Ascensionism P2
P1
A/N: At long last. Actually so sorry this is like two weeks off schedule, posting this while waiting for a tow truck (car literally caught on fire)(I’m so fucking stressed please kill me). AND no smut in this ( :( ) just yet, because that is still not quite done. AND another cliffhanger because I had to divvy part 2 into two parts anyway due to tumblrs limit. Anywayyyy thank you for all the overwhelmingly kind messages, love you all so much, hope this lives up to expectations!!
Thank you so much @fuckoffbard , for literally everything. I do not know what I'd do without you <3333
WC: 12k (Sorry.)
Taglist: @saaamsayshi @crackhead1-800 @lightinbug @leynetto @faephoria @pom3granates if i’m forgetting people i’m so sorry
CW: Dark!Remmick but still somewhat softish, Soulmate!Reincarnated!ModernF!Reader, Stalking/Death/Gore Mention/Descriptions, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Remmick being a creepy, pathetic, lovestruck douchebag
You had no reason to look up.
You hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t heard him. It was pure instinct. You even missed the next words of his, as your mind fumbled with fitting the pieces of this fucked up puzzle together. You jam them in anyway, and they’re crooked and wrong because none of them match. They come at you relentlessly. Unyielding. Battering you with their misalignment until you’re consumed with the oddity of it all.
“Well, ain’t this a predicament?”
You’re frozen, caught in a whirlwind of emotions that won’t settle. They’re suspended in the air around you, much like Remmick, who hangs above you like gravity doesn’t quite know what to do with him anymore than you do. You blink, eyes straining to comprehend the sight, the utter impossibility of it as it rewrites everything you’ve thought possible. Everything your dreams revealed to you paled in face of the terror of witnessing it in person.
Pale light stretches around him, distorts around his contours like his presence is capable of blotting out the moon and stars. It sank atop of the jagged edges of him, of too still limbs, the offending claws and eyes that are wholly animal. They relieve you with the absence of that gaze to fixate on your slashed tires, a false, mocking innocence to them that says, who did that?
Your heart had already threatened to drum its way out between your ribs at the sight of him hovering over you like a buzzard, but it chased a wild, fast-paced beat at his words. The cold, confident assurance he carried was not misplaced. The fear you’ve felt curling around your gut at the sight only presented to you in dreams, is grounded up underfoot of what you feel now. You never could have understood what the women who bore your soul felt when their lives were upturned by this madman. Never wanted to. But you know, deep down, it’s something you’re going to face tonight.
You had chosen your tucked-away home for its tranquility, for the reassuring promise of isolation. Well, you sure do have that in spades. A sad pang of longing for your departed roommate hits you once more as you realize there’s no one for miles to come to your aid, and the only haven offered is the one you just left. And that’s the one you plan to run back to, just as soon as your heart and feet aren’t weighed down with terror. Somehow the garlic concoction you clutch to your chest sits askew on the naked panic underneath it, the both of them feeling utterly useless to you now.
He descends. Closes half of the distance between him and the ground.
“Here’s how this is gonna play out–”
The words set you in motion.
You shuck off the jacket hung on your shoulders, dislodge the panic and the iron grip you had on the jar, and fling the contents in the direction of his face. You don’t wait to see if it hits him. Only hear a sharp hiss, the sputtering of singed flesh, and what suspiciously sounds like a metal hood groaning under the sudden weight of a body.
Then a baffled, “The fuck– the fuck is wrong with you?!” and an affronted sniff, “is that garlic?”
You throw the jar over your shoulder. Just barely catch the inane “missed!” yelled back at you in a manner not befitting of an ancient nightmare-inducing monster. You decide then that you won’t die today. You can’t. Not to a demonic creature this fucking lame.
Your feet fly, not nearly quick enough for your liking. The crunch of evening dew and brown grass under your boots compete with the deafening roaring in your ears. The next drag of air all but choked you, had you fighting to squeeze it past where your heart leapt in your throat. You’re pelted with noises and worries clawing for your attention, namely the unsettling lack of footsteps from behind that ought to concern you more than it presently was. But as you skip the earliest steps to hop onto the porch, your mind catches on something else entirely.
I’m definitely out of a job.
There’s a hellish creature hounding after your footsteps. But you needed to find a new job soon. Rent’s gone up.
You reach the threshold, half tripping over it, half catching yourself on the door frame, but still going down hard enough to slam onto the floor. An unflattering grunt along with crucial air puffs out of you, in relief more than anything, and you have to stop yourself from kissing the wooden boards that promise you sanctuary. Shelter from the–
Oh.
Remmick is far behind. Way back there actually, but still making his leisurely pursuit. Damn. That’s kind of embarrassing.
It still gives you the much needed moments to breathe, and breathe, and frantically scrounge up some kind of plan. Any semblance of strategy evades your desperate grasp, but you’re breathing, and you’re immensely grateful for it. The threat of not having the ability to do so was very real. It’s a win.
When you finally uproot your knees and stagger to your feet, a fresh set of aches blare their alarm bells, screaming for the attention you keep on that door. It flickers to the makeshift nail bat– fuck, you miss your roommate –that you have tucked away in the corner, but you’re hesitant to reveal your hand. He can’t come in, anyway. You’re safe.
For now.
Remmick– you shouldn’t name him, at this point. He’s lost that respect. He isn’t your friend. He isn’t human, only paper thin charm and hunger stuffed into something man-shaped, dressed in disarming attire and an awkward disposition.
Even the moths hovering around the dull porchlight restore their hijacked navigational system and disperse at his lazy approach. Slow, dull footsteps thunk, thunk, thunk up the creaking steps; each one a warning of that palpable absence of the man you knew. There’s a surety in his step, now– an assurance of power in the way he carries himself.
A certainty that he’ll end up getting what he wants.
A too sharp grin rests where there was once a stupid smile. Where you used to find a comforting, kind gaze, now sits an evaluating stare you can’t quite bring yourself to meet. Not for long.
Because death lies there. You were sure of that.
And Remmick, he looks cool and fucking collected, meandering casually to your door with his usual sunny disposition that’s near painful to gaze upon. That, and the receding layers of epidermis you stripped from him with your assault. Quivering flesh steams in the night chill, unheeded until he’s back within your proximity, and then it suddenly becomes worth taking notice of.
He paws at his cheek, and the curious digits come back slick and warm. Pretends to examine the dark blood coagulating right there on his fingertips. His clawed, lethal fingertips, mean-looking things. Gestures them your way in a very unnecessary show-and-tell.
“Thank Christ I just fed, or this would’a been awkward.” He smiles, all friendly, and closes a distance too short for your liking. Looking like he didn’t just try to jump you like a feral dog in your driveway.
“You got somethin’ I can…?” A red-tipped finger swirls around his face.
“No.” You snap.
“Alright, fine, then–” He plucks the shirt tails from where they stay stuffed into his pants, and where sweaty cloth clings to slick skin. Wipes his face and mouth with unhurried, expert movements. The quiet ease and only slight frustration hinting that he’s not unfamiliar with making do with what he’s got. You note that he’s not a stranger to wiping blood or…other things off his chin.
