Home / Fan Fiction / V(cough) C(cough) fic / Dagger of the Mind / The Death of Gregory Michaelson, Part 1

DISCLAIMER: The following stories are all non-profit, amateur efforts not intended to infringe on the rights of Tom Cruise Malpother IV, William Bradley Pitt, Antonio Banderas, David Geffen, Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, the city of New Orleans, the U.S. Consititution, any copyright holders that I might not have thought of or even a certain author who shall remain nameless but who has a set of initials which are, coincidentally enough, just one letter off from spelling "B.S."

The Death of Gregory Michaelson Part One
A Dagger of the Mind Spec
by: The Brat Queen and Lady Black Death

DISCLAIMER: This is a spec story based off of the characters in the universe of the Dagger of the Mind RPG. It was written using only some of the concepts, characterizations and plotlines that appear in parts of Dagger as a starting point and putting what I hope will be an interesting "What if...?" spin on them. It is not and should not be taken as a true continuation of the story and abandon all hope ye who would find spoilers here. Some of it's based on Dagger canon, some of it definitely is not. And I ain't telling which.

He had to admit, he secretly enjoyed watching Tom react to the glasses. Not because he wanted to antagonize Tom, but rather he truly enjoyed how it felt to see Tom when he took them off. This was a feeling he could definitely get used to.

Not that he was used to it yet. No, not even with nearly a month of this to try. It had been three weeks since Tom had returned to France and three weeks of bliss and sheer terror on both their parts.

Well, if not terror, then hellish attacks of nerves. Neither one of them could quite get over the feeling that any moment now something would pounce.

Although they were certainly getting more and more comfortable with each other.

Comfortable. This was a new word. He'd never really been comfortable with anyone before. Fond of them, fatally in love with them, but not comfortable with them. That was something wholly new but something he most certainly wanted more of.

Likewise, so did Tom. Or so Lestat guessed based upon their current discussion.

"I don't see the problem," Lestat said, running a hand down the front of his jacket to smooth it. In addition to the glasses he was dressed in a white silk shirt, dark grey suit and deep burgundy tie. The expression on Tom's face when he'd seen this had spoken volumes.

"The problem is," Tom's clipped tone announced, "that I hate the commute. I hate tabloids even more. There's no good way out of this and it's driving me almost as crazy as your tailor is."

Lestat blinked. "What's wrong with my tailor?"

Tom threw himself into a nearby chair, gesturing to his comfortably worn sweats. "Man was not born to live in suits, Lestat."

"I look good in suits."

He glared. "Good, yes. Very GQ. Like you stepped off a magazine cover."

"So what's wrong with it?" Lestat asked, sitting down on a couch nearby him. He found himself thrilling to the fact that they were having this conversation - any conversation. That they could was still a novelty to him. (And no, his mind had not forgotten, in fact was in raptures over, the fact that Tom had started this all by wondering what would happen if they were living together.)

"It's not what you'd call comfortable. And what is with the tie?"

He frowned, looking down at it. "It's a perfectly good tie."

"It's around your neck."

"That's where they traditionally go, yes."

Letting out a small, frustrated growl, Tom jumped from the chair and grabbed for the tie. His motions were quick and efficient, but surprisingly gentle as he removed the offensive object from around Lestat's throat, unfastening two buttons of his shirt along the way. "Better," he said with some satisfaction, draping the tie over the back of the chair.

Lestat wondered if Tom had any idea what things like that did to his heart rate. "So," he said, letting his voice slip down to one of his best purrs as he looked up at Tom from underneath his lashes, "is this the sort of thing you intend to do if you move in with me?"

Tom folded his arms. "Of course."

Again Lestat's heartrate found a pattern it had never known before. He reached out, indulging himself in being able to run one hand along the side of Tom's leg. "Well... there's an advantage to it, I suppose."

"Right. I get to influence your wardrobe. Or lack thereof."

"There's that American directness again," Lestat said. Finding that Tom hadn't moved away he let his hand stay right where it was. "So in exchange for letting you have a say in my wardrobe I would get the advantage of your company far more frequently than we have now, this is what I am hearing?"

