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Don't ask. I have odd notions, sometimes? *shrugs sheepishly* ETA: Editted on suggestion to perhaps make the other fandom more of a surprise -_-;
Title: Mamushka
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Sanctuary, Surprise Fandom
Characters/Pairings: John Druitt, Other
Summary: John dances
Wordcount: 1340
Warnings/Notes: Um. Mild insanity? Or major insanity ...
Disclaimer: Oh, so not mine.
Title: Mamushka
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Sanctuary, Surprise Fandom
Characters/Pairings: John Druitt, Other
Summary: John dances
Wordcount: 1340
Warnings/Notes: Um. Mild insanity? Or major insanity ...
Disclaimer: Oh, so not mine.
Mamushka
Steel rang, high and sweet and savage, in time to the skirl of music, and for a moment it was almost enough to forget why he was here. For a moment, it was almost enough to forget the bloodlust, to forget the predatory brutality that lurked in the sound of steel. For a moment, one moment, and that was what John sought. That was what he hunted, here, chased into the dust, captured time and again in the wild whirl of movement, held for as long as he could. That moment, when the knives meant more than blood, and the hunting joy something lighter and less deadly than the darkness.
His opponent laughed at him, a wild, madcap grin, the knives in his hands flashing and beating in time, striking sweet-toned against John's own, one beat, two, to the cry of the violin and the flashing, demanding thrill of the tambourines. The man moved like a fighter, like a dancer, like a swordsman, his feet light and heavy as needed, counting out a dark, delighted dance around John. In time, in time, moment to moment, not to the demands of the dance, but part of it. Trembling with dark, savage joy, delighting in the singing of their blades as they clashed against each other, swung away, came back. An acrobat, a child, a fencer, lunging and testing, always in time to the music, always in tune to the dance.
John felt himself snarling, felt himself smiling, felt the monster inside him leap and lunge and laugh at this game, this foolish, deadly game. A game that could end at any moment, a dance that could become far darker, if only John let his hands slip. If only John stepped outside the wild, skirling beat to move to one more primal. If only he became the Ripper, not the dancer, and sank his singing steel into laughing flesh.
His opponent knew it. His opponent, and all those around them. To a man, to a woman, to a child, every last one, they knew him. They saw the monster in his eyes, felt the hunger of his blades, understood in every bone what monster danced in their midst. What killer. Laughing, gleeful, delighted, they played on regardless, with a shout and a whoop for the dancers as they turned, with a gleeful intake of breath when John lashed out, darted forward, and was met, was matched, spun away to the sounds of laughter and the sing of steel, the clap of hands in that insistent, unstoppable rhythm, that beat, that dance.
They knew him, here. As Jack only, as the Ripper, as the monster from London's heart stalking out of history to play dark games with them. They remembered him, from that first meeting, so long ago, though only a few here had lived then. It didn't matter. They remembered as families remember, held him honoured guest for the history between them, and one among them even stood, pater familias, as John's opponent in this dance of knives. As his partner, as his instructor, as his prey, as his better. The man laughed for his sake, looked on the monster inside John as he had looked on who knew how many others, and saluted it with nothing more than fierce, indomitable joy. No fear, no hatred, no simmering, bitter rage. Only the admiring delight of a creature in love with the world, adoring of it, even in the darkness.
John loved that. Hated that. Yearned for it, as much as he yearned for the darkness of this dance, for the gleeful acceptance of it, for the beat of it, the cry, that taunted and teased the monster inside him, laughed in its face, delighted in its darkness. For the surety of it, the confidence, this savage, ringing thing that did not fear him, that matched him blade for blade and did not curse the monster inside him. John wanted that, treasured that, and hated with every scrap of humanity left inside him that he should have embraced his monster so much, that he should love those who would willingly dance to its tune.
He cried out, a rich, guttural snarl, a plea as much as a warning, and the man who fought him changed, the music that guided them with him, a whirling now tempestuous, now deadly, now furious. A clash of knives not in jest, now, but in earnest, and his opponent whooped in breathless joy as he spun to John, as he caught John, knife to knife, hilts locked, and snapped them to the side, a flick of wrists that disarmed them both, and John could have stopped him, could have flashed away, but he did not. Here, only here, for these people who did not fear him, he dropped his blades, dropped his guard, dropped to his knees before them. While the tambourines fell silent on one last tremble, while the violin sank sweetly into nothing and the wind sighed into silence, he fell to his knees, the monster for now appeased, and looked up into the laughing, joyful face of his opponent.
