(no subject)
Juilliard!Alden/John!Thomas, FTVaguelyPedophiliacW.
SATURDAY.
The sky is muggy today, and Thomas sits in the worst of it, looking down at the Seine from his perch on a bench. His schoolbook lies next to him. He thinks he could not be more sick of reading about declensions if he tried actively to make himself ill.
Grantaire hadn't come last night, either. Some important sting, probably. Thomas doesn't care.
He wants coffee, but he's spent his last euro on breakfast, and is morosely considering pawning the Latin book.
A shadow falls across his book, but Thomas doesn't bother to look up until the shadow-caster actually sits down next to him.
"Do you mind?" he says in the French he's still pushing into his brain, and gives the man a raking glare.
Said man is wearing a black hat best suited to the nineteenth century, and clothing slightly too rumpled to look posh. He gives Thomas a politely uncomprehending look, and says, quite atrociously, "Je parle... English."
Thomas hates him immediately. "Je ne veux pas parler anglais," he says. "Go bother someone more your class. That streetsweeper looks lonely."
A quick, not entirely pleasant grin flashes across the man's face. "And I believe French sounds hideous," he returns, this time in quite perfect French, although Thomas still hates the sound of it. He can just hear the English lurking beneath the words.
Thomas gets to his feet and tries the bow he's worked on, but it comes out an awkward affair, as though he's a puppet with cut strings. "Then I don't see how we could have a conversation, as we'd only grate on each other's ears," he says pleasantly. "Good day, and fuck off."
The man grins again, and it's as slightly disturbing as the first grin was, although there is more genuine humour in it. "You're one of Grantaire's boys."
Thomas stares. Grantaire's friends never move in daylight.
After a moment, he says, his throat quite dry, "Are you another?"
The man rolls his eyes. "Tell me your name," he says in English, soft, slightly mocking, and, switching to French, "No. I merely know him."
"Does no one have anything better to do than to know too much about my life?" he demands, and picks up his books. "I don't have time for this stupidity."
The man gives him a long hard look. "You're a fool, lad." English. He seems to remember himself, and switches to the French for, "Grantaire knows enough to start you on the path to what you want to be, but no more than that. There are abilities within you that he does not know how to tap."
Thomas refuses to be impressed by this man. He's surrounded by rhetoric here. It doesn't mean that someone who's better at it necessarily knows what he's talking about, especially when that someone's a cryptic babbler of an Englishman.
Even so, he hasn't left yet.
"What talents are these?" he asks, shortly.
The man smiles slightly and snaps his fingers. A small flame, like a light without the lighter, appears above his fingertips.
Thomas can do that, but only after a minute of concentration, and only then for a moment. This man does it effortlessly.
"And how do I know I'll be able to that?" says Thomas. "Grantaire says my magical abilities are limited. And after lighting fires last night, I can't do a bit of magic today."
This isn't quite true, but he doesn't feel the need to share that.
"Grantaire was a fool for telling you so," the man says shortly. "It is easy to go far when you don't know your own limitations. However... he was correct. You do have certain limitations on your magic, limitations that can be pushed back by any number of things. Discipline. Heightened emotions. Practise. Someone," and here his voice goes disdainful, "who has learned to train their own magic, rather than only that of others."
Thomas is abruptly breathless. "What's in it for you?" he says, in English, unable for the moment to think in French. "What on earth is your angle?"
"My job," the man says, and he's smirking, smirking, still speaking in French, "often entails finding young people, like yourself, who show potential for greatness, and making sure that they do not dead-end their lives by limiting themselves to well-meaning but short-sighted people like Grantaire."
Thomas can feel the rage pushing aside all the amazement. Good. He isn't used to wonder.
He throws the Latin book underarmed at the man. "Stop being a prat," he informs him. "I don't wish to learn a damned thing from someone who sounds as though he thinks he's the best thing ever to happen to Paris, especially when he can't even speak proper French. Don't think I can't hear the spell, m'sieur."
The man laughs, quite delightedly, catching the book. He flips it open and skims through it. "How do you manage to go about learning two languages at once?"
"Latin's the root language of French. Are you brain-damaged?" That's it, decides Thomas. He has had quite enough of this, and he is ready to leave.
Departure is not as simple an act as it is made out to be.
"Yes, and if I was to learn the root languages of English I'd be up all night studying Latin and German," the man says mildly. "Would you like your book back, Thomas?"
"I'd like to stop being patronised, but I don't seem to be likely to get either," he snaps. "Yes."
Something subtle changes in the man's face. "Here," he says quietly, in English this time, and hands over the book, in such a way that Thomas can't avoid a brief moment of contact with the man's hand.
He feels a jolt of sheer power. It's not like touching the electrical outlet; rather, it's like adrenaline, and leaves Thomas momentarily breathless.
He lifts his hand and turns it, looking at the palm, the back of the hand. No visible scorch marks.
So he reaches forward and touches the man's cheek.
He only has a brief moment of contact before the man grabs his wrist, but even that brief moment is enough to confirm the adrenaline-feeling, and it's unmistakable once the man is holding his wrist. The feeling escalates to near unbearability in seconds, but by then the man has let go, and is giving Thomas the hard look again.
"I don't want to burn you," he says quietly. "I can tone it down, lad, but I need _warning_."
"I don't care," says Thomas fiercely, "I want more of it," and kisses the disgusting man as hard as he can.
The man responds immediately, hands tight on Thomas' shoulders (though he can't feel the strange adrenaline through the cloth) kissing Thomas in return for the barest fraction of a moment. The feeling of sheer power is even more intense with this contact; the space behind Thomas' eyes goes white with it.
Then the man pulls away, holds Thomas at arm's length. His voice trembles very slightly as he says, "That was a very, very stupid thing to do."
"I liked it," says Thomas, when he is again capable of speech, which is longer than it should be. "I don't know what the fuck's wrong with you, if you don't. Or is it only one way? Good."
"Whether I liked it," the man says, low-voiced, letting go of Thomas' shoulders, "is entirely beside the point. I don't want you to end up killing yourself because you don't know how to control your own power, or block mine--" He stops abruptly and gives Thomas another one of those hard looks.
Thomas smiles, toothily. "Teach me, then. I'm game."
"Just like that?" the man asks, raising an eyebrow. "Whence goes your fury, Thomas? You would apprentice yourself to me without even asking my name?"
"Don't be an idiot. If I disappeared without a trace, Grantaire would come looking for me, so I'm sure you don't mean to kill me. And I don't care what your name is. Probably something like John Bull."
The man laughs. "Alden," he says. "Alden will do."
"Alden, then." In French-accented Latin, he adds, "I don't like you."
There is another flicker of amusement on the man's face, but he doesn't respond to that last remark. He only says, "Shall we meet here tomorrow, same time? It will give you time to tell on me to Grantaire, and me to turn my flat into something mildly presentable."
"Absolument," says Thomas, and picks up the book from where it's dropped, dusting it off meticulously. "Aren't I looking forward to it."
But there is no reply, and when he looks up, the man is gone.
SUNDAY.
Thomas isn't punctual. He waits in a nearby café for twenty minutes, watching the park bench and seeing nobody, before he reluctantly decides that the man must be watching for him as well.
He looks around and sees a likely café opposite where he's sitting, and there is a man in a fedora, but it could be anybody. With even more reluctance he slinks to the bench.
It's another few minutes before he sees Alden. The man is across the Seine, down on the walkway that runs along the river, but Thomas recognizes him. No hat today, but he's wearing another slightly rumpled suit, and this morning he also has a shiny black cane. He walks with absolute confidence; that's how Thomas notices him.
Alden strolls up the stairway onto the street, and from there comes on a footbridge across the Seine. "Good morning, Thomas," he says, and sticks his free hand in his jacket pocket, coming out with a slightly crumpled paper bag. "Croissant?"
"No," says Thomas, politely enough. "I've eaten already, and I prefer my breakfast free of drugs."
"What a strangely untrusting young man you are," Alden murmurs, and unwraps a croissant for himself, sitting down next to Thomas and beginning to eat it. "Tell me, what did Grantaire have to say about all this?"
"Grantaire drugged my first cup of tea," Thomas says, and tries not to admire Alden's sense of style. He has the feeling that if he grants the man anything, Alden'll take the rest. "He says that trusting is the luxury of the very, very dull."
"Grantaire is a delightfully paranoid man," Alden says dryly. "Tell me, Thomas, if you are such a careful and untrusting boy, why did you do what you did, yesterday?"
"I told you. You wouldn't be so completely stupid as to kill me, and I don't have anything worth stealing, unless you have a fondness for Latin books. What's not to trust?"
Alden merely smiles, shakes his head minutely. "Thomas," he says, "I believe we should begin our lessons. You have not overexerted your magic in the past day, I trust?"
"No," snaps Thomas. "And I'm not a schoolboy. No need to be quite so dismissive."
"Quite so," Alden murmurs. "Thomas, how old are you?"
"Eighteen," he says, and raises his eyebrows. (Both of them, dammit.)
"Yes," Alden murmurs. "Eighteen." He sighs, and seems to put a thought aside. "Well. Can you call up fire, Thomas? Only a small flame."
Thomas snaps his fingers, trying very hard not to show the effort, and a little charge of flame appears over his thumb. It burns steadily and neatly. He reaches into his pocket for a cigarette with his other hand, and realises he's out. Dramatic gesture foiled, he settles for walking the flame on his knuckles like a coin.
"Good," Alden murmurs, and reaching out, deftly takes the flame from Thomas and closes his hand around it. "Another."
Thomas rolls his eyes and does it again. This time he exerts the little extra effort to make it burn blue-hot, so the air crackles around it.
Alden does not say anything this time. He merely watches the flame until Thomas is trying hard not to visibly show the effort, and then Alden takes this blue-white flame away, with no effort at all, and says, calmly, "Again."
He wordlessly holds forth another one. The sweat's standing on his brow.