Stop noting.
You try to wrestle your attention away from that train of thought, and then your gaze flicks down, exposed to soft, but still well-defined abdominal muscles. The dull lighting of the porch paints flesh in cool tones. Inky shadows further cut them into blocky shapes, failing to conceal the sparse cluster of dark hair littered across alabaster skin. It trickles down with broadening coverage until it’s hidden from your fascinated gaze.
Your brain short circuits, several little voices inside you whispering treasonous little remarks about how it feels to roam your hands over that muscle, what lies at the end of that trail. And fuck you, you even know that it tickles against your-
“Don’t go judgin’ me.” His words startle you, as does the fact that he sounds a bit…stung. “I asked for somethin’, you said no. Don’t look at me like I’m some kinda heathen.”
Every bit of his displeasure flickers across that expressive face of his. Eyes turn up in a look of you should feel bad about this. Pity me. While lips a little too red pull into what is most definitely a pout, and wage their war against the last of the rapidly mending wounds.
He’s upset. You’ve upset him. Yeah, he looks more than a bit insulted. That’s good. You’re relieved that whatever countenance you’ve thrown on reflects the idea that he’s the heathen here, and not you.
Remmick isn’t human, no. But his person suit is a damn good one. Humidity caught on his skin in a thin sheen, in his dark hair, where wild strands stuck out in uneven tufts in some areas, and curled up sweetly in others. It gives him a boyish, youthful appearance. As does the affronted manner he maintains. He somehow still perpetuates his mollifying nature, despite the threat of bloodshed that lingers in the air around him.
It’s a testament to your inability to keep your focus on what matters, and a shameful, yet accurate depiction of the mess he makes of your logic. Never mind the fact that he’s rooted himself into your head, and haunts you with his greatest hits every time you fall asleep. You thought he burrowed himself in a recess of your mind with his initial visit, but he’s always laid dormant, ready to flip a switch and reroute your priorities until you lose track of what matters.
This cannot be happening to you.
But it is. And you, you had encouraged his behavior, albeit unknowingly, and each mistake had cost you. With each saccharine, deceitful dream, you lost more and more.
His eyes dart to your bruised knees even though they’re barred from his view. The blood from damaged capillaries call to him, awaken that hunger you see plain as day, can’t believe you’ve been blind to for months. It’s leashed, under careful supervision, but still so apparent when you know what to look for. And this time you do look, take careful note of that control and the way he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Sorry ‘bout that.” He nods to the contusions.
“No, you’re not.”
“I could be.” He gives you a pleading look of fabricated hurt, “I could be real sorry. Could show you how much, too.”
“Can we just…” You make a nonsensical gesture with your hand. There’s no shortage of tiredness and frustration in your tone.
Now that you’re no longer burning up with exertion, you’re chilly from the cooling sweat leeching the heat out of you. Fatigue and flaring bruises threaten to chase away any relief offered by adrenaline, and they supply you with concerning inky motes that dance in the corners of your vision.
But merciful, Remmick is not. Much like your first meeting, he’s keen to draw this out as long as possible. He ignores your vague plea and soaks in his surroundings, your audience of worn wooden panels and quiet insects, like he hadn’t gotten well acquainted with them the past several weeks. Like he wasn’t making himself at home on this porch to pester and prod and manipulate.
“All them years,” He tilts his head up, exposing his throat as he examines the infrastructure. You are more than a little offended at the cocky display. He clearly doesn’t think of you as a threat, whereas you wouldn’t feel safe being within five feet of him if you wore a neck brace, “...and this is where you end up. I imagined somethin’ a bit more grand. Somethin’ worthy of you.”
“Maybe you should have used all them years and taken the fight to capitalism. Instead of being an entitled shithead.” Your fingers grip the door stile near painfully. It’s a constant, conscious effort to dull your shaking and not vibrate out of your skin.
You’re met with an amused exhale. Eyes that shutter for a passive beat.
“You and that mouth.” He says, fondly. “That is a mighty tall order. Should’a expected that from you.”
You slam the door.
The walls he so casually insulted rattle, decor threatening to drop as the door thumps closed. There's a brief pause as you calculate the likelihood of this shit ever ending if you don’t confront it head on.
You search and search for a scrap of reason in regards to the whole situation, but find none, and there’s none that support your thought process as you yank it back open to see Remmick standing there, unphased, confident in the inevitability of you opening it again.
“There we go. You feel better? Got that off your chest?”
“Can you just get through your spiel and leave? Right now, I’m a bit miffed seeing the man who’s been violating me in my dreams-”
“Violatin’-” His eyebrows hiked up, voice losing the playfulness it previously held, sharpening itself on the accusation.
“Yes, violatin’, unless you have another word for living vicariously through your fantasy of jerking it in my bed.”
Remmick scoffs but softens at the memory, giving you whiplash with his oscillating moods. He ducks his head. Sucks in his cheeks, lips pursing in either faux shyness or fond remembrance. A show, almost certainly, as he debates what response would be the most pacifying. The fucker doesn’t even look embarrassed, whereas you’re hot under the collar for other reasons than the dead sprint you broke out in.
“Ah. That one. I’ve tried sendin’ tamer ones, but I seem to be off my game when I think of you. No one to blame here.” He says hurriedly, hands thrown up innocently as if he isn’t the one entirely at fault. “Makes sense, feelin’ the way I do about you.”
An insidious quirk of his lips stifles the sincerity of his words.
Your fingers itch to slam the door again. With his head between the frame, this time.
“Well, that’s about as much as I can take from you tonight. Fuck you very much for the flat tires, by the way.” You extend an arm in the general area of the carnage, careful to keep it within the boundary of the doorway. By his amused head tilt and shit-eating smirk, he clocked it. “The hell am I gonna tell my insurance?”
“Is that really what you wanna talk about? I figured you’d want to discuss our lil’ predicament,” He gives you a proud, sleazy smile, eyes twinkling in the grim lighting, “Bondmate o’ mine.”
“No. Nope. We’re not calling it that.” You want to pinch the bridge of your nose, perhaps bury your hands in your hair in annoyance-induced mania, but the idea of taking your eyes off of him feels unwise. Vampire rules or not. “What were you doing up there?”
“Sittin’ on your roof. Lettin’ you cool off. Why’d you run?” He asks casually.
“You were– I thought you were chasing me.”
“I certainly wanted to. You, runnin’ from me like that?” Cheeks puffed, he blew out a breath through pursed lips, along with a noise that wasn’t quite a whistle, “Now–” A placating hand lifts to stop your verbal onslaught before it begins. “I’ll admit, I’ve been a bit… let’s say intense with my efforts. Like I said, I’m off my game when it comes to you.” He slides his hand into his pocket. Casual.
You don’t know how to respond to that. Can’t. Remmick takes the opportunity to take you in with a look that’s utterly enamored. It lingers too long, deceptively heavy and soft and aching around its edges in a way that turns your stomach, because all of that shouldn’t be there. It has no right to be, but it remains, and stays far too sure of its welcome.
“It’s one thing to experience you through faded dreams. Another entirely to be in your presence. I’m enchanted.”
