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[Victor notices he's got a tail before he makes himself known; the same scent trails after him all afternoon, there's no chance he's not going to connect the dots. But he lets him follow, doesn't give the game away, right up until he intercepts. He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest and just looks at him with a combination of amusement and curiosity. A deep sniff verifies what he'd already suspected.]

Started wonderin' when ya were gonna poke yer head out.

[He smiles, shark-sharp and wide, and folds his arms with an air of intent disinterest.]

When, precisely, did you start wondering?

[Because he strongly suspects it was right at the beginning. He had no illusions that he wouldn't be quickly noticed, but - well. There was no attack, nor indications of intended attack. It's significant.]

[His gaze is easy but intent; he watches the smaller man, taking his measure, but never drops it. The age-old game of "who's the boss"; Creed's used to being top dog, to the rest of the rabble falling in line. It's important to establish pecking order early, instinct in his case. He can tell the smaller man is a predator too, even if he doesn't seem so obvious about it. It's why he grins back, all teeth.]

More important question's why I'm so interesting.

[Good, the marquis thinks, eyeing him carefully. Favor to Iris or no, curiosity or no, his ultimate instinct is always survival. But still, it's satisfying, seeing those instincts. She was right. He's a deft touch - or could be.]

You can't honestly think you're not interesting. You put on such a lovely performance for us when you arrived. I'd think you'd be glad of some honest interest for a change, instead of people who pretend to watch you so they can fix you.

But it's fun watchin' 'em squirm when they figure it out, why change it?

[Not that Iris has. Yet. He is reasonably sure she will reach that point sooner or later; they all do. All have that point where it goes too far, it's just a matter of finding it. Finding the right button, the right time to push it to make your point clear.]

No such thing as honest interest anyway, an' if you claim that's what you've got right now you better rethink your next words.

[This makes him laugh, a low, pleased chuckle carefully pitched between "doting pet owner" and "fond friend". Mostly because Victor is smart enough to know the marquis is no one's friend, dotes on nothing, would not suffer a pet.]

Nothing I do is honest. But I am interested.

[It gains a chuckle in kind, a rumbling kind of sound that generally doesn't bode well, but he's amused enough. For now.]

Interested enough to either think I'm stupid enough not to pick up on ya followin' me or to hope I would.

Most people that brand of fool end up havin' a proposition.

[He tilts his head.]

I knew you would. There was no hope about it.

[He doesn't really play around with hope.]

It's a loose proposition. I think we're very similar, you and I. I think you see some of that, and some of it - not so much.

I think we could learn from each other.

[Which is a lie. He can't learn a thing from Victor Creed, he's confident. But it's a seamless lie.]

I doubt it.

[And that's all arrogance, arrogance backed up by over a century of proof -- no-one has ever presented anything worth learning, not even when backed up by a smile like that, no matter how many teeth he shows, because Victor is a creature of instinct, not learning, not when every lesson he's ever received was in the cruelty inherent in mankind -- but arrogance nonetheless.]

Unless yer talkin' about the color of yer insides.

Try again if ya don't want t'explore that right now.

[There's the hint of a growl underneath, a warning. Wrong answer, try again, but you only get one more shot.]

I've already seen them.

[And this smile is one of memory, of fond reminiscence, of knives slipped between ribs and razor blades under his fingernails - which he inspects, briefly and with a flash of apparently genuine concern. There's a fine line between appearing self-absorbed (which he is) and stupid (which he most certainly is not). But he won't present himself as a physical threat. The simple fact is, here and now, he's not one. If he were at home - but no.]

[That power sparking at his fingertips, it would be nice, but his real power's always been his tongue and experience.]

They're nice, but not amazing.

[His eyes flicker back and forth now as he explores his options. A beautiful mind, yes, but so blunted by violence as to be hardly recognizable. Violence, when wielded correctly, can be art, but only in certain contexts. It's never been to the marquis's tastes.]

[Think several moves ahead. He's arrogant, but defensive; no sign of any morality in particular, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. It just might be skewed, slightly shredded, worn, but it could exist. And self-preservation is a type of morality, too. Just because most people don't think it is . . .]

[He glances up, as though something's suddenly occurred to him. It hasn't. It continues occurring, unfolding in his mind, a flower of possibility. (With other thoughts trailing: Iris will owe me. Or Iris will learn not to make deals. Or Iris will suffer. Which he wouldn't mind, exactly. It might be temporarily annoying, but in the long run - it would be all right.)]

[Creed keeps coming back here. Right here. And Iris doesn't want him in here.]

If I'm being slightly more but still not completely honest, I have to admit I'm curious as to why everyone seems so adamant that you not be allowed in here. One of the only open spaces there is. Now, for me, who's used to cramped spaces - much more cramped than these - I wouldn't mind, which is why no one's bothered to restrict my access beyond - [He waves a hand.] begging the nearest life coach for the keys to the castle.

