I am the razor in the hands of your heart
Who: Duclos, an NPC, then Hans
What: The Rules of Knife-Fighting
When: Evening, after Christmas.
Rating: PG-13 for non-explicit violence and a decent probability of m/m kissage.
Incomplete


The first part was almost too easy.  When you know in advance not only that you will be followed, but by whom, whence, and when, a great deal of the challenge is stripped from the game.

Dicky Tremayne trusted Duclos implicitly due to the length and nature of their association, and although, of necessity, he was aware that Marie-Pierre was a double agent, he firmly believed that his friend's true loyalty lay on the side of the Resistance.  When the man subsequently referred to as Black Diamond began to have suspicions of the opposite, it had not been difficult to convince Tremayne that the man was himself a traitor - slightly complicated, yes, with the number of crossed ties involved, but not difficult.

And so the assistance of the redoubtable Tremayne was assured, should he need it, in eliminating this threat to Duclos' inherently precarious situation; but the man involved was very nearly a rank amateur anyway, and Marie-Pierre had sufficient contacts of varying degrees of authority that he was confident that Tremayne's moral support would be all he required.

The practical upshot of said moral support was that, as previously stated, Duclos knew precisely where, when and how the black diamond would be dealt, and was prepared.

One of the tricks of his trade which, for all its simplicity, never failed to utterly amuse him was the switching of roles from followed to follower.  He let his tail believe he was in charge, leading him into exactly the part of the city where he wanted him, before pulling the switch; then they wandered a bit more just for his own entertainment before he started the fun part.

He was soon forced to admit that his estimation of the other man as a mere tyro was slight overconfidence on his part.  He could only be thankful that he hadn't brought a knife to a gunfight.

The old familiar dance of death, starlit steel and silent shadows, falling into a rhythm and breaking violently out of it, back and forth, footfalls and epithets, blood on the blades, time spooling out adrenaline-slowed but still so long that the continued lack of notice from passing patrols became noteworthy.

At long last, panting parody of a lover's embrace; but most of the blood on his suit was his own when Marie-Pierre carefully worked Deus ex Machina back out from between the man's ribs.

Even so, once the cleanup work was completed, there was a darkly gleeful gleam in his eyes as he made his way home.

To the Ducks' Nest - not usually where he would choose to go on a night like this, but the arrangements with Hans had been made before the arrangements he had just completed, and he trusted his precautions would be sufficient.

Between the unexpected duration of his little revel and the extra amount of sneakiness he put into his journey back, he was running slightly late, and moreover he still looked very much the victim of violence; he could only hope Hansin would not be too worried.