princekiller | it's not a date unless somebody dies

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it's not a date unless somebody dies

Since Erasmus's arrival, there had been little opportunity for Damen to spend time alone with Laurent. A boy raised as a slave, raised to serve to such a degree as Erasmus, could not be left alone to fend for himself in a world as strange as this. And so Damen had taken him in, taken him under his wing to an extent. Laurent, upon learning that Damen now shared a dwelling with the boy who had been raised to become his personal body slave - even if that boy was still unaware of Damen's true identity - had sworn to not set foot in Damen's apartment.

In truth, Damen did not quite understand the upset, though he knew Erasmus was likely to drop to his knees out of sheer habit should the man he knew only as the Prince of Vere were to enter his presence.

It was partially that reason, but largely that Damen had found himself longing to be near Laurent more and more with each passing week, that found him in Laurent's terrace, lounging upon the chaise with Laurent pressed against his side. Dutch had shown him quite some time ago how to operate the television and had suggested the notion of staring at with Laurent as a courting activity.

Though it had taken some time to find anything both he and Laurent could agree worth watching, Damen could now see the appeal. It was a quiet even. Relaxed. The majority of Damen's focus was centered on the press of Laurent's arm against his own, Laurent's slow and even breathing, the light brush of Laurent's hair upon Damen's shoulder. But even so, he was hardly uncomfortable.

'If I happen to fall asleep right here, will you attend me?' he asked after a long, silent moment, his lips quirked into a faint grin as he smoothed a hand down Laurent's arm.

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Firearms truly were remarkable, yet Laurent could not wholly place the miracle at their feet. It took skill to aim an arrow with such precision - Laurent could only just imagine how steady must be one's aim to fire such a small projectile with this sort of accuracy. He blinked, impassive as the first bullet struck her leg, and observed with a small twitch of satisfaction as the second pierced her skull.

It was grim, but she had worked very hard to deserve it. Laurent pulled out his mobile and called John. 'The threat is quite neutralized,' he said without preamble. 'You have my gratitude, your aim is remarkable.' Laurent's gaze drifted to the body at Damen's feet. 'I wonder if I might further trouble you - I don't know what one does with a body here.'

John deeply dislikes having had to shoot Dutch like that. Whether or not she's truly the Dutch he'd met is irrelevant, because she had worn the same face, carried the same name, but he had also been able to see she wasn't going to stop.

He can certainly respect that. When his time comes, he's sure he'll have to go down fighting, and he knows himself well enough to know he won't stop until he's dead. And he does what's necessary here without hesitation.

Laurent's next request doesn't surprise him much either and he says, "I'll be right there." Packing up the rifle doesn't take long and it's soon stowed in a simple duffle, one that won't draw attention, along with a first aid kit, which he knows will be needed. He's there in just a few minutes, giving one soft rap of his knuckles against the door before pushing it open and closing it again quickly behind him.

"How badly are you injured?" he asks, setting the bag down near the door. "Either of you." The body can wait.

Laurent spoke into the phone he held and Damen, adrenaline still rushing in his veins, glanced back at the shattered as though he could see the person on the other end of the line, the one who was doubtlessly to credit for this Dutch's quick and sudden death.

'Who is that?' he asked Laurent only once he lowered the phone.

Carefully, he stood up to his full height, ignoring the aches in his groin and abdomen, the sting of sweat in the open wounds across his neck and face. The pieces were falling into place one by one, another puzzle separate from the stories Laurent had to tell of home. This had happened here, a new one. And, once again, Damen was left only to see the final result. 'You knew she was here and left to seek help.'

'I knew something was amiss,' Laurent corrected. 'I didn't know what or who until I watched the door from the stairwell, at which time I called John. I wish I had known it would be a woman with knives,' he added, sounding almost wistful. He would have enjoyed that fight.

'Contain your disappointment,' said Laurent, 'For at no time was I involved in a plot to kill you.' There was a sound at the door, nearly as quiet as Dutch had been, and Laurent stepped back so that John could enter. 'I'm unharmed,' he told him. 'Damen is cut and bruised, the worst of his injuries I presume to be to his ego. Is there a salve for that?'

"Only time," John answers with a small smile shot in Laurent's direction as he opens the bag and moves the pieces of his rifle aside to retrieve the first aid kit. The atmosphere in the room is unusual and somehow he has a feeling it isn't entirely to do with the woman's body now lying on the floor. He's never met Damen personally, though he's heard the name and has, in his usual style, watched the young man once or twice just to assure himself Laurent isn't in any pressing danger.

