Original -- The Bridegroom: Episode 5
Title: The Bridegroom: Episode 5
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,860
Warnings: language, sexual situations, blasphemy, general inappropriateness, black-and-orange cocaine
Prompt: fancy dress party at pulped_fictions
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures on The Bridegroom. Good thing Belial is wearing his Big Demon Panties.
Author's Note: It is so, so dangerous to go alone. Enter at your own risk if you haven't seen the rest of the season: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 3.5, Episode 4, and Episode 4.5. Since it’s been, uh, almost eight months since we last joined our intrepid reality TV heroes: [click for a quick recap!]The last we saw of the crew, they were out in Yucca, Belial's elaborate fake mining town, attempting to improvise a movie. Lots of things went horribly wrong (as always), culminating in Rosalie getting tied up and left in the fake mine shaft; during Maion's rescue attempt, an explosive went off, and surviving his burial in the rubble deprived him of the last of his angel powers.
THE BRIDEGROOM: EPISODE 5
Maion hates the hospital more than he hates graffiti, noise pollution, and litter. Combined. He’s already starting to feel contaminated-swathed in starchy white sheets and bacteria, powerless to escape, choking down the sick air. A middle-aged doctor, who’s nice enough but has rather sausage-y fingers that press too hard, keeps coming by to poke at Maion’s broken ribs. Even when the tired-eyed nurses leave him alone, the needles remain, digging into his skin and flooding strange fluids into his veins. He had to bite his lip on an instinctual protest when they started sticking him like a bunch of teal-scrubbed acupuncturists; he’s human now. They know better than he does what this battered body needs.
He has been allotted a room to himself, which is nice given that he would have died of shame if anyone had borne witness to some of the crying and carrying-on that he did the first day, when the pain peaked. The silence, however, has grown agonizing; he’s used to being stalked by cameramen and sneered at by most of the other contestants, and the sudden void is startling. He doesn’t like it.
Well, he doesn’t until the invalid next door turns on his or her radio at unholy o’clock.
My love’s a revolver; my sex is a killer-do you want to die happy? Do you want to die happy?
“Excuse me?” Maion calls.
No one answers, and the music doesn’t stop. Then, after a minute or two, a janitor sticks his tousled head into the room.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Madonna needs to go away,” Maion manages.
The janitor gives him a lopsided grin. “Yeah, no kidding. She’s about a million years o-”
“I mean the music next door,” Maion says.
The janitor flushes hotly, and Maion remembers too late how much power he sometimes wields wearing the face of a beautiful woman. “Oh. Right. Sorry, let me-”
“It’s fine,” Maion says hastily, sweetening his tone. “And thank you.”
Janitor Boy-well, Janitor Young Man-well, Janitor Just-About-Thirty-Something-shuffles off, and shortly the noise disappears. Maion breathes a sigh of relief, but now the song is stuck in his head to remind him of his newfound mortality, and to remind him that Lil Wayne should have kept his day job.
Janitor Whatever, the unspecific un-superhero, steps back in, smiling sheepishly. “Better?”
“Much,” Maion says. “Thank you.” Ordinarily, the poor young man must have a pretty literally thankless job, cleaning a collective sickbed on the nightshift.
There’s a commotion in the corridor, which resolves itself into-why is Maion’s heart in his throat like a buoy anchored to his breastbone?-Belial.
…darn.
“Uh,” Janitor Fellow says, “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are way over; it’s three in the freakin’ morni-”
“You spent your entire adolescence nursing a terror that your mother loved her Yorkshire Terrier more than she loved you,” Belial says over the smart tapping of his heels on the linoleum. “For your edification, sometimes she did.”
Maion squares his dainty shoulders and looks directly into Belial’s rust-colored eyes. He’s celestially powerless now, yes-but Belial wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want something badly. Maion has been dealt a mediocre hand, but if he plays his cards just right… or plays them upside-down so that they look like something different at a glance… or figures out how to play poker and/or make gaming metaphors…
Meanwhile, Janitor Individual is staring open-mouthed and shiny-eyed at Belial, who has already shifted his focus to Maion instead.
“You’re really very mean,” Maion says.
“Second line on my résumé,” Belial says. “How are all the feeble little broken things?”
“Feeble,” Maion says, “and broken.”
“What a drag,” Belial says. He pauses, and then he gestures to the whole of Maion’s currently-female form. “Get it? Drag?” He snickers. “That’s pretty good, actua-”
“I understood the pun, thank you,” Maion says, glancing sideways at the janitor, who seems to have progressed to a state of confusion that verges on catatonia. “Is there a particular reason you’ve violated the sanctity of visiting h…” He blinks at Belial, at the empty wall, at the empty doorway. “The-cameras. You’ve left all the cameras.”
Belial draws an unnaturally deep breath and sighs very loudly. “Yes, well, this is between you and me, my sweet.”
“I am most certainly not your-”
“Can it.” Belial grimaces. He has fangs again. “The show needs you.”
Maion frowns. If mirrors are to be trusted, his frown is very cute these days. “How do you mean?”
“It’s getting boring,” Belial says, sounding pained. “You went out with an explosion and a mine collapse and Vincent goddamn Duval almost in tears-”
Really?
“-and now everyone’s just sitting around talking either about how you’re a saint and an amazing pancake chef or about how you’re a conniving whore.”
Maion’s stomach turns. The hospital meatloaf is questionable enough unaided. “Please don’t use that word.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Belial says. “That was whore-ible of me.”
Maion curls his fingers in the sheets and glares with all of his greatly-reduced might. “What do you want?”
Belial vacillates visibly for a long, long moment-gnawing on his lip, shifting his weight, gauging Maion from several angles, and sighing like he’s got an unusual throat disease.
“Fuck,” he says at last.
“What?” Janitor Fellow says, startled out of his stupor. “Holy shit, get out! You can’t-”
“Not the verb, you imbecile,” Belial says. “Maia, my charming little cherub, light of my life, I need you back in my stupid piece of shit project, and I am willing to negotiate.”
“I want a pony,” Maion says.
…oh. Oh, dear. Perhaps the drugs have been affecting him more than he thought.
“And Vincent’s immortal sou-”
“Pony it is!” Belial says.
“Motherfudging son of a gun,” Maion says, feeling like shoot and crud. His chest tightens, and his throat constricts, and his face gets hot, and all of the places he’s been skewered with needles start to throb.
“Oh, my God,” Janitor Boy says. “She’s going to cry. You douchebag, how could y-”
“No, she’s not,” Belial says, darting forward. “She’s going to sing like a chorus of angels. Or at least like Agnetha Fältskog and Anni-Frid Lyngstad.”
He’s at Maion’s bedside, and Maion can hear his own knuckles cracking at how tightly he’s gripping the sheets, because there’s nothing he can do-not anymore. He is at the mercy of a Knight of Hell, which is an oxymoronic sort of situation, and a terrifying one.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Belial asks, and his grin tilts into toothy-smirk territory.
“Gee,” Maion says, breath coming a bit short, and darn the EKG to heck for making it even more obvious; “I can’t imagine.”
“Cheer up, sunshine,” Belial says. “I’m going to give you a present.”
Maion will not take his eyes off of the demon’s face. “There’s no room for my pony in h-”
“Sit still,” Belial says, and he flattens his hand on Maion’s forehead.
And-
What-
How-oh-goodness gracious-
Belial is pouring pure and, importantly-of tantamount importance, of necessity-undifferentiated Quintessence into Maion through that pale-burning hand. And it hurts, but it’s beautiful, and it’s powerful, and it swells in every capillary, in every last cell, with warmth and strength and Light-
And there is fire in him now. Not much; precious little; so precious, but he can fight. He can defend.
Belial grins at Main’s gasp, winks broadly, and trails his fingertips down the side of Maion’s face before he steps back. He looks awfully smug, and Maion doesn’t care. Nothing is bothersome; nothing is wrong; everything is glowing and glorious.
“That’s more like it,” Belial says. “What kind of pony do you want to ride into the party tonight?”
Vincent is losing his mind.
No, the time for brutal honesty is nigh-he’s already well and truly lost the fucking thing. His mind has staggered off into an uncharted wilderness, where exposure and dehydration will claim it once and for all. His mind has rocketed skyward and blasted through every layer of the atmosphere; it will suffocate in the silence of ever-expanding space. His mind has embarked on a holy quest for a reason why his afterlife is batshit, and it will never return, because there is no explanation for this.
In any case, Vincent has unequivocally lost his mind, because he doesn’t even care that Belial has dressed him up as a Musketeer for the Halloween party.
It should be irritating; their heyday was a century before he was born-but for the first time in more years than he cares to number, he’s too preoccupied to take offense.
This is disgustingly infantile. He’s thinking of-her. Maia, damn her bright blue eyes and her bashful smile and her bronze-bell laugh and her egregious lack of anything remotely resembling an adult fashion sense and her too-hot-too-sweet blood and her perpetual wellspring of overeager compassion. Damn the way she has tiptoed into the center of his chest and pitched a rainbow beach umbrella. Damn her for making him care so much about her when he needs to be watching his own back-
It doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just that he’s gone so long without a stupid romantic interlude that his inherent Frenchness is fucking him over. It’s nothing serious. He’s dead. His feelings are dead. Anything he once was capable of is gone, cold, buried, stifled in the dark. It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a figment, and she’s just a girl.