Experience you. Enchanted. Experience… you?
“Couldn’t exactly tell you before–” He toes the ground with his foot, a misleading shyness about him. You bet he mourns the fact that he can’t see his face in mirrors. He’d probably practice his monologuing until the sun spilled over the horizon and jack himself off when he aced the facial expressions.
You felt your spine stiffen. “What do you mean?”
The performance loses its gentleness, hardens into something noticeably less so. His jaw tightens at the interruption, and he lets out an irritated puff of air before he snaps back with thinly veiled irritation,
“I was gettin’ to that. Couldn’t tell you before, but meetin’ you has been-”
“No. Experience me? The fuck do you mean by that?” An uncomfortable heat begins to drag itself up your neck. You have an idea of what he means, and if you’re correct, ‘experience’ is a rather loose definition for what he’s describing. Violating.
His eyes take a hike to the porch roof, and honestly, this man has the nerve to call you cheeky.
“Don’t tell me you forgot about our little… role swap. I’ve been seein’ you, too. Flashes of you, at least. Not all of it clear ‘til I got closer, few years back. Then one day I got a glimpse of the town sign. That was,” He pauses, looks up again as if he has to think about it. You know he doesn’t. “Some two months ago now.”
Two months. Around the time your roommate left. A week before you met Remmick. There’s a mortified little voice screaming in your head, trying to pull you under that smothering realization that he’s more than likely experienced you debase yourself in his honor.
“Hey.” He pulls your attention back to him, face pinched with sympathy. It looks genuine, but honestly who knows, “I’ve seen you. Wakin’ scared, hurt, no one to comfort you… You’ve been through enough sufferin’. I thought you’d like to wake screamin’ for a different reason.”
Your teeth whine between clenched jaws. He’s not… saying it with malice. No gratification or lewd stare to go with it. Just honesty. He adds on quickly,
“And you liked ‘em, right? I know you do. I feel that sometimes, too. No shame in it. You deserve to feel good.” He urges, tone kept soft with something like a plea underlying simple assertions.
You choose to avoid entertaining that inquiry any more than absolutely necessary, and pose him with a thorny one of his own,
“And why was I waking up scared and hurt, Remmick?” The question is lined with ice, slippery and ensnaring.
Ensnare, it did. His jaw goes a bit slack, eyes slightly widen with shock at either the interrogation or the lack of an enthralled response to his smooth talking, you’re not sure.
“Listen…that one about the weddin’... and the one with the boy I turned… nasty business. Neither of them gave you the full picture.” He shifted around uncomfortably where he stood.
“And that is?”
Remmick’s mouth wrapped around an aborted word, stare darting this way and that.
“Well it– that don’t matter now, does it? What does matter is why you’re upset with me. You’re hurt that I didn’t tell you who I was, what you meant to me. I’m here to remedy that.”
That’s an understatement of the century, and a gross downplay of your grievances. He’s methodical with his trading of information. Gives you no reprieve between each maddening statement so you’re left scrambling for one to hone in on,
“As for the dreams I’m responsible for,” which is all of them, you slick bastard, “I really thought I was helpin’. It wasn’t my intention to do anything untoward.” He winces, shaking his head. His words drowned in sympathy, “When I first saw you, you looked worn. Haunted. Your head filled with too much noise. I figured if those echoes won’t leave you alone, then I’d have to love you a whole lot louder.”
Your insides twist, suddenly fill with clumps of warmth that don’t know where or how to settle. They curdle at the sight of a budding smile on his face, and you curse yourself for how easily swayed your heart can be. He’s looking at you expectantly, a ‘didn’t I do a fine job?’ hangs in the air. And damn him, he knows the answer.
You try to grapple the conversation into your control. Steer it towards what you actually need to hear, “And all of those… memories that have haunted my head for fucking years. What exactly are those?”
“Memories, yeah. That’s right.” His words are warm, crooning, with just enough pride in them to seem kind. The acknowledgment sets your teeth on edge with its unnecessary manipulation; the underlying expectation that you would find his praise worth anything. It’s made worse by the fact that a part of you does. “Those, well, those are you. Were you. Past tense, obviously. Seein’ as you’re here now-”
You had more than a little suspicion, knew it somewhere in your muddled mind, but hearing it confirmed feels like your heart is in freefall.
He seems to pick up on your disbelief, mistaking it for blinded stupidity as you brace yourself against the door casing. His hand begins to reach out before he thinks better of it. Rests it against the opposite side yours is on, the wood creaking, and begging fingers curl around the framework with jealous longing.
“Yeah, no, I understand that part, thanks.” You exhale, willing each breath to come steady. “And that makes you…” old as fuck, “ makes us…?”
“That makes me the luckiest man on Earth, darlin’.” Bitter sarcasm soaks his words for reasons you misinterpret.
“Like I asked for this, asshole. You– you killed people! You’re a fucking vampire, aren’t you? What does that make-” No, not ‘us’, because there is no us, “this thing between us?”
“Guilty.” He lifts his shoulders in an aw, shucks motion. Forgoes your last question in favor of expanding on the rhetorical one, because he can never give you a straight answer without being a complete ass, “That does seem to be the current name for it. When you’re this old, labels come and go. Can’t get too stuck on those-”
“So what. does that. make us.” You grit out, fed up with his nonchalance towards the life-altering topic.
“I don’t have an answer. Not one you’d like.” He sighs, sobering. “Let’s just say it’s somethin’ ancient. Undeniable.”
You cut him off with a laugh a little too loud. A little too wet.
“Well here I am. Denying it. I saw what you did. Full picture, my ass. They warned me. All this time and they were warning me-”
“I was more beast than man, then.” He’s stern, righteous and steadfast in a way you haven’t seen yet. Nothing about his casual stance changes, but you feel a shift in the air around you. The turn from hushed quiet to absolute calm. It immediately subdues you, both provokes and terrifies you. “I couldn’t keep myself. Couldn’t keep you, neither. One and the same”
You shake your head, not buying his excuses for a second, but his look is a warning if you’ve ever seen one. You don’t interrupt.
“It made me careless. Chasin’ after anything that might’ve been you. And when I did find you…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It don’t matter. Lifetimes spent tryin’ to find you. Keep you. But none of them hold a candle to you now.”
His look is appraising, a little sad.
Your heart lurches and throbs with the… whatever it still carries for him despite everything. Emboldened by the return of that softness, you make a demand. “I want more answers.”
“And I brought ‘em.” Remmick’s nodding, eager and pleased at your sudden willingness to converse with him. His hand goes to root around in his back pocket. “Just– gimme a sec.”
He presents to you the sight of that journal of his, the one you’ve studied during your nightly hangouts with covert examinations. It’s pocket-sized. Looks handmade, almost, a thick stack of aged parchment bound in leather. Indents and frayed tears litter the cover, and one look at those talons of his solves that little mystery.
He thumbs through the pages quickly, surprisingly deft, like you’ll change your mind in an instant. When he gets to that desired page, he hums happily and extends it to you.
You take it with barely-contained fervor disguised as suspicion. The hand you kept hovering nervously over the bat in the corner abandons its position to get a better hold. It smells like him.
