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DISCLAIMER: The following stories are all non-profit, amateur efforts not intended to infringe on the rights of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffen, Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, the city of New Orleans, the U.S. Constitution, 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."

Mojo
by The Brat Queen
October 2000

The sound of Mojo snoring was of considerable comfort to me as I came home. He was lying in the parlour, spread out before the gas fireplace, his thick hair gleaming in the firelight.

I shrugged out of my wet jacket, shaking off some of the nighttime rain from my body and knelt down beside him. He moved in his sleep, but I did my best not to wake him. Instead I shifted my fingers through his fur, touching him, feeling the hot warmth of his skin beneath his protective coat and listened to him breathe.

A touch along his side told me he was not ill. The snoring was merely the position of his head, and I took a measure of relief in that, changing the calendar in my mind and lengthening it a little.

There was stiffness in his hips, though. I could feel the slight creak of his bones as he moved and each twitch within them was a cold dagger through my arms, tiny thieves that mocked my feelings of omnipotence.

I sat closer, knowing it was probably foolish in my wet state, but tried not to drip on him as I continued to try to massage warmth into his body, urging the light of the fire to do its healing work.

"He took his medicine like a good boy," Louis said. He appeared out of the shadows behind me and settled himself into his reading chair as though space and time had intended his form to do so. He spoke softly, as he often did when we were alone. His voice never pitched loud enough for any save my ears.

"Thank you," I said. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Quite alright, Lestat. I am happy you are home." He smiled, then. A tender smile. Almost paternal in its own way. It was Louis' version of protectiveness.

"I'll stop making a mess of the carpet in a moment," I said, indicating the patch of water that had soaked into the floor around me. "I just wanted to say hello."

"I know. Carpets dry. Don't worry."

I had to smile a little at this, this conversation of apology for ruining a carpet that I myself had bought when refurbishing our home. It was mine by right. I had created and paid for it all, but even so I did not want to damage it. It was all too fragile, still. It was my link to Louis, my bond, and it was not something I dared risk.

Mojo shifted in his sleep. A soft whine escaped him, and I knew in his dreams he pursued a squirrel. I scratched along his ruff, praising him for the hunt. His tail thumped the floor determinedly.

"He slept most of the night," Louis said. "Right before the fire. He was quite content."

This was Louis' gift to me. His own way of forming a tentative bond. He cared for Mojo as best he could. It touched me, since I knew Louis did not care for him. Not for dogs. He preferred his homes to be free of such smells, particularly in New Orleans' wet weather. But for me he cared. For me he watched Mojo, and treated him as I would.

"I'm glad," I said. "The fire does him well."

"He prefers the heat," Louis agreed. He cocked his head sideways, looking at me.

I looked away. I knew the question he wasn't asking and I didn't like it. Thinking about it at all gave it more power than it deserved, more than I cared to.

Louis understood this. Though, in his practical way, he also understood the reality of it all. The reality that soon - far too soon - this would no longer be. I would not be here, on the floor, dripping over ancient carpets, being with my dog.

I didn't envy Louis in this matter. I would not want to be him, if given the chance. I would not like being with a lover who could not cope with this reality, and even now lashed out at anyone who pointed it out to him.

Mojo was mine, my friend and companion by right. Mojo had, in his own way, given my life back to me in a way no other could. I had had hope, with him. Plans for the future if even I alone could not make them. Waking up to be with him, feed him, care for him, provided a tentative line to life. It was simple, plain, undemanding. Just as he was now.

He shifted in his sleep, rolling over and pressing his body against mine. It could not have been pleasant for him. I was wet, cold, frozen in my vampire's shell. But still he sat there and did not move. For him, somehow, it provided happiness.

I felt his muzzle against my hand. His wet, thick, pink tongue came out to lap at my fingertips. I smiled, ignoring the emotions of regret and sorrow that tried to overshadow this.

He was mine and my friend. He was here now, and I took comfort in it. Time was a matter I paid no attention to, even as I lay there beside him and counted the hours until sunrise. For then, just for then, I could be content. I could talk with Louis, and be with my dog, and know happiness. If not happiness, then an abstract sort of pleasure. Peace, such as it was. The reality of things need not be paid attention to, if I did not want them. It was my one fight with Louis, but I held on to it bitterly. I would not forgive anyone the right to speak of this. Silence meant Mojo's life.

"Shall I leave you alone?" Louis asked. The orange-blue firelight colored swatches of his body, the contrast of light and dark turning him into an impression of himself. He had retreated in his chair, his eyes hidden by shadow.

I was tempted to answer yes. To remove a witness from this all. But, still, dared not. "No," I said at last. "Stay." I looked up then, noting in an odd way the feeling of cold against my own skin as I turned away from the fire. "Please. Let me go upstairs and change."

He nodded, his thin, fine face moving almost imperceptibly in that faint manner he had of hiding his emotions. Without speaking he moved out of his chair, slipping through the air to sit down beside Mojo and stroke his fur as I so recently had been.

With that, I smiled. I did not let him see it or else ruin the illusion, but I smiled for myself. Impulsively I stroked Louis' hair, leaving a faint damp streak from fingertips that Mojo's fur had not fully absorbed the water from. Louis ducked, then looked out at me from the corner of one green eye. I looked back, then left for my room, taking the stairs two at a time and letting the wood creak beneath me.

It was déjà vu, in its way. Still another full circle. The same house, the same lives, yet different in its way. I was stronger, Louis was older, together we owed each other more than either of us wanted to say. But still different. Louis stayed, for reasons unknown to me, and sat in this home, this place we had lived in for so long, and remained patient. He watched me with calm green eyes in the same way he watched Mojo, although for Mojo and I both it was a different kind of tenderness.

It was much the same as it had always been but nothing I understood. I stayed, for reasons unknown to me, and watched Louis in turn. We did not fight, or quarrel, or even cross words, but even so measured one another out. To what end remained to be seen to us both. To what lengths we did not know.

I peeled off my wet clothes and left them tossed upon the floor. I changed into soft slacks and a loose cotton shirt. I kept my hair down and my feet bare. I left the lights on in the landing as I made my way downstairs again.

Louis looked up at me as I came into the archway that led into the room. His body pressed close to Mojo's, reflecting heat into it as I had. We looked at one another silently, then I came to sit beside him, threading my fingers through his own as I did.

He relaxed, then. A motion as imperceptible as the one from before. But I felt it, and ignored it, knowing he would want me to.

We sat, then, in silence, watching my dog and the firelight. We spoke not a word as the evening moved on, letting our actions instead speak for us.

Beneath our hands Mojo sighed.