Date: Thu, 21 Jan 1999 02:10:52 -0800 From: Rehatha Subject: Unrequited To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Hello all. This is my second small attempt at fan fiction. This is a minor interlude in connection to my previous story That Which Survives. You may thank Dianne Bugg for the coherence of the story - a section was way too obscure - and I have a tendance to make up words to infer what I want to say. Thanks very much. A slight adendum to my earlier posting. Permission to archive anywhere and make as many copies as you may like. My Forever Knight stories are a gift to other fans out there like me. Just please keep my name attached and every now and then, please e-mail and stroke my ego. Deborah LePage Rehatha@pacbell.net Forever Knight and its characters are the property of Sony, Tristar and all the rest. Because thou lovest the Burning Ground I have made a Burning Ground of my heart That thou, dark one, haunter of the burning ground, May dance thy eternal dance. Unrequited A Forever Knight story/interlude By Deborah LePage Urs stared across the club at the lone man ensconced in a darkened booth. Before him, lay an opened folder, with its bevy of papers and photos spread out in front of him for his perusal. He scrutinized those papers, oblivious to his surroundings. He was oblivious to the dancers who writhed to seductive tunes: oblivious to the brief chaos of spilled blood drinks as immortals distracted mortals from perceiving what the thicker than normal wine was, and oblivious to the lures tossed his way by the bevy of Immortal beauties that were currently haunting the interior of the Raven, drawn to his aura of feral ferocity. Rajah=85 Urs sighed. She too was drawn to Lacroix's mysterious son; the prodigal who had appeared so mysteriously a few months ago to take up residence with his sire. And like so many others =96 though she had the distinction of bein= g first =96 she too had been politely but firmly rebuffed. Such beauty=85such an aura of quiet command=85such dark grace=85He carri= ed himself as if he were a prince. He was so different from his self-tortured brother. How had Lacroix sired and trained two such radically different offspring? She sighed again, wanting to touch that stern brow, to run her fingers over his dark skin, to run her tongue over the throb of his carotid artery then to sink her fangs into him, in the intimacy of vampiric mating. But, she had already been rebuffed. It made her feel no better that others had been refused just as promptly and firmly. She moaned softly at the emptiness within that clamored to be filled; with blood=85with passion=85with love. Desire without fulfillment=85Hunger without nourishment=85 Infatuation without requition. She sipped her blood wine and watched him forlornly. Vachon stared down at the oblivious object of his desire. Tracy Vetter, of sunny disposition, deferential and stereo-typical "Daddy's Girl" had a dark side. He would never have known it existed if not for the coincidence of circumstances =96 or fate =96 that had sealed his unspoken attraction earlier that evening. He had arrived at the delectable Miss Vetter's with the intention of bumming a shower. His Lost Boy existence was all well and good when it came down to being unencumbered, with no loose ends to tie up should he decide to leave at the drop of a hat. Unfortunately, it also left a lot to be desired when it came down to the little luxuries of life; such as hot water. He had arrived outside her apartment and had hesitated at the sounds coming from the movie playing within: < < "You think I'm stupid? You think I'm dumb? You think I'm retarded?" an irate male voice demanded. "You think I don't know what you and that bloodsucker are up to?" "What are you talking about?" whimpered a French accented female voice. "Michael Fury that's what I'm talking about, that bloodsucker." "You're crazy." "Yeah, I'm crazy. I'm fucking crazy. I'm crazy like a fox. I had a plan all laid out. Where these murders would look like the work of a vampire." "You killed those girls?" "Yeah, I killed them. And believe me, it wasn't easy. 'Cause some things don't come that good to me. But you see, vampires are so lonely, and they keep searching and searching and searching for their own kind." "You're crazy." "I'm crazy? Your boyfriend fell right into the trap." >> He had grinned, amused at the idea of Tracy watching campy vampire flicks when she knew a real live =96 dead =96 one herself. Then he had knocked. The sounds of the vampire movie had ceased immediately, replaced by the less interesting sounds of the evening news. Tracy had answered the door and had been only too generous of the use of her shower and fluffy white towels. So, while he had showered, she had continued that unpleasant chore that all responsible grownups did: bills. The lucky happenstance that had altered =96 or rather deepened his perception - had occurred when he was back in her living room, lacing up his heavy boots. While opening up a phone bill =96 bless PacBell =96 she had received tha= t most hated of mortal nothings, a papercut. The injured