Poem (on deviantArt): /art/Glass-Cannon-541353293

I had way too much fun with this one. Tee-hee. Go ahead and judge me, I dare you.

And I had no time to revise it, since I am already running late. If they kill me, don't forget I love you guys!

The inside is the outside
to them and they that choose to see
Masks aplenty in this lane of traffic
we call civilization

- Glass Cannon., Bleeding Prophecies&MorbidMosaic

John Mandrake seldom felt nervous before big events where everything that was asked of him was to politely converse with his peers, dance when asked to, and not eat or drink anything unchecked by his spirit servants.

Nonetheless, as far as social events go, this one was different.

Jane Farrar had snottily informed him she had a date (and done so in the presence of a nearly invisible Bartimaeus to boot) for the upcoming event already, assuming, he guessed, it would upset him greatly and make him ask her sooner next time.

However, and truthfully, Mandrake found his lack of interest on Jane's escort the most upsetting – and maybe a tad alarming – fact of all; hadn't they been engaging on (rather subtle, yes) flirting games now and then? He reckoned he could label it as political interest on both parties, but that aggravated him further. He had supposed they would be attending this Godforsaken party together as they usually did. Jane could be seriously damaging their partnership, especially right under every important magicians' noses.

It goes without saying that Nathaniel was not surprised at the relief that came with the realization that he would not be required to nod and agree with every biting comment Jane made about wardrobe malfunctions or the "atrocious manicures, are gloves that expensive nowadays?"

In spite of the slight pang of humilliation that came with her refusal, he could mostly count pros out of this arrangement. Maybe the need to get himself a plus-one on such short notice giving him little room for manoeuvre was what caused both of his sides to converge and come up with the stupidiest, most suicidal idea he had ever tumbled upon.

Panic had won that day.

Throughout the car ride, the young magician cursed his luck – why, oh why did Piper have to be down with the flu tonight of all nights? And why in God's name did he have to deal with a very moody representation of Kitty Jones at the moment? Maybe the answer to that was on the question itself, and maybe he should stop hurting himself with these pointless questions.

"I hope you remember your task," Mandrake said. The anxiety was nearly choking him, so he wondered how he had managed to speak. He hastily rubbed his sweaty hands on his black trousers; took a deep breath to calm this crazy beating of his heart. But it was no good. There was too much at stake.

The fake girl beside him simply rolled her eyes while repeating his statement in a mocking, high-pitched voice. Mandrake resisted the urge of telling Arthur, his chauffeur, to pull over and kick this irritating presence out of the car. Again he reminded himself that it would do him no good.

John held no unrealistic expectations regarding his – dare he say it? – date's behavior for the night. Hence he making sure not to overstay his welcome and leave the party just after midnight. However, even Bartimaeus would be cautious regarding other spirits, right?

They were headed to a rather private New Year's party held at his former master's, Jessica Whitwell, place. Mandrake was quite grateful to the exclusivity of the event. Besides the guards – which he guessed would be guhls – and a handful of imps here and there, he supposed there wouldn't be any spirit of the same level as Bartimaeus. But he could not be sure, and not knowing was driving him crazy.

Not rightly so, Mandrake let out a sigh of relief when they finally arrived. He threw Bartimaeus a last poignant glare, hoping to convey the message, and, when Arthur knocked twice on his window, he knocked back and got out of the vehicle once the door was opened for him.

Mandrake nervously straightened his sapphire blue tie, buttoned and knocked the wrinkles out of his suit jacket. Lastly, he inhaled deeply a couple times, straightened his back and shoulders and looked above for what he supposed could be in search for inspiration. That at least told him snow would be falling gently for the rest of the evening.

Then he let his eyes move down to look at the house. He had lived there for a little while, and nothing seemed to have changed at all. In fact, the building was quite similar to his own, so he didn't let his eyes linger.

"Sir," his chauffeur called in a soft voice, a puff of steam forming between them.

