Belonging

Permission given to archive at JADFE

m/m explicit - Nick/LaCroix

"Forever Knight", concept and characters Nicholas De Brabant, Lucien LaCroix and
Detective Schanke beloved creations of James Parriott, copyright Tristar. No copyright
infringement ever intended.

Lyrics from:
(1) "Hold Me Like A Child", R Gibb / A Gibb
(2) "Walking In My Shoes", Depeche Mode
(3) "Lonliness", Roger Taylor
(4) "I Want You", unknown

This story takes place a few days after "Hunted", season two.

* * *

"Belonging"
by elfin

"Standing face to face forever, live or die." (1)

        The church was in silence as Detectives Knight and Schanke stepped inside, one
with a little more certainty than the other. Nick was not feeing too well; his self-inflicted
starvation was weakening his spirit and abilities to cope with anything that could
potentially harm him. And tonight he felt worse than usual. He sighed, hesitating in the
doorway of the ancient, simple building. "Schank? Is this really necessary?"
        Schanke stopped, turning to frown at his partner. Tonight, Nick was acting weirder
than usual and it was starting to freak him a little. He had become used to the pale, often
morose presence of his partner by his side; he liked Nick, somehow he felt more trusting
and comfortable with him than any other partner he had been paired with in the past. But
those feelings did not stop him regarding the strange man with confusion and bemusement
for most of the time. "Would you cut it out? We have to talk with Count Dracula."
Nick's glance cut through him, and he held up his hands in defence, "Sorry, Father
Lorenzo. What is with you tonight?"
        Nick looked at the ground, shaking his head and steeling himself for the power that
would hit him the moment he stepped into the church. After a few moments, he raised his
head and took that step. It was worse than he had imagined it would be. He doubled
over, taking deep breaths, slowing his already slow heartbeat to an almost complete stop.
Schanke had returned to his side, concern flooding his voice as he reached an arm across
Nick's back. "Hey, partner, you really aren't well.... Go get some air." Nick shook his
head, determined to bring this under control. Only when he was sure he could trust his
voice to sound normal, did he tell Schanke to continue, he would join him soon.

Father Lorenzo stepped out of the vestry as Schanke approached the alter. He
glanced only briefly at the Detective before him, seemingly more interested in the one in
the doorway. "Father Lorenzo," Schanke waved an unsubtle hand to get the man's
attention. "Detectives Schanke and Knight," he pointed back to Nick, "he'll be with us in
a moment. We wanted to ask you...." He trailed off, amazed as the priest walked
straight past him, down the isle toward Nick. Schanke frowned, and watched for a
moment as his partner straightened to stare at the figure approaching him.

        Nick stood, about to flash his badge at the priest when he truely saw the man
coming toward him. He froze. The face was familiar to him, and as Father Lorenzo
stopped before him, hands crossed in front, rocking back on his heels, he had to resist
the urge to bow. Or to flee. "Nicholas," the deep, commanding voice dripped, and Nick
recoiled, finding himself pressed back against the wooden doors closed tightly behind him.
Schanke was with them now, his protectiveness tonight reminding Nick absurdly of
LaCroix.
        "You two know each other?"
        Lorenzo glanced at Nick, and then turned, hand drifting in front of Schanke's face,
putting the Detective out in a moment. He returned his attention to the son of his old
adversary. "Well, well. A policeman? Really, Nicholas," he sneered, "Lucien must be
so proud."

        Nicholas stared into the dark eyes of the powerful master before him. He had
stood before this man once in challenge; he had not defeated him, had not ever hoped to,
but he had walked away. Then he had been stronger, the vampiric spirit alive within him.
Now, here, he could do nothing but tremble under the ancient gaze. "So quiet, Nicholas.
We've shared so much, mon enfant."
        "We shared nothing." Nick kept his voice steady, allowed none of his emotions to
creep into his tone.
        "Your master should keep you on a shorter leash, boy. Letting you wonder so far
from his protection... you may be injured."
        "My master has no choice," Nick managed to choke out, his voice roughening.
        Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, smiling. "So, you've broken out of his clutches at last."
The priest of ages reached a perfect, long finger out across the gap between them and
stroked a single caress down Nick's cheek. "You deserve a less cruel master, Nichola."
Nick resisted the urge to knock the terrible hand away, knowing he would immediately
regret the unrespectful action.
        "I am not looking for another master."
        "Shame...." Lorenzo seemed to think about that. "I could just take you as I
wanted to a few centuries ago... claim you as my own."
        "LaCroix would never allow that, you know."
        The ancient master tipped his head slightly, knowing Nicholas spoke the truth. "I
could just take you anyway."
        "I don't suggest it." Nick struggled to keep the fear from his voice. "LaCroix is in
the city."

The young vampire knew the words had been spoken out of cowardice. He had
given away his master's whereabouts, not that LaCroix held any fear of Lorenzo. He
had defeated him once, had the old master trembling under his gaze, begging for his life,
and could easily do so again. But it would make things awkward in the Toronto
Vampire community for a while. Lorenzo had stepped back. Taking the favourite of
LaCroix was dangerous when the old vampire was so close by. He smiled gently,
horribly at Nicholas. "So... I cannot have you. But I will ask something of you. You
and your mortal partner here will remain blind to the actions of the congregation of this
church."
"I don't know if I can do that, Lorenzo. They aren't exactly being subtle with their
kills. You're endangering them and the community."

The slap Nicholas received knocked him back against the doors, drew blood to the
surface of his cheek, drew his vampiric instincts out further. He turned back to the old
master with golden eyes. A second strike knocked him back again, and suddenly he felt
strong fingers gripping his head and shoulder. Nick screamed in denial, but he could not
shift the iron grip of the master. Lorenzo bent over the young vampire in his grasp and
scraped needle-sharp fangs over the sweet skin bared to him. With one sharp bite, he
pierced Nick's throat, sinking teeth in and swallowing down the hot, honey blood. Nick
moaned, powerless to stop what was happening, powerless now to do anything,
physically or mentally.

As Lorenzo drank from LaCroix's son, he read the boy's thoughts, easily tearing
back any barriers Nick had quickly managed to erect. He tasted the firey spirit of the
young crusader, the buried love he held for his master, the fight that blazed within him
between his obsession for mortality and his desire to embrace all his sire offered him.
Lorenzo tasted Nicholas and the taste was addictive.

The ancient priest drank until he felt Nick's fragile grasp on consciousness waver,
and he pulled out roughly, throwing the other against the doors, watching as he slid down
the unforgiving wood to the floor. Lorenzo turned, started back toward the vestry.
"Don't cross me again, Nicholas De Brabant. I can destroy you."

        As the priest closed the door behind him, Schanke snapped out of the trance and
dropped to his knees beside his partner. "Nick? Nick?"
        Nick blinked, grappling to stay afloat. "Take me home," he managed to rasp out.
        "Okay, partner." He helped Nick to his feet, noting his friend's palor, whiter than
usual. "You could have told me you weren't feeling too well, you know." He lead Nick
out of the church, all thoughts of Father Lorenzo gone from his mind.

***

Through the loft, the fifty or so candles burned with a bright intensity. On candle
sticks, tall and small, old and new, white wax poles held amber flames. Amongst them,
on the leather couch, the young vampire sat staring into the nothingness, feeling absurdly
lonely when he only had to reach out and someone would be there. He could go down
to the Raven, be greeted by so many of his own kind, maybe even chose his company
for the night, this night when he did not really want to be alone. Yet he did not move.

