strangetrip | [GP] Shoot that poison arrow

[GP] Shoot that poison arrow

None of the guests noticed when the spiky-haired man-child in jeans and purple t-shirt, wrists wrapped in cheap leather and metal bracelets, arrived at the Madonna Inn a few hours before midnight on February 13. That, in itself, wasn't all that surprising. Eros, otherwise known as Danny Valentine, had millennia of experience doing his job without being spotted.

What was surprising was that the dude at the front desk did see him. Tall and Nondescript waved him over and then gave him a room number 'in case you wanted to rest'. But Danny didn't.

Want to, or rest. He spent the time before the clock struck midnight polishing his love gun. Not like that. He'd find a girl to spend his nameday with. He always did. No, this little beauty was made by Hephaestus himself. It shot love darts that disappeared on contact.

At midnight, kitted out with more love darts than there were people in this pink and gold monstrosity, Danny left his room and shot the first person he saw--and didn't wait to see what would happen.

No point getting a slow start. He had a lot of work to do.

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After the overwhelming and unmitigated disaster of lunch, Henry was absolutely certain he was not only never going to be able to look Stephanie in the eye again (especially as now his mind initially supplied "Sparkles" instead of her name,) but it was going to be ages before he could set foot in the café. Inside wasn't safe. Inside was where everything good in the world went to die.

Alright, maybe that was a tad overdramatic.

Outside had to be safe, right?

He and his notes found a nice spot in the garden. Surely outside he'd be able to see if someone cast something on him again. Or perhaps whatever or whoever was responsible would lose interest in him having accosted him already. He never wanted to smell roses again. At all. Ever.

Constance had mostly become used to not thinking most of the people here were going about in various states of undress, although she hadn't gone so far as to wear such immodest things herself. And she, mostly, enjoyed how much more forward people were in their interactions. But even in the garrison, people knew to take certain, umm, activities to more private places, and today it seemed she couldn't walk into a room without seeing people being more affectionate than near strangers should be.

Perhaps a walk. She left the cafe, a breeze tugging sharply at one of her curls as she entered the grounds, and felt a flush at the memory of walking in on people kissing passionately, their cups of coffee forgotten. She fanned herself with one of her gloves and walked a little more slowly, examining the flowers she passed.

At the sound of footsteps, Henry looked up from his chronicle of the goings on of the day. Well, more bulleted list than chronicle. There wasn't any need to get anything less than clinical about it was there? Best to be clinical. If he was clinical, he didn't have to think about any of the associated feelings that came with- Not that there was anything wrong with feelings, of course. He was a very passionate man. There was just a time and a place.

Regardless, the woman hardly seemed a threat and Henry found himself smiling fondly at her. "They're lovely, aren't they?" he said, nodding to the flowers from his position on the bench. "Calendula, I believe." He didn't have his reference guide, so he couldn't entirely be certain, but they looked it to him. "Makes a decent healing ointment and a very lovely tea." If, of course, he was right. He really needed to find a text on the matter.

Constance looked over at the sound of his voice, so warm and lovely she almost didn't mind not understanding what he'd said. "Je suis tellement désolé, monsieur. Je ne parle pas anglais." He had a good face and a nice smile, she realized, smiling back as she stepped closer than might be appropriate for complete strangers.

Both his brows went up and he ducked his head sheepishly. He didn't know enough French at all to communicate with her, though he could tell enough that it was French and she was likely apologizing for the language barrier. It made the most sense. She'd probably have to be doing that a lot around here. "Latinum Putasne intelligis? Graeca? Lingua Hebraea?" he asked in Latin. Those were the only three extant languages other than English he knew well enough to hold something of a conversation. She didn't seem like she'd know Enochian. From what he'd heard, most people in Europe were multilingual, right? Perhaps it was just a matter of finding a common tongue between them? "Francos loquendi solum?"

He flipped quickly to a back page of his notebook and drew a very earnest attempt at a tea bag. Admittedly that wasn't all that good either. It looked more like some sort of very narrow pyramid with a kite attached to the top. He scribbled a mug to go with it, hoping that helped clarify.

Constance knew just enough Latin for her prayers and attending mass, and that from rote. Enough to recognize the language, but nothing like enough for a conversation. "Mea culpa non," she tried, shaking her head, then shaking it again as though trying to clear it as she took another step towards the man, close enough now her skirts brushed against his leg and she could feel the heat of their bodies between them.

She felt flushed and knew the roses of her cheeks had to be brighter. She was acting like a silly girl who'd fallen prey to Aramis' charms. Or, in Constance's case, the first days being caught up in D'Artagnan's exuberance.

