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[changesandforms]

nextian: So let's see: in one log, we got schmoop, platonic love, woe and doom, banter, and fangirling of Laurie R. King.

Set back to before the cruise, the day after Finn's birthday.



Juilliard blearily lifts his head the next morning, entirely lacking a clear memory of what he and Finn had done last night, but with a sort of regretful certainty that it hadn't involved nearly as much creative mayhem as he'd have liked. He is fairly certain he hasn't done anything too untoward to poor Finn, at least. The same cannot be said for, say, Mêlée.

Or Lien, he remembers, abruptly, who has "REVENGE" written on her door in whipped cream and punctuated by glitter.

That could have been anytime after he blacked out, he supposes. And winces.

He shakes himself awake and pulls on clothes, grabbing cleaning supplies as fast as he is capable, and then begins to hurry towards Lien's rooms.

He's rather too late for that, it would seem, as Lien is already standing before a door that now reads REVE thanks to a swipe of the towel that she's idly twirling in one hand.

"I'd snap this at you, O poncy one," she remarks evenly as he approaches. "But I'd probably fall over, and I rather have to conclude that you're not quite worth more injuries."

Shouldn't she have healed by now? whispers something insistent in his head; his scars are almost all gone, and some of them were intended to be much more lasting.

He looks from her to the towel, and then to the door, and finally says, "If I told you that it was temporary, drunken insanity, would that do anything to extend my lifespan? Or am I already doomed to a horrible death?"

"Death by..." She pauses to think, the hand holding the towel going to the wall to steady herself. "Tea? But that's inhumane. I shan't kill you, Frenchman, in the end. Though I do wish the worst hangover in all the worlds on you."

Juilliard winces and leans against the facing wall. "Thank you, wench, but it's entirely unnecessary; the thing appears to have become animate, and sworn revenge itself. Not the worst, though; nothing quite defeats the hangover from three nights straight of getting abominably drunk, and I plan to do that entirely on this cruise. So it's something to look forward to, isn't it?" He essays a smile. It's more of a twitch.

"Oh yes," she agrees with a smirking sort of smile. "I shall enjoy it utterly. Both the drinking and the watching you stagger about afterwards."

He waves a bleary hand. "You can have the second half right now, if you would like. I am perfectly willing to collapse on your floor like a marionette with my strings cut. It is rather the seeing through the ravenous bears tearing off bits of my brain inside my head that is causing difficulties."

"Can't have you collapsed in the hallway, can we?" She shifts hands about, and taps in the entry code on the keypad next to her door. There's a dull click of locks disengaging, then it slides back. "Well? If you're good I may even let you collapse in a couchward heading."

"Surely that's far too much for one Frenchman to expect," he says, and makes his utterly balanced way into the room. "I expected only sympathy. Of course, that was before Finn brought over five bottles of wine, and I'm afraid you know the rest."

"I never knew Finn was that much of a rascal," Lien says dryly. "Coffee? Edibles? Whatever it is exactly that a host is supposed to offer?"

"Of course it was Finn's idea," says Juilliard, innocently. "Entirely his. Especially the glitter. And the edible condoms. A kind woman might offer me tea."

"Heathen."

Nevertheless, a few minutes later she's pushing a steaming mug at him, a tea bag trailing over the side.

"If you're not of a mind for couches, I think I may claim it for myself."

"Coffee as well," he protests feebly. "But tea primarily, so I suppose I'm doomed there as well. Your couch is of course at your leisure, especially since I don't wish to have you move more than absolutely necessary. You could be plotting my destruction."

And her leg looks like it is paining her, terribly, but that is not something that Juilliard says to an injured friend.

"When am I not, my dear poncy friend?" Lien smiles gratefully though, and limps over to the couch. She carefully eases herself down onto the cushions and sits back, her lips pulling taut as she tries not to show how very much her leg is hurting her.

He considers this. "There might have been some moments lately when I fully hope your mind was on other things, or I shall be terribly flattered but also slightly unnerved." He grins at her slight confusion. "I've heard about Gibson. An excellent choice."

Her smile softens as he says Christopher's name.

