Author's note: In response to some good fun that was had at BtK, the Unsuitable faction (Lacroix/Schanke) was formed. I never would have thought of that particular combination without this prompting, so in my defense, I point a finger at the participants, and say, "The BtKers tempted me, O Lord." (And no, God didn't buy it from Adam, either.) My warmest thanks to my beta-readers. You know who you are, but you may not want anyone else to. The FK characters belong to James Parriott. I take full responsibility for the story they appear in. Warning: m/m sex which may be construed as non-consensual. Completely ... Unsuitable by Leslie G. S. It was just too goddamn weird. He couldn't get that creepy Nightcrawler guy out of his head. Part of it was that he couldn't believe he had been such a jerk to go to the guy in the first place, to ask him if he -- and Nick -- were vampires. Vampires, for chrissake! He had been more rattled by having to ... to kill that guy than he'd thought. He'd gotten a lot of that out of his system at this point, though he knew he'd probably be waking up in a sweat from that guy for the rest of his life. The shrink had told him that the good cops always did. But he still couldn't believe the crazy things he'd thought about Nick, and like a tongue poking at a sore tooth, his mind kept going back to that scene at the radio station, that freaky Nightcrawler's eyes stabbing like icy spears into his, and like, opening up his skull. And the lights in there had made his skin seem so weird, pale and smooth, like some statue come to life. And the touch of his hand ... like ice, no, like stone, cool and ... hard. For a moment there, as the large hand had wrapped around his own, he'd had a flashing image of the hand clamping down on his and crushing the small bones to a bloody pulp. But ... but the guy had helped him out, helped him get his head straight about Nick and he supposed he'd always be grateful to him for that. ****** It was ... odd. Since Nicholas's plebeian partner had come to CERK, seeking information about his son's true condition, he had been unable to completely remove the encounter from his mind. Of course, he had seen the man before, during those occasions when he had observed Nicholas whilst performing his "job." A common, common man. And perhaps that was it. When the man had offered his hand -- such an innocent, *blind* gesture -- and he had taken it in his own, it had been as though he were taking the hand of the essence of all humanity, in all its pathetic mortality. He supposed that was the draw, this image of the quintessential mortal, of all those ridiculous foibles and tiny virtues rolled into one package, those qualities carried on the hot, pulsing fluid in his veins. The memory of that handshake would create an occasional flare of heat in his palm, bringing a self- mocking twist to his lips. Really, sometimes the smallest things could amuse him. ******** Schanke sighed, his hand going automatically to the front pocket of his jacket, where his pack of cigarettes wasn't anymore. He sighed again, leaning up against the Caddie's side, looking up at Nick's windows as his lights went on. Then his gaze drifted even higher to where the night sky had taken on a hint of gray. Myra and Jenny were out of town, and the thought of the empty house, a micro-waved TV dinner, and a cold bed just did not appeal. And Nick had not picked up the hints he could use a little friendly company for a couple hours. Well, he had the Caddie anyway, Nick having lent it to him while his own car was in the shop, in exchange for tanking it up and having it washed. Now that was a real buddy, lending him his baby like that. He perked up, thinking about finding that all-polka station on the radio and cruising by a donut shop. What Myra didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Or him either, for that matter. He pushed off the side of the car, turning to open the door, and practically ran his nose into the guy standing in front of him. He lurched back again, gasping, the grab for his gun in its shoulder holster changing to a clutch at the center of his own chest as he recognized the man. "Jesus Christ, ya tryin' to give a guy a heart attack?" He slumped down against the car again, glaring at Nick's Nightcrawler friend. "Pardon. I've always been light on my feet." Geez, the guy talked so slick, even in person. And what was that, a little sword stuck in his collar? What an outfit! "Yeah, I'll just bet," Schanke muttered. "Pardon?" "Nothin', nothin'," he responded quickly, feeling bad about sniping at the guy. It wasn't his fault he'd been thinking, and easy to sneak up on. "You're out