It’s warm. Nostalgic. You’re not sure when you started liking that scent, finding comfort in it, in spite of everything. No doubt influenced by those dream-memories of yours. That’s all it is.
That traitorous thought has you looking him in the eye and flipping back to the beginning, far away from that selected entry. Remmick exhales in displeasure, mutters a little ‘fuck me, then.’ under his breath. He tries a reprimanding look, but it strays far off the mark with the shadowed hint of levity you see there. Your little act of defiance is further ignored when he nods to the journal,
“You live as long as I do, and things begin to fade. It all does.” His eyes are piercing, locked onto the sight of you holding his heart in your hands, “Read it. Burn it, if it helps you sleep easier. I don’t need it anymore.”
You take a steadying breath. And if you just so happen to get a deeper whiff of that peaty musk, then that’s a coincidence. An unhappy one.
You sift through the stained pages — with age, blood, tears, you can’t be sure. Elegant calligraphic lettering documents lifetimes across centuries, but they don’t go back as far as you would’ve thought. Either he decided to start journaling in the past 500 years only, or he had previous books that were lost to him. Years of memories, stolen happy moments in a bleak, lonely world ripped away, destined to be forgotten. You didn’t want to dwell on that. Didn’t like that it rattled a part of you so deeply.
You only catch a few early entries, mostly about women who you assume are you. You learn that they all have a similar scent, the woodsy and sweet fragrance being a key describing factor in their corresponding portrayals.
He has a few containing details from his homeland. Sentence fragments and simple words that he acknowledges fail to capture the essence of Éire as he remembers it. They’re written almost like a mantra. For memorization rather than actual reminiscing, like the particulars of the written attributes have long faded away. Or were taken. Stolen. His passion and appreciation for his heritage is still glaringly apparent, despite the brief words.
Then you’re reading disturbingly vivid details about your dreams–the softer ones, naturally. Can still pull hazy sensations forward to match his written accounts. Adorn their skins as if swapping out coats.
An older one, when he sang to you by roiling waves, voice straining to be heard as you giggled and chimed in. He notes that you sounded awful, but it was the most beautiful racket he had heard at that point in his life.
One more recent, when he snuck you out of the home of your God-fearing father to kiss every inch of you, showed you that pleasures of the flesh were nothing to be ashamed of, especially when that flesh was yours.
And the very odd occasion you never dreamed of, but still feel its truth; when a you that was privy to his true nature prodded at his fangs with an innocent, gentle curiosity. Your laugh ringing out loudly at Remmick’s teasing hisses, as he chased you amongst the wildflowers. He caught you. You were never afraid.
Your thoughts are dragged back into the now, unwanted hints of fondness trailing with them. Your head feels heavy with noise. The proximity of him loosened something inside you. Pierced a veil that kept you guarded, oblivious, and to some degree, safe. Reading his journal tore that veil down. Set it ablaze and annihilated it completely.
It was a terrifying splintering of agency, like you were sharing occupancy with someone else. And the thoughts and emotions that came with– they are one presence just… they come in parts. Some have more sway over you than others.
“You aint ever been this quiet. Usually laugh or…” Remmick freezes at your cold look up at him. Nods as you hold that stare, flip the page, and look back down, “Right. Carry on.”
You’re grateful for the annoyance the interruption served as. That it was able to put a halt to the conciliatory ease that had begun to sink its teeth into you.
Some of his notes are few and far in between, dates spanning from days to years apart, with current passages coming in frequent succession. You move on to a more recent one.
It’s about you. You-you. Your heart flutters. It makes you angry. Yes. Get angry. Stay fucking angry. Don’t let this asshole play you.
…Again.
“Maybe we could talk in-”
“Shut up.”
He leans against the doorway with crossed ankles as he lets you browse, patient aside from the odd interruptions.
You read about you through a rose-colored, almost obsessive lens. And if you thought this man was chatty in real life, then his journal puts him to shame. His thoughts of you are ludicrously intimate, written in engrossed poetic ramblings; the first time you poured him a drink (you don’t remember it), the first time you touched him: when you slapped his finger out of your face while bickering at the bar. You don’t even have a solid recollection of that, either, but he’s written about it like Christ himself came down and shook his hand.
There’s glimpses of you he caught during high-emotive activities, particularly one of you lounging in the warm summer heat, cozied up with a novel on the steps of the porch, tall grass tickling your legs. You had just moved in a few days before, gotten accepted as a housemate and still riding the high of relief and contentment. Strings of quotes made a mess of the page, hinting towards a desperate attempt to decipher what book you were reading.
There’s one of you watching a movie with your roommate, a rare occasion born of loneliness and a brief disruption of the respectful distance you kept from each other. It’s when you confided in him about your dreams. When you felt that unfamiliar solidarity after he listened intently and crafted you your own makeshift weapon.
You note a few lyrics scribbled in the top corner on one of the pages. A favorite song of yours, with the name of a music store hastily written beneath it. Like Remmick had woken from a deep stupor and scrambled to document a faded dream. You remember feeling particularly ecstatic when you snagged the last record during your visit.
There are excerpts that highlight old-hat views he still harbors. He documents his potent dissatisfaction at the discovery you lived with another man besides him. Depicts his infatuation with your outspokenness that isn’t necessarily limited to this version of you, but blossoms without the societal pressures and manners of women relevant in previous time periods.
“’If the others were wild, then she is chaos incarnate.’ And ‘wily hellcat’? Seriously?”
“N-no, no, it’s endearin’. Fuck, it’s you. Meant it as a compliment.”
It’s a surprisingly genuine reaction from him. He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. Tendrils of an accent familiar to you only in dreams creep around the edges of his words and make your heart drum against your ribcage.
He seems to wilt under your scrutiny of his besotted verses, clearly expecting a more love-struck reaction; Swooning, perhaps, though that’s not far from the responses he’s used to receiving, if the earlier pages you read lacked the usual embellishment you would expect from him. You scoff under your breath, but it lacks true conviction. You press on.
Remmick wrote about your likes and dislikes; notes ranging from your favorite foods to the way you touch yourself litter the page in barely-coherent fragments. He wrote about everything gracefully, with a reverent wonder that’s undeserved, in your eyes. His interest in the little things about your life have you struggling to muster up any kind of resolve, and how silly it was to get excited over something so simple.
You make note of the fluctuating quality of penmanship, and can discern when he was more hunger than man. You’re flipping through the pages for a good ten minutes before you have an itching little realization.
“Was I… really the only thing worth remembering the past few decades?” Your voice is small, filled with timid wonder.
“No question, sweetheart.”
Your eyes snap up to meet his at the admission. His expression is so overt, too unguarded, starved in devout surrender. Quiet, so uncharacteristically quiet, looking almost resigned to the ruling of his fate that he forced into your hands.
He’s been…trying. In the most ass-backwards way, but he’s been trying to woo you. And fuck if you didn’t want those words to be true.
You set the journal on a nearby stand just off to the right, afraid to keep reading lest you fall to your knees and weep. Which you have a clawing urge to do, for some wild reason. You hope it doesn’t show on your face as you look back up at him.