Tom shrugged, but definitely did not move away. "If it's something you'd find agreeable. And, of course, provided you're as good as you say you are. The last thing I need is this on every trade cover in the world."

There was that. Tom, still being "Tom Cruise", could not run the risk of being known to associate too closely with one Gregory Michaelson, rich and mysterious widower.

And Tom just didn't like his name in the papers as a concept.

"We don't have to do this, you know," Lestat said, moving closer to emphasize the point. "I've been very happy with everything so far. If it's too soon for us to live together..." He let the sentence trail off, letting Tom fill in the blanks. He hoped desperately that his expression also filled in the blanks - that Lestat desperately wanted him as a companion.

Tom moved away, but in doing so grabbed Lestat's hand, dragging him over to the sofa where he settled again with a compact swiftness. "I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't want it. But there's things to consider, sure. Like your specific situation, as a start."

Lestat found that being right on the edge of laughter - good laughter - was a perpetual state whenever Tom was around and had his mind to it. He let himself be led into the new position with only a cursory and obligatory bit of fuss. "What part of my situation?"

Without thinking about it Tom pulled him a little closer, settling comfortably next to him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Louis, of course."

He nodded. "I wasn't sure," he said, gesturing to everything around him to indicate the fabrication of a life he'd created for himself. "As for Louis... Oui, there is that."

Tom's eyes narrowed a little. "Don't think I've forgotten about Greg ." He said the offensive word with obvious distaste, as though describing a particularly loathsome plague.

He allowed himself a smile at that. Tom's feelings about "Greg" were another guilty pleasure of his. "Alright," he said, unconsciously rubbing the bridge of his nose just underneath his glasses, "one thing at a time. Yes, I must admit it probably wouldn't be the best of situations if Louis showed up on my doorstep and you were there."

"What would he do? Can you predict it?"

Lestat grimaced. "As I am completely incapable of figuring out anything about the first part of that equation I disqualify myself from the second." He allowed himself a few moments of thought. "I think, though, this falls more under the category of poor form rather than emotions. If I'm with you on a regular basis having a small commute to get to you makes little difference in the intent of the matter. After all, in my time it was perfectly acceptable to..." Lestat stopped, his mind for once realizing his words before they hit his mouth and stopping them before they got there. He let his thought stall right where it was and instead turned and kissed Tom with every ounce of strength and possession he dared place against the younger vampire's mouth. It was an action that would have probably been more effective if Tom hadn't laughed.

Lestat pulled back, telling the case of nerves that welled up inside of his gut to go merrily to Hell. "What?"

Tom tried to contain it, but was completely defeated. "You damn near called me your mistress. Don't deny it."

Lestat wanted to be serious and affronted. He failed miserably. He tried for a look of superiority instead. "I was going to say 'have something on the side'."

Tom couldn't get over the laughing fit, though it was obvious he tried. "I could put on a dress, but I don't know my size. Maybe a wig... naw, you used to wear those, right?" He collapsed, giggling madly.

Now he looked affronted. "Never. I powdered my hair, at best."

"Ok, ok." He struggled to get himself under control. "So I won't be your mistress," he sputtered again, obviously unable to help it, "until Louis shows up. At which point I'll probably die, so why not laugh?"

And now came serious. With one hand he grabbed a fistful of Tom's shirt and pulled him close enough that he was nearly on his lap. "If anyone dares to suggest you are anything like a side fling for me I shall personally see to them."

And then Lestat's brain heard what he said, panicked, but approved.

Tom got serious in a hurry. "Hang on. That's not what I meant to say."

He forgot how dangerous he looked when he got angry. He tried to calm down as rapidly as he could. "I'm sorry. I just... dislike the thought of such things being said about you."

"Ok." He took a long, slow breath. "No one is saying things about me like that. I was worried what Louis would think. That's it."

He forced himself to calm down another notch. "Alright. I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me." Which, he reflected, was true enough in its way. "As for Louis, I do not know. I think he will know how I feel about it all one way or another, for what that is worth."

"How you feel about it all?"

"I want you here."

Tom looked at him, suddenly very serious. "Louis or me. Choose."