"Here," he says, offering the disinfectant and bandages to Laurent. Because he doesn't know Damen, he isn't entirely sure how welcome he'll be if he were to come toward him now, insisting he check on his wounds. Laurent can help him -- and hopefully there will be little issue with that -- and John can get to work on figuring out what to do with Dutch. The most obvious solution is to take her back to the world she's come from, but first he needs to make sure the apartment is clear of any evidence she's been here.

"Do you know if she touched anything? We'll deal with the blood later, but first I need to know if her prints will be anywhere."

Damen himself took a step back when the door opened to reveal a tall, well-kept man with greying hair and a bag upon his shoulder. The man on the phone.

He shot Laurent a quick, guilty glare at the assessment, mouth open to argue though he soon gave that up in favor of shaking his head. The bruises would ache for some time, he knew, but they would fade. And the marks across his neck and face were nothing compared to those that had left behind the deep scars upon his back. The ones Laurent himself had put there.

'The couch,' Damen said, using the common word for it as he nodded towards it. He was not sure why that mattered, but it was clear this John had a deep understanding of the ways of this world. 'I don't believe anything else.'

Dutch's bloodied body was still in a heap upon the floor and Damen let himself look at it only briefly. Later, he would need to seek out the real Dutch, just to assure himself she remained living.

'The door,' Laurent added. He stood holding the cloth John had given him, observing for a moment how supplied and efficient the man was. He was as useful as he was mysterious, with eyes that should not be as soft and warm as they often were. He was an enigma, one that Laurent could not help but be intrigued by.

He looked away from John and the body on the floor and towards Damen. Though unhappy and bleeding, it was hardly the worst Laurent had ever seen him, but the idea that he'd bled in the supposed safety of Laurent's own rooms was vexing. 'You should sit,' he said, holding up the cloth. 'If the smell of this is any indication, its application will not be pleasant.'

John nods, dealing with the door first, simply because it's the easiest. He takes a towel from his bag, sprays a small amount of cleaner on the cloth, then runs it over the doorknob, inside and out, then proceeds to clean the exterior of the door, the wall, anywhere he thinks she might have touched. So long as her prints aren't too close to the residence, they'll be able to get away with saying she may have just been nearby.

The couch might pose a greater threat, but John also doesn't imagine it would be dusted even if someone were to trace her whereabouts to this place.

So long as he can get rid of the body and blood, they should be fine.

"I'll wait until it's dark to move her," he says after a moment. "I have supplies in the bag and in the meantime we should get as much blood out of the floor as we can." He won't tell them where he takes her. The less they know, the less they'll have to lie about.

The man pulled a cloth from his bag and a container of some sort of liquid. Damen watched with mounting curiosity as John then ran the cloth over the doorknob, walls, and the door itself with a steadfast, quiet efficiency.

He had a great many questions but, for the moment, his attention was drawn back to Laurent who approached him with his own cloth. Damen could indeed smell the liquid that seemed through that fabric, sharp and acidic, reeking of a familiar alcohol that would likely make Paschal even grimace.

Damen looked at the cloth and then to Laurent's face. Whatever hint of hurt he'd seen then before was gone, replaced with a cool and steady gaze. With a nod, Damen sat himself on the arm of the chaise, lowering his height enough that Laurent would not have to reach too far. 'You're looking forward to this, aren't you?' he asked, words meant as a tease though the tone didn't quite reach.

He turned his head from Laurent's sharp eyes to frown at the bloodied body on Laurent's floor. 'We're to leave her there until then?'

'I don't care for her presence either, but we must trust John's judgment,' said Laurent. He held Damen's chin in a gentle but firm grip, first pressing the cloth to the cut on his cheek. The blood came away at once, seeping into the cloth as the liquid that soaked it must into the wound, and Laurent repressed a wince of sympathy.

He moved his cloth to Damen's throat after, paying close attention to the steady thrum of Damen's pulse beneath his fingers. He had not expected to lose Damen tonight. He was too careful, and John too good, yet they had come closer to it than Laurent enjoyed realizing. 'A body can only lose a fifth of its blood before the heart is unable to do its work,' he observed, thumbing Damen's artery.