It too is taken from him. "Again," Alden says evenly.
"Why?" asks Thomas. "If you're testing my limits, you could tell me."
(Nevertheless he does it again.)
"Because," Alden says quietly, taking this flame as well, "I know your limits, and they are higher than you think. Another flame, if you will."
Thomas rolls his eyes. "I don't have any matches, you know. Someone will notice this."
Another one. He's becoming short of breath, but damned if he'll tell this bastard that.
"No one will notice," Alden says, "I've made quite sure of that." He watches Thomas' flame pensively for a moment, then takes it. "Another."
Thomas is briefly startled, and the flame he produces is short and unimpressive. Between deep measured breaths, he says, "How?"
"How do you produce another flame?" Alden asks, "or how does no one notice?" This flame too he takes. "Another, Thomas."
"The second," Thomas says shortly, and knows he is going pale. Another.
That's something that hadn't yet occurred to him -- perhaps the man will drain him of power, for sport. He wonders if he should stop. He only has one more left him, if he wants to remain standing.
"By taking what's already there," Alden murmurs, "in people's heads. No one expects to see a boy producing flames out of nothing. They supply their own illusion, and I merely... enforce it. A ghost lighter. You cannot see it because you do not expect to see it." He takes Thomas' flame. "Another."
Thomas grits his teeth and calls the anger that's terribly close to the surface right now, and one more flame sits on his thumb, lightly scorching the skin. That's it. He'll be no good for the rest of the day.
Spitefully, when Alden reaches for it, he intensifies the heat enough to burn the man.
But Alden merely takes this flame too, with a laugh, and says dangerously, "Another, Thomas."
Thomas gives him a long look, and then reaches into his jacket, pulling out a box of matches.
Very deliberately, he strikes one, and holds it up in demonstration.
"No," Alden says, and neatly leans forward, and blows out the match. "That's your last effort? Good. One more. If you fall over, I promise I will catch you. Go past your limits, Thomas."
"Don't call me that," spits Thomas, and summoning all that he has, the match ignites again into flame.
The dizziness overwhelms him, but he remains standing, and blinks past the blurriness of his vision.
He'll pay for this in ten minutes, but for now he's willing to be ill all night if that means he can wipe that stupid half-smile off this idiot's face.
After a moment, Alden says, very firmly, "Stop. Stop, Thomas."
Thomas grins at him, all his teeth showing. "What, m'sieur, you don't want me to push my limits?" The world's beginning to go white around the edges.
"I don't want you to end up in a light coma for three days," Alden says sharply, "which will happen if you continue this. I told you, lad, I know your limits," and he snatches this last flame from Thomas' hands.
Thomas bows, and it's an excellent bow, and then he very slowly sits down, and only then does he let himself close his eyes.
He can feel the whiteness spreading; any minute now he will pass out, but that doesn't matter. He isn't looking forward to getting home after this.]
He dimly feels Alden sit down next to him, and then the man's hands are holding his, quite tightly, and the whiteness receeds, normal vision returning, although Thomas still feels disgustingly weak. The man is looking intently into his face.
"Pay close attention, Thomas," Alden says very softly. "This is your power. You have this to work with."
And something begins to happen.
It's very slow at first, but it builds, pushing up through Thomas' arms, filling his chest, and then his mind, like strong wine and bright sunlight, and behind it is the adreneline feeling, slowly, slowly growing nearly too strong to bear.
At the end of it, when Alden lets go of his hands and the sensations fade, Thomas feels as though he hasn't exerted any power at all today.
"That's yours," Alden tells him, with a small smile.
Thomas stares at the man, feeling very young and very foolish and hating both himself and Alden for feeling that way --
And after a very prolonged moment he lets himself smile back.
"You might be worth the time," he says, slowly, and leans back again, closing his eyes.
"Good," Alden murmurs, and stands. "Same place and same time tomorrow, then."
MONDAY.
The next day, Thomas comes somewhat more prepared.
He's asked Grantaire exhaustively about his contacts in the larger world, specifically the British sort, and Grantaire's explained that the man's a sort of diplomat, which is supremely unhelpful.
He's thought out his list of questions, he's done meditation so that he'll last longer today, and he's wearing a shirt that won't stain under sweat. He's also ostentatiously waiting today. He has brought a nail file, so that he can look as bored as possible.
He doesn't see Alden coming, though, until the man sits down next to him on the bench. He's dressed in the most peculiar clothes; tennis shoes, faded jeans, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, today. Thomas has the strong suspicion that Alden is dressed like this for the express purpose of throwing him off track.
"Good morning," Alden says mildly.
"Who are you?" asks Thomas, with equal politeness. "And why are you doing this?"
"Alden," the man returns, not looking at all surprised by this, "and I'm doing this because, as I told you, it's part of my job." He scrutinizes Thomas. "I'm glad to see that it only took you two days to investigate. I was beginning to worry."
Thomas shakes his head. "That's not an answer. Alden what, or what Alden? Alden of Green Gables, Alden the man in the iron mask? Where on earth are you from, besides England?"
Alden laughs, a strangely angry laugh, and gets to his feet. "John Alden," he says quietly. "I'm the only son of the late Lord Kent-- that same Kent as is in southern England, if you'd care to check an atlas. I do diplomatic work; quite frankly, I don't know who the lordship went to, and I don't much care." He looks back at Thomas. "Continue your interrogation, my lad."
"If you want it," he says, although if he's being completely truthful the straight answer surprises him more than a little. "Is it part of your job to dangle a mystery in front of magically potent little boys, so that they'll jump where you go, or is that just part of the kick for you?"
Alden laughs again, rather more darkly. "I assure you, it must be both." He sits back down and gives Thomas a thoughtful look. "Would you bother even one moment more with me, lad, if I stopped being intriguing?"
"That's a silly question." Thomas looks away. "If you stopped being mysterious, possibly. If you started being dull, of course not."
And if the intriguing quality's so obviously false, he thinks, even more of the second answer. He still hates charlatans, even from his educated position as one of them.
"I thought so," Alden murmurs. "Well, lad? Are you satisfied?"
"No," says Thomas sharply. "I want answers, Alden, I don't want you 'intriguing' me. If you need to be that secretive to keep me interested, I don't want to be interested." He's ticking over with anger again, which is good because at least it's familiar.
"Hence why I'm giving you your answers," Alden says with infuriating patience. "Pray continue your interrogation, lad."
"No, you're not," points out Thomas. "You didn't explain the nature of your job, and I asked most particularly."
"Did you," Alden says mildly. "I recall the question was whether my job entailed dangling enticing mysteries for you. I answered that. What else do you wish to know?"
"What," says Thomas, enunciating each word with great care, "do, you, do?"
"Diplomacy," Alden answers, with a little smile. "Although not, it appears, at the moment."
Thomas laughs, in spite of himself. "I was hoping you would say that. You see, the interesting thing is, I do have access to computers, and I know what the names are of the public English diplomats are, and not a one of them is named Alden. Unless you're Leslie Alden, and I'm quite sure you aren't; she was wearing a floral dress."
Alden laughs too, in what seems to be honest admiration. "My dear boy," he says, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not under the jurisdiction of the British government. No floral dresses for me."
"Good," says Thomas, and leans forward. "Although that does rule out the M-15 option. Whose jurisdiction are you under?"
"You're going to laugh at me," Alden says reflectively, and pulls a business card out of his pocket, handing it to Thomas. "Please feel free. I assure you, it's valid and legal, and if you care to do another computer search, you'll see that my organisation is valid, diplomatic, and entirely inaccessable to nosy teenagers."
Thomas reads the card, blinks, and then reads it again.
"Multidimensional peacekeeping?" he says, cheerfully. "You couldn't come up with a better one? Do tell me why I should believe you."
At the back of his head a little pulsating voice is asking, And if it's real?
That's immaterial. It isn't and it can't be.
"Because I'm not a stupid man," Alden says, with a small shrug, "and neither are you. Clearly a multidimensional peacekeeping agency is too insane to be a plausible lie."
"Oh, well, that's immensely reassuring," says Thomas bitterly. "I'm glad to hear I should believe in your high opinion of my common sense."
"Look it up on your little computer, then," Alden says gently, and stands. "My organisation will register."
"And if you -- are a," he reads the card again, "an agent of T. H. E. Y., then ... what have you approached me for?"
He flushes with the crack he hears in his own voice. It's faint, but it's there, and Alden, as he has said, is not a stupid man.
"Your magical abilities," Alden says distantly, "nothing more." He smiles slightly. "Of course I could say that I wanted you in my organisation, but of course you don't believe in it."
"I don't," says Thomas, and gets up as well.
"Keep the card," Alden says. "Look it up."
"I will," says Thomas, over his shoulder, and turns back long enough to say, "Tomorrow?"
"Yes," Alden says simply, and walks away.
It checks out.
TUESDAY.
Thomas is reading when Alden comes the next day, an organic chemistry text, as his work's suffered a bit for the training, and his magic is sparking in his head as he stamps it onto the surface of his mind. It's tiring but it's the only way he'll remember the difference between propanol and propane.
"Morning," Alden says, sitting down next to him. He's in a stereotypical secret-agent black trenchcoat today. "What the hell is that book?"
"Idiocy." Thomas turns the cover to him. "Chemistry. The words are synonyms."
"I believe that," Alden says dryly. "Shall you set aside your idiocy in favour of some magical training, lad?"
"Don't call me that," he says absently, and drops the book on the bench. "What are we going to do today? Push rocks up hills? Try to eat receding apples?"
"No," Alden says, and pulls a small clear orb from his pocket. "Today, I want you to do your flame-lighting trick again, without the fire. I want you to put your power into this little globe. And when you're nearly out, I want you to take it back."
"I can do that," says Thomas.
He reaches for the globe, and lets the power slip into it, carefully, quickly at first and then more slowly as it begins to hurt.
