undergrounds | NOVEMBER CATCH-UP

Finnick has a love/hate relationship with these kinds of places. On one hand, it's in his nature to love the extravagance of an upscale club like this, magic clinging to the walls because it's run by fae and frequented by every kind supernatural being there is. On the other hand, he knows the kind of corruption and evil that can happen here just because the kind of money that changes hands breeds greed and that sort of thing makes him sick to his stomach.

So he hasn't been here in a while.

Luckily he's here on business, not to socialize, so as soon as he walks into the old building with it's faux-Victorian decorating he's on the lookout for Eames. The man's magic is strong, so it's like a beacon drawing him to the back of the hall opposite the stage, up half a flight of stairs where there are a few more private booths. They're large booths with curtains pulled back, but they could be drawn closed if the guests wanted to stay away from prying eyes, and in one of those he finds the Lord of Autumn.

"Nice place," he says, tilting his head and waiting for an invitation to sit.

Edited 2016-11-29 00:19 (UTC)

Eames likes almost everything about it that Finnick doesn't. That... Morally dubious undercurrent, shall we say, it speaks to his grifty little heart on a borderline spiritual level. It's full to the brim with his people, and the people that pay his bills.

But it's time to talk business, and he waits for Finnick to sit, "thanks for coming." He's still a bit unsure about Finnick, but he wants to help and he's very invested in the wellbeing of the fae, which involves Eames' own wellbeing, so here they are. Eames gestures to a passing hostess for her to come take their order, "want a drink?"

"Sure," he says, looking thoughtful for a moment before he asks for some pricey white wine and gives the hostess a smile as she leaves. He feels like he's pieced himself back together now - he can pull off the mask again and no one can see the cracks.

"Thank you for inviting me," he says after she's gone. "I'm very interested to know why you did."

Eames orders himself some craft ale, he'll be finished with his current drink by the time she comes back, and smiles too. Waiting until she's well out of earshot before he speaks to answer Finnick.

"No doubt you've heard about the shakeup in the Nest," he says, voice low, just an extra bit of caution to make sure it doesn't carry far, "with one threat dealt with, I think its time we turn our eyes back to other things."

Finnick's voice is at a similar pitch as he leans subtly forward to speak across the table. He loses the smile and raises an eyebrow - it's not serious, but he's certainly not trying to be charming when he says this.

"There's only one immediate concern left, as far as I'm concerned."

He sits back and narrows his eyes at Eames. "What kind of thing are you talking about?"

"The witches, of course." Sylvia first and foremost, but let's be honest, as it stands the Council is really just a subsidiary of Daybreak. Eames is fairly certain it's an issue they see eye-to-eye on.

Draining the last of his drink, Eames puts the empty glass down and leans back with a sigh, "sadly, we're not in a position to dissolve the Night Council. But I'm sure we have the means to make a change."

They should, at least. Finnick's of the opinion that if the fae had any hand in taking down Raymond Harris then the Night Council should be desperate to find some way to thank them. That's just the part of him that still believes in making deals and staying out of debt, financial or no.

"We need more influence," he agrees, "but what kind? And what kind of leverage would we need to get it?"

"We take a seat at the table."

He says it plainly, like it's really as simple as just turning up and sitting down at a meeting. "Recent events mean the balance of the Council is strongly weighted in favour of Daybreak. I'm sure we can twist that in our favour."

Finnick frowns out at all the people in the dance hall as he mulls that over. A fae seat at the night council has always felt like a pipe dream, but maybe now...

"We'd need support from the other factions. A lot of support." He turns his eyes back to Eames, frowning and unsure. "Does Jean-Claude feel indebted enough to you to endorse something like that? What about the wolves?"

"Doesn't matter. Support from the vampires and wolves is worth shit all to us at the moment." If a bunch of humans felt like cobbling together and coming to their aid, it may help, but that's not about to happen. Either way, they're gonna have to think of some other way around.

"The current Witch's rep owes me a favour, the witch sitting in the former vampire seat is something of a bleeding heart, and the Shifter's contempt for witches is a relatively open secret." Eames tips his head, quiet save a soft thanks when their drinks are brought back, and then he frowns as he picks up his glass. "We just need to get the seat, they don't need to like us being there."

"It would be nice if it could stick, however," Finnick says, swirling the wine in his glass idly. He much prefers the idea of doing more work now to do less later, and he doesn't want to help get this seat set up only to find out they have to defend it ten, twenty, or fifty years down the line.

