Standard disclaimers: Forever Knight and company are owned by a lot of very important people, not one of whom is me! The following fiction is for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made from it. Permission to archive to: www.fkfanfic.com and the Seducers webpage; all others, please ask. Comments, preferably lavish compliments accompanied by gifts, to [EMAIL PROTECTED] This is an early Valentine's Day story, and it's for V, by way of an apology. :) Ever Blooms the Rose By Molly Schneider Copyright 1999 February 14th In the predawn light he'd gone down to the truck yards, where the city's fresh produce was being unloaded--"produce" also encompassing flowers. Roses, precisely. A ghostly figure in the yard lights, he'd selected one perfect white rose and insisted on paying the driver who'd let him take it from the delivery. >From a cautious distance, a soft smile stole over the face of the watcher. He would, she know, wander slowly through the streets with his rose and his memories, until he reached the water. There he might kiss the rose goodbye, but never the memory. **** Janette sat down at her dressing table with a deep purr of satisfaction. The table was an antique now; she'd hung onto it as she'd seen such accouterments becoming increasingly scarce. Women today, she reflected, crouched over bathroom counters and peered into fluorescent-lit mirrors... she made a little moue of distaste which vanished swiftly as she smiled at herself in the mirror. Dressing, she reflected, was one of the most selfishly enjoyable of the 'womanly arts', and a vastly underrated pleasure in the modern world. Dressing for someone else was absolutely hedonistic. Except, she thought, with mischief in her eyes, that he didn't know she was dressing for him. She applied her maquillage with the sensual touch of a lover, then turned toward the dress. It was devore velvet in the deepest red. The acid had washed away the material in a pattern of rosebuds; through the gaps in the pattern her skin shone opalescent. Cleverly cut, the effect of the dress was of having just wrapped herself in twining roses. "Oh, yes," she breathed, looking in her mirror. Shoes, earrings, and the trace of a glass stopper along her cleavage... She heard the apartment's door opening. **** He knew very well what day it was, and it irritated him that he should know. An absurd custom, and what did it matter to their kind? But Janette had asked him to spend the evening with her, and he had no real reason to refuse her. The thought crossed his mind that his erratic son might choose to remember the day, also. "Yeesh," he said very quietly. A bottle stood ready with two goblets on the bar; he called out, "May I pour?" "Oui, mon cher; I am almost ready." Good wine, but the blood in it was better: a child, laughing... He smiled briefly, then turned when he heard her enter. An eyebrow quirked upward all by itself. "You astonish me," he said drily. Just a flicker across her face to show she might be taken aback. "How so?" He filled her glass and held it out to her. "After all these centuries, I would think you would be unable to surpass yourself in loveliness." A deep smile as she took her glass, a glint in her eye. "Big bad LaCroix... if only people knew how charming you *can* be." "Let's keep it our secret, then, shall we? Now, what are your plans for tonight?" "Why," she said, rounding her eyes with mock innocence, "I'm entertaining a gentleman." "Ha, ha." "Well," she shrugged. "I would invite you for a hunt, but--modern times, eh?" They sighed, together. LaCroix was prepared to give himself up to a dark mood, and thought the same of her; it was a surprise when she linked her arm through his and said brightly, "So we're going to the movies!" Startled, he drew away from her. "The movies?! Whyever for?" "Whyever *not*?" she barked, glaring. A moment's pause, then he said mildly, "Indeed, whyever not?" and tucked her small hand into the crook of his elbow. **** She'd rented out one theatre of a luxury cinema for the evening; wide-eyed, the usher showed them in. And she'd chosen comedy. The sparkling, not-quite-innocent comedy of the 1930s. Janette settled in to enjoy herself, but kept a wary eye on her companion. She was not sure just how he would take her choice of films. But halfway through the first one--Topper, with Cary Grant and Constance Bennett--she heard a low, very low, chuckle. By the time the tale of the chic ghosts bedeviling their helpless mortal friend had ended, she could feel him relaxing into his seat. And then there was Bringing Up Baby, so deliciously silly even LaCroix had to laugh. Finally--Mr. and Mrs. Smith, in the persons of Robert Montgomery and Carole Lombard, discovering that their volatile marriage wasn't legal at all, really, and what did they want to do about it? "Mortals," said LaCroix as they left the theatre, "laughing at their own ridiculous foibles." "Exactly." They walked in silence for some time; then he said: "I thought you were angry at me." "Oh, yes! Furious! You are cold, you are unfeeling, you will not give so much as a word of kindness when it is needed--shall I go on?" "No, thank you," he hissed. A pause, than he burst out angrily, "You wish me more forthcoming, is that it? More liberal in my affections, more inclined to 'sharing,' as I believe it is termed?" "Oh, la, no," she responded lightly. At his baffled look she smiled up into his eyes. "One Nicolas is enough, don't you think?" A sound very close to a snort, in a tone very close to bafflement, escaped him. Not a word was exchanged until they were back in their apartment above the Raven. He sat down at his desk like a frowsty eagle, she thought softly. Yes, she had been furious--but what right had she had? He was what he was; he never pretended otherwise. She could bring to mind a thousand kindnesses he'd shown her, or consider just how much she owed him, but even that was irrelevant. He was, simply, a fine man. That was enough. She poured them both a glass and carried it over to him, then perched on the corner. "I love you," she told him. "I know," he replied automatically, pretending a deep interest in his ledger. "And I like you, too." That earned her a startled glance and she took advantage of it, leaning on her elbow across the desk, the dress of velvet roses overriding the damned ledger. "You're an interesting companion, LaCroix--certainly no one else can talk like you." With a light hand she stroked his cheek. "And you're positively gallant at time, though you'd scald your non-existent soul rather than admit it." He looked at her, intrigued. "Are seducing me, my dear, or comforting me?" "Neither. I am merely speaking my mind. Now, what did you think of the movies?" So they talked; and their conversation rambled from the screwball comedies of the 1930s to the Commedia d'ell Arte, to Moliere... with more than a few diversions along the way. And somewhere in the midst of it they smiled at each other, and left that room for another. <FIN>
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