From: ALibbyp@aol.com Date: Sun, 2 Mar 1997 10:22:54 -0500 (EST) To: fkarchiver@fkfanfic.com Subject: UNSUITED CHALLENGE: The Unsuitable Day Permission to archive granted. NOTE:These characters are not ours and all that jammy-jam. Apologies in advance to all Knighties. You'll just have to understand we honestly like Nick, we really do, we just tend to get a bit silly at times. Comments can be sent to Libby at Alibbyp@aol.com and Susan at supaige@aol.com. Susan would also appreciate any eligible, good looking men, nicely wrapped and ready to serve. As this is Susan's first posting, and her ego is fragile enough as it is, no flames please. NEW CHALLENGE: We'd also like to open a new challenge - stories opening with "It was a dark and stormy night" while ending with the phrase "It was murder, murder most foul!" Have fun. THE UNSUITABLE DAY (Part 1 of 1) by Susan Pierce and Libby Singleton It was a dark and stormy night. LaCroix normally enjoyed such evenings, but only from inside. Flying through lightning storms, after all, was a dangerous proposition even for one of his kind. Therefore, he went straight to Nicholas' loft and through the skylight, although he could not sense his son's presence. He sat his wet valise on the floor. Removing his even wetter overcoat, he draped it over the fireplace mantle, moving aside a number of empty wine bottles and a pair of decrepit Nikes. Surveying the rest of the loft, he observed that stray articles of clothing were scattered about, crumpled newspapers and junk mail littered the furniture, there was even a pair of teddy bear print briefs dangling from the stair railing. Odd, his Nicholas was many things, but he was not normally such a slob. The creak of the elevator mechanism distracted him from the mess. This was not his son returning, that much was sure. He picked up a faint mortal heartbeat coming closer and closer. Sniffing the air for blood scent, he caught whiff of... souvlaki??? The odor threatened to overwhelm the digestion of his earlier meal. "Hey, Nick, you here, buddy o' mine?" a voice called as the door slid open. Oh, no, LaCroix sighed silently. First Janette had... requested he obtain lodging other than the Raven, then a flight through an electrical storm, and now . It was going to be a very long day indeed. Don Schanke stepped backwards from the elevator, pulling along a suitcase and a box full of belongings, including the most hideous lamp LaCroix had ever beheld. "Myra's gone off the deep end again," the mortal whined. "Just because she found those, ah, documentaries on strip joints I bought for research. You know the ones. Geez, you'd think she'd understand a guy's gotta have some fun. Betcha Janette wouldn't be so uptight..." "Indeed she be, I fear," LaCroix interrupted. Schanke jumped, then spun around. "Man oh man, you're that Nightcrawler guy!" "Yes, I am ... Don." "Great to see ya again!" Schanke said, extending his hand. LaCroix hesitated, then gripped it firmly, stopping just short of doing permanent harm to the mortal's fragile bones. "Eeeyoowww, you've got one hell of a grip." "Yes, I know." "Will you look at this mess?" Schanke muttered, wandering past LaCroix. "I know Nick's been a bit out of it lately, but this is ridiculous. I mean, look at the teddy bears on those drawers! No self respecting man would wear something like that." "I must admit to being rather dismayed that we both agree on subject," LaCroix said, grimacing. "I dunno what's gotten into him," Schanke commented. "He's been moping more than usual. The guy's got it all - looks, leather, a classic car, a killer pad, babes falling at his feet - what's his problem?" "Nicholas has needed a reason to... mope. He just does." "Well, have you tried talking to him? You know, a little friendly advice, a little man-to-man jawing on the ways of the world," Schanke said. "I know you and Nick are close, aren't ya?" "Close is hardly an appropriate description at this point in time," LaCroix replied. "However, I did approach Janette with a suggestion on how she could aid Nicholas and she ... advised me to depart the premises immediately." "Really? I thought they were like this..." Schanke held up his crossed fingers. "As did I." LaCroix shook his head slightly, allowing his annoyance at the situation to show. "I as am baffled as you. She merely muttered something about already having enough angst in her own existence, then proceeded to throw my possessions onto the sidewalk." "Women. Can't live with them." Schanke fell silent for a second. "Think Nick's got any beer?" "I sincerely doubt it," LaCroix said, blocking the mortal's path into the kitchen. "Yeah, that's typical," Schanke shrugged. "Where is he anyway? He ran out of the office, muttering about some lead on this death by chocolate case we've been working on. That's was three hours ago." LaCroix considered his connection with Nicholas for a moment. "He is upset, but quite safe, I'm