tampered | Log; Complete

Styles was already nursing a scotch - probably a bad idea, considering his trip to the hospital earlier in the week - but the doctor assured him the bottle of pink medicine would handle it. He did feel a little better.

In any case, after the week he had been having - cranky Brocklehurst, Meryl getting drunk and then yelling at him, and then to top it off, people blaming him for their marriage not being legal, he deserved some alcohol. Nicholas had barely noticed him leave the house, he was so engrossed in the Network.

He raised his hand casually when he saw the Corinthian's almost neon white hair and signaled the other man over.

"You started without me," the Corinthian remarked as he settled into a seat at Christopher's table.

He lowered his sunglasses just enough to give the brunette a smirk then waved a waiter over for a good old Chain Gang. Styles' Southern heritage appealed to the nightmare's palate, making him thirst for bourbons and the smell of New Orleans. Years ago Cori had made the South his playground. Its rich history, decadence, and hypocrisy practically defined the character of the United States. He came to the waking world in Europe, but he had made America his home.

"Trouble," he asked, while waiting for his drink.

"I needed something," Styles replied casually, knowing that while Nicholas could pick out the thread of discontentment in his bearing, anyone else would read it off as arrogance. "And you were late, I figured you wouldn't be too offended."

He shrugged at the words. "Some girl stopped me in the street and started screaming something about Noam Jenkins."

It had been a spectacularly annoying curse day.

"Not a bad looker, that Canuck," the nightmare replied in a casual shrug. He read it as discontentment masquerading as arrogance because Cori was prone to the same behavior. You don't let yourself feel anything, Elle had said to him. "At least it's over," he nodded briefly, "second time it's happened during my stay."

The waiter brought his drink back promptly. Cori idly wondered if the American had already made himself a regular here. An establishment to which he could sneak away to enjoy some solitude in a place that didn't know Christopher Styles, but knew the dark haired regular enjoyed efficient service. The Corinthian took a sip of his strong mix.

"I had stragglers to shake off," he explained his lateness belatedly. "Is he still acting like the PM shoved a gavel up his ass?"

"If you like them unaging," Styles muttered, nudging his white temples with his his thumb. He shrugged and took a drink. "Hopefully, it won't happen again. There was a line outside the office to see Longbottom of all people."

Styles often came to this bar by himself - he had never introduced Brocklehurst to it. Their need for the occasional separate activity was generally discreet in that manner. Brocklehurst had his flowers and his mountain man friends, Styles had his bar and his nightmare.

"I don't know what's gotten into him, but suddenly the Network has become more fascinating than a blowjob." Styles remarked.

"So the boy's more popular than you thought. It happens," Cori grinned.

He had no personal opinion on Neville Longbottom, other than that he was a force to be reckoned with if provoked. Fortunately it seemed liked Longbottom was immune to most forms of provocation. Judging from the silver at Styles' temples, he had taken more than his fair share of provocation and intimidation at the Pentagon. "It's a good look for you," the nightmare added with a quick run of his fingers through his own white hair.

Then he took another sip of the Soco mix. "On the giving or receiving end?"

"It's just odd," he said. The boy was awkward, ungraceful, and generally not particularly attractive, but the girls seemed to like him. Styles took a sip and enjoyed the burning sensation down.

He had heard it before, from Nicholas. "So I'm told," he said mildly. It was odd to not dye his hair, to not worry about the white showing slightly at the temples. He knew he would go silver in the next five or six years - it was provocation that had instigated it, but genes. His brother was white as a polar bear.

"Receiving," he answered mildly.

The Corinthian agreed. Neville didn't appeal to him even as a boy to the palate of his predecessor. On the other hand, the young wizard had an aura of valor to him, something that appealed to many others, young girls included. The worst case scenario was that Longbottom used magic to enhance his attractiveness, also not unheard of for magicians.

"Fate worse than death," Cori said before tipping the orange concoction back. It was one thing to feel slighted for not receiving oral sex, it was another to have your lover ignore your giving it. "What do you think it is? Or is that why you called me up," he asked, wearing a smirk.

Styles raised an eyebrow and a smug smirk tugged his lips. He knew that the Corinthian was attracted to him - he also knew that the Corinthian was probably sleeping through the male population of the City. "I don't know," he added casually. "He's distracted. Last time he was distracted..."

Styles paused. The last time the Brocklehurst was distracted wasn't distraction but anger and disinterest. It had been the calls ignored and the knowledge that he had lost his boyfriend to a war for a woman who he didn't particularly like. It had seemed worth it.

But that was a lie too, because it was his war, not Lynne's.

"...was before we came to the City," he finished. "He was being overworked."

He knew Styles knew that he was attracted to him. He knew Styles knew of his recent spree-fucking throughout the population. At least it wasn't spree-killing. No wait, Walter Dornez had taken care of that category. He made a mental note to touch base with the vampire, later.

