Playing Judas
by Sebastian
Author's Notes: How could I resist? [g] The song is 'Sebastian' by Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel, it's on the Velvet Goldmine soundtrack
Summary: The story is about Alex Krycek and Jeffery Spender. I suspect I have played merry hell with canon and their relative and absolute ages. It takes place in the early eighties, pre-X-files.
Beta: Unbeta-ed.
Rated: Probably T. A bit kinky.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
He made his play in the Louvre.
It wasn't hard to cross, re-cross their path; their brittle chatter preceded them through the quiet galleries like the buzz of a biplane across an empty summer sky. Marquez took the lure, was hooked and reeled in amongst martyrs and saints whose eyes seemed to be turned heavenward in patient, longsuffering silence.
He was properly bashful, respectful at being noticed by the famous photographer. Sensing approval, Marquez's entourage parted, drew him in, admired, stroked their leader with compliments and praise. And when he was asked his name, and said, "I've tried to leave that behind, I'm foolishly following a dream" Marquez laughed, looked over his shoulder at the tortured painting behind the tall, dark-haired young stranger and answered, "Well then. We'll call you Sebastian."
But, careful as he was to cultivate, to nurture their confidence - by soft words, by intimacy, admiring their pitiful verse, their atonal music, their talentless daubs, the whispers of his quarry slipped past his fingers like strands of swirling green in the dank waters of the Seine. A few admitted to know of him their idol himself knew the name, mentioning the boy as he chattered behind his lens, image after image of Sebastian's nakedness captured - but not the face - never his face.
His family were old money, he had lied. Connections. They'd find him.
Then Marquez told of the boy - how he'd escaped too. A runaway, from boarding school, from a crazy mother, from therapy. Fifteen when he'd found his way into the fold a year ago, just sixteen when he'd been sw ept off from New York to London, following the photographer and his court.
Where was the boy now? Marquez shrugged. He was around; maybe he'd return. Uninterested, the others knew even less.
Between London and Paris the boy had disappeared.
Sebastian had been sent to repair authority's failure. Though his mentor kept secrets close, he could read the old devil now - and this errand was personal. Important.
Of those that had weathered Marquez's erratic moods since New York, only one was close to the photographer. Angie... sometimes model, actress, long a favourite subject in Marquez's portraits. Though white-blonde, her features were almost Hellenic, a long, high-bridged nose and heavy brows framing hypnotic, deep-brown eyes. Her companion - possibly lover - was Fleur, an achingly shy young girl. Tall, almost rangy, she was impossibly gawky at times, at times eerily beautiful. Both were Americans.
Angie was easy to know. Without fuss she submitted to Sebastian's advances; despite his experience he found his own twenty-one years absurd, childlike faced with the oddity and breadth of her life. Fleur was not jealous that Angie had a new pastime, sometimes he was shocked to look up from their love-making to see her in the doorway, wide-eyed, bashfully fascinated. Over the weeks, becoming accustomed to his presence, she allowed herself to be persuaded closer when they had done, to let him see her caress and kiss Angie, even to press sweet, chaste kisses on his face as he drowsed with his mistress.
Fleur was Angie's doll, her hobby. Angie would brush her heavy curls into shining coils, dark and smooth as rosewood. She would paint her face, her nails, buy her clothes, dress and re-dress her. Fleur basked in the devotion, let Angie do what she would, seemed to have no opinions or perhaps saved them for her poems which were written, then hoarded, locked away unread.
And all the while Sebastian's hunt was in vain.
Rumours were enough to keep him in Paris. He was certain the boy was there, but fear of his bolting necessitated oblique interest. He did not dare question Marquez or Angie outright; perhaps as a last resort he would force answers from them, though to do so would be against orders. Discretion. The boy must be stolen away; Marquez had powerful friends, news-worthy, noisy friends.
It was Fleur's timid but growing interest in him that made him wonder if her poems would hold a clue. She would blush, turn away when he looked at her, spoke to her, yet stare at him boldly if he posed for Marquez, or lay, tangled, sated upon Angie, more comfortable with his nudity than his attention.
Charmed, he began to woo her.
It was never part of his plan to fall in love.
Yet, though she lived amongst the curious hedonism that was Marquez's ambience, though there was nothing frail or waif-like about her, she had an innocent vulnerability that dragged an unwilling protectiveness from him. By the time he realised, it was too late.
Even once he'd read her poems, found the passport and discovered at last where the boy had gone, who he'd become, it was too late.
He called his master. Ever after, betrayal was easy.
Kissing Fleur goodbye broke his heart.
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Sebastian, by Steve Harley
Radiate simply, the candle is burning, so low for me
Generate me limply, can't seem to place your name, Cherie
To rearrange all these thoughts in a moment is suicide
Come to a strange place, we'll talk over old times we never smile
Somebody called me Sebastian
Somebody called me Sebastian
Work out a rhyme, toss me the time, lay me, you're mine
And we all know, oh yeah!
Your Persian eyes sparkle; your lips, ruby blue, never speak a sound
And you, oh so gay, with Parisian demands, you can run-around
And your view of society screws up my mind like you'll never know
Lead me away, come inside, see my mind in kaleidoscope
Somebody called me Sebastian
Somebody called me Sebastian
Mangle my mind, love me sublime, do it in style,
So we all know, oh yeah!
You're not gonna run, babe, we only just begun, babe, to compromise
Slagged in a Bowery saloon, love's a story we'll serialize
Pale angel face; green eye-shadow, the glitter is outasight
No courtesan could begin to decipher your beam of light
Somebody called me Sebastian
Somebody called me Sebastian
Dance on my heart, laugh, swoop and dart, la-di-di-da,
Now we all know you, yeah!
End
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
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