//sunlight, everywhere, all around him, burning, weakening him//

Nick had desperately insisted that Schanke leave the moment they had reached his
loft. He had staggered to the fridge, drunk his way through three bottles of bovine blood,
and vomited. Another bottle had balanced him on a low, but even keel. Although he still
felt weak, he did feel better, like he would survive this.

//garlic-filled bullets piercing him one after the next after the next//

Confusion, hurt, bitterness and an ancient rage had mingled together, existing as one
slowly growing emotion that was now pressing on Nicholas' finely-held control. He
remembered back, careful to keep his emotions from his ever-watchful master, to that
first night, the first time he had willingly given himself up to LaCroix, to be reborn into this
immortal hell. What was it Janette had promised him? An eternity of nights filled with
passion. Some hopes. When he could not make love to a mortal for fear of killing in the
throws of orgasm. What was there left for him?

*me*

The thought arrived in his mind unbidden, placed there he knew. Nicholas almost
allowed himself to arc across the link, to cry out for LaCroix to return and take him back,
to beg to be by his father's side - cherished and loved - once more. Yet he stopped
himself, hating himself for wanting it. He brought his mental shields down again fiercely,
angry with himself at letting his defences slip. His fists clenched, and he leaned forward,
thrusting his palm into the nearest candle flame, scolding himself painlessly. A single tear
fell from his eyes, mouring his loss, mouring his mortality as he had done so often through
the centuries.

//bottles of holy water being flung at him, landing inches from his feet, shattering,
splashing him, burning as nothing else could//

Nick knew he was going to have to tell LaCroix, admit to his sire that their darkest
enemy had taken his feed from LaCroix's only son. He knew his father would explode,
probably firstly at him for allowing that to happen, and then at Lorenzo. He could not
face that at the moment. He felt sick and weak, fighting constantly not to let his guard
drop again, knowing he was failing.

//flaming cloths in green bottles of alcohol being launched at him, flames surrounding
him, licking at him, melting his skin, blazing agonizing pain through him//

But how much longer could he deny himself what he wanted, what he needed and
desired? Why should he suffer so when power, company, a standing in the vampire
community... love was at his fingertips. Even now, the clientelle of the Raven respected
him because of he who had given him his birth into this eternal life, because of he who
was his father, his master, because of he whom Nicholas belonged to. He knew the
thought, the knowledge of where the respect originated from, should repulse and anger
him, but for reason, this night, it made him proud, made it all the more difficult for him not
to finally embrace what LaCroix had been offering him for centuries. Had he been
stronger, he could easily have prevented Lorenzo's attack.

//an arrow, metal tipped, wooden, deadly, fired toward him bringing with it peace,
escape, a way out... catching it in his mind, snapping it in fury//

Nicholas stood and walked through the amassed candles to the fridge, taking out a
corked bottle left there a few weeks ago by LaCroix during one of his scant visits. As he
held it in his hands, unconsciously stroking the thin neck, he thought about his sire, about
their history, long and troubled, usually violent, exchanges that had caused so much pain
yet had changed nothing. 'I miss you, mon pere.' As the thought crossed his mind,
Nicholas knew it to be the truth. So many things LaCroix had done over the centuries to
tear at him, to humiliate and fool him, yet sometimes to save him. Countless times through
history, despite everything Nicholas had done and said to alienate his master, LaCroix
had always been there when he had needed him the most.

Without warning, more memories soared back. A door being flung open, LaCroix's
enraged demandings as to the whereabouts of his son. Nicholas' relief as the heavy body
above him shifted, pausing in the rape of the favourite son of LaCroix to address the one
who had dared interrupt. His tears as his master had blasted into the room, ripping out
the throats of any who had the stupidity to challenge him simply by being in his path. His
heartfelt joy as Lorenzo trembled before LaCroix. His father's enraged words to the
Elder vampire. "How dare you touch my son?! What incredable courage must you have
to cross me?!" Lorenzo had pleaded, begged the incensed vampire to spare him, and for
a moment, the pathetic beseaching of the Elder vampire had almost moved LaCroix to
take pity. And then he had looked up, seen his son, naked, bound and gagged, reddened
tears leaking from his golden eyes. Wounds where his violator had drank from him,
marked his beautiful body. LaCroix's fury had been instant and violent. He had wanted
to tear Lorenzo's head from his neck, but he had known the master's standing in the
community, known the Enforcers would demand a better reason than the attempted rape
of a young vampire for the death of an ancient. LaCroix had sufficed with battering the
Elder, making him swear on his own immortality that he would not lay a single finger on
Nicholas ever again. Then he had flown to his son's side. Nicholas would never forget
the tender healing of his father, his loving embrace through the nightmares, his gentle
feeding to enforce Nicholas' own powers of recovery.

Who else had ever fought for him, protected him, loved him with the strength and
desire that LaCroix had? Who else had betrayed him, damaged him, torn at him so
completely and left him flailing in the coldness of their society? After so many years, so
much joined them, connected them. After such a period of time, could grudges still be
kept? He knew his sire still wished for him to return to his side in whatever small measure
Nicholas' strongly held morals would allow. He heard the barely disguised requests and
demands in the Nightcrawler's monologues. He had ignored them, and his own inner
desires, for too long.

Nicholas gracefully took a wine glass from the cupboard and moved back into the
lounge area, toward the couch, switching on the small radio as he passed. He sat back
down, placing the bottle and glass on the table before him. The music on the radio
ended, and LaCroix's smooth sultry voice spoke to him.
"Tonight, my children, I wish you all to think on that which makes your lives
miserable. For by changing that which threatens to destory us, we may once more smile
on ourselves."

Nicholas sighed, reaching forward to uncork the bottle. Coincidence, or did
LaCroix know - sense - his son's indecisiveness this night. Did the Elder feel that his
favourite was close to the borders that had separated them for so long, looking over and
considering at last taking that single step that would heal all that had happened between
them. When deeds of terrible violence and pain were spread over such a length of time,
they lost the pungent taste of horror and hatred, settled into memory as simple twists of
fate.

He poured a glass of the sweet mix of human blood and ancient red wine,
wondering absently if LaCroix had somehow known that this bottle would call to his son,
would be used to smooth the rifts time had left separating them. Nicholas placed the
bottle back onto the table and leaned back, the glass in his fingers. The simple aroma
was enough to weaken his restraint, to call to the vampire within him. He ran a single
finger around the rim of the glass as LaCroix interrupted his own chosen music to speak,
it seemed, to him.
"Do what you need to do. Take from this life what is offered, what you need to live,
not just to exist. The difference between the two states is so great, only the extreme will
bridge the gap. But everyone can find that extreme, their own way to cross over to the
other side. We deny ourselves only that which is essential. It is for no good. It can only
harm us. Choose to live the life you were chosen for, whatever the consequences
because they are always preferable to the other option, to simply existing."

'He is talking to me. He can feel me, pushing, testing the limits of my own
boundaries until I find an equilibrium that I can live with; a balance between what I am,
and who I am. I can still hear his words now, spoken to me in a convent basement
hundreds of years ago. 'I weary of you.'' For the first time those words cut him, and as
if in reply, LaCroix's voice came again over the airwaves.
"As time passes, we all do and say those things which we shall always regret. These
things should not be remembered, they are unimportant and irrelevant only moments after.
They are the words spoken, and the actions chosen in times of thoughtlessness, or in
trying to protect our own dignity and pride, maybe even in trying to hide our true desires.
Yet, foolishly these things are remembered, brooded over until they become barriers,
walls that stand in the way of our finding our true natures, and taking back that which time
and others have torn from us."