digit had bled profusely, as all finger wounds do. The irresistable fragrance of citrus and cala lilies had flooded his senses and without thinking =96 and before she could suck the treasure away, down her own unappreciative mortal throat, he had taken hold of her hand and placed the injured finger solicitously =96 or was it greedily? in his mouth. The nuances of Tracy, of her strictly controlled and hidden self exploded across his senses, more glorious than he could possibly have imagined. Behind the sunny smile and na=EFve fa=E7ade was a "Daddy's Girl" who resented her overbearing and interfering father. And was beginning to rebel in little ways=85tattoos, heavy metal bands as her buddies, barroom brawls and her hidden pride and joy, a Vincent Black Knight motorcycle, which she was restoring from a less than pristine past with mechanic skills that were also hidden away, as they wouldn't be very lady-like, or upper class. A dark Tracy was in crysalis behind the golden one, steadily gaining in strength as her father time and again brought pressure to bear. It was only a matter of time before the dark eclipsed the light. But in the meantime, both Tracys wanted the bad boy that was bad, mad and dangerous to know. She loved being a cop, but there were other things that she wanted to do with her handcuffs. Vachon watched her tinker with her hidden pride and joy, silently hovering above the self-storage facility, where she hid it safely away from her overbearing parent. He wanted her. He wanted all the seething passion she hid from the world =96 and in part, from herself. And if she wanted vampire love stories, he'd be more than happy to lure her to the night and give one to her. Unfortunately, she loved being a cop. And "To protect and serve" was a far cry away from "to hunt and kill". Vachon muffled a soft growl of frustration. Perhaps she'd be more amenable to an affair. Once introduced to the night's passions, few could go back or resist going forward. For now, all he could do was wait and silently woo. To move too fast would lose him the prize. She must come to him, ready to revel in her dark side. His hunger =96 THEIR hunger, must be assauged. "Passion, mes amis," the Nightcrawler crooned into the microphone. "Does it call to you? A siren's beckoning, urging you nearer and nearer to sharp rocks? And yet, despite the intrinsic dangers, you listen just the same. "But is it passion or is it lust? Passion implies an emotional hunger as integral to the longing as the physical. Lust=85devoid of any deeper meaning, it is simply a hunger of the body. "Which is it you feel, mes amis? What do you want and how badly do you want it?=85And why can't you have it? "Nothing is worse than opportunities that are allowed to slip by. Opportunities transmuted to the endless 'what ifs=92. "What could you have done differently to make those what ifs go away? To make them have never been? "Take your opportunities mes amis. She is not a lengthy visitor." Lacroix stared solemnly at the white petaled rose, admiring the satiny petals that unfurled so invitingly. Any yet, all too soon, the petals would dry and disintegrate in the wind as dust. "Take your opportunities mes amis, before fate's capricious hand sweeps them forever out of reach to become...What if?" Morosely, he inhaled the fragrance of the newly opened bud, then ripped the petals from the stem and let them drop like fall leaves. "Unrequited has been and ever shall be, an ugly word." Nick turned off the radio and paced the loft restlessly. How did he know? Natalie slept peacefully, obliviously on his couch, covered with a downy comforter that gave her the appearance of a slumbering angel. She had brought over a movie, a sad tale of love not meant to be, but had fallen asleep before the tragic denoument. 84 Charring Crossroad, as incongruous as the name had sounded had indeed been a love story of two people who not only had never ended up together, but had also never met. He had let the movie run its course even though she had fallen asleep less than half way through, because he'd been unwilling to move and thus awaken his sleeping seraph. At the end of the movie, before it could it emit the high pitched tone of after-movie sound, he had forced himself to move to turn both TV and VCR off. Natalie had slept through his jostling, settling more comfortably against him when he'd relaxed after completing the small chore. She had rested against his chest, her arms partially around his shoulders and the fingers of one delicate hand speared through his hair. One thigh had rested between his, with the flesh of her bare sole pressed warmly against his calf. Warm, soft, infinitely feminine, infinitely desirable, smelling of spiced pears and roses=85and woman. And for that time, as she slept in his arms, she was his. His as he imagined she would be in a mortal life or even, God damn him for it, an immortal unlife. She slept against him trustingly, helpless little lamb to his wolf in sheep's clothing, generously sharing her warmth, her affection and the siren song of her heartbeat. His hands had tingled with the desire