I can only conclude that even if a space like that isn't what you want more than anything, it's something you want. You can't beat access to a restricted area out of someone. Usually. And given my unfortunately involved history with your warden, I believe it's - unlikely.

[The implication, of course, being he has information about Iris. He does; whether that's what Creed latches on to is another question.]

Then, of course, there's the fact that I'm terribly bored of new inmates coming here, talking a lot, getting nothing done. You have the potential to go either way. [He shrugs elaborately.] Disembowelings aside, Mister Creed, you've got to be clever enough to realize making such a statement in your very first week leaves an impression that's incredibly valuable. Fear's such a good tool.

[Well that drags him up short. He'd only showed his teeth as encouragement anyway, to hurry the conversation along to whatever point the frail was trying to make; with it within grasp his posture's still thoroughly dominant, teeth bared and eyes narrowed as he weighs it. Thinking, calculating, animal cunning at work but no less intelligent for it. Despite appearances, despite the image he goes out of his way to perpetuate, Creed isn't a stupid man, far from it even if he operates on a different level than most, but it's potentially problematic if the frail spots it.

The fact that the other man's spotted his interest is less concerning. Spend enough time lingering around a place you obviously can't get into and it becomes pretty damn clear eventually.]

What makes you think that wasn't the point?

[It wasn't. But there's nothing to be gained in admitting as much.]

What kinda history?

[He wouldn't be volunteering it if they were entirely allies, that's far too obvious.]

Rumor has it you were frightened.

[Which is a gamble - but of course, if it comes to that, if he absolutely must, he'll say who said it. (Iris.) Or make someone up. (Ned? Not terribly believable. Someone ruder.) Just because he doesn't want to be gutted doesn't mean he's not willing to risk it, as long as he has a backup.]

I'm not sure how much I believe that. But you weren't calculating, or not as much as you could have been. I'm enjoying imagining what you could do.

[The briefest of smiles, fond and parodic, and an elaborate shrug.]

A complicated history. Basic principles: you can't get something for nothing.

[Hackle raise at the statement; if he admits it to himself, that's exactly what he was. Running scared, the predator that finally ran up against one he couldn't take down, could never take down. Will never be able to take down, because how can you hope to fight something so much older than you are, something born deep in the world's history that has easily spent thousands of years surviving. Something that spent years pulling just the right strings, twisting just the right knives, applying just the right leverage to advance things to one particular point in time. One eventuality. He was never supposed to win. It was always the runt, the bastard had never been unclear on that point. And he'd fought it as long as he could because he'd never been good at accepting defeats he had no say in, but then he'd had it all torn away from him and he still couldn't say why. Because he hadn't rolled over like he was supposed to, because he refused to accept his fate, maybe he'd just happened to catch him on the wrong day but Creed doesn't like not being in control.

Quod eris sum.

Of course he'd been running scared. Anybody would in his position. Nobody likes to be confronted with the fact that they've ultimately got no control over anything. That they're just sliding down a slippery slope they couldn't have hoped to to stop in the first place. One you can see just over the horizon, one that creeps closer every day if you don't keep an eye on it.

One that looks an awful lot like a tiger being put down after it's got the taste for human flesh in its mouth.

But he's too stubborn to ever admit it out loud, and it does him no good tactically to do so; he'd been desperate when he'd let the runt in on the real way of the world for their kind. He's not that desperate now. Not with Romulus who the fuck knew how far away.

For now he only grins wider, at once teasing and challenging, his response a lazy drawl when it comes. As if the news amuses him more than it irritates. Honestly curious, because it's a thread he'll have to tie up, but he has his suspicions. There's one who knows, unequivocally. Would know. Might have spread the information if she thought it necessary, but even so it's a loose end. He doesn't like loose ends, they have a tendency of biting you in the ass later. So he tilts his head in question but doesn't give away that he might know, or at least not in any way that most might pick up on.]

That right. An' where'd you hear that from?

[The wolf could have known. Probably would have smelled it. Iris knows for sure, she'd said as much already.]

I'll grant you I wasn't at my best. Doubt anybody is their first day here.

[He files the nature of his relationship with Iris away for a moment. Think on it for a bit.]

I heard it from the rumor mill, Mister Creed. I heard it from the wind. As I said: never something for nothing.

[He considers this idea - of not being one's best at any point in time - and dismisses it. His intent is always to be his best. Just because lately he hasn't been--]

[Not important. On his first day, he was. But it's not in his best interests to say that.]

An' what kinda somethin' would I have to give t'get that kinda information?