In any case it's going to take some work to get it there at all. A sly smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he looks at Eames over the rim of his glass.

"Do you want me to talk to someone? I can be quite persuasive if I put my mind to it."

Eames ducks his head in silent amusement, considering the question for a moment. Judging where Finnick is best placed, it's tough considering the contempt all of them hold for the fae. But Finnick's a people person, or at least he pretends to be one convincingly enough, he can make it work.

"Diphylleia," Eames answers, "I think you'll be able to tug on her heartstrings better than me."

The name sounds familiar. He knows she's on the Night Council, at least, but he never pays much attention to what people do unless it's relevant to him at the time.

"She's a witch, right?" he asks, trying to look for more information without outright asking for it.

Eames nods as confirmation, "former Vice President, currently sitting in the former vampire seat as treasurer." He leans back, frowning a little in thought, "I don't know her personal feelings on us, but it's probably safe to assume they're not positive."

"I can make her feel positively enough about me," Finnick says with a shrug. "Is there anything specific we want from her or do I have the nearly impossible task of changing her entire opinion on the fae?"

He shakes his head, leaning forward to reach for his drink with a soft sigh, "you don't need to change her opinion on us." That's a mammoth feat neither of them is going to accomplish, "play her sympathies-- make her question the oligarchy."

He narrows his eyes at Eames across the table, idly swirling his drink. "Do you think that'll be enough? For it to matter when the time comes?"

"It's gonna have to be," Eames shrugs a shoulder and sighs heavily, "all else fails, we could try blackmail, but I'd much rather be as legitimate as possible."

Finnick looks out at the club as if he's thinking that their surroundings tell a different story. He understands the idea, though. Blackmail leaves a trail whether you want it to or not. Simply charming a member of the council isn't against any laws.

"I'll do what I can," he says at last. "How should we set this up?"

"I could look into her favourite kind of food, book a table for the two of you in the city-- It's as close to neutral territory as we're going to get." He floats it as a suggestion, rather than a definite. If Finnick has any better ideas, Eames is more than willing to hear them, but a free and excellent meal makes most people extremely amenable.

Eames deserved a medal or something. But, Evie didn't have one to give him. So instead, she offers the fae the next best thing: a damn good meal. She still has a palate for the ever-changing human food that surrounds her, and likes to take advantage of it when she can. So she makes a reservation for two for dinner at Atelier Robuchon in London, and decides it's a done deal.

When the date comes, she makes sure to meet Eames at the restaurant, already sitting in a private corner. She works on a cocktail in a martini glass as she watches him approach. When he does, she rises.

"Glad you could make it," she says, extending a hand to shake his. "I wanted to personally extend my thanks and my gratitude for your actions, as of late."

Eames greets Evie with an easy smile and a firm handshake; he's had a week to recover (and reunite with his dog,) so Eames is feeling very much like himself again. Himself being a man who always appreciates good food, especially when he's not paying for it.

(Granted, French is his least favourite of the Good Foods. But Evie wasn't to know, and 'least favourite' is far from the same as 'disliked'.)

"Maybe I should join more coups, if it gets me meals like this," he says with a wry smile and a quirk of his eyebrow as he takes his seat.

It's free food.

"It doesn't always, I hate to break it to you," she says. She'd been involved in a few.

Evie eases into her seat, gazing at Eames across the table. "I'm sorry, for the way it went down." Having to have been fed off of by two vampires instead of none. At least both had been sober, though. And Jean-Claude was ancient, so at least he had the necessary control.

Eames shakes his head, a touch dismissive, but also as a slight ‘I’m over it’ gesture. He was livid at the time, but he understood and he’s had his time to recover. Seeing as Jean-Claude doesn’t suddenly seem to have a taste for his blood, he’ll let it slide.

“Complications happen,” Eames says with a shrug, not pleased but not overly fussed about it either, “would’ve been nice not to get bitten twice, but you can’t have everything.”

"At least you have a story for the ages. Though I'm sure this isn't the first coup you've been involved in." It wasn't her first time, either.

"Aside from that, how have you been?"

"As good as can be, all things considered." There's a wry smile tugging at his lips with the answer, curling his fingers around the stem of a glass as he takes a look around the restaurant, eyes coming back to Evie with a non-committal shrug in his expression. "How about you? How are things with the new Duke?"

"They're wonderful," Evie has to admit. "Jean-Claude's doing well with the nest, and I think we're back on to the right track." She doesn't really want to talk politics, however.

