“You are so stupid sometimes, Jean-Luc.” Her voice came like a hiss as the serpent that was his second did slither around his shoulders in search of any sort of injury. He was breathing hard, his face flush, and the cool winter’s night enough of a challenge as it was to follow through with the will to survive. They couldn’t do this much longer, at least not like this, but as she disrobed her King; Camille had the strangest suspicion that there wasn’t enough horses in a kingdom that could ever drag him down.

   “Tell me, did he hurt you?” She asked again, working her fingers over the buttons of his shirt to remove it over his shoulders. The cold night air hit his bare skin like a bucket of cold water, but the Romany king could feel nothing. He wanted to laugh, as the magic surged through his veins like a lovespell, and the bolt of electricity the same as reaching passion’s ends.

   “You have no idea, Conducteur, of the suffering that I have gone through to see to that bastard’s end,” The stone of the frozen alleyway gave refuge to many, but tonight it was his sanctuary and as he pressed his shoulders back against it already he felt the heat escape through his skin.

   “I have little faith in that, Your Highness,” Camille’s voice was so dry and her dark thin brows lifted in disgust as he replayed the night’s events over, “But I would not think you to be so ignorant. You practically fed your little pet to the wolves.” The coat was tossed, the dumpster a few blocks away home now to many of their costume parts, but even she was ready to be free from the leather that often found her such great pleasure.


   “He would have been just fine,” Jean-Luc breathed his response as he smiled weakly at her, having always found her concern endearing, even if her taste in men were never to his liking. They had always been a strange pair, having loved one another in more ways than one, but never allowing those lines to blur. She was a child to him still, despite how her years had aged her, and time had been unkind. He would always remember her as the lost soul wandering down the railways. They had a mutual understanding, to not ask questions of the past while never speaking of the future, and to live each day as though it was were their last. How many times has she drawn up his buttons when he could not be bothered by them, or untied his laces when he fell asleep with his boots on? And he the only steady father figure that she had so desperately suffered without.

   “Darian Morgan is perfectly capable of taking care of his own, but it is not because of this I wish to remain behind.” Jean-Luc had hardly been given the chance to get the words out before he was forced upon the stone and face captured by claws,

   “Ты глупый дурак![1]” The words were forced upon him as she nearly spat them, and in her native tongue never had he found much comfort. “He is a pathetic waste of space, who you will not look upon again. Do not do this to me, Jean-Luc, the place will be swimming with Aurors, and I’m tired.” She let him go with a forceful press and searched her pockets for the pack of cigarettes she never went anywhere without. “You can dress yourself.”

   “So I can,” He pulled his new jacket up over his shoulders already feeling the bit of magic fall away, and perhaps had been a properly trained wizard this wouldn’t have been so difficult.

   For a few moments a silence settled upon them,  and he did little to reach out to her. He wouldn’t allow this to be what would tear them apart, but he couldn’t just let his new found ‘pet’ think that he’d truly meant to hurt him, now could he? Camille would argue that it was a perfect way to end things, as he certainly couldn’t keep a spitfire like that, but he had always been drawn to fire; finding it much more favorable of his desire than that of any one night stand did deserve.

   “I will not be long, Camille, and do not worry so,” He finally spoke breaking the silence, wanting nothing more than to be free of this night, and back home. He didn’t want to remain, no more than she wanted him to, but he could not without a clear conscience. Funny how a man can rob a whole room blind, but be it of one little soul that he would let it sink into his soul. “Go home, go see to our family, and know that I will be there soon.”

   Camille had lit her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose, like a puffing dragon her temper was quelled only to shake her head at him. With a roll of her eyes she left him there, taking with her the only remaining warmth, and leaving him there in the shadow to where he felt most at home.