"Oh, yes. I suppose I'll need you right after midnight. Don't be late. I don't intend to stay for long."

"As you please, sir. However, I was wondering if you wouldn't rather help the lovely lady out yourself than having me do it."

"Oh," Mandrake—maybe Nathaniel due to the light that spread across the young magician's cheeks—articulated. "Of course. Thank you, Arthur."

He extended his hand – immediately regreting having taken it out of his pocket – waiting for Bartimaeus to take the hint and get out of the car. But nothing could have prepared him for that sight. Because it wasn't Kitty Jones coming out, or a horrendous monster he had somewhat been expecting. It wasn't someone he recognized, truthfully, but it was the most beautiful specimen he had ever laid eyes on.

With his breath hitched in his throat and wide-eyed, Nathaniel-Mandrake opened and closed his mouth as his brain failed to cooperate and give him a relatively intelligent thing to say.

"Sir," Arthur whispered on his ear, having had to bend a little to do so, "I apologize in advance for my boldness, but perhaps now is the right time for a gentleman to lend his jacket to his date."

Having been slapped out of their stupor by his chauffeur's words, his fingers moved on their own accord and undid the buttons they had so metodically tended to moments before. The young magician shakily stepped forward while undressing his suit jacket and put it on the shoulders of the stunning woman before him. Full, red lips formed a half smile that made him weak on the knees. He briefly wondered if burying his face on the snow would make it melt.

For a moment there, he had actually forgotten this was Bartimaeus under all that elegance. It must have been those strinking blue eyes that had pulled him in, or the timid, few freckles just under them that gave that face such an exotic air – he didn't know why, since England wasn't a particularly warm country to begin with, but this seemed to be a woman from a faraway winter fairytale. To make matters worse, her ginger hair flamed against her pale skin in such a perfect contrast he was sure someone was bound to write a lovesick sonnet about it someday.

However, Bartimaeus had gone even farther along and decided to dress himself—herself?—in a sapphire gown that wrapped her majestic body perfectly, and complemented it with diamond and what he guessed was intended to be a substitute for silver jewelry, just to keep the suspicious gazes at bay. And boy, he was sure they would get plenty of attention that evening. Nathaniel vaguely noticed the high heels or the small purse, eager as he was to offer his arm to escort her inside.

Had he looked back, he would have seen Arthur smiling to himself, with expressions he wouldn't recognize, but which could be labeled as knowning satisfaction. Because Arthur would be punctually back by midnight as instructed, of course, but even he knew at the time that his master would be the one running very late.

Bartimaeus enjoyed teasing him – that much he knew. Therefore, Nathaniel didn't make much of it when the djinni sporadically showed… affection? Was that what he could call the past week's Christmas Eve? He honestly couldn't know; he didn't have anything to compare it to. Using Mrs. Underwood's motherly behavior or Ms. Lutyens' warm nature as examples did not work; it just didn't fit. Yet, for very obvious reasons he failed to acknowledge, there were some aspects that did.

Ugh. Confusing. Why was he engaging in such futile mental debates? Oh, yeah. The bloody party, of course. The champagne was probably catching up to him already. One more reason for Bartimaeus to make fun of him: his alcohol tolerance. Or lack of it, really.

Giving credit where it is due, he had to hand it to Jessica Whitwell. The place looked amazing. He recognized the living room, but the rearrangement of the furniture made all the difference. It was a large, modern room, with stark white walls and lynx-gray carpets. He was glad most of the silvered furniture had been moved out of the way; it was still there, but mostly against the walls. He briefly wondered if Bartimaeus was feeling trapped. There was a fireplace on the other side of the room, opposite the door and right next to the staircase. The paintings – mostly minimalist – he remembered from his time there were still hanging on the walls. The windows were closed, at his right, and although he could not see them, John easily guessed there were guhls there, too.

