Flavour of Night

[shinigami]

The time: night.

The set: a club. The King of Clubs. The Club of Nines. The sign is a black club from a card deck. The theme is: sin and, just like coffee, they like it as black as possible. The Club of Nines actually pays lip service to elegance, but it isn't really elegant; it's a place where brutality happens on a regular basis, where men and women disappear, where fortunes are made, hearts are broken. Where the rich or the cruel come to indulge in their darker natures; their darkest natures. Where they come to hurt. Or to be hurt, depending on the level.

There are nine of them, just like Hell. It's a human club, and a club for humans, but it's known among a certain element in the Night World, and the owners are actually vampires, partnered with a human couple who have no idea that their business contacts are ruthless and immortal and have been around since Frank Sinatra.

The pieces:

[shinigami]

Stefan didn't appear to be ill-at-ease and this was maybe one of his greatest accomplishments to date -- that he looked as if he belonged in the Nine of Clubs. As if it fit him the way a sheath fits around a dagger. The way true lovers fit together. Perfect fit. But he was actually uneasy. See? The unease is visible when he blinks away from his contact, a witchwoman. "Grazi," he says, Italian. Then, like any good All American Boy: "Thanks anyway."

"Where the heck are you?" he murmured, to himself, once the witchwoman was gone and he'd made his excuses. He wanted to live. And talking to most Night Worlders reminded him of the years and years and years he didn't.

As he made his way up through the levels, ready to Get The Heck Out, Stefan admitted to himself that not only did he want to find his brother. He wanted to find his brother before Damon had any idea that he was around. He wanted to watch Damon for a day or two, without being detected, and get a feel for just how reformed his evil (yes, evil) brother really was.

And show Damon that he could.

[shinigami]

Behind the Nine of Clubs, Beatrix said, "Please. Please. By all that's best of dark and bright. PLEASE. Just. LOOSEN UP."

No, she wasn't talking to her older brother. And she wasn't talking to a teacher or a friend or an enemy or a frenemy; nay! Beatrix was talking to her car.

Specifically, to the lug nuts on the hub-cap of her flat tire. They flat out REFUSED to unscrew no matter how much strength she used. She cracked her knuckles, rubbed her hands together, adjusted the wrench once more and then puuuuuUUUUUUUSHED withallherMIGHT and was rewarded not at all. Because the lug nut refused to loosen.

"Rawr!"

[shinigami]

Stefan: "Excuse me?"

Beatrix turned. And her heart stopped. And she stared for an instant, that's all. Because, whoa, the boy who was speaking was so beautiful it almost physically hurt to look at him. He also looked -- familiar, but not. Better stare a little more, just to, you know, make sure. He was saying something else, which was a shame, because she wanted to look at him for a moment, and then he was giving her a look like it was her turn to talk, but what'd he say?

Beatrix, cautiously: "...Yeah?"

When the girl turned, Stefan felt the corners of his mouth lift; the smile was sincerely meant, and carved a dimple out of his left cheek. The smile changed the exact hue of his eyes, but it wasn't exactly a welcoming smile. It wasn't open. It was distant, for all it's sincerity. He raised his eyebrows and waited a second.

Then, Stefan: "...So... The wrench? I'm going to need it."

Beatrix: "Oh. Right; yes! Not that the lug nut will respect it. But yeah. Here. Heh. I'm not usually this much of a pussy, but I hurt my shoulder."

Stefan began to unscrew the lug nuts. The ease with which he did so would've been insulting if he hadn't made the effort to look like it took him a second's worth of effort. He placed each nut carefully aside when he was done unscrewing it and, in fact, took over the whole Replace Flat Tire operation.

[shinigami]

And she didn't stop him. Stefan took over so calmly, so effortless in his chivalry, that it seemed only natural. Air is breathed by mammals. And Stefan is helpful to women-in-need. After that first second of (wideeyed? shh!) reaction to his beauty, her appreciative look was tempered by curiosity; a more pensive and sidelong sort've study.

Counterpart. Stefan concentrated on the flat tire, but he was all too -- too; maybe he was hungry? No, he couldn't be; but he was? A little? -- aware of the girl. He rarely felt the cold, but he felt it now for a second, trickle down his spine and curl in his bones like a cat. This is what happens when a vampire who has denied the darker aspects of his personality for years, for centuries, meets Dark. Unease.

He shook his head and straightened, thoughtlessly graceful.

"There you go."

He dumped the tire in the bed of the truck, pretending that the tire was heavier than it was. He spotted the toolbox and disposed of the wrench, too. Meanwhile, Beatrix inspected his work and deemed it acceptable.

--

"You're just passing through? C'mon. I'll give you a ride; what else can I do?"

He hesitated. "How'd you guess?"

"This is Vegas. 99% of everybody is just passing through."

"And 99% of Vegas is on the same street. I bet most've them can walk."

