Here is my Forever Not story, just slipping in before the
deadline.  Thanks to Susan G. for starting all this, and
all the fkfic writers for the great stories.  I've already
written one "ending" with "Blue"; here's a variation on
the theme.
 
As they say, be careful what you wish for . . .
 

**********
 
Ne-m'oubliez-pas

1995 
 
A Forever Not Story
by M. E. Orive
 
  
Nick watched the sun set through the wide-open windows of his
loft, wondering at the colors of the sky.  How could he have
forgotten how beautiful they were?  And tomorrow he would see,
for the first time in eight hundred years, the dawn.
 
"Natalie," he whispered, "thank you."  She had only just left,
with one last kiss and a promise to arrive at seven a.m.
sharp, well before the winter sunrise.  A sunrise that they
would see together.  He smiled to himself, the joy inside him
threatening to burst out in tears. Clear, human tears.
 
He turned away from the fading light slowly, and then he
finally saw the figure that had been standing behind him,
utterly silent, for a long time.
 
"LaCroix," his lips formed the name, but no sound came out.
How pale he is, the thought came unbidden to his mind, how
utterly still, without the slightest movement.  How inhuman.
 
"LaCroix," this time the word had sound, "You lied to me . . .
there *was* a way back."  He had meant to sound triumphant,
but even to his own ears, the words sounded plaintive,
accusing.
 
"I was wrong," the vampire's voice was so soft, Nick had to
strain to hear it.  "I've been wrong before, once . . . or
twice."
 
Nick wet his lips nervously, eyeing the figure before him.
LaCroix had not moved, had seemingly not even blinked, his
face a pale oval above the black of his coat, his features
indistinct in the growing darkness of the room, the light too
dim for mortal eyes.  And then he was quite close to Nick, his
hand reaching out to touch him.  Nick stiffened.
 
"Not to worry," LaCroix said, and his hand smoothed the lapel
of Nick's jacket.  "Your have nothing to fear, from me."
 
"But from the others?" Nick asked, letting his fear turn to
anger.
 
"What others?" LaCroix's hand moved to Nick's hair, his touch
so light as to be almost unfelt.  He traced the line of Nick's
jaw with a finger, his gaze intent, pale eyes unblinking. Nick
moved back, away from that gentle, infuriating touch.
 
"The other vampires," he said flatly.  "Aren't you here to
warn me, of the danger to myself, to Nat?  To offer your . . .
*help*?"  He spat the last word out, only too sure what that
help would be.
 
LaCroix stood for a moment with his hand still outstretched, a
statue caught in the act of reaching out.  Then he let his arm
drop to his side.  Nick wondered how he, how anyone, could
possibly mistake such a pale, still creature for a human
being.
 
"The other vampires?"  His voice was very soft again. "You
must know, of course, that there are no such things . . . as
vampires."  He turned from Nick and walked towards the window,
becoming a shadowy figure among shadows.  "Oh Nicholas, my
Nicholas . . . say good-bye to the darkness."
 
And then, as though he had simply dissolved into the night, he
was gone.
 
We move too quickly for mortal eyes, Nick thought, then caught
himself. *They* move too quickly.
 
**********
 
The night sky glowed orange from the city lights, giving it a
hellish cast.  He got out of his car in front of the
nightclub, not caring that he was parked illegally.  It was
time to face her, and he was surprised at how he dreaded this
moment.  He wondered how he would bear it, when the pain came
to her eyes.
 
Inside, the music thrummed with a deep pulse, like a
heartbeat.  He pushed his way through the dancers, to the bar.
An unfamiliar face looked across at him, over the
well-polished wood.
 
"What can I get you?"  A well-practiced smile.
 
"Where's Janette?"
 
"What?"
 
Nick sighed.  A new bartender.  Miklos must have the night
off.  He pulled out his badge.  "Detective Knight, Metro
Homicide.  Let me speak to the owner."
 
The bartender's eyes grew larger at the sight of the badge,
and he turned and hurried to the back.  Nick watched the
dancers; the sweat on their bodies gleamed in the dim lights.
 
"Detective?"  A soft, feminine voice.  Nick turned and stared
at the tall redhead.
 
"Where's Janette?" he asked again, starting to feel alarmed,
and angry.  If LaCroix thought that this was funny . . .
 