"Well, I suppose I'll just have to get on learning French then," he said. It was different this time. The feeling was still there, coming over him less like a great wave this time and more like a slowly rising tide. The focus of his world was slowly narrowing to just the woman in front of him. Not like before. Before, it'd practically grabbed him by the throat and demanded he listen to it. He was sure the demand would be back again. He tried to make mental notes for later.

There was no one else around. This woman hadn't been around before so it couldn't be her. He hadn't consumed anything at all since then and-

"Henry," he said, gesturing a little to himself. His smile grew a little lopsided, a little more charming as he got lost in the blue of her eyes.

Just the thought of her beloved husband should've drawn Constance up short, wondering what she was doing. But the influence of Cupid's power was too strong, carrying her along with it, towards this man she didn't know beyond a name and endearing expression.

"Constance," she offered in return, tracing the curve of that lopsided smile with her thumb. Inconstant Constance in this moment, and she bit her bottom lip. Could she be so bold as to take what she wanted?

"Constance," he repeated. He had to learn French. Even just enough to tell her how lovely she was, how he could lose himself in those little gestures for days if the world let him. He turned his head to kiss the heel of her hand, his own coming up to rest on her hip. One more little hint of a mutual attraction was going to be all he needed to pull her into his lap, he swore.

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"Have you noticed," the woman sitting at a nearby table asked him, her voice raising slightly to be heard over the short distance. "That people seem... more amorous that usual today?"

"I have, yes," Henry said, glancing up at the woman. Best not to make eye contact with anyone. Safer that way. Maybe. Hopefully. How on Earth did he go about experimenting to figure out the root cause of all of this (and thus a solution) without exposing himself to more embarrassment? "Is it something you yourself have experienced yet?"

"Generally speaking, I am familiar with the feeling. But in this specific instance, I haven't. Mores the pity. It looks like fun." She sipped at her tea and considered.

"Perhaps I'm immune," she mused. Her physiology wasn't 100% human after all, and while she'd certainly felt lust anything deeper was generally reserved for the Doctor. He was embedded in her life and emotions at literally a cellular level.

"I can assure you, it very much isn't," Henry replied dryly. Well, the kissing itself was fun. He wasn't going to argue that. The guilt and the complete lack of any sort of control were...well very much not. Very, very much not.

"Why would you be immune?" he asked, head tilting curiously to the side. Just because she appeared human didn't mean that she was. He'd known (or, more accurately known of,) a great many beings who appeared to be human but weren't in the slightest. That was a much more interesting conversation than whatever happened turning him and a great many other people into some sort of sexual puppet.

"That's the wrong attitude," but then River wasn't prone to guilt. Not even a little bit.

"I might not be immune. But I haven't exactly been hiding, and so far nary a desire to snog in sight. Well, no more than usual."

Henry frowned deeply. "How is not wanting to be so out of control of my desires that I can't stop myself from kissing someone whether they want me to or not the wrong attit-" He cut himself off, feeling like he was suddenly choking on what was now a very, very familiar need.

"Forgive me," he said, forcing himself to look anywhere but at her. This time, he swore it would be different. This time he would win against whatever it was that was happening. If this place was trying to get him over his wife, it was picking the wrong way to go about it.

She arched a brow as he trailed off with an apology and his gaze flitted everywhere but to her. Interesting, she would love to know what (or who) was causing all this chaos.

"You don't have to apologize," she said with a bit of a smile. "And I'm not adverse to a snog, if that relieves some of your... scruples."

There was something comforting to Henry that his mind immediately went to the idea that he wasn't sure he currently had any scruples of anything on him before his brain properly caught up and he realized she meant it in a more conventional sense. At least somewhere in there, his mind was still his own.

"My scruples aren't what's in need of relief," he said, looking up at her again like he was half ready to pin her against a tree and give her the kind of snog he'd been saving for if he'd ever see his wife again. No one here needed to know how passionate he was. River did in her way, but she seemed to be unable to stop herself from collecting snippets of people. This woman was- Aww, hell at least she wasn't practically a teenager. That alone made him feel much less filthy about the whole thing.

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Unlike most people who'd been hit by who or whatever was causing the lust-explosion, Kitty had had a fantastic morning. Wyatt kissing her had been magic -- literally and figuratively, and the only real dampener on that was that she kind of wished there hadn't been literal magic involved. Since it probably would've taken him forever without it, she decided to take it as progress (even if it might be a long long time before it ever happened again, since Kitty was still being celibate and he had stuff to get over). Still, while everyone else was finding the entire thing annoying or worse, Kitty was beaming.