a little late." "As are you." "Uh, yeah, me and Nick, we just got off shift." "As am I. Getting off shift." "Oh, that's right. You do that wei-- uh, that late night radio show. Nick listens to you all the time." "Does he? How gratifying to hear. And you? Do you listen?" Snorting and rolling his eyes, Schanke replied, "Oh, yeah. Constantly." Then aware that he had perhaps not offered the most diplomatic response, he tried, "Uh, yeah. Not ... it's just not my cup of tea. Y'know." To Schanke's surprise, the tall man smiled and replied, "I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that." "Wh-what?" "Not to be rude, Detective, but you -- and those like you -- are not exactly my target audience." Schanke stared up at him, then snorted again and broke into a chuckle. "Guess not, huh? More up Nick's alley, huh? The guy thinks too much." "Perhaps not too much. Just about the wrong things." Lacroix folded his hands before him, cocking his head slightly to one side. "Uh, sure." Sheesh, even this dim light the guy's eyes shone pale. Creepy. "And ... how are things between Nicholas and yourself these days?" Schanke squirmed a bit as the guy's gaze became ... sharper somehow. "Uh, fine, fine. Geez, of all the dumb things to think." As the mortal flushed, Lacroix's eyes took on an amused glitter. "Ah, stress can do odd things to one's perceptions and thought processes. But ... all those bizarre notions have been successfully laid to rest..?" "No problemo. That is over. Over and done." "Good, good." The conversation trailed off as Lacroix's gaze shifted to Nick's apartment windows, and Schanke found himself staring at him again. His skin was so pale, even paler than Nick's, which was saying a lot, and unless he was actually moving, like going from one position to another, he was so ... still. Like ... like a statue. A living statue. He shrank back as he suddenly found his gaze caught by the Nightcrawler's. Or ... La -- Lacroix, that was it. "Well, good night, Detective. I suppose we should both be toddling off to bed now." "Yeah," Schanke sighed. "What, trouble at home?" Lacroix asked with the same smooth, cool sympathy with which he occasionally addressed a listener. Schank didn't buy it then and he didn't now, but he shrugged, and grinned wryly as he admitted, "The old ball and chain is out of town. Nothing really to go home to." "Ah," Lacroix found himself saying, "perhaps you'd care to join me in a drink. We could discuss..." He groped for something they had in common. "...Nicholas." "Uh..." Schanke's brain refused to offer him a graceful out and while he stood there open mouthed, Lacroix went on. "At the Raven, perhaps. I know the proprietress, and I'm sure she'd allow us entrance even at this hour." "You know Janette?" Of course he knew Janette, you dope, he swore at himself. He'd seen a picture of them -- or at least their grandparents -- together. The temptation of getting into the Raven -- as an invited guest, kinda under the big guy's protection -- was strong. "Well. Well, okay. That'd be great. And between the two of us, maybe we can figure Nick out." "I look forward to hearing your insights." "Do you have a car?" "No. I was walking." "Well, jump in. Nick's lent me the Caddie." "How ... generous. He must trust you implicitly." "Hey, we're partners," Schanke said simply, as though that would explain everything. He was opening his car door, so he didn't see Lacroix's face go suddenly rigid. "That ... must be it," he replied softly as he swung into the passenger seat. ***** The Raven was empty as they walked in, the sky glowing pink in the east. Except for Janette, who came out from the back when she felt Lacroix's presence. "Lacroix, how good to see you. And ... your guest." Janette's brows rose at the sight of the mortal peering over her master's shoulder. "Thank you, my dear. Actually, we didn't mean to disturb you. We're simply looking for a friendly little corner to share a drink and some conversation." "A ... drink," the woman repeated, her gaze searching Lacroix's face for a clue to the game he was playing. Typically, he offered nothing but a coolly quirked eyebrow. "Yes, a drink," he responded. "And there's no need for you to stay up." He walked to the bar and behind it. "I'll do the honors." Janette shrugged helplessly. "Suit yourself, Lacroix." You always do, she added to herself, though the amused glance he gave her let her know he had ... intuited the completion of her sentence. Smiling acidly, she moved to stand beside him, determined to get a few questions in if she could. "Detective Schanke, may I offer you something?" Lacroix asked. "A beer? A mixed drink?" "Just Don, okay? And