"They're not all so pretty as you are. Besides, Nine of Clubs is a bit out of the way; get in, or I'll be stricken forever with a debt I cannot repay, and that'd be just cruel. I'm young, you know."

Stefan ran his fingers through his blacker-than-black hair. This would be the perfect time to disappear, mysterious; to leave, chill and aloof. He doesn't. The last few years -- happy years -- have mellowed him; he actually smiles.

"Well, in the interest of not being cruel. . ."

He swung up and she started the engine; drove sedately, safely, out of the parking lot.

"Hear that?" she said, and there was a beat.

"The engine sounds fine," Stefan said, after a second. Beatrix shook her head, and said, with casual flamboyance,

"No. The angel choruses. You accepted the ride! My debt is repaid."

That surprised a genuine laugh out of him.

"I'm Stefan," he said.

"Nice to meetcha," she replied, that's it. "Where'd you say I was dropping you off?" Stefan didn't bother with a seatbelt; he never remembered them. Hadn't, not since cars were invented and he first tried one; he used to hate them; they hurt his ears.

"The Black Dahlia," he said, because he noticed things, and she was a witch; he knew that.

"The Black Dahlia it is," Beatrix said. "Although it's a bit late for that crowd. Are you meeting somebody there?"

"Actually," Stefan began, then -- shook his head. "No." He turned his eyes outside; he didn't have a reflection, so there was no mirror-image to haunt him or make the moment particularly broody. "I'm looking for someone. You might know him." He hesitates; he rather hopes she doesn't.

[shinigami]

Beatrix gives Stefan a brief glance. "Maybe," she says. "Better than I know you. Who is it?"

"He looks a lot like I do. A little older, shorter, but his eyes are black. And he's not a nice guy. At all. Sound familiar?"

Beatrix doesn't answer. Her lips curved, a reminder to all that, although she's a creature of radiance, she's really not bright -- she's the shadow on the wall. She sounds thoughtful. "Are you a nice guy?"

Stefan shrugged. He recognized the challenge and met it head-on. "I try to be, but not always. And he tries to be a bad guy; as bad as he can be. Which is pretty bad. He always has." He hesitated, again. "He used to hang out places like the Nine of Clubs all the time; in worse places."

Beatrix turned on the stereo. It BLASTED ROCK SUPERLOUD. Stefan flinched. Beatrix turned it down quickly, although she didn't apologize. "So he's got dark hair, dark eyes, and he's bad."

He was abashed. He was a guy. He didn't often think about his brother's sterling qualities, most've which stopped and started with the way he looked, and even that he used for evil year after year. Actually, if pressed to name one of Damon's good qualities -- no. Things were different now. Old habits die hard.

"I'm not great with descriptions."

"Does he wear black?"

"Sure."

"So sort've dark-haired, dark-eyed, a vampire who wears black and is all sexy with danger?"

"...I wouldn't put it exactly like that," Stefan replied, raising an eyebrow. Ironically, the resemblance to Damon could be marked. But Stefan was his own man; his own personality shaped his features; made him a much brighter model.

"This is Vegas."

Again, abashed; but this time wry. Stefan said: "So lots of short, dark and handsomes?"

Beatrix doesn't laugh, not really, but her eyes do that dance-with-laughter thing; it's sincere. "There're lots of Elvis impersonators, anyway. He doesn't impersonate Elvis by any chance, does he? Or, oh, is he Elvis?"

Stefan raised an eyebrow again. "Elvis isn't really a vampire. Despite the rumors."

"So you say."

[shinigami]

"I don't want to ruin the mystery," Stefan says, half-joking; he really has mellowed. A lot.

Beatrix reaches over, to touch Stefan's hand; to gather his fingers in her own. "Does he wear a stone like this one?"

This one. Stefan's gaze flicks down to: her fingers, to his; to his ring finger, the ring set with lapis lazuli. The same blue as her eyes. He smiles at the thought; he can't help it. The green of his eyes shifts hue and it's the kind've look that'd make any woman jealous; make them think, wistfully, that they'd like to be looked at like that, just once.

"Yes," he says. "His name's Damon."

"Damon?" Beatrix turns to look directly at Stefan; back at the road; back at Stefan. "Then -- you must be the brother." Her tone is hard to read: amused, wondering, surprised?

"You know him, then," Stefan says, and a smile's back, giving him a dimple. Somehow? The immortal boy manages to do this while holding onto a mysterious and aloof facade. Old habits. "And -- I am." Uncertain: "How'd you guess?"

"Me? He's mentioned you before; I took a stab in the dark."

Well, well, well, well, well, wellllllllllllllllll. Beatrix hides it well, but mischief is definitely about to be afoot. Because, see. Damon f'ed with her brother's head. And she got lectured for it. A lot. And Damon seemed to think all was forgiven by ferrari + "apology" + Disneyland. And, okay: All was forgiven. But that was before the perfect opportunity for revenge just appeared unasked for. This was going to be awesome! But how to use it?

