The Value of Good Conversation
Prelude to The Taste of a Warrior

Posted: November 2003
Title: The Taste of a Warrior Prelude: The Value of Good Conversation
Author: Dhvana
Fandom: Real Person Fiction
Type: RPS
Characters: George Clooney, Sean Bean
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Disclaimer: Pure fiction.
Archive: Group archive
Author's Note: Just thought I'd answer a question or two. Thanks for your support! And, as always, feedback would be most welcome!
Summary: Wonder about the relationship mentioned between George and Sean in the last chapter? Well, here's the answer.

*****

Storming down Herb Caen Way, I have to muster all my self-control not to take the cell phone in my hand and dash it against the wall.

I can't believe it. The house in Moscow--gone. Jeremy and Sandra--both piles of ash. Those goddamn hunters are really starting to push their luck. I've tried to be patient. I've tried to be understanding. But Orlando and I were just in that house less than twenty-four hours ago. If he'd still been in there. . .

Take a deep breath, George. Orlando's safe. He's probably happily wrapped around Dominic at this very moment and has already forgotten we were in Moscow. He'll never have to worry. That's your job.

Except right now, I'm not worrying. Right now, I'm too fucking furious to worry.

I've had just about all of those bastards that I can take. They're getting closer with each move. Soon, there won't be a place in the world where we'll be able to escape them. I've got to start taking more precautions, finding better hidden accommodations, killing more of them.

Passing by one of the many waterfront cafes, I glance inside the window and nearly trip over my own feet with shock.

How the hell did they manage to find us so quickly?

It seems impossible--we landed barely a couple of hours ago, but there's Sean, reading a newspaper while sipping on a cup of tea right here in San Francisco.

Bad timing, human, I think with narrowing eyes. You're going to regret coming out of hiding this night. Someone has to pay for their loss, and you'll do quite nicely.

Walking inside the café, I pull out the empty chair at his table and sit down. He looks up, eyes filled with consternation at my impudence and the interruption to his evening. I just sit there, a darkly amused smile on my lips, as I wait for recognition to sink in.

"A coffee, please," I say to the server who stops by our table as all the blood drains from his face, the newspaper trembling slightly in his hands.

He quickly folds the paper and sets it down on the table, absently smoothing the pages repeatedly with his hands until he realizes what he's doing, then stops.

The server returns with my coffee and I add two packets of sugar and pour a couple tablespoons worth of fresh cream from the tin container into the liquid until it is a warm brown in color. I take an experimental sip, give a contented sigh, and once more meet my victim's eyes.

Sean has been watching all this with an expression of horrified disbelief. I think he's afraid to move for fear I'll attack him. Foolish man. I'm not going to anything in a crowded café. I'm going to wait until I can get him to someplace private, and then I'm going to kill him.

"Enjoying San Francisco?" I ask, my voice completely companionable, as if I'm sitting across from an old friend.

He just stares at me.

"Been here long?"

Again, no answer.

"If this is your first trip here, I highly recommend a visit to the Golden Gate Park. It's absolutely stunning what they've managed to do with that bit of land. Seeing as how you're British--you are British, aren't you?" He gives a hesitant nod. "I thought so. You've probably never seen a buffalo before, have you? They actually have a herd of bison at the park. You've got to pay them a visit. They're really quite something."

Not that you'll live long enough to take my advice, but that's another matter altogether.

"Of course, you'll want to visit all the usual places--Fisherman's Wharf, Haight-Ashbury, the Golden Gate Bridge, the museums, Alcatraz, Ghirardelli Square--which reminds me, they make an absolutely sinful hot chocolate there. I need to pick one up for Orlando."

"What do you want?" he asks in a harsh whisper.

"Sean," I say with a patronizing smile, "what do you think I want? You just killed two people who were very dear to me and destroyed a house I've owned for centuries. What do you think I want?" All false affability vanishes from my voice. "I want revenge. Do you know how many pieces of art were in that house? The Icons, the paintings? My god, man, vital pieces of Russian history were kept between those walls, and you destroyed them all without a second thought!"

"Keep your valuables in a vault like normal people," he manages to growl.

"But I'm not like normal people, now am I?"

"Which makes it extremely difficult to find any sympathy for you."

"I'm not asking for sympathy. All I'm asking is that the next time you decide to torch one of my homes, could you give me a little warning so I can get all of my valuables out?"

"And give you and any other fiends you might be sharing the house with time to escape? Why should we bother torching it at all?"

"Yes, well, that would be your problem, now wouldn't it?"

"No, this is entirely your problem. I couldn't care less about what's inside a house when it goes up in flames, so long as at least one of you goes with it."

"Oh, come now, Sean. You seem like a man of the world. Are you telling me you wouldn't even flinch if, for instance, I told you that located in the Moscow house were three Kandinskys, two Chagalls, at least a dozen pieces of Faberge, and a sculpture by Louise Nevelson, just to give you a small example of what the world has lost? Because, believe me, the entire list of what I kept in there is much longer. My collection of Icons alone filled an entire wing."

He does seem to grow a little paler at this, and I try not to smirk too broadly. No one can face the loss of so many masterpieces without feeling at least a hint of remorse.

"What were you doing with all those, anyway?" he croaks, and I bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

"Most of my houses contain a well-rounded collection of vital works of art. Considering I'm going to be around for a while, my collection is a way to preserve these monumental pieces. It's a hobby of mine. I find it absolutely fascinating to watch how art develops over the years, how it expresses various moments of time in human culture."

"You use art to study us," he says in a quiet voice, as if he's going over all the ways their own art has betrayed them.

"Well, yes. Plus, it's intriguing to compare vampire artists to human artists. You would be amazed at how differently we see the world."

"You can't tell me there are vampire artists out there," he says, a sneer in his voice, and I arch an eyebrow at him.

