THE NEXT STEPS

by Soledad

A "Pathways in the Dark" story

Part 06 of "The Toreador Chronicles". Follows "Pillow Talk".

For disclaimer and background information see the Introduction.

Rating: 14+, for this part, mostly for language.

Summary: The work on the various campaigns continues. Brian, while still with Phillipe (sort of), starts drifting closer to Alain.

Brian slept through after Phillipe's departure, till ten o'clock in the next morning. Their… encounter had been different in the second night: more playful, less frantic. Accordingly, he was in a much better shape than he'd been in the previous morning, and a hot shower and the herbal salve took care of the remaining soreness easily.

He decided to skip breakfast in favour of an early lunch and sat down to make notes about his ideas involving the Blount sisters, as Phillipe had suggested. Shortly before noon someone named Oliver Simon called him, saying that he was the sisters' agent, and that they were interested. Brian agreed to meet the guy – and the sisters – at the Vignes Studios later in the afternoon, at 16:30, to be more accurate, wondering briefly if Phillipe ever slept. The lawyer had left at three in the morning, yet had obviously found the time to contact the twins and their agent.

Nothing if not efficient, Brian thought with a satisfied little smile. Phillipe was apparently good at everything: at supporting his career as well as at scratching his itches. Had Brian been the sort of gay man who wanted to settle down behind white picket fences in happy same-gender marriage, Phillipe would have been the ideal partner for that. Just as Ben was the ideal partner for Mikey… well, would have been, had he not also been HIV positive.

Which was the major reason why Brian couldn't stand the Nutty Professor – aside from the jealousy factor, of course, which he wound not admit in a million years. Ben was an unbearable risk for Mikey's safety. No matter how careful they were, accidents could happen, all the time. Mikey could get that fucking virus from his hubby, and that would mean his death sentence. And Brian just couldn't image a life… an existence without Mikey. Even if there was half the country between them.

Of course, the same accident could have happened to him. But that was different. Brian enjoyed living on the edge, playing with fire. The excitement made his life worth living: he loved the danger, the challenge, the kick of it. Unlike Mikey, he was not a domestic animal – he was a predator.

And that was exactly why he knew Phillipe had been right. Should he ever settle for a permanent relationship – which was highly unlikely – that would not be with someone nice and safe like Phillipe. He needed someone who could satisfy his darker urges as well. That was why Justin could never have him exclusively. The boy still had baby powder on his cute butt – for the duration, Brian needed someone who was at least his equal.

Phillipe had said last night that Alain DeLaigle could be a possibility. Brian was not sure he agreed. The artist's volatile temper reminded him too much of his father. He'd had his fair share of abuse for a lifetime; he didn't need that shit again.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Musing about his future sex life was distracting and counterproductive. He had things to do, which was a good thing. Work had always helped him to deal with his so-called life.

Opening his laptop, he connected it to the Internet and asked Diego to mail him the photos from the previous day. To his surprise, the young web designer seemed to be working during lunchtime; the required material arrived within minutes, attached to a message in which Diego told him they would see each other in the Vignes Studios later.

Diego also asked him to drive Emmett to DeLaigle's house after lunch. Apparently, the designers wanted Em's opinion about some of their newest ideas. Brian wasn't exactly thrilled – the last thing he wanted was to run into Justin again – but couldn't exactly refuse. Emmett was a disaster behind the steering wheel, and he was absolutely necessary for the men's collection. So Brian made the reluctant promise, disconnected from the 'Net and went to find Emmett… and something to eat.

"Your rental car has arrived," Mme Dubois told him as they ran into each other right in front of her office. "I hope it's what you wanted. Mr. Honeycutt has just gone to have lunch; he said he'll be waiting for you in the restaurant."

The corvette was everything Brian could have dreamed of: bright red, with black leather seats and a chromed instrumental board. He felt like a king when he picked up Emmett and drove to DeLaigle's house. It was childish, he knew, but he felt more at ease here in LA than he ever had back in The Pitts. Emmett, clad in white leather trousers and a shimmering shirt that looked like clear water against his skin, also seemed to enjoy the ride immensely.