"He has? How do you know him?" Stefan says, at the same time that Beatrix says: "Why can't you find him?" They're both quiet for a second, waiting for the other to speak first. Stefan says, "What do you mean?" And Beatrix says, "Can't you use the Power to feel for him?" "Ah," Stefan says. "I could, but then he'd know; I want it to be a surprise."

[shinigami]

"A surprise, huh?" Beatrix seems distracted, abstracted. The truth is she's mulling over the flaw in her plan -- namely, that she has no idea where Stefan's brother spends his time. But she's Dark, so maybe she can find out, and as long as she doesn't get too tired, then --

"A surprise," Stefan confirms. He twists his ring around: once, twice, three times; let the circle stay unbroken. He starts to smile again; unconscious, easy; confident, reflexive. The smile is as easy as a breath of air to somebody born to it. Dispels some of the shadows around his eyes. He watches Beatrix's eyes in the mirror and says, "How do you know him?"

"Uhm. Not very well. I just met him at the Black Iris this one time. He was hanging out with what's his name; somebody mean. Did you check there already?"

"First thing. Wasn't there." How hard could it be to find a gambling, womanizing -- ah, right. He doesn't have to say it aloud to hear Beatrix say Las Vegas. As the strip passes by, as they get caught in traffic only to escape it when she pulls onto the highway, a trick she knows, he wonders. Says, "What ...was he like?"

Beatrix doesn't answer for a second. When she does, it's with a sidelong glance. Then she says, "Who he wants to be, I guess." Then she makes a decision. Says, "He was -- scary." She closes her eyes, briefly. "Really scary."

"Scary? Did he do anything?"

"Ye -- no. I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

And Stefan frowns, deeply.

Beatrix says: "Look. Honestly? Lonely. That's what he was like."

Stefan muses that one over in silence. He pushes his black black hair out of his green green eyes and purses his mouth. The expression is, if anything, a little regretful, but his true feelings are far more complex and more difficult to read, even for somebody with a natural gift for disentangling the threads of the heart. Stefan's heart doesn't bleed.

"That doesn't sound like him," he says. "Can I give you some advice?"

"Yaaaay, advice," Beatrix deadpans. Unenthusiasm? Thy name is. "Is it: Be careful?"

"No," he says.

"Fine," she says. "But only if I can give you some advice, too."

"Deal. You seem like a nice girl. Not too nice. But nice. So don't try to change a tire, all on your own, outside a place like the Club of Nines and try not to waste too much of your life on people like my brother and his aquaintances; you'll get hurt."

"My turn! Okay. Hugs. Hugs are good. Better than lectures. Take it from me. But don't tell anybody where you got it, okay? And here we are. The meter says you owe me."

"That's all, huh? I thought the ride was a thank you," he says, cocking an eyebrow.

"But then there was information exchanged, so now you owe me. A hug."

He eyes her, amused. He shuts the door to the truck, doesn't slam it; he's far too cool, far too beautiful, the way he leans against it; careless, casual, in complete and utter control of his body, of his hunger, of his blood, of the curve of his sweet mouth. "And if I say no?"

"Are you going to?"

"No."

Beatrix bounces out of the truck to wrap Stefan in a quick -- and platonic, and he's so damned Taken and so clearly Happy that it's hard to fantasize properly about it -- hug. He returns it; he really does. After all, to Stefan, it doesn't matter; he doesn't even know he's trustworthy, because it never occurs to him to be otherwise. Saint, indeed; his virtue needn't be tested; he walks in it.

But Beatrix suddenly laughs, and the sound touches Stefan where he doesn't like to be touched; where he doesn't want to be touched. The laughter is perfectly amused, perfectly surprised; spontaneous. "I'm an idiot. Totally should've guessed. I forgot -- I do know where you can find him; the Venetian. Top floor. During non-vampire hours. Maybe if you hurry, you can be there before him, all hidden like. Don't forget to hug."

"I'll try not to. The Venetian, huh? Venice." Stefan's lip curls. Hey, Venice and Florence had a number of disagreements and he is, when all is said and done, a merchant's brat.

"Thanks again for the help," Beatrix says, and Stefan says, "What was your name, again?" "Bye," she says, and the truck peels off, the music already turned back up to a deafening decibel, and what, oh what, might be playing?

We are the champions. By Queen. Duh.

Stefan, very thoughtfully, watches the truck disappear back on the street, and then there's just the plain door, marked by a rather discreet black dahlia. The door opens while he's still standing outside, in the cool, forgiving almost-dawn light; he glances up, at the sky, and gauges the dawn. Just a half hour more, at most. But the door opens, and somebody steps out, and that somebody says,

"Really you. Well, come on in; we thought that you weren't going to come after all. That something happened."

"No," he says, donning perfect old-fashioned courtesy. "Nothing happened, but I can't stay; I need to take care of something. Can we do this quickly?"

"Of course," the someone says.

FINIS.