Home / Fan Fiction / V(cough) C(cough) fic / Dagger of the Mind / The Death of Gregory Michaelson, Part 2

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 Two
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.

Instinctively they both moved fast - Lestat slowing down his own natural speed just a bit when he remembered Tom would have a hard time keeping up - as they became an unseen blur to the mortals around him. After a bit of silent emotional argument, they ended up by a large clothing store which was guaranteed to have a little bit of everything in it. With a few twists of Lestat's mind the building was open to them and they were inside without any locks or security devices being none the wiser.

Tom headed at once for Athletic Wear.

With a last, longing look towards Men's Suits Lestat followed. "Bike shorts are right out you realize."

"You'd look ridiculous," Tom answered at once, moving towards work out accessories. "Your legs are too skinny and you need a tan to pull off the look." He grinned, flaunting his own deep, if slightly irregular, tanline.

Lestat walked past the racks of clothes, trying to picture himself wearing any of them and failing miserably. Just for the reaction he said "I could always go get another one, if that helps."

Tom looked at him appraisingly. "Might help. But for now, try this." He pulled out a soft, fleece-lined black sweat suit, tailored enough to be fashionable, but still sinfully comfortable.

Two eyebrows raised. "On?"

"On. You."

Lestat stared at it long and hard, then looked up at Tom, then back to the suit. He decided the argument wasn't going to go anywhere and he might as well try everything once.

(And a part of him, a very small and stifled part of him, thrilled to be doing something new.)

Feeling a bit more like himself, he stripped off his coat and shirt right there and held out his hands for the top. "So what does one do with this?"

He considered it for a long moment, then put it back. "Ignore it. Not you. Try the pants. I'll be back in a moment."

Lestat shrugged, putting the shirt and jacket aside and stripping out of his pants and shoes. After a moment of making sure which way went forward, he slipped on the pants and waited for Tom.

Unconsciously, he rubbed his nose, adjusting glasses that weren't there.

Two seconds later, he realized that he did it. A small shiver went through him and he folded his arms instead, shoving all of the negative emotions somewhere else for a change.

A few minutes later Tom returned, bearing a blue tank top with a small white stripe across it. "Try this. With a black jacket on top of it, I think. After that, sneakers."

In for a penny, he thought and slipped the top on. "I've done sneakers before," he said. "With James. How in Hell do mortals wear those?"

"Comfortably." He held the coat out for him, then surveyed the image. Nodding with satisfaction, he gently turned Lestat around before he could glance at a mirror. "Shoes."

Lestat quickly reached to grab his clothes before Tom left them behind. "They're horrendously leaky."

"Leaky?" Without ceremony he started pulling shoes from the shelves the moment they reached that department.

Lestat sat down on a chair, his clothes beside him, watching Tom search. Tom had interesting lines to his face when he'd set himself on a goal. He wondered if Tom even realized that. "Yes. In snow."

He finally found the pair he wanted, snatched up a pair of socks and returned. "Remember, comfort is everything. Too big is just as bad as too small. Try them on while you explain this snow leak thing to me."

Obediently he put shoes and socks on. "If you wear them in snow," he said simply, "they leak. Which is cold, and rather miserable, and I never understood how mortals could stand it."

Tom looked at him quizzically. "You don't wear sweats in snow. You wear jeans in snow. Take a look." He gestured toward a nearby mirror. "I think you'll like it."

"Tell that to a..." he paused, doing the math, "231 year old fool in the body of a mortal for the first time since he was 23." He stood, moving to the mirror. He had to admit that the effect looked good, but he wasn't sure of how it felt. "I don't know, Tom..."

"Move around."

"How?"

Grinning, Tom moved up behind him, massaging his shoulders. "Any way that feels good, champ. These clothes are made to move with you. Comfort is everything."

"Champ," he mouthed, being reminded, not for the first time, that Tom was American. He grinned, shook his head, and tried walking around for a start. "I'll grant they move, but I'm not sure if they are me."

"You look great."

