DOWN COMES THE NIGHT (JANUARY CATCH-ALL)

[baisant]

I) THE CLUB
It's a regular night at Guilty Pleasures. A steady hum of conversation and music creeps across the air of the interior of the club, not too loud, but not too quiet besides. Phillip has just finished an act, received the appropriate attentions, and there arrives the appropriate scheduled break, allowing people to decide whether they want to hit the bar for a drink and stay for Awbrey or start to think about making the long, lonely journey home. Or maybe not so lonely. It's not up for Jean-Claude to decide how they arrive or exit, after all.

As the owner of the club, he tries to keep a relatively low profile. That is not to say that he will not book his own, private events, for the right customer, for the right price. But the public will notice, assuming the business should stay afloat for so long, that he does not age. They will notice certain other oddities about him as well. His pallor. The way that he hardly touches his drink.

And so his role in Guilty Pleasures is a bit less removed than another strip club owner's might be. He handles the background affairs. The performers and the employees, they all answer to him. But he has an announcer take his place. He is not the host. He is the Management. And he is always there. Always watching. Taking notes for the dancers, taking cues from the crowd. Handling a situation as it arises with all the grace that his collective six centuries afford him. And what a lot of grace it is.

He sits at the edge of the bar, nursing a glass of wine although he's barely drank any. Sitting still and poised as a statue. As his eyes meet the surly bouncers' across the room and he offers the man the barest of nods, which the bouncer returns in form.

And then he turns, and it is as if life has returned to his body as he raises the glass of wine to take a sip and asks, "It is not a bad show tonight, non?"


II) THE DELUGE
Jean-Claude may be good at adapting to a lot of difficult situations and scenarios. He may have an excellent poker face and he may know how to navigate himself through a challenging political moment better than most. But here he is, standing in an expensive velvet frock coat, with equally expensive if not moreso Italian leather boots strapped to his feet, staring out from the shop awning he'd found shelter beneath with something of a look of defeat. He has been caught out in the rain, and it would seem that the damned English weather has no intention of letting up any time soon. And he'd really liked these shoes.

He lets out a long and heavy sigh and swears low under his breath in French as he turns to determine whether he might at least explore the shop that he had trapped himself against. A... Convenience store? He sighs again. Will the day get any better, he wonders to himself.


III) THE THEATER
It isn't just because he's French that Jean-Claude loves the ballet. That's a cliché, and one that he resents, thank you very much. No, he likes the tranquility of it, the darkness of the theater, the beauty of the dancers' movements, of their costumes, the orchestra... How one can sit back in their seat and listen, or watch, and need not focus on the dialogue. Not of the mouth, at least. For dance is a dialogue of the body. And the human body is something that Jean-Claude knows, intimately. And loves just as much. For all its weaknesses and flaws. For all its beauties and temptations. He likes to sit and watch and admire, and the ballet is a perfect way to do just that.

It should come as no surprise that he's a season ticket holder. Despite being Belle Morte's plaything for centuries, he's managed to amass a tidy sum of money to his name, which he is as a rule rather frugal with. But the theater is a place he has been known to indulge himself, at times.

He has enjoyed the most recent production, and as the crowd slowly fills out into the street beyond, Jean-Claude lets himself be carried with them. In something of his own world as he remembers better days, better times, and the people he had known then... Having no particular place to go and no particular place to be for the rest of the night, he lets his feet take him where they will. He's perhaps too well-dressed for a night on the town, but that's never stopped him before.


IV) THE PURGE
He should have known that there would be trouble with this purging of magic, when it had come up. He should have known that he would not have been so lucky as to escape it. And he should have known that it would be Phillip, one of his most popular dancers, not only to fall victim to their fines, but to also find himself under arrest for the sheer amount of paraphernalia he had been in possession of. If Jean-Claude were capable of developing a headache, Phillip might have given him several in the last few days alone.

And so, despite wanting to maintain a low profile within the supernatural community, it comes to pass that instead Jean-Claude finds himself taking a taxi into Westminster to bail his trouble-making front man out of jail. Clutching his jacket tight around himself, he sets his shoulders square and schools his expression pleasantly blank, before letting himself into the building itself, asking around until he finds himself directed into a rather unassuming waiting room. Where no doubt he's going to be left to wait for an extraordinary amount of time, before forced to sign a lot of paperwork and sign over an exorbitant amount of money.

He sits back in his chair and lets out a sigh. He really should have eaten first...


V) THE MYSTERY
Choose your own adventure! Do you have an idea that I haven't covered here? Not a problem at all, just go for it!!

Comments

I

[protagonized]

The throbbing music inside the club was doing very little for Simon's headache. It seemed to follow him wherever he went, no matter how much he drank or how many cigarettes he smoked. The only time the headache hadn't plagued him in the past week was when he blacked out after too many drinks.