Outside in the garden to enjoy the winter sun, Kitty stopped to smell the roses and then laughed. "Wow, I'm a walking cliche."

While Henry had accepted that closest to going 'home' he was going to get was back to that warehouse with Abbadon (and likely his death,) it didn't mean he- He missed his wife. Every day. Even now, weeks without her, he still woke up every morning half expecting to see her in bed with him or to hear her puttering around somewhere. He swore he saw John out of the corner of his eye every so often, that any moment the boy was going to come tearing around a corner and throw himself into his father's arms and Henry could hold him so tightly neither heaven nor hell could part them.

All of that was compounded by the simple fact that his family thought he'd just walked out on them. Sure, his grandsons knew the truth. John never would. Millie certainly never would. It didn't help that it was Valentine's Day and all he wanted was to go out dancing with her, to eat something other than chicken.

And there was Kitty, practically effervescent. He couldn't help but guess that she was probably shining with new love or something equally cliche. He hoped so. She was lovely. She deserved something good. "Happens to the best of us," he said, managing a small smile for her. There was no need to bring her down with his mood.

"Which I'm not." Kitty had done things that would make poor Henry's hair curl. But she smiled at him anyway, because he was sweet to say so. She turned from the roses to join him for a little while. He had notebooks out, again, and so far she hadn't managed to discover what he studied. She wanted to.

"So what are you up to, today? Besides avoiding Caroline's attempts at turning the hotel into a living, breathing Valentine." She didn't begrudge Caroline the decorations, but really, did everything need to be so glittery and pink? The last time she'd seen so much pink, she'd been twelve and wearing a tutu.

"In order, missing my wife and son, being divinely compelled to kiss near strangers, avoiding my grandsons for that very reason and trying to remember any wards that work on the host of heaven that don't involve me shedding my own blood and someone needing to stitch me up again." He shrugged. "And just by saying that I think I'm probably going to invite more trouble."

He smiled for her. There was something warm and genuine about her that- He didn't want to think about romance. He was much too old for her and thinking about romance would probably seal the deal on the trouble he was inviting. Still, of everyone he'd met so far, it was Kitty that made him feel the most comfortable. He hoped they could become dear friends. He would be happy with that. More than.

"And you? Was the cliche a one off or have you been stuck in some sort of cliche loop? Tell me honestly, Kitty. Has your figurative language become literal?"

Wife. Son. Grandsons. Kisses. Angels. Magic. Blood. Superstition. Kitty checked them off as he said them, filed away the ones she didn't know about and would ask later, and went to sit beside him, sympathy in her eyes. "Don't worry about me, Henry, I'm fine. Just realized I was literally stopping to smell the roses. It's something we say in our era."

Another time she might have told him about Wyatt, because she thought he'd approve, but not when he'd said what he had. Instead, she took one of his hands in hers. "I'm so sorry. It must be really hard to be without her, your wife. But for the rest, if it's any consolation, Sam mentioned avoiding you when I ran into him earlier."

That he was teasing seemed to have gone completely unnoticed in the mess of everything serious he'd just rattled off. That was fine, he supposed. There wasn't any harm in letting her think he was frustratingly literal.

"Well, that is a relief. I hope we don't work so hard at avoiding each other that it completely backfi-" He cut himself off. He felt it this time. A sharp impact before the lust flooded him. No. No no. Not Kitty. He had so few people he thought he might count as friends as it was. He couldn't...

"You should go," he said, voice strained. face gone pale. Seconds. He had mere seconds that he was going to be able to resist this. He didn't know how to kill an angel without an angel blade or holy oil, but he was going to figure it out, so help him. "Please. I'd rather be in agony than the sort of man who throws themselves at someone who hasn't explicitly asked for it."

"Henry?" The look on his face...poor man. She thought, at first, he was saying he'd be poor company, but then she realized... "Oh, Henry." She'd heard people saying what it was like, and...

"It's okay," she told him. "Really." She squeezed his hand and leaned close to invite a kiss. "It's not your fault." No, she didn't have any romantic feelings for him, but what kind of friend was she if she couldn't give up a few kisses to spare him pain?

"Thank you," he managed before he leaned in to kiss her. He forced himself to keep it slow, to give her a kiss that said she was treasured, that he cared. His heart belonged to his wife. Even so, he still cared deeply for his friends. His fingers sank into her hair. He might not have had a choice about whether or not he had to act. He certainly had a choice about how he was going to act when he did.