He wishes he didn’t know better.
To hell with all of it. He will not-he will never-pine. He will acknowledge his rational concern for the comet-tail streak of nothing who has suffered because of him, and he will move on.
He dons his hat, and the massive plume dips and swings at the edge of his vision. Somehow he doubts that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis wore headgear this fucking distracting.
Belial is having an exquisitely shitty day. He’s a little bit of a masochist-he’s a little bit of an everythingist; it kind of comes with the territory-but not enough to enjoy this.
There are a lot of small factors, like the nasty hospital smell clinging to his favorite shirt and the nasty insurance men using policies he designed to tell him that his beautiful baby show is an inconceivably large liability and blah blah blah, but most of it is Maion. Maia. Whoever that bitch of a seraph is today.
Honestly, Belial sort of likes him-her-whatnot. The affinity makes Maion much more uncomfortable than it does Belial, so it works out fine. But giving him-her-whatnot a shot of pure Quintessence… even if it was for his own purposes, that’s dangerously close to altruism, and the prospect the he did something Good sits like a lump of coal in the pit of his stomach. If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, can the reverse be true? He feels vaguely ill. He needs to feel a great deal iller if he’s going to make himself feel better by projectile-vomiting on someone’s costume; maybe he should hurry and have some questionable sushi before the party starts.
…even the thought of puking half-masticated salmon on a choice bimbo’s cleavage isn’t amusing him. This is bad. Bad-as-in-Good. Bad-as-in-bastardshithellmotherfucker.
At least strings of profanity haven’t quite lost their luster. Belial is a big boy-one of the biggest, actually, if anyone’s still counting-and he can get through this. He’s going to take a deep breath, straighten his tie, go out there, dazzle the mindless masses that make up his loving audience, objectify some of the captive women, and accept that this is all going to turn out for the best. Best-as-in-worst. Worst-as-in-best-for-his-purposes.
Semantics gets terribly complicated when you’re ambitiously evil.
“Are you… Bob Marley?” Vincent asks.
He really is trying, but apparently that’s not enough to save him from the glare and the pout and the blush of miserable embarrassment and the associated guilt-tripping. “No. I’m Jamaica.”
“I know,” Vincent says. “I had learned your name by now.”
“No,” Jamaica-not Jamaica?-says. “I’m Jamaica the country.”
Vincent looks her up and down again. She still looks more generically Rastafarian than anything else, but there is a drink umbrella jammed into one of the dreadlocks not covered by the obligatory red, yellow, and green beanie. “Let me guess,” he says. “You couldn’t think of a costume to request, and Belial selected one for you.”
An arm lands heavily around his shoulders, and he staggers forward a step. “Ya got it in one, mon,” Belial says cheerfully. “I wanted to make a bikini top with steel drums instead of coconuts, but there simply wasn’t time.” He sighs, and then he blows the hat feather directly into Vincent’s face.
Vincent tries to writhe out of his grip, but Belial gets a fistful of gold braid and holds him fast. “What are you supposed to be? Let go.”
“I don’t dress up for costume parties,” Belial says. “There’s no way I could get scarier-in which I take an unseemly quantity of deadly-sin pride, by the by.” He looks around and starts pouting even more avidly than Jamaica. “I’m so sad you got rid of dear, sweet, opportunities, blackmail-y Carrie and her awful poetry. I was going to dress her up as la Liberté from the Delacroix painting and watch your faith in humanity die once and for all.”
“I don’t think your father hugged you enough as a child,” Vincent says.
Belial grins like something from under the bed. “This is why you’re my favorite, Vinny.”
Vincent can’t help the noise of disgust that emerges from his mouth.
Belial’s eyes light up. Crap. “My mini-Vinny. My evil-twinnie Vinny. Sinny Vinny. Throwing all my plans into a spinny Vinny.”
“I will fill a Super-Soaker with holy water,” Vincent says.
“Then I’ll hug you when I’m all wet,” Belial says, “my skinny Vinny.”
There must be something. There must be something that profoundly wounds demons that has no effect on vampires. There must be something, somehow, and he’ll find it-
“What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?” Kylie asks, coming up on his other side and hooking her elbow through his. “I’m stealing this fine figure from French history. We’re going to go make out in the garden or something. They’ll probably censor most of it, and any mothers irresponsible enough to let their kids watch this crap will have to cover their eyes for the rest.”
“I wrote the book on lying,” Belial says.
“But I’m a fickle human being,” Kylie says, snuggling up with Vincent’s arm and casting him a starry-eyed look. “How do you know I don’t want to cop a feel of his mustketba-”
“Stop,” Vincent says.
“On the contrary, my dear,” Belial says, releasing Vincent’s arm and shoving him at Kylie; “do go on.”
Kylie winks broadly, tightens her grip on Vincent’s elbow, and drags him across the ballroom and out into the poolside garden, impractically short-hemmed labcoat fluttering behind her.
All of the cameramen are dressed either as inquisitive puppies or as shadows, which makes their unwavering attention marginally less obnoxious. What appears to be a shadow-puppy trots behind them as Kylie hauls Vincent into a clearing amongst the undergrowth.
He considers the lace-edged bra visible through her creatively-tailored coat, the red stilettos, and the oversized glasses pushed up into her hair. “Let me guess,” he says. “You’re the ‘don’ts’ poster for laboratory safety.”
Kylie snorts. “My mom always wanted me to be a doctor, and I know she’s TiVoing this stupid thing to watch after her Chinese soap operas.” Her amusement twists into concern. “Hey, so-I kept calling the hospital to see if we could work out a UV-ray-free visit around the show, and… well, today they said Maia was out.”
Vincent blinks. He swats the feather out of his face. He blinks again. “‘Out’ how?”
“Released, I guess,” Kylie says. “Apparently the specifics are strictly confidential.”
“Of course they are,” Vincent says. “This has a whiff of Belial’s sulfur cologne to it, I think. If she doesn’t turn up, then… we can file a missing persons report, I suppose.”
Kylie wrinkles her nose. “I guess so. Well, anyway, that’s all I’ve got, unless you want to chug some Skittles out of a pill bottle.”
“Are they prescription Skittles?” Vincent asks.
Kylie grins, tugs on his collar, and starts sauntering off-as much as one can saunter when one’s heels are so magnificently ridiculous. “You know,” she calls back, “you are kind of a catch.”
“I assure you I am not,” Vincent says.
The shadow-puppy behind the camera clears his throat. “You are, though.”
Vincent eyes him until he blushes, stammers, and scuttles off into the undergrowth to train his lens on Kylie’s ass.
Vincent Duval is not a ‘catch’; he will not be snared. And he is getting very tired of playing games.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” a woman’s voice purrs.
He turns to face Greta, who is dressed rather provocatively as Cleopatra. Vincent was not present at the time to verify, but he finds it highly unlikely that the Ptolemies walked the Gobi Desert in high-heeled sandals. The cameraman trailing looks to be either dazed or drunk.
“If I’d known chicks flipped for the Royalist bodyguard look,” Vincent says, “I never would have worn it.”
Greta sashays a little closer, and the corners of her very-red lips curl up. “Is it really so bad to be fawned over like the lesser god you are?”
“First of all,” Vincent says, trying not to be mesmerized by the profusion of gold draped around her neck, “functional immortality does not make me a god of any caliber-the only deific power I have is arguably the force of sarcasm. Secondly, yes, it really is so bad. I’m a businessman and, frankly, something of a recluse; I don’t need or like the attention.”
Greta… pauses. Something about the way her dark eyes flicker makes it seem like she’s seeing him properly for the first time.
Which is sweet and romantic and completely disgusting, as well as an utter waste of Vincent’s time.
“Batter up!” a different female voice cries from off to his right.
That’s the only warning he receives before the sluttiest baseball player never to run the diamond has flung herself at him and wrapped his arm up in both of hers.
“Two balls, two strikes, and I’m hoping for a line drive,” Bri says, knocking her hip slightly violently into his. “You think I can get to third base?”
“I think you’ve turned me off the sport for good,” Vincent says.
“Foul,” Bri says.
“You should have dressed as a limpet,” Vincent says.
“I could make it cute,” Bri says, rubbing up against his arm, which makes her cross necklace swing against his sleeve, which-
“Let go,” he says, watching in mild amazement as the scenery swirls into gray-green tie-dye. “I-I can’t-”
“And here I thought I’d finally gotten you looking at my boobs,” Bri says, stepping back and fumbling with the clasp. “You’d better watch out for Deandra-she’s an angel.”
Spots of light and dark swim in front of Vincent’s eyes; Greta is departing in a rather in-character huff. “Deandra is no such thing.”
“Yeah,” Bri says. “I can’t tell if she gets the joke or not. But hey, when else but Halloween do we get to watch an angel get wasted?”
“Thursdays,” Vincent says. “They have two-dollar daiquiris at Furry Fred’s.”
Bri stares at him.