He looked at himself in the mirror again. He grinned, suddenly, "I'll wear this in the house if I can wear glasses outside of it."

"Why would you want to?" Tom asked, smile in place even if the eyes glittered a bit. "If you move the office, you don't have to deal with the jerks who are used to seeing you in glasses. And if you truly object to sweats, there's always leisure wear. Or jeans. Jeans are great."

"I don't object, I'm just not used to them. Give me a little time," he said, "to see if maybe I can be. That's part of the point, right? To see what I like? And I do like jeans and I did like my glasses. Not all the time, just when we need to be out, alright?" he offered a quick grin. "Call me Clark Kent if you must, but I'd just prefer a little something physical to help deflect cameras. Surely you of all people can understand that."

"I can understand it," Tom said slowly. "If that's all you're using them for."

"On my honor as a bloodthirsty murderer."

"Ok then. You've got one sweatsuit. You'll need others."

He smiled, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. "Lead on. And I'd love jeans. I look good in jeans."

"Oh yeah. They're over here."

He took one last look at the stranger in the mirror, then straightened his shoulders and told himself to stop being such a damned fool who was too frightened of himself to act. With that final curse in his own direction, he turned and followed Tom. "So we're going for something of a beach bum look?"

"Anything besides an executive. It doesn't matter what. I'll even put up with Bermuda shorts if I have to."

Lestat had the decency to shudder. "I think not. I can do beach bum. Of course then everyone thinks I'm a college student."

"Oh, no! Not a college student. How many responsibilities could one of those have?"

He blinked. "I honestly don't know."

"How about, finals in 3 months, and until then nothing but relaxation?"

"Ah," he said, flipping through piles of sweat shirts. He felt he could perhaps wear sweatshirts. "And finals would be...?"

"Exams. A big test to make sure you didn't skip every class, only most of them."

"Really?" he nodded, filing this information away for later. "I never understood how schools worked. I mean I've read a great deal, of course, but it's not quite the same as being there." He laughed. "Of course if I was mortal right now that's probably where I'd be. Can you imagine me in the middle of a university classroom?"

Tom tilted his head, regarding him thoughtfully. "You'd be a hell of a student."

"Oh I can't imagine that," he said. He shrugged off the shirt and jacket to try on a pale purple sweatshirt. "I'd ask all the wrong questions. I'm famous for that."

Tom shrugged. "No such thing as a dumb question."

"Just wait, I'll get around to it one of these days with you and I," he said. He took the shirt of, placed it with the others Tom had picked for him, and continued to look down at the table to see what else was there.

"Are you dumb?"

That brought him up short. It was almost as though Tom had asked if he were a man. He looked up at Tom, knowing his expression must have been strange. "Of course. Everyone knows that."

"Why?"

Again the question brought him up short. His mouth opened and shut a few times before he could find the words. "Because... I'm me."

"What's a wrong question? If you don't mind my asking, I mean."

"I don't know," he said, shrugging. He turned back to the table for something to do with his hands. "Most of them. I never understand what's happening."

"Like what?"

"Like ever," he said, trying to dismiss it with a wave of his hand. "That is, if I'm in charge of a situation then I usually understand it. I usually know what I'm doing and what will happen because of it. Like the concert," he said, looking up to see if Tom remembered. He looked back down again as he continued. "But the rest of the time I have no idea. What people say, why they say it, why things happen the way they do..." he stopped, focusing his attention very closely on the table to avoid thinking about the things he was actually saying. "That's always the way, isn't it? Lestat never knows and everyone knows not to listen to him."

"I've never heard that. Not from anyone, at any time. In fact, everyone I know either respects you, or fears you. Sometimes both." He considered. "I'll admit, you have a reputation for not thinking things to the long term consequences, but it's not because you can't. Just that you're impulsive. At least, that's what I've heard."

"Impulsive means stupid."

Tom frowned. "Impulsive generally means a person who acts on impulse. Not stupid. Who the hell sold you this bill of goods?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice sharp, "but it seems to me that someone who acts without thinking is thoughtless and therefore stupid."