'He's apologizing,' Nick smiled to himself. 'He's trying to remove the final obstacles
for me, so that I will not feel that I am betraying myself by returning to the fold. How
does he continually do this? Can I honestly put up with him for the rest of my undoubtedly
long existence?'

"Mon fils." Nicholas glanced up suddenly as he heard the Nightcrawler speak the
French phrase LaCroix had long ago reserved for his son. Whatever followed was truely
meant just for him. "The past is the past. Not even we can change that now. So many
regrets between us, so much hatred that we must allow it to burn away, and leave behind
the truth of our existance. Your reliance on me. My reliance on you. The pain is all
behind us. We can be so strong together. You know you belong with me."

Nicholas smiled. To the hoards of usual listeners, the Nightcrawler was being just a
little weirder than usual. To him, he was asking forgiveness from his child, asking his son
to return to him. His choice of the words 'with me' instead of 'to me' at least showed that
he was thinking, being careful not to upset the precarious balance within his son's mind.
Nicholas found himself touched by the gesture. The music began again over the radio; a
piano piece, a piece LaCroix had played to him many times over the years; an obscure
piece by a composer whose work had never been recognized, yet who LaCroix had
always had a special affection for.

Nick looked back at the glass cradled in his fingers. This was an end and a
beginning. Yet there had been so many for him, one more was nothing to be feared.
Usually an end meant leaving behind friends, trusted aquaintences, colleagues. No one
ever truely knew him anyway. This time it would not mean a disappearence after silent
goodbyes. He would still join Schanke at work tomorrow night, he would continue to
harass Nat for answers to the myriad of questions he always had; whether she would
speak to him was another matter. But it was his life, his existence, and she would have to
admit that they were getting nowhere. 'How can she ever hope to cure me anyway? I
am dead. I will live a thousand lifetimes before they find any cure other than the pipe
dreams of rich Americans storing themselves for later revival.'

Nicholas sighed and placed the glass back on to the table before him. By drinking,
he was accepting those things he had resented for so long. He was embracing the gift
LaCroix had centuries ago bestowed upon him, a gift he had willingly accepted yet had
not understood. He remembered his early kills; the self-disgust that had burned within his
own heart, the barely-tempered fury with which he had flown at LaCroix, the man who
had spent the days protecting and feeding him until his own mortal blood had died to give
way to LaCroix's own in Nicholas' veins. One particular, terrible night LaCroix had given
to them a display of his power over his children; beaten Nicholas to a bloody pulp,
wounds so deep that time had taken hours to heal them. And yet what had hurt most
was the truth; the knowledge that this was to be his life until he or a hunter for his blood
ended it. In those days, the hunters came in packs, and death was agonizing. The
vampire spirit - mixed with Nicholas' own courage and refusal to be beaten - kept
Nicholas alive, running with LaCroix when they had to, alone when he could bear his
master's company no longer. Together they had once enjoyed the fruits of their nightly
excursions and the riches of their prizes. Alone he had hated what he was, everything
that he represented in his new form. He knew the humiliation he had brought upon
LaCroix because of his deeply held beliefs that he had refused to let go of. He knew the
regrets his father often harboured over his choice of a favourite. But there were enough
times, Nicholas knew, that he had displayed such a pride in his vampiric tendancies as to
show LaCroix that he had not been in error to take Nicholas De Brabant as his son.

Did he now want to embrace that gift? Did he want a return of the smothering love
of his immortal father? if, indeed, there was ever a time when he had been without it.
Was he now going to turn away from Nat, from what she was trying to do for him? He
thought about his long search to find a cure for his condition. Was he willing to throw
away so much time spent on that one venture? Yet would death terrify him? Would
morality, with its human frailties and ailments, scare him now?

'I use this gift so often, denying what I am yet still relying on the inherent strength,
speed and healing it instills in me. I have a connection with LaCroix that no one would
ever understand; a connection that goes back so far, rooted in a history that children
learn of from books; never reading of the most ancient race. I am loved, I am desired, I
am wanted and needed for what I truely am. I have friends who will always be there, no
matter where I go, what I do or who I become, friends who know me and accept me,
Nicholas De Brabant. After all this time he does still exist. He has come so far. I need
these people now, my own kind. I need to feel accepted and known. From them I can
command respect and honour, from them I can receive understanding and belonging. I
need this now. I have been away from them for too long. I can still repent for my sins of
the past, still help save the lives of mortals when they do to one another as they would
not have done to themselves. Yet no longer will I deny who and what I am; both are
suffering from this self-inflicted exhile from my own kind. I must do this for myself. For
those around me who deserve to know a happier Nicholas, for those I know miss me as
I once was. For my own spirit to survive.'

Nicholas leaned forward and took the glass into his hand. He closed his eyes,
losing himself in the sweet aroma that assaulted his vampiric senses. His decision was
made, there was no going back now. And when, a few moments later, there was a cool
breeze for a moment, gone in an instant, Nicholas was no more surprised than he was
alarmed. LaCroix had been talking to him, encouraging him as he had stood at his own
personal crossroads. Now he had decided on a path which took him straight back to his
father, LaCroix was there to greet him.

        Nick smiled faintly as the glass was taken from him. He opened his eyes, golden
pupils regarding his master with a deep request. They did not need words; their ancient
race could easily use a more intimate form of communication, especially at times like these.
From his seat on the low coffee table opposite, LaCroix ran a single gloved finger over
Nicholas' cheek. "Mon fils, return to me?"
        Nicholas watched his master with dark eyes. "Oui, my sire." It was almost a relief
to say those words.
        With an answering smile that was almost wonderment, almost joy, LaCroix removed
his gloves, laying them on the table and at the same time picking up the glass. Under
Nicholas' heavy gaze, he dipped his index finger into the cool, thick liquid and breathed in
the scent. "A perfect choice, little one."
        "Would you expect any different from the son of Lucien LaCroix?" Nicholas' low,
suggestive tones, his teasing words, were already playing havock with LaCroix's
legendary control. Was his son truely returning to him? Would he once more have his
beloved child to turn to, to accompany him during the long days, to lose to him at chess,
or simply to sit and enjoy a vintage brand as candles shadowed them? Could he dare to
believe that he could once again have it all?

LaCroix lifted his finger from the glass, letting the blood drip from it to his dark
trouser leg as he offered his hand to his son, palm down, finger out; his head tilted to one
side in an anticipative, almost hopeful gesture. Nicholas leaned slowly forward and
parted his lips, sliding his mouth along his master's finger, taking the blood-soaked digit
into his mouth, suckling gently. At this simple sensation, LaCroix laughed softly, his eyes
closing and his head going back for just a moment before he looked down again at where
his son held him tightly in his mouth.

