Chapter Text
When you’re 300 years old and counting, sometimes little details get lost in the void.
For example: birthdays, appointments, the ending to that song from 1735 that’s been stuck in your head for a century… Small stuff like that. Also, maybe possibly, the fact that you’re believed to be dead in several countries. Including France.
Lance woke up, blinking, to several crisscrossing flashlight beams aimed directly at his face. There were voices shouting importantly in French, and through the haze of yellow light, he could see some very official-looking badges pinned to some very official-looking police uniforms. Scrambling into a sitting position, Lance threw an arm up to block the brilliant brightness from his eyes and felt a smile overtake his face. His mouth split in a sharp white smirk to reveal sharper white teeth. He felt a sudden surge of stupid adrenaline.
In one fluid motion, he leaped out of bed and drew himself up to his full height. Trying to look dignified (despite wearing only fuzzy penguin pajama bottoms). he grinned charismatically at the policemen while trying to slap together a convincing lie in his brain, or to concoct an escape plan that wouldn’t end with him getting shot.
“Bonjour, messieurs. Si vous voulez bien indiquer vos lampes de poche hors de mes yeux, je suis sûr que nous pouvons résoudre ce problème.” he spread his hands in a peaceful gesture. Hello, gentlemen. If you would kindly point your flashlights out of my eyes, I'm sure we can work this out.
After a moment and a few disgruntled grumbles, a majority of the flashlight beams had been redirected. However, one officer remained with her light pointed resolutely in his face. This, for some reason, filled Lance with the unhelpful urge to laugh. He could vaguely determine her shape through his squinty eyes - her long silvery hair and dark skin. Her strangely colored hair reminded him of something glaringly obvious: magic existed! And, more obvious, he was a proficient magic user! Lance stifled a laugh. The pretty lady cop’s determination further fueled his bravado, and he put his hands on his hips.
“Eh bien, mes amis ... C'était ravi de vous rencontrer, mais je dois vraiment y aller.” he winked in the general direction of the female officer. Well, my friends... It was lovely to meet you, but I really must be going.
Unexpectedly, the lady cop shouted back in perfect, London-accented English: “Don’t you dare, Lance!”
Even as the smile melted from his face, he snapped his fingers. In an instant, Lance had vanished into thin air.
~
He reappeared in a dirty side alley, the mood to laugh having dissipated with the silver-haired officer’s words. How did that woman know his name? Moreover, what was she doing in a country that was clearly not her homeland? And there was something about her that struck Lance as vaguely Shadowhunter-ish… But what would a Shadowhunter have to gain by working with the mundie police force? It was all very suspicious.
Leaning against the yellow brick wall and trying to avoid getting mud on his ‘80s (that’s 1880s) very vintage boots, Lance fell deep into thought.
He was no longer wearing his pajamas - he’d magicked himself into one of his favorite outfits even as he’d disappeared into the ether, and had made sure to enchant his more prized belongs to follow. Two stuffed glittery duffel bags of his travelling things had appeared at his feet and, unfortunately, in the mud. At least it was French mud, he supposed. In any case, he was wearing a rather loud red velvet brocade vest paired with some flatteringly tight pants and, of course, his boots. It made him feel better to know that any passerby could see him leaning beautifully against the alley wall. He was fairly certain that the red of his vest contrasted well with the yellow background. It improved his whole mood, in regards to the mysterious and confusing circumstances.
Because he knew how excellent he looked, he decided to continue to lean and mull the situation over.
-
Keith had been in Bordeaux for a total of one day, and he had already thoroughly run short of his French vocabulary on multiple occasions.
He was apparently much further out of his depth than he had initially thought, and Google translate could only get you so far. Earlier on, during his brief excursion outside without his phone in an attempt to truly test his knowledge of the language, he’d gone to the grocery store in an effort to obtain some lunch. He had inquired after some salami. Assumptively, though, he’d committed a major linguistic sin, because the shopkeeper had turned beet red and, with some very determined pointing, insisted that Keith leave. After that, he figured that it would probably be a good idea to make a quick exit.
So he had, and now he was embarrassed and hungry.
Sighing, he rounded another corner (was this four corners now? was he going in a circle?) and studied the cobblestone as he walked. He pushed a flop of black hair out of his eyes. When he glanced up again, he was in a dirty-looking alleyway occupied by an extremely flamboyant guy that looked to be about his own age.
Keith could only stare.
After a minute, the stranger must’ve felt Keith’s gaze on him, because he looked up. He had a smirky look on his pretty brown face, and it made Keith blush vermillion. This guy, whoever he was, knew just from the look on Keith’s face.
Something about this guy made Keith want to smirk right back… But, being himself, he just turned without a word and broke into a dead sprint in the opposite direction.
~
Now this was certainly an interesting turn of events.
Lance straightened out of his lean and stroked his invisible thinking beard. He was wanted in several countries for a few misunderstandings over the years, which made life a tad difficult sometimes, but at least it provided a challenge! Being immortal, one had a tendency to stagnate. Luckily enough, two things were sure to keep Lance from turning into a boring (if gorgeous) bisexual rock: having the police on his tail, and meeting cute boys.
And the young man who had just sprinted away certainly fell into that second category.
Something about the guy’s face though… He looked like someone. Had Lance known his grandfather? Great aunt? Long dead cousin many times removed? It wasn’t improbable; once he’d been in a relationship with the many-greats granddaughter of George Washington (whom Lance had known personally, and quite well). It was a little awkward. Lance didn’t really like to think about that stuff too much. It gave him a migraine.
So long as he kept moving, running, fighting his way through the inescapable river of time… He was fine. Just couldn’t think about it too much.
In any case, Lance’s attention span was conveniently not very long. The strange incident with the silver-haired lady was still lurking in the back corner of his brain, but he pushed it further away. Today was going to be a good day. And Lance would make it so.