I understand it is customary to post 'LaCroix-centered' stories to the

list on or about Nigel Bennett's birthday. Of course, all my stories

are LaCroix-centered! Be that as it may, this piece of fluff is

intended only as a goodhumored, and hopefully humorous, riff on The

Glory That is LaCroix. <e-multifaction-g> No offense to any persons,

fictional or actual, is intended!

Rated PG-13 for all too typical adult situations.

Permission to archive to www.fkfanfic.com , standard disclaimers

apply, comments to stormborn@prodigy.net.

LaCroix stood for a moment in the alley behind the Raven, elegant

nostrils flaring in delight as he drew in a deep breath of the crisp

night air. He had a wintry heart, he imagined, else why would winter

delight him so? That is, beyond the fact that it matched his eyes so

well. Contented, a man always at peace with himself, he entered the

club.

An oppressive backbeat shook the walls and the mortal hearts within

them, yet did nothing to blot out the nuances of her whisper:

"LaCroix," Janette breathed in his ear, her tones trembling with

desire. "LaCroix . . ."

He turned to look at her, taking in the tightly-fitted gown, the ripe

lips. "You are exceptionally lovely tonight, my dear. Is there a

special occasion?"

"No. That is . . ." she faltered, then raised limpid blue eyes to

him. "It's just that you don't seem to pay as much attention to me as

you have in the past. I thought perhaps . . . perhaps you haven't

been as pleased with me, lately." He was in an exceptionally good

mood tonight: rather than dismiss her concerns he took her hand. "Not

at all. Forgive me if I have been remiss."

Were she mortal, she would have blushed, or so he fancied. "Perhaps

you'd care to join me, after the club closes?"

"Oh, yes!" she said, her lips mere inches from his face. "Thank you,

LaCroix."

"I'll look forward to it." He continued on to the broadcast booth,

the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. The smile vanished

abruptly as he came face to face with the intruder lounging in his

chair--his chair! He disapproved of the Spaniard. Vachon may not

have had Nicholas' irritating angst, but he had none of his fire, his

passion for life, either. Or so he had thought . . . "Why are you

looking at me in that way?" he demanded.

Vachon leaped abruptly to his feet, coming closer to the Roman than

LaCroix liked. "You know, I used to wonder what Knight saw in you.

So cold, so formal. But as I've gotten to know you--"

"You don't know me." LaCroix snapped.

"But I want to. I want to really know you, if you know what I

mean." The Spaniard's eyes glazed as his fingers moved to LaCroix's

shirt buttons. He slapped them away. "How dare you!"

"Come on. You're not getting anything from Knight, we all know that.

A man like you, well, celibacy ain't your thing, anyone can see that.

I can see that."

Enraged, LaCroix hissed at him. "Are you implying that I--that

Nicholas and I--!"

The Spaniard licked his lips, and his fingers inched towards LaCroix's

buttons again. "Come on. The way you act around him? Besides, we're

vampires; one of the bonuses is that we don't have to worry about who

does what to who, right?"

"Whom. And you, Vachon, would be in a very painful position right now

if I didn't have a show to do. Now, get out."

Vachon planted himself firmly against the wall. "Nope."

LaCroix considered a variety of ways to make him get out, all of them

violent, but settled for a snort of disgust, and settled in behind the

console. The presence of the lust-struck Spaniard disconcerted him,

making his opening monologue run a little less smoothly than usual.

He was relieved when the phone lines lit up immediately. "This is the

Nightcrawler. What is it you wish to share with me tonight, my

child?"

"Everything." He recognized the voice, of course, even through the

throaty rasp. He choose his words warily.

"This is good news indeed, my child--" A hand was running across his

shoulders. He hit the 'mute' button. "Vachon! Stop that!"

"Are you there? Are you listening?" He turned his attention back to

the phone. "Yes, my son. I'm always here, for you."

"Yes. . . I want to be there with you, now." LaCroix gritted his

teeth as Vachon started nuzzling his neck.

"Now might not be a good time. Perhaps later--"

"No! I need you, I want you!" LaCroix slapped Nicholas on hold, cued

the music, and pushed Vachon off him all in one blindingly fast

motion. As he turned on the importunate Spaniard, though, his eyes

found Janette on the other side of the glass. Their little tryst for

later on tonight might have a different agenda, he realized when he

saw her face. Distracted momentarily by this thought, he found

himself pushed against the wall by Vachon, who was once again

determinedly going after his buttons. The hold button was flashing

wildly, as if Nicholas was trying to get his attention, and Janette

had vanished. Enraged, he grabbed Vachon by the throat, opened the

door of the booth, and heaved the other vampire into the hallway.

"And stay out for the next century!"

Nicholas had hung up; somehow LaCroix got through the rest of the show

on autopilot, while his agile mind juggled visions of an angry

Janette, a lustful Vachon, and an apparently insane Nicholas. Well,

Vachon was taken care of (he hoped) and Janette he could soothe with a

flurry of charm, but Nicholas--

Nicholas was probably on his way. He shuddered, remembering the tone

of his son's voice, and peered cautiously into the hallway. It was

empty, so he scurried--

No, wait. He did not 'scurry'! He hastened, er, no, he moved

swiftly across the hall to his office, where he shut the door behind

him and reached for the decanter on the credenza. Was the world mad

tonight? Janette, of course, he could understand: they'd never had

the difficulties 'communicating' that he and Nicholas had had. Even

Nicholas' behavior, unexpected as it was, could be attributed to his

ever erratic mood swings. But Vachon?