to slide over her curves; he kept them still. His arms trembled finely with the effort not to shift ever so slightly and wrap her in an unbreakable clasp. Just a slight shift and her face would tuck neatly beneath his chin, her lips to his throat and her breaths stirring the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. She shifted on her own, cuddling more firmly against him, her hair spilling partially over his throat and face. Nick had moaned. Unbearably sweet toture. Forbidden succulent fruit, tantalizingly beneath his fingers=85silken skin beckoning=85petal soft li= ps unbearably close. His. In mortal life or God curse him, Immortal un-life, this sleeping goddess was his. His fangs had budded and unable to resist, he had drawn her hand to his lips. He had pressed a kiss to her knuckles, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her flesh. His fangs had descended completely, aching for her. Only her. As did other parts of his anatomy. Beads of blood-sweat had dotted his forehead and he had resolutely disengaged himself from her delightfully clinging arms. Too much temptation was a bad thing. Nick had then paced to the radio and turned it on. Normally, his Sire's monologues put him in a morose mood. Granted his present giddy desire was more pleasant, but morose was safer for Natalie. Unfortunately, Lacroix's monologue had only inflamed him more. Nick paced back to the couch, to stare at his sleeping beauty. Unable to help himself, he reached down and lightly, feathersoft, cupped her cheek. Still deeply asleep, his Natalie smiled with heart stopping sweetness and turned into his palm. "Nick," she breathed, never awakening. The beast within him, the dark hungry part, hungry for love, for intimacy, for friendship, sex and yes, regretfully, blood, reared its head back. It had recognized the unconditional surrender in that sigh. His. Nick swallowed, knowing that his eyes were alight with the amber-green glow of a vampire's desire. Hunger without end, desire without restraint and love without doubt. Natalie could no longer sleep at the loft without a chaperone. The temptation of her was nearly irresistable. How long must he pay for his sins before he could find his way back into the sunlight? How long before his love of Natalie would be something other than unrequited? Rajah stared wistfully at the papers Jing-Wei had sent him. One was a progress report on Jenna's schooling. She had been placed in a special school with people with similar problems; child minds trapped in grownup bodies. Jing-Wei wrote that Jenna did not seem to remember =96 or did not dwell upon her nature. She was. Just as she had two eyes, two ears and one nose, for now, she had two legs. She didn't yet speak of her distant past, of what had happened preceding her disappearance in the jungle. In time, she would and Jing-Wei would help her to heal. In the meantime, all Rajah could do was sit and peruse the psychological reports that the Enforcer sent him, along with Jenna's carefully crayola drawn jungle scene, uniquely staring first person down the tree to the ground and the prey that had strayed too near. Such beauty and attention to details. Doubtless she had been disappointed that there had not been some way to add in the smells that had gone with the scene. Smells, she likely remembered, but couldn't remember why she did. Last but not least, in the latest delivery from Jing-Wei, keeping him abreast of Jenna's progress, was a picture of her cuddling a small Siamese to her cheek. Rajah's heart clenched at the sight of her and he knew. He loved her. Despite the fact that her mind was a child, despite the fact that they had never spoken as equals or even spoken with her conscious of him, he loved her. Whether it was because his psyche could not abide the thought of permanent companionship without love and so, made him in love with her - because he no longer had the luxury of choice, or if somehow his soul recognized hers and simply loved =85He was in love. He wanted to go to her now. He wanted to lead her from the clouds of her past to the clear moonlight of her present. But he could not. The love he needed could never be returned if he ever became a father-figure or a figure of grown-up authority in her mind. There must be clear definitions in who she knew as a child and who she knew as a woman. Rajah growled low, unaware of the startled glances cast his way. He had to leave. He was too close to her. Too close and it was too soon. It would be years before she was ready to meet him, and he had the years to spare. He could not let destiny be soured by his impatience. He had to leave Toronto and he had to leave Canada before some insane part of his mind talked him into surrendering to the desire to approach her now. He must tell his Sire. Hopefully Lacroix would forgive him for leaving so soon after their recent reunion. At least Lacroix had Nicolas to concern himself with. For himself, Jenna was his only hope; his only future. =85Shiva grant that his love would be returned. All flames (cringe) comments and other such things can be sent to: Rehatha@pacbell.net