Remmick seems almost disappointed, and a little confused when the book is discarded.
“I’ll uh, keep that for later.” You inform him firmly, in case he tries to rescind his offer of gifting it to you, “There are things I want to understand.”
“Already said it’s yours.” His lips press into a thin line, then purse as he chews on his words. All while his eyes remain glued to that journal. His palms rub against his thighs, nervous, if you didn’t know him better, “But… maybe you should keep readin’, there’s this one that always brought you to tears. 1653. It’s a ballad I wrote for you then, but it still holds true–”
“No, yeah, I read it.” Your eyes narrow. His failure to separate you from past versions has been grating, but a nagging voice in the back of your mind tells you to pay attention to it. You find that thread of reason and sense and grasp onto it with all your might.
Remmick blinks, mouth opening, closing, then opening again. Finally settles into a puzzled frown. He digests your words, furrows his brows, and redigests them. Like what you’re saying couldn’t possibly be true.
“...Well, did you like it?” He sounds…sore. Irritated and hurt.
“It was fine?”
Offended would be a rather loose definition for how he looks right now. It clearly doesn’t sit right with him not to have your abiding praise. Annoyance fractures that carefully crafted love-struck expression he’s adorned, and as he sets his jaw you have the urge to tell him he looks ridiculous.
“Fine? No, c’mon, read it again. Maybe I should sing it to you–shit, my banjo’s on the roof, but it’s meant to be played with a lute, anyway. Has a more delicate sound to it–”
“I don’t fucking need you to sing it for me! It was nice. Fine. I don’t know what you were expecting.” Your own irritation coils itself like a snake in your chest, presenting you with a familiar lifeline to cling to. You throw your hands wide, look around at your invisible audience in a can you believe this shit?
You forget you do have spectral listeners of your own, and feel their own chagrined response through an uptick in exasperation.
“Honey, you loved it. Still do, I just know it. You always liked when I wrote songs about you.”
His desperate, compelling words slipped through the cracks of your poor effort of maintaining your sanity.
“Stop.” You exhale, peeved beyond an acceptable amount. “They are not me. I’m me. Stop comparing and start contrasting, because all you’re doing is pissing me off.”
Remmick visibly wrestles with the thoughts bouncing around in his head. He looks you over as if he missed something, like he’s trying to align the sight of you to the words coming from your mouth.
“...They are you–” He countered, finally.
“You– fucking–” You’re near seething. Unable to do nothing but stare at him, and he meets rage with confused sufferance. You latch onto something, anything, to put you on top in this little back-and-forth. “Your journal. It’s written in English. Why not Gaeilge, or what you knew it as? You mentioned wanting to preserve your culture.”
“Why…it’s…so you can read it?” Remmick says it carefully, worriedly, like you’ve been rendered dull from hysterics of his own making.
“Yes! That’s my point. Why can I read it?” You’re shaking your hands at him like a madwoman, and he’s looking at you like you’re certifiably insane. “Do you have another journal? Is this the one you use to lure them in, huh? With pretty words and moments that were all sunshine and rainbows? You didn’t seem to mention burning a village–”
“I told you–”
“Crashing a wedding ceremony–”
“Because you ran off on me after makin’ all those promises–” His expression turns stormy in an instant, recalling some misdeed that wasn’t yours but it’s one you’ll still be held accountable for.
“Or killing my friend.” You finish abruptly, ticking off the scenes one by one on your fingers, recounting his dirty laundry list that reads a mile long.
Remmick does something strange, then.
He recoils, the barest hint of movement before barefaced surprise rooted him to the spot. Curiously, that last bit knocked whatever brewing fight he had right out of him and replaced it with wide-eyed bewilderment.
It was almost comical, if it wasn’t so damn disconcerting. This man–monster hasn’t shown this level of disturbance on anything in your lengthy amount of time together, and he’s revealed several truths of his atrocities with almost prideful remembrance.
When the initial shock wore off, he began stuttering out soundless words of disbelief as he flounders for control of the conversation, gaping at you with his mouth halfway open. “Now that- hold on, that ain’t fair-”
“Fair? I saw you kill him in front of me.” You crossed your arms over your chest, unsurprised and not all that eager to hear him loosely gloss over his past sins.
“You did?” He blinks furiously, disarmed and taken aback. His hand raises to settle over his abdomen, fiddling with the loose button there, clearly uneasy as he tries to recollect. His gaze pointedly avoids you, guilty as all hell, but apparently comes up with nothing as he gives a little shrug of his shoulders. Shakes his head slowly as he watches that temper of yours. “...Darlin’, I don’t think you were there.”
Oh, and now he’s taken to outright lies. That does surprise you. You remember that dream/memory exceptionally well, where you watched one of the poor past-yous get betrayed in a downright heinous manner. Poor girl. You couldn’t imagine being on the receiving end of a pain like that, of losing a friend to someone you thought you could trust. And you’re inflamed by the memory of your own affliction afterwards, where you discovered Remmick was the one responsible for countless years of nightmares, where you were subjected to his less-than-tame attempt of distraction.
“Uh, yeah, I was. I watched you turn him.” You said, beginning to feel afflicted by his stunned confusion like it was contagious. “I watched him reanimate like Frankenstein’s monster.”
“Hold– Hol’ on. I didn’t turn that scrawny little shit. And you were busy wipin’ down bottles at your shift, so don’t go tellin’ me…” He pauses. Your hesitation must have shown through, expression must have wavered, because he gives you a worried glance-over. Takes in the look dawning across your face with weary anticipation. “What?”
The sinking feeling of rocks in your stomach started crushing those butterflies born of charming words and lovely poetry, grinding them and their pretty wings to dust.
It doesn’t hit you all at once. More so in quiet little realizations, like the splinters of truth you stuck yourself with and let fester when you were blind to his true nature. You’re not blind now, but yeah, actually, you really fucking are.
“At my shift.” You echo hollowly, your head filling with thundering white noise. “At my shift. Here. In this lifetime.”
Remmick sags like a marionette with slackened strings. His own realization twisting his features into despondent displeasure. “Honey…”
“Don’t–” call me honey. Words don’t come easy. You only have so many, and need to choose the most important ones. And those just happen to be the ones that hurt the most, “You killed my roommate.”
Teeth flash in the darkness as his wince all but confirms it. So does the ‘ah, shit’ he mumbles under his breath, “Well, yeah. Bu-but y'all weren’t all that close anyway, an’ he had some weird thoughts about you-”
Shock gives way to rage in a clap of thunder.
“You fucking asshole. You killed my roommate?! Are you kidding me?!” You’ve barely recovered from the second shoe that’s dropped, and here Remmick is, lobbing a third one right between your eyes. You’re not alone and you’re supported by an anger different from your own, but similar in its extremity. Can practically taste the satisfaction from its source as you tear into him. A yeah, get his ass, type of feel to it.
