Just because he couldn’t sleep didn’t mean Ishmael found no pleasure in putting head to pillow sometimes. Not that sleeping would have been at the top of the list for things to do when he and Monty were alone together, of course.

He had been languidly running his fingers up and down Monty’s arm, only half-listening, his mind drifting faraway as he felt the warmth of the room, twice as much from Monty’s warm skin as the fire simmering away in the grate.

He had been quietly following news of the dug-up and dispersed artifacts though, so it was not entirely surprising to hear Monty mention them. Though not in the manner he’d been expecting.

“Careful?” He echoed, propping himself up to peer at Monty in surprise. “What, are you worried?” Ishmael inquired, arching a brow, and biting his lip so that he didn’t break out in a laugh. “Doesn’t sound much like you.” It made sense enough to capitalise on the interest in the artifacts - and no doubt law enforcement’s focus on hunting them down - to make good on other kinds of business, but still. He’d have expected Monty to be irritated he didn’t have one of the artifacts for himself. Wasn’t like him to go out of his way to avoid valuable shiny things. Even cursed things.

---

Ishmael chuckled at that, supposing he shouldn’t be surprised. He lifted a hand to carelessly trace his fingers along Monty’s jaw. No boils was, of course, priority number one. “I expect it depends on the artifact,” Ishmael mused. “But probably not.” Not unless the maker of it had extended its effects beyond its typical subjects, but vampires, though lacking some powers, might also be conveniently immune to others. “One of the advantages of being undead,” he said primly, grinning.

“Still, I’ve heard stories,” Ishmael said, leaning back with a shrug. About how to handle cursed artifacts, and the hazards of them, too. “A friend I used to know in Paris, he...” Ishmael halted in mid-thought, both in thinking of what had happened to him, and in thinking of that old friend at all. Best not to dredge up the past, probably. Definitely not with the present so - present.

---

Ishmael regretted saying anything - wading in the past was much worse when he thought about telling the truth - so he let Monty’s hands travel over him for a while, hoping he wouldn’t ask. But there he was, curious and alert, and Monty knew him well enough to have a clue when he was lying.

“Yes, a friend -” Ishmael said, frowning on the word a little, because the man he was thinking of had been more than a friend, one of the more serious relationships he’d gotten tangled in (after Portugal and the disaster that had been Azazel); “A wizard. He did good business in curses and cursebreaking. What with the country being topsy-turvy,” - political upheaval could do that in a flash, turned a country upside down, shake the nobility free of all the possessions they’d hoarded, let a convenient curse loose on one’s worst enemies... And France had been pretty keen to shake other continents out of their artifacts around about the turn of the century, too. “Well, a lot of dangerous things passed through his hands. Saw some of them for myself; what some of them could do.” He’d used a couple of cursed objects on marks himself, as well, people on whom he’d needed revenge. There were plenty of lurid stories he could tell, some rather good successes... but there was a bitter tang to most of the tales now, Ishmael realised. “Only problem is that he kept making new enemies for himself, so the business killed him in the end.” He’d meant to laugh, but there was a knot in his stomach and a furrow in his brow that Ishmael had to force himself to smooth away, remembering it.

He’d been making fun of Monty for being worried just a moment ago, hadn’t he? But there was the problem, that in the end the fun always became a horrorshow. Cursed artifacts or anything else, the world Monty inhabited might be a little more comfortable than some Ishmael had inhabited, over the years, but whatever the inherent danger in it, this conversation was just making him remember that, wizards or not, humans had a horrible habit of dying.

And that kind of did kill the mood.

---