   Ever the showman, Jean-Luc St. Laurence could have commanded a single room with one flick of a decorated wrist, but it was never where he truly felt he belonged. A man of science, despite how much he surrounded himself with magic, he held a very logical mind who would rather be tucked away in one of his train cars reading than in the limelight that so seemed to be his constant curse. He had thought of his evenings alone, and how he cherished them more than this, but as he stepped from the alley way dressed in all black he returned to a society that once upon a time had been his own. 

1.	You stupid fool

He had told Tapendra and Aileen to leave without him. He had to see to his garments, make sure they were still there and untouched. And of course the Aurors had come, just a trickle - this was Muggle London - and he'd needed to talk to them too. All around him were people, but Darian wasn't feeling social. It didn't help. It had been a long while before he could actually go home.

He wanted... something. Something to take the edge off. Drugs, alcohol, anything. He yearned to see the world as a less dangerous place. He wanted to dull his mind for a bit. But those were impossible for the foreseeable future, he had to be alert, he had to be watchful and aware of himself. Those things made him an easy victim - although clearly, he already was.

His fingers twitched. He knew himself too well, had asked one of the models inside for a smoke. It was better than nothing. Now, outside, he lit it with his wand. His muggle lighter, the heavy silver one, had been lost the first time Jean-Luc's goons had jumped him. A pity, because he'd loved it. Darian took a long drag, but it didn't ease the tension in his shoulders, mouth, eyes. Jean-Luc, he felt, might kill him, and he didn't know what to do.

He didn't look so out of place on the dirty backstreets of London; he'd shucked his jacket, packed it up with the rest of the Libertine clothing to be sent back, so he wore only his soft black clothing now. Not particularly wizarding. The jacket had been the centerpiece. Subdued in dark colors, curls licking at his throat, he could have been any young man who'd stepped out in the cold for a smoke. Behind him people still trickled out from the warehouse where the event had been held, the last dregs involved taking down the decorations or talking to the Aurors.

The steps all at once and one by one signaled the return of the designer, for Jean-Luc knew the sound of those boots as they struck the stone like the sound of his own heart, and he hated to admit it. A lover of many things, he had grown up in a home that had only known the best, and the difference between Italian leather and any other certainly was easily defined. It didn't help that Darian had a way to him, that even made his walk attract the wrong sort. He gave and took exactly what he wanted, and even left his shadow to taunt those around him. Truly. He was one of a kind, but on this night he seemed to have met his match.

Smoking.

Jean-Luc was surrounded by smokers, but thankfully the stale scent of Camille's cigarette could be masked with that of Darian's even as the cherry would later hit the ground. He had tucked himself away in a dark door way, keeping his open only enough to gauge how close his counterpart would get, but half closed to hide the way the light did illuminate the black sometimes. Darian passed him by, and in step Jean-Luc slipped up upon him like a shadow over the moon. He followed in behind for such a short while before the mouth of the alley would swallow them both whole and his arms the body of the designer.

A half gloved hand went over his mouth, while the other arm went around the boy's body to possess him, overpower him, and hold both of his wrists together with just one hand.

"Be still, I have no desire to keep you or hurt you, but I will not leave this night without you knowing the truth," Why did it matter? He had asked himself over and over again, the very same question, but perhaps it was that bit of submissive nature he saw in Darian through the fear or anger from before that he just couldn't stomach. His little hellcat should never be put to his knees again, but here he was facing a wall, held there face first by a man who would see to his undoing before he would see him home.

"Struggle all you want, it will not help you."

The cigarette didn't take the edge off, not like he'd hoped. The smoke only smelled sour against the cold crispness of the night - not Darian's brand. Not luxurious enough. Since it'd been borrowed, well, what could a man do. He walked seeking a nook or an alley, someplace out of the open where a Muggle couldn't see him Apparate home.

He had not considered anyone would have lingered at the scene of the crime. If he'd thought about it, it would have seemed the stupidest possible thing to do. He hadn't thought about it, actually, just assumed. When someone reached out and dragged him into the alley he was lit with instant and instinctual panic. It shot like a bolt throughout his whole body, utterly shattering his exhaustion. He knew immediately who was behind him, or he strongly suspected - he knew unfortunately the feel of Jean-Luc's body, the height and weight difference, even the smell of him. With that especially fueling his desperation, clamping arms around Darian was like attempting to hold a shape-shifting Tam Lin.

