Brigit's Flame -- "Angels"
Prompt: "angels"
Word Count: 908
Warnings: PG language, which is more "given" than "warning" with me...
Summary: In which Vincent Duval plays cards.
Author's Note: Do you remember Vincent? Vincent remembers you! >D (If you don't, he's the obnoxious French vampire of "wine" fame. XD) I kept running "angels" over in my mind, and the only thing I could think of was Death Note, and then Good Omens because jenwryn and I had been talking about it, and then... I realized that Vincent was the solution to my copyright problems. XD Vincent may just be the solution to everything. O_o
ANGELS
Vincent pursed his lips and rearranged his cards. “What are you trying to say?” he inquired.
Maion frowned attractively at the fan of cards in his elegant fingers. “I am not trying to say it,” he sniffed, “I am actually saying that you should… what’s the phrase?” He straightened a card. “Cease and desist.”
Vincent smiled, selected a card of his own, and set it down. “What will you give me?”
Maion’s eyes flashed blue fire, like a photograph of a flame with the colors changed. Vincent hoped that the smoke would curl out his delicate ears, but apparently they’d fixed that glitch in the last century-or-so.
Pity; he’d liked that one.
“We will not give you anything,” came the clipped response, followed by a card tossed onto the pile. “What do you want? Amnesty, I imagine?”
“I was thinking seventy-two virgins,” Vincent replied.
“You’d eat them.”
“They taste better; they don’t have STDs.”
Maion snorted, then proceeded to glare at Vincent’s latest contribution to the game. A section of shining golden hair slid over his right eye, and he blew it peremptorily aside. “It needs to stop,” he declared, placing a card atop Vincent’s latest. “The killing; the plundering of virgins’ blood; whatever else you’re presumably up to.”
“Kicking your ass at cards?” Vincent supplied absently.
Maion’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched Vincent play his next turn, and his sculpted, narrow nostrils flared tellingly as he drew.
“You were saying?” Vincent asked, emphasizing his genuine cheer. This idiot was really too much fun. Toying with him should have been illegal.
Instead of just highly implausible and whatnot.
Maion leaned forward intently, frowning now, as if doubting the innocent face of the card. “The killing needs to stop, Monsieur Duval,” he declared, crisply. “You’re upsetting the balances.”
Entirely unnecessarily, Vincent licked his fingertip and picked out another card to play. “Mm,” he remarked.
Apparently, Maion caught the subtle implication of feeding in the onomatopoeia, as his scowl deepened a fraction. He glared at his cards. “You’re prolific,” he decided.
“The opposite, I’d say,” Vincent remarked. “‘Prolific’ would indicate creation. Though I did Turn that boy in the park.” He considered his options. “He was dying. I felt… that thing…”
Maion raised unsympathetic eyebrows, which was interesting, as Vincent hadn’t been aware that eyebrows could be unsympathetic.
Vincent remembered. “Pity,” he finished. “I pitied him.”
Maion looked at him, eyebrows uncommunicative now, for a long moment. “You pitied him,” he repeated.
Vincent nodded, delicately adding another card to the stack.
Maion twitched, but he managed to find his focus again. “That’s a complicated bit of quasi-morality, Duval.”
Vincent shrugged. And then he smiled, slowly, contentedly, like a cat.
“I knew I’d seen you somewhere,” he purred.
Maion froze, his card extended. “What?” he said.
“Weren’t you in…” Vincent ran a fingertip along the top edge of his next card. “Was it Vogue? I think it was.”
Unmoving, unblinking, and wonderfully unsettled, Maion stared at him.
Vincent beamed, knowing the lights would gleam off his fangs. “Who was it that you were making out with in the latest US Weekly? Noticed that one in the supermarket checkout.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s a complicated bit of quasi-morality, Maion, my boy.”
Maion gritted his pearly whites. “It was one photo shoot,” he hissed, eyes glowing progressively brighter, “and I am hardly your ‘boy.’”
Guilelessly Vincent laid down his penultimate card.
“Uno,” he announced.
Maion snapped.
He slammed his hand down atop the fan of cards he’d abandoned on the tabletop, surging to his feet, face contorted, his shadow swelling behind him. Icy fire licked at the rippling waves of his flowing hair, coursing coldly down his arms and racing to his fingertips, and the lapels of his shirt fluttered in the onslaught as the whole room seemed to shrink about him.
“Duval!” he roared, the sound redoubling against the closing walls, his voice underpinned by the distant melody of sinners’ screams and thunderbolts, his whole person now engulfed in flames.
Vincent smiled. “Did you leave your sword at home?” he inquired.
Maion seethed for another moment, likely for show, before plunking petulantly down in his seat and pitching a card towards the pile.
“Bastard,” he muttered.
Vincent placed his wild cared squarely over Maion’s red eight. “Figuratively,” he noted, “yes.”
Maion ran his perfect hands over his perfect face. His shirt was slightly singed around the collar.
“I give up, Duval,” he groaned. “I give up.” He eyed his adversary through the glimmering curtain of his bangs. “Which is, I gather, precisely what you wanted all along? To be left alone?”
Vincent smiled, and Maion rolled his eyes, finished his drink, and left in a huff, leaving behind a distinct tang of charbroiled playing card.
Idly Vincent shuffled the deck.
Angels. Couldn’t live with ’em, couldn’t play cards without ’em.