His stomach growled when his eyes landed on the appetizers table. John reckoned he hadn't eaten anything after that late breakfast – earl grey tea and two undercooked pancakes. He vaguely recalled having told Arthur to pack a sandwich for the ride, but he had completely forgotten about it due to the crazy situation he'd found himself him. Conversely, it meant it must still be there. John was quite tempted to contact Arthur and have him deliver it just not to have to interrupt Bartimaeus with a lame excuse to his dancing partner in order to have the djinni sniff everything before he ate.

John was, thank the Heavens above, able to dance reasonably. He was miles away from having Patrick Swayze's suave movements and charm, but he wouldn't be stepping on anyone's toes. Well, at least not when he was sober. Not that it mattered at the moment. Bartimaeus was waltzing around the room with a magician of a lower rank. The cheek. Call him paranoid, but he could very well see the djinni's eyes locking on him every now and then just to ensure he was watching. Oh, he was. And it made him incredibly thankful for his magician skills that helped him keep everything he was feeling concealed. Repugnance, mostly. Certainly not jealousy. And if it was, very much justified, he'd like to think.

He could spot Jane Farrar right behind Bartimaeus, swaying in the arms of someone of no importance to him. The Prime Minister was lively chatting with Makepeace, occasionally sipping his champagne. The red color over his cheeks and ears told no lies, but he reckoned everyone looked a little red on the face that night.

His stomach growled again, and more vehemently, as if urging him to do something about it. Well, just like mentioned above, alcohol tolerance wasn't something he'd been graced with, and drinking on an empty stomach wasn't helping, so walk across the room he did. Luckily, without making his half-lucid state public – if we choose to ignore his hazy, slightly red eyes, and his not-so-stinking breath – he made it between a few dancing pairs to Bartimaeus and Peter? Pete? Or was it his surname, Peterson? Patterson?

He honestly didn't care.

John, Nathaniel—whichever at that point, and not all thanks to booze—put on his business smile, coughed to get their attention and smoothly said, "If you don't mind, I'd like my date back now, please." Well, it had sounded much better in his mind a second before. Now he was sure Bartimaeus wouldn't let this go for the next month or so, what with the way he—she—whatever!—was smirking at him.

Peter, Peterson—like hell he'd care to remember—smiled back politely, kissed Bartimaeus' hand – much to his horror and the djinni's surprise – and quite literally gave it to him.

"Thank you for the wonderful moment, miss," he said. Then, he flashed the fake girl a smile that made even Nathaniel's knees turn to jelly, nodded once to a gawking Nathaniel, and turned on his heel.

He was brought back to reality by Bartimaeus' hands on his own. "So, now that you have me back, John, care to dance?" But he didn't even wait for an answer, and the next thing he knew, he was waltzing to the sound of the string quartet Whitwell had hired for the night.

The djinni grinned, showing a set of perfect, white teeth. Did Bartimaeus not realize how maddeningly appealing this guise was? Of course he did. If he didn't occupy his mind with something else – namely food – he would most certainly lose it completely and become a lovestruck mess. Furthermore, everyone was commenting on how average he looked beside this beautiful woman. Did he not understand how hard it was for him to have to maintain his reputation immaculate at times like these? He hadn't come here to exhibit a trophy girlfriend or whatever, he had just desperately needed a date, as not to look like a fool in front of Farrar and the rest of his peers.

"What's on your mind, O my master?"

"I'm hungry," he dumbly said in the middle of making Bartimaeus spin.

"Oh, so you didn't come here to dance with me?" Bartimaeus pouted, and it was ridiculous of Nathaniel to blush, for there was nothing but mocking there.

"You know, the man is the one supposed to lead the dance," he stated, avoiding the question.

"He is leading."

Nathaniel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn't believe he had outrightly handed that one to Bartimaeus wihtout noticing. "I need to eat, and I need you to verify everything."

"Killjoy."

But he went along without fussing much. Nathaniel was in the middle of trying some caviar when he remembered Bartimaeus should be eating as well, just for show. With an annoyed expression, the djinni stole Nathaniel's plate and devoured the contents with extreme finesse.