In Alain's house, they were introduced to Oliver Simon, a middle-aged, slightly balding, bespectacled man who turned out to be the agent not only the Blount sisters and the infamous Rebecca Lowell, but also that of a number of moderately successful actresses, dancers and models.

"Not everyone has to be a big diva," he said with a shrug. "This industry needs its worker class as well, and those people, too, need an agent. I take whomever I can get."

Oliver came with a young black woman: a tall, pretty and slender one, who, however, wasn't the usual anorexic supermodel type. Brian welcomed the choice. Those beanpoles weren't really interesting anymore, and if they wanted to do something radically different from the other fashion houses, they could as well use women who actually looked like women.

"Sarina is Alain's protégée," Oliver introduced the girl. "She works as a model for the atelier as well as for the Studios; and I've managed to get her small roles in TV series. She's a vaguely known face already, but not yet over-used."

Brian looked at her pretty face and his trained eye discovered the well-hidden lines under the make-up. This wasn't some airheaded bunny; this girl had seen a lot and suffered a lot. Other people would probably suggest something gothic for her, but Brian wasn't other people. He never made the obvious choice.

"Em, kick your brains in gear," he said. "She's a queen; we need something shiny and provocative for her… maybe with sequins or pearls, and shimmering taffeta and tulle… we'll use her for the most extravagant pieces. I need jewellery, too. It doesn't have to be expensive – just shiny."

"Na-ah," Emmett shook his head, "that would be so… common. For a queen like her we'd need something really exotic… vaguely Egyptian, perhaps, like that alien queen in the Stargate movie, what was her name again?"

"Em," Brian rolled his eyes, "Jaye Robinson was a guy! And not even supposed to be a queen. He played an evil god!"

"Exactly," Emmett beamed. "And we'll make her an evil goddess."

"Sounds exotic, but who'll be ever able to wear a gown designed for a goddess?" one of the designers asked, sketching already. Emmett flattered over to her like an oversized butterfly.

"No, sweetie. You must tone down a bit…. And adapt. Have a diamond-shaped cut to leave the navel free, for showing off a gemstone or a piercing… such things are so trendy nowadays…"

"I think they'll be running on autopilot without our help for a while now," said a voice so close to Brian's ear that he could fear the cool breath on his neck; he got goosebumps at once and nearly jumped. "We should leave them to their creative frenzy and drive to the Vignes Studios now," Alain DeLaigle continued smoothly, as if he hadn't noticed Brian's reaction, but his eyes were glittering in amusement.

"You mean you're coming, too?" Brian asked with a frown.

The artist nodded. "I'm doing some matte paintings for one of their new movies; and I've been asked to think about backgrounds for the video clips. I suggest we get going now. Vera isn't fond of people who are wasting her time by being late. And," he added, nuzzling Brian's neck playfully, "despite outside appearances, Vera is the one with the deciding word."

"Can you stop doing that?" Brian stepped away from him, truly annoyed now. "It's weird."

"I do have a reputation of being weird," DeLaigle admitted, but he made no attempt to follow his target. "And you smell really nice. Most people use too aggressive cosmetic products that completely overlay their personal scent; what a pity! I must congratulate you to your good taste, though."

"I'm so flattered," Brian replied flatly. "Now, if you've finished sniffing me, can we go on with the important matters?"

"Oh, I'm far from being finished with you," DeLaigle answered with a predatory smile, "and it seems to me that we have different ideas about things of true importance. But you're right; we should go now."

The Vignes Studios were among the older, more conservative ones in the Hollywood dream factory, but technically, they were more than up-to-date. And it seemed that the studio bosses were willing to catch up with the taste and fashion of the current era. They had produced Raven, after all, the most successful gothic series of the recent years, and Brian was surprised to learn from side remarks that they were the ones actually considering to turn Rage, Justin and Mikey's gay superhero comic book, into a live action movie. He was glad to hear that, because it meant that the movie will be a success. And Mikey's low self-esteem could use some success, not to mention the money.