"Your approval does mean so very much to me. And," she allows, "I do find it rather difficult to plot your destruction all the time. That'd be... unnerving, yes."

"He's a ... pleasant conversationalist," says Juilliard, a little wickedly.

Lien makes a little noise of indignation. "You're not nice," she says finally, a little petulantly.

"I do try." He sips his tea, utterly demure.

"There you sit, bold as brass, drinking my goddamn tea and mocking me! I should smack you," and it's said with an eye sliding to where her cane is resting up against the stove. "However, I am above such... childish things. For today."

"Today?" he yelps. "Oh dear lord. I shall guard my every step, then. You are going to be a terrifying old cat lady at the age of thirty-two, are you not, dearest wench."

"I shall do my very best to avoid such a fate," Lien drawls. "I'm aiming for terrifying old cat lady at fifty and not a day younger. Although I rather imagine I can get a head start on smacking folk across the knees. Count it a perk, or what have you."

"It's a perk I'd prefer not to get on the bad side of," Juilliard says, plaintively, and eyes her over the tea mug. "Ah, Lien. Shall I ever be able to trust you not to kneecap me?"

"Only if you're very very good," Lien informs him, smirking just slightly. "I suspect you might have trouble with that, though. So maybe only if you're good every so often. Alternating Tuesdays."

"Alternating Tuesdays is out. Can we manage Thursdays? I generally manage to contain myself on Thursdays."

"Thursdays I can manage," Lien agrees with a nod of her head. "So. Henceforth you shall be declared safe from all injury at my hand. Unless you do something outlandish like trying to seduce Hayes."

"Lien", he protests, and practically chokes on his tea. "That's absolutely disgusting."

"I'll tell him you said that, then. It should ease his mind some. And here. Better give me that, then. Don't want to be accused of trying to kill you with poisoned tea." Lien holds out a hand for the mug.

"Ease his -- what, did he think I was going to--" Juilliard stares. "That's quite disturbing, actually. I am more than a little afraid. Please tell me he's changed his mind."

"He was quite certain you had designs on him," Lien says cheerfully. "Came to see me all out of sorts and so forth. Took me the longest time to calm him down, too."

"That is a blatant lie," says Juilliard, amusedly. "We haven't exchanged more than scurrilities since we've met. Want to try again?"

She pouts at him (rather well, at that, she's learnt how from Dex). "Funny, he was so certain it was all some sort of... sexual tension thing. Only not in so many words, of course, dear Hayes would quite possibly implode if he ever said the word 'sex'."

"... Possibly," Juilliard concedes, "at some point, when I said that it was terribly fun to see him squirm, he might have taken that wrong, but seeing as the last thing I said to him was 'Oh god, anything but having to spend time with you', I can't really fathom that. Not everything is sexual tension with me, wench, despite popular belief. Just ask--" His smile cuts off, suddenly. "Ask Alden."

Which isn't what he was going to say.

"Ask Alden about sexual tension?" Lien's eyes go very wide in mock horror. "I'd really rather just strap myself to a bundle of dynamite, thank you all the same."

"It would probably involve less fireworks," Juilliard agrees cheerfully. "Of course, now I feel duty-bound to get someone to. Perhaps Finn. Or perhaps I'll just get you drunk enough on the cruise that you won't remember doing so until I show you the film."

He isn't protesting the change of subject, but he's noted it, and it's filed away under 'fascinating.'

"Ah," Lien says carefully, some of her good humour vanishing. "Despite it being my brainchild, rather, I don't think I will be... going. On the cruise."

Juilliard looks at her, and gently puts the mug down. "Why not, cherie?"

She shrugs. "Cruises rather lose some of their appeal when one experiences them sitting down and not romping about."

It's a rather evasive answer, and she knows it.

Juilliard tilts his head. "Ah. That means not only shall there be no wench to brighten the hours, I shall be lacking Christopher, as well? This will hardly be cruise. From who else, for example, shall we procure the ninja ponies and hams?"

"Christopher can go if he'd like." Another shrug, and she curls further back into her couch corner. "I'm sure you'll find some way of procuring them. Try Hayes. Or maybe Dex and her Nancy. You won't even notice that I'm not there, if you partake of the alcoholic sorts of beverages as often as you've been heard to plan."