Word Count: 908
Warnings: PG language, which is more "given" than "warning" with me...
Summary: In which Vincent Duval plays cards.
Author's Note: Do you remember Vincent? Vincent remembers you! >D (If you don't, he's the obnoxious French vampire of "wine" fame. XD) I kept running "angels" over in my mind, and the only thing I could think of was Death Note, and then Good Omens because jenwryn and I had been talking about it, and then... I realized that Vincent was the solution to my copyright problems. XD Vincent may just be the solution to everything. O_o
ANGELS
Vincent pursed his lips and rearranged his cards. “What are you trying to say?” he inquired.
Maion frowned attractively at the fan of cards in his elegant fingers. “I am not trying to say it,” he sniffed, “I am actually saying that you should… what’s the phrase?” He straightened a card. “Cease and desist.”
Vincent smiled, selected a card of his own, and set it down. “What will you give me?”
Maion’s eyes flashed blue fire, like a photograph of a flame with the colors changed. Vincent hoped that the smoke would curl out his delicate ears, but apparently they’d fixed that glitch in the last century-or-so.
Pity; he’d liked that one.
“We will not give you anything,” came the clipped response, followed by a card tossed onto the pile. “What do you want? Amnesty, I imagine?”
“I was thinking seventy-two virgins,” Vincent replied.
“You’d eat them.”
“They taste better; they don’t have STDs.”
Maion snorted, then proceeded to glare at Vincent’s latest contribution to the game. A section of shining golden hair slid over his right eye, and he blew it peremptorily aside. “It needs to stop,” he declared, placing a card atop Vincent’s latest. “The killing; the plundering of virgins’ blood; whatever else you’re presumably up to.”
“Kicking your ass at cards?” Vincent supplied absently.
Maion’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched Vincent play his next turn, and his sculpted, narrow nostrils flared tellingly as he drew.
“You were saying?” Vincent asked, emphasizing his genuine cheer. This idiot was really too much fun. Toying with him should have been illegal.
Instead of just highly implausible and whatnot.
Maion leaned forward intently, frowning now, as if doubting the innocent face of the card. “The killing needs to stop, Monsieur Duval,” he declared, crisply. “You’re upsetting the balances.”
Entirely unnecessarily, Vincent licked his fingertip and picked out another card to play. “Mm,” he remarked.
Apparently, Maion caught the subtle implication of feeding in the onomatopoeia, as his scowl deepened a fraction. He glared at his cards. “You’re prolific,” he decided.
“The opposite, I’d say,” Vincent remarked. “‘Prolific’ would indicate creation. Though I did Turn that boy in the park.” He considered his options. “He was dying. I felt… that thing…”
Maion raised unsympathetic eyebrows, which was interesting, as Vincent hadn’t been aware that eyebrows could be unsympathetic.
Vincent remembered. “Pity,” he finished. “I pitied him.”
Maion looked at him, eyebrows uncommunicative now, for a long moment. “You pitied him,” he repeated.
Vincent nodded, delicately adding another card to the stack.
Maion twitched, but he managed to find his focus again. “That’s a complicated bit of quasi-morality, Duval.”
Vincent shrugged. And then he smiled, slowly, contentedly, like a cat.
“I knew I’d seen you somewhere,” he purred.
Maion froze, his card extended. “What?” he said.
“Weren’t you in…” Vincent ran a fingertip along the top edge of his next card. “Was it Vogue? I think it was.”
Unmoving, unblinking, and wonderfully unsettled, Maion stared at him.
Vincent beamed, knowing the lights would gleam off his fangs. “Who was it that you were making out with in the latest US Weekly? Noticed that one in the supermarket checkout.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s a complicated bit of quasi-morality, Maion, my boy.”
Maion gritted his pearly whites. “It was one photo shoot,” he hissed, eyes glowing progressively brighter, “and I am hardly your ‘boy.’”
Guilelessly Vincent laid down his penultimate card.
“Uno,” he announced.
Maion snapped.
He slammed his hand down atop the fan of cards he’d abandoned on the tabletop, surging to his feet, face contorted, his shadow swelling behind him. Icy fire licked at the rippling waves of his flowing hair, coursing coldly down his arms and racing to his fingertips, and the lapels of his shirt fluttered in the onslaught as the whole room seemed to shrink about him.
“Duval!” he roared, the sound redoubling against the closing walls, his voice underpinned by the distant melody of sinners’ screams and thunderbolts, his whole person now engulfed in flames.
Vincent smiled. “Did you leave your sword at home?” he inquired.
Maion seethed for another moment, likely for show, before plunking petulantly down in his seat and pitching a card towards the pile.
“Bastard,” he muttered.
Vincent placed his wild cared squarely over Maion’s red eight. “Figuratively,” he noted, “yes.”
Maion ran his perfect hands over his perfect face. His shirt was slightly singed around the collar.
“I give up, Duval,” he groaned. “I give up.” He eyed his adversary through the glimmering curtain of his bangs. “Which is, I gather, precisely what you wanted all along? To be left alone?”
Vincent smiled, and Maion rolled his eyes, finished his drink, and left in a huff, leaving behind a distinct tang of charbroiled playing card.
Idly Vincent shuffled the deck.
Angels. Couldn’t live with ’em, couldn’t play cards without ’em.