His feet left the ground as he bucked, twisting and kicking over Jean-Luc's arm across his middle, forcing the man to take all of his weight. He ground the lit end of his cigarette against that arm - not having dropped the smoke in the sudden rush of surprise, rather, almost crushing it in the clamp of his fingers - but it only sizzled against leather. The man's jacket. Jean-Luc went for his hands next and made Darian drop it.

"Be still, I have no desire to keep you or hurt you, but I will not leave this night without you knowing the truth."

The words weren't ones he expected, but they confirmed that Jean-Luc was the one holding him. Yes, certainly, he was going to tell Darian the truth: that actually he loved him, or maybe he just loved redheads, and then he was going to rape him and kill him and leave the body in the alley, sweet Merlin, Darian wasn't sticking around for this. He bit down hard on the hand over his mouth, bucking again. The man's proclamation about struggling was, incidentally, not reassuring. His wrists slid in Jean-Luc's hold until one popped out, not so thin as to be confined easily by one broad hand, and he scrabbled for his wand.

"Flipendo!" It was the first thing that came to mind. It was an awkward angle to be firing from, wand barely tipped out of his trouser pocket, and he was half-surprised he hadn't hit his own leg. Still, he twisted, one wrist hanging from Jean-Luc's grasp, hoping that the blue light which shot outward from his wand met the man behind him.

In a rush of all things good and light, Magic had never been something he could grasp. Jean-Luc was the sort of man who had never wanted of anything that he could not get, or of someone who did not come willingly. He would not force Darian into his bed chamber, the furs to which he slept on would never be something Darian would unwillingly come to again, but he certainly wasn't going to allow the boy to leave without hearing him out. The bucking he expected, the bite...not so much, but it was the power in the wizard's wand that ignited a fire inside him that he couldn't control.

A hungry, deadly rush of energy forced it's way forward until he felt as though even his eyes would start to bleed black, and he turned Darian in his arms in a single motion. The wand, that would fall short of it's duty was knocked away, and he almost felt sorry for the tailor who held more power than any one muggle could in his little hands.

"Enough!" He barked holding him by his arms with his back against the brick now, and the sound was enough to even shake the shadows on the walls--curious for someone who claimed to have never known magic. Watching Darian now, with the fire in his eyes that nearly matched his hair, Jean-Luc could not stop the small smirk that formed on his lips as the amusement played it's part on his heart.

"You do not trust my word, and have every reason not to. But I would you trust a Gypsy King's ability to barter?" Even dressed in one of his finer jackets, Jean-Luc still looked as though he were a kin to a wild beast, with human teeth around his neck, and fine silver accenting the rest. However, it was upon a much finer chain, a dainty thing that fit the neck of a elegant collar, was there a ring--that Darian should know. It sat above his heart, as though the enchantment alone was what kept his blood warm.

"Hear me out, and then you will be free to do as you please," Words dangerously close to begging for it all to just end. His life included.

His spell missed - it must have, for the other wasn't thrown back across the alley. Darian fought fiercely as Jean-Luc turned him around. The muffled clatter of the wand hitting the cobbles was deeply depressing; magic was the only real advantage he'd had.

"Enough!"

So close he flinched as Jean-Luc's voice hit his ears, the visceral slap of the sound shocking him still for a moment. His eyes fell, as they were intended, onto the necklace. His expression flickered with some unnameable emotion, but it wasn't pleased. For a moment his fear was replaced by a more critical disgruntlement. That Jean-Luc had Darian's ring on a chain around his neck only reinforced the idea of a dangerous attraction, a statement in the silver worn right against his skin.