yeah, I'll take a zombie," Schanke responded. "The better to join the walking dead, right?" And he laughed nervously as Janette rolled her eyes and Lacroix smiled politely before he began making the drink. Sheesh, these folks were just too weird. Weird in a way Nick was sometimes, jokes going right over their heads, touchy about the strangest things. Spooky. He turned away to study his surroundings. Kinda creepy without all the customers in it. "Does Nicolas..?" Janette murmured to Lacroix when she saw the mortal distracted. "Of course not. And there is absolutely no reason for him to be informed. Is there." Janette bit her lip, but shook her head, avoiding Lacroix's eyes. "He's perfectly safe, my dear. I'm ... merely attempting to understand this part of Nicholas's life a little better. Seeing as he puts so much stock in it, in this man." Smiling, Janette shot Lacroix a slanting glance and murmured, "As you say." Then she raised her voice, studiously ignoring her master's furrowing brow, "Well, you two, I'm off to bed. Do lock up on your way out." "Uh, sure," said Schanke, glancing uneasily at Lacroix. "Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite." "Oh, I certainly hope everyone avoids being bitten, eh, Lacroix?" She quickly slipped from the room as Lacroix's eyes narrowed. Quickly smoothing the irritation from his face, he turned back to the mortal. "Your drink," Lacroix stated, sliding the tumbler across the bar to the man. Schanke picked it up and nervously took a huge swallow, gasping a bit as the rum burned in his throat. Lacroix pulled down a wine glass and poured himself a glass of Janette's finest. "So, how long have you known Nick?" Schank asked, watching the other take his first sip of red wine. Repressing the little shiver his drink evoked in him - Janette's taste was, as always, exquisite - Lacroix replied, "Oh, it seems like forever sometimes." Schanke snorted, "Geez, I know what you mean. Those moods of his." He could feel his eyebrows going numb, a sure sign he was on the way to a magnificent drunk. These drinks were stronger than they tasted and as he took another swallow from his tumbler, he noticed he'd knocked back most of it without realizing it. A little case of the heebie-jeebies, maybe. And the big guy knew how to mix a good zombie. "Yes, those moods," Lacroix agreed with a sigh. He took another sip of his blood/wine mix, then set it aside to mix up a pitcher of zombies. Schanke watched Lacroix's large, pale hands, so strangely graceful, as they worked, his mouth on automatic as he vented about a few of Nick's most outrageous behaviors. Lacroix nodded understandingly, his eyes fixed on his work. He set the pitcher before the mortal, set the bottle of his own drink on the bar, then moved around to perch on the stool next to Schanke. The mortal's Nicholas stories spun on, becoming nearly incoherent under the influence of half a pitcher of stiff zombies. Really, though the mortal's vision was naturally limited, he had a fairly good rough and ready intuitive understanding of Nicholas's ... difficulties. He gazed into the deep ruby depths of his glass, fighting off melancholy, then eyed the three-quarters empty bottle of his own beverage. He hadn't intended to join the mortal in a drunk. He pushed the bottle back and when Schanke had finished talking, his stream of inebriated wisdom trailing off, Lacroix picked up the thread, keeping his stories impersonal and unspecified. Probably the mortal was too drunk to retain any memory of what was being said, but caution, as always, ruled the day. The Nightcrawler's voice filled his head, and what he was saying made some kind of sense, for he felt his head bobbing up and down in agreement. He watched the other's lips moving, curled up at the ends like he was smiling about some important secret he would never tell. Like that da Vinci painting, the Maria Lisa or whatever. And his skin... Even in this light, like living stone. Pale, smooth. He knew he was far, far too drunk when he saw his own hand moving without his say-so to the side of the other's face, as he tumbled to the temptation of finding out if the skin felt like it looked. Lacroix broke off in mid-word as the mortal's warm fingertips rested on his cheek. He had watched the hand, apparently not completely under Schanke's control, float toward his face, but he was still surprised when the other actually touched him. He would have thought the mortal's socialization and underlying fear of him too strong to overcome his conventional revulsion of touching another man. What marvels were wrought by the noble grape. Or sugar cane, actually, considering what Schanke