He found it amusing how many of the studio bosses had more than a slight resemblance to well-known actors. As if they'd chosen people who looked like them and had the necessary acting abilities to make their ideas real. The competent, no-nonsense Vera Vignes could have been the twin sister of Susan Sarandon (albeit a good deal older), while her brother Edward looked like Roy Scheider. And Edward Blount, their business partners, only differed from Kevin Sorbo by the colour of his hair – he was blond like his cousins.

Close up and without stage make-up, the Blount sisters, surprisingly enough, looked not a bit worse, and Brian caught himself trying to guess their true age. He was usually quite good at that sort of thing, but the sisters beat him. They could have been of any age between twenty-seven and forty-five, with those smooth, ageless faces and limber bodies.

Using his laptop, Brian presented his ideas so far, and the studio heads studied the stands and sketches carefully.

"The concept looks promising," Vera Vignes judged. "I especially like the pictures to Summer Rain. Which one do you intend to use for the final product? It'd be a hard choice – all seven of them are beautiful and incredibly romantic."

Brian, amused to have heard the term "romantic" used in connection with his own person, selected the one on which he was standing in profile, touching the rose to his mouth. He was wearing a hat on that picture, and flower and lips had almost he same colour.

"This one would be best for the general edition," he said. "It shows the least of my face, giving it a mysterious air. However, we should use all the other pictures for a limited edition each. Spread the product sparsely across the market. People do have the hang to collect things, especially if they are hard to get. Truly possessed collectors would buy seven bottles instead of one, just so that they can be proud having the entire collection – and you can gradually raise the prices for each new limited edition."

The bosses looked doubtful for a moment, but Alain DeLaigle grinned and gave a low whistle. "A remarkably ruthless strategy – but I think it'll work. People are greedy. They'd pay insane sums for a bottle with one of the rare pictures, just because they can have it and the others can't."

"But only if we hammer into their skulls that their lives would be empty without the whole collection," Edward Blount said. "We'll need a video clip for the cologne, too. With some proper music, Brian walking down the beach in the falling rain and all seven important stands frozen for a few seconds for people to recognize them."

"Sounds like a job for Dawn Cavanaugh," Vera Vignes commented. Her brother and business partner glared at her in obvious shock. So did several other people present, for the matter of fact.

"You're kidding, aren't you?" DeLaigle protested. "That woman is completely insane!"

"Perhaps," Vera Vignes shrugged, "but she's the best cameraman in Hollywood, and she has an uncanny feeling for indecently sensual things."

"It's the indecent part that makes me uncomfortable," Edward Blount shook his head.

"We've been decent all this time and it made us lose our touch," Vera Vignes replied coldly. "We can't be picky when we're trying to make the big comeback on the market now."

"All right; but I won't be the one dealing with her," Edward Blount declared, disgust clearly written all over his handsome face.

"You won't have to," Vera Vignes replied. "I'll do that. I can handle Dawn, and let's face it: without her, Raven would never have been the success it was."

Brian vaguely remembered the eerily beautiful – and highly disturbing – visuals of the popular horror series and had to agree. Emmett used to watch it religiously, and so some of his friends were forced to do the same. For his part, Brian always thought that while Rebecca Lowell had done a good job in the starring role, the true strength of the series were its visuals and the haunting soundtrack.

In the following hours, they were talking shop, fleshing out details like deadlines, background music, graphics and other stuff. A few more models were presented, among them a pair of beautifully exotic Chinese girls, one of them with a strong likeness to Lucy Liu, the other one much smaller and wearing practically nonexistent clothes. More stands were shot. Edward Blount laid out a shooting plan for the video clips. Edward Vignes mailed several contracts to the agents of models and to his bank. Vera Vignes made several dozen phone calls to hunt down good photographers and even more models, cajoling or blackmailing musicians into writing the songs to the clips, talking to various printeries to get the posters printed in time and in high quality. The well-oiled machinery of the dream factory was in full work.

