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Who's Who in London Hooligans - Phillippe Delacroix
Phil's JournalPhil/Bean backstory - Phil's POV
"Bugger. Whatever do I do now?" Phil thinks, crouching over the slumped corpse.
He crouches, meeting the dead man's blank stare and wondering about the hour of his own death. He wonders if there's a stiletto through the navel waiting for him, like this poor excuse for humanity now lying at his feet.
Messner is – or rather was – his name. Joseph Messner. He was essentially well-groomed rough trade, but Phil likes the occasional "difficult client" to test his negotiation skills. He had, after all, met with the infamous Mr. Withers and come away with nothing more than his money and consternation. Fear and pain are Withers' drugs of choice and when Withers looked into the boy's apparently fearless eyes he had wilted, paid and walked away. The fact that Phil was terrified to the brink of fainting was a truth that would never be told to anyone.
Now he's gotten himself into another mess and no amount of mummy's courtesan tricks will save him. Messner had tried to force him into a carriage to go to a remote location, but the threat of an ugly street scene altered his plan. Even a homosexual lunatic is first and foremost homosexual and dare not draw attention to himself. Phil had somehow convinced him that the alley behind the Cock and Feather would be sufficiently "exotic." This, perversely, may have saved his life.
Messner's demeanor changed rapidly when he thought he had his "quarry" cornered. A dark alley and an old madman with a penchant for raping freshly strangled boys usually bodes ill for the boy. Boys who are not Phillippe, that is.
Phil put on his best "terrified fawn" face and stealthily reached for his trusty mechanical stiletto as the man paced and gave his dissertation on how all "nelly whores should die." The last thing the old lunatic ever heard was a "snick." The last sensation he ever felt was the icy intrusion of the slender blade, and cold cobblestones against his cheek.
"Well, Phillippe Delacroix, adventurer, what do we do now?" he thinks, gingerly pulling his blade from the bloated gullet. He wipes his beloved pearl-handled companion with a rancid old rag with an unsavory reek of fish. Luckily there isn't much blood. He removes the man's kerchief from his pockets and his cravat to staunch the flow and resumes trying to figure out to get this hulking brute out of the alley without arousing suspicion. He becomes keenly aware of another, very much alive entity in the alley.
"You're poaching in my forest, pretty boy," A deep and rumbling voice says from over his shoulder. He spins and looks into moss green eyes surrounded by an oddly placid face. He's seen this man about. He knows he's "family" but he isn't sure if he's a friend or foe. He feels the fear rising again. He reaches into his pocket for his pistol and as he raises his weapon he is met with the man's larger and wholly unattractive pistol, now aimed squarely between his eyes.
"Leave me be or you'll meet the same end as this gentleman," Phil says, using every ounce of his remaining composure.
"Going to stab me with your little pistol are ya?" he says with a wry smirk.
"I know how to use this. I do you know." Phil says, trying to suppress a growing pant.
"I'm sure you do, lad, but it's quite unnecessary. Now, you lower your weapon and I shall lower mine and we'll sort this minor matter," Bean says, resting a boot on the stiffening corpse, then continues intently, "I can see your heart beat from where I stand. Trust me and I shall assist you."
"Who are you? What am I to you? What is the matter to you? What in the name of God's arse are you even doing here? Why – "
"Full of questions aren't you, pretty?" Bean calmly interrupts and lowers his weapon. "I do have answers for some of them if you calm yourself and put away your weapon."
Phil's reserve is positively crumbling, but his will to live has not and he keeps his pearl handled pistol aimed at the man's chest.
"If you shoot me, the rozzers will most certainly come and cart you away. And there is, of course the matter of my son and gangleader. My death would annoy him greatly. I'm sure you've heard of Elijah Wood."
Phil lowers his weapon and his shoulders round with the weight of his despair. He thinks he's shot a gang member and this gigantic beautiful beast has been dispatched to dispatch him. His eyes grow hot with brimming tears.
"Was he – one of your gang?" he chokes.
"Christ on the cross NO!" Bean replies. "I'm just a little annoyed that I didn't get to kill this pillock myself."
"And you're not going to kill me?"
"No, boy. If I had a medal I'd feckin' pin it on your lapel. This creature is the one that's been killing rentboys 'round Soho. The rozzers don't much care if one of us turns up dead, so we take care of our own." Bean says in a low conspiratorial tone, only slightly above a whisper.