As for the rest of Christopher's words, Cori feigned disinterest. He knew about the war, about Adair and Macintyre, about the night Brocklehurst had returned only to accuse him of using his partner as bait. At the moment, the Corinthian didn't care to bring up that past. It would only put the brunette on edge, and he specifically didn't want that.

"And you need an outlet." The nightmare lowered his shades, just enough to reveal a sliver of eyeteeth, as he leaned forward. His hand had reached across the short distance under the table, to settle on Christopher's knee.

In Styles' one month of misspent youth, his brother had taken him to Paris. It had been a mistake, as things like that usually were when Andrew was involved, but they both spoke fluent French and so when Andrew abandoned him to chase some short-skirted French teenager, Styles had gone to a bar.

There, another man had done the same thing - invited him for a drink, talked him up, and put his hand on Christopher's then-underaged knee. What the man didn't know was that he didn't mess around. Andrew and Mama had both run him through a gamut of testings for such an occasion (in different contexts, of course).

The man had ended up with a broken hand.

But with the Corinthian, Styles didn't feel like breaking his hand, or even stopping him. Of course, he wouldn't sleep with Cori. That wasn't an option.

He took another drink and ignored the slight pressure. "I need a rum and coke."

The question was why. No, he knew the answer to that one. What Cori wanted to know was how a man like Christopher Styles could remain exclusive to his lover, after all he had done with little remorse to the anonymous people of a small Central Asian country, after denying citizens their freedom and standing back while others were killed to engineer his war. It was a conundrum to the nightmare.

He leaned back after Styles' response, removing his hand from the man's knee to flag down a waitress. Cori ordered that rum and coke for Christopher, as his foot subtly pressed against the edge of his seat, toe nudging closer to his inner thigh.

Even if the Corinthian had asked, Styles wouldn't have been able to generate any kind of satisfactory answer. There just wasn't any way to say that he disassociated from Tyrgazstan where he didn't from Brocklehurst - that his public life and his personal life were two separate spheres that had only begun to intersect in the City.

And the more they came together, the more that Styles realized that he didn't really know why Brocklehurst loved him so much.

He took the rum and coke and asked, "Do you think that private image and personal image in the City matter at all?"

His foot stayed where it was against Styles' inner thigh, neither retracting nor going farther. It was dark enough in the bar to conceal Cori's rather brazen gesture, and if anything the snow white of his hair drew everyone's gaze upward. With that, he couldn't help but snort over Christopher's question.

"You're asking the wrong person. I'm a fucking nightmare, the black mirror of humanity, and here I am..." The Corinthian raised his glass to swirl the liquors, "sitting in a bar, getting drunk with Soco, and hitting on my boss."

After another moment, he tossed another sip back. "Not to mention my recent track record for being a sperm donor."

Styles took a drink - the bartender knew exactly how he liked his rum and cokes, and smirked. "You're a lot more discreet then the rest of my staff," he pointed out. He wasn't pushing away the Corinthian's foot for that reason; it was mild and bothersome but not as irritating as a something less discreet would be, and he was too tired to care.

"You're a nightmare. More reason why you should know. Don't people dream about this sort of thing?" Style could pretend that he knew about Brocklehurst's dreams, but he didn't presume about anyone else's. God knew his own dreams were weird enough without the nightmare's influence.

"Why do you want to know? Do you need input on how you carry yourself around this podunk dump," asked the Corinthian who put on another smirking grin for Styles. He could feel the tension in Christopher's muscles lessen, just a touch. Cori already knew the gesture was enough to send his message across without getting his foot broken at the ankle. In any case, he could always heal.

"The City doesn't give a shit," Cori finally conceded, shrugging once. He polished off his drink. "You're referring to the populace, that's all relative."

"It's not like it matters anyway," Styles finally admitted, crossing his arms and leaning back into his chair. He shifted his leg to cross it, losing Cori's touch in the process. "This town is made of idiots." He meant it when he said that Faye was a diamond in a pile of trash; he felt that way about most of his employees. It was really too bad that Meryl had let him down.

He missed Washington, where power was a challenge instead of something almost handed to him.

"Who else would vote a nineteen year old in as warden?"

"That's what makes you prime real estate," Cori replied coolly despite losing contact with Styles. This time he didn't physically pursue his 'boss', choosing to snake around with words.

In this City, challenges were often skewed by a person's background and the world from which they came, such as one where teenagers were top notch detectives and one where the top agent of a kingdom boasted nudity. Their world was very different from these, even if the nightmare knew the former undersecretary's home wasn't exactly like his. Cori could say he missed it too, a part of him even missed the Dreaming (he missed the birdie).