sure." "Well, it's almost dawn, and you know about that sun allergy of his," Schanke commented. "If you ask me, I think a little bit of a tan might do him some good. Myra, my old lady, was reading an article all about sun deprivation in Prevention last week. Did you know it can make you irritable, cranky, even depressed?" "Indeed," LaCroix scowled. "Sometimes Nicholas makes me want to him more sun." "Yeah, that's what it said. Did you know Nick crawls into the Caddy's trunk if he gets caught out in the sun?" "Yes," LaCroix replied. "In fact, I have little doubt that is his location at this very moment." "Strange guy, I'll say that for him." The ancient vampire, not bothering to reply, approached his favorite chair, sweeping a stack of Psychology Today magazines and a stuffed Barney onto the floor. He sank down into the seat, brooding. Meanwhile, he could hear the mortal shuffling foot to foot, apparently a bit uneasy with the silence. Good. LaCroix was not about to continue the conversation. "So," Schanke said. "How about those Blue Jays?" "I an a bird watcher." "Uh, yeah, sure," Schanke muttered. There was another long pause. "Hey, I've got an idea. Something we can do for Nick. Might cheer him up." "Oh," LaCroix said, sighing wearily. "And what, pray tell, would that be?" "Let's give this place some spit and polish. Get things back in order. I mean, look at this mess! My dorm room in college was cleaner than this." LaCroix was prepared to reply that he was not a domestic. However, a glance about the room changed his mind, however much he despised agreeing with this... mortal. A few minutes later, Schanke had discovered Nick's stash of cleaning supplies, a box of garbage bags, and a six-pack of beer. The latter was apparently left over from some office social event Nick had hosted. LaCroix proceeded to gather up the various bits of laundry. He always sent his out, but was somewhat versed in the procedures involved in washing clothes. Fortunately, Nicholas' washing device had the instructions attached inside the lid. Carefully sorting the light-colored juvenile undergarments and t-shirts from the more stylish darker items - though by now it was questionable which was which - he shoved the trousers and shirts into the machine. After pouring a precisely measured serving of detergent, he closed the lid, set the controls for permanent press, and pushed the start button. Nothing happened. He reset the controls. Still nothing. He peered again at the instructions under the lid only to find he had made errors. Silently cursing the gods for their continued harassment, he aimed a swift kick at the machine. The only result was a large dent in the metal. "Having trouble?" Schanke asked. LaCroix turned his head, glaring. "You okay? Your eyes look a bit... yellow or something." "I am fine. This damnable machine is resisting my efforts to activate it," LaCroix growled. "It is malfunctioning." "No problem, buddy o' mine..." Schanke started to say. "I am your buddy." "Uh, yeah, whatever you say," Schanke replied uneasily. "But this ain't nothing to get your drawers in a wad about. I fix ours at home all the time. Let a master handle this." Raising an eyebrow, LaCroix stepped back, gesturing for Schanke to prove his worth. The mortal knelt down, peering behind the machine. He snorted. "Here's the problem," he said, holding up the power cord. "It isn't plugged in! Doesn't take a genius to figure that out." The detective did not realize how fortunate he was. LaCroix's digestion was too unsettled to feed. "Tell ya what, I'll take care of the rest of the laundry, if you'll wash all those glasses in the sink," Schanke offered. "I mean, there is an art to washing clothes." LaCroix agreed, but only because it was an excuse to go to the opposite side of the dwelling. At least he was partially familiar with dishwasher, having lived at the Raven for the past year. He loaded it quickly, then began searching for dishwashing soap. None could be found. He pondered the dilemma momentarily, then peered across the room at the laundry nook. He spied the detergent sitting on the shelf above the infernal machines. Was it not also soap? Noticing Schanke was apparently using the facilities, LaCroix quickly retrieved the box and filled the soap holder on the dishwasher. There. Another problem solved. This device immediately leaped to life with a satisfying hum when the on switch was activated. He then picked up a trash bag and, with a deep sigh, proceeded to gather the scattered trash. He studied the Barney doll for moment, then, feeling a wave of intolerable revulsion, tossed it into the blazing fireplace. It burst into most satisfying flames. Nicholas would no doubt grieve the loss of his plaything, but perhaps he could find something more satisfying to cuddle with. "What the hell's wrong with the dishwasher?" Schanke yelled. "Suds are floodin' the kitchen! Hey, what's the laundry detergent doing in