Lestat's heart constricted so tightly he didn't know if he could draw breath. "I... I..."

His expression was relentless. "He walks in and sees what's going on, then leaves. Or there's a fight. A divorce. Something. Understand exactly what you're getting into before you do it - you may be making that choice right now." His voice dropped, soft, almost sad. "Can you live with it?"

A weight came upon Lestat's shoulders that had not been there for a while. He let himself truly feel it, truly feel all of what Tom reminded him of. He tried to imagine a life without Louis.

Then he tried to imagine a life without Tom.

Finally, trying to breathe once more, he answered. "I don't want to loose him. I love him. You know that. But..." he closed his eyes, feeling all of what Tom had said, and then reminding himself of everything he himself had learned. He opened his eyes, meeting Tom's. When he spoke his voice was low, enunciating each word clearly. "But I will not make the same mistakes twice. I will not shut myself away for the greater good. I love Louis. I love you. What Louis does I cannot control. What you do I cannot control. I can control myself. I can speak for myself. I know what I want. There is nothing else I can lay claim to."

"And you want me here, understanding all that?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm here."

It was Lestat's turn to be relentless. "Even though that means my feelings are for both you and he?"

Tom grinned. "Oh yeah. If you actually left him for me, there's no way I could handle it. I'd only come into it like this." A stormy look clouded his smile. "Well, no. That's not quite right. Louis is a part of your life. I'd rather he knew about this. I'd much rather have his blessing. But... damn. You know what I mean. Right?"

Lestat reached out to cover one of Tom's hands with his. He was surprised to find his hand was shaking, a little, although perhaps not enough for Tom to notice. "I know. And I think you know what I mean when I say I do not want to give up being his husband."

"Yeah, I do." Tom swallowed, looking to the wall once more. "A husband is a special thing. It would be nice if yours was here."

"Yours too, I imagine."

The look of pain which flickered across Tom's face was quickly hidden. "He's in California." He might have said "on the moon" with the same weight. Or "dead."

He squeezed Tom's hand gently, then gave up on subtlety and reached to pull Tom closer - letting him back off from the embrace if he wanted. "I'm sorry."

Tom settled against him lightly. "Don't be. It's a situation that he and I worked hard to create. I don't know if it can be fixed at this point. But whatever our relationship is, we made it that way ourselves."

Lestat nodded, then decided to change tracks to preserve both their sanities. "Alright then, so we've given you the right to change my wardrobe and me the right to screw up. Correct so far?"

"Um, yeah. And me to melt all pairs of glasses in the household."

A corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't remember agreeing to that."

Tom nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yeah, you did." He grinned. "I was here. Heard it all. It was beautiful. Very gutsy on your part. Remember how I told you how proud I was of you? And that glasses just make you look old?"

"I'm 239 I can't imagine they do anything but. Besides," he said, with a grin that was purely his own, "we don't want anyone thinking you've suddenly developed a habit of robbing the cradle now do we?"

His eyes were gravely concerned. "Old, Lestat. I mean it. Haggard, even. I mean, hey, if you want to set a geriatric fashion statement, I'll stand by you... but I thought you should know." He considered. "I could get you a cane, maybe. Or how about a walker? Go with the image."

Lestat stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle and pulling Tom a little bit closer to him in the process. "I don't know, Tom. They certainly seem to draw your attention. If I took them off I think I would be remarkably dull."

The reply was succinct. "I like dull."

He quirked an eyebrow. "A Hollywood man like yourself? No, you'd be bored."

"Dull is good."

"I thought that was greed."

"That too."

He grinned. "Alright, so you dislike the glasses. What do you suggest?"

"Melting them. Pay attention."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

Tom went on to take advantage of a little known but undeniable fact - Lestat was incredibly ticklish.

Lestat said something particularly interesting in French, tried to get away, and found himself lying underneath Tom anyway. Which, he reflected, wasn't all bad. He also smugly noted that the glasses were still on. "No fair, Cruise," he gasped. "Definitely no fair."

When he was sure he had Lestat's attention, Tom backed off a little, grinning. "Now. About your wardrobe."

Lestat looked up at him and out from underneath hair that was slowly falling out of his ponytail. "What about it?"