“It’s old fashioned, I know, and I don’t mean to set women back a hundred years but, I just couldn’t take another man livin’ with you when I couldn’t–”
“He was an innocent fucking kid! You dirtbag–”
“Innocent? The thoughts he had about you were far from fuckin’ innocent–”
“Says you! God, fuck-” You’re hands are nearly thrown up, strangling the air, “You betrayed me! You were my friend and this whole time you-”
He raises his hands in a gesture of peace, steady and placating like he’s soothing a wild animal. The tenderness of the motion was at complete odds with his agitated demeanor, the tightness of his shoulders and the twitching of his palms. None of it matches the way the tone of his voice lowers to something more dulcet, his crafty words for you alone and not the audience of chirping insects or wailing past victims.
“I’m still yours. And you’re still mine. Calm down, darlin’–”
“No. It’s over. We’re done.” You cut in, emboldened and blinded by the swell of rage.
“Don’t say that.” His face creases.
“I mean it.” You insist, with more certainty.
Whatever expression he was working towards to tug at your heartstrings goes slack with dismay.
The imposing silence drew your attention away from Remmick. Sent it towards the heavy and uncertain hush that settled around you, the chaos of nocturnal animals and bugs that had snuffed out some time during your squabble, and the stillness of your chest as you forgot to breathe.
He doesn’t even try to maintain the appearance of guilt anymore. His eyes blaze, and it sends a wayward spark of fear and grief– why the fuck is that there –nipping at your anger, especially when he goes quiet. Still. Works his jaw as he scoffs in disbelief.
“One little mistake, and now you ain’t sweet on me no more?”
Little mistake, he says. And your roommate is no longer drawing breath.
And yeah you weren’t exactly close but then again you kind of were. When you’re poorly socialized and have the ability to sniff out and avoid human interaction like the plague, any person you spoke more than three sentences to a week was close. Especially one that crafted you your own weapon instead of laughing in your face after discovering your fear of monsters. And one that rolled really nice joints. Fucking prick.
“That’s right.” Your rage gave you just enough heat to respond, but that’s about it. It’s short lived, quickly eclipsed by smothering dread and the wilting hope that came from a soft moment. A fleeting, soft moment.
And Remmick is so fucking still. No pretense of breathing, of humanity left in the slight narrowing of his eyes. And you’re sorry. You’re so sorry you took that irritating, loverboy persona for granted now–
“Ouch.” A hand rises above his heart, a slow smile curling in the corner of his mouth, but there’s no warmth in it. His gaze bore into you– equal parts debauched and patronizing before it flits down to your chest, and something akin to hunger rages behind it. “Why’re you nervous?”
“Wha– I’m not.” You are. And those jittery nerves have you reaching out to latch onto the bat in the corner. The weight of the handle is comforting, steadying in your trembling palms.
“You are. Your heart’s racin’ like a lil’ bird.” He observes, staring hard at you. “It’s not all anger, though that’s there, too. Plain as day.” He sighs again. “I fucked up, huh? Real bad?”
You don’t like the rollercoaster of emotions his words bombard you with. One second he’s fierce with quiet resentment, the next he’s apologetic with a sympathetic gaze and the mockery of understanding sat within it. It snatches at your resolve, toys with the validity of your emotions like he decides when you should feel them. Doesn’t let you experience hurt until he decides to be sorry.
You nod. Gather the words on your tongue until you’re confident they won’t tilt with hesitance.
“Yeah, real bad. Really fucking bad.” The heaviness in your head is from more than fatigue. A current of reactions rub against your resolve, have been doing so ever since you touched that damn journal. Yours, but not yours. They were all very passionate with their dissenting opinions on how you should go about this. Disagreeing, yet united in the one belief that you should tread very, very lightly.
Remmick shakes his head, makes a show of looking thoughtful as he sucks his teeth and focuses on a spot by your feet.
“I daresay I did, too.” He looks up at you beneath lowered lashes. “I reckon I won’t be comin’ in tonight?”
From your dreams, hell, your own experiences, you knew what he was capable of. Knew the threat of betrayal that hung over him like a roiling cloud. Knew his softness towards you hid something dark and vile underneath. Yet every time you discovered some deception, one more attempted manipulation, you were surprised to find there was still room to hurt more.
You shake your head. No words to offer this time.
“Alright. Then I’ll get out of your hair…” He lifts a finger, “for one taste.”
Indignation strikes a match within you, and you’re about to tell him he can taste iron and blood when you knock his teeth into the back of his skull, but his next words make you freeze. “I go any further than that and you can sock me one with that bat.”
He nods his head towards the hand you have hidden behind the door. How the hell? Oh, right. He’s been in your head. Your roommates, too–
Before you can respond, he begins to descend towards the ground with a concerning amount of eye contact, knee softly kissing the wood and settling where his sensibilities and decency lie. Remains kneeling at your feet in a mockery of proposal as he awaits your answer.
It’s uncomfortable. You debated shutting the door on him again, would get at least a little satisfaction from this whole interaction, but you didn’t want to risk him laying waste to yet another town. Does he still do that? Would he? The emotions-that-aren’t-yours have an overwhelming consensus of yes, yes he would, so you don’t want to risk it. You had enough on your plate to ruminate over, and you didn’t need to add that. Needed it less than the shred of dignity you’d give up if you let him have his taste.
Will he really leave? Will this shit ever end?
You don’t feel any sort of reply, can hardly think beyond the shrill ringing in your head. All you know is that you need him gone. You need rejuvenating solitude to retreat into your addled mind and do some reconnaissance.
“Taste?” You say, too meek for your liking. Remmick didn’t seem to mind the extended pause as you calculated the odds of every dreadful possibility.
“Mhmm. That’d do it.” He prompted, offering a half-hearted smile and an upturned palm. “No blood. Just flesh. And then I’m gone. For the night.”
He takes a second to tack on the last bit. God forbid he tells a lie but– you’re busy studying those perilous hooks. The ones that have the ability to render your life null and void, to snatch you up and keep you sequestered in his eternal grasp. You deliberate. Deliberate some more.
If it will get him to leave. Even if only for one night.
Words eluding you, you settle for shooting a hand out. It definitely does not tremble, but if it does he finds what small mercy he has to not comment on it.
He seems a bit distracted at the sight of your skin anyway, actually shivering with its proximity; the shimmering surface of his eyes alight with gentle shades of agony and preceding fulfillment. Like he’s been starved for centuries and you just put a five-course meal in front of him.
His hands curl around yours, gently, as if they’re going to go through air at first. It makes something in you hesitate. How many times has he done this? How often did he dream of this throughout centuries, only to wake up and realize he fabricated you in mourning? You try not to sympathize with him too much, evil piece of shit he is.
But damn. Poor guy.
One of his hands goes to cup your wrist, enraptured and firmly securing around it to test the tangibility of your warm flesh. The other grasps your fingers in adulation, lifting them to press against chapped lips. A ghostly trace at first, then a real firm kiss. His brows furrow, face pinched as though he’s in pain, and he begins to murmur against your skin in a language foreign yet oddly familiar. A whisper in the back of your mind recalls the familiarity of this scenario in a dream. One of the sweeter, modest ones.
Something stirs within you. Some calling woven into your very being. Rapture. Despair. Longing.
Longing?