The shock of what he is in the middle of is very nearly more than Phil can bear.
"Now, to your questions: The name is Bean, Sean Bean. I ran down this alley to fetch you when I saw Prince Charming, dragging an apparently fragile little bloke to his doom."
The relief Phil feels is positively nauseating.
"I take it you've heard my name in certain quarters?" Bean says, gauging the lad's face.
"Ah yes I have Monsieur Bean. You are the patron sinner of Soho. Your name and your apparently bottomless pockets are the stuff of legend." He says, putting away his weapon and managing a nervous smile.
"I mean you no harm. Many lads pay me protection and I'm worth every feckin' dime. They don't come to this kind of harm," he says kicking the corpse, "when they're under my watchful eye."
Ever the pragmatist, Phil meets the gaze of his savior and says plaintively, "Please help me."
"Consider it done lad." Bean says gravely and, instantly, springs to action. He dashes to the end of the alley and shouts "BURT! Bring your cart mate! We got a bit of offal to dump."
A ramshackle greengrocer's cart blocks the entry of the alley. The wretched thing looks as if it's being held together with rusty nails and denial, but it will get the job done.
"But how - ?" Phil manages to ask
"He'll be at the bottom of the Thames within the hour." Bean says, frantically searching for something known only to him. He finds it: an empty fish barrel. Perfect punishment for the old bastard. To rot throughout eternity surrounded by the scent of fish. Burt and Bean stuff the body, after relieving it of it's valuables of course, into the barrel.
"C'mon lad, we're in this conspiracy until the bitter end." Bean says, motioning Phil to board the cart. They ride in silence to a secluded underpass on the shores of the Thames. Burt and Bean converse briefly and dump the wretch to his final reward.
"Now that all the unpleasantness of the day is laid to rest, may I know your name?" Bean says, walking over to Phil, still staring, dazed at water. "Are you well?" Bean asks, resting a hand on Phil's shoulder. Phil starts and shakes anew. The day's horrors come into sharp focus for the lad.
"I've killed someone. What else could I do? He wanted to kill me…I've killed someone." He says, dazed.
Bean grabs the boy by the shoulders and stares intently into his face. "You defended yourself. Never ever regret that. If you want to remember something, remember what he did to poor Nigel."
"HE did that?" remembering the stories of a poor pale boy found dead, but not whole. They carried that boy from the crime scene in pieces and not all of them were there.
"Messner was the sick bastard that hurt that poor boy, and you stopped him. There is no shame for you in this day." He says as Phillippe finally surrenders to his tears.
"I was foolish. I knew he was a villain, but I thought –"
"You thought you'd have a bit of adventure and get away clean. " Bean says knowingly.
Phil feels his legs start to fail him. Bean rushes to steady him, but catches him in an embrace instead. They stand silently as the boy sobs. Bean is disarmed by the scent of lavender and holds him just a bit tighter, His conversation a low rumble into the boy's hair. "His death was not evil. It was necessary."
"You ready to come in from the cold boy?" he asks as Phil finally breaks their embrace and collects himself.
"Thank you kindly for your assistance, but you'll find me a wholly inadequate gang member." He replies, arranging his clothes and mopping his face with Bean's kerchief.
"No, not that. You just strike me as a gentleman that could use a bit of protection. I've seen you about. Been meaning to avail myself of your services. Perhaps we may make some arrangements."
Phil isn't one to dwell on horrible things. They tear at his heart but never ever break his spirit. He musters his most serene courtesan's face and seeks his salvation. "Really? Splendid. Now that we've gotten the day's unpleasantness sorted we may have a proper introduction. Phillippe Delacroix is the name. À Votre Service." He says as brightly as he can muster, extending a hand.
"Well Phillippedelaquahavotrahserveeese, pleased to meet you. Sean Bean is the name. I'm sure we'll do splendid business together."
Bean hails a carriage and they strike their deal, which would ultimately lead to bigger, better things.
Phil/Bean backstory - Bean's POV
All he wanted was a bit of peace. This brewing war with Orlando was threatening to build to something bloody and he wanted to be as ready as a bloke could possibly be.