“It’s the least-divey shapeshifter bar in the Bay Area,” Vincent says. “Do any of you know what you’re actually getting into here? This isn’t the book that shall not be named; I’m not human. And I’m not about to compromise a life-an afterlife, something like a life-two hundred years in the making for the comfort of some woman who signed up for a staggeringly mediocre television show.”
“Hey,” the cameraman says forlornly. “Not everyone can work with Joss Whedon, man.”
To her credit, Bri ignores that, too. “You’re gonna be lonely for a long time,” she says, “if you don’t figure out how to compromise on the important stuff.”
Vincent backhands the feather again. “It’s very difficult to take you seriously in a ‘Go-Get-’Em-Tigers’ jersey.”
“I’m no stranger to getting a second lease on life,” Bri says. “It’s never too late to redecorate.”
“I do not take advice from mayflies,” Vincent says.
Bri laughs. “I think your current décor is best-described as ‘douchebag chic’.”
“I think I might not despise you,” Vincent says.
“I think you’re missing your own party,” Bri says.
Vincent resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Heaven forbid.”
“Wrong!” Belial’s voice crows from far too close; almost instantly a hand closes around Vincent’s wrist like a vise. “Hell forbids! Now get your coveted ass back in there-there’s something I think you’re going to want to see.”
Maion is not accustomed to making entrances that don’t involve appearing from nowhere and often accidentally setting things on fire. It makes him a little nervous, honestly; all of this makes him nervous. After a lot of thought, he decided to utilize as little of his new Quintessence as possible-he needs a secret weapon. He was almost recovered enough to leave the hospital as it was, and every minute he left Vincent unattended here sharpened the edge on the anxiety.
All the same, this is a bit silly.
He scans the room as he rides in, which is easy to do with everyone staring at him openly. Carrie, Naina, and Pat have evidently been eliminated. That’s a bit of a pity; he had nothing against any of them but Naina, and he knew that he could have convinced her to see the light of optimism and blueberry pancakes over time.
Everyone in the room seems to have frozen in bewilderment except for Belial, who clasps his hands beneath his chin; and Vincent, who shakes his head slowly-the feather on his hat veers wildly with the momentum-and approaches.
Maion tugs gently on the reins, and his new pony obediently clops to a halt. Vincent pauses as he gets close, raising one eyebrow very expressively.
Maion strokes the silky mane. “This is Megadoom the Ineluctable, Destroyer of Worlds,” he says. “Meggie for short.”
“Belial gave you a pony.” Vincent’s voice is not inflected as a question.
“I’m very susceptible to morphine,” Maion says.
“Of course you are,” Vincent says.
And then-and then-oh, goodness-he sweeps off his hat and bows gracefully and offers Maion a hand down.
Maion shouldn’t take it-not in front of so many girls who already don’t like how close he always gets to Vincent-but his ribs still ache, and his head is still addled, and he’s so tired of trudging uphill to reach the moral high ground. Tonight, he’s dressed as a princess, and if someone as unintentionally dashing as Vincent is going to treat him like one, then anyone shallow enough to be jealous can just deal with it.
He takes Vincent’s cool hand and hops down and pretends he’s not blushing from the tingle that runs through him from tiara to glass slipper.
And Vincent-doesn’t let go of his hand. “Are you all right?”
“Um,” Maion says, “define ‘all right’. Actually, no, don’t. I’m here now, and I’m going to be fine, and are those ice-cream bonbons?”
Amusement tugs at Vincent’s lips. Oh, Maion can’t think about Vincent’s lips on his, Vincent’s tongue slipping past them, Vincent’s teeth grazing his skin and then digging in to taste him straight through-
“Um,” Maion says again, swallowing. “My… doctor said I should eat well. To get back my strength, you know.”
“You can get a second opinion from Kylie,” Vincent says. “Go on, then. The hospital food can’t have been palatable.”
Maion beams at him.
It’s really too bad that, between the assorted injuries and the impressively impractical footwear, he can’t run, but he’s nonetheless managed to down three bonbons and acquire a critical case of brainfreeze by the time Rosalie, dressed as a little gold cat, darts over and hugs him gently.
“You’re the best,” she says. “You know that, right?”
“Mmfnnghfff,” Maion says, which was meant to be Oh, no, no, I’m not; I’m really very average before the ice cream interfered.
Janine breezes by in a ruffle of very, very short toga. “I’m glad you’re on your feet, sweetie. Oh, d’Artagnan…”
“She’s Venus,” Rosalie explains. “The goddess, not the planet or the brand of razors. Whereas Jamaica-well, anyway.”
Maion licks the melted chocolate off of his fingertips and looks at her. She’s drawn cat whiskers onto her cheeks with eyeliner and tied her hair into pigtails. Can he trust her? He wants to, but she almost got him killed, didn’t she? What if all of her cuteness is a cover-up?
“What do ponies eat?” Maion asks.
“Pretty much anything they can find,” Rosalie says. “At least the horse in the stable that they brought for the preview won’t be lonely anymore. He hasn’t been able to do a whole lot lately.”
“I know the feeling,” Maion says.
Belial prowls like a pro. He penned the guidebook, actually, although it’s been lost to time along with The Fyne Arte of Stalkinge and Messilie Obliterating Thine Enemies in Four Easie Steppes. It’s a terrible tragedy they didn’t have digital storage back when he was at the height of his literary prolificacy.
In any case, he’s prowling emblematically around the gardens, observing the party from the outside as he goes.
This is starting to be difficult-keeping the show lively, exciting, borderline-chaotic. The parties used to be bangin’ back when they had more than a dozen women from all walks, runs, struts, and sashays of life, back when catfights broke out over the champagne, back when there tended to be vomit in the punch bowl by eleven-thirty latest. There was noise and color and madness. It was like watching a train wreck to a soundtrack of a Mozart symphony played slightly off-key.
Now everyone’s just sort of… milling around pestering Vincent about whether hat-feather size correlates to the length of anything else. It’s just not the same.
This is his brainchild. It’s his responsibility. He hates responsibility, but he’s just going to have to rustle up the attention span for it this time.
He sidles into the ballroom and grabs Greta’s elbow; the excess of costume jewelry, the weight which must be deforming her spine by now, jingles a bit. Cleopatra’s evil eye was much more effective than this child’s, but she’ll do.
“The viewers like you,” he says. “They appreciate your assertiveness. But you’ve been losing your touch lately, honey-bun.”
“Kiss my asp,” Greta says.
“Baby,” Belial says, “I ride with the original serpent. Look a little more impressed, dollface. All I’m saying is that you need to step up your game, or your lily will be on the guillotine, doing a far, far better thing than it has ever done.”
“It is the best of times,” Greta says, “and the worst.”
“Five points,” Belial says. “Now get your pretty little head in the game.”
Greta sets her jaw, and Belial jaunts over to Deandra. He looks her up and down and allows himself one good, long giggle.
“What’s up?” she asks. She always folds her arms underneath her breasts to give them an extra boost; girl knows what she’s doing.
“The ratings with the male eighteen-to-twenty-five demographic when you dress like this,” Belial says. “I mean, no one with more than three brain cells and two neurons would mistake me for a fan of the holy host, but even I find this a little bit offensive. It’s delicious.”
Deandra does not seem to understand the concept of backhanded compliments; having someone focused on her assets delights her in an entirely Pavlovian way. “Thanks!”
“Always happy to ogle a female specimen,” Belial says. “Or any specimen. Always happy to ogle, let’s put it that way. Hey, let me cut you a deal.”
Fortunately Deandra-unlike Greta, native denizen of the Land of Multiple Liberal Arts Degrees-has never read a piece of literature in her life, which means that she doesn’t know to balk at the mere abstract prospect of dealing with a demon. “Okay, what?”
“You seduce Vincent before sunrise,” Belial says, “and I’ll make sure you get what you deserve.”
Belial can never decide whether or not he loves particularly stupid humans. Yes, Deandra’s face lights up, and she nods eagerly, and the multiplicity of ways Belial can ruin her from here twirl through tickly pirouettes in his stomach, but… well, for fuck’s sake, the least she could do is make it a challenge.
Honestly-which is one of Belial’s least-favorite adverbs-that’s one of his favorite things about Vincent. The little bastard has been a businessman for almost two centuries: he’s cagey, smart, and fluent in legalese. But he’s still just flesh and ichor. He’s still weak. And there’s very little more satisfying than the way he spits acid to compensate when you stab into one of the soft spots.
“Right, then,” Belial says. “Pip, pip, cheerio. Here, slip this into his drink. It’s an aphrodisiac.” It’s a vial of absinthe laced with powdered garlic, because Belial is an evil genius and so forth.
And an asshole. Belial is an asshole. It makes everything more fun.
Deandra tucks the vial safely into her capacious cleavage, and as the zoom lenses whir, Belial hopes fervently that the censors let him keep this beautiful moment intact.
“Toodles,” he says to Deandra, and “Don’t follow, maggots,” to the shutterflies.
It’s funny how Maia always looks a little bit surprised when he seizes her arm and twines it in with his.
“Ow,” she says.
Surprise, pain, whatever.