It's tricky seeing where the power should go and how to not let it slip past the globe, but except for a few escaping tendrils of it, the magic goes properly in. For help he calls on the sensation of drawing power from Alden's face and lips.
Again he can barely stand, but the globe is almost full, warm to the touch.
Now for the finicky bit. He puts his hand on the side of the globe, calls up the memory of kissing Alden again, and the power begins to trickle back into his hand. It's agonisingly slow, though, and after a minute he stops, and frowns at the globe.
"Do you like this globe, particularly?" he asks Alden. No need to be rude.
"Do you mean to damage it?" Alden asks mildly, and shrugs. "Feel free."
Thomas tosses it from hand to hand, and then drops it onto the concrete, sticking out a foot in case it bounces into the Seine. It doesn't -- it shatters satisfyingly and he holds out his hands and feels his power rush back into them, through his blood. It's like being savaged by wind and he loves it.
"Technically cheating," Alden murmurs, "but effective." He regards Thomas closely for a few moments, and says finally, "Well done."
"Thank you," says Thomas, and kicks the glass over the edge. "I try."
"That was all I had for today," Alden adds. "I am curious, Thomas, if you still believe I'm lying to you about my work."
Thomas shrugs. "You're real enough; I think your nonchalant training attitude isn't. You may want to train me, but if that's all you're doing here, you're spending days in Paris for a ten minute span of nothing much. I'd be shocked. I have to wonder, what's here that's so tumultuous so that the peace needs to be kept?"
Alden grins. "I'm on my leave time, lad, and I thought France might be a nice place for a bit of a holiday. You are entirely incidental, and ten minutes a day is all I can spare, what with all these galleries and things I'm visiting."
"You're lying to me," says Thomas, without much interest. "State secrets, or are you just bored?"
"I hate France," Alden says cheerfully. "I am on leave, lad, and I am bored, but I was planning to be bored in England, like any sane Englishman. However, in London I ran into a girl. Three guesses what she said to me in greeting."
Thomas sits up, trying to maintain the half-lidded expression he has going. "And what's your fortune, John Alden?"
"Find a boy, she said." Alden gazes out at the river. "She added quite helpfully that this boy's name was not Thomas Edgar Moore, so of course I had to find you."
"It isn't," he says, looking at the river, and picks up a stray piece of glass, turning it over. "Thomas Moore is very nearly a British saint, not a French master of parlor tricks, m'sieur."
"What is your name, lad?" Alden asks softly.
Thomas looks at him. "I don't have one," he says. "...Thomas is easier than being 'hey, you,' that's all."
"Something French, I suppose," Alden says, and there's only the slightest hint of desdain in his voice. "A secret, lad: Alden is my mother's name. It isn't remotely legal, in the technical sense, for me to wear it. But it's better than John Kent, and that is something. I recommend you name yourself as soon as you can."
Thomas smiles briefly. "I'll let you know when I know, m'sieur."
"Get on it, then," Alden says, rising. "--Oh, and..." He digs in his pockets, produces two more little orbs, hands them to Thomas. "Practise."
Thomas takes them, one in each hand, and resists the urge to juggle.
"Same time tomorrow, then," Alden says.
"Yeah," says Thomas, and turns to go.
The following morning Alden is waiting at the bench when Thomas arrives, and he has six more orbs in a shopping bag. He greets Thomas with, "I assume you recovered your power by breaking the orbs I gave you, if you have done your homework."
"I always do my homework," says Thomas, and tosses one orb to Alden. "I tried it the slow way on this. Dull and slow. But you can have it back. My aunt has begun to wonder why I am coming home dripping in sweat yet apparently unfatigued and with a voracious appetite. I've told her I'm a streetwalker."
"How did your aunt take to that one?" Alden murmurs.
"She told me to keep warm and watch out for diseases," Thomas says, and frowns at the shopping bag. "I have a moderated test tomorrow, you know. Passing marks for university Latin."
"And you believe that you won't pass without your magic," Alden says, his voice dripping scorn, "to help you."
Thomas raises an eyebrow, and is briefly proud of himself. "Spare me, m'sieur. Please."
Alden smiles faintly. "Do your excercise with the orb," he says, "and if you do it well I shall make absolutely sure that you have more than enough energy for your Latin exam."
Thomas looks up hurriedly. "That sounds like an interesting promise," he says. "The quick way, or do you want to keep the orb?"
"I want this orb intact," Alden says. "If you're going to cheat on your exam, you are not going to cheat with this."
"I'm not cheating on my exam," mutters Thomas, focusing on the orb but not starting just yet. "Magic is one of my inborn abilities and I'd been using it subconsciously for ages for just this. It would be an unfair disadvantage if I stopped."
"Of course," Alden murmurs. It's impossible to tell whether or not he means it sarcastically.
"Shut up," Thomas says quietly, and slips his power into the orb. He's extremely careful, and when the magic loss begins to leave him breathless he sits down, calmly, and packs bits in behind other bits until he's poured what feels like the entirety of himself into the little crystal ball.
Slowly he begins the process of taking it out, searching for the cracks (between the molecules, he supposes) that will let the magic escape. A few times it seems to be getting away from him, and he has to pause to take it back.
It's an aggravating seven minutes that pass, and the ticking of his watch is painfully loud.
But he is, finally done, and he hands the empty orb in silence to Alden.
"Excellent," Alden says quietly, and gives Thomas a close look. "That should be more than enough to get you through your test. Do you want the extra even so?"
Thomas looks at him steadily. "I don't want it to get me through the test," he says.
"Ah," says Alden, and laughs softly. "What do you want it for, Thomas?"
"Power for the sake of power," sing-songs Thomas, intentionally childish. "Haven't you ever read your Orwell?"
"Certainly," Alden murmurs, and gives Thomas a long look, then holds out a hand. "Very well, then."
Thomas gives him an exasperated sigh, and pulls him into a kiss.
Alden seizes Thomas' shoulders and kisses him in return. The sheer power isn't burning this time; it's a too-warm tingling itch, on the painful side of pleasant rather than breathtaking, and Thomas can think enough this time to note distantly that Alden is a very good kisser, sheer power or no.
It's quite a while before Alden breaks the kiss.
"Thank you," says Thomas, tugging at the crumpled bottom of his shirt. "That will do nicely."
Alden laughs again, the soft dark laugh. "Same time tomorrow, Thomas, or do you have your exam?"
"The exam will be over by noon." Thomas looks up at him. "Is there a reason you always leave after ten minutes, or is that all you can stand of my company?"
"My lessons are never overly long," Alden says, with a shrug, "and I recall being your age and completely horrified at the thought of spending more than ten minutes at a time with my instructor." A slight smirk. "Why, Thomas, are you inviting me out for a stroll?"
"No," says Thomas in absolute horror. "God, no. Go and look at famous portraits, m'sieur. I have to study." He stretches and stands, picking up the shopping bag, and feels the crackle of the little extra bit of power beneath his skin. It's absolutely exhilarating.
He wonders what it must be like to be this man, and feel the blinding weight of his power all the time.
When he gets home, he begins to research power transfer.
WEDNESDAY.
In an act of not-revenge, Thomas takes the test the first time through without magical aid, calling on the imprinted memories only to doublecheck his work. Simultaneous translation from French into Latin is more difficult today, and he eyes the orb in his back pocket with total malevolence.
He's sick of this, all of a sudden, and he means to tell Alden this vacation apprenticeship is off, but the man comes and he stays silent, so perhaps it will be saved for later.
"Did your test go well?" Alden asks by way of greeting, sitting down beside him.
"Oui," says Thomas, and hands him the remaining orb. "Although the teacher wondered rather about my worry ball."
Alden laughs. "We're moving on to something else today, actually, so you might have spared yourself the grief." He stands, gazes out over Paris with his hands shoved in the pockets of his trenchcoat. "Tell me, Thomas-- if you could, how would you use your magic? Let's assume a power level equal to mine."
Thomas gives him a slanted glance. "What are you, my fairy godmother?"
"No," Alden says, looking sideways at him. "I know you want the power, but I don't know what you hope to achieve by it. If I know, I can find the methods and focus we shall need to pursue."
The Seine is terribly brown today, and a pair of American tourists are commenting on it in loud, eargrating English. Thomas gestures at them. "The first thing I would do -- am doing -- is to never be them. French should have been my first language. I want it to not be. And then..." He tries to look thoughtful. "I suppose I'd have to think about it."
Know what people want, he thinks, and use it to my heart's content. But Alden doesn't need to know that.
Alden gives Thomas an uncomfortably knowing look, and Thomas has the fleeting suspicion that Alden already uses his powers in that particular way. All Alden says, however, is, "If you only use your magic to learn French, my dear boy, I don't see why you're spending so much time listening to me. Becoming a Frenchman only takes as much power as you already know how to use."
"I want to be able to use my power to do whatever I like. Which takes more power than either you or I have, m'sieur. I don't have specific goals, because I don't dare limit myself to inconsequentialities." Thomas narrows his eyes. "Of course you knew when you were sixteen exactly what you wanted to do with your power for the rest of your life."
Alden laughs, quiet and delighted. "I assure you, lad, seduction can be done quite easily without magic."
"Cute," says Thomas, and turns away. "And exactly what I meant by 'limiting.'"
"Very well," says Alden. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye?" asks Thomas. "You ask me a question, I cannot answer it, and you depart?"
"Clearly your goals are too big, too nebulous," Alden says, shrugging. "I can do nothing more with you."
Thomas stares. "You can teach me to discipline my powers only if I can spit out some pat little mission statement?"
"No," Alden says patiently. "I don't want a mission statement. I want a direction. Hell, lad, it's not a binding contract; I simply need some way to focus your power."
"Don't call me that," he says. "Fine. Before, you talked about illusions and what was in someone's head."
"Ah." Alden smiles. "Psychology, is it."
"If you call it that." Thomas tilts his head back. "Let's say I want to change people's minds."