The vigil was positively maddening, but he had no taste for the usual distractions that soothed him: rentboys had taken to choosing sides in this little battle for street supremacy, so consorting with them simply wasn't practical. He didn't make an issue of it among the men, simply telling them "the lads are being especially naughty, but I've assured the pimp no harm would come to them. Mind yer purse and yer manhood and you'll make it home in one piece."
He'd even lost the taste for ale. Oddly, his drinking habits gave his mates pause even more than his celibacy. He knew his many declined offers of a "lovely pint to take the chill out of your bones" concerned the men, but he stayed the course. Elijah appeared distracted of late. Not his usual sharply focused self. Viggo was, well, being Viggo, so it was left to him to provide strong leadership in their stead. They were, after all, a family.
To steel himself and plot next steps, he took to evening walks around SoHo. The walks turned out to be excellent opportunities to survey the gang's holdings, observe the movements of particularly threatening rivals and to watch an unknown red-haired boy, who appeared on his streets mysteriously.
Asking about bore no fruit. The rentboys who knew of him positively loathed his ruthless ability to gently steal their best paying tricks.
"Bean dearest, are you absolutely sure you can't kill him?" Vyvyan, a dalliance he'd tired of ages ago, begged.
"No Petal, I'm the protector remember?" he said, mustering every shred of patience he had left with the whiny boy.
"Well, there'll be no more mischief on the roof with your lovely Vyv if he isn't killed…" the boy singsonged.
Bean, bored anew, simply replied "My sweet Vyvyan, you were meant for finer stuff than I," thinking I should kill you for the unspeakable blowjobs you gave me. Bean, fumes internally, wincing from the memory of grazing teeth. Vyvyan, undeterred, tried to push on further, when, as if summoned, the boy appeared, casually strolling past the Café Royal.
The sight of him stopped Bean in his tracks. The sound of Vyvyan's whining was lost to the sound of the boy whistling a tune through lush, perfect lips and walking over to an older gentleman. He tipped his bowler to the gentleman and the pair walked away together. More than anything, Bean wanted to be that old fool.
For a moment he didn't understand his fascination with this stranger. Then it hit him: Christ, he looks exactly like Elijah. He's a red haired, green-eyed Elijah. His fascination doubled.
A bloke that walks the streets of SoHo for his daily bread tends to bump into the same people again and again. Such was the case with the "red haired Elijah" as he came to think of him. During another especially annoying conversation with another perfectly awful rentboy named Jorn, he appeared again. Jorn was not to be denied and tried valiantly to distract. Bean turned to tell Jorn to piss off, watched Jorn skulk away and turned to see that he'd lost him again. He ground his teeth, tossed his cigar butt off the curb and tried to find him, but to no avail.
His day's wandering took him to the doorstep of the Cock and Feather. His home away from home seemed as good a place as any to regroup. and think of his latest red-haired obsession. Several meat pies and pots of tea later, he stretched and continued his walkabout, stopping in the back alley for a piss. The sound of a barely contained commotion behind him nearly made him soak his boots.
"Keep your filthy little mouth shut and you may live to see another day, nelly whore," a voice rasped above the sound of dragging heels.
"But of course, monsieur," a barely audible, barely composed voice replied.
"Fuck me," Bean thought as he quickly shook off and buttoned up, "How the fuck do these little bastards always manage to get in trouble on my fucking watch?"
He turned to assess the drama and was stunned to see the Red Haired Elijah standing against a wall at the end of the crooked alley, trying to negotiate with the man. His first impulse was to simply shoot the man:
not an option.
Nothing brings the rozzers out of the woodwork like a prime "pay your way out of this or die" opportunity. A chance for the rozzers to finally take down the Bean was no small consideration either. While he mulled the possibilities of how to best avoid arousing police attention, kill the lunatic and keep all this off the lad's oddly pristine suit, something wholly unexpected happened: the boy killed him.
Holy motherfucking shite.
He pulled out a pretty little knife, best suited for smearing marmalade and gutted him like a fish. No hooligan could have done it better.
"Bugger. Whatever do I do now?" the boy finally said, barely audibly.
Bean stood, transfixed. Gobsmacked. The boy wasn't panicked per se. This lovely little creature was no wide-eyed innocent longing for his mummy. He was a man - a match in a fight.
"Well, Phillippe Delacroix, adventurer, what do we do now?" the boy said.