"Thank you," he said, from what little was left that was human in him, for the chance, the moment, to appease his demon. From the monster that owned his heart, for the chance to dance and taunt and sing, without blood. For once, without blood. "Thank you," John said, Jack the Ripper, to the people he owed, and his opponent smiled, laughed as he helped John to his feet, nothing but breathless camaraderie in the touch of his hand.
"Not at all, old man!" Gomez Addams laughed, waving a hand expansively. "You should come around more often! An Addams is always ready to serve, you know."
John smiled, then. Faintly, ruefully, feeling the stretched ache inside him where the monster was now quiet, where the savagery was now appeased. Yes, he knew. He remembered.
Remembered the first time. Remembered the Addams then, and the feeling of his blade sinking into the man's side, and the shocked laughter in his eyes even as he fell. Remembered how the family had gathered around them, how they had looked on the gaping wound part in fascination and part in ... some manner of amused concern, that John had not ... That he still did not understand. The man had laughed up at him, while his wife saw to his wound, utterly unfazed, holding out his hand for John to take and laughingly telling him to come back when the wound had scarred, for the next dance. No fear at all for the monster that had savaged him, no concern for anything but his fitness to dance again.
John had not gone back. Not in that man's lifetime. Only now, so desperate, on the heels of learning what his monster was, riding the rush of its fury and needing something, some avenue of release that did not cost in blood, had he dared. Only now had he come, some hundred years later. And now, as then, an Addams had stood for him. An Addams had danced for him, and laughed while he did, and treated John, and his monster, as a guest.
Sometimes, John thought, there was more of madness in this world than even the Five really understood. Sometimes there was more of monsters, and men, and the lines that blurred between them, than even he had seen. And inside that madness, there were places where even the bloodstained serpent in his breast could seem lighter, more distant, if only for one beat of a foot in the center of a dance, one breath, one ring of steel. If only for one moment, for the Mamushka.
For that reason, for the monster in his chest, for the gleeful, uncaring acceptance he saw around him ... John knew he would not return. Not while this man lived, not while this man served. John would not darken their door again, not until another hundred years had passed. Not until the need was that great, once again.
Some things, monsters did not deserve to have.
A/N: Quote from The Addams Family (1991): "Taught to us by our Cossack cousins, the Mamushka has been an Addams Family tradition since God knows when. We danced the Mamushka while Nero fiddled, we danced the Mamushka at Waterloo. We danced the Mamushka for Jack the Ripper. And now ..."
Steel rang, high and sweet and savage, in time to the skirl of music, and for a moment it was almost enough to forget why he was here. For a moment, it was almost enough to forget the bloodlust, to forget the predatory brutality that lurked in the sound of steel. For a moment, one moment, and that was what John sought. That was what he hunted, here, chased into the dust, captured time and again in the wild whirl of movement, held for as long as he could. That moment, when the knives meant more than blood, and the hunting joy something lighter and less deadly than the darkness.
His opponent laughed at him, a wild, madcap grin, the knives in his hands flashing and beating in time, striking sweet-toned against John's own, one beat, two, to the cry of the violin and the flashing, demanding thrill of the tambourines. The man moved like a fighter, like a dancer, like a swordsman, his feet light and heavy as needed, counting out a dark, delighted dance around John. In time, in time, moment to moment, not to the demands of the dance, but part of it. Trembling with dark, savage joy, delighting in the singing of their blades as they clashed against each other, swung away, came back. An acrobat, a child, a fencer, lunging and testing, always in time to the music, always in tune to the dance.
John felt himself snarling, felt himself smiling, felt the monster inside him leap and lunge and laugh at this game, this foolish, deadly game. A game that could end at any moment, a dance that could become far darker, if only John let his hands slip. If only John stepped outside the wild, skirling beat to move to one more primal. If only he became the Ripper, not the dancer, and sank his singing steel into laughing flesh.
His opponent knew it. His opponent, and all those around them. To a man, to a woman, to a child, every last one, they knew him. They saw the monster in his eyes, felt the hunger of his blades, understood in every bone what monster danced in their midst. What killer. Laughing, gleeful, delighted, they played on regardless, with a shout and a whoop for the dancers as they turned, with a gleeful intake of breath when John lashed out, darted forward, and was met, was matched, spun away to the sounds of laughter and the sing of steel, the clap of hands in that insistent, unstoppable rhythm, that beat, that dance.
