Disclaimer: I own nothing, Baz owns everything, Baz is smart, I'm stupid, Baz is right, I'm wrong, Baz is very handsome, I'm not attractive....Oh, and David Bowie owns the song "Diamond Dogs".

A/N: This is a little fic I started several months ago and got stuck on. Please read and review, and if you have any suggestions at all on where it might be able to go, or if it should go anywhere at all besides the recycling folder of my computer, please say so. All the French phrases come from Babelfish because I don't speak French. Anyone who does and sees something wrong, let me know and I'll change it.

mes filles - my girls

mes bijoux - my jewels

chatons - kittens

mes précieux petits oiseaux - my precious little birds

One last thing...I meant for the title to be "Season of the Bitch", but since FFN insists on all titles being kid-friendly...*shrug*. Just a little FYI if anyone wanted to archive this (HA!).

Ok, that's it. Sorry for the delay...on with the show!

The Moulin was dead. Everyone knew that. There were still those that stayed near it, of course. Maggots grew fattest on the most rotten meat.

Some of these were 'artists': painters, writers and others who had, at one point, believed themselves to be the authors of some great change. They seemed to think by painting some pretty pictures and writing a few flowery verses, the world would suddenly be put right. When the Moulin Rouge, their beacon and inspiration, faded away, the artists began to disappear in tandem. But while the windmill outside had gradually stopped its cycles with a small whine and groan of machinery, the other revolution was still weakly turning, kept well-oiled by the drunks, hangers-on, fools who refused to believe it had ended.

"Stupid fucking Bohemians," muttered Annie. From her window she could always see them milling about, even at this hour of the night. She exhaled with a disgusted sigh, sending another plume of smoke into the darkness. Despite her disdain for the motley crew, she had to admit that she was no better. Montmartre continued to have its hold on her as much as it did on them, and she could no sooner pull herself away from the Moulin's shadow than she could walk on water.

She took a moment to glance back at her bed. Amid the rumpled and soiled sheets, tonight's customer--was his name Maurice or Marcelin? Annie couldn't remember--was still sleeping off his dinner of brandy, and snoring quite loudly to boot. She sighed again took another deep drag, exhaling slowly, letting the smoke curl around her head in exotic shapes. The men used to love watching her smoke. Someone had put it in their silly minds that a girl who could blow smoke rings must give good head, and if that's what it took to get a customer, then she'd exhale in their faces until they turned blue. There was no accounting for taste, especially in her line of work.

"Give the men what they want, mes filles. Anything they want."

Annie could almost hear Zidler, his voice a barely contained growl, admonishing them every night with that same speech.

"They come here to have their dark desires purged, mes bijoux. Do whatever it takes to help them. Kick high, but don't forget, chatons, you're only kicking to advertise. And remember, as long as they're going to pay, you'll do anything they like, mes précieux petits oiseaux."

"But if you don't want to, send them her way," Annie muttered. For that had always been the unspoken part of Harry's nightly pep talks. If what they want disgusts you, scares you, offends you, let that blonde one have them. Send them to Annie, to Anything Goes, the one who accepted even the blackest of desires without batting an eyelash.

Annie flicked her half-finished cigarette over the balcony, watching as it glowed for the briefest second before falling to the ground below and winking out. It would do her no good to think about the past. It certainly wasn't coming back. No more than Satine was.