at the bar | PG-13 | for bipagan | Celebrating 5 Ficathon
Title: at the bar
Author: thornsmoke
Characters: Mick St. John, Rhys
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1224 words. Slightly longer than a ficlet.
Disclaimer: Neither Moonlight nor the Merry Gentry series are mine.
Summary: Crossover with Laurell K. Hamilton's Merry Gentry series. If Rhys knew Mick, and they met every few centuries. Warnings for dubious characterization and badly-timed Bogart impressions, courtesy of Rhys.
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"You," Rhys says, "are incredibly depressing."
"Coming from a guy who spends most of his time underground."
"Coming from a guy who sleeps in a freezer."
"Hey," Mick lifts a glass at him, raising a brow. "I only started that recently."
Rhys grins at him unrepentantly, white hair sliding over his shoulders. The scars on his face run jagged and clear, but from the passing looks of the bartender, there's something sharply beautiful in the contrast between his flawed eye and his good one. "And yet some things about you will never change. You can't fool me." His voice gathers into a gruff Bogart impression. "I won't play the sap for you."
Mick drinks without pleasure or interest. He used to drink because he enjoyed it; now, because Rhys does, and it's polite. But the gliding alcoholic heat has dissipated in death, and it leaves an aftertaste of ashes. He sets the glass down and winces. "What's it been - twenty, thirty years - and that's still your best Bogart impression?"
Rhys leans in his chair. "No technology in the mound," he says. "Including DVD players. Can't practice if you ain't got a model. How's the wife?"
"Dead." At Rhys' glance, Mick looks away.
"You killed her." Rhys' voice isn't a question.
"It's complicated."
"Isn't everything?" He gestures at the bartender and gets another dash of something swirling with ice. "Although if you want to talk about complicated, try being in an Unseelie guard right now. It's like a competitive orgy."
"Yeah," Mick says, "I heard about that. BuzzWire did a story on it - didn't one of yours give an interview?"
"Not just one of us." Rhys grins into the glass. "Princess Meredith herself. Merry Gentry. God, the irony of that name will never stop."
For all his airiness, there's something almost brittle about the way Rhys is speaking. "Is she--" Mick's not good at talking out feelings. But Rhys seems to understand.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "She is."
"And you..."
Suddenly, Rhys is cheerful again, warm and smiling easy in his chair. He cocks an eyebrow. "You're awfully ready to talk about feelings. Got somebody you're all steamed up about yourself?"
"Nah," Mick says immediately, then wishes he could bite off his tongue. Not that it would help.
"Just a smudge quicker and you'd have edged over from denial into delusional," Rhys says. "Okay. So what's this nonexistent dame like?"
"Do we have to talk about this?"
Rhys laughs. "We have these meetings once every couple of decades, Mick. A lot of things happen in that time. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll go first. Okay. At present, I serve someone great and good, who occasionally empowers people through hot lesbian sex. She's bound to fuck each of us until she's pregnant, and then the rest of us don't even get to take matters into our own hands the way human men could." He gazes down at the table. "And she has no clue which of us she's even cheering on. It used to be Galen. Actually, it used to be Griffin, ass that he was. But she's learned better." He stills, then abruptly slams his open hands against the table before Mick can reach out to stop him. The sharp quickness in the way he moves speaks louder than anything in his voice precisely how furious he is.
"Damn him," Rhys says softly, without passion, glaring off into the distance at some face unseen. "Damn that stupid boy. I'm not even sure she believes in the whole one true love shtick anymore. Not that it'd help with negotiations - hard to be a good fuck for your allies when you think your heart belongs to someone - but it'd be nice." His sharp eyes fade with memory.
"You don't believe in it either, either," Mick points out. "The whole hard-boiled detective vibe, remember?"
Slowly, Rhys untenses until he's calm enough to grin again. "Yeah," he says. "But I could have pretended. But enough about me." He lowers his voice again. "Are you gonna sing like a canary, or do I hafta put the screws to ya, huh?"
Mick winces. "No more Bogart impressions," he says.
Rhys looks offended. "Hey," he says, "I saw The Maltese Falcon when it first came out. Nobody knows more about noir than I do."
"And yet your impressions continue to give small children nightmares. It's like - I don't know. Don't goblins bring..."
He stops. He's struck a chord, though he doesn't know how, or why. Looking up, he finds Rhys looking at him, quiet and dangerous. "I know things that would really give them nightmares," Rhys says, his flawed eye gleaming milky, "so don't even joke about that."
For all his extravagance, white silk fedora and luminescent hair, there's something inexplicable about Rhys - some integral emptiness that means that no matter how he explains himself, he will always remain a mystery that no private investigator can solve.
And in an instant he's Rhys again, though he hasn't cooled as much as forced himself under control. He flashes a fey smile. "Talk to me. I bet she's blonde."
"She..."
Rhys waits.
"...may have blonde hair," Mick concedes. "If she existed. And wasn't already dating someone else."
Rhys' lip curls. "So you're saying that she actually turned down hot immortal sex. She actually flat-out said, 'No, thank you, I'm not interested in living forever or in having a boyfriend who can control exactly where his blood rushes--" He breaks off, laughing.
"And now I remember why we only do this once every couple of decades," Mick says dryly.
"Hey, you're the one who gave me your card all those years ago. It's not my fault." Rhys drains his glass. "I'm just keeping up with old friends."
"I gave you my card because if I hadn't, eventually one of the other P.I.s would have taken you into a dark alley and shot you just to get you to stop talking about film noir."
"You're private investigators. You've probably been hired as consults on authenticity before." Rhys grins. "You should be used to it by now."
"You weren't paying any of us. It was a convention."
"Small details." His pocket plays an ominous string of notes. Ostentatiously, Rhys pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and flips it open. "Yeah? Yeah. Mmhm. On top?" Catching Mick's eye, his mouth twists into a smirk. "Was there whipped cream involved? Not whipped cream - just whips. Okay. And then glowing-- thorns? Oh, Frost. Yeah, I'll be right over." He shuts the phone. "I gotta run. I'll see you next century."
It should be more dramatic than this, this pact to meet every few centuries. But immortality isn't choosy - so long as there's someone to meet again and again before the end of the world, it's all right. So Mick only nods without rising. He gets the tab this time, as agreed. Not that Rhys would ever pay. Faerie charm apparently extends to skipping out on the bill. "All right. Tell me how the orgy works out."
Sliding on his fedora, Rhys winks. "If I make it to king, I'll tell them all about you. Give you some nice P.R. for a change."
"Thanks," Mick says, drier than ever. "What every vamp needs: his own media circus."
When he rises, Rhys has gone.
end