“Speaking of ‘ow’,” Belial says, “I gave you that Quintessence so that you could fix up your bones, the better to jump Vincent’s.”
“You gave it to me freely,” Maia says calmly, “and it is mine to use as I see fit.”
“Are you hoarding my Quintessence?” Belial asks, jolting her with his elbow because shaking her by the shoulders until her head fell off would look a touch unfavorable.
“I’m saving it,” Maia says. “And it’s not yours anymore, so there’s nothing you can do about it. Have you tried the bonbons? They’re scrumptious.”
“I despise you,” Belial says.
“I suppose that’s your prerogative,” Maia says, but her wounded expression soothes Belial’s ego a bit.
“I’m going to eat all the bonbons so that you can’t have any,” he adds.
Now Maia looks positively betrayed, so that’s nice.
In his head Vincent is proposing a solution to the issue of overpopulation. It runs along the lines of kill everyone.
Outside his head-a much less pleasant place indeed-he’s leaning against the drinks table blowing the feather out of his face and fending off unwanted advances. This would be significantly easier if he’d been costumed with an authentic sword.
Someone tugs on his sleeve. Damn this hat for obscuring his peripheral vision; he can’t afford…
“Good evening,” he says to Rosalie as she comes into view.
“Meow, meow,” Rosalie says, beaming back. “Can I get you anything? You look like you’ve forsaken humanity even more than usual.”
“Is there vodka?” he asks.
She scans the table behind him. “Um…”
“I’ll live,” he says. “Figuratively speaking.”
She grins. “Well, I’m glad.”
Vincent suppresses a strange urge to scratch under her chin. “How are you holding up?”
“Still avoiding the elevator,” she says, keeping her voice light, “but I’m going to be okay. I’m more worried about Maia-she said she was claustrophobic to start with.”
“What did the release form say about therapy for trauma during filming?” Vincent asks.
“I don’t remember exactly,” Rosalie says. “The paperwork weighed several pounds altogether… I think the release form just said ‘Sign here, sucker’.”
“That sounds frighteningly plausible,” Vincent says.
And then disaster strikes. Disaster’s leopard-print bra is showing past the record-settingly low neckline of disaster’s white minidress.
“Can I steal you?” Deandra coos.
“The contract requires me to tell you that you can,” Vincent says.
Deandra bounces on the balls of her feet, which is a bit of a feat in five-inch heels. “Let me refill your wineglass, gorgeous.”
Vincent glances at Rosalie and raises an eyebrow as he cedes the glass. “Even she thinks I’m going to need a drink for this. That’s terrifying.”
“Oh, hush, silly,” Deandra says in a truly disturbing baby-talk voice. “I just know how much you love a good Merlot. I thought maybe we could share this glass and talk about us.”
“I love a good Merlot,” Vincent says. “I do not love lipstick and saliva on my glass, which completely taints the underto-unhand me, woman!”
Unfortunately, the damnable contract prohibits him from wrenching his arm away as Deandra tows him out of the room to the balcony. Without so much as loosening her grip, she pulls him over to the balustrade and perches on it. The position offers her a better angle to yank the ribbon out of his hair and start twirling it in her fingers, which is just peachy.
“Gently,” Vincent says after the second time she jerks her way through a tangle. The camera-puppy snorts. Vincent will murder him later. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks Deandra. “Is the slutty angel costume not as ironic as you’d hoped?”
“It’s a bit uncomfortable, if that’s what you mean,” Deandra says. She pauses, opens her mouth, closes it, purses her lips, and parts them again. “I… I’m just so worried-” Her eyes are filling; Vincent wants to die-for-good. “-about our future, and… and our love.”
Oh, for the love of platelets. Vincent takes a substantial sip, and-
And oh, Jesus fuck, what is this-?
Everything blurs until it doubles, blurs a little more, quavers, quakes, shudders, darkens at the edges like a corrupted film reel-he swings his hand until he finds the railing, grips it, clings to it as the world pitches back and forth like he’s on the steamer from France again-
“C’mon, handsome,” Deandra says, fingers drumming on his chest. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private, huh?”
“Let’s not,” Vincent says. “Let’s really, really n… ahh.” The balcony is whirling; the steps undulate; the grass roils like the fires of hell. Come to think of it, it also feels like his guts are full of hellfire, and like his throat is full of sandpaper, and like his head is exploding, and like his knees are made of tapioca pudding.
Experimenting to determine the degree of tapioca-gooiness of his knees might be entertaining if it wasn’t for the other factors at work. Alas, the other factors are conspiring to destroy him slowly, and if this doesn’t stop, if the agony doesn’t recede, if the blazing scraping stinging stabbing pain doesn’t cease, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do-
Die, maybe. Dying is always a good backup plan. Except that he didn’t actually do so well at dying the first time, did he? Curious thought.
He’ll just collapse, then, and writhe around a bit, and perhaps do a bit of whimpering. That should get the point across without any pressure to die successfully.
…oh. By the proximity of waving green stalks and the smell of damp earth, he’s already collapsed. Well, that saves some time.
“Wow,” Deandra says. “That’s some powerful stuff.” A hand is hauling on his arm. What a freakishly strong harlot. “C’mon, get up! This is important.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Vincent slurs out.
“That’s right, babycakes!”
Dying is starting to sound good again.
“I will end you,” Vincent says as she drags him upright, and the universe starts sliding uncontrollably again.
“What about the contra-”
“Fuck the contract!”
Deandra makes an unhappy noise. “The contract definitely can’t be as good a lay as I am.”
“This is really bad,” the cameraman says nervously. “Should I call-except 911 doesn’t have, like, vampire EMTs, does it?”
“Leave me to die,” Vincent says to both of them. “If you have a decent bone in your body, leave me to die.”
Something jingles at a distance. “What the hell is going on?”
Is that Greta?
On second thought, Vincent does not give a fuck-flying, walking, crawling, or otherwise-who it is.
“Save me,” he says.
“I’m not going to hurt you!” Deandra says.
“Take me on a one-on-one date,” Greta cuts in, “and I’ll see what I can-”
“Fine!”
Something shoves Deandra’s warm, insistent body away from his, and he staggers and falls to his hands and knees again. Hmm. Grass stains are quite likely. Does he still have his hat? He can’t tell; his vision’s swarming with black and white; one of those blobs could well be the feather.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Greta says, and a much gentler hand strokes his hair back from his face. No on the hat, then. “Did the whore of Babylon slip you a roofie?”
“Just for that,” Vincent says, “our date is going to be dumpster-diving.”
“You dick,” Greta says, but there’s laughter in her voice-which she sounds surprised about. “Stay still; we have to get this crap out of your system.”
“Too late,” Vincent says. “Like most of the problems with my existence, absorption is irreversible.”
“Maybe,” Greta says, “but it’s slow.”
Vincent blinks up at the careening starscape. “Wh…”
Greta sticks her fingers down his throat.
The cameraman squeaks out a protest, and Deandra splutters helplessly, and Vincent…
…vomits all over Cleopatra’s knees.
“Okay,” Greta says, “that’s gross.”
Vincent coughs weakly and wipes his mouth on the back of his left hand. His right arm trembles from the effort of supporting his weight, which is bewildering to say the least. If whatever he ingested doesn’t kill him, the indignity will.
“Eugh,” Greta says. She lays her hand gently on his shoulder, which is… nice. More or less. The blood beats in her wrist; he’s so thirsty now that he’s feeling a tiny bit stabler. “Hey, deep breaths. It’s weird that vampires even breathe, but…”
“What’s weird about it?” Through no small effort he manages to raise his gaze to meet hers. “I’m a monster, not a myth.”
Her expression is incomprehensible, especially since his vision is still distorting everything so thoroughly that the world looks almost Cubist.
“Oh, my gosh!” a familiar voice wails from not far off. “Vince-ow, ow, ow-”
“Take it easy!” Is that Rosalie?
Of course it is; the only thing better than emptying his stomach onto one of the contestants is having all of them arrive to bear witness to the aftermath.
He has to stand. There will be more cameras trailing all the girls; he will not have his humiliation documented from every angle. He’s an expert in anatomy now, and he’s no schmuck at physics; he knows how to use his own weight to his advantage, how to lever himself to his feet despite this wretched infirmity. All that’s left is the motivation. All that remains is to follow through.
No one has ever accused Vincent Duval of doing something halfway.
Stars and colors burst and churn before his eyes, but he makes it. He can almost differentiate the Maia-shaped blob from the other blobs clustering around it. Is this a minor earthquake, or is he really so unsteady? It’s difficult to tell in California sometimes.
A slender hand curls into his shirtfront, and Maia-blob thrusts turquoise-eye-blobs close to his. “V-Vincent?”
“As far as I know,” he says.
Her grip tightens. “A-are you-”
“Not in the slightest,” he says. “Blame the skank in white.”
“That’s not a nice w… I-I found your hat.”
A dark hat-blob adorned by a pale feather-blob creeps up into his sightline.
“Thank you,” he says. He reaches out, manages to catch it on the second try, and places it on her head. It can’t be terribly comfortable on top of the tiara, but she looks blobbily adorable.
“Vincent,” Maia says in a tiny voice, “you’re scaring me.”