Tom saved him the trouble by reaching out to relieve him of both the band around his hair and his glasses. "I think you should wear a suit no more than once, possibly twice a month. Until we break you of this new habit."

"Oh do you?" he shifted his weight under Tom, enjoying the look on his face. "And what do I get in return for this?"

He considered. "My undivided attention?"

He smiled. "So you would move in with me?"

Nodding slowly, Tom shifted, watching Lestat gasp. "I'd move in with You, yeah."

Ah yes, this was something he could definitely suffer. "Alright," he said, his voice a soft, French purr, "you live with me, you change my wardrobe...." he grinned "I keep the glasses."

He shook his head. "Greed is good. So I'll get greedy."

"So am I," Lestat grinned, finding it was instinctual to match Tom's motions. "The glasses stay."

Tom nuzzled Lestat's throat, very lightly. "Please?"

He closed his eyes, letting himself feel Tom's caress. With one hand he reached up to toy with Tom's hair. "I can't say you don't make a convincing argument..."

He moved up to nibble his ear lobe. "You don't need them."

"Not true, they do help." Lestat's internal temperature had finally risen enough he decided turnabout was fair play. With his free hand he began to run his fingers along the inside of the waist of Tom's sweatpants. "And even you agree that physical disguise is useful."

"True," he gasped slightly. "But you're powerful enough to control the trances. Not like some junior fledglings I know." He grinned, nipping just under the ears. "They weigh down your face."

His free hand went lower. "They do not. I should think you'd have noticed how -" he gasped as Tom hit a tender spot "- light they are... considering how many pairs you've broken."

"Then why do you keep rubbing your nose?"

He frowned, pausing in his activity. "Doing what?"

Tom raised his head to look at Lestat directly. "You rub the bridge of your nose. Constantly."

The frown deepened. "Really?"

He nodded solemnly. "That's not all."

"What?"

"Your tie. Ever notice how you fiddle with it? Trying to get it comfortable?"

Tension that he didn't realize he'd been feeling suddenly left his body. He pulled his hands back, propping himself up on his elbows as he considered what Tom said. True enough, his mind supplied the memories. "I hadn't noticed. To be honest I'm not overly fond of ties, though."

Tom shrugged. "There's only one guy I know who wears them regularly." Voice softer, expression determined he added, "The world would be better off if there were less suits in it."

The frown came back. "Who?"

"Suits. Professional persons of business."

He smiled, shaking his head. "No, who do you know, I meant."

Tom considered. "You know, there's lots of ways to conduct business. I'm good at nearly all of them. I could help you, if you'd like."

He thought about asking again, but then decided that if Tom did not want to supply the information, he wouldn't push. It was, he reflected, still a bit too early in the relationship for either of them.

Relationship. That was a nice word.

"Help me how?" he asked.

"I could supply you with contacts. Help you in most industries. If you tell me more about what you're managing, I could help take some of the burden. One of the things I'm best at is managing a mobile office. You could work from home, guaranteed."

He considered this. It held appeal, although only a little. "And what would I do in the meanwhile?" he asked with honest curiosity, not dismissing the idea.

"Develop outside interests. Hobbies." He smiled just a little. "Get to know other people better."

He ran a hand up Tom's thigh. "That one I like," he smiled. "The others I don't know about. Like what?"

"Music."

He rolled this over in his mind. "I don't know. I like music, but I don't know if I want to be a musician again. It was really a means to an end more than anything."

"What about writing?"

He considered this too. His mouth quirked in a light grin. "I write about what I feel passionate about. And since a novel about The Vampire Tom Cruise would then be my next likely subject..."

"Ok, writing sucks. I always thought so in school." He considered again. "What are your interests?"

Lestat grew quiet. He shrugged, looking away. "I haven't really had any. I've been too busy... well, reacting to the whole damn world." He looked back at Tom. "I can't remember the last time I ever did something just because I liked it." A grin appeared on his face then. He reached up to touch Tom's cheek. "Well, besides this. And even this I'm still feeling my way with."

