew the men who'd done this and they weren't the sort who left any evidence behind. Or any witnesses.
Merlin -- Inspector Emrys now, he had to remind himself -- finished talking to the medical examiner and came to meet Gwaine. His face, usually so happy and carefree, was now all stern and there were lines under his eyes.
"Detective," he said, and from his curt nod nobody would have been able to guess that the two of them had been friends for years, since their childhood together in the Bronx.
"Inspector," Gwaine replied, matching his old friend's cold tone. "So who's the poor girl?"
Emrys shook his head. "I'll be asking the questions here," he said.
He sounded tired and Gwaine felt guilty for pushing him, but he'd been hired to do a job and he was going to do it. "Or else what?" he asked, quirking his lips. "Are you going to arrest me? We both know I didn't do this. Slap me in a cell for the night, but where is that going to leave you?"
Emrys snorted. "I don't want to play your games, Gwaine," he said. "She's the third girl strangled in a week. If you know something that we don't, spit it out."
Gwaine shrugged. "I might have heard something," he said. "But why should I tell you? It's not as if the police is ever going to help me with my cases."
"The police will damn well revoke your PI license if you don't tell us what you know right now," Sergeant William shouted, only to go red and turn away hastily when Emrys glared at him.
He had a point, though, and both Emrys and Gwaine knew it very well.
"I don't like this any more than you do," Emrys said. "But this is my city and people are dying and if you know something you need to spit it out. Now."
Gwaine passed a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble of a three-day beard under his palm. When had been the last he'd had a proper sleep? Surely not since he'd taken on this case.
He put his hands inside his pockets and felt the cold reassuring presence of his whiskey flask tucked there. Tempting, but he had a job to do.
"I'm sorry I'm not able to help you, Inspector," Gwaine shrugged.
Emrys pursed his lips but didn't insist any longer. "Then walk away, this is a crime scene and we have work to do," he said, shooing him away with one hand. He pointedly turned away and started talking with Sergeant William, a clear sign that the conversation was over.
Gwaine knew that even his PI license didn't allow him to poke around crime scenes if the police didn't want him there, but he also knew that he needed to stick around for a while longer if he wanted to get to the bottom of the case.
It was the kind of gut feeling that had gotten him kicked out of the force years before. However this time he didn't have an officer looking over his shoulder to tell him what he should do or where he should go, so he shuffled to an alley not far from the entrance of the club and lit himself another cigarette. He could wait until the police were done with the body before starting his own investigation.
"Got a light?" a woman asked him.
Even before turning to see her face, Gwaine recognized that voice. Fey, Dream's most popular singer. The club wasn't the kind of place that welcomed destitute PIs and Gwaine had only heard her sing once before, but she was the kind of person one didn't forget.
She was beautiful, pale and dark-haired, and wearing a sleeveless sequined dress that was entirely inappropriate for a January night. Gwaine held out his cheap lighter to her and she lit a small cigarette with movements that could only be described as regal.
"Terrible accident, isn't it?" Gwaine said, nodding towards the lifeless body still lying on the pavement.
Fey's head didn't even turn. "Do you think so?" she asked, raising one perfectly-shaped eyebrow.
"You don't think it's terrible?" he replied. "Such a young girl..."
"No," she cut him off. "You said it was an accident. Do you think it was an accident?"
Gwaine shook her head. "She was murdered."
In the scarce light it was difficult to make out her expression but she didn't seem surprised in the least. She took a drag from her cigarette, probably stalling for time.
"I knew it," she sighed eventually. "Helena was always too curious for her own good. Always sneaking around trying to find out everyone's secrets."
He waited in case there was anything else she wanted to say, but she just stood there smoking and staring in front of her.
"Do you know who killed her?" Gwaine asked.
Fey shrugged. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. If I tell you, who's to say I won't be the next one carried away in a body bag?"
"I'll protect you," Gwaine said.
His reassurance only caused her to laugh. "You don't know what you're up against," she said. "You don't even know my name!"
"You're Fey," he replied. "You work at this club."
"I mean my real name," she said, glaring at him. Then she shook her head. "I suppose I'll have to trust you anyway. I don't have anyone else. My name is Morgana Pendragon."
Gwaine couldn't refrain from gasping in surprise. "Pendragon!" he exclaimed.
The same name of the man who owned half of the city. The same man who owned the same nightclub they were standing in front of. The same man the police department had been trying to convict for dozens of unsolved murders over the last decade.
Fandom: Merlin
Characters: Gwaine, Merlin, Morgana
Words: ~1,100
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: Hardboiled detectives, femmes fatales, shady mob bosses... It's like Merlin meets The Maltese Falcon written by someone who hasn't seen either of those in a while and also had a maximum limit of 1,000 words.
Beta: none
Notes: Written for
camelot_fics's Challenge 3. Prompt: "dreams".Detective Gwaine took one last drag from his cigarette before dropping it and viciously stomping on it with the heel of his shoe.