“Happy fucking Halloween,” Vincent says.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,860
Warnings: language, sexual situations, blasphemy, general inappropriateness, black-and-orange cocaine
Prompt: fancy dress party at pulped_fictions
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures on The Bridegroom. Good thing Belial is wearing his Big Demon Panties.
Author's Note: It is so, so dangerous to go alone. Enter at your own risk if you haven't seen the rest of the season: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 3.5, Episode 4, and Episode 4.5. Since it’s been, uh, almost eight months since we last joined our intrepid reality TV heroes: [click for a quick recap!]The last we saw of the crew, they were out in Yucca, Belial's elaborate fake mining town, attempting to improvise a movie. Lots of things went horribly wrong (as always), culminating in Rosalie getting tied up and left in the fake mine shaft; during Maion's rescue attempt, an explosive went off, and surviving his burial in the rubble deprived him of the last of his angel powers.
THE BRIDEGROOM: EPISODE 5
Maion hates the hospital more than he hates graffiti, noise pollution, and litter. Combined. He’s already starting to feel contaminated-swathed in starchy white sheets and bacteria, powerless to escape, choking down the sick air. A middle-aged doctor, who’s nice enough but has rather sausage-y fingers that press too hard, keeps coming by to poke at Maion’s broken ribs. Even when the tired-eyed nurses leave him alone, the needles remain, digging into his skin and flooding strange fluids into his veins. He had to bite his lip on an instinctual protest when they started sticking him like a bunch of teal-scrubbed acupuncturists; he’s human now. They know better than he does what this battered body needs.
He has been allotted a room to himself, which is nice given that he would have died of shame if anyone had borne witness to some of the crying and carrying-on that he did the first day, when the pain peaked. The silence, however, has grown agonizing; he’s used to being stalked by cameramen and sneered at by most of the other contestants, and the sudden void is startling. He doesn’t like it.
Well, he doesn’t until the invalid next door turns on his or her radio at unholy o’clock.
My love’s a revolver; my sex is a killer-do you want to die happy? Do you want to die happy?
“Excuse me?” Maion calls.
No one answers, and the music doesn’t stop. Then, after a minute or two, a janitor sticks his tousled head into the room.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Madonna needs to go away,” Maion manages.
The janitor gives him a lopsided grin. “Yeah, no kidding. She’s about a million years o-”
“I mean the music next door,” Maion says.
The janitor flushes hotly, and Maion remembers too late how much power he sometimes wields wearing the face of a beautiful woman. “Oh. Right. Sorry, let me-”
“It’s fine,” Maion says hastily, sweetening his tone. “And thank you.”
Janitor Boy-well, Janitor Young Man-well, Janitor Just-About-Thirty-Something-shuffles off, and shortly the noise disappears. Maion breathes a sigh of relief, but now the song is stuck in his head to remind him of his newfound mortality, and to remind him that Lil Wayne should have kept his day job.
Janitor Whatever, the unspecific un-superhero, steps back in, smiling sheepishly. “Better?”
“Much,” Maion says. “Thank you.” Ordinarily, the poor young man must have a pretty literally thankless job, cleaning a collective sickbed on the nightshift.
There’s a commotion in the corridor, which resolves itself into-why is Maion’s heart in his throat like a buoy anchored to his breastbone?-Belial.
…darn.
“Uh,” Janitor Fellow says, “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are way over; it’s three in the freakin’ morni-”
“You spent your entire adolescence nursing a terror that your mother loved her Yorkshire Terrier more than she loved you,” Belial says over the smart tapping of his heels on the linoleum. “For your edification, sometimes she did.”
Maion squares his dainty shoulders and looks directly into Belial’s rust-colored eyes. He’s celestially powerless now, yes-but Belial wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want something badly. Maion has been dealt a mediocre hand, but if he plays his cards just right… or plays them upside-down so that they look like something different at a glance… or figures out how to play poker and/or make gaming metaphors…
Meanwhile, Janitor Individual is staring open-mouthed and shiny-eyed at Belial, who has already shifted his focus to Maion instead.
“You’re really very mean,” Maion says.
“Second line on my résumé,” Belial says. “How are all the feeble little broken things?”
“Feeble,” Maion says, “and broken.”
“What a drag,” Belial says. He pauses, and then he gestures to the whole of Maion’s currently-female form. “Get it? Drag?” He snickers. “That’s pretty good, actua-”
“I understood the pun, thank you,” Maion says, glancing sideways at the janitor, who seems to have progressed to a state of confusion that verges on catatonia. “Is there a particular reason you’ve violated the sanctity of visiting h…” He blinks at Belial, at the empty wall, at the empty doorway. “The-cameras. You’ve left all the cameras.”
Belial draws an unnaturally deep breath and sighs very loudly. “Yes, well, this is between you and me, my sweet.”
“I am most certainly not your-”
“Can it.” Belial grimaces. He has fangs again. “The show needs you.”
Maion frowns. If mirrors are to be trusted, his frown is very cute these days. “How do you mean?”
“It’s getting boring,” Belial says, sounding pained. “You went out with an explosion and a mine collapse and Vincent goddamn Duval almost in tears-”
Really?
“-and now everyone’s just sitting around talking either about how you’re a saint and an amazing pancake chef or about how you’re a conniving whore.”
Maion’s stomach turns. The hospital meatloaf is questionable enough unaided. “Please don’t use that word.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Belial says. “That was whore-ible of me.”
Maion curls his fingers in the sheets and glares with all of his greatly-reduced might. “What do you want?”
Belial vacillates visibly for a long, long moment-gnawing on his lip, shifting his weight, gauging Maion from several angles, and sighing like he’s got an unusual throat disease.
“Fuck,” he says at last.
“What?” Janitor Fellow says, startled out of his stupor. “Holy shit, get out! You can’t-”
“Not the verb, you imbecile,” Belial says. “Maia, my charming little cherub, light of my life, I need you back in my stupid piece of shit project, and I am willing to negotiate.”
“I want a pony,” Maion says.
…oh. Oh, dear. Perhaps the drugs have been affecting him more than he thought.
“And Vincent’s immortal sou-”
“Pony it is!” Belial says.
“Motherfudging son of a gun,” Maion says, feeling like shoot and crud. His chest tightens, and his throat constricts, and his face gets hot, and all of the places he’s been skewered with needles start to throb.
“Oh, my God,” Janitor Boy says. “She’s going to cry. You douchebag, how could y-”
“No, she’s not,” Belial says, darting forward. “She’s going to sing like a chorus of angels. Or at least like Agnetha Fältskog and Anni-Frid Lyngstad.”
He’s at Maion’s bedside, and Maion can hear his own knuckles cracking at how tightly he’s gripping the sheets, because there’s nothing he can do-not anymore. He is at the mercy of a Knight of Hell, which is an oxymoronic sort of situation, and a terrifying one.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Belial asks, and his grin tilts into toothy-smirk territory.
“Gee,” Maion says, breath coming a bit short, and darn the EKG to heck for making it even more obvious; “I can’t imagine.”
“Cheer up, sunshine,” Belial says. “I’m going to give you a present.”
Maion will not take his eyes off of the demon’s face. “There’s no room for my pony in h-”
“Sit still,” Belial says, and he flattens his hand on Maion’s forehead.
And-
What-
How-oh-goodness gracious-
Belial is pouring pure and, importantly-of tantamount importance, of necessity-undifferentiated Quintessence into Maion through that pale-burning hand. And it hurts, but it’s beautiful, and it’s powerful, and it swells in every capillary, in every last cell, with warmth and strength and Light-
And there is fire in him now. Not much; precious little; so precious, but he can fight. He can defend.
Belial grins at Main’s gasp, winks broadly, and trails his fingertips down the side of Maion’s face before he steps back. He looks awfully smug, and Maion doesn’t care. Nothing is bothersome; nothing is wrong; everything is glowing and glorious.
“That’s more like it,” Belial says. “What kind of pony do you want to ride into the party tonight?”
Vincent is losing his mind.
No, the time for brutal honesty is nigh-he’s already well and truly lost the fucking thing. His mind has staggered off into an uncharted wilderness, where exposure and dehydration will claim it once and for all. His mind has rocketed skyward and blasted through every layer of the atmosphere; it will suffocate in the silence of ever-expanding space. His mind has embarked on a holy quest for a reason why his afterlife is batshit, and it will never return, because there is no explanation for this.
In any case, Vincent has unequivocally lost his mind, because he doesn’t even care that Belial has dressed him up as a Musketeer for the Halloween party.
It should be irritating; their heyday was a century before he was born-but for the first time in more years than he cares to number, he’s too preoccupied to take offense.
This is disgustingly infantile. He’s thinking of-her. Maia, damn her bright blue eyes and her bashful smile and her bronze-bell laugh and her egregious lack of anything remotely resembling an adult fashion sense and her too-hot-too-sweet blood and her perpetual wellspring of overeager compassion. Damn the way she has tiptoed into the center of his chest and pitched a rainbow beach umbrella. Damn her for making him care so much about her when he needs to be watching his own back-
It doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just that he’s gone so long without a stupid romantic interlude that his inherent Frenchness is fucking him over. It’s nothing serious. He’s dead. His feelings are dead. Anything he once was capable of is gone, cold, buried, stifled in the dark. It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a figment, and she’s just a girl.