here... oh, tell me you didn't." "Didn't what?" LaCroix snapped. "Didn't use this in the dishwasher," Schanke said, thrusting the box of detergent into LaCroix's face. "Is it not a form of soap?" "Geez, how dumb can you be. No wonder Janette kicked you out..." LaCroix lifted Schanke up by the shirt collar. "And you are here voluntarily?" "I... see your point," Schanke managed to choke out. "Why don't you put me down now and we'll get back to work. You know, helping Nick. We're both in the same boat, so let's not go at each other's throats. Deal?" Going at this man's throat sounded like a pretty good idea to LaCroix at this moment, but the odor of garlic was still a bit too strong for his tastes. He sighed, dropping his son's partner to the floor. "If I ." The rest of the day was indeed a long one - a very, very long one. They gathered up ten bags of trash. Ironed and folded endless loads of laundry. Mopped the kitchen floor. All this, along with numerous other tasks including dusting the piano (the glass cleaner didn't harm the finish much), gluing back together a Ming vase, and disposing of Nicholas' collection of poker playing dog prints. (With all the true artists his son had known, LaCroix thought he would have developed better tastes.) Finally, LaCroix was able to catch a few hours sleep on the sofa before Schanke turned the television on to some insipid talk show. He tried to pretend to continue his nap, but the man shook his shoulder forcefully. "Wake up! You need to see this too!" Schanke insisted. "They're gonna be talking about how to improve family relationships." "Leave me alone," LaCroix muttered sleepily. "Don't you care that Janette has thrown you out and Nick hardly talks to you?" "At 5:30 in the afternoon after a day deprived of rest? I think so," he said grumpily, still not fully awake. "That's a fine attitude to have," Schanke said. "Aren't they the only family you've got? Wouldn't even have helped clean up Nick's apartment to cheer him up if I hadn't made you do it. Geez." LaCroix sat up, slowly opening his eyes. Schanke took a step back as LaCroix said, "My family is not concern." "I beg to differ. Nick is not only my partner, he's my friend," Schanke stressed. "No wonder he's so anal. No offense intended, but you're not exactly Mr. Sensitive. Nick's got a fragile ego, you know. He's the sort that needs a lot of understanding, know what I mean?" That did it. The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. LaCroix lunged off the couch, taking Schanke with him across the room. He pinned him against the wall. He felt his fangs descending, the urge to feed despite the lingering stench of garlic. "What do know of Nicholas? You have not protected him throughout his existence. You have never provided for him in the worst of times. You have not gone without so he could have all that his nature demands... I have done all this and more. And for what, pray tell? The occasional call of help when he's in trouble. The constant whining that he doesn't have what he truly wants. The ungrateful denial of all that I have given him. I don't know why I bother." "Maybe, just maybe, because you love the guy like a son?" Schanke squeaked. The beast within began to fade. Damn this mortal. His gentle nature was indeed much like Nicholas. LaCroix sat him on his feet. Schanke's eyes were wide with puzzlement and more than a little fear. LaCroix realized he'd revealed a little too much. He could, of course, be done with this troublesome human. However, a unexplainable wave of altruism passed through him. He hated when that happened. Raising a hand and staring directly into Schanke's eyes, LaCroix intoned, "You will forget what you have seen." "I... will...I...will... The I will!" Schanke insisted. LaCroix sighed. The lack of rest had most likely dulled his abilities somewhat. Concentrating harder, he repeated the request. "I...will...forget," Schanked said, dazedly. At that moment, Nicholas barged in through the elevator door. "What are you two doing here?" he asked with a good deal of alarm. "Why, Nicholas, we merely decided to surprise you by tidying your dwelling," LaCroix said, smoothly. Schanke put his arm around LaCroix's shoulders. "And damn good team we make, huh, LaCroix." Instead of a verbal reply, LaCroix disentangled himself and stepped away. Nicholas walked past the two, a childish grin of appreciation on his face. "This is great! I've been wanting to clean, but just couldn't make myself do it. Wow! You even did my laundry?" "Sure did, buddy," Schanke said. Nicholas suddenly stopped, peering about frantically in every direction. "Wait a minute... Where's my poker dog prints? Where...where's Barney?" He turned toward LaCroix, sniffing. His pleading eyes brimmed with tears. "I've taken care of them, Nicholas," LaCroix said firmly. "They are gone, gone forever." "You killed Barney?!" he whined. "That was... was... murder, murder most foul!" THE END