But at least the club had alcohol. It helped ease the pain of finding out that his best friend had apparently taken to frequenting gay strip clubs instead of coming back to their shared flat at night.

"What?" He asked when the person next to him at the bar said something. A vampire, naturally. His life was just fucked that way right about now. "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Do you work here?"

[baisant]

Jean-Claude cocks his head at the person he'd addressed. No more than a child, at least in Jean-Claude's eyes. How ironic, considering when he'd grown up, such an age would have been considered more than adult enough. What a difference six hundred years can make.

"In a matter of speaking," Jean-Claude responds, with an ironic twist of a smile. "I asked about the show tonight. If you were enjoying it. Though it seems as if you have something else preoccupying your thoughts besides our dancers."

[protagonized]

Simon shrugs. "I didn't come here for the dancers," he replies bluntly, though he does spare a cursory glance over his shoulder at the gyrating bodies on the stage. Too many men and not enough women for him to find it attractive.

Instead, he fumbles with his phone, pulling up Matt's Facebook page. He clicks on the profile picture and shows it to the vampire.

"Have you seen him around here? His name's Matt Jones. He's an American, about nineteen. He's my housemate and I haven't seen him in a few days. I found a matchbook with this place's address in his things, so I thought I'd check."

[baisant]

Jean-Claude glances down at the face in the photograph on the boy's phone, before back up at his face. His own face largely unreadable for the span of a few breaths. Haven't seen him in a few days? He wonders just what sort of trouble this Matt Jones might be in, and sincerely hopes that his little club has nothing to do with it. For one, that's just bad for business...

He glances back down at the photograph, reaching for the phone to hold it closer for a moment, so that he can study it closer. "He is not here now," he answers, at last. "But his face... Is familiar. He's been here before, yes."

[protagonized]

Good. Now they're getting somewhere.

"How recently?"

For all Simon knows, the matchbook could be quite old. Matt isn't exactly subtle about his amorous escapades with both genders. This is exactly his kind of place. But if it's within the last week or so...

Simon reaches for his drink and seems puzzled when he realizes it's empty--just melting ice and a little bit of diluted whiskey. When had that happened? He indicates to the bartender that he wants another. Sobriety has not been his friend these past several days.

IV

[knightscode]

The Night Council had expected a surge of activity during the purge, but unfortunately they hadn't quite laid on enough extra hands. People were coming and going to pay fines, being taken, bailed -- the administrative staff were overrun and that simply made the people waiting angry. Nobody particularly enjoys waiting to pay extortionate fines or bail out a friend.

Lancelot is still recovering from the mild shock of firstly, fighting himself, and secondly being arrested and accused of murder. So it is that he's putting in a few hours helping field this side of things, trying to speed up the process where he can and fetching things. He doesn't take long to clock Jean-Claude's, who at least on the surface seems a little less obviously irritated than some of those around him. There's a hint of magic too him, but Lancelot can't pin it down -- he's still far too new to all this and he's not even sure he could take a witch from a fae yet. He steps over and the man sitting beside Jean-Claude stands up suddenly, begins to ask irately --

"How much longer we got to wait for? I've been here an hour now and --"

"Please, Mr Baker if you'd just sit down. They're looking into --"

"Oh, are they now! More likely they're busy planting evidence. I know what's going on here, don't think I don't! This--"

Lancelot's grip tightens and he pushes the man down hard into his chair again, holds him there a moment and lofts an eyebrow.

"Please, if you'd kindly wait a moment I'm sure they'll be with you soon."

The man glowers at him, shakes off his hand but stays quiet, and Lancelot turns his attention to Jean-Claude with a bright smile that may be a touch forced.

"Forgive us the wait, as you can tell we're a little overrun. Can I take your name and what you're here for?"

[baisant]

Jean-Claude takes in the exchange that happens beside him, raising an eyebrow in response, both at the behavior as well as the officer's smooth handling of the outburst. He can see the edge to the smile the man is offering him, but he's feeling that edge too, to be frank. And if he were the one in charge of dealing with the rest of the low-life he's observed around him in the time he's spent sitting here in this waiting room... Well, perhaps it's for the best that he isn't.

"I am here for a friend," Jean-Claude answers, smoothly, remaining where he sits draped in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, until he's directed he should be following this handsome young officer elsewhere. His voice is low, smooth, and there is a light French accent lingering on his words, although his English is as good as most native speakers'. "Phillip Sanger." He tilts his head up at the other man, taking in the measure of him. He smells...fae. But not as though he is fae. Just that the scent is there, lingering about him. Like sunshine and fresh ripe fruit. A delectable temptation, he is, in more ways than one.

