Unlucky in Love
                                                          By Naia Zifu


	They say the path to hell is paved with good intentions, a
statement to which Javier Vachon felt himself a walking testimony.
Oh, he meant well enough.  He always meant well.  So why did things so
often seem to blow up in his face?

	Take tonight, for instance; February 14th, St. Valentine's Day.
He woke up early, showered, put on slacks and a shirt with actual
buttons.  He even shaved for the occasion-- his first time this week!
Looking nearly as good as he felt, Vachon picked up the box of imported
chocolates he'd bought the evening before, and took off into the night.

	Tracy let out a small cry as she turned from the kitchen
cabinet she'd been rummaging through to find herself faced with a dark-
clad form.

	"Will you stop doing that!" she yelped, shoving the Spaniard
hard enough that he stumbled back a step.

	Vachon laughed.  "I'll make you a deal-- I'll stop sneaking up
like that when you stop giving such funny reactions."

	Tracy scowled, her mood already soured by the prank.

	"Vachon, what are you doing here?"

	Sensing her mood, he quickly handed over the box of chocolate.

	"February 14th," he reminded her, "St. Val's."

	Tracy raised an eyebrow.  "And?"

	"And. . . I thought we might go out for a nice dinner, maybe
take in a show."

	"I have to work."

	"So call in."

	"I'm not as irresponsible as you, Vachon.  I don't just call in
to work on a whim to run off on some sort of pseudo-date with some-
body-- I'm not even sure what our relationship is!"

	Vachon just blinked.  All this hostility couldn't possibly have
come from just one harmless prank. . . could it?

	"Well, if that's how it is. . ." he said finally.  "Have fun at
work, then.  You can keep the chocolates."

	Tracy's eyes softened a bit as she seemed to see how hurt he
was.  Had his offer been genuine, after all?  Unfortunately, by then it
was too late-- he'd vanished just as suddenly as he'd appeared.

	There was some sort of cheesy Valentine's party going on at the
Raven when Vachon wandered in; red rose petals were strewn about like
confetti at New Year's, and the usual driving rock music had been
replaced by classic Sinatra tunes, to which a number of happy couples
were dancing cheek to cheek.  He was starting to feel he'd passed into
the Twilight Zone, and was almost ready to step out and back in to see
whether things would be different, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

	"An' wha's a 'an'some bloke loike you's doin' lookin' so down
an' dejeck-i-ted on dis mos' roman'ified day o' th'year?"

	"Dejected and rejected," Vachon said with a sigh.  "Seems Tracy
would rather work Valentine's than go out with me.  Looks like it's
just you and me this year, Screed."

	"Er, no can-do, mate.  Oi gots me an After Eight 'posed ta be
meetin' me 'ere enny minute," Screed replied rather sheepishly.

	"You've got a date?"  Vachon blinked in disbelief.  "With a
girl?"

	"Well, 'ardy-bloody-'ar-'ar!  Jes'-so-'appens oi gots 'er
pick-a-tour roight 'ere-- feast yer baby browns on dis!"

	Screed took the wrinkled picture of a cute, young, freckle-
faced redhead (posing with a large white rat on her shoulder) from his
jacket pocket and presented it to Vachon.

	"Screed, this is a computer printout."

	And probably Photoshopped, he suspected, but left unsaid.

	"We met on th'innernet-- Lil' Squealers chat list," Screed
explained.  "Oi gets on whenever oi's at th'lie-berry.  Who'da thunk
dere's summany droogs inna world whot loikes th'wee ratsies much as oi
do?"

	"But do they know what you do with the rats once you've got
'em?" Vachon asked, raising an eyebrow.

	Screed shrugged.  "Oi jes' tells 'em oi keeps th'Squealers
'angin' 'round me flat's all. . . not 'zactly cherry pie, eh, mate?"

	"Well, here's hoping this girl you like is being just as honest
with you," Vachon said, patting his friend on the back.

	He then left Screed, who was grinning like a silly schoolboy,
to order a good, stiff drink at the bar.

	Couples twirled as Ol' Blue Eyes sang about strangers in the
night, on this night that, it seemed to Vachon, couldn't possibly get
any stranger.

	"You're spoiling the romantic mood of the evening," LaCroix's
deep, distinctive voice said from behind him.  "One might expect a
lively, carefree youth like yourself to be off on a date. . ."

	Vachon shrugged.  "Date had to work," he muttered, eyes never
leaving the contents of his glass.

	"So you thought you'd stop in to make sure no-one else's dates
went well, is that it?"

	More shrugging and muttering.  "Didn't know there'd be this
party."

	LaCroix leaned in and whispered a bit more harshly, "Well, if
you intend to stay here, at least pretend to be having a good time.
If you can't at least do that, I'm afraid I will have to ask you to
leave."

	Yes, of course!  Vachon had forgotten the cardinal rule of the
bad day; never think things can't get worse.  The universe will go out
of its way to prove you wrong every time.

	Heaving a sigh, he downed the rest of his drink before getting
up and quietly leaving the Raven.  It wasn't the first time in his life
he'd been kicked out of a bar or club, just the first time he'd been
kicked out for not being happy enough.

	Though he could easily, and much more quickly, have flown back
to his place, he instead trudged home on foot through the bitter cold
Canadian winter.  Wisely, he refrained along that trek from asking
himself if the day could get any worse, or stranger.

	Yet it did.

	Entering the old, abandoned church he now called home, the
scent of fresh roses invaded his nose.  There were a number of candles
burning in the room, in the middle of which a small table and two
chairs had been arranged.  A delicate, vintage lace tablecloth hid the
shabbiness of the old table, on which sat a wine bottle, a pair of fine
crystal goblets, and a matching crystal vase which held a bouquet of
blood-red roses.  The opening notes of "Clair de Lune" filled the room
suddenly, as Vachon's eyes scanned the area for whoever may have set
this whole scene up.

	"Tracy?" he guessed first, but when that drew no answer,
"Screed?  Don't tell me you brought your little Internet date over
here. . ."

	Still, no-one stepped forward to claim responsibility.

	"Don't tell me some teen-ager's come in and turned my place
into his personal love den. . ."

	"If that is the term you prefer. . ."

	Vachon stiffened, face growing deathly pale even for a
vampire's.  He knew that voice.

	"I must admit, setting up this evening was quite the challenge,
even for me," LaCroix said.  "Convincing your little policewoman she
really would rather work than share a romantic dinner with you, in
particular.  She is a resistor, you know. . . but when you've lived as
long as I have, you learn ways around that kind of thing."

	"That's a lot of trouble to go to just to see me miserable."

	LaCroix chuckled softly.

	"Au contraire, mon jeune conquérant," the elder vampire purred.
"This was a lot of trouble to go to just to see you. . . au
naturel. . ."

	And when Vachon looked down, he found himself suddenly,
completely, and much to his own discomfiture. . . naked as the day he
was born.

	Of course, it was at that point he shot bolt-upright with a
scream on his lips, his hair and clothing soaked and sticking to him.
It took a few minutes to calm himself down and convince himself it had
all just been a dream.

	So why did he still smell roses?




©2006 Naia Zifu, all rights reserved.
Vachon, Tracy, Screed, and LaCroix are FK characters I don't own rights
to.  (And after this, they're glad I don't!)  As always, I'm not trying
to make money off others' ideas.
Watch as I continue my trend of uber-lateness by finishing this
Vaqdreams Valentine's fic on March 2nd -_-;;; !  Bleh, I really need
to get a better work ethic. . . and learn not to write everything so
late at night, as it leads to weirdness like this O_o;;; .  *flops into
bed now*