        Nick flicked his tongue around the finger, lapping at the blood, cleaning the skin. He
felt his fangs extending, his vampiric side arousing once again from its dormant state.
Without warning, he slipped both fangs into LaCroix's captured finger. His sire yelped in
surprise and sudden excitement.
        "Mon petit demon," he muttered, his voice roughening. Nicholas tongued over the
two bite marks as they healed quickly. He needed more. Letting the digit slip from his
lips, he took the glass from LaCroix and held it with both hands to his reddened lips, his
eyes golden with tinges of fire, burning with delight at the long-awaited tasting. He drank
back the blood mix, finishing the glass, closing his eyes as the elixir flooded through his
veins, soaring heat travelling through his body.
        "Nicholas...." LaCroix had sunk to his knees on the floor in front of him, pushing
back the table and now reaching for his precious son. Nicholas allowed himself to be
pulled from his seat on the couch, to sit astride his father's thighs, one knee either side.
"Nicholas." He heard his name carried on a single breath. "Be reborn to me, mon fils."
        Nick knew what he was asking, what this meant to both of them, and finally he
willingly embraced the thoughts that LaCroix's request exacted from him. Sitting there,
above LaCroix, Nicholas slowly raised his fingers to his shirt collar, unfastening the top
few buttons, exposing his neck and throat to his sire. LaCroix gazed up at his son, this
young vampire who had meant so much to him through the ages, and hurt him in ways he
could not begin to explain, was all he had ever wanted. "Nichola..." His long pale fingers
went to his own collar, unfastening the buttons, revealing his sculptured throat to his
beloved child. His hands then moved, his arms encircling Nick's body, one palm resting
against his back, the other hand cradling his head. Slowly, gently, LaCroix brought the
golden head of his son toward him, and Nicholas allowed himself to be lowered, to be
baptised once more into the society that he had always belonged to. LaCroix tilted his
son's head slightly, giving him better access to Nicholas' throat, to the pulsing artery he
sought. He traced that line with the tip of his tongue, teasing the sensitive skin, hearing
Nicholas' murmured plea against his ear.

LaCroix plunged his fangs into his son's neck, piercing the artery, his mouth filling
with the hot blood. Nicholas cried out, the intense sensation of his master's bite a
purposely-forgotten detail, long-lost and now found again. Nick twisted his head slightly,
painfully enlarging the wound in his own throat, to sink his teeth into LaCroix. The joining
complete, the circle of blood flowing between them, each vampire held onto the other as
the sensation grew. The feeding embrace tightened, and along with it the intensity of the
moment increased. Finally, after too long, Nicholas started to feel that he was at last
returning to himself; his head felt light, his body alive, his senses acutely tuned. His spirit
soared and he gulped down his sire's blood as if it could heal everything. The innate
sensuality of the feeding drove them both on to hold tighter to the other. Still stunned by
this sudden unexpected change in his son's attitude, LaCroix gently nudged the latent link
between them, awaking feelings within himself that he had not endulged in for almost three
hundred years. Linked physically, LaCroix experienced the thoughts deep in Nicholas'
subconsciousness, the desperate, starving needs that had finally brought him to this
decision; the outcast he believed himself to be. Tears filled LaCroix's eyes, running softly
over his nose and dropping lightly to Nick's throat. And then he saw them - images from
that evening, memories of Lorenzo's attack. LaCroix's anger soared suddenly, battering
Nicholas through the link, through the blood he drank.

Nicholas murmured gently, silently begging his father to calm, to deal with his fury
later, and with some difficulty, LaCroix complied, allowing instead his deepening arousal
to flow through him, into his son. Nick tasted the increasing richness with which his
master's state flavoured his blood. He had started this wishing only to be drawn back
into the fold, to feel LaCroix's intoxicating love and possession of him, to know he
belonged, to rid himself of the terrible weakness he felt. Yet he was not ready for
anything more, although he could remember, in vivid detail how good it used to be
between them, so very long ago. Although too many years of celebacy, of keeping his
own desires reigned in, of getting release only from his own lonely ministrations, had past.
Although the desperation to feel another around him and within him, was growing strong.
Despite all this, and despite the orgasmic rush that feeding brought, Nicholas was very
determined that their relationship should not to swing back to one of master and slave,
as it had been for the entirity of their history together.

So as LaCroix's hands moved to claim him, Nicholas found them and stopped them
with his own iron grasp, not breaking the circle of the blood exchange he still needed so
very badly. His sire grunted in displeasure, but LaCroix knew too much, knew Nicholas
too well, to push too hard at this moment.

Time past unnoticed by the two vampires, held together in an ancient embrace. The
amber glow of the many tiny flames bathed them, surrounding them in warmth and light,
cradling father and son.

        As he felt his son grow weary, LaCroix pulled his fangs from the pale neck, stroking
soothing licks over the enlarged wounds there, made bigger by Nicholas' movements, and
cleaning the stains his own tears had made on his son's skin. Nicholas also withdrew,
burying his head in the dip of his father's shoulder, allowing his emotions to break free at
last, his tears to flow freely as he was released from everything that had held him in check.
LaCroix wrapped his own strong arms around his son and rocked him gently on his lap,
holding him tightly.
        "Easy, son." He soothed the tousled golden hair, using the link between them to
ease Nicholas' suffering.
        "I couldn't stop him, Father." Nicholas choked out. "I'm sorry."
        "No, mon fils, I'm sorry. He attacked you to hurt me. You couldn't have stopped
him. Even at your strongest you are no match for Lorenzo." He soothed his distraught
son. "You aren't to blame, mon couer, you were restrained. I am proud of you, as I
have always been, Nicholas."

Slowly, his son calmed and pulled back, smiling at his father. "Thank you." LaCroix
was stunned at the angelic nature of Nicholas' expression, the vampire having gone from
his face, knowing it from days long ago, yet not having seen it for many, many years. He
waited there, waited for the backlash to begin. But it did not come. Nicholas rose from
his sire's knees, offering LaCroix a hand up as the other vampire also rose gracefully,
seating himself on the couch while his son went to the kitchen to retreive a second wine
glass.

        LaCroix allowed Nicolas the few moments to bring himself together. He looked
around, seeing the multitude of candles as if for the first time. "You do have a taste for
the gothic, Nicholas," he chided ever-so gently.
        "Please, Lucien, it is not I who speaks to the city of such dark subjects all night
long." The jibe was not meant as an insult, simply reply to his sire's ribbing.
        LaCroix waved a dismissive hand. "I simply tell them what the darker sides of their
natures want to hear."
        Nicholas stopped in front of his father, holding the clean glass in his fingers,
regarding the older man. "Do you? Or do you merely allow them to over hear your
lectures to your children?" There was only humour in the young vampire's tone, all the
accusation of the past was gone.
        A sly smile crossed LaCroix' features. "Are you going to pour or do I have to fetch
my own drink?" Wordlessly, Nick handed him the wine glass, and then curled himself by
his master's side, his leg bent over LaCroix's, facing the older vampire. LaCroix filled
both glasses. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened with Lorenzo." LaCroix
twisted his body slightly to meet Nicholas' gaze; he dropped his hand to the muscular,
silk-covered leg that was resting against him, stroking it gently with a lazy thumb.
        Nick recounted the night's activities, starting with the reports of the blood being
stolen from the Church of the Eternal's mission's reserve, and the deaths within the church
congregation. Someone in homicide had made several connections and Nick and
Schanke had been sent out to have a word with the priest. He summed up their visit,
leaving out the part about his inability to enter the church, knowing LaCroix had probably
read that through their blood exchange anyway. As he talked, LaCroix kept up his gentle,
unintrusive stroking of Nick's leg, the touch somewhere between soothing and utterly
erotic. Only when he was sure he son had told him all, did LaCroix speak. He sipped at
his glass, his eyes tracing the full line of Nicholas's lips as his son did the same. "Are you
sure, Nicholas, that you did not taste of him?"
        "Absolutely." A faint smile curved his lips. "You know my feelings on feeding from
people, LaCroix."
        His sire returned his smile. "Indeed I do, Nicholas." His tone grew serious again.
"And he did not force-feed you?"
        "No, LaCroix." For some reason, this allegation struck Nicholas. No one had ever
force fed him except his father. He would not want anyone doing that but LaCroix. Such
an intimate act, so sensual and close. LaCroix felt Nicholas' discomfort at the idea, and
reached up to touch his son's golden hair.
        "I had to ask, mon fils. He has broken his word. He has touched you again, he will
regret that."
        Nicholas looked at his father, and pushed away any notion of asking him not to
exact his revenge on Lorenzo. There was more than the threat to Nicholas here, there
was LaCroix's age-old pride. This time the Enforcers would accept the death of Lorenzo.
A long time ago the sexual rights of the younger vampires were questionable. Vampires
were naturally sensual creatures, and sometimes they got carried away. But these days,
feeding from another's son - especially from an older vampire such as Nicholas now was
and a master with the standing of Lucien LaCroix - without consent, was unacceptable.
The action warranted some reaction from the master involved. It would be expected.
"Please be careful, LaCroix. I've just found you again, I don't want to lose you now."