So that's your name. Hello my lovely Phillippe. Bean thought, still transfixed.
Bean struggled to muster his nerve. He had to know more.
Say something you oaf. Say something brilliant and get his attention.
"You're poaching in my forest, pretty boy," He said, in as strapping and manly a voice as he could muster.
Look real tough and manly-like. he coached himself The blokes go swoony for the 'warhorse of the apocalyse' face. Make that one.
The boy gazes into his eyes and Bean falls headlong into lush brilliant green. His cock snaps to rapt attention. He's undone. With a gaze, he's lost. He wants to say something.
Before he can give it too much thought, the lad reaches into his pocket and retrieves the most perfectly adorable little pistol he has ever seen. It's got a lovely little pearl handle and it's been polished to a high shine.
I bet he keeps it under his pillow too, Bean thinks, adding the pistol to the list of things he likes about the boy.
He oddly feels he'd lose the will to live if he harmed this treasure but his street sense overrules his yearning heart. He also needs a compelling distraction from his bulging crotch and slightly weakening knees.
"Leave me be or you'll meet the same end as this gentleman," The brave boy says.
Your warhorse of the apocalypse face needs a bit of work my lad he thinks, as he pulls Old Bess, his trusted pistol. He can't be certain, but he could swear that the boy looks at his old girl and gives a disdainful sniff.
This boy's steely reserve is positively erotic. Bean isn't sure how much more he can take before he comes all over himself, but continues to banter.
"Going to stab me with your little pistol, are ya?" he asks with a wry smirk.
"I know how to use this. I do, you know." The boy says, not giving an inch of ground, using the now stiffening corpse between them as a grisly sort of shield.
"I'm sure you do, lad, but it's quite unnecessary. Now, you lower your weapon and I shall lower mine and we'll sort this minor matter," Bean says, wanting desperately to say Can't you see you've won? Can't you see I'm already yours?
"Phillipe" breaks their brief silence and rapid-fires a list of questions:
"Who are you? What am I to you? What is the matter to you? What in the name of God's arse are you even doing here? Why – "
"Full of questions aren't you, pretty?" Bean deftly interrupts, hoping frantically that he's making his concern clear. Phil lowers the gun to his chest. His pretty little pistol is aimed squarely at Bean's heart and he can't help but smile a bit at the irony.
Standing over a rotting corpse isn't the best way to lower a lad's braces. Bean thinks. Old Messner is ruining my chances. Gotta get him down with old Nick as soon as possible.
He dusts off his "apocalypse" face once more and states the requisite ugly truths to the boy.
"If you shoot me, the rozzers will most certainly come and cart you away. And there is, of course the matter of my son and gangleader. My death would annoy him greatly. I'm sure you've heard of Elijah Wood."
He sees the boy cowed, and sees his reserve melt ever so slightly. He wants to rush to him and reassure him, but is keenly aware of the possibility of being shot, so keeps his distance.
"Was he – one of your gang?" the boy says,pocketing his now quite useless pistol.
"Christ on the cross NO!" Bean replies, positively relieved that he still has a chance. "I'm just a little annoyed that I didn't get to kill this pillock myself."
"And you're not going to kill me?" the boy asks, almost pleading.
Never you, beautiful boy. Give me a sliver of a chance and no man will love you better. He thinks.
"No, boy. If I had a medal I'd feckin' pin it on your chest." Bean said aloud. "This creature is the one that's been killing rentboys 'round Soho. The rozzers don't much care if one of us turns up dead, so we take care of our own." Bean says in a low conspiratorial tone, only slightly above a whisper.
Every man's courage has limits and he sees that this boy has pretty much reached his.
The sooner I get that turd in Thames, the sooner I can see what he looks like when he smiles. I have to make this nightmare go away. Bean thinks.
Then the Bean does what he does best. He makes ugly things disappear.
"Now, to your questions: The name is Bean, Sean Bean. I ran down this alley to fetch you when I saw Prince Charming, dragging an apparently fragile little bloke to his doom."
Brilliant he says, well pleased with his skillfully crafted lie.
It sounds quite a bit better than "I was staring at a brick wall with my cock in my hand when I heard a noise behind me.
Then he sees a glimpse of it. What he hopes he'll see much more of - the faintest and sweetest of smiles.