"You can't," Alden says. "Not like that. I can't reach inside people's minds, lad. However..." He reaches into a pocket, holds up a silvery skeleton key. It glints in the sunlight. "What is this?"
"Not a key," Thomas snaps, "or you wouldn't be asking me that."
Alden laughs. "Oh, very good." He tosses the thing to Thomas.
It is a key, that much is obvious. It's a key unlike anything Thomas has ever seen; blinking with little lights and intricate carvings. It looks like a combination computer plug-in and high-tech key from a heist movie, and not much like a skeleton key at all.
"Tolerable. You're easily satisfied," he mutters, and turns the key over and over, fascinated. "Where does this come from? It's so complicated."
The thought occurs to him, It's beautiful, but that he doesn't say out loud.
"It comes from my agency's headquarters," Alden says. "Hell if I know what it's for. Something technological."
Thomas laughs. "And therefore offensive to the proper mind."
"Quite," Alden says, and gestures, and the key-thing flies from Thomas' hands. "The point," Alden continues, pocketing it, "is that, although you knew it was not a skeleton key, you still saw it so."
"Did you bend the light itself, or my perception of it?" asks Thomas, reaching for a pen. "Did everyone else see the same thing? And did you?"
"I saw what was there, because I knew it," Alden says. "And I did nothing so delightfully technical as bend light, my boy. Bending reality is far easier. What does it look like? A skeleton key. Why, then, so it is. You live, more or less, in reality. It is a skeleton key."
"And how?" asks Thomas. He is, to steal a cliché, on fire with curiosity -- but that is exactly how it feels, as though all his borrowed power is crawling on the underside of his skin. "How do you do that?"
"That," Alden says, with a small smile, "is the tricky bit." He sits down again on the bench next to Thomas, lounging slightly more than is necessary. "Are you an artist, Thomas?"
"Of a sort," says Thomas, cautiously. "I draw, and I have an easel at home."
"Fair enough." Alden frowns slightly, gazing into the middle distance. "Unless you're a disciple of the so-called modernist movement where hardly anything really artistic is taken into account and paint is thrown everywhere in a completely ridiculous manner, you'll know at least something of perspective." He glances at Thomas. "Yes? Perspective, that optical illusion of three dimensions on a flat space."
Thomas contents himself with, "Yes," trying to contain in that word the full depth of his total distaste for idiots who ask artists if they know what perspective is, and also for those unable to appreciate the Pompidou.
Alden laughs. "Indeed. My point is that the brain knows intellectually that the paper is a flat space, but it will nevertheless wholeheartedly buy into the little story of dimensions. You, my lad, saw my key and immediately intellectually knew that it was a trick, could not possibly be a key. But below your cleverness, boy, your mind still translated a key you did not know into a key you did. I merely exerted pressure. Mathematical lines. You did the rest yourself."
Thomas thinks about this, and puts his hand out for the key again.
Alden tosses it casually to him.
The shape of the key remains inexorably strange and alien, no matter how he turns it, and he can't see quite how Alden does it. Grantaire has never mentioned anything like this before.
Blue, he thinks, firmly. It should be blue.
It isn't blue.
"Stop imagining what it might be," Alden murmurs. "Tell it what it is."
He cups his hands around the key and says to himself, Blue.
It's the same way he thinks in French, he decides. It must be French, and so it is. Blue.
It still looks the same to him, but Alden murmurs, "That's a delightfully powder-blue electronic key you have there, lad."
"I think it's tasteful," says Thomas, and tilts it, trying to see the effect. "Are there ways of seeing around it?"
"Yes," Alden says. "For example, I know what that key is. I see it the way you wish me to, but I also see it as it is. That is the easiest way to see around something. The other way is active skepticism. Never trust a single damn thing you see, and perhaps, roughly half the time, you'll see what's really there."
Thomas scowls. "That's a terribly thorough guarantee."
"I never promised it would be easy," Alden says wryly, and holds out a hand for the key.
"May I keep it?" Thomas asks. "As you're so clear on its purpose."
"No," Alden says. "I trust you're quite sharp enough to find some use for it."
Thomas withdraws his power from the key and hands it back. "If only for modern sculpture."
Alden laughs and pockets it. "If only for modern sculpture indeed. You strike fear into my heart, lad."
"I should. I'm terrifying." Thomas lifts the bag. "Grantaire wants me tomorrow; picking pockets or something along those lines. I think he may be jealous, m'sieur."
"Of me?" Alden laughs again, rather more darkly. "What a silly man."
"Yes," says Thomas, thoughtfully. "But he taught me what he knew."
"I still believe jealousy isn't the word you're looking for," Alden murmurs, standing. "Same time tomorrow, Thomas, and when I arrive here I want you to be holding something that looks like it is not."
Thomas laughs and leaves. That's too easy a challenge by far.
Grantaire doesn't take it well when Thomas announces that he can't make a daylight meeting, but he's perfectly willing to stay up all night in Montmartre working on whatever Grantaire might choose, which assuages the man's pride somewhat. They practice locks and Grantaire casually tries to get into his trousers. It's nothing special.
THURSDAY.
The next day Thomas is waiting on the bridge, holding a good deal of money and looking innocent. He's approached by at least two pickpockets before Alden shows up, both of whom are Grantaire's men and will report back to him with piles of dead leaves.
He's a traditionalist, he supposes.
"Either," Alden says, upon strolling up to him from his walk down along the Seine, "you and Grantaire had a grand old time last night, or you have fairy gold, lad."
"I was always fond of those legends." He had been. So many pretty boys named Tom, spirited off to points unknown. "I live in hope that the Sidhe are one of the fantasies based in fact, and any day now the British Isles will be recolonised."
"If there are fairies, I've never seen them," Alden says, shrugging this off entirely. He holds out a hand. "Give me one of your lovely euros."
Thomas hands it to him, carefully. He'd worked extra hard on this job; the texture is even briefly convincing, before the magic sputters when it leaves contact with his body.
Alden rubs his thumb along it. "Leaf," he says after a moment. "Dryish, not long fallen." He hands it back. "Excellently done."
"I know," says Thomas. "My work usually is."
"Indeed," Alden murmurs, but does not council him on the foolishness of overconfidence. He merely steps back and says, "The illusion will hold for longer if I back up your spell. Shall we go buy ourselves lunch?"
"Why, Alden, you'll let yourself be seen in public with me? I'm shocked." Thomas gestures to a nearby café. "I haven't been in there yet. My treat."
"Thank you," Alden murmurs, with only the slightest edge of sarcasm to his grace, and follows Thomas in.
Thomas sits by the window and orders espresso and a croissant, things he hasn't had in a week or so. His aunt is not fond of the concept of pocket money. It's a petty pleasure to speak casual French in front of this man, as well, if only for the extra effort Alden has to make to translate.
Alden has black tea and a small thin loaf of bread, and looks like he's vaguely in shock at voluntarily eating remotely French food.
"So," he says-- in French, with the magic enabling his speech lurking around the edges-- "how did you become so enamoured of this country anyway?"
Thomas blinks. It's a bit like being asked how he became so enamoured of breathing. "It's France," he says, by way of explanation.
"Ah," Alden murmurs, and laughs. "And your opinion on merry old England, then?"
"I left as soon as I could," points out Thomas, and delicately takes a bite of the croissant. "Sooner than I could, really. I think that says much. Why would anyone willingly admit to being English, John Alden? Tell me that."
"I suppose," Alden says thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, "it's because the English may be pompous bastards who, at one time or another, owned half the world, but at least they've come to terms with it. The Americans and the French, to name a few with grand empires, are so self-important they can't see out of their own arses. I'm quite proud to know where I stand, lad."
"But at least in Paris it isn't considered a virtue to be tepid," Thomas says. "I'll pass on the joys of self-aware mediocrity, thank you so much."
Alden laughs delightedly. "So you shall live in the secure knowledge that you are enjoying the greatest city there ever was, while meanwhile the world laughs at your folly. How very... French of you."
"I don't think you understand," says Thomas, carefully setting down his coffee. "France is what it is precisely because of how it despises itself, even as it deifies itself. If we don't tear down the infrastructure of our society every few months, we aren't doing our jobs as Parisians. No, Paris isn't the greatest city there ever was, only because we strive towards that every day."
"That's disgusting," Alden says, grinning. "You read too much Hugo as a child."
"There is no such thing as too much Hugo," Thomas says primly. "Drink your tea. I want my power back."
"Did it go somewhere?" Alden asks mildy.
Thomas gestures at the 'money' in his wallet. "People keep staring."
"Aha," Alden says, and drains his tea, and stands. "Out we go, then."
"Thank you," says Thomas, and pays, leaving the café regretfully. It had been fairly good espresso; it's a shame they won't let him back in.
"May I keep the leaves?" Alden asks.
Thomas tilts his head. "And do what with them?"
"Examine them," Alden says. "I've only had a brief feel for your magic."
"'I trust you're quite sharp enough to find some use for it,'" says Thomas, mockingly.
Alden laughs again. "My dear boy, I'm not going to-- to use voodoo on them, or whatever you might be thinking."
"Forgive me for my lack of utter trust in you," Thomas says. He pats Alden's shoulder consolingly. "Maybe when we've gotten to know each other better."
"I do believe it's only fair," Alden murmurs. "You still haven't used up that extra bit of power I gave you the other day. I can tell the difference between mine and yours, you know."
Thomas rolls his eyes and hands over the leaves. "Cheat."
"Certainly," Alden says mildly. "I'm sure, once I've had a good look at these, that I shall have something new and exciting for you to do tomorrow."
"Like twitch, as you stick pins in a little doll?" says Thomas, but he's smiling. Mostly.
"My dear boy," says Alden, looking straight at Thomas, "controlling you in so obvious and crude a way would take all the fun out of it."
Thomas laughs. "You're only a shade off already," he informs the man, and saunters home.
