Work Text:
Locke sat on the foreshore outside the Jeremite Gentleman's Club, sipping the city's finest gin, in a small flat glass.
He liked Jerem. The pleasure city. It was a good place to lose oneself, forget all of the problems of the petty outside world. Like the black poison oozing through his veins like molasses, slowing his movements more and more each day, while Jean tore his hair out and spent all their money on the best apothecaries, in turn cajoling and blackmailing them into finding an antidote. Or Locke's other little problem – the fact that he had not been able to be with a woman in nigh two years.
("Two YEARS! By the unnamed Thirteenth, what is wrong with you, man?" was Jean's exasperated reaction. "There are plenty of willing women out there, and some of 'em might even like you enough to do it for free." He finished with a grin.)
It wasn't lack of opportunity that was Locke's problem. His body just wouldn't cooperate. It was as if it had tasted the sweet nectar of a highly addictive drug, and now refused all other nourishment.
Sabetha.
He sighed. How could one woman, one crazy, flame-haired, obstinate and infuriating woman cause him so much trouble? He had worshipped her from the day they met in the Thiefmaker's burrow, she already a part of the more experienced 'windows' crowd, yet she had ignored him for months, and at best treated him like an annoying little brother.
There had been that one night, a few years later, after their highly successful 'giggling biscuits' caper at the Duke of Camorr's Christmas party (where they had relieved many inebriated nobles of their valuables after spiking the baked goods). That night, Sabetha had been so happy, parading around in diamond necklaces and earrings, and matching the boys glass-for-glass with their mulled wine, until they were all sitting around Chains' table giggling like little children.
Sabetha had turned her happy, luminous face to Locke, then leaned in and kissed him. Just like that. While the others had stayed up talking, they'd slipped away quietly and all of Locke's dreams had come true. Until the next morning when Sabetha didn't remember (or claimed not to) and told him he must have dreamed it, and maybe he should get out more. After that, she'd disappeared on her own special project, never even telling them where she had gone.
Locke felt the crushing weight of it still, sitting in his chair watching the tide recede. He was not alone in his lonely contemplation; several other people had chosen to sit outside with their drinks. One chair was occupied with a lady in a rather fine cream and green striped dress, with oddly familiar curls spilling down her back… Locke felt a spark of hope.
She turned her green eyes to him.
"… Beth, is that you?"
~~~
Merry Christmas, Cruciel! Hope this makes up for your author defaulting. :)