Behind them, John still worked, and Laurent turned his head. 'I will assist you. Damen, you needn't remain if you don't wish to.' Laurent knew the body bore the face of his friend, and his feelings on the subject were no doubt tender.

"I won't leave her there," John answers, his voice soft. She may have been trying to kill someone, she may not be the woman John knows, but he doesn't feel any better about her bearing Dutch's face than he imagines either of the others do. "I have another bag."

He'd brought it hoping he wouldn't have to use it. It's a large duffle, large enough for a woman of Dutch's size if he gets her into the fetal position. The thought of having to take her apart is worse than having to move her, so he hadn't bothered with tools for that, wouldn't have even known where to begin in Darrow if he'd needed to dismember her. It's a far cry from where he was with Kara and for that he's deeply grateful.

He works with his back to them, wondering if he's in the presence of something personal. Under other circumstances he would leave, but this needs to be done, and he locks the door firmly before he unpacks a bag made of thick plastic and a second duffle. The plastic is to make sure she leaves no trace inside his bag and he takes it to her, unzipping it and carefully lifting her inside, folding the edges over her face before zipping it up again.

"I'm sorry you have to be here for this, but it'd be best if no one left," he says. "Not for a little while at least. The less activity around, the less anyone will remember if they're questioned later."

Despite the sting of the alcohol, Laurent's touch was gentle as he carefully tended to the marks upon Damen's throat. Swallowing, Damen tipped his head back enough to grant Laurent better access, his gaze briefly drawn to John as he moved about the room before sliding back to Laurent once more.

'For someone my size, a fifth is quite a lot,' he remarked with a faint grin. Then, quieter, he added. 'My heart remains as capable as ever, I assure you.'

If anything, Damen felt more secure now in Laurent's loyalty than ever before. For even if Laurent had not been in conspiracy with this other Dutch, he could have easily let the situation rest without any interruption. He could've let Damen die upon her blade, let her cut him up just as she pleased. Instead, he had sought out the help of his friend, this John.

And now he tended to Damen's wounds.

Gently, Damen rested his hand upon Laurent's hip, the most he could allow himself in the presence of another. 'We can stay,' he said, wondering at the equipment with which John worked, the carefully methodical manner. It was obvious he had great experience in this. 'Is there some way in which I can assist? It's the least I can do.'

Laurent continued to clean Damen's cuts, turning his chin this way and that when Damen's attention strayed to John. His hand was warm against his side, and Laurent was grateful for it, even as it lended an odd intimacy to an otherwise somber occasion.

When Damen was clean, Laurent extricated himself to retrieve ice for his ribs, but he paused when he saw John methodically working. The man was always quiet and calm, it was one of many things about him that Laurent admired, but he found as he studied him that he had missed something. There was an extra tension in John's jaw, a grimness to his eyes that didn't speak of long habit. He had done this before, yes, but something was different.

'I apologize,' said Laurent, coming to the truth abruptly. 'I did not realize Dutch also held meaning for you. Please.' John was nearly done with the worst of it, and Laurent could no longer help, but he still had a fully stocked kitchen. 'Allow me to pour you something steadying to drink.'

John is used to cleaning up alone. The aftermath is something he's good at and even though it's been some time since there's been a body to worry about, this has been a job others would just leave him to. Maybe it shouldn't surprise him that they offer to help, but it does just a little and he glances back and smiles faintly, then shakes his head.

"You're hurt," he says to Damen, then glances to Laurent. "But I will take that drink."

With the plastic bag zipped, he's careful to curl her body into a fetal position, then places her inside the second duffle bag. Looking at her a moment longer, he shakes his head, then zips it closed. "We've only met once," he admits. "But I liked her. Like her. She's easy to trust. I can't say that about many people."

Quietly, Damen mourned the inevitable loss of Laurent's touch, but there were important matters yet at hand. His frown deepened at John's assessment and he shook his head. 'I've endured far worse than this in my time,' he said, stepping closer.

It was clear the man needed little help however and Damen's gaze was drawn to Dutch once more. Though hardly the first time Damen had witnessed a fallen friend, this instance was a good deal more unnerving. 'I've known her since my arrival here,' Damen said quietly. 'I appeared in her bed, much to the chagrin of the man who occupied it at the time. Her lover.' His lips twitched into a faint smile at the memory. 'He's since forgiven me. And she... she has taught me a great deal of this place.'

Damen fell quiet for a moment before he turned to look toward the kitchen. 'I believe I'd like a drink as well.'

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