Halfway there, he realises almost to his horror that he's whistling.
Part Two...
SATURDAY.
The sky is muggy today, and Thomas sits in the worst of it, looking down at the Seine from his perch on a bench. His schoolbook lies next to him. He thinks he could not be more sick of reading about declensions if he tried actively to make himself ill.
Grantaire hadn't come last night, either. Some important sting, probably. Thomas doesn't care.
He wants coffee, but he's spent his last euro on breakfast, and is morosely considering pawning the Latin book.
A shadow falls across his book, but Thomas doesn't bother to look up until the shadow-caster actually sits down next to him.
"Do you mind?" he says in the French he's still pushing into his brain, and gives the man a raking glare.
Said man is wearing a black hat best suited to the nineteenth century, and clothing slightly too rumpled to look posh. He gives Thomas a politely uncomprehending look, and says, quite atrociously, "Je parle... English."
Thomas hates him immediately. "Je ne veux pas parler anglais," he says. "Go bother someone more your class. That streetsweeper looks lonely."
A quick, not entirely pleasant grin flashes across the man's face. "And I believe French sounds hideous," he returns, this time in quite perfect French, although Thomas still hates the sound of it. He can just hear the English lurking beneath the words.
Thomas gets to his feet and tries the bow he's worked on, but it comes out an awkward affair, as though he's a puppet with cut strings. "Then I don't see how we could have a conversation, as we'd only grate on each other's ears," he says pleasantly. "Good day, and fuck off."
The man grins again, and it's as slightly disturbing as the first grin was, although there is more genuine humour in it. "You're one of Grantaire's boys."
Thomas stares. Grantaire's friends never move in daylight.
After a moment, he says, his throat quite dry, "Are you another?"
The man rolls his eyes. "Tell me your name," he says in English, soft, slightly mocking, and, switching to French, "No. I merely know him."
"Does no one have anything better to do than to know too much about my life?" he demands, and picks up his books. "I don't have time for this stupidity."
The man gives him a long hard look. "You're a fool, lad." English. He seems to remember himself, and switches to the French for, "Grantaire knows enough to start you on the path to what you want to be, but no more than that. There are abilities within you that he does not know how to tap."
Thomas refuses to be impressed by this man. He's surrounded by rhetoric here. It doesn't mean that someone who's better at it necessarily knows what he's talking about, especially when that someone's a cryptic babbler of an Englishman.
Even so, he hasn't left yet.
"What talents are these?" he asks, shortly.
The man smiles slightly and snaps his fingers. A small flame, like a light without the lighter, appears above his fingertips.
Thomas can do that, but only after a minute of concentration, and only then for a moment. This man does it effortlessly.
"And how do I know I'll be able to that?" says Thomas. "Grantaire says my magical abilities are limited. And after lighting fires last night, I can't do a bit of magic today."
This isn't quite true, but he doesn't feel the need to share that.
"Grantaire was a fool for telling you so," the man says shortly. "It is easy to go far when you don't know your own limitations. However... he was correct. You do have certain limitations on your magic, limitations that can be pushed back by any number of things. Discipline. Heightened emotions. Practise. Someone," and here his voice goes disdainful, "who has learned to train their own magic, rather than only that of others."
Thomas is abruptly breathless. "What's in it for you?" he says, in English, unable for the moment to think in French. "What on earth is your angle?"
"My job," the man says, and he's smirking, smirking, still speaking in French, "often entails finding young people, like yourself, who show potential for greatness, and making sure that they do not dead-end their lives by limiting themselves to well-meaning but short-sighted people like Grantaire."
Thomas can feel the rage pushing aside all the amazement. Good. He isn't used to wonder.
He throws the Latin book underarmed at the man. "Stop being a prat," he informs him. "I don't wish to learn a damned thing from someone who sounds as though he thinks he's the best thing ever to happen to Paris, especially when he can't even speak proper French. Don't think I can't hear the spell, m'sieur."
The man laughs, quite delightedly, catching the book. He flips it open and skims through it. "How do you manage to go about learning two languages at once?"
"Latin's the root language of French. Are you brain-damaged?" That's it, decides Thomas. He has had quite enough of this, and he is ready to leave.
Departure is not as simple an act as it is made out to be.
"Yes, and if I was to learn the root languages of English I'd be up all night studying Latin and German," the man says mildly. "Would you like your book back, Thomas?"
"I'd like to stop being patronised, but I don't seem to be likely to get either," he snaps. "Yes."
Something subtle changes in the man's face. "Here," he says quietly, in English this time, and hands over the book, in such a way that Thomas can't avoid a brief moment of contact with the man's hand.
He feels a jolt of sheer power. It's not like touching the electrical outlet; rather, it's like adrenaline, and leaves Thomas momentarily breathless.
He lifts his hand and turns it, looking at the palm, the back of the hand. No visible scorch marks.
So he reaches forward and touches the man's cheek.
He only has a brief moment of contact before the man grabs his wrist, but even that brief moment is enough to confirm the adrenaline-feeling, and it's unmistakable once the man is holding his wrist. The feeling escalates to near unbearability in seconds, but by then the man has let go, and is giving Thomas the hard look again.
"I don't want to burn you," he says quietly. "I can tone it down, lad, but I need _warning_."
"I don't care," says Thomas fiercely, "I want more of it," and kisses the disgusting man as hard as he can.
The man responds immediately, hands tight on Thomas' shoulders (though he can't feel the strange adrenaline through the cloth) kissing Thomas in return for the barest fraction of a moment. The feeling of sheer power is even more intense with this contact; the space behind Thomas' eyes goes white with it.
Then the man pulls away, holds Thomas at arm's length. His voice trembles very slightly as he says, "That was a very, very stupid thing to do."
"I liked it," says Thomas, when he is again capable of speech, which is longer than it should be. "I don't know what the fuck's wrong with you, if you don't. Or is it only one way? Good."
"Whether I liked it," the man says, low-voiced, letting go of Thomas' shoulders, "is entirely beside the point. I don't want you to end up killing yourself because you don't know how to control your own power, or block mine--" He stops abruptly and gives Thomas another one of those hard looks.
Thomas smiles, toothily. "Teach me, then. I'm game."
"Just like that?" the man asks, raising an eyebrow. "Whence goes your fury, Thomas? You would apprentice yourself to me without even asking my name?"
"Don't be an idiot. If I disappeared without a trace, Grantaire would come looking for me, so I'm sure you don't mean to kill me. And I don't care what your name is. Probably something like John Bull."
The man laughs. "Alden," he says. "Alden will do."
"Alden, then." In French-accented Latin, he adds, "I don't like you."
There is another flicker of amusement on the man's face, but he doesn't respond to that last remark. He only says, "Shall we meet here tomorrow, same time? It will give you time to tell on me to Grantaire, and me to turn my flat into something mildly presentable."
"Absolument," says Thomas, and picks up the book from where it's dropped, dusting it off meticulously. "Aren't I looking forward to it."
But there is no reply, and when he looks up, the man is gone.
SUNDAY.
Thomas isn't punctual. He waits in a nearby café for twenty minutes, watching the park bench and seeing nobody, before he reluctantly decides that the man must be watching for him as well.
He looks around and sees a likely café opposite where he's sitting, and there is a man in a fedora, but it could be anybody. With even more reluctance he slinks to the bench.
It's another few minutes before he sees Alden. The man is across the Seine, down on the walkway that runs along the river, but Thomas recognizes him. No hat today, but he's wearing another slightly rumpled suit, and this morning he also has a shiny black cane. He walks with absolute confidence; that's how Thomas notices him.
Alden strolls up the stairway onto the street, and from there comes on a footbridge across the Seine. "Good morning, Thomas," he says, and sticks his free hand in his jacket pocket, coming out with a slightly crumpled paper bag. "Croissant?"
"No," says Thomas, politely enough. "I've eaten already, and I prefer my breakfast free of drugs."
"What a strangely untrusting young man you are," Alden murmurs, and unwraps a croissant for himself, sitting down next to Thomas and beginning to eat it. "Tell me, what did Grantaire have to say about all this?"
"Grantaire drugged my first cup of tea," Thomas says, and tries not to admire Alden's sense of style. He has the feeling that if he grants the man anything, Alden'll take the rest. "He says that trusting is the luxury of the very, very dull."
"Grantaire is a delightfully paranoid man," Alden says dryly. "Tell me, Thomas, if you are such a careful and untrusting boy, why did you do what you did, yesterday?"
"I told you. You wouldn't be so completely stupid as to kill me, and I don't have anything worth stealing, unless you have a fondness for Latin books. What's not to trust?"
Alden merely smiles, shakes his head minutely. "Thomas," he says, "I believe we should begin our lessons. You have not overexerted your magic in the past day, I trust?"
"No," snaps Thomas. "And I'm not a schoolboy. No need to be quite so dismissive."
"Quite so," Alden murmurs. "Thomas, how old are you?"
"Eighteen," he says, and raises his eyebrows. (Both of them, dammit.)
"Yes," Alden murmurs. "Eighteen." He sighs, and seems to put a thought aside. "Well. Can you call up fire, Thomas? Only a small flame."
Thomas snaps his fingers, trying very hard not to show the effort, and a little charge of flame appears over his thumb. It burns steadily and neatly. He reaches into his pocket for a cigarette with his other hand, and realises he's out. Dramatic gesture foiled, he settles for walking the flame on his knuckles like a coin.
"Good," Alden murmurs, and reaching out, deftly takes the flame from Thomas and closes his hand around it. "Another."
Thomas rolls his eyes and does it again. This time he exerts the little extra effort to make it burn blue-hot, so the air crackles around it.
Alden does not say anything this time. He merely watches the flame until Thomas is trying hard not to visibly show the effort, and then Alden takes this blue-white flame away, with no effort at all, and says, calmly, "Again."
He wordlessly holds forth another one. The sweat's standing on his brow.
It too is taken from him. "Again," Alden says evenly.