was drinking. Schanke watched his hand gently stroke the other's cheek, and a shiver buzzed up and down his spine when he found that the skin felt like it looked; cold, strangely smooth, not quite human. His fingers went to the column of the other's throat, the skin there looking even finer. Lacroix's reaction to that touch was strange; he lifted his chin as though inviting further touch, his eyes narrowing and his lips parting. Intrigued, he trailed one finger up and down Lacroix's jugular, until the guy shivered and shrugged his hand off of him. But then, but then, instead of moving away from him, like any other guy would have done, he loomed even closer, and Schanke felt a spurt of alarm, dulled by drink though it was. He turned his face away, terrified Lacroix was going to kiss him, and he did kiss him, but not on the face, on the throat, just where Schank had touched him. Lacroix opened his mouth, tonguing the salt sweat, a precursor of the prize beneath the skin, from Schanke's throat. He felt the mortal stiffen against him, though he didn't pull away, either too shocked or too drunk, or perhaps subconsciously open to the experience. The mortal had, after all, touched him first. The most interesting little kinks could occasionally be found under the most ordinary exteriors. He set his teeth against the man's fleshy neck, scraping lightly, fangs as yet undescended, eliciting a gasp from him. Oh, man, the guy was *biting* him. Maybe all this vampire talk ... maybe the guy thought vampires turned him on in some way, and man, oh, man, maybe they did, `cuz something was going on below his belt. He whimpered at his body's betrayal, but found himself unable to move, whether because he was too drunk or because part of him didn't want to, he didn't know. He nibbled at the man's throat, rolling the skin between his front teeth, teasing himself, as he pondered the implications of actually feeding from this particular mortal. Nicholas, of course, would be furious, even if he didn't kill the man, which he had no intention of doing. A simple sip would do, though the mortal's essence called like Odysseus's Sirens. He could imagine it; heavy, sustaining, like brown bread... or better yet, like beer, simple, earthy, yet still intoxicating. He let his hands run up and down Schanke's arms, then down to his hips, turning him on the barstool so he could easily fit between his knees. The man began shaking as he touched him, then, totally unexpectedly, he lurched forward, sliding down off the stool. The big guy's hands on him galvanized him, he had to move, though he wasn't sure exactly what he was going to do once he was moving. Get away, knock the guy down ... grab him, he didn't know. But his legs gave out when his feet thumped on the floor, then his knees hit, jarring his teeth. Then, suddenly, he was rushing back upward, as he was caught under the arms and easily, oh, *way* too easily lifted back up and his butt propped up against his stool. All that was almost lost in the fire that had been kicked into a blaze in his groin. "Oh, man, oh, man," he groaned, eyes closing as the room swam, his confusion complete, "what is going on?" The guy had to see the raging boner that filled his pants, and sure enough, Lacroix, with a knowing chuckle, placed his mouth back on his throat. Even more alarmingly, his hands were working on him, peeling his clothes back easier than he himself peeled a banana. And speaking of bananas... Hot, velvety soft, Schanke's penis filled his hand; uncut, he was delighted to find, a nice size, too, no cause for complaint from the ladies here. The mortal groaned as he drew his palm, no doubt as cool to Schanke as the man's flesh was hot to him, up and down its heavy length. He allowed his fangs to descend, pricking at the tender skin on the man's throat as his scent, a provoking mixture of lust and fear, filled his nose. The only thing that could make the blood more perfect would be to saturate it with the spice of a sexual climax. And to that end... The pounding of Schanke's heart in his ears almost drowned out the sound of his own moans. The guy's hand on him was incredible, cool, almost cold, but oh, god, what it was doing! He'd never, in all his life, been handled so expertly, alternately light, delicate, and then almost painfully vigorous, bringing him to the brink, then backing off, again and again, until only his inability to speak kept him from begging for release. Something ... weird was happening at his throat, but he was so drunk, on booze and lust, that he couldn't really focus on what it was. Lacroix allowed his canines to pierce the softness beneath them and felt an answering