"I think we're not needed here anymore," Alain DeLaigle commented in satisfaction. "Do you have plans for tonight, Brian?"

"I don't know yet," Brian answered thoughtfully. Phillipe and he had not spoken about it yet, and he didn't want to pass on the chance of another very satisfying night with the lawyer. He didn't felt like clubbing all on his own in this strange city yet.

Alain seemed to understand it. "Well, let's check, then," he snapped his cell phone open and punched in a number. "Phillipe? C'est Alain. Your… liaison is wondering if the two of you have any plans for tonight. What? Merde! Ah, well, c'est la morte. How long? I see. Poor you. What do you say about meeting us in Neptune's Palace afterwards? No, I won't don't worry. Not yet, anyway. I promise. D'accord. Au revoir." He broke the connection and turned back to Brian. "I hope you like seafood."

"As long as it doesn't move on its own and doesn't bite back, yeah," Brian shrugged. "Why?"

"Phillipe has a rather… unpleasant business meeting that could take a while," Alain explained. "I offered him to take you out to Neptune's Palace, and he'll come and join us as soon as possible. Are you all right with that?"

"It's a public place, isn't it?" Brian asked. The barely veiled implications made DeLaigle laugh.

"More than you can imagine. Trust me, it's beautiful. You will like it there."

"Very well," Brian gave in, although the idea of being alone with the artist still made him a bit uncomfortable. "Let's go."

Neptune's Palace was a very public place, indeed. It was a seafood restaurant, with a transparent floor, through which one could see the sea – well, either that, or a very good sea aquarium, with colourful fish and other bizarre creatures. The walls were painted with the same motives, including Neptune himself and his entire court of mermaids, and the dishes were served in seashells.

"Pretty," Brian looked around, thoroughly impressed. "Does it belong to one of your associates, too?"

"In a sense," Alain shrugged. "Nominally, it's owned by Countess Visconti."

"And really?"

"Well, the actual owner is the Bank of Venice, but considering that the Visconti family owns the Bank of Venice, among other things, in the end, it's the same, I guess."

"You mean she's a real countess?" Brian raised his eyebrows. "Wow! I didn't know we had European nobility in LA:"

"It's a rare occurrence," Alain admitted. "Countess Visconti is married to one of the local tycoons, Salvador Garcia, and she represents the interests of her family in California. She's a classy lady, I can introduce you to her if she returns from Europe."

"Thanks, but I don't think…"

"Brian," Alain touched his hand gently, "not that way. But she means money, really big money, and good contacts of that sort could be useful."

"Oh… sorry," Brian didn't get embarrassed easily – well, not usually. But ever since he'd set foot in LA, these people kept putting him off-balance. To his relief, the waitress – disguised as a mermaid, complete with a seashell bra and a long skirt that simulated seaweeds – finally arrived to take their orders.

Alain politely declined food, asking only for some red wine, but for Brian, he recommended a dish called Neptune's Plate: a colourful mix of fried and steamed pieces of seafood, with mixed salad, dill sauce and pita, a sort of soft, flat bread, not unlike tortillas.

"Is this some LA thing that you guys never eat?" Brian asked, tilting his head back and dropping an exceptionally tasty morsel into his mouth.

Alain's eyes were practically glued to the long, elegant line of the mortal's neck, the blood singing in his ears already. He didn't know whether Brian did it consciously or not – Alain's guess would be that he did – but it was damn tempting. Alain fled to his wine to regain his precious control; thank Caine, the waitress had added a generous amount of blood to his wine. This was one of the reasons why he'd brought Brian here. The Kindred waitress knew him and his needs, and feeding helped him to get the Beast under control. He wanted this mortal too much to take any risks.

"Well, we have to keep our girlish shape somehow," he replied with some effort. "But really, I just don't like to sleep on a full stomach."