"Why?" asks Thomas. "If you're testing my limits, you could tell me."
(Nevertheless he does it again.)
"Because," Alden says quietly, taking this flame as well, "I know your limits, and they are higher than you think. Another flame, if you will."
Thomas rolls his eyes. "I don't have any matches, you know. Someone will notice this."
Another one. He's becoming short of breath, but damned if he'll tell this bastard that.
"No one will notice," Alden says, "I've made quite sure of that." He watches Thomas' flame pensively for a moment, then takes it. "Another."
Thomas is briefly startled, and the flame he produces is short and unimpressive. Between deep measured breaths, he says, "How?"
"How do you produce another flame?" Alden asks, "or how does no one notice?" This flame too he takes. "Another, Thomas."
"The second," Thomas says shortly, and knows he is going pale. Another.
That's something that hadn't yet occurred to him -- perhaps the man will drain him of power, for sport. He wonders if he should stop. He only has one more left him, if he wants to remain standing.
"By taking what's already there," Alden murmurs, "in people's heads. No one expects to see a boy producing flames out of nothing. They supply their own illusion, and I merely... enforce it. A ghost lighter. You cannot see it because you do not expect to see it." He takes Thomas' flame. "Another."
Thomas grits his teeth and calls the anger that's terribly close to the surface right now, and one more flame sits on his thumb, lightly scorching the skin. That's it. He'll be no good for the rest of the day.
Spitefully, when Alden reaches for it, he intensifies the heat enough to burn the man.
But Alden merely takes this flame too, with a laugh, and says dangerously, "Another, Thomas."
Thomas gives him a long look, and then reaches into his jacket, pulling out a box of matches.
Very deliberately, he strikes one, and holds it up in demonstration.
"No," Alden says, and neatly leans forward, and blows out the match. "That's your last effort? Good. One more. If you fall over, I promise I will catch you. Go past your limits, Thomas."
"Don't call me that," spits Thomas, and summoning all that he has, the match ignites again into flame.
The dizziness overwhelms him, but he remains standing, and blinks past the blurriness of his vision.
He'll pay for this in ten minutes, but for now he's willing to be ill all night if that means he can wipe that stupid half-smile off this idiot's face.
After a moment, Alden says, very firmly, "Stop. Stop, Thomas."
Thomas grins at him, all his teeth showing. "What, m'sieur, you don't want me to push my limits?" The world's beginning to go white around the edges.
"I don't want you to end up in a light coma for three days," Alden says sharply, "which will happen if you continue this. I told you, lad, I know your limits," and he snatches this last flame from Thomas' hands.
Thomas bows, and it's an excellent bow, and then he very slowly sits down, and only then does he let himself close his eyes.
He can feel the whiteness spreading; any minute now he will pass out, but that doesn't matter. He isn't looking forward to getting home after this.]
He dimly feels Alden sit down next to him, and then the man's hands are holding his, quite tightly, and the whiteness receeds, normal vision returning, although Thomas still feels disgustingly weak. The man is looking intently into his face.
"Pay close attention, Thomas," Alden says very softly. "This is your power. You have this to work with."
And something begins to happen.
It's very slow at first, but it builds, pushing up through Thomas' arms, filling his chest, and then his mind, like strong wine and bright sunlight, and behind it is the adreneline feeling, slowly, slowly growing nearly too strong to bear.
At the end of it, when Alden lets go of his hands and the sensations fade, Thomas feels as though he hasn't exerted any power at all today.
"That's yours," Alden tells him, with a small smile.
Thomas stares at the man, feeling very young and very foolish and hating both himself and Alden for feeling that way --
And after a very prolonged moment he lets himself smile back.
"You might be worth the time," he says, slowly, and leans back again, closing his eyes.
"Good," Alden murmurs, and stands. "Same place and same time tomorrow, then."
MONDAY.
The next day, Thomas comes somewhat more prepared.
He's asked Grantaire exhaustively about his contacts in the larger world, specifically the British sort, and Grantaire's explained that the man's a sort of diplomat, which is supremely unhelpful.
He's thought out his list of questions, he's done meditation so that he'll last longer today, and he's wearing a shirt that won't stain under sweat. He's also ostentatiously waiting today. He has brought a nail file, so that he can look as bored as possible.
He doesn't see Alden coming, though, until the man sits down next to him on the bench. He's dressed in the most peculiar clothes; tennis shoes, faded jeans, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, today. Thomas has the strong suspicion that Alden is dressed like this for the express purpose of throwing him off track.
"Good morning," Alden says mildly.
"Who are you?" asks Thomas, with equal politeness. "And why are you doing this?"
"Alden," the man returns, not looking at all surprised by this, "and I'm doing this because, as I told you, it's part of my job." He scrutinizes Thomas. "I'm glad to see that it only took you two days to investigate. I was beginning to worry."
Thomas shakes his head. "That's not an answer. Alden what, or what Alden? Alden of Green Gables, Alden the man in the iron mask? Where on earth are you from, besides England?"
Alden laughs, a strangely angry laugh, and gets to his feet. "John Alden," he says quietly. "I'm the only son of the late Lord Kent-- that same Kent as is in southern England, if you'd care to check an atlas. I do diplomatic work; quite frankly, I don't know who the lordship went to, and I don't much care." He looks back at Thomas. "Continue your interrogation, my lad."
"If you want it," he says, although if he's being completely truthful the straight answer surprises him more than a little. "Is it part of your job to dangle a mystery in front of magically potent little boys, so that they'll jump where you go, or is that just part of the kick for you?"
Alden laughs again, rather more darkly. "I assure you, it must be both." He sits back down and gives Thomas a thoughtful look. "Would you bother even one moment more with me, lad, if I stopped being intriguing?"
"That's a silly question." Thomas looks away. "If you stopped being mysterious, possibly. If you started being dull, of course not."
And if the intriguing quality's so obviously false, he thinks, even more of the second answer. He still hates charlatans, even from his educated position as one of them.
"I thought so," Alden murmurs. "Well, lad? Are you satisfied?"
"No," says Thomas sharply. "I want answers, Alden, I don't want you 'intriguing' me. If you need to be that secretive to keep me interested, I don't want to be interested." He's ticking over with anger again, which is good because at least it's familiar.
"Hence why I'm giving you your answers," Alden says with infuriating patience. "Pray continue your interrogation, lad."
"No, you're not," points out Thomas. "You didn't explain the nature of your job, and I asked most particularly."
"Did you," Alden says mildly. "I recall the question was whether my job entailed dangling enticing mysteries for you. I answered that. What else do you wish to know?"
"What," says Thomas, enunciating each word with great care, "do, you, do?"
"Diplomacy," Alden answers, with a little smile. "Although not, it appears, at the moment."
Thomas laughs, in spite of himself. "I was hoping you would say that. You see, the interesting thing is, I do have access to computers, and I know what the names are of the public English diplomats are, and not a one of them is named Alden. Unless you're Leslie Alden, and I'm quite sure you aren't; she was wearing a floral dress."
Alden laughs too, in what seems to be honest admiration. "My dear boy," he says, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not under the jurisdiction of the British government. No floral dresses for me."
"Good," says Thomas, and leans forward. "Although that does rule out the M-15 option. Whose jurisdiction are you under?"
"You're going to laugh at me," Alden says reflectively, and pulls a business card out of his pocket, handing it to Thomas. "Please feel free. I assure you, it's valid and legal, and if you care to do another computer search, you'll see that my organisation is valid, diplomatic, and entirely inaccessable to nosy teenagers."
Thomas reads the card, blinks, and then reads it again.
"Multidimensional peacekeeping?" he says, cheerfully. "You couldn't come up with a better one? Do tell me why I should believe you."
At the back of his head a little pulsating voice is asking, And if it's real?
That's immaterial. It isn't and it can't be.
"Because I'm not a stupid man," Alden says, with a small shrug, "and neither are you. Clearly a multidimensional peacekeeping agency is too insane to be a plausible lie."
"Oh, well, that's immensely reassuring," says Thomas bitterly. "I'm glad to hear I should believe in your high opinion of my common sense."
"Look it up on your little computer, then," Alden says gently, and stands. "My organisation will register."
"And if you -- are a," he reads the card again, "an agent of T. H. E. Y., then ... what have you approached me for?"
He flushes with the crack he hears in his own voice. It's faint, but it's there, and Alden, as he has said, is not a stupid man.
"Your magical abilities," Alden says distantly, "nothing more." He smiles slightly. "Of course I could say that I wanted you in my organisation, but of course you don't believe in it."
"I don't," says Thomas, and gets up as well.
"Keep the card," Alden says. "Look it up."
"I will," says Thomas, over his shoulder, and turns back long enough to say, "Tomorrow?"
"Yes," Alden says simply, and walks away.
It checks out.
TUESDAY.
Thomas is reading when Alden comes the next day, an organic chemistry text, as his work's suffered a bit for the training, and his magic is sparking in his head as he stamps it onto the surface of his mind. It's tiring but it's the only way he'll remember the difference between propanol and propane.
"Morning," Alden says, sitting down next to him. He's in a stereotypical secret-agent black trenchcoat today. "What the hell is that book?"
"Idiocy." Thomas turns the cover to him. "Chemistry. The words are synonyms."
"I believe that," Alden says dryly. "Shall you set aside your idiocy in favour of some magical training, lad?"
"Don't call me that," he says absently, and drops the book on the bench. "What are we going to do today? Push rocks up hills? Try to eat receding apples?"
"No," Alden says, and pulls a small clear orb from his pocket. "Today, I want you to do your flame-lighting trick again, without the fire. I want you to put your power into this little globe. And when you're nearly out, I want you to take it back."
"I can do that," says Thomas.
He reaches for the globe, and lets the power slip into it, carefully, quickly at first and then more slowly as it begins to hurt.