"I shall notice, you know," he says, seriously. "I was planning on getting ridiculously drunk with you. You shatter me, wench, you really do."

"Shall I glue you back together again, then? Even if I'm not quite all the King's horses and men, I expect I could do a rather decent job of it."

"And whatever shall you use for adhesive?" inquires Juilliard, entirely irrelevantly.

"Duc tape," Lien says after a moment's thought. Her smile edges on wicked. "It'd keep you out of trouble for a few days, at least, if you were all gummed up with it."

Juilliard tilts his head consideringly. "You know, there was this one fellow on one of the worlds who had the most unholy fascination with it? Rather painful, but increasingly inventive..."

"Did he dress in it?" Lien leans forwards, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Mum knew a street performer-type in the States who made a whole suit out of it. It'd be awfully warm, I'd expect. But waterproof. Or were you thinking of slightly more unorthodox uses for it?"

Juilliard smirks. "You are, Lien, talking to me. Which do you think?"

"I think I should swat you across the head," Lien says consideringly, her lips pulling into a smirk of her own. "You are a very bad man, Herr Vichy."

"A horrible one indeed, mademoiselle Jung. --Oh, I'm sorry, I suppose that should likely be madame, should it not?"

"I'm not married," Lien protests. "And I'm not old either. There's no need to ponce around 'madame'-ing me."

"Whyever not, cat lady?" he demands. "If you are to be so cruel as to injure me with that surely ornamental cane."

"Wish it was ornamental." Her voice turns bitter; she twists her face away from him. "Then I'd have no qualms about snapping the damn thing in half."

"Lien," he says, and cups her cheek in his hand, gently, turning her face back towards him. "What aren't you telling me?"

She's silent for a long minute, her eyes closed.

"I may lose mobility in... in the leg." A sharp, angry laugh. "Shouldn't delude myself. Not 'may' lose mobility, but will."

Juilliard is silent for a long time. Then, softly, "He'll die for this."

"Don't," Lien hisses, her eyes snapping open. "Don't ever. He hurt us, I know, and I'd like nothing better than to have him dead but we are not like him and we do not kill for vengeance."

And abruptly Juilliard remembers, again, the look on Theirn's face when he had just returned from killing Gabriel Renier.

He says, softly, "I may kill my tongue, at least."

"However could you be my poncy Frenchman without it?" She smiles, and it's not much of one, true, but some of the bitterness drains from her features. "You would make an absolutely terrible mime."

"Certainly," he says, and pushes some hair back behind her ear before smiling and pulling his hand away. "It is not one of my many talents, I'm afraid. Although at some point I may need to learn, if only to prevent myself from saying things such as that."

"You can always revert back to being a lesser ape, you know. It involves less face paint, generally speaking, and I tend to regard that as a clear advantage." She catches at his hand, gripping it tightly. "But I'd really rather that you become neither. I'm fondest of you the way you are, on the whole."

He brings her hand up to his lips and bows over it. "As you command." A smile, although it's not as charming or as cheerful as his usual run of them. "I would not change an inch of you, either, so we're a terribly well-matched pair."

"Is this the part where your swains are normally swooning all over you?" She softens the caustic words with a smile and frees her hand, smoothing his hair from his forehead before sitting back, folding her arms across her chest. "The wench and the bastard. Well-matched indeed."

"I assure you that when I intend to make someone swoon, they do," he murmurs. "And I'm sure we'll end up striking terror into the hearts of our foes, somehow. They shall hear of our escapades, and. Well."

He had been intending to say flee.

An image of Calandra, too scarred to keep in an open casket, rather dismisses that term, and his face hardens a little before he shakes himself and finishes, "TThey shall not know what to do for sheer terror."

"Juilliard?" Lien lightly rests a hand on his arm, banter forgotten for the moment. "Something the matter?"

He half-smiles. "Did you ever meet an agent named Calandra, Lien?"

"We worked a mission together a few years back, yes," Lien confirms. "Or more of a 'here's where all the problems are, please to fix them, good luck, see you later' than actually working together. I did like her, though, even if we weren't especially good friends. Why?"