He wishes he didn’t know better.
To hell with all of it. He will not-he will never-pine. He will acknowledge his rational concern for the comet-tail streak of nothing who has suffered because of him, and he will move on.
He dons his hat, and the massive plume dips and swings at the edge of his vision. Somehow he doubts that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis wore headgear this fucking distracting.
Belial is having an exquisitely shitty day. He’s a little bit of a masochist-he’s a little bit of an everythingist; it kind of comes with the territory-but not enough to enjoy this.
There are a lot of small factors, like the nasty hospital smell clinging to his favorite shirt and the nasty insurance men using policies he designed to tell him that his beautiful baby show is an inconceivably large liability and blah blah blah, but most of it is Maion. Maia. Whoever that bitch of a seraph is today.
Honestly, Belial sort of likes him-her-whatnot. The affinity makes Maion much more uncomfortable than it does Belial, so it works out fine. But giving him-her-whatnot a shot of pure Quintessence… even if it was for his own purposes, that’s dangerously close to altruism, and the prospect the he did something Good sits like a lump of coal in the pit of his stomach. If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, can the reverse be true? He feels vaguely ill. He needs to feel a great deal iller if he’s going to make himself feel better by projectile-vomiting on someone’s costume; maybe he should hurry and have some questionable sushi before the party starts.
…even the thought of puking half-masticated salmon on a choice bimbo’s cleavage isn’t amusing him. This is bad. Bad-as-in-Good. Bad-as-in-bastardshithellmotherfucker.
At least strings of profanity haven’t quite lost their luster. Belial is a big boy-one of the biggest, actually, if anyone’s still counting-and he can get through this. He’s going to take a deep breath, straighten his tie, go out there, dazzle the mindless masses that make up his loving audience, objectify some of the captive women, and accept that this is all going to turn out for the best. Best-as-in-worst. Worst-as-in-best-for-his-purposes.
Semantics gets terribly complicated when you’re ambitiously evil.
“Are you… Bob Marley?” Vincent asks.
He really is trying, but apparently that’s not enough to save him from the glare and the pout and the blush of miserable embarrassment and the associated guilt-tripping. “No. I’m Jamaica.”
“I know,” Vincent says. “I had learned your name by now.”
“No,” Jamaica-not Jamaica?-says. “I’m Jamaica the country.”
Vincent looks her up and down again. She still looks more generically Rastafarian than anything else, but there is a drink umbrella jammed into one of the dreadlocks not covered by the obligatory red, yellow, and green beanie. “Let me guess,” he says. “You couldn’t think of a costume to request, and Belial selected one for you.”
An arm lands heavily around his shoulders, and he staggers forward a step. “Ya got it in one, mon,” Belial says cheerfully. “I wanted to make a bikini top with steel drums instead of coconuts, but there simply wasn’t time.” He sighs, and then he blows the hat feather directly into Vincent’s face.
Vincent tries to writhe out of his grip, but Belial gets a fistful of gold braid and holds him fast. “What are you supposed to be? Let go.”
“I don’t dress up for costume parties,” Belial says. “There’s no way I could get scarier-in which I take an unseemly quantity of deadly-sin pride, by the by.” He looks around and starts pouting even more avidly than Jamaica. “I’m so sad you got rid of dear, sweet, opportunities, blackmail-y Carrie and her awful poetry. I was going to dress her up as la Liberté from the Delacroix painting and watch your faith in humanity die once and for all.”
“I don’t think your father hugged you enough as a child,” Vincent says.
Belial grins like something from under the bed. “This is why you’re my favorite, Vinny.”
Vincent can’t help the noise of disgust that emerges from his mouth.
Belial’s eyes light up. Crap. “My mini-Vinny. My evil-twinnie Vinny. Sinny Vinny. Throwing all my plans into a spinny Vinny.”
“I will fill a Super-Soaker with holy water,” Vincent says.
“Then I’ll hug you when I’m all wet,” Belial says, “my skinny Vinny.”
There must be something. There must be something that profoundly wounds demons that has no effect on vampires. There must be something, somehow, and he’ll find it-
“What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?” Kylie asks, coming up on his other side and hooking her elbow through his. “I’m stealing this fine figure from French history. We’re going to go make out in the garden or something. They’ll probably censor most of it, and any mothers irresponsible enough to let their kids watch this crap will have to cover their eyes for the rest.”
“I wrote the book on lying,” Belial says.
“But I’m a fickle human being,” Kylie says, snuggling up with Vincent’s arm and casting him a starry-eyed look. “How do you know I don’t want to cop a feel of his mustketba-”
“Stop,” Vincent says.
“On the contrary, my dear,” Belial says, releasing Vincent’s arm and shoving him at Kylie; “do go on.”
Kylie winks broadly, tightens her grip on Vincent’s elbow, and drags him across the ballroom and out into the poolside garden, impractically short-hemmed labcoat fluttering behind her.
All of the cameramen are dressed either as inquisitive puppies or as shadows, which makes their unwavering attention marginally less obnoxious. What appears to be a shadow-puppy trots behind them as Kylie hauls Vincent into a clearing amongst the undergrowth.
He considers the lace-edged bra visible through her creatively-tailored coat, the red stilettos, and the oversized glasses pushed up into her hair. “Let me guess,” he says. “You’re the ‘don’ts’ poster for laboratory safety.”
Kylie snorts. “My mom always wanted me to be a doctor, and I know she’s TiVoing this stupid thing to watch after her Chinese soap operas.” Her amusement twists into concern. “Hey, so-I kept calling the hospital to see if we could work out a UV-ray-free visit around the show, and… well, today they said Maia was out.”
Vincent blinks. He swats the feather out of his face. He blinks again. “‘Out’ how?”
“Released, I guess,” Kylie says. “Apparently the specifics are strictly confidential.”
“Of course they are,” Vincent says. “This has a whiff of Belial’s sulfur cologne to it, I think. If she doesn’t turn up, then… we can file a missing persons report, I suppose.”
Kylie wrinkles her nose. “I guess so. Well, anyway, that’s all I’ve got, unless you want to chug some Skittles out of a pill bottle.”
“Are they prescription Skittles?” Vincent asks.
Kylie grins, tugs on his collar, and starts sauntering off-as much as one can saunter when one’s heels are so magnificently ridiculous. “You know,” she calls back, “you are kind of a catch.”
“I assure you I am not,” Vincent says.
The shadow-puppy behind the camera clears his throat. “You are, though.”
Vincent eyes him until he blushes, stammers, and scuttles off into the undergrowth to train his lens on Kylie’s ass.
Vincent Duval is not a ‘catch’; he will not be snared. And he is getting very tired of playing games.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” a woman’s voice purrs.
He turns to face Greta, who is dressed rather provocatively as Cleopatra. Vincent was not present at the time to verify, but he finds it highly unlikely that the Ptolemies walked the Gobi Desert in high-heeled sandals. The cameraman trailing looks to be either dazed or drunk.
“If I’d known chicks flipped for the Royalist bodyguard look,” Vincent says, “I never would have worn it.”
Greta sashays a little closer, and the corners of her very-red lips curl up. “Is it really so bad to be fawned over like the lesser god you are?”
“First of all,” Vincent says, trying not to be mesmerized by the profusion of gold draped around her neck, “functional immortality does not make me a god of any caliber-the only deific power I have is arguably the force of sarcasm. Secondly, yes, it really is so bad. I’m a businessman and, frankly, something of a recluse; I don’t need or like the attention.”
Greta… pauses. Something about the way her dark eyes flicker makes it seem like she’s seeing him properly for the first time.
Which is sweet and romantic and completely disgusting, as well as an utter waste of Vincent’s time.
“Batter up!” a different female voice cries from off to his right.
That’s the only warning he receives before the sluttiest baseball player never to run the diamond has flung herself at him and wrapped his arm up in both of hers.
“Two balls, two strikes, and I’m hoping for a line drive,” Bri says, knocking her hip slightly violently into his. “You think I can get to third base?”
“I think you’ve turned me off the sport for good,” Vincent says.
“Foul,” Bri says.
“You should have dressed as a limpet,” Vincent says.
“I could make it cute,” Bri says, rubbing up against his arm, which makes her cross necklace swing against his sleeve, which-
“Let go,” he says, watching in mild amazement as the scenery swirls into gray-green tie-dye. “I-I can’t-”
“And here I thought I’d finally gotten you looking at my boobs,” Bri says, stepping back and fumbling with the clasp. “You’d better watch out for Deandra-she’s an angel.”
Spots of light and dark swim in front of Vincent’s eyes; Greta is departing in a rather in-character huff. “Deandra is no such thing.”
“Yeah,” Bri says. “I can’t tell if she gets the joke or not. But hey, when else but Halloween do we get to watch an angel get wasted?”
“Thursdays,” Vincent says. “They have two-dollar daiquiris at Furry Fred’s.”
Bri stares at him.