That was cue to the arrival of the Prime Minister and Makepeace, both carrying champagne. Nathaniel stood stiffily as they made small talk, noticing how Makepeace repeatedly eyed Bartimaeus with interest. He couldn't have possibly…?

"Say, Mandrake, how did you find such a lovely lady and managed to hide her for so long?" the Prime Minister asked.

Nathaniel laughed nervously, grabbed a flute from a passerby human – very, very human, thankfully – waitress and downed it in a matter of seconds, squeezing his brain for a story that would sound convincing. He was very much aware of all the pairs of eyes on him, especially Bartimaeus' twinkling ones.

But he saved him, nonetheless. "John and I met in Prague a few years ago for an undercover mission," Bartimaeus said, forcing a Scottish accent. Nathaniel wanted to die right there. Why had Bartimaeus chosen to pretend to be a Scottish woman of all things? Didn't he know about the rivalry between the two nations? Great. He was sure he was dead meat the moment the Prime Minister furrowed his eyebrows.

However, maybe this was his lucky day, for Makepeace's eyes glimmered with excitement. "I trust you are Scottish, yes?"

She smiled. "Yes, I am."

"That's just terrific!" he exclaimed. "Can I have your name, please?"

"Aileen Monroe."

Nathaniel didn't really know what was happening, and it seemed he wasn't alone on this; the Prime Minister seemed to be as confused. That is until…

"I'd love to write a play of you two. Impossible love is everyone's favorite, is it not?" He giddily looked at the three of them. "And you could act your parts, too! Oh, so many ideas rushing through my head already!" He furiously gesticulated while he spoke, and the Prime Minister followed his movements drowsily, nodding every once in a while. "How did you two meet? How did it happen?"

"Well, I'm sure Mandrake was the one who needed saving," a feminine voice said. Jane Farrar appeared from behind the two men, looking stunning on her black, sleeveless dress and with her hair in a high, graceful ponytail, holding a flute of champagne, too. Everyone seemed to be devoted to the damned drink that night.

Nathaniel bit the inside of his cheek. She would obviously be pissed at him for showing up with someone else, especially someone this beautiful. Jane was used to being the center of attention at parties like this, so Nathaniel figured it was more than jealousy that was driving her.

"Well, it was nothing particularly exciting, Makepeace. Surely nothing that deserves to be written about." There. Maybe that would allow him to kill two birds with one stone and get away from this mess without being killed in the process.

"What are you saying?" Bartimaeus questioned, feigning hurt. "It was magical!" Then, turning to the trio standing before them, the djinni continued, "John is always so shy about it. I don't know why."

Nathaniel looked at Bartimaeus, only to see how those blue eyes were alight with a mischievous glint. Yes, he could kiss his reputation goodbye.

"Do enlighten us, please," Jane urged.

"I'm not exaggerating when I say I wouldn't be alive without him."

Wait, what? Maybe he could live this out, after all.

"Because after almost killing us both, he managed to save me from drowning. But you should have seen him before that, all nervous and insecure, clinging onto his very competent djinni for help."

Farrar smirked victoriously. Makepeace looked disappointed. The Prime Minister showed no signs of caring. Nathaniel wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.

Bartimaeus went on, telling an absurd tale about how they owed it all to this "witty, brave and impossibly strong djinni," who'd saved them from certain death.

"My, oh my, I need to know who that demon is," Jane said with a lilt of laughter in her voice. "I could use such a fearsome creature working for me."

"Now, now, Jane, you know a good magician doesn't reveal his secrets," Nathaniel retorted nervously.

"You do have to report who you summon."

"Indeed. So I suggest you go look at those files." Before she could reply, he added, "However, that djinni died–"

"While bravely shielding us from that golem's attack, under orders, of course."