surge in his groin as they eased through the vein. He held himself in tight restraint as wave after wave of blood-lust rolled through him, triggered by the sensation of his teeth sinking into yielding flesh. Careful not to tear a gaping, fatal wound, he withdrew his fangs and fixed his mouth tightly over the tiny holes, to contain the oozing blood that followed. He groaned softly as it flowed in rich gouts over his lapping tongue, the ambrosia flavored with alcohol and lust, and just as robust as he'd imagined. He snagged a bar towel off the bar, draping it over his pumping hand and the other's phallus, then put his hand on the other's back, preparing to support the mortal as "la petite mort" overtook him. Schanke was completely lost in sensation; alcohol, the paralytic ecstasy caused by a vampire's bite, the psychic backwash of Lacroix's soaring bliss and the inevitable explosion building in his own groin washed away all thought. His orgasm, when finally permitted, smashed through him, racking up and down his spine like a runaway train. Bursts of color flared behind his eyelids and his awareness slipped into rapturous black. Dimly aware of the hot, slick fluid flowing over his fist under the towel, Lacroix grunted softly as the mortal's ecstasy rushed through him on the blood he sipped. Fizzing and bubbling through his veins, in his brain, it suffused his limbs with a tingling heat. When Schanke slid into unconsciousness, Lacroix wrenched himself away, shuddering, gasping with the agony brought about by stopping so soon, oh far, far too soon. Snarling furiously at the need for self- restraint, he roughly turned the slumping mortal on his stool to brace his back against the bar. Then he placed the fingertips of a trembling hand over the tiny oozing wounds on the other's throat. A glimpse of his own face in the mirror behind the bar, bloody-lipped, eyes glowing and teeth bared, brought him to his senses, and he quickly jerked himself back under control. Coldly, he studied the slack-bodied man before him. Really, why did Nicholas bother? What could possibly be the draw? Then, as he automatically licked the traces of carmine from his lips, the answer came to him. The man was... An image, supplied by the blood, still a delightful warmth in his body, tickled amusingly in his mind. A cold beer, guzzled on a blistering hot day. Refreshing. Prosaically, elementally refreshing. Lips curving in ironic amusement, he supposed he should actually be grateful to Nicholas for this pleasant little interlude. Chuckling, he lifted his fingers to check the wounds in Schanke's throat. Ah, congealing nicely. He licked off his fingertips, then began cleaning up the mess under the towel. He tucked the man neatly away, then lifted his body off the stool and across his shoulders, carrying Schanke easily to the back room Janette kept for him. He lowered him to the bed, jerking off his shoes, so as not to muss the coverlet. The man promptly began to snore heartily, and grimacing, Lacroix rolled him onto his side. The wretched creature was in for the mother of all hangovers that evening, and he wondered if Janette had coffee on hand. Orange juice, certainly, for screwdrivers, et cetera. He flung himself into the leather upholstered armchair, steepling his fingers, to digest, both physically and mentally, the blood he'd taken. Delicious, of course, as nearly every mortal was. But would he deign to drink there again? All things considered, probably no. Nicholas, his senses shamefully dulled by his disgusting diet, would doubtless not discern the traces a vampire's saliva left behind in a mortal that survived his attentions. Another would, however, and would stay away from a human claimed in this way, at least until repeated contact with sunlight burned the vampiric element from their system. Though -- and even considering the man's profession, this was unlikely -- were he to die anytime in the near future, there was the slim possibility that he would cross over. Regardless, there was no point to provoking Nicholas needlessly, though certain interesting ... scenarios did spring to mind. And a continued relationship, such as he occasionally formed with a mortal he chose to sip from, considering the actual mortal in question, would be completely ... unsuitable. The image of a icy beer washing down a parched throat on a sweltering August day tickled through his brain again. And he smiled, eyes glittering. FIN "The English country gentleman galloping after a fox -- the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable." -- Oscar Wilde (Thanks for the quote, Julia.)
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