The pavement was shining red and gold, reflecting the light from the sign overhead. The Maiden's Dream, this club was called. It was doubtless ironic for the poor girl lying strangled just outside the service door but Gwaine didn't really feel like laughing now.
Next to him the cops were still going over the crime scene, as if this was some kind of crime novel where the shooter had left a monogrammed handkerchief behind or something equally stupid that would lead them to the resolution of this case. As if. Gwaine knew the men who'd done this and they weren't the sort who left any evidence behind. Or any witnesses.
Merlin -- Inspector Emrys now, he had to remind himself -- finished talking to the medical examiner and came to meet Gwaine. His face, usually so happy and carefree, was now all stern and there were lines under his eyes.
"Detective," he said, and from his curt nod nobody would have been able to guess that the two of them had been friends for years, since their childhood together in the Bronx.
"Inspector," Gwaine replied, matching his old friend's cold tone. "So who's the poor girl?"
Emrys shook his head. "I'll be asking the questions here," he said.
He sounded tired and Gwaine felt guilty for pushing him, but he'd been hired to do a job and he was going to do it. "Or else what?" he asked, quirking his lips. "Are you going to arrest me? We both know I didn't do this. Slap me in a cell for the night, but where is that going to leave you?"
Emrys snorted. "I don't want to play your games, Gwaine," he said. "She's the third girl strangled in a week. If you know something that we don't, spit it out."
Gwaine shrugged. "I might have heard something," he said. "But why should I tell you? It's not as if the police is ever going to help me with my cases."
"The police will damn well revoke your PI license if you don't tell us what you know right now," Sergeant William shouted, only to go red and turn away hastily when Emrys glared at him.
He had a point, though, and both Emrys and Gwaine knew it very well.
"I don't like this any more than you do," Emrys said. "But this is my city and people are dying and if you know something you need to spit it out. Now."
Gwaine passed a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble of a three-day beard under his palm. When had been the last he'd had a proper sleep? Surely not since he'd taken on this case.
He put his hands inside his pockets and felt the cold reassuring presence of his whiskey flask tucked there. Tempting, but he had a job to do.
"I'm sorry I'm not able to help you, Inspector," Gwaine shrugged.
Emrys pursed his lips but didn't insist any longer. "Then walk away, this is a crime scene and we have work to do," he said, shooing him away with one hand. He pointedly turned away and started talking with Sergeant William, a clear sign that the conversation was over.
Gwaine knew that even his PI license didn't allow him to poke around crime scenes if the police didn't want him there, but he also knew that he needed to stick around for a while longer if he wanted to get to the bottom of the case.
It was the kind of gut feeling that had gotten him kicked out of the force years before. However this time he didn't have an officer looking over his shoulder to tell him what he should do or where he should go, so he shuffled to an alley not far from the entrance of the club and lit himself another cigarette. He could wait until the police were done with the body before starting his own investigation.
"Got a light?" a woman asked him.
Even before turning to see her face, Gwaine recognized that voice. Fey, Dream's most popular singer. The club wasn't the kind of place that welcomed destitute PIs and Gwaine had only heard her sing once before, but she was the kind of person one didn't forget.
She was beautiful, pale and dark-haired, and wearing a sleeveless sequined dress that was entirely inappropriate for a January night. Gwaine held out his cheap lighter to her and she lit a small cigarette with movements that could only be described as regal.
"Terrible accident, isn't it?" Gwaine said, nodding towards the lifeless body still lying on the pavement.
Fey's head didn't even turn. "Do you think so?" she asked, raising one perfectly-shaped eyebrow.
"You don't think it's terrible?" he replied. "Such a young girl..."
"No," she cut him off. "You said it was an accident. Do you think it was an accident?"
Gwaine shook her head. "She was murdered."
In the scarce light it was difficult to make out her expression but she didn't seem surprised in the least. She took a drag from her cigarette, probably stalling for time.
"I knew it," she sighed eventually. "Helena was always too curious for her own good. Always sneaking around trying to find out everyone's secrets."
He waited in case there was anything else she wanted to say, but she just stood there smoking and staring in front of her.
"Do you know who killed her?" Gwaine asked.
Fey shrugged. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. If I tell you, who's to say I won't be the next one carried away in a body bag?"
"I'll protect you," Gwaine said.
His reassurance only caused her to laugh. "You don't know what you're up against," she said. "You don't even know my name!"
"You're Fey," he replied. "You work at this club."
"I mean my real name," she said, glaring at him. Then she shook her head. "I suppose I'll have to trust you anyway. I don't have anyone else. My name is Morgana Pendragon."
Gwaine couldn't refrain from gasping in surprise. "Pendragon!" he exclaimed.
The same name of the man who owned half of the city. The same man who owned the same nightclub they were standing in front of. The same man the police department had been trying to convict for dozens of unsolved murders over the last decade.