But then he chased that thought to its more appropriate conclusion, this one born of the man's small smirk: Jean-Luc was mocking him. Darian'd assumed all his jewelry had been pawned or dispersed. This was more personal; it made him a little indignant. It was one thing for his leather cuffs to adorn a dainty acrobat's wrist, or his earrings a different set of ears. It was another entirely for Jean-Luc to be keeping them on his nightstand to flaunt them when they met.

He was annoyed, and it cut the panic. The deal Jean-Luc offered did imply that he wanted to chat. Now, chest tight, breathing harsh, it wasn't as though Darian had much choice but to listen. He stilled, though it was strained sort of stillness - ready to fight again should the opportunity arise.

His voice was tense. "Go on." Darian didn't quite believe him, but he'd rather Jean-Luc talk than do anything else.

He could not help it, the small bit of a chuckle that left his lips in the clear pleasure he got in the way Darian was such a spitfire. He loved to see it when people fought, it was an illusion that he'd fed Gale all his life to never give up without going down swinging. He hoped that his son still did just that, but pushed those thoughts away. Darian absolutely looked fit to be tied, and it was in this Jean-Luc found so much pleasure. A twisted sort, he never was one to lose, though this really wasn't a battle of wits anymore as he had the upper hand. He would rue the day when it was Darian's turn to gain his footing, and welcomed the idea of how hard Darian would push to get there. He was a fighter this one, little hell cat, and Jean-Luc would have it no other way.

"So full of fire, Ma petite, it brings me such pleasure to know that," His accent was rich, his eyes flashing with a brief moment of light, but he dare not lean in any further. However, when Darian subsided enough to give him leave to speak a very formal nearly lord like manner fell over him like a dark veil. Though...perhaps it was the other way around.

Jean-Luc straightened his shoulders, stiffened his spine, lifted his chin, and even as the course of the wind seemed to die down so too did the wild raven black strands of his hair, that now fell around his face in long thick lines,

"Know that the events of this night had nothing to do with you, nor did they anything to do with your show. I had not known you were to be here, and though I can not say that it would have stopped me, Young Master, I would have been more careful with keeping you free from the fire." Even his voice seemed to deepen, the rich full baritone of his dictation as practiced and rehearsed as any fine scholar, and though grace hasn't been one of his companions for many years, his chest even rose and fell with purpose.

"I do not expect a treaty, nor am I saying that I am apologizing for my actions. I have my reasons for such events, but do know that I do feel guilty for how it all happened. At least until you tripped me," He eased his hold on Darian then, that flat little smirk of his returning. Why was it he found this little bird so amusing, he would never know. He didn't remind him of his youth, they couldn't have been further apart at this age, but he did think there was something in Darian almost endearing and he frankly wasn't able to put his finger on it.

"Of course it does," he sighed, because Jean-Luc was a walking stereotype sometimes. His dark villainy belonged to the pages of a bodice-ripper, one where the antagonist insisted on tacking the male protagonist with feminine French endearments. If that story didn't occasionally dip into the genre of thriller, Darian wouldn't mind half so much.

Still gripping him tight, Jean-Luc changed. The formality that stole over him, straightening his posture, making imperious the cut of his jaw, was another familiar mannerism. Darian had seen it several times now, never from this close. It wasn't in itself a dangerous mood.

He supposed it was progress that he could recognize Jean-Luc's moods, even if he could barely predict or understand then, but Darian generally had such little difficulty reading people that the ringmaster's mysterious motivations continued to frustrate. For this shift in manner... perhaps, given the terrible attempt at a pseudo-apology, it was for when Jean-Luc was doing something that he didn't want to do? The revelation was incendiary, demanding Darian wrack his memory for their past interactions - but no, no, he didn't have time for that now.