[He wouldn't have believed it anyway; Creed's universe is composed of him and everyone else. He is superior. His worst day is still better than everyone else's. He is unbeatable unless he allows it. Cannot be bested honestly more than once. It is a lesson learned and the future will be better. It will not happen again. He can afford to admit the fleeting lapse.

His words now are lazy, measured and unconcerned. He is curious, but not enough that he will lose any sleep over not having the answer. He has his own ways of finding out.]

[Of course he does. The marquis doesn't expect anything less. After all, physical pain - torture - is an excellent way to get information out of people.]

[People other than him, of course.]

[He shrugs, smiles.] I'm not sure what metaphorical wares you have. Generally I deal in favors, but if all the favor will be good for is violence, it's slightly less use than a favor from someone of more versatile skills.

Then again, as I said, I do think you have more. Skills, I mean. Underneath it all.

[Torture only works reliably on a certain group, Victor has discovered in his long and illustrious and blood-steeped history. Those too scared to lie well, those already inclined to betray or tell the truth out of fear. The weak in the herd. With a little pressure, a little encouragement, they sing like nightingales, answer every question you ask with fear in their eyes and desperation in their souls, as if they'll be released from the cage in the end, as if their loved ones will be spared, so long as they answer. Sometimes the answers are even the right ones, or answer questions you hadn't asked yet. They are useful, and entertaining, and provide him the screams and fear he thrives on, but ultimately hollow and cheap because they get there far too quickly.

But those with too much conscience, or too little, those for whom physical pain is nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience, who have dissociated themselves from the emotional ties the rest of the herd clings so tightly to, these individuals will never respond well to it. Some of them scream and cry and piss themselves anyway, much to Creed's continued entertainment, but they do not speak.

He thinks the Marquis may be one of the latter. Not that he won't squirm and scream like the rest, but he won't talk. Won't ever give a straight answer no matter what you do.

It's not necessarily a bad thing. There are ways of getting them to talk too.

The lazy drawl continues, stretching out across the space with the practiced ease of someone intentionally painting a disinterested picture. A cat turning its nose up at the food dish or a friendly hand because it can. To prove that everything is at its discretion.]

Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Been around for a long, long year, as the song goes. Be a disappointment if I didn't pick up a few things along the way. You tell me what kinda favor you need, we'll see if we can't work somethin' out.

No.

[That's that. The answer is no - to telling, at least. That's not how the deal works, never has been. And perhaps it's a matter of timing, of waiting until Creed is desperate in one way or another (because no matter how much you might think you never will be, it happens to everyone) - waiting until then to deal.]

[He's promised Iris an attempt. Never a quick one. Some things require finesse. Victor Creed clearly requires a lot.]

It's a check for a certain amount, to be filled in later. You tell me how much this information is worth to you, I tell you how big of a favor you'll owe, when I'm in need. If you double-cross me, I stab you in the back.

[None of this is said with any urgency or concern. He's interested, yes. But this is just how he does business. It's not personal. It never has been and never will be, or at least that's the hope.]

[Dean is wasting time in his office on the seventh floor, tilted all the way back in his chair and throwing pencils at the ceiling to see if he can get them to stick when the message comes in. He listens to it without activating his own side of the feed, because for all that he likes to jump in with both feet, even he's not stupid enough to jump into shark-infested waters for no reason without reconnaissance.

It seems like a throwaway joke. But the Marquis doesn't do throwaway anything. Dean sits silent and still, his latest pencil still wound back in his hand and ready to toss at the lead-pocked ceiling panel, considering. Finally he sits forward in the chair and clicks the video on, eyebrows raised.]

Not the PG version. What's up?

[The marquis laughs - less at the joke Dean's made and more at the one he's not aware of. There's no such thing as a PG fairy tale. Not the real ones, anyway.]

[He doesn't answer, though; it'll become clear enough. And while part of him wonders at the fact that he's doing this at all, a much more significant part is intensely curious what will happen when the story's done.]

[His voice rolls, rich, ripe, ruddy, the kind of voice that could strangle you with a smile. And he tells the story that became his so long ago it's no longer really separate from what might, were he another man, be described as his soul.]

First thing to know: there are always three sons.

So. There were three sons. They were miller's sons, as it happens, and as these things go, when the miller died, he left his youngest son the worst portion of the inheritance. He left his youngest son - who remains forever nameless, because he doesn't actually matter - he left his youngest son . . . the cat.

The boy, being an idiot, was going to eat the cat and said as much; the cat, being cleverer than any human no matter what they thought, told him: "Bring me a bag and a pair of boots, and I'll be off through the countryside doing helpful errands and such. Out of your hair. Entirely helpful."

The boy should have known better, because a cat is never out of one's hair - only ever underfoot. But he did it anyway. And here is what the cat did.