"Jean-Claude," he introduces himself. "Are you here to assist me in such matters, officer? Or should I prepare myself to be roughed about as well?"

[knightscode]

He lets out a huff of amusement at that, drops his eyes and flits them for a second to the decidedly grumpy man still glowering at both of them.

"Only if you invite it. Please, follow me and we'll see what he can do."

Offering a last wary glance at the other man he makes his way over to a desk he's appropriated for the evening, drops into a chair and begins quickly looking up the man in question. Phillip Sanger, Phillip Sanger...

"Ah," Lancelot says, and his eyebrows jump then knit into a frown. Phillip certainly had managed to collect quite the haul. He hesitates, uncertain how much Jean-Claude might know already, and finally gives an apologetic tilt of his head. "He's been held at the moment, and accumulated quite the fine..."

[baisant]

Jean-Claude rises from his waiting room chair in one fluid movement to follow along behind the other man to the desk he has set himself up at. He is tall, about as tall as Lancelot himself, dressed well although perhaps a little old-fashioned. He certainly shouldn't look as though he belongs in a place like this, but he doesn't seem to be particularly troubled by it.

Not outwardly, at least. Internally, he's rather exasperated with the wait and with the fact that Phillip really should have known better. Or he should have known better than to be surprised by this sort of thing from Phillip, one or the other.

Jean-Claude folds himself into yet another chair and drums his fingers on his leg, perhaps the only sign that not all is as well as it might have been. "I will pay it," he says, simply. Phillip can make it up to him later... And make it up to him he'd better. He realizes belatedly he probably should have asked how much of a fine it is. He really is getting impatient, here.

[knightscode]

Lancelot lofts an eyebrow at that once more but accepts it, tapping away on his keyboard.

"He is also looking at being charged with jail time for some of his offences -- will you be bailing him until the court date?"

He looks up, studies Jean-Claude a second before twitching a faint smile.

"You may want to look at the costs before you commit."

V) The Mystery - Matt at the Club

[paenumbra]

Matt was avoiding everything. He didn't know how to deal with the torrent of troubling emotions that gripped him late at night. He couldn't sleep, especially not in the flat that he shared with Simon. Too much had happened in a short period of time that Matt couldn't deal. And just like every mature adult, Matt chose to deal with his life spinning out of control by drowning in the things that made him feel good and forget life.

Guilty Pleasure was a club that Matt had discovered quite by accident. He'd been hopping from one place to the next, not quite caring where he ended up. This club was different and not just because it was filled with more attractive men than women. Matt actually enjoyed that. It was the strange pallor that seemed to be the norm with the people that worked there. Matt should have known better but the truth of the matter was that he didn't care. He threw himself head first into a bottle, enjoying the show and growing more restless. He needed to be out there - on the dance floor surrounded by people. He needed more than alcohol to burn the bad feelings away. It had been far too long since Matt had been touched and he needed it - even if it was just a temporary fling.

Matt slid off the bar stool and stumbled until he found himself next to a tall, dark pale man. "So," Matt said, his teeth flashing as he poured on the charm. "What does a guy have to do to get someone to buy him a drink around here?"

[baisant]

Jean-Claude turns to the voice that addresses him, tilting his head at him as he does, his hair falling slightly across his face. He brings a pale hand up to tuck it back and out of his eyes and smiles at him, the expression slowly creeping across his face. He had not been looking for anything to come out of this night in particular himself. But he does not mind entertaining himself with such a pretty young thing as the one he sees before him, either.

"Hardly subtle, mon ami," he purrs back at the young man, his voice low, rich, and warm, and lightly flavored with a French accent. "But I know how to take a hint and rise to a challenge. What are you after?" he asks, signalling for the bartender's attention and miraculously getting it, despite the crowd vying for it as well. (It certainly pays to be the man in charge, every now and again.)

[paenumbra]

"I am not a subtle person," Matt replied. The accent was all Matt needed to be completely entranced. He didn't know what it was about the way people spoke that could turn him on. Perhaps it was the fact his imagination ran wild when he heard words caressed with lips and tongue. What else was that mouth capable of doing? Matt always wanted to find out.

Matt leaned against the bar, using it to keep himself from wavering on his feet. "At the moment, surprise me. After that, I suppose we'll say where the night takes us."

[baisant]

Jean-Claude's smile flicks wider, before he leans forward to the bartender and murmurs something, inaudible over the murmur of the crowd around them, which earns him a nod and the bartender disappearing down the line of the way to do as he's told. He glances back at the young man beside him, and wonders whether he'll recognize how expensive the ingredients in the gin and tonic that come back for him are, as they're slid across the bar towards him. Top shelf material.