"No," he said simply. "Just impulsive. Lestat, you're not stupid. Honestly."

A small part of him, the same part that liked doing all of these new things in the first place, took Tom's words to heart. Even still he thought about dismissing what Tom had said. But when he met those green eyes again he found himself daring to do something else. "I still don't understand things, half of the time," he said, softly.

"That's ok. Just ask if you don't understand. Like you did in school."

"I think you'd grow sick of me if I did that everytime I needed to."

Tom sighed. "Whoever taught you to think this way should be shot. Ask me questions, ok? If not me, other people. But go ahead and ask."

Surprising himself, he answered honestly. "Alright."

He smiled, then leaned in to kiss him. "Great. Have any questions right now?"

This one was easy. "Do that again?"

The kiss lasted longer, still light, just a little teasing.

Yes, he thought, sliding his arms around Tom, this felt good. He chased after him with his mouth, deepening the kiss just to taste him.

Tom smiled against him. "See? Questions aren't bad. Told you."

He gave Tom his best wolfish grin, "Did you enjoy it?"

"The kiss?"

"Yes."

"Want me to do it again?"

Tom's voice was softer this time. "Please."

He laughed, softly, teasing Tom's lips as he came closer. "You do interesting things to my heartrate, Cruise," he said. He kissed him again, letting himself thrill to the fact that he could, that they were alone, and that no one was there to stop them.

Or tell him he was wrong.

Or, in fact, if anyone did....

...that Tom would tell them to go to Hell.

He made the kiss deeper still.

Tom broke the kiss slowly, smiling against his lips. "I should have put you in sweat pants a long time ago."

Lestat felt a small shudder go through him as the last of his nerves vanished. His hands found a natural position on the small of Tom's back. He shifted, pressing Tom's weight against the display table. "Perhaps you should have, Monsieur Cruise. Anything else you'd like to put me into?"

His smile, posture and attitude were all very relaxed. "You tell me. I'd just like you to be happy. Any guy who dresses like Greg has got to be miserable."

"You wear suits."

"I wear them occasionally," he conceded. "I don't live in them."

Lestat couldn't help a small chuckle. "This is true," he said, running a hand under the waistband of Tom's sweats. "I never would have guessed that about you, you know."

He looked surprised. "That I live in suits, or that I don't?"

"That you don't," he said, letting his hand stay where it was. He looked at Tom closely. "'Tom Cruise' is such a personality... you are unexpected."

Tom sighed, looking a little uncomfortable. "What the machine creates can't be lived up to. That's why privacy is so important." He shrugged, looking away. "What happens when they find out you're just a guy?"

He ducked his head to meet Tom's eyes. "I've been wondering the same thing about you and me," he said, softly.

Frowning, Tom just looked at him for clarification.

Lestat freed his hand and with one finger traced Tom's jawline. "What happens when people find out The Vampire Lestat is 'just a guy'? Charismatic, but flawed."

He groaned. "If you're not just a guy, you've got no business being with me. I'm nothing special, I swear it."

"I don't know about that," Lestat said, brushing a light kiss against his cheek. He leaned in to whisper into Tom's ear. "I know of only three men I have ever loved."

Tom grinned, then shoved away from the table. "We're shopping, remember." He softened his words with a quick kiss to the cheek, and a whispered "I love you, too."

"Shopping," Lestat said, glancing over the pile of shirts he'd made. He grinned. "I like shopping." He was pleased to hear a note of himself in his voice - something of the man he knew, not the invisible violet he'd turned himself into. He glanced at Tom's reflection in a mirror as he resumed his search of the racks and realized that Tom brought this out in him. Somehow he was more himself with Tom. With a true Lestatian grin he pounced, wrapping his arms around Tom as tightly as he dared and kissing him loud enough to make both of their ears ring. Love you, Thomas.

"This isn't shopping," came the token protest, even as he returned the kiss.