He caught rabbits in his bag by trickery. He took them to the king, and he said that the marquis de Carabas had caught them as a gift for His Majesty, who was incredibly pleased. Partridges were next. Then other things. The kinds of things that kings eat. And the cat flattered the king, and looked at him admiringly, and wrapped the exquisite lie that was the marquis de Carabas around the paltry body of his master.

The king had a lovely daughter, allegedly the most beautiful in the land - although the story doesn't describe any accurate means of measuring such a thing, so this might be suspect. Regardless: she was very beautiful, and the young man was a young man, and the cat knew what was good for him. So he said to his master: "Go bathe in the river. I'll make your life perfect. Just do as I say, and don't argue."

And the boy did, because he knew what was good for him.

As the king and his allegedly perfect daughter rode past the spot in the river where the miller's son was bathing, the cat began to shriek, "Help! My dear sweet lord the marquis de Carabas is drowning!" And, because the king trusted this cat and his master, the marquis de Carabas - who, I'll remind you, doesn't exist, didn't exist, never will exist in any reality [barring the crucial one, the vital one - this needs not be spoken aloud because of the way the marquis de Carabas is smiling] - because of this, the king stopped. And because he trusted this cat, who told him sadly that his master's clothes had been stolen (instead of hidden under a rock, which they were, and where they'd later be chewed to frayed ends by field mice) - because of this, the king gave the miller's son fine clothes to wear. Very fine indeed.

Clothes make the man.

The king's daughter noticed the clothes, not the man. Not the miller's son.

And the cat smiled.

And the cat ran ahead of the coach and told the people working in the field ahead, and I quote, "My good fellows, if you do not tell the king that the meadow you are mowing belongs to my lord marquis de Carabas, you shall be chopped up like mincemeat." And presumably he licked his lips. That's what I would have done.

The miller's son, in the coach now, because the king liked him and the princess had noticed his clothes, took credit for the work of these people. They didn't argue. They didn't want to die. Would you?

Repeat process for reapers.

Here comes the fun part.

The cat in his boots ran ahead again, and this time he came to an ogre's castle. Ogres, obviously, can shapeshift (and why not). This one was not only a shapeshifter but a braggart. Because cats can smell stupidity (this is true), the cat said to the ogre: "You can change into big things, terrifying things, you could be a lion or a bear or a dragon if you wanted to, but could you become something small? Could you become a mouse? Or are you afraid?"

The ogre, insistent on proving that he wasn't afraid of anything, transformed himself into a mouse. And the cat ate him.

As you might expect by now, the cat gave credit to the marquis de Carabas again - that this was his castle, his finery, his perfect life. The marquis de Carabas had, by now, fully enveloped the miller's son; even he didn't know which way was up, or who his family had once been. Had he had brothers, or was he the sole heir to this marvelous castle?

He knew what was good for him. The castle was good for him. The king was good for him. And his lovely daughter was good for him, or at least parts of him.

So he took the ogre's castle for his own. He gave the king the ogre's wine to drink. And when, halfway through dinner, the king offered his daughter's hand to the marquis de Carabas, and she blushed prettily, the miller's son died entirely and it was the marquis de Carabas who married the girl who would be queen.

The cat became a lord, and died at a ripe old age as cats go, if ever he died at all.

[A breath - a sigh.]

And never again ran after mice, except for entertainment.

[He glances at the ceiling now, as though he's trying to remember one very, very important final point. And then a light gesture - an ah! gesture - and he smiles at the camera.]

There is no moral to this story.

[Which is, of course, the final lie in this fairy tale.]

[Dean is fully aware of the nature of fairy tales, and how things being made up doesn't stop them from doing a number on the unwary. Apparently, sometimes the impossible doesn't give much weight to the fact that it can't exist.

At first, the surrealness of it all is almost too much for the hunter, the Marquis telling him a fairytale, and he's about to ask if something is wrong, trying to figure out if he can surreptitiously check the network for a flood or something without interrupting or giving himself away. He feels alright for himself, but then he usually does, for a given value of alright. More alright right now than in a while, certainly.

That lasts until the Marquis gets to the first mention of de Carabas, and Dean almost misses it. He doesn't even hesitate, doesn't hitch or emphasize, just throws it out there, casual, like a discarded glove; Dean visibly comes to attention, sitting up straight in his chair, tilting his head and not interrupting.

He doesn't even think about interrupting despite his habit for doing so. He's collecting the bits and pieces as best he can, trying to read between the lines and not sure what it means that he almost can't. The Marquis keeps flashing smiles and little side comments but Dean knows that dance, he knows to ignore the bells and the whistles without ignoring them at all; he knows how often the most glaring issues is the one with the brightest bauble tied to it, laid out in plain sight.