There’s a dominant voice in the mess of swirling emotions and thoughts, this time. One that garners your attention more than the others; united in a shared madness. A mourning presence that sits heavy in your heart as you think of what Remmick’s become, the man he was, and the monster that won’t die.
You hesitate to pull back, but frankly, this whole night has been a bit much for you. The entire experience was jarring, the intimate position clouding your coherent thought and setting you on edge. You can only muster up so much empathy for the demonic being at your doorstep that killed your roommate. Maybe a tube of Carmex, if you’re feeling generous. And you’re not.
“Okay. you're done.” The stupidity of this decision sinks like a stone in your belly when you try to tug your wrist back. It doesn’t budge an inch and Remmick, in his trance-like state, doesn’t seem to notice. “Remmick.”
The intended demand comes out more like a plea.
“I said a taste, darlin’.” He sounds breathless and a bit irritated, shoulders tensing briefly. Displeasure prominent in his tone at the mere prospect of your touch leaving him. Which, okay, between you both you think you’re more deserving of agency over your skin than he is.
He clearly doesn’t seem to share that sentiment. The first lap of his tongue sends lightning flashing across your skin, hair raising and you try to play off an embarrassing little gasp as a cough. Fortunately for you, he doesn’t seem to notice and goes the extra mile in this competition of embarrassment to fucking moan into your skin, previously stable hands trembling in a way that reverberates up your arm. You’re about ready to release the bat in favor of holding him steady with a disbelieving dude, c’mon. or a pull yourself together, man.
You forget about the promise of one taste when the feeling of wet muscle laves against your hand again, firmer than the first. Lips catch on your knuckles. Teeth scrape along the bones.
“You know what your taste does to me.” Your name falls from his lips, drawn out a bit too long in mockery with an undertone of starved mania. “Or…maybe not. Not in the flesh.”
Blood-soaked eyes flick upwards to you. His smile is cruel, a stark contrast to the off-putting, socially inept man that knocked on your door. The familiar inflection of his old-world accent curling around his admissions with no hesitation.
“Do you know how many times you’ve been lost to me?” You ignore his question and yank your hand as hard as you can, but you might as well have your arm trapped in a lion’s maw for all the good it does you. He ignores your attempt as if it doesn’t register, murmuring frightening words warped with frenzied possession into your hand. “You make a goddamn habit of it.”
“Let go.”
He’s– yeah, that’s drool. He’s slobbering on your skin like a dog and looking at you shamelessly, unaffected by his neon sign of I haven’t got laid in centuries. His mouth parts like his nose just isn’t doing the job of filling his head with your scent.
“Y’know, you always say that.” His lips curl up, and it’s a faint, chilling smile. His thumb swipes over the back of your hand, strokes soothing little circles that seem more for his benefit. He closes his eyes as if recounting a fond memory, like the two of you are sharing an inside joke you’re not privy to, “At first.”
Metal scrapes against the floorboards as you remember yourself (get a grip, woman), and prepare to swing. His eyebrows quirk lazily at the sound, but he lets go. Loses that smile to adopt a more solemn expression. You stagger, from not expecting the release and the wobbling of your knees for an entirely different reason.
“Leave, asshole.” You make an effort to take the reins on this encounter, but you both know who came out on top. “You stay away from here or you’re dead. More-so than usual.”
He’s still on a knee, listening to you speak like you’re answering a question he’s spent years trying to answer. Like he finds nourishment at the sight of you, your words, your harsh dismissal. You wonder how many times he’s heard something similar. How many times he’s disregarded it.
“Can’t do that.” The chilling words squeeze out past a heavy sigh. He observes the door frame like he’s sizing up an invisible barrier. Movements unhurried as he gets to his feet, eyes glazed over with the fog of delusional possession. “I promised I’d marry you. I intend to keep that promise, this time.”
It’s frighteningly definitive. Your ears ring.
Marry?
He’s not a tall man, but in the moment he is towering.
Your eyes cut to the ring-bearing chain that’s slipped over his wife-beater. The one you inquired about one night at the bar, when your tongue was loosened with spirits and your giddy crush. He’d told you it was for a friend and you spent the rest of the night green with petty envy.
Just waitin’ to give it to her is all.
No. Nononono.
You had wanted him to be talking about you, then. Oh the cruel irony to want anything but that now.
There's a faded recollection of the small, metal thing through the dream of him in your bed. You can still feel it ghost between your breasts, but there’s twice the weight to it now. A familiarity beyond that. The distracting recall of the particular events occurring during this dream pulls your attention away from that, has your face igniting with heat, and the bastard tracks it. Hungry, bemused eyes revel at the sense of your blood, your mortification, you don’t know. Then his approach diverges at your unnerved, doe-eyed hesitancy.
“Hey, hey.” He croons as if soothing a spooked animal in danger of bolting. Gestures in what’s meant to be reassuring, “I got somethin’ for ya. Jus’ for you.”
Then Remmick reaches over his head, biceps jumping as he removes the chain. He gives it a long, considering look before extending it out to you in temptation.
He’s doing it again. Swapping out faces. Quick decisions depending on which ones suit him best at the moment, or which ones evoke a reaction that’s pleasing to him. Comforting is what he’s going for now, and you think the word sort of fits. Even if it hangs off in tatters. It catches on that crimson gaze, tears itself across too-sharp teeth, and the scraps settle on the end of those claws.
It still settles. Just enough.
You run through all of your options and once again settle on the dumbest one. Maybe if you humor him, he’ll give up. He’ll get bored. You’re not giving in, you’re not, and you certainly don’t have the peculiar urge to accept it from him.
Or the stupid, stupid urge to jump up and down and clap with excitement.
Get. Out. Of. My. Head.
A trembling hand reaches out — yours, you note vaguely, disconnected from your body. The tightly-clutched cool metal cutting indents into your palm that barely register. You just manage to hear his indecent, strung-out ‘yeah,’ as if the sight alone is enough for him to blow his load.
You grasp the band with two hands to hold it steady, glinting chain dangling low. There’s scripture engraved on the underside in a language you’re unfamiliar with. Or, should be unfamiliar with. Your brows furrow, in confusion as well as slight, faded recognition.
“Beloved.” Remmick supplies gingerly.
You gasp, wide eyes darting to a wanting Remmick, eyes wet with desperation and reminiscence. Fuck, he looks ruined. Your heart cracks at the thought that it’s your doing, waring with your sense of reason. It’s fair to question how much you can take before the emotions imposed-upon you win over. Your emotions, yet not.
There’s no doubt that you feel sympathy for him, but it’s not–shouldn’t be strong enough to make you want to take him into your arms, let him weep into your chest and confess how much you’ve missed him. You shake your head at the entreating thought and his words, confused.
“My beloved. S’what it says.” The certainty in his gaze underscores his words. “That’s you, honey.”
Your delusion surprises you by reaching new heights as you’re flooded with joy, excitement that he found you and you’re his again, he always finds you–
That’s you…yet not.
You freeze, heart dropping, blood halting in your veins.
And then extend the ring back towards him.
“I can’t accept this.” You admit, voice thick.
It takes everything in you to not look away at the pure devastation radiating from him, eyes big and round with wounded disbelief.