"I take it you've heard my name in certain quarters?" Bean asks, fully expecting the boy to gush and tell a story of swashbuckling splendor.
"Ah, yes I have, Monsieur Bean. You are the patron sinner of Soho. Your name and your apparently bottomless pockets are the stuff of legend." Phillippe says.
Bugger. Bean thinks, positively exasperated with himself. he thinks I'm just another punter.
Any reasonably good-looking young bloke with a bit of drive can wheedle Bean's cock out of his pants, but his heart is not easily won. When his heart finds its desire, Bean chases what it craves with reckless abandon. What Bean hasn't realized he desires until this very momentis Phillippe. He scrambles to make things right. To be right in this boy's eyes.
"I mean you no harm. Many lads pay me protection and I'm worth every feckin' penny. They don't come to this kind of harm," he says kicking the corpse, "when they're under my watchful eye."
Then Phillippe speaks the words he didn't know he wanted hear: "Please help me."
Bean feels as if the lanterns of every street in London just got bit brighter. "Consider it done lad." Bean says gravely, hiding his bliss by springing to action.
He dashes to the end of the alley and shouts "BURT! Bring your cart mate! We got a bit of offal to dump."
A ramshackle greengrocer's cart blocks the entry of the alley. The wretched thing looks as if it's being held together with rusty nails and denial, but it will get the job done.
"But how - ?" Phil manages to ask
"He'll be at the bottom of the Thames within the hour," Bean says frantically searching for something known only to him. He finds it - an empty fish barrel. Perfect punishment for the old bastard. He and Burt do what they need to do the body – including cleaning out its pockets – and loading it onto a cart.
"C'mon lad, we're in this conspiracy until the bitter end." Bean says, motioning Phil to board the cart. They ride in silence to a secluded underpass on the shores of the Thames. Burt and Bean converse briefly and dump the wretch to his final reward.
Bean disposes of the body. After thanking Burt, Bean turns to see if Phillippe is well.
"Now that all the unpleasantness of the day is laid to rest, may I know your name?" Bean says. He winces a bit when his hand finally touches the boy and he starts. Bean's heart splits down the middle when Phillippe's resolve finally smashes onto the cobblestones.
"I've killed someone. What else could I do? He wanted to kill me…I've killed someone." Phillippe says, with aching sadness. Bean feels the boy's sadness stab through his own gut and wants desperately to make the world better for him. Desperate to try anything, he grabs the boy by the shoulders and stares intently into his face. "You defended yourself. Never ever regret that. If you want to remember something, remember what he did to poor Nigel."
"HE did that?" Phil says, wide-eyed. Bean merely nods grimly.
"Messner was the sick bastard that hurt that poor boy, and you stopped him stopped him from doing that to some other lad. There is no shame for you in this day."
The beautiful, tear-stained face now surrenders to sobs.
"I was foolish. I knew he was a villain, but I thought –"
"You thought you'd have a bit of adventure and get away clean. " Bean says, knowing the need full well himself.
Before he can say more, he sees the boy's knees buckle, and he lunges forward to hold him. The scent of lavender seals his fate. He has never ever prayed not to get an erection. Until this very moment. He didn't. He is deeply deeply relieved.
"His death was not evil. It was necessary, " he said, trying out the 'warhorse voice' again for good measure. He waits for Phillippe to break the embrace, thinking he could stand just as they are forever. His mouth waters at the possibility of their first kiss.
"You ready to come in from the cold, boy?" he asks as Phil finally breaks their embrace and collects himself.
"Thank you kindly for your assistance, but you'll find me a wholly inadequate gang member," He replies, arranging his clothes and mopping his face with Bean's kerchief.
"No, not that. You just strike me as a gentleman that could use a bit of protection. I've seen you about. Been meaning to avail myself of your services. Perhaps we may make some arrangements."
"Really? Splendid. Now that we've gotten the day's unpleasantness sorted we may have a proper introduction. Phillippe Delacroix is the name. À Votre Service."
"Well Phillippedelaquahavotrahserveeese, pleased to meet you. Sean Bean is the name. I'm sure we'll do splendid business together."
Bean hails a hansom and they ride in silence to the Cafe Royal to dine and discuss business.
Phillippe. still shaken from the evening, talks idly about the things that pass the window of their carriage. Bean watches the saddened face, illuminated by city lights, transfixed.