It certainly pays to be the one paying the bartender, after all. "Well?" he asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at the other in turn.

[paenumbra]

Matt takes the glass and lifts it to his lips. The drink is smooth as it slides down his throat - the sign of high quality alcohol. Matt exhales slowly, feeling the alcohol already rushing towards his head. "That's good," he sighed, smiling warmly at the other man. "Two of these and I'd be willing to do just about anything."

III (Late January)

[dredefulchilde]

Joscelin is looking somewhat the worse for wear these days. He has grown far too used to being pampered and cossetted by the motherly attentions of a bloodbag, and now that he has had to dispose of dear Mrs. Brown (currently still in Intensive Care after suffering a massive heart attack brought on, in part, by Joss's indiscriminate feedings) he's become a rather sad, crumpled thing. Waifish. And, more obnoxiously still, he had to eat a cat last night because he still hasn't found a new living arrangement.

Good bereaved mothers are so hard to come by these days.

He's out in the West End looking for a friendly tourist to take pity on a lost child (they make lovely snacks, these tourists) when he spots a familiar face.

"Jean-Claude? So far away from your den of depravity and sin on a Saturday night? My goodness, what has brought on such a thing?"

[baisant]

Jean-Claude spreads his hands before himself in an expansive gesture. "Why else would one be in this area of town?" he asks. It is the West End, after all. "I have come from the theater, and I have given myself the night off. It is still young yet. Why not enjoy myself?"

He lowers his hands and inclines his head towards the other vampire. "I could ask the same of you, of course." What are you doing here tonight, Joscelin?

[dredefulchilde]

"Looking for a new family," Joscelin replies vaguely. "I'm between bloodbags since my last one had to go and have a dicky heart. She's still in hospital, the poor dear." He closes the distance between them and puts his small hand in Jean-Claude's. "It's been absolute ages since I've been in this part of town. Shall we share a tourist? I haven't had anything to drink in days."

He looks up at his old sometimes-friend with mock innocence.

"I've missed our little talks, Jean-Claude. The children can be quite trying sometimes; it's so refreshing to interact with a person of similar age."

[baisant]

"Alas, the poor dear," Jean-Claude echoes, although it's unclear whether he actually feels for her or not. He does have a small inkling that Joscelin is probably the reason that she's there, of course. There's a pattern to these events, with him, after all. And Jean-Claude has known him long enough to recognize this.

He nods down to the other vampire in response to his greeting. "We live in the same city, you know. You need only come and find me, if you truly have been lacking in my company. I should not think that I make myself all that hard to track down, in truth."

[dredefulchilde]

"True, but politics in London have been so difficult," Joscelin points out, waving vaguely with his free hand. "What with me being banished and all." He giggles childishly. "Did you know Lord Coward's letting me back in? Joke's on him."

A couple walk by, talking in a foreign language. He thinks it sounds Polish, but he can't be sure.

"Let's have some fun! I can't be faulted if I'm with the Earl of Poplar."

III

[wolfmarked]

"It was a chaotic mess," a young woman was saying, her accent upper-class London. She was arguing with someone else on the street outside the theatre. "I have never seen a worse Death of Tybalt. I don't know what the choreographer was thinking. Or maybe the dancers just had seizures are were professional enough to keep it going."

[baisant]

Jean-Claude tenses as the woman's opinion drifts over the crowd towards him. Whatever his opinion had been on the performance, however much he had enjoyed himself, it's clear that not everyone had felt the same. In fact, that certain someone who had not cared for the show as making sure that everyone in the vicinity knows exactly how much and why and Jean-Claude, despite his six centuries of self-control, feels himself bristling. He really had wanted to just enjoy himself tonight.

"Is there a problem, madam?" he asks, stepping up to assess the situation himself. Because, in the end, he cannot help himself from interfering.

[wolfmarked]

"Are you the owner of the theatre?"

Whether she's being sarcastic or not, it's hard to tell with the way she says it and gives him a look with a raised brow. But it certainly seems as if her reply will depend on the answer.

[baisant]

"I am a benefactor," Jean-Claude responds. Which is to say that he does not own it in name, no, but he has put down enough money over the years that he might as well be, if he were not required to remain anonymous. People might begin to question him otherwise.

"And are you a critic, then?" he asks, to follow suit, raising a brow at the woman in turn.

[wolfmarked]

"Of a sort," she replies. "If you were the owner, then, yes, I'd tell you I have a problem. However, you're not, so it's not one you can fix."

Though, really, who manages to watch that -- if it went as it was supposed to, which she's worried it did -- in rehearsals and think it's good enough to be performed by such obvious professionals? At an amateur theatre or a community high school performance, it would have been acceptable.

But not here.