He took a healthy swig from his glass and decided he'd rather not

venture out just now. The day's mail called for his attention; he

picked up the 16th century damascened dagger he used for a letter

opener and got to work. A few bills and advertisements; the usual

requests for pictures from fans of the radio show, which always

brought a smirk, er, smile to his face, and one enormous brown

envelope. It wasn't ticking, so he opened it.

Out slid an enormous hand-bound zine: To LaCroix on His Birthday.

There was the usual assortment of poetry, drawings, fictions and

fantasies. Rather sweet, actually. And completely understandable.

He was wise, he was powerful--not to mention charismatic and possessed

of a rather nifty way with words. A snappy dresser, too. Altogether,

one fine specimen of rampant vampiric masculinity; how could they not

fall under the spell of . . . He frowned . . . 'The Glory that is

Nunkies'?! He flipped faster through the pages. Phrases leaped out

at him: Golden Thigh? Albino Tomcat? Buzzcut Love Monkey? He

dropped the whole thing in a drawer and slammed it shut just as a

frantic hammering shook the door.

A mortal. He ran through the list of his mortal acquaintances, and

carefully opened the door.

"Ooof!" He would have recoiled in shock, were she not clinging like a

limpet to him. "Er, Doctor Lambert, would you mind releasing me?" A

heart-shaped face tilted up at him.

"Now that I've finally realized where my true love lies, I'll never

release you!"

"True love? But that's Nicholas. Er, isn't it?"

"Ha! Six years of my life and he can't commit? I know you can

commit, you've been committed to him for centuries."

Actually, commitment of several of his acquaintances was beginning to

sound like a good idea. He attempted to disengage her arms without

actually breaking one of them. "Doctor Lambert--"

"You always call me 'Doctor'," she said dreamily. "Not 'Dr.' or

'Nat'--what does that brick think I am, a guy? No, LaCroix, it's you;

I've known since that night at Azure that we were meant for each

other."

"Azure? But you forgot all about that!"

"Ha!" she said again, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face.

"I just went along with it to dampen ol' Angsty's ardor. Those

longing glances were getting annoying, you know?"

"Hold it right there, 'Doctor'!" A darkly perky blonde stood in the

doorway, gun pointing at the coroner. "LaCroix's mine!"

"Back off, blondie! I've known him longer than you have!"

"Detective Vetter, really, I--"

"And I've known him far longer than any of you," Janette purred as she

slunk into the room. His devoted daughter freed him from the coroner's

embrace by a nifty little yank on the auburn mane, and wrapped herself

around him. LaCroix breathed a sigh of relief. A short-lived sigh of

relief, as Janette smiled at the other two and continued, "But it

might be fun to share."

The two mortal women looked at each other. "Whaddaya think?" asked

Natalie.

"What about Nick?"

"Hmmph! What about Vachon?"

"Hmmph!"

"He is a vampire," Natalie pointed out. "Lots of stamina, you

know."

Janette settled the matter with a flash of her eyes, a flash of her

fangs, and more than a flash of thigh. Soon LaCroix found himself

ensconced in the amorous embraces of a blonde, a brunette, and a

redhead, and began to relax. Though there was this nagging voice in

the back of his mind, telling him he'd forgotten something.

"Me!" Nicholas stood in the doorway. "You forgot about me,

you--you--two-timing egotist!"

Janette counted heads. "Four-timing, Nicolas."

"Five-timing, if I get lucky," Vachon added as he poked his hair in

the door.

"In your dreams, grease-ball!"

Vachon ran a lazy finger down Nick's chest. "I dunno, Knight, you're

kinda cute in a puppy-dog sort of way. Wanna play threesies?"

LaCroix endeavoured to make himself heard. "Gentlemen, I might

suggest it's getting a little crowded in here. If you'll close the

door behind you on your way out?"

"Eight hundred years?" Nick demanded. "Eight hundred years together

and you're throwing me over for a gaggle of floozies?"

"I am not a floozy!" Janette declared hotly. "I'm the Femme Fatale,

remember?"

"And I'm the Dedicated Career Woman with the Hopeless Romantic

Streak!"

"And I'm a Good Cop!"

"I'm a Lust Muffin," Vachon added helpfully.

"And LaCroix's our Buzzcut Love Monkey!" they chorused.

"But I'm the Cute One! And the Hero--it says so in my contract!"

Vampiric stamina or not, LaCroix knew when he'd had enough, and he

took advantage of the squabble to break for the door. As he reached

his private apartments, the reek of garlic assaulted him, along with

another, less definable odor.

" 'Bout time, Loosh, buddy."

"Bin busy wi' a bit o' tha ol' in-an'-out, 'ave we?"

LaCroix froze as he took in the naked specimens of--of--well, naked

specimens sprawled on his couch. "You must be joking," he said

finally.

Schanke wiped a stray souvlaki smudge out of his chest hair. "Hey,

don't fight it, buddy. We've even got a faction and a coupla good

slashfics."

"Libratsie keeps promisin' " Screed said mournfully. "But I gots

tired o' waitin', so I sez to meself, why not jist pay tha ol' Roman a

vist, loik?"

Elegantly handsome and calmly unruffled, LaCroix stood for a moment in

the alley behind the Raven, adjusting his clothes after his leap from

the second floor window. He could hardly blame his friends for their

inability to control their ardor, but decided that a nice long (very

long) walk might be in order.

The life of a vampire sex god, he sighed, was not easy.

<FIN>