There is no moral. What was good for him. Clothes make the man. The Marquis who does not exist and the miller's son who does not matter. Dean picks his way through all of it, not minding that the bare, functional cogs and gears of his own personality that he normally keeps hidden beneath brass and varnish are laid out and plain; the Marquis already knows. Dean is convinced that's at least part of what this is, but he doesn't know what the other part is.

He does know two things: one, he's on uneven ground here, lost among metaphor and literary contrivance. Two, he wonders who this is costing more, and where their ledger will be at the end of it, if the meter is running and which way it's turning. He has no patience for either of these things.

So the teasing cockiness is at an ebb for the moment, dark hazelgreen eyes serious below bemused eyebrows, his mouth a crooked line of consideration.]

That's an awful lot of talking without a point about a guy who, in the end, doesn't exist and doesn't matter.

[Dean believes none of these things and has no thought to hide it.]

[It's a fascinating, even beautiful thing, watching Dean sit up and take notice. Watching him realize that this is important, that it's crucial, watching him fish around for some reason why it might be given to him with no questions asked, no favors demanded. Why it was so spontaneous.]

[It would be highly inaccurate to claim that the marquis is never spontaneous. He often is. It's just that his spontaneity has been developed by centuries of growing instinct such that, in the end, it's not really all that spontaneous at all. His actions are based in evidence gathered over too many years, and so even the things he doesn't have an explicit reason for doing, he quickly discovers: they are the right thing to do to get to his goal.]

[Except on those rare occasions when they aren't - but he doesn't discuss those, afterwards.]

[In any case, this is right. He watches Dean, tilts his head as the cogs turn, and when Dean finally speaks - ]

[He's seen. And that, more than anything else, makes the marquis smile almost fondly, not at Dean but at the memory of crisp pages, slowly dampening in the humidity of the hours after rain, the first time he held Le Chatte Botte in his hands, the absorption of crucial knowledge, of philosophy, the metamorphosis . . .]

[He smiles.]

And?

[Which means Yes. You're right. So pleased. Well done. You see.]

[The question isn't whether this was right or wrong; Dean already knows what the Marquis has clearly - which is part of the problem, isn't it, how clear this all seems - come to decide for himself, that he's good for it, whatever this is. Dean is a liar and he's trustworthy, as sturdy and loyal as they come, inherently, terminally so. Of course he sees, and furthermore, he's paying attention and has been for a while now.

He raises an eyebrow.]

And I think the miller's son matters. I think he matters very much. And I think the Marquis exists. I think one couldn't have been without the other.

And I think he's always exactly who and what he needs to be.

[The question isn't whether this was right or not. The question is, what is the goal?.]

And I think you're having to chase mice to survive, again.

[Once again, Dean pulls him up short.]

[He's not sure why he doesn't expect this by now. He should. He should, he's smarter than this.]

[Which begs the question: is he doing this deliberately? Going behind his own back, giving away too much, just to see how far he can be pushed? He's never been a masochist, but he's curious, he can admit this consciously. Curious and bored and desperately trapped.]

[If Dean pushes him, he'll push back. He's confident of this. (Unless he isn't. But why wouldn't he be?)]

[His smile falters only for the briefest fraction of a second.]

Mm, you need to work on both listening skills and literary analysis. He doesn't, because he's dead; never did, because he was only ever a pawn. Do you know what happens to third sons? They seek their fortune. They slay giants.

Except for this one.

The marquis de Carabas is - a coat. Packaging.

[As to the last - he blinks slow, snake-like, and doesn't answer. On the one hand he wants to say of course I am; on the other hand he wants to say they're chasing me.]

[It's only the briefest fraction of a second, but it's veritably glaring in the face of the Marquis' smooth, bulletproof smile before and after. A perfectly calm pool, stirred by the near passing of a fin just below the gleaming surface, that much more pronounced for what it isn't as much as what it is.

Dean shakes his head, unfazed by the non-answer, by the rebuttal. He's got his eye on the prize. It's only a matter of getting there, now, before the ground drops out from under his feet while he's not looking.]

No, I don't think I do. You need to work on not outsmarting yourself.

You're making yourself a pawn, not anyone else. No one else can. Not you, of all people.

[The Marquis is clever and resourceful and uncompromising for the right cause. Dean has seen it all, maybe more than he was intended to, definitely more than almost anyone gives him credit for, and he knows this much: whatever it is that drives the Marquis to mad restlessness, he let it in, and he's the only one that can chase it back out again. He has only to figure out how to trick it into becoming something smaller.]

Edited 2013-08-05 06:39 (UTC)

[Of all people.]