Did Jean-Luc expect this to soften Darian towards him? He hadn't offered any real explanation! Oh, the designer believed that Jean-Luc hadn't known Darian was going to be there. His first reaction had been telling enough. But Jean-Luc had perpetrated worse trespass than a little nonconsensual dancing, the only thing he admitted feeling guilty about. No, the highlight of Darian's evening was the knife at his throat and chest as Jean-Luc bore him down. He would remember for some time the hot emotion in Jean-Luc's eyes as he threatened to wear Darian's hair round his wrists and his teeth round his neck, the hard hand on Darian's jaw, more snarled demands to be his king. That anger, that threat, that had been convincing. This now was not.

After he'd spoken Jean-Luc eased his grip on Darian's arms. Darian instantly jerked away. Shaking the man off, he didn't gain any space between them; Jean-Luc still had him backed into a wall.

"Oh, did my tripping you make you lose your temper?" Darian couldn't help but mock him a little, tone turning scornful as he regained his breath. "I'm more concerned with what happened after. No one's responsible for those actions but yourself." What was Jean-Luc offering him? Though he spat venom, Darian was genuinely confused. Sure, fine, robbing his event hadn't been personal - but their own interactions very much were from the moment that Jean-Luc approached him until the moment he left. Maybe it was a little calming to know Jean-Luc didn't actively stalk him, not purposefully planning to crash his show. Maybe. He would still be warding all his doors and windows at night.

"It did. I'm a king, Darian, only in select few circumstances am I to be put on my back." His moods could have been his undoing, but that wasn’t to say the Romany king wasn’t passionate in nearly everything he did. He knew of hard living, the lines around his eyes like the tracks a blackbird left in the snow, but he knew enough of youth to see so much of it Darian he was nearly envious to a point where he wanted to reach out and touch of the smooth skin. Even with the venom, the hiss like words Darian made him think of a time when things were not always such a fight, but the very real fear was there. Had he truly been afraid? He should have been.

“With what happened after?” He fed into the questioning, wondering if there wasn’t a way he should have gone about this differently, though he doubted Darian Morgan ever got old of getting flowers; he didn’t think his would be as welcome.

“Fear does not suit you, Darian, not like this.” He would not give away his secrets so easy, but somewhere he wondered if Darian had to know. He had to realize just exactly what happened. Yet still he stood a burning bit of fire before him, and he the cold stone wall that refused to ignite. Jean-Luc lived in a clouded depression, surrounded by painted smiles and false reality, but there was just something about standing before this youth that made him want to feel again. Was it envy that held him to his spot, cemented as if he were just a statue that wanted to watch Darian walk by?

Jean-Luc brought his fingers up to touch the ends of Darian's red curls, the ones warm because of how close they were to his neck, and studied them if only a moment before snapping the chain that was around his own neck so that he could hand the boy back his ring. What he wouldn't give to add him to his collection, misfits boys and promiscuous girls that appeased his depression in little bits of time, but in the end someone like Darian Morgan didn't belong on his side of the tracks--no matter how much he often dressed the part.

"What you say is true, Mon chat, does that give you the satisfaction of winning this round?" He held out the ring on it's silver chain, with a bit of a smile, and feeling rather old. 

"Look." Darian fluttered his hands, the extravagant gesture coming off jerky-sharp. "Perhaps you don't understand the very particular British attitude towards kings? Technically I already owe fealty to one royal family and I don't even think about them terribly much, save for when one of them gets married or bares the crown jewels."

He didn't care much for the sovereignty of some backwater gypsy king. Jean-Luc could live with his pride being punctured just like every human being did on a regular basis. Good God, Darian'd been held at knifepoint in front of his fashion peers and guests, and he would come out singing if he made it through this encounter alive.

“With what happened after?”

Jean-Luc was clearly just taking the piss with him now. Darian shifted under his shadow and didn't answer, the dark dart of his gaze sliding to the side, his mouth flattening with irritation. He raised eyes gone narrow with suspicion to the other when Jean-Luc continued. He didn't trust the man. This strangely gentle questioning - all he heard was soft mockery, this some twisted and obvious game. Perhaps a trap. Jean-Luc knew what had happened after, and he was the reason Darian was afraid.