"It's nice to have a bit of down-time this month."

Jean-Claude had tasted Eames' blood, and like any fae blood, it had effected him. But he had done his best to stamp down the worst of it. He'd had work to do on that night, and he'd had people to impress, and he couldn't do any of it if he'd been out of his mind. Besides, he hadn't had that much. But he'd had enough. And certainly more than Eames had given him permission for, which he regrets. Jean-Claude is a rather big proponent of permissions for such things, although he was certainly not going to sacrifice the moment if the fae had refused.

He has an apology to give him. And a congratulations to share in as well. For Eames had played a rather large role in his victory, after all. He could send out another message through the grapevine of fae underlings letting Eames know that he was looking for him. Or he could seek a more direct route.

Thus it comes to pass that one unassuming evening, several weeks after the fact -- he has given both of them time to rest and process the events of that night, as is only polite after all -- there comes a knock at Eames' door.

Eames is home, luckily for Jean-Claude, because it seems to be more and more rare that he gets to have a night in to himself. He feels something trip his wards, something with magic by the feel of it, so he's already up when somebody knocks on his door.

There's a clacking of claws on wood as Eames comes to the door, Boxer excited to see who it is until Eames' demeanour shifts after he takes a look through the peephole to take a look at who's there. Given he never once even hinted at the area he lives in, the presence of the vampire on his doorstep gives him a little pause.

So that's how Jean-Claude ends up greeted with a gun level with his chest when Eames finally opens the door, a growling rottweiler next to him.

"I never told you where I live."

Jean-Claude inclines his head slightly at the other man. "It is true, you did not," he replies, and his tone is careful, neutral. He understands that Eames might feel threatened by this development. It is hard to mistake the gun as anything else, after all. "You are not the only one with little birds who might pass such messages along, with the right leverage."

He holds his hands up in a placatory gesture. He hadn't meant to upset the other man, after all. And he would like to come in. He bends to pick up the bag at his side, and hold it out towards Eames. Inside he will find a rather expensive bottle of alcohol that Jean-Claude has a feeling might be to his tastes. "I was hoping I might be able to thank you for your aid, in dealing with our mutual friend. I was hoping equally that such a conversation might not be conducted on your doorstep, however." Won't you invite him in?

Eames purses his lips, giving that some consideration. He's only told a few people where he lives, but that's another consequence of this loss of anonymity he's had. He could harp on about it, but fundamentally anyone with enough connections could find him now, it's unfortunate and deeply troubling but not something worth dragging Jean-Claude over hot coals over.

He doesn't take the bag, but he does thumb the safety back on and slip the gun in the back of his trousers, leaning to put a hand on the dog's head with a gentle, "down, Boxer," and "kitchen," which makes it... Well, no less suspicious but the dog is less immediately aggressive as it pads into the house.

"Come in," he says after a moment, just to listen for any signs that Boxer's waiting to pounce on this guest, and gestures for JC to follow him through to the kitchen also.

Anyone with enough connections could find him if they really tried, and Jean-Claude is a man with many connections. It still took some effort, but the effort paid of in the end. Still, he supposes he might have called first. He just did not want to give the man more of a chance to turn him down, should he want to.

He inclines his head at the other man's invitation, and feels the invisible barrier that has been keeping him out before dissolve away at his words. He steps in the door and through the other man's apartment after him, glancing around curiously at the furnishings as he does. It's a new insight on Eames, and he will soak in everything he can while he can, just in case the other man changes his mind and turns him out again instead.

"Your dog is a charming creature," he offers, by way of making small talk. Seemingly unaware that it might have sunk its teeth into him, if the other man had given it the order.

The house is very tastefully put together, painted in light, warm colours and dark wood furniture. Maximised space, seeing as actual floorspace is something of a novelty in London, though the kitchen is almost obscenely large. Probably used to be a separate dining room before whoever owned the house before took the wall down.

"He is," Eames answers flatly, less interested in small talk and more what Jean-Claude is doing here. Once they're through to the kitchen, he reaches to a cupboard and sets a pair of glasses down on the side — a brief pause to pet the dog that's come over to stand by his legs, watching Jean-Claude cautiously in case he suddenly presents a danger.

But he's not about to bite anyone so Eames sees no cause for concern, gesturing for that bag he'd been offered at the door.

NOVEMBER CATCH-UP

backdated to a week or two after harris

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Sometime after Harris is dead. But not too long.

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dated to sometime between then and now, but not too long ago

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