Brian shrugged and continued eating his food, giving a good, sensuous performance for Alain to watch. He knew he was playing with fire – not that he could have the slightest idea what kind of fire it truly was – but seeing the effect on the other man gave him a heady feeling. He just couldn't resist.

"Have some wine," Alain poured a glass for his guest; he could do so safely, the blood had been in his glass, not in the bottle. "I don't like to kiss someone who tastes like fish."

"You think you'll be kissing me any time soon?" Brian looked at him from under lowered eyelashes. Alain gave him a predatory smile.

"I'm working toward that."

"You are? And what happened with the not intruding Phillipe's territory part?"

"Small trespassings don't count," Alain slipped a finger under the seashell bracelet and gently rubbed the long-healed cut marks. For some reason, the raw intimacy of the gesture made Brian instantly hard. The scars were not something he easily allowed access to. That was Mikey's privilege.

"Don't," he said hoarsely, his eyes flashing in anger. Alain arched an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry. Do you find it unpleasant?"

"You know I do not," Brian replied. Phillipe had been right. In seductive mode Alain was ten times worse than in a fit of rage. "I just… don't want complicate things right now. I'd like to have something simple for a change. Something nice… and safe."

Alain nodded and let go of his hand. "Very well. I'm willing to wait. Soon enough, nice and safe won't satisfy you anymore… and that's when my time will come."

Brian shook his head half in amusement, half in exasperation. "What the hell is this thing you have for me? Some sort of obsession?"

"Perhaps," Alain replied with a smile. "We'll figure out as we go. Speaking of obsessions, though, I wanted to warn you about Dawn. You'll be working with her now, which is the great opportunity to create something really unique, but be careful with her. She's a monster."

"I thought that were you," Brian couldn't withstand the urge to tease his host a little. To his surprise, Alain only nodded.

"I am," he replied seriously, "and you'd do well to remember that. But at least I am a civilized monster – something you can't say about Dawn. Be sure that you never remain alone with her."

"Why?" Brian asked sarcastically. "Would she go straight for my jugular?"

If you only knew, Alain thought, the joke of the younger man hitting uncomfortably close to home. Dawn Cavanaugh was a Setite – a moderate one, by the measures of her own Clan, but still a ruthless monster in the eyes of everyone else, including other vampires.

"In a sense," he answered carefully, walking the thin line between revealing what should remain hidden and having Brian completely clueless and thus endangered. "She has… personality shifts. And her other persona is not… pleasant."

"You mean multiple personality disorder?" Brian asked.

"Something similar," Alain sidestepped the whole truth with an ease acquired by five hundred years of unbroken practice. "Only that she knows very well what her other self is doing, all the time – and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she even enjoys these little outlets."

Brian shuddered. Great, a madwoman on the loose. "Why are you working with such a psycho anyway?"

"Because she's the best," Alain replied simply, and that was the truth. It was such a waste that Dawn had got Embraced by a Setite monster. As a Toreador, she could have achieved a fame few other people had, and had been much happier. Yet even so, they couldn't let the concurrence get her. She was way too gifted for that.

"I'll see that studio security keeps an eye on you all the time," Alain promised his visibly nervous guest. He had a couple of Brujah thugs in mind who proved to be able to deal with Dawn in the past. "And I'll try to be there during the shootings to keep her at bay, if necessary."

Brian gave him a dubious look. "You can do that?"

"Yes," Alain replied simply, with utter self-confidence. Brian frowned.

"By giving her a little talk, from monster to monster?"

"Something like that," Alain leaned in and kissed his temple. "Don't worry. I'll protect you."

"I can take care of myself," Brian protested angrily.

"I don't doubt that… under normal circumstances," Alain replied calmly. "But this is not your playground yet. You'll have much more to learn before you can run freely on your own in our world."

"And you are going to teach me?" Brian asked, his voice full of unveiled irony.

Alain looked at him with intensely serious eyes. "If you'll let me."

The answer could be interpreted in several ways, each of which made Brian uncomfortable like a fish out of water.