"Son.... Surely you trust me to be able to deal with Lorenzo?" He stroked a single finger
over Nicholas' cheek. "And after he has dared touched my child...." A little of LaCroix's
brutally reigned anger became obvious for a single moment, and Nicholas saw, in that
moment, the depth of his father's love for him. He tore his gaze from LaCroix's eyes and
drank down the rest of his glass. Looking to the empty bottle, he stood.
"I'll get another."
LaCroix recognized the gesture, and let Nicholas go. He could read the fine line his
son was walking, through the link between them. He did not want to push at this time.
He too stood, walking to the small, powerful stereo system in the corner. Interested, he
switched it on. The radio was tuned, as ever, to CERK, and with LaCroix's continued
absence, the selection would continue to automatically play from the compact discs. He
did not know the song currently playing, but the words spoke to him as he had spoken to
Nicholas some time before.

        'The countless feasts laid at my feet
        Forbidden fruits for me to eat.....
        .....My intentions couldn't have been purer
        My case is easy to see
        I'm not looking for a clearer conscience
        Peace of mind after what I've been through
        And before we talk of any repentance
        Try walking in my shoes.'

        LaCroix stroked his finger tips over the fine gold of the Dennon system before him.
Seeing a cassette in the tape deck, he pressed the 'Play' button. His own dulcet tones
rang out through the room.
        "...I love you all...."
        He hit the 'Stop' button suddenly, surprised. Nicholas was standing by his side, a
full glass in his hands. LaCroix regarded him somewhat quizically. "You record my
shows?"
        Nick shrugged. "Sometimes." He leant gently against his master. "I do listen to you
sometimes, Father."
        LaCroix smiled, touching the button on the stereo to return to the radio setting. A
new song was playing, and again, the words spoke to them.

'Lonliness is the greatest curse
and lonliness is hell on earth'

"You have the most touching taste in music," Nicholas told his father with some
surprise in his voice. There was a long silence, both watching the other with the
trepidation of a newly formed alliance. LaCroix wanted nothing more than to take his
angel into his arms and to make love to him until the days and nights became one blur of
passion and desire. Just as Nicholas had been promised. But he could still sense the
hesitation through the link and read it in those beautiful blue eyes. And so he would
wait, he could wait a long time for the only one he had ever really wanted, or ever truely
loved.

        "Have you noticed, Nicholas, how every song is written for us, about us?"
        "No, LaCroix, it's just your amazing ego that sees the world that way." Nicholas
moved back smiling, and LaCroix watched him as he walked across the wooden floor.
"LaCroix...." Nick started hesitently. "I know... I've hurt you in the past. I know I've
disappointed you, spoken to you in ways that wouldn't be tolarated by other masters of
their children." Nick looked down at the glass in his hand, swirling the red liquid around,
watching as the lights from the still-burning flames were caught in the ruby red and
projected about the loft. He looked up at his father who was watching him intently now.
"We've both made each other's lives very difficult; there are times when I've thought how
you must regret choosing me, taking me as your son, and each time I've thought that, I've
been more saddened by the idea. I have difficulty accepting that this is my life. But what
you gave me are chances, many, many chances to get it right, just once. I've lived over
forty lifetimes and I still don't seem to be able to get it right. With you. But I do love you.
You have to know that."
        LaCroix stared at his child, standing meters away from him, beautiful in the glow of
the candles. He was a breath-taking sight, one LaCroix had always treasured.
"Nicholas, mon fils. However much you try to pull away from me, you'll always be my
family, my only son. You've never understood that, but I wish you would remember it."
        "I'll try to remember." Nicholas smiled, nodding. "But what of the other, Lucien?
What of the two of us, not as father and son, but me as your amant, you as mine."
        A shadow crossed the older vampire's features and he looked away. His voice was
barely a whisper when he spoke. "You've broken my heart more times than I care to
remember. Maybe once too often. Each time you've come to me, I've taken you back,
forgiven you everything, taken you as my son, and mon amant. And each and every time,
you've fled from me again." Nicholas wiped the tears from his eyes and LaCroix shook
his head, taking a few steps forward. "No, Nicholas, I never meant to upset you....
you've been through too much tonight already."
        "Don't apologize. You're right. There's so much hurt between us. I know I've
probably said this before, but I need you, I need to... to feel that I belong somewhere.
That I belong with you."

        They stood, a few feet apart, old enemies, enduring friends, eternal lovers. And
LaCroix raised his glass. "To us, Nicholas, to a new beginning, to amour eternel."
        Nicholas raised his own glass and touched it to the other, the chink of fine crystal
joining with the quiet music still playing in the background. "To a lasting friendship
between us."
        They drank slowly, and after a moment LaCroix turned away. Nick was afraid that
he was going to leave, but he simply crossed to the stereo and turned it off. Then sat
down comfortably on the couch, and beckoned for Nick to join him.

        "You know, mon fils," LaCroix murmured, as he gazed down at his son whose
golden head was cushioned on his thigh, Nick lying across the couch, "this time, I wasn't
so sure that you would return to me. This time you seemed so... convinced that your
doctor friend would find a cure for you."
        Nicholas gazed up at LaCroix with nothing but sorrow for his own actions, no
matter how right they had seemed at the time. "How much must that hurt you? Me
always off searching for a cure to the gift you gave me, to the very thing that binds us."
        LaCroix brushed Nick's hair with the backs of his fingers. "There is no cure,
Nicholas. I think you know that." His voice was infinitely soft, and he felt more than saw
his son nod once. "I hated to see you waste your time on such pointless ventures, only
because you were hurting yourself. I've always loved you, Nicholas. To watch you
agonize over something you can never have... hurt me."

Nick sat up, curling his legs under him, turning to face his sire. "I can't promise you
that I'll ever stop searching, even if it is in vain." He gently touched LaCroix's face, read
the sadness in those cold blue eyes. "But I'm not going to deny what I am any longer, I'm
not going to deny myself that which I need to survive. And I am not going to deny myself
you."

At such close proximity, the heat and scent of his son's blood was almost too much
to bear. The intense feeding embrace only thirty minutes ago had been enough to shake
LaCroix's tightly held restraint. But Nicholas had spent the last few centuries running
from him, his thoughts and emotions were in uproar. Pushing him now, taking him now,
would surely drive him away for good. This was more than he had hoped for since the
sixteen hundreds. For one who had waited this long, hours, days, weeks were nothing to
fear. In two thousand years he had not felt for anyone the strength of desire and love that
he felt for Nicholas. He stroked gentle fingers over his son's full lips.