"My ability to recognize sense?" Styles asked blandly, taking a drink. If it had been three, four years ago, before he had gone and stupidly fallen in love (Andrew had warned him about that) he would have done the nightmare.

Possibly in the bathroom of the bar.

Now he was sitting, dare he say, almost moping about how the other man hadn't looked at him in five days. Styles frowned. That was not acceptable.

"Unseating Rosiel's idea that Light should be Warden might be the first step," he said quietly.

"Only to those who can appreciate it," and the Corinthian counted himself as one of those few who could even recognize it in Christopher Styles.

The American had been very good at concealing his past in the City. Most of the supernatural crowd in the City could claim they'd wiped out entire villages with one blow of their hand. Much much less could claim they killed at least 400 with just a signature. Not enough people in the City recognized the danger in exquisitely crafted rhetoric. It was something those without supernatural abilities had to master to get to the top of the dog pile. He knew of Styles' abilities through his dreams, and they were more often than that real possibilities.

When Christopher rolled out the business proposition Cori straightened up in his seat. "You're thinking of running, or putting someone else you find more suitable in the position?"

The position of Warden didn't appeal to him - and in any case, he didn't think that he had enough charisma to be voted into the job. His own position in Washington had nothing to do with his charisma and everything to do with his perseverance. Lynne recognized talent.

"I think we need to find someone to put into the position," Styles said. "Someone who is charismatic, easily controlled and loyal." The need for Justice was not an important factor in his calculations - it very rarely ever was.

He needed to rebuild the City, and if he had to play the game to do it, he would.

"Cain Hargreaves," he suggested quietly. Even Cori could tell when it was time to cut the flirtatious crap, although he also knew that good business sometimes worked as an excellent aphrodisiac. "He's headstrong and intelligent, but ironically is most loyal to his primary servant," the nightmare nodded. That man was the key to Cain's subservience, he thought.

"Else you can get one of the thousand gullible good guys on your side," he grinned.

Styles had noticed the young man on the Network time and time again. It was only a matter of time before their two circles intersected. "I heard that the servant left the City," Styles muttered softly.

The only matter with Cain was that he thought far too much. He would analyze the situation, and analyze something out of it that was probably not there to begin with.

Names began to run through his head; Ryuzaki was too incompetent, Arthur Hellsing too easily swayed by his servants (honestly, what was wrong with people in the City?), Harry Dresden too fucking radical.

"Richard Zeeman," Styles finally suggested.

"You'd have his wife to worry about," Cori nodded, "all things considered, he's pussy whipped. She, while being a chimera and short in temper, ultimately aligns with Good."

The nightmare rubbed his chin and smirked. There were so many of those in the damned City, people who ultimately chose to remain in the white, completely avoiding the gray area despite their past. Cori embraced being in the ambiguous zone. He tried to think of more names to offer.

"Severus Snape?"

"She's routinely handled by whoever she pisses off in any given week," Styles pointed out. "Not everyone in the City can be the villain." At the very least, maybe it would force the werewolf to grow a pair.

At the suggestion, Styles shook his head. "No, he would never get voted in. He's someone who no one in the City, not even people from his own world, like."

How many people could there be who were universally loved and generally stupid as bricks. "Vash?"

"You're suggesting the vote for Warden is a popularity contest, which in some ways it is, but most of the people who'd garner votes are too damn 'good' to get bent," he smirked. "That includes Vash the Stampede."

Cori leaned back again to order a Long Island then turned to Christopher. "I fucked his boyfriend. They patched things up in a day," the nightmare snapped his fingers, "but they still hate my guts. Don't forget his attachment to Stryfe."

After a moment's thought he upnodded to the dark haired American. "Have you considered a woman?"

"The trick of bending someone who won't is to make sure that they don't realize what's going on," Styles pointed out. "Attachment to Meryl might serve me."

He thought about the question. "A woman would serve, but not Stryfe. She's insufferable." She was loyal, in a way, but she shot off her mouth far too often to be consistent. The women in the City all seemed a bit too emotionally involved with the fact that half the City was gay to seem to manage. "Who were you thinking?"

"Attachment to me won't," he shook his head then tipped his chin thoughtfully.

"Seras Victoria."

The vampire. Young, innocent, naive, fresh-faced and perky, and ready to fight for a cause.

"You know her?" Styles asked, running his head through her list of qualities. "I thought she was generally owned by the Hellsing group."

A group he really would rather not associate with. Ever.

"I know her tits," he grinned before sipping his liquored tea.

"Her superiors haven't sent the girl out on the field for some time. I'm sure she's itching to keep busy for a cause. Her ties to the Hellsing group are flexible, latch key kid or something," Cori nodded. "I can look into it," the white haired nightmare offered.

Styles didn't want to know. He finished off his rum and coke and leaned forward.