"I'll think about it," he said after a moment of hesitation.

"You should," Alain said, still deadly serious. "It would be in your best interest. LA is much more than the glittering surface of Hollywood. To walk its darker paths safely, you'll need a guide."

Brian shrugged noncommittally and changed topics, asking Alain to tell something about himself. The artist did so readily enough, reliving happy memories of his youth spent in a small French village named Yvoire, then in Florence, at art school, learning from an Italian painter whom he simply called Leonardo and whom he seemed to hold in high esteem.

"Leonardo as in da Vinci?" Brian joked, trying to show at least some awareness of European culture.

"Exactly," Alain nodded, with a strange gleam in his eyes that Brian could not explain and didn't dare to ask for an explanation, then he picked up the story of the DeLaigle family again.

Apparently, all Alain's ancestors had been artists of some sort: painters, sculptors, architects, the whole scale, starting with someone in 15th century Yvoire who wore the same name. Works of various DeLaigles could be found in the great galleries all over Europe, from the Hermitage in St. Petersburg to the Uffizi in Florence and the Tate Gallery in London.

Alain himself mostly had his expositions in various art galleries in California, most of them owned by a certain Madame D'Excavalier. He worked with pastel crayons and charcoal, most of the time – techniques that Brian was familiar with from the times before Justin got attacked.

"I'd like to make a portray from you one day," Alain said. "Rarely can I find a model so close to the Greek ideals here in the States. The population is too mixed to bring forth classical profiles."

"I thought you preferred models of whom you had intimate knowledge," Brian grinned.

"We'll get there, eventually," Alain replied, his eyes glittering, "but for starters, I just want to draw your face… well, neck and shoulders, perhaps, like in the antique Greek and Roman busts. I haven't done anything classical for a long time – I feel like returning to the old methods for a while again. Would you do it?"

Brian shrugged. "Sure, why not? I'm used to being stared at."

"I'm sure you are," Alain laughed. "Narcissus of the rocket era, that's you."

"He certainly does have the beauty," a third voice agreed, and Phillipe all but collapsed on the chair kept free for him, "although Narcissus at least did love himself dearly."

"And a good evening to you, too," Alain said patiently. "You look terrible. What do you need?"

"Just a glass from that really strong red wine we usually drink," Phillipe slumped in his chair, tense and exhausted.

"Bad day?" Alain asked sympathetically while the waitress place a large glass of red wine – with a very small percent of actual wine – in front of Phillipe.

The lawyer sighed. "It always is, when I have to deal with the sharks of Wolfram & Hart."

"Ouch," Alain winced in sympathy, "which one of their big guns did you have the questionable pleasure to clash swords with? The ruthless boy wonder?"

"Nah, I can handle Lindsey McDonald," Phillipe sipped his bloodwine slowly, enjoying the rich taste. "He's just a little upstart who's still desperately trying to prove himself – he has weaknesses I can play."

"Double ouch!" Alain murmured. "You got the evil bitch of Hell, then."

"Who else?" Phillipe rubbed his temples. "I always get to deal with Lilah Morgan. I can't let Henry handle her – he has the hots for the woman and would be beaten by her within minutes. Besides, he's in Toronto right now."

"Really? Since when?"

"He took the night plane. He's negotiating the acquirement for some movie studios up there for the Vignes. Which is no doubt the reason why Winters Enterprises chose this particular time to make their move; they thought they'd have an easier game with me when I'm overworked. I hate dealing with that woman. She gives me migraines. Remind me again, why have we decided that simply killing certain adversaries would be such a bad idea?"

"For some reason we thought it would be uncivilized," Alain replied mildly.

"Fuck civilization," Phillipe growled, startling Brian a little, who was surprised by the uncharacteristically rude remark. "I tell you, Alain, that woman is as close to pure evil as it is possible for a nominally human being."

"You're frustrated and exhausted," Alain soothed him, worried that Phillipe might slip in his troubled state of mind. "All you need is another glass of wine and a good night's sleep."

