They’d awakened naked in each other’s arms, tangled in the bed that they’d unmade, the brush of his lips across her mouth sparking mutual hunger, and a brief, playful tussle ended in a low moan of pleasure when her fangs found his skin, drawing thick blood from his body as she drinks deep. She parted from his flesh with a pretty pout, crimson ringing red lips, and he drew her to him for a kiss, tasting his own vitae on her skin, the sensation at once familiar and exotic – a dichotomy that was constantly echoed in their negotiations as well as their lovemaking.
She’d licked his wound closed with a wicked little smile that promised more of the same later, and blue eyes had danced with jade before they both rolled reluctantly out of bed; she headed for the shower, then for her suitcases to dress, while he’d pulled on an old pair of blue jeans and padded barefoot to the sleek silver laptop that occupied the only clear space on the roll-top desk in the corner of his bedroom. She brushed a kiss across the back of his neck, making him shiver and bringing a low, pleased sound from his throat before her footsteps retreated, dancing out of his reach and heading down the hall, her Southern lilt carrying over her shoulder. “Covenant and family matters, mah dear. Be good.”
He’d simply chuckled at the admonition to behave, blunt, calloused fingers tapping the laptop keys, sorting through the piles that accumulated every day while he slept, the house peaceful around him – until a long, low growl, like a great cat suddenly being taunted with fresh meat, split the air, the animalistic sound bouncing off the walls and filling the room. He was up and out of the chair faster than any human could move, burning blood to fuel the Daeva gifts of supernatural speed, his broad shoulders filling the library door as his dark blue eyes find his lover, her face chalk white, her fists clenched tightly, pure fury filling her jade eyes and stretching the skin of her face taunt.
“Shirley.” He sounds unsure even to his own ears, and he pauses, gathering himself, then speaks again, keeping his voice low and steady. “Shirley. What’s wrong?”
“My… Ward. Killed him. KILLED HIM!!” The words were bitten off, barely understandable as her fangs sharpened in fury, and she exploded from her seat, knocking the heavy leather wingback over without effort. Her eyes were pinpricks, shining with hate and fixed on his face, and his next words – reassurance, comfort, calm – were lost in another low, furious growl. This is going south ran through his mind as he touched the gifts of Blood again, hardening his body and driving his strength far beyond human limits – and then she was on him, her eyes gone red and her teeth bared, hissing as she reached for him, mouth open wide with anger and hunger. He fell back a step, then flowed forward to meet her charge, his hands catching her wrists and driving them back, forcing her arms together behind her back, only to be rewarded with a vicious headbutt, her forehead slamming into his, making his head ring and hers split open; the two of them moving together like flickering, warring shadows as she struggles to be free, and suddenly his leg hooks around behind hers, bulling his shoulder forward against her and tripping her to the floor, his knee slamming into her upper stomach, just beneath her breasts, pinning her in place with his weight.
“SHIRLEY! IT’S ME! CALM DOWN!” The cry for sanity is met with a swiftly rising leg as she tries to kick him in the head, and again he’s forced to move beyond human speed, sliding bonelessly away from her kick, then leaning over again to catch her eyes with his. His voice is low, ragged at the edges, but absolutely rock solid and certain, his own eyes dilating as the smell of her blood fills the room.
"We. Will. Get. Them. ALL. OF. THEM." He bites each word off, his gaze locked to hers, pinning his lover to the floor as she struggles beneath him. "But you have to CALM DOWN first." Shirley… lover, beloved. I'll kill whoever hurt you and watch them die screaming.
His voice seems to cut through the haze this time, as she’s held pinned to the floor; the heaving slows and quiets, a bit at a time, seeming like forever, and then her jade eyes focus on his face, his dark blue eyes, unmindful of the fact she is pinned to the ground. She blinks once, and then again. Her fangs retract and sadness washes over her features, "Marak..." She whispers, "They killed him. Joseph, they killed him."
He doesn't release her as the sadness washes over her face, but he slides the knee from her stomach, then, when she doesn't attack again, he releases her hands, sitting back on his heels, his eyes on hers, voice quiet. "I'm… oh Shirley." He doesn't apologize, but it's there in his eyes – not pity but compassion, not scorn but sorrow for her. He blinks slowly, and the compassion remains, but the sorrow disappears into the blue depths of his gaze, offering her his hands.
"Then we hurt them worse." His voice is soft, but there's steel underneath. "Italians invented the word vendetta. They took from you; we'll take more from them."