"Did, of course, being the key word," Juilliard says, softly. "She was killed. By our dear mutual friend."

Lien's fingers dig painfully into Juilliard's arm. "Goddamn bloody hell," she swears at last through clenched teeth. "I- oh Juilliard."

"I was at her funeral yesterday, you see," he continues, rather as though he cannot stop. "It wasn't what one might call a clean kill, do you see? And I confess it took me quite some time to identify her body."

Juilliard will likely have five neat crescent-shaped marks in the skin of his upper arm the next time he cares to examine it. "Oh," Lien repeats, her voice hitching up in her throat. "Oh, Juilliard. She must've-- she must've-"

He looks at her, and says very quietly, "She died. But not for a long time."

A tiny wail escapes Lien. "She died all-- all alone. In the dark. So afraid, oh Juilliard, she must've been so afraid."

He looks briefly furious with himself, and brings up his other hand to stroke her hair. "Lien, we're out. We're safe and away. We're here with people who love us."

She nods, her fingers finally falling away from his arm.

"Safe," she echoes raggedly. "Both of us. But not her."

"No. Calandra is not." He closes his eyes, and has a short argument with himself. Pragmatism wins out; he opens his eyes, and says, expressionlessly, "He let me go."

"Cat and mouse," Lien breathes. "Let the prey escape for a minute or so, then pounce again later. Toy with them. Playing his twisted little game with knives and drugs."

"Possibly, yes," he says, and there's still nothing on his face or in his voice at all. "It's equally possible he's simply decided to cut his losses and flee. The man should be utterly predictable; he's a torturer, and his motives are straightforward enough. And yet somehow he slips through and past, and Calandra falls dead."

Lien is worried now, fearful of this deadly calm that he's settled into. "You- don't do anything stupid," she says roughly, and turns her face into the shelter of her hair.

"Now, Lien," he says, and his laugh is a dry sound that has nothing to do with humour. "When have you ever known me to do anything stupid?"

"Always," and it shoots out before she can think of a more graceful way to put it.

Rather than chance anything else to words, she sits forward and carefully, carefully stands up, stumbling towards him.

Perhaps before she can think better of it, she's wrapped her arms around him, shielding him, sheltering him, something, she doesn't know what exactly.

He presses his cheek to hers, and holds on to her, tightly. "Lien," he whispers, "we're never free, are we."

"No," she whispers in return, the words muffled by his shirt. "To him there seem to be a thousand bars and out beyond these bars exists no world. Rilke again."

"Who knows, perhaps the flight of the bird you wound remains," He laughs, and it's a little less deathly. "I've been reading him for you. Do you approve?"

"I do," she says softly. "Who says that all must vanish?"

His hand is tangled in her hair, and he curls it and lets it go. "Thank you, my very dear Lien."

"Thank you, dear Herr Juilliard. I'd let go of you now," she continues, as softly as before, "but I rather imagine that this would result in a close encounter of my head and the floor."

"And that would be a tragedy indeed. Here--" He slides one arm underneath her legs, and lifts, carrying her the luckily short distance to the couch, and settling them there. He is not particularly inclined at the moment to let go.

"And what do we do now, then?" Lien asks, tilting her head up so as to properly see his face. "March on bravely like good little soldiers?"

"I think, at the moment, we good little soldiers are entitled to a good long leave," he says, and leans his head against the pillow of the sofa to look down at her. "And sleep without dreams, if our good general is allowed to assist."

"Managed to avoid that, at least," Lien says dryly, her thumb idly smoothing a crease in his shirt sleeve. "Unless she's drugged my coffee beans and I've never noticed."

"You," he says, with a pout, "have been holding out on me, haven't you."

"What, coffee?" She smiles and pulls a face of her own at him. "You said you liked tea, so, dear Frenchman, tea you received."

"Well, yes," he says, "but then, you never really offered a secret stash of coffee beans, now did you? --Although I warn you, if Mêlée knew about the bolthole in red, she quite certainly knows about your coffee, mind. I hope it is padlocked and guarded."

"Proper little spook, our general." A ghost of a laugh. "Should you like coffee, then? I'm terribly afraid you'd have to fix it yourself, dear Mister Holmes with your boltholes. Are they stocked with false beards and eyeglasses?"