"Why not? My people need to express themselves just as much as yours do. And, after all, we do have all the time in the world to perfect several diverse media. I happen to be quite good at mosaics, and Orlando is a marvelous sculptor. We're both excellent photographers, though I tend towards nature and he prefers taking pictures of people and the abstract. We live in this world just as you do, Sean, and we feel the same drive to explore and examine it from every possible angle."

"But our art is often an expression of our impermanence in time," he says, shaking his head. "We are driven to create and explore by the knowledge that we won't be here forever. You will be. What possible drive could you have?"

"A search for the understanding of why we will be here forever, or why we must live the way we do. We are driven by the same questions that cause problems in so many humans--who are we, and why are we here? Our physical beings might have changed, but we were human, once, and the questions, though altered somewhat, remain the same."

"You question your existence as well?" he asks, and I am surprised by his surprise. When so many consider us to be completely unnatural, why wouldn't we ask how we came to be?

"We question it all the time. Well, I don't," I amend with a grin. "I decided it wasn't worth the bother several centuries ago, but many of my kind still do."

"And what do they think about their existence?" he asks, pouring himself another cup of tea while I stir sugar and cream into my second cup of coffee. "Have you found any answers?"

"That's why I gave up. I don't know that there are any answers to be found. Some believe we have a purpose for being here. Some believe we're an accident, a mistake. Some think we were here before humans. Some think we were created at the same time as humans. Some think we were crated as a punishment for humans, or as a predator so that humans were no longer at the top of the food chain. It varies from vampire to vampire, just as the answers vary from human to human."

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "What do you believe?"

"I choose not to believe anything," I say, smiling as I stir my coffee. "I doubt we'll ever find the answers, and the conflict over the search isn't really worth the trouble."

"So you'd rather be complacent than start an argument," he says flatly, and I lean towards him across the table.

"Let me ask you, Sean, what do you believe? Evolution, god, both, none of the above? How was your world created? Where did you come from?"

His gaze grows troubled as he absently runs his fingers over the front page of the paper till his skin is gray with ink. The picture his fingers so carelessly caress is of soldiers preparing for yet another war in an ironic attempt to create peace in a country ravaged by battles over religion. It is small wonder that my own people have so much difficultly understanding where they're from when humans will kill each other every day over the very same question.

"I suppose," he begins softly, "when I was young, I believed in god and the church because that was what I was taught. Evolution was around, but not in any significant way, not like it is now. Then vampires came into my life, creatures of such evil that my beliefs were solidified. There had to be a god, because the devil created you. But that theory wasn't exactly true because you were once human, and bit by bit, my views on god and the devil grew a little hazy. All I've been able to figure out is that there's no one thing out there that seems to make sense."

"No, there isn't. At least, none that I've been able to discover. It seems that we're just as puzzled with our world as you are with yours, and no one has any of the answers."

"So it seems," he nods, finishing his tea. "Rather depressing, isn't it, that between the two of us, we know absolutely nothing?"

"I'm not sure anyone ever knows anything."

"There's a good possibility of that," he chuckles, then removes a couple of bills from his wallet and sets them on the table. "Well, now that that's settled, would you like to conclude our meeting elsewhere? I wouldn't want to keep you from your evening, and I'd much rather get this over with now than drag it out any longer."

I cannot help but grin at him as he pushes back his chair. He knew all along my reason for coming into this café. How refreshing, a human who can see through all my pretenses, but my true reason doesn't matter anymore. It seems my anger has managed to momentarily work itself out.

"Actually, Sean, I think I'm through with you for the evening. I've rather enjoyed our conversation, and I look forward to having more conversations like this in the future. Unless, of course, you have any objections. Do you?"

"Do I object to not dying tonight and having future opportunities to explore the mind of my enemy? Not in the least. I'm no fool. But. . . why?"

"Sean," I chuckle, "I have all the time in the world to kill you, but few people I can actually sit down and have an intelligent conversation with. There are certain things I have learned to treasure in my existence, and good conversation is one of them."

"What you're saying is that as long as I continue to entertain you, you won't kill me?"

I think about it for a moment, then nod. "Yes, that sounds about right. Unless, of course, the situation arises where we come into direct conflict with each other. In that case, I will be forced to kill you."

"Or I will be forced to kill you," he adds, a note of humor in his eyes, the first of the evening.

"I suppose that could happen," I grin as I rise to my feet. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have an errand to run. But Sean—" I hate to do this considering how charming the evening has been, I really do, but I have others to think of. "—despite our momentary truce, I should warn you--get out of San Francisco. Take your fellow hunters, and leave, because tomorrow night, I am going to hunt you down and destroy you all. You have twenty-four hours. Use them wisely. If I see any of you before I decide to retire from this city, I will wipe you from existence."

Sean's eyes widen, and he forces a nod.

"Good, glad I made that clear," I smile, and hold out my hand, which he unwillingly takes. "It's been nice talking with you. I look forward to doing it again."

Releasing his hand, I leave the hunter sitting in a complete state of bewilderment in the café. Hiding in the shadows, I watch as he rushes outside, his eyes searching every direction for me, but he doesn't find me.

Shivering, he places a cigarette between his lips and raises an unsteady flame to the tip. It takes him several tries, and several curses, before he's finally able to get it lit. He inhales with a long, shuddering breath, some of the tension easing from his body as the nicotine takes over.

I am definitely going to have to make a point to seek him out in the future. I'd forgotten how much more fun it is to torment them in person.

I wait till Sean begins his hurried trek back to whatever hovel the hunters are calling home, then head off to Ghirardelli Square. The look on Orlando's face when I hand him a large cup of rich hot cocoa will be the perfect end to this disastrous, and yet delightful, evening.

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