[He's earned respect from Dean without resorting to ruthlessness, that's the thing. And he's aware it's a fluke, he knows, it wouldn't work with everyone; with Dean it does because he can see the danger lurking beneath, not because of anything else. But - it's novel. It's curious. It's meaningful.]

[Not that he wants, in any way, to admit to that last.]

[Not him, of all people. It's true. Not even angels can use him; not even assassins older than known time; not anyone. Not even the Admiral.]

[He puts his head on one side and, for the first time, actually considers this. This concept: that he could be something else.]

[Considers, dismisses. But the moment's there.]

I'm not. [Outsmarting himself, that is.] I am precisely what I want to be.

[What he needs to be. For survival.]

[Dean doesn't always know exactly what it is he's looking at, but he hasn't always had to in order to be sure of it anyway; be sure that it'll show itself eventually, be sure that it's what he thinks it is, be sure that he can still depend on it for better or for worse. He can bide his time, wait to be as sure of the shape of it as he is the existence of it.

Dean sees the consideration and he waits, uncharacteristically patient, and snorts when he hears the lie that comes out next. It's almost an insult, and the look he gives the Marquis says as much as plainly as any words.

The hunter is not the type to do things without warning. The problem is, the warning never makes a difference.]

Then what is this conversation? Why are you here? [The Barge. An inmate.

Why doesn't he feel safe enough in his own body and his own mind to get some sleep.]

I'm here because standards that don't apply to me nevertheless have been applied.

[He believes this in the deepest, darkest part of himself: that the kindness that's only ever tripped him up is something that works for other people, to some extent, but also allows them to be used. That especially in his home, in London Below, he must be what he's become.]

[The trouble is, the story isn't complete. It ought to have a Hunter, too, a Hunter, a Warrior, an Opener, and an Angel - a Fox and a Wolf, nipping at heels, biting at throats. There's no space in this other story for a cat, he thinks sometimes, or a cloak of a man who never existed.]

[And sometimes . . . sometimes he wants there to be space. But only on odd days, or in the equilibrium time when it's too late to be early but too early to be late.]

Or I'm here because I've outgrown my home. Because I need something new.

[No. He misses home. He aches for it. This is a transparent lie; he doesn't bother making it anything but.]

[Dean dismisses the last part as posturing, or maybe testing an idea to see if it flies as well outside in the air as it does inside one's head. He remembers speaking with de Carabas about London Below, and the sharp, paper-cut wounds it left in both of them: tiny, painful, easily healed. He doesn't forget as much as he pretends to.

There's too much here that Dean doesn't know, and he's aware of that. It doesn't always stop him from pressing forward anyway but now he's almost cautious, taking a step only when he's certain of it. He only has the story the Marquis has told him, and it is a story of creation - it's a story about the past.

The distant past. The Marquis has been the Marquis too long for it to be fresh, and even Dean knows that. So he works with what he's been told, and what he hasn't been.

The hunter asks again:] What is this conversation?

[There is a long moment of stretched-out rubber-band tension, during which the marquis toys with a number of options, including hanging up. But he doesn't. He clenches his teeth, jaw tight, more emotion showing on his face than he shows to anyone else. It's still not much. But anything beyond default smugness is a lot, for him.]

[He thinks about Door. He knows she knows the story; her father would have told her, when he was telling her that the marquis would look out for her, that he owed it to Lord Portico to protect her with his life. That man would have told Door all about him, all of his crimes, and yet it was the way of London Below that she came to him in a moment of desperation anyway. Desperate souls will do quite a lot.]

[And yet she never feared him, not even a little. That's what he misses, he supposes, that quiet confidence, sharpness under a veneer of vulnerability. Dean has that same sharpness in him - everyone here he's not brushed off has some of that in them. So perhaps this conversation is about her.]

You tell me.

[A half-smile, absolutely the most genuine expression the marquis has ever shown Dean during the entire period of their acquaintance. If Dean tells him what he thinks, perhaps the marquis will know if this is a mistake. It probably is. Not much to do about it now.]

I think you miss home.

[Dean doesn't even have to think about it, and he doesn't hesitate to answer, either. He could be even more specific, he thinks, but not yet. Dean hasn't had a home for a long time now, not one that most recognize as such, but he recognizes the look, recognizes the gritted teeth of missing someone as well and being unwilling to admit it. The Marquis, Dean thinks not for the first time, wants people to think he's a loner, but he's not. All of his power, which he undoubtedly loves, resides in the manipulation of people; it should make Dean wary of him at the least, disgust him at the worst. But he's never really minded the Marquis, not like he should for that sort of motivation.

And besides, they've talked about it. In feints and bluffs and through the teeth of a liar's smile, and the Marquis has given him more than enough hints. The conversation outside Dean's door the day he left, the uncontrolled, last ditch punch Dean hadn't expected until it happened, hadn't known what it meant at the time. Not even, really, the extent of it until he was handed a few more pieces. It might have been lazy on his part, but while Dean's methods are clever, he's no pick pocket in this regard. He couldn't have stolen these tidbits without losing his hand in the process.