"Entirely different forms of avoidance, but we'll let that pass." He runs his left hand through her hair, untangling a tricky bit, and smiles. "I'm still quite flattered by the comparison, mind. Although I believe I shall pass on the illicit relationship with a portly doctor. That bit rather dims its fascination, really."

"...rather, yes," Lien agrees. "We shall have to re-write Doyle, then, and give you a suitable sort of loveably dim-witted sidekick."

"I am not entirely sure what you are implying but I'm sure it has managed to be insulting," he murmurs. "Unless you're referring to that travesty against the art known as Laurie R. King, and if I can quote it at you encyclopedically it surely would not imply that I have read it three times, would it?"

"Of course not," Lien says firmly. "Why! You simply may have happened to absorb such encyclopedic knowledge via... osmosis. Listening in whilst someone reads it aloud. Something of the sort. Although, I am inclined to ask for a demonstration of this clearly extensive familiarity."

Juilliard is absurdly tempted to begin singing something along the lines of "I can't hear you," and instead raises an eyebrow, and says instead, "'Somehow I could not think him mad.'"

Lien smiles hugely at him. "I'm afraid I can't quite quote you a passage in return, dear Juilliard. It's been rather too long since I've read that book. ...so if you're Holmes, does that make me Russell? Or do you have another partner-in-crime in mind?"

"Dear lord, Lien, I do rather think Christopher would be offended," he says, and laughs. "Although I for one would be honoured. Brilliant young protegé that you are."

"Whyever would he be?" Lien frowns up at him, her expression puzzled. "I've only read the one of her books and there was nothing in them that'd offend him. Unless he finds female detectives offensive."

Juilliard struggles not to laugh again. "Possibly that explains the lack of knowledge of their eventual outcome, does it? Married, with several cats, in a rambling country house?" He curls a lip. "Each subsequent book worse, as the poor detective was pulled deeper into what became some sort of very sad potboiler."

"Then I haven't missed much, then? --married." She shudders artfully. "I shall withdraw my request of Russell-deeming then, since I appear to be rather out of the running."

"Unfortunately." He raises an eyebrow, and lets his hand come to rest on top of her head. "I suppose our illicit love shall have to remain hidden for that much longer, then. Oh, woe, oh, despair."

"If you start suggesting friars and sleeping potions, I'm afraid I shall have to object," Lien cautions, and shifts a bit, enough so that she can rest her head up against his shoulder. "On a basis of pure self-interest, you understand."

"Sleeping potions, perhaps, but any plan that involves friars is doomed to failure from the start," says Juilliard firmly. "Likewise I shall never suggest that you pretend to be named Ernest to better facilitate seduction, and all, in general, shall be well."

"Quite," she agrees, and can't resist adding "Why such reckless extravagance in one so young?" with a grin for Juilliard's benefit.

"You are a paragon of knowledge," he says, solemnly. "I shall have to give you some sort of medal. Perhaps a crown."

"I shall wear it forever and always," Lien promises. "If it's a crown. A medal may have to be hung on the wall."

"The crown, certainly. It would better suit your complexion." He smiles, and some of the tension runs out of his face. "I insist you rest, even if it's rather too early in the day for sleep. And I confess to being terribly comfortable, and lacking all inclination towards moving. I had a rather busy night last night."

"Really? I hadn't guessed." Still, she smiles and curls a little closer to him. "If you're insisting I really have no choice then, do I?"

"Not a choice in the world." He drapes his free arm around her again, and holds her, loosely, gently. "See? A wench in a trap, you are."

"Alas!" Lien exclaims, and it's the middle of the day, she shouldn't be sleepy, should she? But that's definitely a yawn, and her eyes are slowly fluttering closed. "I shall... be trapped then. Since I've no... choice."

Juilliard kisses her forehead, lightly. "You ridiculous German mademoiselle. Sleep."

"Shall," she murmurs fuzzily.

And mere minutes later she is indeed asleep, the lines on her forehead finally smoothing out.

He smiles down at her, and closes his own eyes. If he dreams, well, for the first time in days, it's not of anything he remembers.