Nathaniel looked at Bartimaeus to see a concealed annoyed expression. He didn't think having declared him dead was a bad thing. Wouldn't he rather have that than being summoned?

Oh.

Jane had called him a demon. That's why.

"But John was most caring, too. He tended to me all night after that incident." When Farrar eyed her with suspicion on her face, Bartimaeus added, "I still have that scar." The phony woman turned her left palm upwards, where was, indeed, a long scar, from the index finger to the wrist. Jane drank the rest of her champagne, and Nathaniel reckoned he had won that one.

"Well, I should go back to my date." And she left, just like that.

Nathaniel let out a sigh of relief. The Prime Minister and Makepeace excused themselves, the latter probably finding the story not that appealing enough for a play anymore.

"How was that, sweetheart?"

Nathaniel's cheeks exploded with color. Boldly, he grabbed Bartimaeus' wrist and walked to the dance floor. He didn't care who was looking anymore, drunk as he was. His head was filled with nothing but this idiotic djinni, guised like a beautiful woman that had saved his butt just now, and it was incredibly scary to think about how Bartimaeus toyed with his every mood. So he didn't think. He just danced until his feet hurt.

Don't ask him how they had ended up there. In between Bartimaeus having had to take down an imp and confuse its master, the glass of gin he had drunk, and the dancing, he couldn't tell anymore. He was panting and sweating – things you don't normally do at an event like this. Bartimaeus was looking out the window, and once more Nathaniel was blown away by how the moon gave her an ethereal glow.

"It seems they haven't been notified," Bartimaeus said at last.

"Good."

The last thing he needed was a herd of guhls after him right now, especially since he felt he might puke at any given time. He couldn't see anything besides the night sky through the windows and Bartimaeus' outline. The room was small; maybe some sort of office. He didn't turn on the lights, because the last thing he wanted at the moment was to deal with people.

The young magician had been panicking over the possibility of some spirit – as limited as it could be – sensing Bartimaeus. A particularly small and hairy imp had, so he figured they should lay low from then on. This had been the worst idea of the decade—no, of the century.

Nathaniel slid down the wall, falling on his butt with a quiet thud. Bartimaeus kicked off the high heels, leaving them on the floor as he walked towards him.

"It somewhat amazes me why female human beings would want to walk around in those for a whole night. Heck, I don't understand what makes them wear them for five straight minutes to begin with."

Nathaniel didn't say anything; he just laid back and rested his head against the wall, dreading the headache that was sure to come.

"Hey, you okay? You look as pale as a ghost. Should I ship you off to the mortuary?"

"I'm fine," he hissed, rubbing his stomach. Bartimaeus sat down beside him, and then bended forward as if to examine him.

"Are you sure? Isn't that just pride?" He dismissed the question, instead asking for the time. "Ten to midnight. Worried about how many lives you'll ruin next year?"

"Something like that."

Nathaniel watched the snow fall through the window, listened to the hullabaloo coming from downstairs, noticed how there was only his breathing in the room all the more clearly. Everything seemed to conspire to make him relive this past year of his life, when so much had changed. He didn't want to dwell on it, especially with the major reason for these changes by his side like that.

"So, Nat, have you decided which life to ruin first? You have less than one minute left." Bartimaeus' voice lacked the usual energy, and made him briefly wonder if the djinni was tired. With his body feeling so weary and his brain so muddled, he might have been imagining things. However, if there is something alcohol had done to him that night, it was to make him bolder.

"Yes."

From downstairs the countdown ressounded, fireworks mixed with snow made the sky explode with color and lit up the quiet, small room the two were in. But Nathaniel wasn't paying attention anymore. He had pulled Bartimaeus into a kiss just as the last seconds of the previous year were yelled by everyone else in that house.

I'm sorry for all the he-she situations here. I really didn't know how to handle it, heh. By the way, since I don't have anything scheduled for January, I'd like to ask you how you feel about more mature content for the next chapter in February. Share your thoughts with me, please.

Happy New Year!