"No," he smiled as he ran his hands under Tom's shirt, caressing his chest. "No it isn't."

Tom shuddered, returning the caress, but with restraint. "I'm not sure I can do this in a department store. Call me old fashioned."

"That's ok," Lestat said as he began to tug Tom's shirt off, "I'm just trying to even the odds. If you're playing dress up with me I think it's only fair I get to do the same with you."

"NO suits."

"Spoilsport," he gave Tom his best pout then pulled Tom's shirt off the rest of the way. "Sit tight, I'm going to go find something for you."

Arms crossed, watching with interest, Tom waited as instructed.

Lestat kept the shirt in his hands as he made his way to another section of menswear to find the shirt he had in mind. After a few moments of search he pulled a light sweater out of a pile that matched the size of Tom's sweatshirt perfectly. As another rack of clothes caught his eye he sent a bemused thought to Tom. I suppose getting you to take off your pants is out of the question?

I'm not the one who is in desperate need of a change of clothes.

You're rather Puritan for a Scientologist.

I'm in Scientology for the Army. You know that. Or did you?

Lestat frowned, pulling a few pairs of jeans from the rack in various sizes and returning to Tom. "Army?"

Tom shrugged. "I'm not sure if I should be embarrassed or not. If you're not Jewish in Hollywood, you're no one. I was raised Irish Catholic. Scientology was a great way to make contacts. One division of it has an army, which is the part I'm associated with." He grinned again, deliberately showing his fangs. "Not that it matters now, but when a mortal has an army, it's normally considered useful."

"Really?" he pondered this as he unfolded the shirt and held it out for Tom to put on. It was a loose-fitting shirt of a dark grey and white weave. "Why would you want an army?"

He gazed innocently at the ceiling. "If the choice is to have one, or not have one, why not have one?"

"Take off your shoes," Lestat said, unfolding the jeans. "And I'm still not sure I understand, although I suppose with even us it could be helpful."

Tom slipped out of his shoes, then pants. "SeaOrg is an organization of blindly devoted followers. It's an army based on philosophy doubling as religion, which makes it a cult twice over. I'll deny this to anyone but you, understood?" He waited until he got confirmation before he continued. "Hollywood can only offer so much influence, and I had gone just about as high as possible there. So the next realm?" He looked thoughtful. "Politics would actually have been a demotion, but there's no way I could have been on top of the ladder forever. I had to make long term plans. Armies are influential, especially if they're based on philosophy. Make sense?"

He handed over a pair of washed black jeans. "I suppose. But to what end?"

"To wield unquestioned influence of ones environment in the future." He buttoned the jeans, bending them a little at the knees. "Having been on the top, I wasn't really thrilled with the idea of a backslide."

Lestat walked a circle around Tom, brushing off imaginary dirt every so often as he did. "And now?"

"Now? I have another mountain to climb. It's the next logical step."

"What is?"

He folded his arms, cocking an eyebrow at Lestat. "Being a vampire. Who needs an army when the world just became a foodsource?"

Lestat found himself bursting out with laughter. "My God you're fun. I like you." He kissed Tom affectionately then turned him towards a mirror. "What do you think? This is my taste in casual."

Tom observed from a few angles. "Frankly, it's my taste too." He suddenly grinned wide. 'I just had to see what you looked like in sweats, that's all."

Lestat shrugged, holding his arms out and turning so Tom could get a good look at the pants. "Your thoughts?"

"I like it. In fact, I'll take it."

He grinned. "But not here. All talk and no action, Cruise."

"I'm not French."

"So you'd make love with me if we were in an American store then?"

"No, I'd make love to you if I hadn't been raised in Kentucky."

"Ah. Alright then. Because there's a Gap just down the block if you change your mind."

"Not everything is sex, Lestat."

He held his hands up defensively. "Kidding. Sorry. I'm not used to talking to Americans, just writing for them."

Tom smiled. "None taken. Sorry." He stretched. "Shopping just isn't my thing. Maybe that's French too. I could learn from you."