It's tricky seeing where the power should go and how to not let it slip past the globe, but except for a few escaping tendrils of it, the magic goes properly in. For help he calls on the sensation of drawing power from Alden's face and lips.
Again he can barely stand, but the globe is almost full, warm to the touch.
Now for the finicky bit. He puts his hand on the side of the globe, calls up the memory of kissing Alden again, and the power begins to trickle back into his hand. It's agonisingly slow, though, and after a minute he stops, and frowns at the globe.
"Do you like this globe, particularly?" he asks Alden. No need to be rude.
"Do you mean to damage it?" Alden asks mildly, and shrugs. "Feel free."
Thomas tosses it from hand to hand, and then drops it onto the concrete, sticking out a foot in case it bounces into the Seine. It doesn't -- it shatters satisfyingly and he holds out his hands and feels his power rush back into them, through his blood. It's like being savaged by wind and he loves it.
"Technically cheating," Alden murmurs, "but effective." He regards Thomas closely for a few moments, and says finally, "Well done."
"Thank you," says Thomas, and kicks the glass over the edge. "I try."
"That was all I had for today," Alden adds. "I am curious, Thomas, if you still believe I'm lying to you about my work."
Thomas shrugs. "You're real enough; I think your nonchalant training attitude isn't. You may want to train me, but if that's all you're doing here, you're spending days in Paris for a ten minute span of nothing much. I'd be shocked. I have to wonder, what's here that's so tumultuous so that the peace needs to be kept?"
Alden grins. "I'm on my leave time, lad, and I thought France might be a nice place for a bit of a holiday. You are entirely incidental, and ten minutes a day is all I can spare, what with all these galleries and things I'm visiting."
"You're lying to me," says Thomas, without much interest. "State secrets, or are you just bored?"
"I hate France," Alden says cheerfully. "I am on leave, lad, and I am bored, but I was planning to be bored in England, like any sane Englishman. However, in London I ran into a girl. Three guesses what she said to me in greeting."
Thomas sits up, trying to maintain the half-lidded expression he has going. "And what's your fortune, John Alden?"
"Find a boy, she said." Alden gazes out at the river. "She added quite helpfully that this boy's name was not Thomas Edgar Moore, so of course I had to find you."
"It isn't," he says, looking at the river, and picks up a stray piece of glass, turning it over. "Thomas Moore is very nearly a British saint, not a French master of parlor tricks, m'sieur."
"What is your name, lad?" Alden asks softly.
Thomas looks at him. "I don't have one," he says. "...Thomas is easier than being 'hey, you,' that's all."
"Something French, I suppose," Alden says, and there's only the slightest hint of desdain in his voice. "A secret, lad: Alden is my mother's name. It isn't remotely legal, in the technical sense, for me to wear it. But it's better than John Kent, and that is something. I recommend you name yourself as soon as you can."
Thomas smiles briefly. "I'll let you know when I know, m'sieur."
"Get on it, then," Alden says, rising. "--Oh, and..." He digs in his pockets, produces two more little orbs, hands them to Thomas. "Practise."
Thomas takes them, one in each hand, and resists the urge to juggle.
"Same time tomorrow, then," Alden says.
"Yeah," says Thomas, and turns to go.
The following morning Alden is waiting at the bench when Thomas arrives, and he has six more orbs in a shopping bag. He greets Thomas with, "I assume you recovered your power by breaking the orbs I gave you, if you have done your homework."
"I always do my homework," says Thomas, and tosses one orb to Alden. "I tried it the slow way on this. Dull and slow. But you can have it back. My aunt has begun to wonder why I am coming home dripping in sweat yet apparently unfatigued and with a voracious appetite. I've told her I'm a streetwalker."
"How did your aunt take to that one?" Alden murmurs.
"She told me to keep warm and watch out for diseases," Thomas says, and frowns at the shopping bag. "I have a moderated test tomorrow, you know. Passing marks for university Latin."
"And you believe that you won't pass without your magic," Alden says, his voice dripping scorn, "to help you."
Thomas raises an eyebrow, and is briefly proud of himself. "Spare me, m'sieur. Please."
Alden smiles faintly. "Do your excercise with the orb," he says, "and if you do it well I shall make absolutely sure that you have more than enough energy for your Latin exam."
Thomas looks up hurriedly. "That sounds like an interesting promise," he says. "The quick way, or do you want to keep the orb?"
"I want this orb intact," Alden says. "If you're going to cheat on your exam, you are not going to cheat with this."
"I'm not cheating on my exam," mutters Thomas, focusing on the orb but not starting just yet. "Magic is one of my inborn abilities and I'd been using it subconsciously for ages for just this. It would be an unfair disadvantage if I stopped."
"Of course," Alden murmurs. It's impossible to tell whether or not he means it sarcastically.
"Shut up," Thomas says quietly, and slips his power into the orb. He's extremely careful, and when the magic loss begins to leave him breathless he sits down, calmly, and packs bits in behind other bits until he's poured what feels like the entirety of himself into the little crystal ball.
Slowly he begins the process of taking it out, searching for the cracks (between the molecules, he supposes) that will let the magic escape. A few times it seems to be getting away from him, and he has to pause to take it back.
It's an aggravating seven minutes that pass, and the ticking of his watch is painfully loud.
But he is, finally done, and he hands the empty orb in silence to Alden.
"Excellent," Alden says quietly, and gives Thomas a close look. "That should be more than enough to get you through your test. Do you want the extra even so?"
Thomas looks at him steadily. "I don't want it to get me through the test," he says.
"Ah," says Alden, and laughs softly. "What do you want it for, Thomas?"
"Power for the sake of power," sing-songs Thomas, intentionally childish. "Haven't you ever read your Orwell?"
"Certainly," Alden murmurs, and gives Thomas a long look, then holds out a hand. "Very well, then."
Thomas gives him an exasperated sigh, and pulls him into a kiss.
Alden seizes Thomas' shoulders and kisses him in return. The sheer power isn't burning this time; it's a too-warm tingling itch, on the painful side of pleasant rather than breathtaking, and Thomas can think enough this time to note distantly that Alden is a very good kisser, sheer power or no.
It's quite a while before Alden breaks the kiss.
"Thank you," says Thomas, tugging at the crumpled bottom of his shirt. "That will do nicely."
Alden laughs again, the soft dark laugh. "Same time tomorrow, Thomas, or do you have your exam?"
"The exam will be over by noon." Thomas looks up at him. "Is there a reason you always leave after ten minutes, or is that all you can stand of my company?"
"My lessons are never overly long," Alden says, with a shrug, "and I recall being your age and completely horrified at the thought of spending more than ten minutes at a time with my instructor." A slight smirk. "Why, Thomas, are you inviting me out for a stroll?"
"No," says Thomas in absolute horror. "God, no. Go and look at famous portraits, m'sieur. I have to study." He stretches and stands, picking up the shopping bag, and feels the crackle of the little extra bit of power beneath his skin. It's absolutely exhilarating.
He wonders what it must be like to be this man, and feel the blinding weight of his power all the time.
When he gets home, he begins to research power transfer.
WEDNESDAY.
In an act of not-revenge, Thomas takes the test the first time through without magical aid, calling on the imprinted memories only to doublecheck his work. Simultaneous translation from French into Latin is more difficult today, and he eyes the orb in his back pocket with total malevolence.
He's sick of this, all of a sudden, and he means to tell Alden this vacation apprenticeship is off, but the man comes and he stays silent, so perhaps it will be saved for later.
"Did your test go well?" Alden asks by way of greeting, sitting down beside him.
"Oui," says Thomas, and hands him the remaining orb. "Although the teacher wondered rather about my worry ball."
Alden laughs. "We're moving on to something else today, actually, so you might have spared yourself the grief." He stands, gazes out over Paris with his hands shoved in the pockets of his trenchcoat. "Tell me, Thomas-- if you could, how would you use your magic? Let's assume a power level equal to mine."
Thomas gives him a slanted glance. "What are you, my fairy godmother?"
"No," Alden says, looking sideways at him. "I know you want the power, but I don't know what you hope to achieve by it. If I know, I can find the methods and focus we shall need to pursue."
The Seine is terribly brown today, and a pair of American tourists are commenting on it in loud, eargrating English. Thomas gestures at them. "The first thing I would do -- am doing -- is to never be them. French should have been my first language. I want it to not be. And then..." He tries to look thoughtful. "I suppose I'd have to think about it."
Know what people want, he thinks, and use it to my heart's content. But Alden doesn't need to know that.
Alden gives Thomas an uncomfortably knowing look, and Thomas has the fleeting suspicion that Alden already uses his powers in that particular way. All Alden says, however, is, "If you only use your magic to learn French, my dear boy, I don't see why you're spending so much time listening to me. Becoming a Frenchman only takes as much power as you already know how to use."
"I want to be able to use my power to do whatever I like. Which takes more power than either you or I have, m'sieur. I don't have specific goals, because I don't dare limit myself to inconsequentialities." Thomas narrows his eyes. "Of course you knew when you were sixteen exactly what you wanted to do with your power for the rest of your life."
Alden laughs, quiet and delighted. "I assure you, lad, seduction can be done quite easily without magic."
"Cute," says Thomas, and turns away. "And exactly what I meant by 'limiting.'"
"Very well," says Alden. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye?" asks Thomas. "You ask me a question, I cannot answer it, and you depart?"
"Clearly your goals are too big, too nebulous," Alden says, shrugging. "I can do nothing more with you."
Thomas stares. "You can teach me to discipline my powers only if I can spit out some pat little mission statement?"
"No," Alden says patiently. "I don't want a mission statement. I want a direction. Hell, lad, it's not a binding contract; I simply need some way to focus your power."
"Don't call me that," he says. "Fine. Before, you talked about illusions and what was in someone's head."
"Ah." Alden smiles. "Psychology, is it."
"If you call it that." Thomas tilts his head back. "Let's say I want to change people's minds."