And then there's that other thing, which he has also known for quite some time, though he only just now realizes it.]

You want someone else to know.

And you're testing me. Again.

[Dean has long been, by the marquis's estimation, the worthiest person on the Barge. Even more so than Iris, though she is also someone he respects, for his own value of respect. He considers her to be someone who could reside for a time in London Below and escape unscathed and richer for it.]

[But Dean is someone who could live there. He could sink his jaws into it with the right motivation, could own segments of the city the way the marquis has owned all of it, could be a force to be feared and reckoned with. Which is why he is as close to a friend as the marquis has.]

[London Below is his home because it's a challenge. Door is esteemed because she is a challenge. Richard is scorned because he isn't. The marquis is clever enough that he has constructed an existence for himself entirely separate from the average man's reality in order to survive, but he did it where he did it because he's too clever not to be constantly challenged. If he isn't surrounded by threats he must overcome, his or someone else's, he wilts.]

[So, yes. He's testing Dean. He's always testing Dean, because he trusts him to pass with flying colors in one remarkable way or another, though he never can guess just how. He doesn't test people when he's working - he makes his moves based on almost complete certainty and highly educated guesses - but he needs this sort of mental stimulation.]

[This is the change in him since coming to the Barge, the only major change from sheer exposure to inescapable people: when given the choice between protecting his secrets and being forced to think, he will take the path of thought every time, lately. The long spells of stillness and boredom might lead him to true madness otherwise.]

[As to Dean's first assertion - yes. He does. London Below is as close to a love as he's ever had, and it's helplessly, hopelessly out of his reach.]

[He nods, just once.]

Yes. [To the first.] I always am. [To the last.]

Edited 2013-08-21 18:05 (UTC)

[Dean pauses to consider this. It's not a state that he is comfortable in, it doesn't sit well on him, being stationary and thoughtful. He's a creature of instinct and reaction, of movement and sound and violence. Other people think. Dean does.

The hunter hedges, quirking a small, cool smirk and cracking a self-deprecating joke of the variety he's used to build the person most others are familiar with and fooled by.] Damn. I hope it's open note, and even then, I'm the worst test taker in history. All nerves.

[But it's just hedging. He's sifting through the information, wishing - not for the first or last time - that Sam was here with his giant brain and his freakish memory for random details no one cares about, though Dean does pretty well for himself in this regard. The hunter slowly sits back, rolling the pencil between his fingers, predator's gaze steady above the polished, crooked smile.]

So. You're the fairytale boy, is what you want me to believe. Created out of the imaginations of others at your direction.

The ultimate trick: make someone who existed disappear, and someone who never existed become real. That it?

[That is not, he knows, it. But the Marquis isn't the only one always testing.]

Edited 2013-08-26 03:58 (UTC)

[All nerves. He snorts quietly at that. Oh, please. It's not even a good joke, it's so patently false. But the marquis smiles anyway. He knows it for what it is. A stalling tactic.]

[And as it turns out, Dean isn't that far off. He's alarmingly close. That's the trouble. Other people might not expect it from the hunter. Even the marquis didn't at first. But he does now, at least most of the time. Dean's a wildcard, but he's also very, very clever when he needs to be.]

[De Carabas tips his head to one side, then nods again, once.]

That's reasonably accurate. You pass, at least.

[But he doesn't win.]

[The marquis pauses, then glances to the side and back.]

It's not a matter of your belief.

[Nor even of Below's belief. It's a matter, in the end, of his own.]

Oh good. Now Dad won't be pissed at me for bringing home an F.

[But there's genuine satisfaction in it, though he doesn't take an obscene amount of pride in his ability to reason like Sam would, or the Marquis. He still respects a job well done and takes pleasure in being the one to do it, whatever it is; and he's proud of his friend, though the Marquis won't thank him for that, doesn't need it. It's still true.

Dean's gaze follow the cast of the Marquis' black eyes, ticking sideways, ticking back in perfect unison. He raises an eyebrow and, lazily wagging the pencil up and down in his hand until it appears to the trickable eye to be made of rubber, snorts.]

Sure it is. Not mine, specifically, but someone's.

If there were no one but you to convince, you could be whatever you want. Anyone could. I could say I'm a rockstar and all I'd have to do is convince myself and it's true.

That's the trick. Belief. Only other people can make something true of ourselves that isn't.

[Normally, this would be well outside of Dean's domain, too close to philosophical when he is anything but. The trouble is he's seen it in himself. He knows he's not a good, or a strong, or a bright person. But others believe it of him, and so sometimes, he can be more than he is.]

