Hand in Bloodied Hand
Rating: General
Relationships: Oswald J. Emerson & Silvia Salcedo, Oswald J. Emerson/The Six-finger'd Scrimshander
Tags: Friendly Banter, Shameless Flirting and Tenderness, Depictions of Blood (of dubious origin), Flatmate Drama, and a very very smug Oswald
Words: 1120
Summary: Oswald and Silvia are busy working on Silvia's next critique of one of Oswald's terrible operas. A visitor surprises them both.
[Finished this just in time for the last day of the @fallenlondonficswap! This was written as a public swap gift for @neathyingenue, but @t6fs also makes an appearance. I did ask for permission to feature my own OC from everyone involved, so that should be no issue when it comes to the rules of the fic swap. I hope both of you enjoy! :)]
“Abhorrent. Repulsive. Woefully lacking in self-awareness. A rich man’s pitiful attempt at feigning sympathy for the masses, dripping with narcissistic intent. Or… you could just call it stupid?”
Oswald turned his head towards Silvia’s form, her fingers ghosting over the typewriter. He was lounging, as he often was, over a piece of furniture. This time, his long limbs were hanging over the couch at Silvia’s apartment. The woman in question kept typing until the end of the line bell chimed — only then did she hit the carriage return lever and finally graced Oswald with a response.
“Oh? I thought you were supposed to be a terrible writer, Oswald,” Silvia smiled, eyes roaming over the paragraphs she’d written so far.
Naturally, she proceeded to ignore all of Oswald’s suggestions. Sure, their current set up may have had a slight fraudulent streak to it, but her writing was always going to be her own. She still had some semblance of journalistic integrity, godd__n it.
“Terrible at writing operas, perhaps. But you can’t deny I’ve always had a way with words, can you, darling?”
Even with her back turned to him, Silvia could hear the smirk in the man’s voice. She shook her head fondly and looked out the window for inspiration… then found something else entirely.
“Ah, there it is!” Silvia said excitedly. “Looks like my flatmate’s home. Oh! Oh, dear. Oz, please don’t be alarmed… But it looks like it’s covered in somebody else’s blood.”
“Huh?” Oswald sat up on the couch, his brows furrowed. “… Wait, how do you know it’s someone else’s blood?”
He fixed his gaze on the apartment door, steeling himself for the blood-soaked apparition about to walk through it.
Wrong choice.
Oswald jumped at the sudden sound of the windows swinging open, paired with the clatter of various limbs and items (something metallic, maybe a prosthetic…?) landing on the wooden floor. He clutched the back of the couch as he whipped his head around and saw… The Scrimshander?
“Logan! I’m so sorry, I forgot to tell you— I mean, I doubt Oswald here is one to judge, are you, Oz, what with your fair share of scandalous— oh, I’ll just skip to the introductions, shall I? Oswald, this is my flatmate, the Scrimshander. Logan, this is Osw— Lord Oswald J. Emerson. The J is very important, or so I have been told. Can’t be part of the aristocracy without hiding some aspect of yourself, I hear. I mean, um…”
Silvia chuckled nervously, smoothing down the lapels of her suit. Oswald seemed to ignore her chatter, including the near slip up in regards to his identity. He stared instead, dumb-founded, at the creature covered in scarlet and the small (but steadily growing) puddle of blood at its feet.
It took the Scrimshander opening its mouth (maw?) to remind Oswald of his manners. Then he was out of his seat quick as an asp, moving to stand directly in front of it.
“Thank you, Silvia. We’ve already had the pleasure, actually,” Oswald said, looking into the Scrimshander’s eye with a familiar smile. He reached out for one of its bloodied hands and asked. “May I?”
Echoing one of their earlier meetings, the Scrimshander could do little but nod in affirmation as it rested its hand in Oswald’s. Oswald took out a handkerchief from his chest pocket and proceeded to wipe each of its six digits clean, one by one. He turned its hand over in his own, gently dragging the handkerchief over its palm. Then he did the same for its other hand, finally crowning his efforts with a kiss to the Scrimshander’s knuckles.
If its poor eyesight hadn’t allowed it to immediately recognise Oswald across the room, the touch of soft skin against its own would’ve certainly done the trick. The feeling of lips on its hands, freshly dried but not completely blood-free (did Oswald really not mind?) almost made it dizzy.
“Umm. Thank you, çu`kha`,” the Scrimshander said, the sound of blood rushing in its ears.
“Of course,” Oswald smiled. As if cleaning a stranger’s blood from the hands of a lover was a regular occurrence for him. He lingered for a moment, running his fingers across the Scrimshander’s palm. Such a unique feeling, having his hand encompassed so fully, an experience he would never get with anyone else except for Logan…
A pointed cough.
Ah, Oswald realised with a start, right. A sudden reminder that they were not alone.
Silvia was standing next to her desk, arms crossed, waiting for the two of them to finish their little display. Polite and considerate as always, Oswald let go of the Scrimshander and took a step back, his smile and eyes still glittering happily.
“Right. I’ll let you finish getting cleaned up. Unless you wanted me to… No, nevermind, Silvia and I are very busy at work. I’ll see you soon, dearest.”
The Scrimshander whipped its head around, looking at Silvia as if it had also just remembered its flatmate’s existence. It gave her a look that Oswald couldn’t parse, then nodded goodbye at the gentleman in question and hurried towards the bathroom. Presumably getting ready to take a nice, long bath. To clean up… and perhaps to calm down.
Oswald seemed a little too busy reminiscing to notice Silvia staring at him. His gaze remained fixed on the door even as she spoke up:
“… Oswald?”
“Hmmm?”
“Are you two…?”
“Huh?” The hesitance in Silvia’s voice finally caught Oswald’s attention. He turned to look at her and found a mild blush dusting her cheeks. Now that was a more interesting sight than a closed bathroom door. “You mean me and Logan? Oh, no, we’re just friends like you and I. Well. Maybe not quite like you and I…”
Oswald trailed off, allowing the movement of his eyebrows to finish the sentence for him. Silvia wrinkled her nose in an all too familiar way — this was far from being the first time that Oswald had tormented her with one of his innuendos.
“Please, Silvia, are you truly opposed to seeing some affection in this house? It could certainly use it right now, what with you having to spend hours with an upper-class prat you hate.” Oswald said with an airy laugh.
“You may have a point there. I’m starting to despise him more by the second,” Silvia quipped, giving Oswald’s shoulder a little push.
She sat back down in her chair, seemingly finished with the topic. But Oswald had no doubts that her curiosity would get the better of her eventually. For now though, Oswald made himself comfortable leaning against her desk. Legs crossed at the ankle, he chattered on as the keys of the typewriter clattered behind him.