They knew him, here. As Jack only, as the Ripper, as the monster from London's heart stalking out of history to play dark games with them. They remembered him, from that first meeting, so long ago, though only a few here had lived then. It didn't matter. They remembered as families remember, held him honoured guest for the history between them, and one among them even stood, pater familias, as John's opponent in this dance of knives. As his partner, as his instructor, as his prey, as his better. The man laughed for his sake, looked on the monster inside John as he had looked on who knew how many others, and saluted it with nothing more than fierce, indomitable joy. No fear, no hatred, no simmering, bitter rage. Only the admiring delight of a creature in love with the world, adoring of it, even in the darkness.
John loved that. Hated that. Yearned for it, as much as he yearned for the darkness of this dance, for the gleeful acceptance of it, for the beat of it, the cry, that taunted and teased the monster inside him, laughed in its face, delighted in its darkness. For the surety of it, the confidence, this savage, ringing thing that did not fear him, that matched him blade for blade and did not curse the monster inside him. John wanted that, treasured that, and hated with every scrap of humanity left inside him that he should have embraced his monster so much, that he should love those who would willingly dance to its tune.
He cried out, a rich, guttural snarl, a plea as much as a warning, and the man who fought him changed, the music that guided them with him, a whirling now tempestuous, now deadly, now furious. A clash of knives not in jest, now, but in earnest, and his opponent whooped in breathless joy as he spun to John, as he caught John, knife to knife, hilts locked, and snapped them to the side, a flick of wrists that disarmed them both, and John could have stopped him, could have flashed away, but he did not. Here, only here, for these people who did not fear him, he dropped his blades, dropped his guard, dropped to his knees before them. While the tambourines fell silent on one last tremble, while the violin sank sweetly into nothing and the wind sighed into silence, he fell to his knees, the monster for now appeased, and looked up into the laughing, joyful face of his opponent.
"Thank you," he said, from what little was left that was human in him, for the chance, the moment, to appease his demon. From the monster that owned his heart, for the chance to dance and taunt and sing, without blood. For once, without blood. "Thank you," John said, Jack the Ripper, to the people he owed, and his opponent smiled, laughed as he helped John to his feet, nothing but breathless camaraderie in the touch of his hand.
"Not at all, old man!" Gomez Addams laughed, waving a hand expansively. "You should come around more often! An Addams is always ready to serve, you know."
John smiled, then. Faintly, ruefully, feeling the stretched ache inside him where the monster was now quiet, where the savagery was now appeased. Yes, he knew. He remembered.
Remembered the first time. Remembered the Addams then, and the feeling of his blade sinking into the man's side, and the shocked laughter in his eyes even as he fell. Remembered how the family had gathered around them, how they had looked on the gaping wound part in fascination and part in ... some manner of amused concern, that John had not ... That he still did not understand. The man had laughed up at him, while his wife saw to his wound, utterly unfazed, holding out his hand for John to take and laughingly telling him to come back when the wound had scarred, for the next dance. No fear at all for the monster that had savaged him, no concern for anything but his fitness to dance again.
John had not gone back. Not in that man's lifetime. Only now, so desperate, on the heels of learning what his monster was, riding the rush of its fury and needing something, some avenue of release that did not cost in blood, had he dared. Only now had he come, some hundred years later. And now, as then, an Addams had stood for him. An Addams had danced for him, and laughed while he did, and treated John, and his monster, as a guest.
Sometimes, John thought, there was more of madness in this world than even the Five really understood. Sometimes there was more of monsters, and men, and the lines that blurred between them, than even he had seen. And inside that madness, there were places where even the bloodstained serpent in his breast could seem lighter, more distant, if only for one beat of a foot in the center of a dance, one breath, one ring of steel. If only for one moment, for the Mamushka.
For that reason, for the monster in his chest, for the gleeful, uncaring acceptance he saw around him ... John knew he would not return. Not while this man lived, not while this man served. John would not darken their door again, not until another hundred years had passed. Not until the need was that great, once again.
Some things, monsters did not deserve to have.
A/N: Quote from The Addams Family (1991): "Taught to us by our Cossack cousins, the Mamushka has been an Addams Family tradition since God knows when. We danced the Mamushka while Nero fiddled, we danced the Mamushka at Waterloo. We danced the Mamushka for Jack the Ripper. And now ..."
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