TITLE: Breaking The Trap

FANDOM: Brimstone

RATING: NC-17 (just to be safe)

PAIRING: Zeke/Devil

SPOILERS: None

SUMMARY: An innocent dinner with the Devil results in a new and twisted scheme on his behalf; can Zeke face up to the challenge?

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Ezekiel Stone, Rosalyn Stone, Maxine the desk clerk, and the Devil (as portrayed by John Glover on *Brimstone*) do not belong to me in the least. All main characters are copyrighted to Ethan Reiff and Cyrus Voris, who own the rights to the television show *Brimstone*. No profit is being made from this piece of fan fiction.

Credit must be given in any and all reproductions. This story may not be distributed publically without expressed permission of the author. Events, places, and incidents mentioned are fictitious and any resemblances to any persons (living or dead), is purely coincidental. Please send any comments to PollyHammer@chickmail.com; any input is appreciated!

Breaking The Trap

by Polly Hammer
PollyHammer@chickmail.com

When I woke up this morning I was alone. I could appreciate the irony; after all this time back on Earth, back in the real world, I've woken up by myself every morning. You'd think I was used to it by now. Hell, you'd think I'd have expected it, after what happened last night. But somewhere way in the back of my mind, I think a tiny bit of me was hoping that I wouldn't be alone. I don't know if that's sentimental or even some really morbid curiosity, but it was there in the back of my head. I just rolled my eyes and tried to ignore it, stretching out across the rest of the double bed and pulling the tangled sheets back over me. Snuggling back under the blankets, I let my mind flash back on what had happened the previous evening. Savoring it? Maybe.

I should have known that something was up when he just appeared unannounced on the couch, lugging what looked like a garment bag with him. Well, not exactly - I'm used to these unexpected visits by now. Goes with the territory. And I'd just dispatched one of his lost souls back home that afternoon, so it was only a matter of time before he showed up to gloat, or critique, or give a tiny clue for the next one, or whatever. But what was with the garment bag?

"Going somewhere?" I asked him, putting down the coffee I was drinking and gesturing to the bag. He set the thing carefully beside him on the couch.

"Congratulations on tracking down the ... esteemed Victor Carmichael, Mr. Stone. It's not every day you return one of the more impressive prizes of my collection."

"Oh, sure. Not a problem. Always glad to go up against a former Mafia assassin. That sort of thing really makes my Fridays more interesting."

He feigned shock. "Really? Very sporting of you, Ezekiel! It can always be arranged." Smug bastard. And he was changing the subject.

"What's with that?" I pointed at the bag again. He leaned over to unzip it and I half thought that I should've been bracing myself for a stream of bats or flying rocks with teeth or something to come out of it. But no, he reached into it and tugged out a simple blue dress shirt with a black necktie loosely knotted around the coathanger. This wasn't making any sense. My expression must've said as much, because he smirked and handed them over to me.

"Decent shirt and tie - Chez Thierry-Luc, I think, would not exactly favor the stylish yet functional look of grey sweatshirt over plain white T-shirt."

I still wasn't getting it. I took the coathanger from him and stared stupidly at the clothes.

He sighed, exasperated. "Dinner. My treat. As a thanks for Mr. Carmichael?"

Oh, you've *gotta* be kidding me.

******

My dinner with the Devil. Now there's something to write home about, if I could. Sounds like a warped sitcom or something. After I'd changed shirts, we headed out the door, ducking Max's catcalls as we left the building. It wasn't a very far walk, but it seemed to last for weeks. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. What was he up to? What the hell kind of devious scheme did he have in mind? ... no pun intended, of course.

"C'mon, just tell me what you want. What you need done. What you need undone. You don't have to spend three or four hours building up the suspense, for chrissake."

The wine steward (wine steward! Jesus, he was going all out for this one) stopped at our table and my dinner companion ordered the second most expensive wine on the list. He waited until the steward left and then put on a pitiful, hurt face. "Is that really what you expect of me, Mr. Stone?"

"Yes."

"Well, good. Don't you forget it. But seriously, can't I just treat you to a decent meal, a thanks to a hard worker from his employer, without having to endure this - this very disturbing display of paranoia?"

"Nope." I grabbed one of the rolls and started to butter it. "First off, *you're* the one who gets pissed whenever I dare to take five minutes away from my precious mission to get a bite to eat. And you're also the one who's led me to expect something nasty behind every supposedly nice thing you do for me. Paranoid. Ha!" I snorted. "What - you're gonna tell me that I need to get up and shoot out the eyes of the maitre d'?"

He opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by a slight cough from the waiter, who'd been standing beside the table unnoticed. The guy raised an eyebrow at my simple shirt and tie - pretty casual, actually, given the smart suits on the other patrons - but I just shook my head. I didn't need to hear it.

My ... good friend ordered the soup du jour and the salmon. Did he even eat? I had no idea, but I did know that I wasn't going to get this opportunity every day. I ordered the lobster bisque and prime rib - man, I twitched just *looking* at the price on that one. But whatever the trick, I planned on milking it until he decided to let the cat out of the bag on his real motive.

And then we waited. I just stared at him, not letting him out of my sight. He pretended not to notice, idly running his fingers up and down his necktie and looking innocently up at the ceiling. Bullshit - he was up to something. Finally he just let out an impatient sigh and looked back at me.

"Fine," he said, almost pouting. "Fine. You expect something, then fine. Be right back." He turned to look over at the door to the kitchen, and I followed his glance only to find that when I turned back, he had disappeared. Yeah, that didn't bode all that well, but he'd be more subtle than leading me to an expensive restaurant only to ditch it and leave me holding the bill. Way too obvious for his style.

He still hadn't come back when the waiter arrived with the soup. Actually, it was a different waiter than the one who'd turned his nose up at my outfit. I was still puzzling over this one when I turned and found the Devil back in his chair, sipping at the glass of wine next to the soup. I glanced at the new waiter as he headed back to the kitchen.

"Different waiter," I commented, tasting the bisque. Bit too hot, but I wasn't complaining.

"Observant."

"Should I ask?"

"Oh, it's nothing really. It's just that our previous waiter was in a brief altercation in the kitchen. One of the cooks provoking him with ...baseless rumors regarding the man's fiance. Sad to say, the waiter now numbers among the ranks of the disgruntled unemployed. Pity."

"Yeah. Pity."

"Are you satisfied now? Was that enough to convince you that all of my dastardly shenanigans for the night are exhausted and we can have a simple dinner in peace, hopefully devoid of any further paranoia?"

"Fine. Whatever." I had to admit, though, that this little stunt did help to break the tension. He'd been too - too *nice* all night. It was almost reassuring to see evidence of the same old wickedness.

"I'd skip the lobster bisque if I were you, though. You know how disgruntled waitpersons can be."

I set my spoon back down on the table. Typical.

******
(to be continued in part two)