[It's true. Belief is what runs things - not just in London Below, but everywhere. There especially, though, titles and reputations are not bestowed by any governmental authority; they're gifted by belief. Thus people must fear him. They must believe in his ruthlessness - which is genuine - and his psychoses, which are entirely false. What better to be than a fictional character created by something of greed and whimsy and feline cruelty?]

[It was a good day when he found that book, really, he thinks, and goes a little distant for a moment, gaze focuses elsewhere with serious intent. Then he snaps back again.]

Exactly.

It's a joke, really. [What he is, what he has become, what he will be in the future. All a very private joke. He's committed atrocities because they get him somewhere, yes, but also because they're expected. He's a villain, but not exactly - more of an archetype.]

[Every people needs a trickster.]

Mm.

[And this is where they differ; this is the part of the Marquis that makes Dean wary, as he has no doubt was the intent. Every people needs a trickster and every people needs a guardian, and the Marquis is one and Dean is the other, and while they may not always be exactly at odds they are decidedly never on the same side. Dean knows that. He's safe as long as he doesn't forget that.

He wags the pencil back and forth a couple more times, then drops it into his lap. The hunter sits forward with casual, lazy ease until he's bracing his elbows on his knees, intent on the communicator sitting square on his desk, lips curved but not smiling, eyes bright but not amused.]

But is it a funny one?

It makes me laugh.

[The marquis's expression now is a perfect mimic of Dean's - bright but not amused. The sharp edge of a half-drawn knife.]

[Yes. It's funny. He enjoys it. He isn't sorry. Not for the pain he's caused, nor for the slice of empire he's built for himself. His reputation makes him as close to happy as he'll ever be, for happiness in the marquis's eyes is certainty of security. Of carrying on - breathing another day.]

[Occasionally he regrets having lost the rarely-tempting privilege of feeling fondness. Then he regrets his regret, and washes it downriver.]

You disagree?

[This, too, is the difference: the Marquis would be the last one standing at the end of the world, and consider himself the victor. Dean found himself the last one standing of his family and refused to accept it as reality. That isn't security for Dean. Carrying on another day at all costs is not safety. His eyes search the Marquis's through the smokescreen of the network, two predators caught on opposite sides of a viewing glass.]

I certainly don't agree. But then, I know the story isn't over.

[An interesting point. The story isn't over . . . well. The marquis knows that isn't true. But he also knows that the way Dean would like the story to go is not where he wants it to go. He will have no part in any Bildungsroman; he will not learn lessons; he will not become better, work towards some greater whole, because what would be the benefit to him, then?]

[Something flickers in his eyes, uncertainty or anger or a combination thereof; and he shrugs, disdainful.]

Stories don't always end the way you expect them to.

[Dean doesn't move for several seconds, watching, clever eyes missing nothing. He never does, when he's paying attention, and the Marquis has it all for now. At last Dean smiles, satisfied with whatever he's seen, and sits back. A few moments later he's leaning back, kicking his boots up onto the corner beside the communicator, relaxing bonelessly into his chair.

The smile spreads to a grin, a low chuckle.]

No. No they don't. But that's the point too, isn't it?

Are we done with this metaphor yet?

[The marquis shrugs, unbothered, at least on the surface, by Dean's dismissal.]

If you like. I've said what's to be said.

[And he has been understood. Remarkable in its own right, even if Dean also argues too much for his own good.]

[Dean will always argue. It's how he shows affection, how he makes his stand, and it's one of the first things anyone notices about him. It masks how quickly he comes to care about people, how willing he is to intervene on their behalf, even with themselves.

It lets him drive away when it's over. Now he rolls his eyes at his friend - his friend - and taps the communicator with his foot in lieu of slapping the man's shoulder or elbowing his side.]

You eaten lunch yet?

[Technically, he should be offended. He knows this, and is therefore highly irritated by the surge of affection he feels. No gestures of affection from him, just a blank stare instead of the normal sharp-toothed grin. Which . . . is really as close to a genuine expression of acceptance as he gets.]

I'm not hungry. [A pause.] I will be eventually. [He can stuff several burgers in his pockets at dinner.]

[Yes, he is inviting himself to have dinner with Dean. Your point?]

For the record. It's an allegory.

[It's okay. Dean doesn't need affection and he is virtually impossible to intrude upon. He rolls with whatever gets thrown his way and always has. He purses his lips outward, considering while pulling the face, then nods as he puts his foot back down so he can lean forward again.]

I always am. [So really, whenever. He reaches to pick up the communicator, rolling his eyes.]

Your face is an allegory. [Which would be a childish comeback, except the quick flash of teeth that punctuates it.]

Enjoy your castle.

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