He leaned against one of the tables, his arms folded comfortably. "I used to do this a lot. You should have seen Rue Royale - I was constantly filling it with some new thing. Louis used to say my shoes alone were enough to take up half of the house."

"I don't doubt it. If my religion is influence, yours is definitely shopping. So what should we do next, great guru?"

Lestat laughed. "Jeans for me. Can you carry those?" he gestured to the sweatshirts he'd piled up on the table.

In response Tom gathered up the items in question. "No prob."

He lead the way towards casual wear, once again slipping off his pants to try on new ones. "Help me find blue jeans. I look good in those."

Tom dumped the sweats, then started rooting around in piles of denim. "So, you're going to retire the three-piece things then?"

"Maybe. We still haven't thought of something else for me to do."

"I've been thinking about it. What about an art gallery? You're always in a museum of something or other."

His eyebrows quirked up just a little at this. He looked over at Tom with interest. "Doing what?"

He eyed him. "Management is out of the question?"

He shook his head. "Not if you want me out of suits," he flashed a quick grin, "or no longer acting stuck up. I've met managers, they're worse than my business partners."

"Hell no. Well," Tom spread his hands helplessly, "why not create something? Art is a wide open field, and I guarantee you won't paint in a $2,000 suit."

He laughed, turning back to the jeans, "Ah no. No help there, I'm afraid. I'm no Marius."

Tom groaned. "That is one of hundreds of styles of art. If realism isn't your thing, why not abstract?"

He laughed again, shaking his head and turning his attention to shirts. "No, that couldn't work either because..."

"Because...?" Tom paused, pair of jeans in hand, looking over at him.

Lestat blinked, thinking it over.

Amused, Tom straightened, pushing his hair out of his face so he could watch Lestat more closely.

An image played in Lestat's mind. It was the thought of him, paintbrush in hand, attacking a canvas. And with that thought came the idea of letting out all the anger, frustration and repression he'd been feeling for So Damn Long. His mouth twitched. He covered it with a hand, knowing what was coming.

Tom cocked his head, simply watching.

It was just two moments later when the laughter came. He bent over double, hand still over his mouth and laughed , laughed in a way that he hadn't in over three years. He took in great gulps of air, trying to control it, then gave up, letting himself get lost in the bubbling golden wave of amusement that wracked through his body.

Shaking his head, Tom continued to paw through the piles of jeans.

"Ah God," he gasped, wiping away the blood tears that had begun to flow. He struggled to talk through the laughing fit. "Ah God ! It's too perfect!"

He couldn't help himself - laughter was contagious. "Why is it perfect?" Tom laughed, giving up on the jeans entirely.

"Just..." he waved one hand, trying to indicate the grandness of the scheme as the laughter kept coming, "imagine it! Me! That! With -" and here the laughter came harder "-Marius...."

"I Don't get it. Marius is a realist, right?"

Lestat nodded, helplessly.

"So...?"

He gave up on talking, choosing to silently show Tom the image he'd just shown himself and how it felt to think of doing something that was so unlike anything he or anyone else in the coven had ever done before. How perfectly, wonderfully freeing it had felt.

Tom took it in, then moved in to hold him. Do it, if it will make you that happy.

Instinctively he began to kiss Tom where ever he could reach as the laughter began to fade. "It's perfect," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the exercise. "Absolutely perfect."

He nuzzled him back. "Next stop, art supply shop?"

He nodded. "Oui, please." He gave Tom one last kiss then gathered up all of the clothes they'd found. A quick stop behind one of the registers provided bags to carry them in. After choosing a pair of blue jeans, a white pullover and the sneakers Tom had picked for him he placed the rest into bags. He pulled out his wallet, then, and stared at the register. "How much...?"

Tom glanced at the bags, did a quick mental calculation, then took Lestat's wallet and dropped several bills near the register. "Give them a tip for causing a mess."

He smiled and kissed Tom on principle. "Thank you. Art supplies?"

Tom nodded, then followed him out the door.

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