"You can't," Alden says. "Not like that. I can't reach inside people's minds, lad. However..." He reaches into a pocket, holds up a silvery skeleton key. It glints in the sunlight. "What is this?"
"Not a key," Thomas snaps, "or you wouldn't be asking me that."
Alden laughs. "Oh, very good." He tosses the thing to Thomas.
It is a key, that much is obvious. It's a key unlike anything Thomas has ever seen; blinking with little lights and intricate carvings. It looks like a combination computer plug-in and high-tech key from a heist movie, and not much like a skeleton key at all.
"Tolerable. You're easily satisfied," he mutters, and turns the key over and over, fascinated. "Where does this come from? It's so complicated."
The thought occurs to him, It's beautiful, but that he doesn't say out loud.
"It comes from my agency's headquarters," Alden says. "Hell if I know what it's for. Something technological."
Thomas laughs. "And therefore offensive to the proper mind."
"Quite," Alden says, and gestures, and the key-thing flies from Thomas' hands. "The point," Alden continues, pocketing it, "is that, although you knew it was not a skeleton key, you still saw it so."
"Did you bend the light itself, or my perception of it?" asks Thomas, reaching for a pen. "Did everyone else see the same thing? And did you?"
"I saw what was there, because I knew it," Alden says. "And I did nothing so delightfully technical as bend light, my boy. Bending reality is far easier. What does it look like? A skeleton key. Why, then, so it is. You live, more or less, in reality. It is a skeleton key."
"And how?" asks Thomas. He is, to steal a cliché, on fire with curiosity -- but that is exactly how it feels, as though all his borrowed power is crawling on the underside of his skin. "How do you do that?"
"That," Alden says, with a small smile, "is the tricky bit." He sits down again on the bench next to Thomas, lounging slightly more than is necessary. "Are you an artist, Thomas?"
"Of a sort," says Thomas, cautiously. "I draw, and I have an easel at home."
"Fair enough." Alden frowns slightly, gazing into the middle distance. "Unless you're a disciple of the so-called modernist movement where hardly anything really artistic is taken into account and paint is thrown everywhere in a completely ridiculous manner, you'll know at least something of perspective." He glances at Thomas. "Yes? Perspective, that optical illusion of three dimensions on a flat space."
Thomas contents himself with, "Yes," trying to contain in that word the full depth of his total distaste for idiots who ask artists if they know what perspective is, and also for those unable to appreciate the Pompidou.
Alden laughs. "Indeed. My point is that the brain knows intellectually that the paper is a flat space, but it will nevertheless wholeheartedly buy into the little story of dimensions. You, my lad, saw my key and immediately intellectually knew that it was a trick, could not possibly be a key. But below your cleverness, boy, your mind still translated a key you did not know into a key you did. I merely exerted pressure. Mathematical lines. You did the rest yourself."
Thomas thinks about this, and puts his hand out for the key again.
Alden tosses it casually to him.
The shape of the key remains inexorably strange and alien, no matter how he turns it, and he can't see quite how Alden does it. Grantaire has never mentioned anything like this before.
Blue, he thinks, firmly. It should be blue.
It isn't blue.
"Stop imagining what it might be," Alden murmurs. "Tell it what it is."
He cups his hands around the key and says to himself, Blue.
It's the same way he thinks in French, he decides. It must be French, and so it is. Blue.
It still looks the same to him, but Alden murmurs, "That's a delightfully powder-blue electronic key you have there, lad."
"I think it's tasteful," says Thomas, and tilts it, trying to see the effect. "Are there ways of seeing around it?"
"Yes," Alden says. "For example, I know what that key is. I see it the way you wish me to, but I also see it as it is. That is the easiest way to see around something. The other way is active skepticism. Never trust a single damn thing you see, and perhaps, roughly half the time, you'll see what's really there."
Thomas scowls. "That's a terribly thorough guarantee."
"I never promised it would be easy," Alden says wryly, and holds out a hand for the key.
"May I keep it?" Thomas asks. "As you're so clear on its purpose."
"No," Alden says. "I trust you're quite sharp enough to find some use for it."
Thomas withdraws his power from the key and hands it back. "If only for modern sculpture."
Alden laughs and pockets it. "If only for modern sculpture indeed. You strike fear into my heart, lad."
"I should. I'm terrifying." Thomas lifts the bag. "Grantaire wants me tomorrow; picking pockets or something along those lines. I think he may be jealous, m'sieur."
"Of me?" Alden laughs again, rather more darkly. "What a silly man."
"Yes," says Thomas, thoughtfully. "But he taught me what he knew."
"I still believe jealousy isn't the word you're looking for," Alden murmurs, standing. "Same time tomorrow, Thomas, and when I arrive here I want you to be holding something that looks like it is not."
Thomas laughs and leaves. That's too easy a challenge by far.
Grantaire doesn't take it well when Thomas announces that he can't make a daylight meeting, but he's perfectly willing to stay up all night in Montmartre working on whatever Grantaire might choose, which assuages the man's pride somewhat. They practice locks and Grantaire casually tries to get into his trousers. It's nothing special.
THURSDAY.
The next day Thomas is waiting on the bridge, holding a good deal of money and looking innocent. He's approached by at least two pickpockets before Alden shows up, both of whom are Grantaire's men and will report back to him with piles of dead leaves.
He's a traditionalist, he supposes.
"Either," Alden says, upon strolling up to him from his walk down along the Seine, "you and Grantaire had a grand old time last night, or you have fairy gold, lad."
"I was always fond of those legends." He had been. So many pretty boys named Tom, spirited off to points unknown. "I live in hope that the Sidhe are one of the fantasies based in fact, and any day now the British Isles will be recolonised."
"If there are fairies, I've never seen them," Alden says, shrugging this off entirely. He holds out a hand. "Give me one of your lovely euros."
Thomas hands it to him, carefully. He'd worked extra hard on this job; the texture is even briefly convincing, before the magic sputters when it leaves contact with his body.
Alden rubs his thumb along it. "Leaf," he says after a moment. "Dryish, not long fallen." He hands it back. "Excellently done."
"I know," says Thomas. "My work usually is."
"Indeed," Alden murmurs, but does not council him on the foolishness of overconfidence. He merely steps back and says, "The illusion will hold for longer if I back up your spell. Shall we go buy ourselves lunch?"
"Why, Alden, you'll let yourself be seen in public with me? I'm shocked." Thomas gestures to a nearby café. "I haven't been in there yet. My treat."
"Thank you," Alden murmurs, with only the slightest edge of sarcasm to his grace, and follows Thomas in.
Thomas sits by the window and orders espresso and a croissant, things he hasn't had in a week or so. His aunt is not fond of the concept of pocket money. It's a petty pleasure to speak casual French in front of this man, as well, if only for the extra effort Alden has to make to translate.
Alden has black tea and a small thin loaf of bread, and looks like he's vaguely in shock at voluntarily eating remotely French food.
"So," he says-- in French, with the magic enabling his speech lurking around the edges-- "how did you become so enamoured of this country anyway?"
Thomas blinks. It's a bit like being asked how he became so enamoured of breathing. "It's France," he says, by way of explanation.
"Ah," Alden murmurs, and laughs. "And your opinion on merry old England, then?"
"I left as soon as I could," points out Thomas, and delicately takes a bite of the croissant. "Sooner than I could, really. I think that says much. Why would anyone willingly admit to being English, John Alden? Tell me that."
"I suppose," Alden says thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, "it's because the English may be pompous bastards who, at one time or another, owned half the world, but at least they've come to terms with it. The Americans and the French, to name a few with grand empires, are so self-important they can't see out of their own arses. I'm quite proud to know where I stand, lad."
"But at least in Paris it isn't considered a virtue to be tepid," Thomas says. "I'll pass on the joys of self-aware mediocrity, thank you so much."
Alden laughs delightedly. "So you shall live in the secure knowledge that you are enjoying the greatest city there ever was, while meanwhile the world laughs at your folly. How very... French of you."
"I don't think you understand," says Thomas, carefully setting down his coffee. "France is what it is precisely because of how it despises itself, even as it deifies itself. If we don't tear down the infrastructure of our society every few months, we aren't doing our jobs as Parisians. No, Paris isn't the greatest city there ever was, only because we strive towards that every day."
"That's disgusting," Alden says, grinning. "You read too much Hugo as a child."
"There is no such thing as too much Hugo," Thomas says primly. "Drink your tea. I want my power back."
"Did it go somewhere?" Alden asks mildy.
Thomas gestures at the 'money' in his wallet. "People keep staring."
"Aha," Alden says, and drains his tea, and stands. "Out we go, then."
"Thank you," says Thomas, and pays, leaving the café regretfully. It had been fairly good espresso; it's a shame they won't let him back in.
"May I keep the leaves?" Alden asks.
Thomas tilts his head. "And do what with them?"
"Examine them," Alden says. "I've only had a brief feel for your magic."
"'I trust you're quite sharp enough to find some use for it,'" says Thomas, mockingly.
Alden laughs again. "My dear boy, I'm not going to-- to use voodoo on them, or whatever you might be thinking."
"Forgive me for my lack of utter trust in you," Thomas says. He pats Alden's shoulder consolingly. "Maybe when we've gotten to know each other better."
"I do believe it's only fair," Alden murmurs. "You still haven't used up that extra bit of power I gave you the other day. I can tell the difference between mine and yours, you know."
Thomas rolls his eyes and hands over the leaves. "Cheat."
"Certainly," Alden says mildly. "I'm sure, once I've had a good look at these, that I shall have something new and exciting for you to do tomorrow."
"Like twitch, as you stick pins in a little doll?" says Thomas, but he's smiling. Mostly.
"My dear boy," says Alden, looking straight at Thomas, "controlling you in so obvious and crude a way would take all the fun out of it."
Thomas laughs. "You're only a shade off already," he informs the man, and saunters home.
Halfway there, he realises almost to his horror that he's whistling.
Part Two...