Surprised, Tom held him a little closer. "Really? Well, ok. You keep going to the ballet, right? But I'm going to assume that you don't want to become a dancer."

He leaned back, shifting so that he was slightly propped up and therefore closer to Tom. He was amazed that he could be in such a position and relaxed . With anyone. In response to the question he grinned again. "Non. I used to wish to sleep with the dancers but somehow I do not think that's the sort of interest you were hoping to cultivate."

"Didn't think so." He shrugged and shifted so that his leg brushed Lestat's inner thigh, smiling at the reaction. "You could always start your own dance troupe."

His eyes closed and his mind became too heated to form a coherent reply. Two breaths later he was able to recover enough to make the attempt. "I don't know, Tom. You'd trust me alone with all those shapely dancers?" Surprising himself, he ran his hands over Tom's buttocks and pulled him closer to emphasize his point.

"I trust you, yeah." To stress the point he leaned in to kiss him, taking his time, making a thorough job of it.

So this is what it's like to melt, he thought, returning the kiss and hoping like Hell it felt that way for Tom. With one movement he rocked his hips into Tom's and drew Tom that much closer, moving his hands up to tangle in his hair. "God," he whispered, breathless, "do you have any idea what you do to me?"

He shook his head, whispering against his lips. "No. Probably not. Do you want to get out of here?"

It took him a moment to realize Tom meant get out of the apartment, not the embrace. This answer was easy. The more he talked with Tom the more stifling the apartment felt. "Yes. With you, anywhere."

"Cool." He slowly disentangled himself and sat up, making sure to stay as close as possible while still making progress toward the door.

Lestat followed, pausing only long enough to snatch up his coat and put it on. "Where are we going?"

"Shopping." Tom called the answer over his shoulder as he opened the door. "You need new clothes."

Lestat let his eyes rake over Tom's sweats. " I do?"

He grinned. "Exactly."

Lestat laughed despite himself. "Do you always try this hard to impress someone, Cruise?"

Tom blinked, then raised an eyebrow. "No. Not normally. The last one I tried this hard with was Coppola, I think."

Lestat rolled this over in his mind. "You consider me as impressive as Coppola?"

Tom was so startled that he simply stared for a moment. Then he tilted his head back and laughed. "Hell no! Coppola? Impressive? No no. He's," he tried to calm a little, "a bear. Not impressive. I just had to get the part, that's all. My whole career depended on it, that sort of thing. You're a hell of a lot more impressive than Coppola."

He allowed himself a satisfied grin. "Good," he nodded toward the door. "Alright then, let's get you a new wardrobe."

"Oh no," he replied, closing the door. "You're going to dress for comfort."

"You're going to put me in sweats, I just know it."

"Yep. You'll love it."

He tried to picture himself in sweats and failed. In truth the most casual he'd ever worn in this current era had been jeans. Which, he admitted, he did like. Just not recently. Not since Louis.

There was another small spasm to his heart again. Very soft, in the back of his mind, he heard Tom's voice Louis or me. Choose. He felt a faint tremor, then looked up at Tom, hoping his emotions did not show. "Tom?"

Tom turned back, smiling at him. "Yeah?"

He couldn't help but smile in return. "You're truly moving in with me?"

Tom looked up the hall, then down, then pounced, pressing Lestat hard against the wall, kissing him deeply. Want me to? Seriously?

The answer was immediate. Yes. Yes. Yes. He returned the kiss, savoring the feel of Tom's body beside his. He was still getting used to all of the curves and planes of Tom's form. His hands enjoyed the opportunity to learn more about him in the embrace. "Yes," he said again, aloud. Then grinned as an idea occurred to him. He fumbled in his pocket, then pulled out a small, sliver bundle. "Then here, take your keys. And make sure to make me a set, would you?"

Tom looked at the keys thoughtfully before grinning. He twirled them around his finger for a second, then pocketed them, moving back down the hall. "We've gotta get you sweatpants with pockets. That's important."

"Frenchmen don't wear sweats, Tom," he said following him, "it's against our national heritage."

"They only sell them for the American tourists, right?"

"They shoot smugglers of them at the gates," he responded, giving him what he thought was a fairly smug look before the two of them left the building.

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