Since he picked me up at the airport Elliot has been finding small ways to make physical contact. I regret that I was rude to him the first time, but it hasn't deterred him from trying again and again to offer me comfort, even now when I know I'm being impossible. His small hand is hot on my back, even through my sweater. The worst part is admitting that it feels really nice, not even to hunger for that warmth but to be given it without an ounce of fear or revulsion.
"Nobody can offend me," I tell him with a seriousness that surprises even me. "I'm not worried about...the tea service showing up with cream instead of milk. I'm worried about torches and pitchforks..."
When Elliot pulls up his chair, I turn toward him but have trouble meeting his bright eyes. His disposition is a nervous one, but his expression is open even if his posture is extremely tense; he's clearly not at all afraid of me, just anxious in general. I guess he comes by that honestly. There's no judgment at all in his look when he talks about coffee, water, blood. I pity him just a little bit that he was anxious about the choice, and not the meaning.
I note the word rescue, but my liaison doesn't elaborate. I repeat it softly to myself. "And are you?" I ask him. "--Rescued, I mean? By this place, these...people? Have they been good to you?"
I pick up the pen again. A fountain pen, the modern kind with the ink cartridge built in. It's a pretty little thing, seemingly simple but fine in its own way, reminding me of another time. Everything here does.
"I can drink blood," I tell Elliot quietly, but only after he shares. I'd rather tell him than write it. "Or milk. Or the lovely little liquid that cushions the brain...on special occasions," I cut him a glance, smile queasily, swallow nothing, "But if you brought me a cup of tea I wouldn't be offended. I can't just write on this thing that I eat people, Elliot, it--don't get me wrong I'm not guilty, but it's obscene, isn't it? The down pillows are lovely Ada, and if you happen to have a human brain in the fridge, I'll take it at twenty-two hundred..."
I frown at it all, set the pen down again and sit back in my chair, then just as soon as I've done it lean forward and snatch it back up again.
I write down: Kidney. Liver. Pig is fine. fresh pls.
Do I write thank you on a form?
I sit back again and sigh.
"I've lived with living people before. We spent a long time eating the organs of lesser animals so that we could be a part of something bigger than just surviving. That's why I'm here. It can be done." I stop to think about it for a second. "I'll put the room as cold as I can without freezing...August is halfways over anyway. The..." I gesture to the heavy velvet drapes over the windows. "That's fine. That'll have to do for as long as I'm here. Nobody's going to be in danger, it's just short term," I look at him. My liaison. My assigned partner. As incredibly over the top as it is to have someone assigned to me I am incredibly grateful to have someone, anyone. "I'll answer the rest best I can."
I don't mention that the fact that we were eating animals for so long is what made us start to drink each other. We lived like that for many years in that little depression-era village up north. Years. Those wolf-men and their wives who hunted furs knew us for what we were, and let us scare away the vampires who came wandering up from the south in search of the lightless polar winter. More than that, we were a part of their community, we even ran the only Inn in town. Until we couldn't.
But that's not going to happen this time. Besides, how long is this residency going to last, a few months? Surely not long enough to enter a period of great stress as Elliot called it. Not enough time to lose myself or put anyone in danger. I'll stock up on cigarettes to turn the inside of my mouth to ash and block the scent of living people. That'll help.
I shake my head. I'm grateful to be here but I hate this so fucking much. Just put me to work. But then again, here I am making Elliot's job more difficult with my complaining, my dread. Selfishness.
"I'm sorry you had to go through something that put you in such a spot," I offer softly. I know that even tame rabbits will cannibalize each other when there are too many in the hutch. When he mentions having been captive, I shudder to think what he must have been rescued from. I imagine this pretty young man holding a squeaking mouse by the tail and...I wonder if he prefers to eat meat with the teeth behind these smiling lips, or if the Rabbit is better suited. Wriggling he said. I imagine blood on his pink lip, just a smear of violence to colour his prim perfection. It's a terrible guilt to think it would look pretty. Only horror could have led him to develop that taste.
I wonder if he loves the Rabbit or resents him, that other self. I wonder if he thinks of him as another self, or just another pastel suit.
"Those guys told me what you are. Sort of," I frown. I have questions but I don't want him to think they come from any place but curiosity. I've been enough of an asshole, and he's already been far too generous. "Do you...how do you do it? Balance the two selves? You can...control it? When you shift? Do you...like it?" These sound like stupid questions, or maybe the wrong questions to ask. I cringe at myself. "I know it's none of my business," I clarify, "you can tell me to fuck off. I've never met anyone like you. Werewolves...but not shifters. Well, not that I know of anyway."
