Pairing & Fandoms: Christopher Marlowe- Real Person/ Veronica Sawyer- Heathers
Rating: PG, I guess
Spoilers:. Maybe a little, but not if you already know the premise of Heathers.
Warnings: .Probable historical innacuracy.
Christopher Marlowe had to face a simple fact- the character wasn’t working. The Jew of Malta simply wasn’t meant to have a morally confused Christian mistress, and the more he tried to work her into the story, the more it fell flat. And so Veronica the Novice would fall into the wayside along with all his other discarded roles.
It really was a shame. Her part had seemed so perfect a first- a nun in training, mercilessly tormented by her supposed friends, would be tricked by Barabas into giving them a drink she supposed would only sicken them as revenge for her own torment, but was in fact a deadly poison. Horrified but intoxicated with a newfound power, she’d be forced to run with the man to escape authority, all the while lamenting her complicity with such a villain. But alas, it was not to be.
He looked over at Veronica as he put down his quill. There she lay, asleep in the corner, still wearing the same ridiculous garments she’d had on when he found her. It wasn’t common for characters to wander into the life of a playwright uninvited, but when these thing happened you dealt with them as best you could.
Tomorrow morning, he thought, he’d pass her on to Ben Johnson or Will Shakespeare, see if they had any room for her. He knew the latter was planning a play based on Richard III, and perhaps he needed a few more roles for the higher-voiced members of his company. Who was to say the king hadn’t debated ethics with a young lady of court every now and then?
He smiled at Veronica’s sleeping form. He had developed that certain fondness for unwanted characters that plagued many writers, and this reluctant, self-deceiving murderess was no different. But even if no one had anywhere for her to go now, he knew she could wait. Fictional characters never aged, especially ones who hasn’t been written down yet.
Christopher Marlowe would die, and Veronica would live. She could wait for her part. Even if it took four hundred years, she’d find her play.