HOMECOMING DANCE COMMENT FICATHON
I KNOW WHERE EVERYONE IS TONIGHT
THEY'RE ON TUMBLR
TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY MISS LJ
WELL LET'S DO THIS
I OFFICIALLY INVITE YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW TO A MULTIFANDOM COMMENT FICATHON, RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW. We're talking Doctor Who, Sherlock, Elementary, Harry Potter, Avengers, Marvel and DC, Justified, Star Trek, Veronica Mars, Secret Diary of ( Read more... )
THEY'RE ON TUMBLR
TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY MISS LJ
WELL LET'S DO THIS
I OFFICIALLY INVITE YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW TO A MULTIFANDOM COMMENT FICATHON, RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW. We're talking Doctor Who, Sherlock, Elementary, Harry Potter, Avengers, Marvel and DC, Justified, Star Trek, Veronica Mars, Secret Diary of ( Read more... )
They meet at a hotel bar. One of a million dimly-lit, nondescript places with dark leather sofas and darker wood and bored bartenders serving their fiftieth martini and a handful of worn-looking people looking to trade up. It's not long after dark. She was a little surprised by that, to be honest. Eight o'clock seems a bit early. Like undead breakfast-time. Hardly the magic hour for this sort of thing. She arrived early anyway, touched up her face in the bathroom. When she comes out, the energy in the bar has shifted slightly. When she first arrived, every man in the room stared her up and down- the sleek red dress and sleeker lipstick, the twist of curls at the base of her neck. Old Hollywood was her best guess for this one. What tempts a man older than the classics? But now she moves between the tables unnoticed. Every human in the bar is watching him.
He is sitting slouched in an armchair at the edge of the room, with an untouched bottle on the table beside him. She slides down into the opposite seat and smiles at full wattage.
"Mr. North," she says. She crosses her legs. He smiles distantly at that, as if appreciating the gesture for exactly what it is. Good. Fine. She can play that way, if he likes. "We finally meet."
"Belle." Christ. That name in his mouth sends a shiver across her shoulders. "The pleasure's all mine." He stands and extends a hand for her to take. She puts her hand in his- cool but not cold, and surprisingly gentle- and he draws her to her feet in one motion. He's considerably taller than she remembers. She's eye-to-eye with his collarbones, until he inclines his head. "I had hoped we might spend the evening in privacy," he says, "but duty calls. Would you mind accompanying me?" Her head spins. He's already holding out her coat and slipping it over her arms, while her useless brain tries to think of a polite way to decline, to stall, to regroup. No, thank you, I'd rather stay here, in the safe warm place I have told everyone I will be meeting a vampire.
"Not at all," she says. When they find her, she hopes she's all in one piece.
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Duty ends up being another posh party in a townhouse with higher ceilings than Westminster Cathedral. This time, she's one of the few humans in the room. She sips a wine spritzer and makes small talk with one of them while her date slips away into the crowd. There are bite marks on the girl's neck, and a cheerfully dazed expression on her heart-shaped face. She shakes Hannah's hand and points out a squat vampire in a three-piece suit.
"I'm Walter's," says the girl. There is really not enough alcohol in the world for this. "Are you hungry? There's some ceviche going around."
"And who," says someone behind her, "might you be?" Hannah turns with some smart remark on her lips, some witty side-step, and the words falter and die in her throat. There is a vampire behind her, one with dark eyes that retreat endlessly. There's no bottom to them, no end. Fathomless. She croaks out her nom de guerre and he takes her by the hand, brings her wrist up to his nose, and sniffs. He is tall and dark-haired, with slicked-back curls that have started to come undone. He could be thirty-five or three hundred and fifty. His eyes appraise her. He licks the underside of her wrist. Hannah is frozen, trapped. Wake up, you stupid cow, she thinks, but she can't. His horrible eyes are holding her in place. "You smell like cinnamon and shampoo," he says. He smiles at last. "And fear."
"That's not very polite," she says, pulling herself back together. "Not what a lady likes to hear." He laughs, but doesn't let go.
"Belle," he says, trying it out. "Your name is apt. You remind me of someone." He taps a finger against the hammering pulse in her wrist. "Someone I once knew. A very beautiful woman. Human, like yourself. A delicate woman. A fragile woman." His hand closes tighter. "I have not thought of her in years. But now I can't help recalling."
"I'm flattered," Hannah smiles. "She must have been quite important to you."