He pulls her to her feet, then rights the chair she knocked over, inviting her to sit. In her quick, efficient way she lays out the situation, the circumstances surrounding her Ward’s death and the delicate balance of politics that keeps her from retaliating in blood and fire. He nods through the explanation, part of his mind filing it away, trying to draw a mental map, while the rest of his brain fixes on a single set of questions, worrying at them like wild dogs with a bone. Why did I hesitate? I saw how close she was. I saw her fury. Why didn’t I act faster? Why not reach for the Blood, bend her heart to mine until the moment had passed? His fingers brush against the spot where she headbutted him, the ache already fading, but leaving behind uncomfortable questions instead. Will I always hesitate? What would you do if she came for your heart’s blood, Joseph? Would you let her take it because you love her? Would you have the strength to pull the trigger, to slam a table leg through her ribs and into her heart if it meant saving yourself? Has love pulled your fangs… and if it has, is it worth it? She’s worth killing for, worth dying for… but is she worth dying TO?
With a small, quickly covered start he realizes that she’s finished speaking, and his mind still a house divided, he begins laying out his own plans and suggestions, the uneven, distracted tone, the digressions into political philosophy and, worst of all, the offers to do the work for her tumbling from his lips like a toddler swapping river rocks for diamonds, an accidental mockery of beauty. Her face grows tighter and colder with each sentence, and as he finishes there’s a long, pregnant pause before she folds her hands in her lap and demurely, formally thanks him for the advice.
The demure stoicism is his first warning; the tightness around her eyes and the emptiness of her tone the second. He watches her for a long moment, then lets his head tip back, reviewing their conversation with a growing sense of shame and horror. Embarrassment prickles across his skin, a hot, uncomfortable coating of shame, and he bows his head to her, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes.
"If I may be blunt, Lady Prince Maxwell... or rather, bluntER..." He sighs, still keeping his eyes off of her, seemingly at a loss for words, then, with an effort, forces his gaze to meet hers, his skin tight around his eyes, failing to maintain his usual neutral face.
"I meant to offer you the full help of the Republic of Philadelphia... and more personally, my help. In whatever capacity you would request or require." He pauses, looking pained at the taunt, blank face that she continues to offer. She needed your help and you went on at length about the failings of her Covenant. Joseph, you truly are a fucking moron. If AJ could see you right now, she'd pee herself laughing. "I suspect... no. I realize that, instead, I've made a complete ass of myself." The admission out, he rushes forward headlong, speaking quickly, as though afraid that, if he stops, he won't be able to make himself start again. "I most humbly apologize for my missteps, Lady Prince Maxwell. You are the apex predator of Austin, which is far from my Domain and experience. I have the highest regard for your judgment and your nature as a predator, and should have simply offered my aid without any commentary. I did not mean to give offense, nor did I mean to forget when to keep my mouth shut. In exchange, I offer both my apology and my service to your satisfaction - I will do whatever you ask to make amends, so long as it doesn't endanger my City." He pauses then, blowing out the last of his air, and in a much quieter, less formal tone, simply says "Shirley, you have my permission to shoot me if I'm ever that far out of line again. I'm sorry for being a horse's ass." He stops, uncertainty hiding in the downturned corners of his mouth, and she reaches across the small table between their chairs, taking his hand in both of hers.
"Joseph, stop. Just stop." Her hand curls around his, her fingers twining with his own as her eyes raise to meet his dark blue gaze. "I have many allies, many I have not even mentioned... but... I have very, very few that I trust." Her eyes flickers over him, her voice soft, "Even in trusting motives. I trust you, Joseph. Your motive is simply... me." Her eyes meet his, and it’s there in her gaze for him to read – she understands. "I will not let you lose yourself in the process. You must trust me in that. That being said, if the word is given, I will need all the assistance I can get. I will need all of my allies. Things will… it will get messy." Her eyes flicker over him again, a considering look. "I promised I would teach you about Court, and in essence, that I would basically be your Au Pair." There’s a twitch of a smirk to her lips, which then fall into a sweet, easy smile. "The first thing you must keep in mind, as you are aware is... Princes don't need saving, even when they need assistance." She raises his hand to her face, turning so that her cheek curls into his hand, saying softly, "I will not correct you until or unless you wish me to, which is why I did not say anything otherwise. After all, I just attacked you... and ..." She looks up from his hand, "That is the utmost discourteousy to you in your City. I have breeched your Hospitality. You have every right to treat me as you wish."
Her hand takes his as he looks away, their fingers twining, and he looks to her in surprise, blue eyes a little wide, then softening, nodding quietly at her assessment of his motives. Do you deserve her? You know you don't. Earn it. Be worthy of what she gives you. Her fingers curl in his, his palm opening to her in reflex, then his fingers curl again under her gaze, his own eyes on their linked hands; he raises his eyes at the feel of hers on him, and meets her gaze with the hint of a smile. He blinks at her referring to herself as an "au pair," but the comment goes by without response, except in his mind - That's... isn't that what they call the Invictus that raises other Invictus? Am I being courted by the First Estate, or is she being courted by the Carthians?