        "LaCroix...." Nicholas' tone held a warning.
        "I know, mon fils. I will wait for you. You know I would wait for eternity." The
Elder moved his hand down his son's arm, covering the hand that was supporting the
young vampire's weight with his own; entwining their fingers. "I love you, Nicholas. For
once, I will not force you into this." Nick raised an eyebrow and LaCroix met his gesture
with a smile. "That should tell you something of my intentions."
        "Honourable as always, LaCroix?"
        Father raised his lips to son's forehead, placing a lingering kiss on the damp brow.
"As always."

***

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the two reunited vampires slept. Nicholas had
shifted, placing his head back in Lucien's lap, intent on using his father's thigh as a pillow.
An hour or so later, LaCroix had also moved, deftly manouvering them both, hanging his
legs over the arm of the couch, falling asleep with Nicholas' head cushioned against his
stomach, his own head rested against his son's leg. The strange position was surprisingly
comfortable, and meant that Nick would not awake directly to his father's early-evening
erection; as tempting an idea as that was to LaCroix, he knew from past experience that
it would cause Nicholas to take immediate flight.

Evening came too quickly. Nicholas showered, dressed, and made a single promise
to LaCroix; that he would meet him later that night at the Raven. They parted on better
terms that LaCroix could remember them having ever been on. Nicholas seemed to have
relaxed; and LaCroix understood that much of what had passed during the previous
morning had helped them to reach the point they were now at. The Elder had done
nothing to exert his power, his status, his posession over his son, had done nothing to
threaten Nicholas' individuality or freedom.

Looking around Nick's loft with more interest than he had ever shown before,
almost for the first time, LaCroix had started to truely acknowledge how much that
freedom meant to his son. The motorbike he suspected, Nicholas had fixed up but hardly
ever rode, the easel and paintings that scattered the walls - some of the sunlight, some of
the darkness he knew so well. There was the piano; he had not known Nicholas to live
anywhere without that particular instrument. During the daylight hours, when there was
no other means of escape, Nicholas would sit and play, lose himself in the music of ages.
Through the centuries LaCroix had spent the time familiarizing himself with the available
liquor, the new fashions which changed so quickly, the styles that the men and women he
preyed on currently found to be attractive. Nicholas had not concerned himself with any
of those things. While he had been staying with LaCroix he had always - almost always -
taken care to act as he should act, to dress for each and every occasion. Yet his time
was spent learning, acquiring new skills and interests, some of which would stay with him
- like his piano playing - some of which would be forgotten, or become impossible to
partake in as the years went by. For so long, LaCroix had considered it a waste of time,
trying to convince Nicholas, by various means, that his skills would be well-placed in
other areas, such as the continuous study of the art of hunting. But now, he was not so
sure that Nicholas' way had not always been the right way, at least enough to persuade
him to maybe learn a new trick or two. He was proud of his son, no matter how difficult
their relationship had been, no matter how many times he had wanted to beat that most
unruly child senseless, or in extreme cases, to break his precious neck. Despite
everything, he loved Nicholas. And somewhere in the deep recesses of his slowly-
beating heart, he knew Nicholas loved him too.

***

Nick sat at his desk, the report in his fingers, his eyes staring off into space. He had
no regrets concering the events of that morning, and that surprised him. He had woken
with his head pillowed comfortably against his father's body, his whole being warmed by
his father's presence. LaCroix had not touched him, had not pushed the sensuality that
had shrouded them as they had talked. At other times of possible reconcilliation, they
had wound up in bed, and Nick had each time woken to feelings of self-disgust and a
desperate need to put a great deal of space between he and his sire. But this evening he
had not wanted to move, not wanted to be parted from LaCroix, even for a few hours.
It was a new, delicious feeling and he wanted to savour it, to bask in it. But duty had
called, and LaCroix had a show to do.

Schanke had been keeping a close eye on him since his arrival this evening,
ensuring he had recovered from whatever strange ailment that had taken hold the
previous night. That made it more difficult, because his drifting thoughts were adopting
a habit of becoming day-dreams, and his day-dreams were gradually becoming X-rated.

        "Nick!" The report dropped suddenly from his fingers and his head snapped up.
What had he missed now?
        "Yes? Sorry, I was... miles away."
        "Are you sure you're okay, Partner?" Schanke leaned across his desk, taking a
good look at the man sitting staring back at him. "You're looking more... rosey than
usual."
        Nicholas was finding himself almost glad of the incident in the church on their last
watch. At least it was giving a plausible explanation to his wavering concentration and his
blushing. He only hoped his night did not bring him into contact with Nat; she could read
him more easily than he often would have liked. He was already dreading telling her of
his reconciliation with LaCroix, but firstly he wanted to settle this newly reformed
relationship into something permanent, onto an even keel where he and his father could
exist together in harmony. And he did not just want what he had taken from - or been
given by - his father that morning. He knew how difficult it had been for LaCroix to
restrain himself, because he too had felt it acutely. He wanted it all, to be once again at
his sire's side, protected and loved. That morning had been necessary to set the ground
rules, but he desired LaCroix as strongly as LaCroix desired him. Together they were
sensual, sexual creatures, reaching heights Nicholas had not experienced with anyone
else, did not think were possible to reach with anyone else, and now he no longer
wanted to try.

Schanke had just sat down when a manilla file landed on the desk between them.
They both looked up at their captain as she frowned at them. "Father Lorenzo has
disappeared." Nick smiled ruefully, he had been expecting the news. "One of his
congregation is dead, found at the church. You'd both better get over there."

The turquiose Caddy ate up the road as they headed back to the Church of the
Eternal. Nick could feel the apprehension twisting inside him at the thought of returning
to the church, of what he knew they would find. But after his hours with LaCroix, after
their intense feeding from blood-wine and from each other, he knew he was stronger,
would be more able to cope with the Holy place and its relics. He wondered how
powerful Lorenzo must have been to have had the ability to survive with it all around
him. Needing suddenly to hear his father's voice, he leaned foward and switched on
the radio, glancing over as Schanke rolled his eyes.
"...we all have our demons, those things which possess us and we all have paths
which we must follow. Yet some things always draw us back, again and again. These
are the things we exist for, the things that we love." Nick smiled softly. "I want you to
tell me what these things are for you, tell me what you return to over and over, what or
who you could never live without. Tell me. Tell your confidant. Tell... the
Nightcrawler."