“It’s the least-divey shapeshifter bar in the Bay Area,” Vincent says. “Do any of you know what you’re actually getting into here? This isn’t the book that shall not be named; I’m not human. And I’m not about to compromise a life-an afterlife, something like a life-two hundred years in the making for the comfort of some woman who signed up for a staggeringly mediocre television show.”
“Hey,” the cameraman says forlornly. “Not everyone can work with Joss Whedon, man.”
To her credit, Bri ignores that, too. “You’re gonna be lonely for a long time,” she says, “if you don’t figure out how to compromise on the important stuff.”
Vincent backhands the feather again. “It’s very difficult to take you seriously in a ‘Go-Get-’Em-Tigers’ jersey.”
“I’m no stranger to getting a second lease on life,” Bri says. “It’s never too late to redecorate.”
“I do not take advice from mayflies,” Vincent says.
Bri laughs. “I think your current décor is best-described as ‘douchebag chic’.”
“I think I might not despise you,” Vincent says.
“I think you’re missing your own party,” Bri says.
Vincent resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Heaven forbid.”
“Wrong!” Belial’s voice crows from far too close; almost instantly a hand closes around Vincent’s wrist like a vise. “Hell forbids! Now get your coveted ass back in there-there’s something I think you’re going to want to see.”
Maion is not accustomed to making entrances that don’t involve appearing from nowhere and often accidentally setting things on fire. It makes him a little nervous, honestly; all of this makes him nervous. After a lot of thought, he decided to utilize as little of his new Quintessence as possible-he needs a secret weapon. He was almost recovered enough to leave the hospital as it was, and every minute he left Vincent unattended here sharpened the edge on the anxiety.
All the same, this is a bit silly.
He scans the room as he rides in, which is easy to do with everyone staring at him openly. Carrie, Naina, and Pat have evidently been eliminated. That’s a bit of a pity; he had nothing against any of them but Naina, and he knew that he could have convinced her to see the light of optimism and blueberry pancakes over time.
Everyone in the room seems to have frozen in bewilderment except for Belial, who clasps his hands beneath his chin; and Vincent, who shakes his head slowly-the feather on his hat veers wildly with the momentum-and approaches.
Maion tugs gently on the reins, and his new pony obediently clops to a halt. Vincent pauses as he gets close, raising one eyebrow very expressively.
Maion strokes the silky mane. “This is Megadoom the Ineluctable, Destroyer of Worlds,” he says. “Meggie for short.”
“Belial gave you a pony.” Vincent’s voice is not inflected as a question.
“I’m very susceptible to morphine,” Maion says.
“Of course you are,” Vincent says.
And then-and then-oh, goodness-he sweeps off his hat and bows gracefully and offers Maion a hand down.
Maion shouldn’t take it-not in front of so many girls who already don’t like how close he always gets to Vincent-but his ribs still ache, and his head is still addled, and he’s so tired of trudging uphill to reach the moral high ground. Tonight, he’s dressed as a princess, and if someone as unintentionally dashing as Vincent is going to treat him like one, then anyone shallow enough to be jealous can just deal with it.
He takes Vincent’s cool hand and hops down and pretends he’s not blushing from the tingle that runs through him from tiara to glass slipper.
And Vincent-doesn’t let go of his hand. “Are you all right?”
“Um,” Maion says, “define ‘all right’. Actually, no, don’t. I’m here now, and I’m going to be fine, and are those ice-cream bonbons?”
Amusement tugs at Vincent’s lips. Oh, Maion can’t think about Vincent’s lips on his, Vincent’s tongue slipping past them, Vincent’s teeth grazing his skin and then digging in to taste him straight through-
“Um,” Maion says again, swallowing. “My… doctor said I should eat well. To get back my strength, you know.”
“You can get a second opinion from Kylie,” Vincent says. “Go on, then. The hospital food can’t have been palatable.”
Maion beams at him.
It’s really too bad that, between the assorted injuries and the impressively impractical footwear, he can’t run, but he’s nonetheless managed to down three bonbons and acquire a critical case of brainfreeze by the time Rosalie, dressed as a little gold cat, darts over and hugs him gently.
“You’re the best,” she says. “You know that, right?”
“Mmfnnghfff,” Maion says, which was meant to be Oh, no, no, I’m not; I’m really very average before the ice cream interfered.
Janine breezes by in a ruffle of very, very short toga. “I’m glad you’re on your feet, sweetie. Oh, d’Artagnan…”
“She’s Venus,” Rosalie explains. “The goddess, not the planet or the brand of razors. Whereas Jamaica-well, anyway.”
Maion licks the melted chocolate off of his fingertips and looks at her. She’s drawn cat whiskers onto her cheeks with eyeliner and tied her hair into pigtails. Can he trust her? He wants to, but she almost got him killed, didn’t she? What if all of her cuteness is a cover-up?
“What do ponies eat?” Maion asks.
“Pretty much anything they can find,” Rosalie says. “At least the horse in the stable that they brought for the preview won’t be lonely anymore. He hasn’t been able to do a whole lot lately.”
“I know the feeling,” Maion says.
Belial prowls like a pro. He penned the guidebook, actually, although it’s been lost to time along with The Fyne Arte of Stalkinge and Messilie Obliterating Thine Enemies in Four Easie Steppes. It’s a terrible tragedy they didn’t have digital storage back when he was at the height of his literary prolificacy.
In any case, he’s prowling emblematically around the gardens, observing the party from the outside as he goes.
This is starting to be difficult-keeping the show lively, exciting, borderline-chaotic. The parties used to be bangin’ back when they had more than a dozen women from all walks, runs, struts, and sashays of life, back when catfights broke out over the champagne, back when there tended to be vomit in the punch bowl by eleven-thirty latest. There was noise and color and madness. It was like watching a train wreck to a soundtrack of a Mozart symphony played slightly off-key.
Now everyone’s just sort of… milling around pestering Vincent about whether hat-feather size correlates to the length of anything else. It’s just not the same.
This is his brainchild. It’s his responsibility. He hates responsibility, but he’s just going to have to rustle up the attention span for it this time.
He sidles into the ballroom and grabs Greta’s elbow; the excess of costume jewelry, the weight which must be deforming her spine by now, jingles a bit. Cleopatra’s evil eye was much more effective than this child’s, but she’ll do.
“The viewers like you,” he says. “They appreciate your assertiveness. But you’ve been losing your touch lately, honey-bun.”
“Kiss my asp,” Greta says.
“Baby,” Belial says, “I ride with the original serpent. Look a little more impressed, dollface. All I’m saying is that you need to step up your game, or your lily will be on the guillotine, doing a far, far better thing than it has ever done.”
“It is the best of times,” Greta says, “and the worst.”
“Five points,” Belial says. “Now get your pretty little head in the game.”
Greta sets her jaw, and Belial jaunts over to Deandra. He looks her up and down and allows himself one good, long giggle.
“What’s up?” she asks. She always folds her arms underneath her breasts to give them an extra boost; girl knows what she’s doing.
“The ratings with the male eighteen-to-twenty-five demographic when you dress like this,” Belial says. “I mean, no one with more than three brain cells and two neurons would mistake me for a fan of the holy host, but even I find this a little bit offensive. It’s delicious.”
Deandra does not seem to understand the concept of backhanded compliments; having someone focused on her assets delights her in an entirely Pavlovian way. “Thanks!”
“Always happy to ogle a female specimen,” Belial says. “Or any specimen. Always happy to ogle, let’s put it that way. Hey, let me cut you a deal.”
Fortunately Deandra-unlike Greta, native denizen of the Land of Multiple Liberal Arts Degrees-has never read a piece of literature in her life, which means that she doesn’t know to balk at the mere abstract prospect of dealing with a demon. “Okay, what?”
“You seduce Vincent before sunrise,” Belial says, “and I’ll make sure you get what you deserve.”
Belial can never decide whether or not he loves particularly stupid humans. Yes, Deandra’s face lights up, and she nods eagerly, and the multiplicity of ways Belial can ruin her from here twirl through tickly pirouettes in his stomach, but… well, for fuck’s sake, the least she could do is make it a challenge.
Honestly-which is one of Belial’s least-favorite adverbs-that’s one of his favorite things about Vincent. The little bastard has been a businessman for almost two centuries: he’s cagey, smart, and fluent in legalese. But he’s still just flesh and ichor. He’s still weak. And there’s very little more satisfying than the way he spits acid to compensate when you stab into one of the soft spots.
“Right, then,” Belial says. “Pip, pip, cheerio. Here, slip this into his drink. It’s an aphrodisiac.” It’s a vial of absinthe laced with powdered garlic, because Belial is an evil genius and so forth.
And an asshole. Belial is an asshole. It makes everything more fun.
Deandra tucks the vial safely into her capacious cleavage, and as the zoom lenses whir, Belial hopes fervently that the censors let him keep this beautiful moment intact.
“Toodles,” he says to Deandra, and “Don’t follow, maggots,” to the shutterflies.
It’s funny how Maia always looks a little bit surprised when he seizes her arm and twines it in with his.
“Ow,” she says.
Surprise, pain, whatever.
“Speaking of ‘ow’,” Belial says, “I gave you that Quintessence so that you could fix up your bones, the better to jump Vincent’s.”