He truly looks taken aback, but from fragmented memories you know there’s no chance he’s a stranger to rejection. What’s different? You want to wail at him. What’s different this time?
He’s at a loss for words, apparently. And that wrecks you. The fierce insecurity you have wrestled with the past few days bubbles out of you, a desperate attempt to fill the suffocating silence. Forget choking on ash, blood, and the bitter betrayal that stains your dreams. Denying him is the worst thing thus far when paired with the kicked puppy look he’s assaulting you with, the accompanying despair that’s being forced upon your unwilling mental state.
“I’m not her, Remmick.” You whine, desperate to drive the point into his head, to stop those feelings that told you otherwise. With your head droning on with nonsense, you were fighting a rigged battle. “I’m me. You look at me and you see a dead woman! I’m not the one you lo-” You cut yourself off, no, you’re not going there, “want.”
It’s an effort to keep your eyes on him. You know that any minute now, you’ll meet the obsessive monster that prowls under his skin, the one that believes you rightfully belong to him, or the one that might realize, hey, you’re right, and lie in wait to kill you for the audacity of your skin daring to take the pretense of his beloved.
What you don’t expect is how the look on his face changes.
Remmick beams, and it’s boyish and breathtaking and beautiful. He exhales like the air has been knocked out of him, nearly staggering backwards with heavy relief.
Relief?
“Oh, you– darlin’. You scared me.” He scolds you gently, shaking a finger at you. Not bothering to wipe the stray tears that gathered in his eyes. “That’s okay, baby. I know who you are. You’re mine. My one and only.”
It’s difficult to fathom his certainty. You don’t understand it, but then again you hardly understood him. He only ever shows you what he wants to, has spent so long assimilating and working to entice you that those sinister, annoying moments of his are mere glimpses of his true self behind the facade.
You choke on a sob, and he shushes you, has the gall to revert back to his usual ease. Charmed by the little mortal and her trivial concerns.
“I’ve been seein’ those doubts of yours. You ain’t no cheap imitation. You’re the real deal. I’ll admit, I was nervous at first, meetin’ you. But you,” he nods, eyes tender and endeared, “you met my expectations and then some. I never had to work this hard for you, and it was worth every second.”
The devastating realization hits you that there’s no way out. He won’t see reason, isn’t capable of it anymore. He’s too far gone to realize his once sweet and gentle love for a woman long dead became frenzied possession, a desperation to keep a piece of her with him. No matter what unwilling manner of piece it was.
And Remmick knows. He knows you. He sees it on your face. You’re not going without a fight, won’t ever surrender to him that easily. A flicker of something– Gratification? Relief? –flashes across his face before it falls to disheartened acceptance. Resigned to a fate he’s imprisoned in, has lived out before and will most likely live again.
“Don’t hurt yourself tryin’ to wrap your head around it.” There’s no joviality in his words. No exaggerated expressions. He’s dropped the mask. “You’ll go mad. Speakin’ from experience.”
Your heart hammers in your chest, and he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react to your fear, doesn’t offer assurances. He knows there's no point. It takes everything in you not to slam the door, to remain standing on shaky knees. You don’t have a chance maintaining your composure anymore. For all of your interactions with him, this is where you threaten to break.
“Experience with me or yourself?” You’re out of your depth, words coming quick with unbridled emotion.
“Both. I’ve tried to let you come to your senses. Give you a choice.” He exhales, looking every bit as ancient as he is, a haunted vulnerability to his words, “But I’m so tired of buryin’ you.”
“That’s not your decision.” you say, tiredly. Exhausted with the events of the night, the emotions forced upon you, and your own foolish heartbreak. You latch onto that flicker of familiar anger with a quickness, casting all your bets on it to get you through this. You attempt reason, “I understand it couldn’t have been easy for you, but you’ve made my life hell.”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
Remmick straightens, and any attempt to make himself seem inviting and patient vanishes with unchecked anger.
“Hell? You have no idea what that is. You can’t understand it, bein’ what you are. Mortal. Short-lived.” Remmick’s tone brokers no argument, though it’s riling. It’s the first time he seems truly cross with you, that eternal patience finally waning, and you lean into that indignation to fuel your own. He takes an unnecessary breath to steel himself, like he’s dealing with an unruly child. “You’re young. You’ll get over it.”
You’re trembling. With rage, fear, realization, you can barely stand. His words light a fire in you that twists your insides into something hateful. But the second you go to reply, he cuts you off, tone frozen with lethal impatience.
“Enough.”
Whatever response you had remains caged behind your teeth. His eyes burn, brighter than you thought possible. There’s something else too– a rumbling almost, emitting from his chest. A heavy-handed rage trying to knock itself free, a formidable opponent against restraint that’s had years to harden into some form of composure.
You’re learning that his fury is a slow burning fire, terrifying from the brief moments it peaked around the edges of his control.
“You can’t understand,” He enunciates slowly and clearly, like you’re the naive girl he believes you to be, “what I feel for you. What it feels like to be haunted by you for years, what it feels like to cherish every scrap you deign to give like I’m a fuckin’ dog. What it feels like to lose you.”
“Just once,” He held up a finger, taking his eyes off of you for the first time since the taste to squeeze them shut in tormented desire. “I’d like to keep you.”
You should heed the warning signs he’s giving off. You should, but you’re sick of him making this about himself, like his upheaval of your life pales in comparison to his struggles with picking up women and the oh-so difficult effort to not be a creepy douchebag. That stupid ring still hangs from your palm with the weight of centuries, observing the rapidly escalating interaction between the two of you.
“After all those years, you think you’d have gotten better at introductions by now. You slashed my tires! Ate my roommate!” You fire back. Punctuate your frustration by throwing the necklace at your feet before you can think better of it.
The chain hits the floor, clatters noisily with the sound of regret and oh I fucked up–
Until that point, he had made a face like you’re distorting the events into something they’re not, even though you’re stating the obvious here. His eyes squeezed shut, a hand raising to wave you off– and boy, does that get you heated –but when that ring hits the floor, when you mention your dearly departed housemate… his eyes crack open, lock onto that gold band.
Then onto you.
And those mastered, animated expressions he’s so fond of vanish with the presence of a coldness that has always lurked beneath the surface.
“Ah. Your roommate.”
His words drip with disdain, twisted with bitterness and malice. The smile finally returns but it's all wrong, too pointed and stained with phantom blood. For a brief, frozen moment, you’re sorry you mentioned that. Maybe you triggered a hunger cue when you reminded him of when he snacked on the aforementioned, because the look of him is lurid, starved possession. Your hair stands on end, accompanied by a chill that fastens around your belly and you preemptively do not like where this was going.
“You’ve loved me through worse. Until you left.” Remmick advances, and you nearly take a step back before you remember the indiscernible boundary.
“Until you forgot me.”
But he continues.
“Again.”
And continues.
“And again.”
–until he’s past the threshold.
“And again.”
You stumble. “Wha-
“I should tell you that your roommate already invited me in.”
Silence. A beat. Two.
Then he rushes, and you barely have time to get in a good swing to the side of his head.
