elaby | Lookit, I wrote fanfic.

Yes, I'm a great big dork. I wrote fanfic for The Moonstone.

Title: Sympathy
Fandom: The Moonstone
Pairings: Ezra Jennings/Franklin Blake unrequited
Rating: G
Summary: Franklin Blake POV. Taking place after the first few days of Franklin's second tobacco withdrawal (towards the end of the book), Ezra Jennings checks on Franklin's condition and finds him predictably morose.
Notes: Spoilers for events near the end of the book are mentioned.

Over at rarelitslash

Wheeeeeee n_n

[Edit in June, 07: I'm going to post the fic here too, in case rarelitslash ever explodes or something.]

The tobacco withdrawal had begun to take its toll on me, and that morning I felt particularly wretched. My head pounded and my nerves were a mess; I was irritable and melancholy. My emotions were very close to the surface and I felt absolutely incapable of controlling them. This feeling increased as the morning went on, and presently Ezra Jennings arrived to check on me. I cannot possibly feel more grateful than I do now for his kind understanding, patience, and sympathy. After he observed my withdrawal symptoms, we found ourselves coming to the topic of Rachel, and try as I might, I could not restrain my bitterness. Jennings had taken me into the east sitting-room in order that I could recline on the sofa while he measured my blood pressure, and I now sat upright, unable to keep from fidgeting. He stood on the other side of the room, medical books spread across the table, reading from one of them while listening with one ear to my complaints:--

"You did say Rachel will come, did you not?" A nod from him. "Mr. Jennings, it is of the utmost importance to me -- the utmost importance -- that Rachel herself believe me innocent of this crime. It is not enough that the evidence point to the laudanum as the cause. She must truly believe that I was not under my own command on that dreadful night."

"If all goes accordingly, Mr. Blake, she can not but believe it."

I am afraid that while I trusted his word completely, I could not help feeling a pessimistic anxiety, nurtured by memories of our last meeting which were never far from my mind. In my upset state, I found myself unable to talk of anything else.

"She said the most awful, wrenching things, Jennings," I told him, unwittingly falling into a familiar form of address. "Before all this, I would have thought nothing could sever our attachment. Now I am afraid I was greatly mistaken. If she can still say such things, what hope-- How can bonds I once thought so strong-- Ah!" I turned my face aside, ashamed but incapable of stopping myself. "I... do not believe I can withstand another confrontation of its like."

I own that I came to tears in front of him, and I wish I could say it with as little shame as he had confessed the same to me.

When Jennings observed this, he closed the book he was reading and set it down on the table. "My dear fellow," he said, and came to the sofa beside me. When I begged his forgiveness, he continued:-- "It is I, of all people, whom you need not apologize to." He then offered me his handkerchief with the utmost compassion. After what seemed like a moment's deliberation, he put his arm tenderly round my shoulders. I felt in him a deep sympathy then, the source of which I think I will never fully understand. Once I had sufficiently regained myself, he drew back -- again expressing humility and almost self-reproach in his response to my gratitude.

"No, Mr. Blake, you must not thank me. It is I who owe you everything."