The church of the Eternal was crawling with policemen. Nat was also on the scene,
having arrived only moments before, and Nick mentally kicked his sire for forcing what
was probably going to be an unpleasent confrontation. As they took a step into the
church, Nick more confident this time around, Nat came walking toward them, saving
him from having to go further inside. She glanced up at Nick, noting his colour and the
dancing light in his eyes, despite his current surroundings. "He's dead." She stated
simply.
        "We know that," Schanke confirmed. "We need details."
        "Throat's been cut. Blood everywhere. He was killed near the altar. Not much
of a fight, one crucifix was hurled wall-to-wall."
        "Anything to tell us the whereabouts of Father Lorenzo?" Schanke pressed.
        "You're the Detectives." Schanke frowned and headed into the church to take a
look, Nick followed Nat back outside. "Rumour has it that you were taken ill last
night."
        Nick looked across at her. "Nothing. A fever."
        "You don't get fevers." But to Nick's relief, she dropped it, other pressing
questions wanted to be asked. "I found something, near the body."
        "What?"
        "A small pile of ash." There was no surprise on Nick's face when Nat looked up.
He stopped and turned to lean against the low wall surrounding the churchyard. "Isn't
that what happens when a vampire dies?"
        Nick met her questioning gaze this time, hearing the concern and fascination in her
quiet tone. "If you're worried that I'm in some kind of danger, I'm not."
        "You know what went on here?" Nick simply nodded. "Weren't you and
Schanke investigating Father Lorenzo and his church?"
        "Nat...."
        "Something happened here, Nick, and it concerns you. Talk to me."
        He thrust his hands into his long jacket pockets. "We came here last night.
Lorenzo threatened me." He shook his head slightly. "LaCroix did this. He and
Lorenzo had an... agreement, made a very long time ago. Lorenzo broke that
agreement."
        Nat closed the gap between them, touching Nick's arm gently. "LaCroix killed
him... because he threatened you?"
        "He.... Yes."
        "Wow.... LaCroix must really... care for you."
        Nick smiled now. "Anyone who crosses him, especially where his children are
concerned - where I'm concerned - usually feels the wrath of his anger."
        "Including you?" Her voice was a thick whisper. Nick did not answer, saved
from his confession by Schanke's emergence from the church.
        "Well, you were right," he said almost cheerfully. "That man is definitely dead."

***

Nicholas wandered into the Raven several hours before sunrise. Schanke was
set on finding Father Lorenzo, Nick knew he never would, but could not tell him that.
And so they would be hunting ghosts for the next couple of nights, until Schanke got
bored or something else came up. Eventually, the file would be lost, Lorenzo would
be forgotten by mortals. But never by the vampire community, and never by his
children. LaCroix had taken his revenge, and Nick knew that his sire did not care
about any repercussions where Lorenzo was concerned, but some would arise.

LaCroix was waiting for him, sitting in a back room on a velvet chaise-longe,
candles burning brightly on the mantelpiece above the unused fireplace and all around
him. He sipped at a vintage bloodwine, and smiled when his son pushed open the
door. Nicholas stood in the shadows, dressed completely in black, his shirt of silk,
his feet, strangely, bare. A gesture of submission to certain ancient ties; a gesture
LaCroix recognized. The Elder was about to stand when Nicholas held up his palm,
signalling that he should stay where he was. Nick reached behind him and closed the
door quietly, then he crossed to LaCroix and knelt before the chaise. "I have
separated from you for too long, Sire. I wish to be reunited with you, as I have been
in mind, as I have been in blood, so I wish to be in body."

        LaCroix was touched. Nicholas was evoking an old ritual, one that was centuries
old, older than Nick himself. He reached out and raised his son's head to look at him.
"Are you sure, Nicholas? It is not my desire to hold you captive nor to dominate you in
everything you do. I just... I yearn for your company, for you to be there sometimes
when I wake, and with luck, when I go to sleep."
        When Nicholas spoke his voice was a hoarse whisper, thick and deep, tinged with
desire restrained for too long. "Father, you requested that your listeners should tell you
all that they could not live without, that which they return to over and over. You are
what I cannot live without."
        "Nicholas...." LaCroix placed his glass onto the small table behind him, and
shifted position, moving to allow Nicholas a seat beside him. He stroked his son's
cheek lovingly. With tantalizing slowness, with just enough speed to tell LaCroix that
this submission was not going to be absolute and total, but that it would be enough,
Nicholas bent to kiss his master. Very rarely did Nick see his father submit to him, in
any measure, so to see him close his eyes, briefly, as lips were pressed to his, was a
moment to be savoured. A dance of tongues ensued, a delicious exchange, fangs
dropping to be licked, used as sharp points to prick spots of blood to be tasted and
savoured. After a time, Nick pulled back gently, eyes blazing gold, fingers deftly
working the buttons on his sire's shirt. As he exposed cool white flesh, he scraped
his nails across the exposed skin. LaCroix dropped his head back to the arm of the
chaise, his fingers moving into Nick's soft curls, brushing his son's hair through his long
digits as a light tongue-tip darted across sensitive nipples.

"Nicholas...." The golden head rose. LaCroix could so easily turn his name into
a sensual caress, one that had aroused Nick so quickly and easily in the past, as it did
now.
"LaCroix... Sire...." Nick's hands moved over his master's chest, over his
stomach, to his soft black trousers. With practised ease, he slipped open the buttons,
revealing dark curls against his pale skin. Nicholas lowered his head, twirling his
tongue amongst the curls, gliding up the length of his sire's shaft, sucking in his
magnificent balls, tonging them gently before returning upwards to take LaCroix deep
into his mouth and throat. The Elder's fingers dug into his son's scalp as Nicholas
sucked on him with perfect pressure, pulling and releasing in a slow, languid rhythm,
one LaCroix could not remember him knowing before. Golden blue eyes looked up,
locking with the older translucent ones as Nicholas threw open his end of their link,
dropping every block he had ever built against his master completely and utterly. The
assault on LaCroix's mind, as he was shown Nicholas' love and desire for him, joined
with the physical ecstacy Nicholas' mouth was delivering.

        With complete mastery of his own control, LaCroix slipped the fingers of one
hand down under his son's chin, and lifted his head. "Do you wish me to take you, to
possess you, Nicholas?"
        "Yes." The answer was unwavering and determined, almost that of the dominant
rather than the subordinate. LaCroix moved, and knowing what his next words would
be, Nick stood.
        "Open your shirt for me," he murmured, watching his son as he complied.
Nicholas' smooth, sensuous body began to be revealed to him as it had not been in so
long. LaCroix felt accutely the heat of his son's arousal, breathed in the sweet honey-
scent of his blood, saw the angel who stood before him; the full redish lips, so vivid
against the pale skin, the deep, rich colour of the blue, golden-flecked eyes, the long
neck, smooth shoulders, enticing chest with the black silk still covering the light nipples.
"Good... good.... Now remove your trousers."
        Nicholas had the feline grace of a beautiful animal; it was one of the many things
that fascinated LaCroix about his son, that haunted his imagination when he was alone,
or sometimes when he was not. Soft, thick black trousers slipped to the floor, and
Nick stepped out of them, standing semi-naked before his sire, without embarrassment
or shame. LaCroix almost licked his lips, restrained only by the lack of dignity and
control that would imply.
        "So beautiful," he breathed, his eyes roaming over his son's body, caressing in
their intensity. The light from the many candles gave his skin an amber glow, gave his
hair a golden shine, warmed them both with their flames. LaCroix stood, careful not to
brush against his son, and indicated that Nicholas should go to the chaise-longe.
"Kneel up, my son, and I shall give you what you desire."

        As Nicholas moved to kneel on the chaise, his back to his sire, his knees inches
from the arm, LaCroix slipped out of his own trousers, finally taking his place, also
kneeling, behind his son. Nicholas' senses were alive with the sound and feel and
scent of his master; his arousal painfully stimulated by these things as it pressed agaist
the lush velvet. LaCroix reached over and took his partially filled glass of bloodwine
from the table.
        "Place your hands on the arm, Nicholas." The young vampire did as he was told,
making his back a slope downwards from his shoulders to his ass. He felt LaCroix's
long fingers trace the decent of his spine, and suddenly in their place he could feel the
trickling of a warm liquid, following the path his master had commanded; starting
between his shoulder blades, running in a ruby river over his skin, finally dipping into the
crevace between his buttocks. Nicholas shivered as LaCroix's tongue lapped at the
steady flow off his balls when the bloodwine reached that far. That tongue was soon
replaced by a single finger tracing upwards, rubbing the liquid around the hot, tight
entrance to his body.
        "Lean forwards, Nicholas." The words were breathed rather than spoken, yet
they were a clear command into Nick's mind. LaCroix gently pulled him back, his
hands on his son's slim hips. Nick knew what position was meant for him, and he took
it willingly, crossing his arms on the arm of the chaise, dropping his forehead, his ass
exposed and proffered to his master.