“You gave it to me freely,” Maia says calmly, “and it is mine to use as I see fit.”
“Are you hoarding my Quintessence?” Belial asks, jolting her with his elbow because shaking her by the shoulders until her head fell off would look a touch unfavorable.
“I’m saving it,” Maia says. “And it’s not yours anymore, so there’s nothing you can do about it. Have you tried the bonbons? They’re scrumptious.”
“I despise you,” Belial says.
“I suppose that’s your prerogative,” Maia says, but her wounded expression soothes Belial’s ego a bit.
“I’m going to eat all the bonbons so that you can’t have any,” he adds.
Now Maia looks positively betrayed, so that’s nice.
In his head Vincent is proposing a solution to the issue of overpopulation. It runs along the lines of kill everyone.
Outside his head-a much less pleasant place indeed-he’s leaning against the drinks table blowing the feather out of his face and fending off unwanted advances. This would be significantly easier if he’d been costumed with an authentic sword.
Someone tugs on his sleeve. Damn this hat for obscuring his peripheral vision; he can’t afford…
“Good evening,” he says to Rosalie as she comes into view.
“Meow, meow,” Rosalie says, beaming back. “Can I get you anything? You look like you’ve forsaken humanity even more than usual.”
“Is there vodka?” he asks.
She scans the table behind him. “Um…”
“I’ll live,” he says. “Figuratively speaking.”
She grins. “Well, I’m glad.”
Vincent suppresses a strange urge to scratch under her chin. “How are you holding up?”
“Still avoiding the elevator,” she says, keeping her voice light, “but I’m going to be okay. I’m more worried about Maia-she said she was claustrophobic to start with.”
“What did the release form say about therapy for trauma during filming?” Vincent asks.
“I don’t remember exactly,” Rosalie says. “The paperwork weighed several pounds altogether… I think the release form just said ‘Sign here, sucker’.”
“That sounds frighteningly plausible,” Vincent says.
And then disaster strikes. Disaster’s leopard-print bra is showing past the record-settingly low neckline of disaster’s white minidress.
“Can I steal you?” Deandra coos.
“The contract requires me to tell you that you can,” Vincent says.
Deandra bounces on the balls of her feet, which is a bit of a feat in five-inch heels. “Let me refill your wineglass, gorgeous.”
Vincent glances at Rosalie and raises an eyebrow as he cedes the glass. “Even she thinks I’m going to need a drink for this. That’s terrifying.”
“Oh, hush, silly,” Deandra says in a truly disturbing baby-talk voice. “I just know how much you love a good Merlot. I thought maybe we could share this glass and talk about us.”
“I love a good Merlot,” Vincent says. “I do not love lipstick and saliva on my glass, which completely taints the underto-unhand me, woman!”
Unfortunately, the damnable contract prohibits him from wrenching his arm away as Deandra tows him out of the room to the balcony. Without so much as loosening her grip, she pulls him over to the balustrade and perches on it. The position offers her a better angle to yank the ribbon out of his hair and start twirling it in her fingers, which is just peachy.
“Gently,” Vincent says after the second time she jerks her way through a tangle. The camera-puppy snorts. Vincent will murder him later. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks Deandra. “Is the slutty angel costume not as ironic as you’d hoped?”
“It’s a bit uncomfortable, if that’s what you mean,” Deandra says. She pauses, opens her mouth, closes it, purses her lips, and parts them again. “I… I’m just so worried-” Her eyes are filling; Vincent wants to die-for-good. “-about our future, and… and our love.”
Oh, for the love of platelets. Vincent takes a substantial sip, and-
And oh, Jesus fuck, what is this-?
Everything blurs until it doubles, blurs a little more, quavers, quakes, shudders, darkens at the edges like a corrupted film reel-he swings his hand until he finds the railing, grips it, clings to it as the world pitches back and forth like he’s on the steamer from France again-
“C’mon, handsome,” Deandra says, fingers drumming on his chest. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private, huh?”
“Let’s not,” Vincent says. “Let’s really, really n… ahh.” The balcony is whirling; the steps undulate; the grass roils like the fires of hell. Come to think of it, it also feels like his guts are full of hellfire, and like his throat is full of sandpaper, and like his head is exploding, and like his knees are made of tapioca pudding.
Experimenting to determine the degree of tapioca-gooiness of his knees might be entertaining if it wasn’t for the other factors at work. Alas, the other factors are conspiring to destroy him slowly, and if this doesn’t stop, if the agony doesn’t recede, if the blazing scraping stinging stabbing pain doesn’t cease, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do-
Die, maybe. Dying is always a good backup plan. Except that he didn’t actually do so well at dying the first time, did he? Curious thought.
He’ll just collapse, then, and writhe around a bit, and perhaps do a bit of whimpering. That should get the point across without any pressure to die successfully.
…oh. By the proximity of waving green stalks and the smell of damp earth, he’s already collapsed. Well, that saves some time.
“Wow,” Deandra says. “That’s some powerful stuff.” A hand is hauling on his arm. What a freakishly strong harlot. “C’mon, get up! This is important.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Vincent slurs out.
“That’s right, babycakes!”
Dying is starting to sound good again.
“I will end you,” Vincent says as she drags him upright, and the universe starts sliding uncontrollably again.
“What about the contra-”
“Fuck the contract!”
Deandra makes an unhappy noise. “The contract definitely can’t be as good a lay as I am.”
“This is really bad,” the cameraman says nervously. “Should I call-except 911 doesn’t have, like, vampire EMTs, does it?”
“Leave me to die,” Vincent says to both of them. “If you have a decent bone in your body, leave me to die.”
Something jingles at a distance. “What the hell is going on?”
Is that Greta?
On second thought, Vincent does not give a fuck-flying, walking, crawling, or otherwise-who it is.
“Save me,” he says.
“I’m not going to hurt you!” Deandra says.
“Take me on a one-on-one date,” Greta cuts in, “and I’ll see what I can-”
“Fine!”
Something shoves Deandra’s warm, insistent body away from his, and he staggers and falls to his hands and knees again. Hmm. Grass stains are quite likely. Does he still have his hat? He can’t tell; his vision’s swarming with black and white; one of those blobs could well be the feather.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Greta says, and a much gentler hand strokes his hair back from his face. No on the hat, then. “Did the whore of Babylon slip you a roofie?”
“Just for that,” Vincent says, “our date is going to be dumpster-diving.”
“You dick,” Greta says, but there’s laughter in her voice-which she sounds surprised about. “Stay still; we have to get this crap out of your system.”
“Too late,” Vincent says. “Like most of the problems with my existence, absorption is irreversible.”
“Maybe,” Greta says, “but it’s slow.”
Vincent blinks up at the careening starscape. “Wh…”
Greta sticks her fingers down his throat.
The cameraman squeaks out a protest, and Deandra splutters helplessly, and Vincent…
…vomits all over Cleopatra’s knees.
“Okay,” Greta says, “that’s gross.”
Vincent coughs weakly and wipes his mouth on the back of his left hand. His right arm trembles from the effort of supporting his weight, which is bewildering to say the least. If whatever he ingested doesn’t kill him, the indignity will.
“Eugh,” Greta says. She lays her hand gently on his shoulder, which is… nice. More or less. The blood beats in her wrist; he’s so thirsty now that he’s feeling a tiny bit stabler. “Hey, deep breaths. It’s weird that vampires even breathe, but…”
“What’s weird about it?” Through no small effort he manages to raise his gaze to meet hers. “I’m a monster, not a myth.”
Her expression is incomprehensible, especially since his vision is still distorting everything so thoroughly that the world looks almost Cubist.
“Oh, my gosh!” a familiar voice wails from not far off. “Vince-ow, ow, ow-”
“Take it easy!” Is that Rosalie?
Of course it is; the only thing better than emptying his stomach onto one of the contestants is having all of them arrive to bear witness to the aftermath.
He has to stand. There will be more cameras trailing all the girls; he will not have his humiliation documented from every angle. He’s an expert in anatomy now, and he’s no schmuck at physics; he knows how to use his own weight to his advantage, how to lever himself to his feet despite this wretched infirmity. All that’s left is the motivation. All that remains is to follow through.
No one has ever accused Vincent Duval of doing something halfway.
Stars and colors burst and churn before his eyes, but he makes it. He can almost differentiate the Maia-shaped blob from the other blobs clustering around it. Is this a minor earthquake, or is he really so unsteady? It’s difficult to tell in California sometimes.
A slender hand curls into his shirtfront, and Maia-blob thrusts turquoise-eye-blobs close to his. “V-Vincent?”
“As far as I know,” he says.
Her grip tightens. “A-are you-”
“Not in the slightest,” he says. “Blame the skank in white.”
“That’s not a nice w… I-I found your hat.”
A dark hat-blob adorned by a pale feather-blob creeps up into his sightline.
“Thank you,” he says. He reaches out, manages to catch it on the second try, and places it on her head. It can’t be terribly comfortable on top of the tiara, but she looks blobbily adorable.
“Vincent,” Maia says in a tiny voice, “you’re scaring me.”
“Happy fucking Halloween,” Vincent says.