"You shouldn't go dragging me into dark alleys then," he said, a little petulant, a little cold. Jean-Luc really had nearly given him a heart attack, that most recent introduction the precursor of every midnight kidnapping ever with the tight arm around his middle and the leather hand over his mouth. And the danger wasn't over yet, even if they were speaking so calmly now to one another. Darian was still waiting for him to act, for something to set him off. It seemed pointless for Darian to explain himself to him or expect rationality, but he was still very tense and it was difficult to restrain himself from snapping or demanding. Sometimes Jean-Luc liked his forward nature. Sometimes, that forward nature got him only threats or beaten nearly to death. Oh, so difficult to predict. His voice lowered darkly. "It's very alarming."

"What you say is true, Mon chat, does that give you the satisfaction of winning this round?"

It was with some small bare pleasure that he took his ring back, then laid his hand briefly over Jean-Luc's - in thanks? Consolation? No one was winning this, least of all Darian. But he could do that, he could touch him now. The longer they talked the more his heartbeat approached its normal speed, and Darian was continuously analyzing his own actions - what would appease Jean-Luc, what would amuse him? He didn't want to please him, but he should be smart about this.

"I am very certain I did not win this round." It was a relief to have his ring back, it being one of his pieces of jewelry he'd enchanted for protection after that first alley attack. It just needed the right twist to activate, assuming Jean-Luc hadn't already figured out its secrets by now and neutered the thing. Having it back made him feel a little better, not entirely defenseless.

He could twist it now and press it to Jean-Luc's chest, shock him silly, bolt for his wand. But Jean-Luc had always caught him so effortlessly when he tried to run, like a wolf snapping up a sleek little rabbit, and shocking him would almost certainly make him furious. Darian had learned it was better to wait the man out. If Jean-Luc didn't intend to hurt him he would make out all right by standing still, looking pretty, and thinking quick.

'Look. Perhaps you don't understand the very particular British attitude towards kings? Technically I already owe fealty to one royal family and I don't even think about them terribly much, save for when one of them gets married or bares the crown jewels.'

Oh that fire, that relentless spark that the young Morgan had would surely be his undoing. He felt himself want to come alive with just the way his little hell cat did ignite such anger and sharp witted words. To say that Darian Morgan was anything less than entertaining would have been a criminal act of treason in his Court, but the words were not his own speak just yet. However, he could not stop his fingers from finding the boy's chin, touching of the flesh there as though it was made of fire, and sliding the backs of his fingertips along the line of his jaw.

"Oh, mon chat, I would not speak such a thing to loudly. For you do not know of the ears that listen when I am not around," His words were quiet, a heavy hiss even though he smiled, "My subjects think otherwise, dear one, and I would keep that in mind if I were you. They are loyal creatures, who would have your head on a plate before my pride is to be wounded..." He canted his head with amusement, "Again."

For that Darian had truly won, even if he didn't see it as such. The victory came with his life this night, as Jean-Luc was not a man to be put on his back--ever. Yet. Darian had unseated him like toppling an oversized egg from a wall, and all the kings horses and all the kings men would have certainly cut him down.

'You shouldn't go dragging me into dark alleys then,'

"No? And why is that?" With his hand coming away from the boy, his cold touch did return to his side. The pat to his wrist came with a bit of amusement, and Jean-Luc chuckled lightly. Though it was more of a tormented taunt to be close again. When was it Darian held such power?

"Glad to have that back are you? Interesting little trinket. I think a few of my clowns found out the hard way of what it is. Though one can never be too sure when dealing with my people. They could have simply been stoned." With a flex of his fingers he tried to make the heat escape, the way the boy's tough did linger, but all he felt and all he could think about was those curls at the nape of his neck and the hungry wolf like feeling that made his mouth water around his fangs.

"Have a good night, Mr. Morgan." The king spoke as if to one of his subjects, and the cold, stoic, stone like mask returned as even his eyes let go of the light they reflected. The black orbs were already mourning the loss of the tailor and the sparks of life he so ignited.