"You don't need saving. I try not to forget that, but..." He shrugs, having the good grace to look ashamed. "But sometimes I do anyway." His fingers brush her cheek as she speaks about Hospitality, and he shakes his head, lips pursed, looking for the right words, determined to learn from his own mistakes.
"You... yes. You attacked me, in my own City. I forgive you. I more than forgive you: as Prince of Philadelphia, I say it never happened." Then, more quietly, "Because, Shirley, I treated you poorly, and that's the exact opposite of the way I want to treat you. There are... there are things that are important., but when we're together, all that matters is that you know I love you, that I respect you, and that I want you like I've never wanted anything before. Everything else..." He shrugs. "Praxis, I have. Family, friends, I've got plenty. But you? I didn't know there was a giant gaping hole in my Requiem until you walked into it."
Her voice, in return, is soft. "You are a Knight - you just don't have focus. Chivalry is simply a code. A code is simply a law to live by. Law to live by is simply structure. I understand Structure. I am Invictus." She kisses the inside of his palm, sending a cool shiver down his spine. "You have me, Joseph. Me, aside, what is your top priority? What motivates you?"
He blinks at her, the question making him shift in his chair, considering it; he begins to answer by explaining the Carthian ideas of Mission and Position, then stops, sighing, looking for the words to express what he believes, to make sense of something he himself has questioned more than once in recent nights.
"I... I believe in the Greater Good. I believe that what does the most good for the most Kindred is the right path. I believe in my City and my Citizens, their right to go on as free as I can make them." His lips twist, an almost smile, and his head shakes slowly. "But part of me is afraid that's just pretty words. You motivate me, Shirley. You make me passionate in ways I haven't been since taking Praxis." He quiets again, simply studying her face, his eyes distant and a little sad. "Christian Embraced me because he knew I wanted to build a finer world. I am not my Father's best student; far from it. I find myself wondering, Shirley Maye Tucker: am I building the finer world I dreamed of? Or am I helping to tear this one down by not doing enough?"
Her fingers move along the inside of his palm, studying the grooves there as she speaks quietly, her gentle questions relentless. "What about me makes you passionate? What is a better world? What did you dream this world would be? The first step in knowing how to achieve your goals is to define them."
“I…” he blows out a breath, regarding her, his dark blue eyes open, no masks or pretense in his gaze. “You filled a hole I didn’t know existed. You… you challenge me. From the moment you stepped off the plane, you presented a challenge. You compliment me – you’ve said it yourself: we work well together. We move well together.” His voice drops at the last few words, and there’s the sudden feeling that if he could still blush he would. “You… there is a great deal in you to be passionate about. I love that we compete, that we challenge each other. It makes me want to fight harder, to be stronger, to be better. I love the way we fit together – different, but equal. I had been... static. Complacent. You shattered that, and every night we’re together you widen the cracks.” He sighs, lips twisting in a wry smile as he regards her. “Stop me if I’m not making any sense.”
He quiets then, watching her fingers slide over the grooves in his palm, the rough calluses that will never fade, the blunt-fingered hands. His voice, when it comes, is soft.
“When I was mortal, I believed a finer world was one where everyone got a fair chance. I grew up in the Depression, saw the rich and powerful play God with the powerless. I saw families living in shacks along the river. ‘Hooverville,’ we called it, after the bastard that put them there. I saw the shacks, saw my neighbors starving, and I swore I’d fight that kind of power, that I would hold the world accountable. That I’d do what was right.” He pauses, watching her fingers, simply luxuriating in her touch, before he goes on. “I did what I thought was right – I fought for my country in two wars. I fought for my family and my Brothers on the picket lines and at City Hall. I defined myself by the fight, by the struggle… before and after I was Embraced. Then? Then I won Praxis, killed or drove away my enemies… and I didn’t have anything to fight.” The words are slow, like he’s picking his way through an unfamiliar forest, his lips curled as he applies his usual empathic, insightful nature to himself instead of to another. “It’s lonely at the top. And without struggle, it’s boring. I’ve remade Philadelphia’s laws and government to how I imagined them, but I’m no closer to changing the rest of the world than I was before having Praxis. Hell, I may have been closer to changing things while I was alive.” His eyes raise from where her fingers brush over his palm, studying her face.
“A finer world is one where the system does the most good for the most Kindred, where the average Citizen can go about their Requiem without worrying about VII or the Brood ashing them without reason, or the Prince or Sheriff using them for a scapegoat or for target practice because they’re Lance instead of Circle or Carthian instead of Invictus.” Then, quietly, carefully. “A finer world is one where your Ward wasn’t killed because someone disagreed with his choice of Covenants.”