"Important?" He tilts his head. "She was exquisite." He grins, and his fangs slip down. She struggles to hold in the tiny gasp of air that escapes her. "To the last drop." He leans towards her and suddenly there is a very large blonde blur in between them.
"Alero," says Mr. North. "I see you've met Belle." His hand is on the other vampire's lapel, just resting there, very casually. Alero lets go of her arm. "Belle, Alero." He gestures back and forth. For a moment, she almost sees concern cross his placid features in one faint ripple. But then it's gone. He smiles a broad, slightly manic grin at them both. It gives her the confidence to to do the same.
"Charmed," she says.
"Impeccable taste," says the other vampire. "Pity they break so easily." Alero gives Mr. North a final look and slinks into the crowd. Hannah inhales. Her date glances down, still preternaturally calm.
"I'm finished here," he says. "The car is in front." She nods, and manages to keep grinning and nodding like a fool as they make their exit, and even as they pull away from the curb. Then she puts a hand to her mouth, just for a minute, and presses it there. She barely cares what the vampire in the driver's seat thinks of her anymore. But she's not going to cry. She's a fucking goddamned bloody professional. "You did well," he says, suddenly, breaking the silence. She glances at him in surprise, and he looks away from traffic long enough to favor her with another, slightly more natural smile.
"Thank you," she says. "For what you did. Making him back away." Her heart has stopped ricocheting for the moment. "Thank you."
"I should thank you," he says. "Your distraction allowed me ample time to retrieve what I came for."
There is a moment of stunned silence.
"My distraction," Hannah says, flatly.
"You would have been enough by yourself," he says, appreciatively. "The dress was inspired. And you were in no danger," he adds. "This is not his area, and you are not his. Your resemblance to his ex-companion was-" he pauses, and she can see him smirking. "Ideal."
"Jesus Christ!" She slams her hands on her knees. "On a bloody bike!"
"Distracting, yes," he agrees. "But not nearly so pleasant to look at."
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It's like you stole Alexander Skarsgard's most endearingly Eric body language AND THREW IT ALL IN HERE and somehow the inclining his head part is the sexiest fucking thing I JUST WANT THEIR TONGUES IN EACH OTHER'S MOUTHS TELL ME THAT IS NOT TOO MUCH TO ASK.
"Jesus Christ!" She slams her hands on her knees. "On a bloody bike!"
"Distracting, yes," he agrees. "But not nearly so pleasant to look at."
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY HANDS THIS MORNING BUT FLAILING THEM ABOUT MY FACE WHILE I MAKE NOISES UNRECOGNIZABLE AS HUMAN SEEMS LIKE THE WAY TO GO?
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She endures the rest of the ride in silence: comfortable or at least indifferent on his end, and frosty on hers. Thankfully, the hotel's not far, so she doesn't have to fling herself out into traffic solely to bring the night to a close. He pulls up just past the valet parking stand and idles the engine. She ought to smile at him and compose herself. Triple billing. But she doesn't want to. She wants to crawl home and lock her fucking doors and sleep with the lights on. For a fifth of a second she considers calling Ben, and the sheer patheticness of that thought just makes her yank the seatbelt off and open the door with a jerk. North- whatever his real name is- looks mildly surprised.
"Are you-" he starts, but she's already got one heel down on pavement.
"Mr. North, I'm a whore," she says. He blinks. "But if you only need bait-" she gets out and leans back down to look at his face. His expression is still placid, but she could swear there's a hint of something else passing beneath the surface. If it's concern, well, he can shove it up his backside. If it's amusement, she'll do the shoving for him. Fucking vampires. "If you need bait, then next time, buy a steak and dangle it on a string," she says, and shuts the door.
It's sidewalk and then taxi and then home and bed and a stiff drink, wrapped up in blankets, and the kitchen light left on. She thinks she'll have a hard time falling asleep but she doesn't, she falls asleep like a kid, boneless and instantly, and dreams about being in a steam pan on a buffet line, with a little label that says FRESH HANNAH BY THE OUNCE. As dreams go, it's not her finest. She prefers the one where fairies give her a continually replenishing fairy credit card. By the time she wakes up, she feels almost normal. She goes for a run and eats a healthy breakfast and thinks about getting her nails done on Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. She very intentionally doesn't worry, or wear garlic, or start learning Latin prayers. She doesn't think she'll see him again.
She's wrong.
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