"What I need is to be laid and have my brains fucked out," Phillipe looked at Brian with burning eyes. "Interested in the job?"

Brian shrugged. Easing work-related frustration through casual sex was something he did very well. "Sure, whatever you want."

"Phillipe," Alain warned, "I don't think this is such a good idea."

"I don't remember asking you," Phillipe answered icily.

They glared at each other, a not-quite-even match of wills. In an open fight, Alain could have subdued Phillipe with a minimum of effort – he was three hundred years older, and though of unknown generation, exceptionally strong. He hadn't exaggerated when he told Brian that he was a monster – albeit an ethical one, most of the times. Phillipe, unlike him, had the strong Ventrue self-discipline and didn't tend to uncontrolled outbursts of rage. But under certain circumstances – for example when helplessly frustrated – the lawyer could lose his grip on the Beast, too. And Alain wasn't going to let Brian be endangered like that.

Brian felt an unfamiliar wave of panic rising in his guts. He hadn't felt like this since the moment he'd realized he wouldn't be fast enough to save Justin from Chris Hobbs. Only that this time he was the one possibly in danger, at least if Alain's oddly protective behaviour was any indication. Nice and safe, my ass, he thought sourly.

"Guys," he intervened, "no need to fight over me. "I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself."

"No, you can't," Alain replied, never releasing Phillipe's eyes, "not when he's like this. You don't know what you're dealing with, so be quiet and let me handle things."

"Stop patronizing me," Brian hissed angrily.

Alain risked a quick glance at him from glowing silver eyes.

"Shut up, Brian," he ordered coldly, "and let me focus. I need to solve a problem here."

There was so much authority in his voice that Brian obeyed without a second thought. After another long moment, with the tension almost visibly crackling between the two Frenchmen, Phillipe suddenly relaxed and began rubbing his temples again.

"I won't harm him, Alain," he said tiredly. "But I need him tonight. I need this."

Alain nodded, tension visibly leaving his whole body. "Very well. I'll check on you tomorrow." He turned to Brian, now calm and all business again. "He'll be safe now. Don't worry. The people he's been dealing with tonight have a way to play sick mind games with negotiation partners, but the results can be undone, as you've just seen, and the effects will be over, too, in a few minutes."

"What sort of people are they?" Brian asked worriedly.

"The worst sort imaginable," Alain replied. "As I told you, LA can be a dangerous place, even for us who know it. I'll take you two back to the D'Oblique and borrow a car from Catherine to get home. See that Phillipe leaves before sunrise, too. He needs rest more than he'd be willing to admit."

Brian nodded, thrilled and frightened by the short interlude at the same time, and after Alain had paid the bill, they left the restaurant together.

They reached the D'Oblique in silence and parted ways with Alain. Brian and Phillipe went up to Brian's room, but instead of falling over each other like rutting animals – something Brian had expected after that strange little scene in the restaurant – Phillipe just collapsed on the bed, shoulders slumped in defeat, murmuring soft French curses under his breath.

"I'd appreciate if you at least noticed my presence," Brian told him primly.

Phillipe looked up with eyes that seemed older than the world itself. "I'm sorry Brian, but I'm really not in a playful mood. It's been a long day, full of things I'd like to forget – at least for a while. Can you just nail me to the mattress without the whole pillow talk routine?"

Brian certainly could do that, after a decade of practice in the various clubs of Liberty Avenue. He told so. Phillipe sighed in relief and shed his clothes in record time, stretching out on the bed in silent invitation.

It was a position Brian knew all too well from his past. But if it was what Phillipe needed, he would give the man exactly that: a fast, hard coupling that could shut out all higher brain functions and save Phillipe from the necessity of thinking.

Sex, drugs and booze – weren't they the ultimate answer to all unanswerable philosophical questions about the reason and sense of life?

They were the only answers that actually did make any sense.

They had worked for Brian Kinney just finely, all his life.

The End - for now