"Sorry.  I don't have a Janette working here.  I just bought
the place, to tell the truth.  Is there some problem?" The
redhead's smile was forced; she didn't enjoy the prospect of
police trouble so soon.
 
"The former owner . . . do you know where she is?"
 
"Sorry again. My money people handled this for me.  Look, if
the former management wasn't on the up-and-up . . ."
 
Nick moved away from her and started for the door, some part
of him aware that the woman had not finished speaking.  He
pushed his way across the dance floor, feeling warm bodies
brush against him, against his own warm body.  He needed to
see Nat, he just needed to speak to Nat.
 
**********
 
"Hey, there. Isn't it a little late for a social call? I
thought we were supposed to have breakfast?"  Natalie stifled
a yawn, her loose curls half obscuring her face.
 
"Nat, I need to talk," he brushed past her into the living
room, staring at the clothes-strewn sofa.
 
"Oh, sorry.  I was sorting laundry earlier and just kind of
. . . left things.  Here, let me clear a spot."
 
"Nat, Janette's gone."
 
Natalie stopped picking up clothes.  "Your friend at the
nightclub?" she asked.
 
"Yes, of course," Nick sat down, oblivious to the fact that he
had picked the part of the sofa still covered with laundry.
"She sold it."
 
"Really?  I thought she liked owning that place."  Nat put the
clothes down and sat on the arm of the sofa.  She chewed on
the end of a strand of hair thoughtfully.  "She didn't leave a
forwarding address?"
 
"Forwarding address?  Janette?"  Nick stared at her.  "Nat,
aren't you listening?  This has to be some trick of LaCroix's,
to get me back . . . "
 
"Who?"
 
Nick felt a coldness in his chest, a slow spreading like ice.
"LaCroix."
 
"Another friend from the club?"
 
He looked at her, and reached out to take her hand.  "Nat,
what are we doing tomorrow morning?"
 
Natalie laughed.  "You mean *this* morning, it's *really*
late.  Breakfast, silly.  You wanted to 'watch the sunrise',
remember?  I already packed the picnic."  She grew serious at
the look on his face.  "Hey, what's wrong? Don't you want to
go anymore?"
 
Nick kept looking at her, at her face, her eyes.  He pulled
her against him, and kissed her hair.  "Of course I still want
to.  More than anything in the world."
 
*********
 
A light snow was falling as he left Natalie's apartment
building, muffling the sounds of the city.  The street lamps
each wore a halo of snowflakes.  He walked slowly, leaving his
car parked by the building, hands buried in the pockets of his
coat.  It was cold, he thought, I feel cold.  I should be
happy that I can feel cold.  He could remember feeling cold,
as a child.  In Chicago?  No, of course not, not Chicago, why
had he thought that?  He began to walk faster, and soon he was
running, his breath coming fast and hard and fogging in front
of his face.  He ran until he reached a place away from the
street lamps, where he could see the stars.
 
"LaCroix," he whispered the name, and then "LaCroix!"  His
voice carried a long way in the still air.  "LaCroix!"
 
He listened to the echoes of his voice die away.  Natalie had
forgotten.  How could she have forgotten?  Forgotten about him
and LaCroix and . . .
 
He could see her face, dark hair, white skin, fine brows above
blue eyes.  He could see the smooth skin of her throat, could
smell the perfume of her hair.  But her name was gone.
 
"No," he said aloud.  No, he could remember the three of them,
himself, LaCroix, and . . . whom?  See her dress, hear her
voice, smell her, feel her, taste . . .
 
"No!" He reached into his pockets, found his wallet. Nick
Knight.  No.
 
"Je m'appelle Nicholas de Brabant,"  he whispered to the snow.
"Nicholas de Brabant."
 
He threw the wallet onto the ground, and fell on his knees
beside it.  He tried to remember his mother's face, and could
not.  He had had a sister, hadn't he?  A brother, who had died
young?  There had been a war, there had been many wars, there
had been war unending.  A tall man, with pale eyes.  A woman.
A woman he had seen, across a room, she had been beautiful,
like Natalie, no, not like Natalie, like . . .
 
He dropped his head into his hands, the sobs racking his body,
making each breath an unbearable agony.  LaCroix, he thought,
LaCroix, come back, bring them back.  And he didn't know to
whom he was pleading; he wept for all that he had lost, and
couldn't remember what it was.
 
 
The End.
 
 
 
Author's note: "Ne-m'oubliez-pas" is, of course,
"forget-me-not".