"See what you can find out. If she's interested, how much would it take to get her so, and how much the populace would be accepting of her. I'll...find a way to ingratiate her with Rosiel." Probably through Brocklehurst, but that would be tricky.

Damn. Politics always did serve to turn him on. He ordered another drink and asked, "So besides the obvious, what's the recent turn in your life?"

Fortunately her very existence was easy to monitor for a nightmare. Any other ties he might require he could attempt to gain through his most recent hunting acquaintance, Walter Dornez. The Corinthian nodded in understanding, though why it was necessary to involve Rosiel was beyond him. Placating or otherwise provoking the inorganic angel seemed like a snap to Cori. Then again, he'd gambled on his own soul with Rosiel, the garter enthusiast could come to collect any time.

"I'll do that," he smirked again behind the glass rim of his tea, "I'm horny and realizing that I should've known your stiff business Republican principles would bleed over into your personal virtues."

Styles felt another smile tug on his lips. "Thanks for the observation," he said wryly. "It's a talent."

Brocklehurst's behavior, in all honesty, was scaring him, making him unsure. He hated being unsure; it had been his state of life in Washington, and here it was just superfluous.

"As good as your oral ability," he added in a casual and cool manner. "Do you want me to check out what's been going on with your old man?"

Styles let out a rare laugh. "You wouldn't know that, really," he pointed out with a smirk.

He thought about the possibility of The Corinthian investigating what was going on with Brocklehurst. "No," he said, finally, "Consider it a favor towards him. Let him have his privacy." For now, he added mentally. Besides, not knowing was part of their relationship, in any case.

Secrets.

"But I can imagine," he replied, wetting his own lips with the taste of Long Island liquor. Then the Corinthian shrugged, "besides, I have three mouths. What do you think I wouldn't know in the oral department."

At that response Cori just nodded. Styles wanted to grant Brocklehurst his privacy (and probably let the guilt of his secrecy fester, Cori would have considered the same). "If you insist. The offer's always on the table," he ensured Christopher with another sip of his drink.

The flirting was natural, as rare as it was now. "Politician's tongues," he said with a smirk. He took another sip. "But then, I'm sure you know the amount of licking that goes on up on Capitol Hill."

Maybe that wasn't fair, but he didn't care. He wasn't pissed enough to cheat - not yet, anyway, but he was pissed enough to flirt. The Corinthian wasn't stupid. He knew that Styles didn't mean it.

And if he didn't, then Styles' ability to judge character had gone down the drain.

He knew Styles didn't mean it, and that made his pursuit all the more... fun. He didn't have enough of that these days. Saya was someone he could screw without the strings attached, without the secrecy and social niceties. That had been fun. The Wolfwood ordeal as a chaser was more than just mindless entertainment. Vash would be wrong to think the Corinthian was exercising cruelty for kicks, Vash would be right to think the Corinthian was looking for a way to get his jaw blown off without pathetically begging for the gun.

"I always knew you politicians were bunch of cocksuckers," he quipped with a smile. "I think that concludes this meeting, Styles," on top of that Cori was morbidly curious to know if Elle and Destruction had destroyed the Coliseum yet.

The nightmare stood up, not bothering to drop cash on the table to cover his own drinks. The brunette could take it out of his paycheck if necessary. "I'll get on that other project of yours and report with updates as I receive them," Cori nodded, stepping closer to Styles' side of the table.

Styles cocked his head up to look at the tall nightmare and nodded. "Thanks," he said mildly, not bothering to stand up. He was going to finish his third drink and possibly move on to the forth. He didn't particularly feel like going home yet.

"I'll see you in the office," he added.

He too watched Styles for a moment, then placed a hand on the edge of the table to lean forward, almost looming over the shorter brunette.

"A kiss wouldn't hurt would it."

Styles raised an eyebrow. Kisses barely mattered.

He leaned forward to press a kiss to the nightmare's lips.

Open mouth. He wanted to taste the liquor on Styles' tongue. Whether Christopher actually allowed him or not the Corinthian eased his own tongue into the other's mouth.

Styles let the nightmare's tongue in and returned the favor before breaking the kiss a moment later.

The nightmare tasted of Southern Comfort, and tobacco.

At least he'd the decency to not smoke in Christopher's face. He already knew the tobacco policy around the office and how it most certainly applied to Styles' personal space. When the other man broke their kiss he pulled back with a smirk. Styles tasted like a fucking sunset over the Mississippi River. What could Brocklehurst be up to to neglect that?

"Cheers," Cori upnodded to the remaining contents of Styles' glass, then turned to leave.

Styles raised a hand in polite goodbye, and went back to nursing his drink. The nightmare had been good company, and a good kisser, but he preferred someone else's Southern Comfort laced lips.

Log; Complete

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