        LaCroix's exploratory finger finally pushed its way into Nicholas' body, soon to be
joined by a second, then a third. Nick let loose a feral yell of pain and exquisite
pleasure as his sire stroked over the walls of his tight channel. It was so long since he
had been invaded, taken in this way, and the excitement, the submission it required took
Nick's breath away. LaCroix's nails scraped within him, and he cried out again, this
time a plea.
        "That's right, Nicholas, beg for me."
        "Sire, master, please...."
        "Please what, Nicholas?"
        The question was just put teasingly enough for Nick to be able to reply, "For the
sake of the gods, LaCroix, fuck me, please."
        The Elder smiled, pouring the last drops of bloodwine from the glass onto his
engorged shaft, dropping the wineglass to the carpet. He drew his fist along with own
length, spreading the liquid thinly, and then moved to position himself against that so
demanding entrance. In one long, steady thrust, LaCroix buried himself in his son's
exquisite body. The action brought forth low moans from both vampires as they lost
themselves in the sensations caused by the friction of one driving steadily into the other,
back and forth, over and over in long, slow strokes. Nicholas arched his back, raising
his head and letting it fall again, crying for his sire as LaCroix raked sharp nails down his
son's back and lapped at the welts of blood that formed. Hearing Nicholas' cries
dissolving into a continous stream of murmurs and pleas, LaCroix finally picked up the
tempo, thrusting strokes that slammed him into Nicholas to the hilt before he drew back
almost all the way only to bury himself once more. The old master reached his arm
around his son's waist and drew him up, bringing his back to rest against his father's
chest. Nicholas' left arm came up and around LaCroix's neck as his right hand clasped
the arm that was supporting him. Nick turned his head and his mouth was plundered by
a burning tongue that scraped itself along the points of his fangs, dripping hot, pulsing
blood onto his lips.

The violent, unrelenting driving of LaCroix into Nicholas' body, the taste of his
father's desire in the blood tantalized him, and finally the excruitiating pain as his master
withdrew from the kiss and plunged his fangs into the side of his throat; all sensations
mixed and Nicholas screamed, his orgasm ripping through him even though his own
erection had not been touched. His essence fountained from him, arcing in the air,
hitting LaCroix's arm where it held him firm and reaching the side of the chaise. His
son's furious orgasm triggered LaCroix's own, and he came buried deep inside Nicholas'
body, drinking down Nicholas' life blood.

A moment later, LaCroix wisely withdrew from his double invasion of his son's
body before Nicholas turned in his grasp and sunk his own aching fangs into his sire's
throat. LaCroix's arms came around the other to circle his body, to hold him close and
tight, to resume his drinking as Nicholas returned the feeding embrace. Their slick
stomachs slipped together, their legs and knees tiring, causing them to almost lose both
balance and a sense of occasion. But they steadied, held onto each other, and fed from
one another for a long time.

        LaCroix withdrew his fangs slowly this time, licking the wounds gently to aid their
rapid healing as his actions were mirrored by his son. Finally they collapsed, LaCroix
shifting his legs, pulling Nicholas down to lie on top of him, wrapping his son in a loving
hold. Nicholas crossed his own arms on his sire's chest, and LaCroix raised his head
momentarily to see the expression of contented love on his beloved's face. He brushed
a strong hand over his son's dampened hair before returning it to his back.
        "Amant." he murmured at last, smiling as Nicholas' answering breath tickled the
fine, drying hairs on his chest. "I had forgotten how beautiful, how sensuous you truely
are."
        Nicholas' only retort was to turn his head to one side and relax into his father's
possessive embrace. That singular description must have filtered through the link,
because LaCroix reassured him. "Only like this, only here, when you turn to me,
wanting me to possess you. Do not worry, mon fils, I shall not drive you from my side
this time."
        Nicholas turned his head again, and kissed his father's broad chest. "We should
move, Lucien, to somewhere a little more... private? Before sunrise."
        LaCroix smiled. "Or before Janette barges in to ensure we have not killed each
other."
        "Oui." Nick reluctantly shifted, dropping his feet to the floor and sliding off his
sire's warm, inviting body. "May I suggest my place?"
        LaCroix sat up and reached for his son once more, drawing him down, until
Nicholas' hands rested on his thighs, his face inches from the sculptured features of his
father. "Anywhere, mon cher. Anywhere that you are. Anywhere that we can lie
together as we did so long ago."

They dressed quickly, not bothering to tuck in shirts, not really making any effort
whatsoever to disguise their night's activities. And then they flung open the heavy
wooden door and walked together, father's hand on glowing son's shoulder, through
the club and out. Janette watched them leave, her expression the only suprised one in
the place. As she recovered herself and looked around her, she realized just how much
respect Nicholas would be accorded around here from now on. She muttered to herself
darkly, and began to search for someone to share the daylight hours with.

***

Two nights later

        "I have returned to you all, my faithful audience. Your confessor is with you once
more." Schanke rolled his head back against the headrest of the passenger seat and
gazed over at his partner.
        "It's been great," he murmured whistfully. "While you've been away you've missed
out on two 'Nightcrawler'-free nights. The creep's been on vacation too." He looked
over at his partner's grinning face. "Must be something in the air." He finished lamely.
        "What's wrong, Schank? Myra not biting?"
        "Myra will not be doing only biting until she gets her damn vacation." He watched
the city go by, only partially listening to the show on the radio.
        "...But I would like to play a song, a piece to prove a point. Mon amant, all songs
are written for us." The deep, low voice faded, and in its place came a female voice,
low and sensual, speaking softly over a slow, erotic two-note base rift and a simple
keyboard composition that pulsed in the background.

        'I want you to dine upon my flesh, I'll set a table for you,
        If you still hunger for more I'll feed you a soul for two. I want
you.
        I want to glide cross the texture of your skin,
        I want to drink your eyes up and throw myself in.
        I want to soar to the edge of you and do a wild dance on the brim,
        I want to carve my name across your heart and let noone else in. I
want you.'

Schanke shook his head and reached for the 'Off' switch on the radio. For once,
Nick stopped him with a lightening reaction. Schanke shot a surprised glance at his
partner, but Nick only shook his head in response. He could not tell Schanke that this
was his father, his lover, his sire, playing these words across Toronto's airwaves just for
him, just to make him feel wanted, loved and protected wherever he went in this cold
city. In silence they listened to the rest of the song.

        LaCroix closed the door and stepped through into the large lounge, still a few
hours before sunrise, the moonlight flooded the dark red carpet. He removed his long
coat and hung it on the stand. Then he turned, and his eyes fell on the note that had
been left on the hallway table with a single red rose. He smiled, picking up the delicate
paper and unfolding it, reading the lyric written there, from the same song he had played
tonight for his son.
        "'Bring me to your primitive hell and let me hand you a saving grace'
                always your son and amant, Nicholas."

Sniffing the rose once, LaCroix closed the door behind him as he took to the air
and headed for the only place he wanted to be. With his newly-reborn son.

* * * * *

fin
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