#crayon fic

[cianmarstoo]

Agere April Kepner 🩰👸🐭🧸

based on @anewkindofme fic Little and Broken (but still good)

[clayd]

littles are know! AU moodboard

[outlandish-dreamer]

Dear Heart, Show Me What Lies Underneath

Word count: 4274 Read it on AO3 here ✨ Summary:

Hardly anything makes sense anymore when it comes to Renfield's life. Unsurprisingly. One wouldn't say becoming the willing attendant to an undead monster as a rational decision. To put it lightly.

With all that time comes newer, bigger issues lying deep within himself that he refuses to acknowledge. They're foolish, silly, all in his head. But perhaps they started somewhere else, only now choosing to rest in the recesses of his brain. Meant something else. Leaving this world behind to escape into the bittersweet memories of his previous one.

Normal wasn’t exactly the word Robert would use to describe…anything, especially when it came to his life. Even before his current situation, there was always something off or unconventional going on. And he didn’t quite understand why. 

It’s not like he aged much after that night. Physically no, and hardly mentally either. It might have changed, yes, but it certainly didn’t age. He was still the 32 year old former lawyer from his previous life even if his mind seemed to forget that most of the time. There was one thing however, that he happened to recognize. (Whether he knew it or not was a different story) Something furthest away from whatever could be called “normal.”

He felt…..younger. 

It was most likely his mind just playing tricks on him. After all, it’s not like he had very much to do in the spare time he wasn’t killing. The brain can do crazy things when left to its own devices or in dire straits and in Renfield’s case, that was hardly a rarity. 

But in the dead of night and early morning, when his master’s either away or sleeping, his mind slips to a simpler time. 

   _________________

The first time happened not too long after he joined Dracula. About 10 or so years, maybe even 20. He couldn’t quite keep track. That day had a particularly gruesome hoard, an entire army’s worth of men. The man was sure to be pleased given the fact he helped him take the lot out. Robert was still a “beginner” in his eyes. Not to be trusted with such tasks all by himself. It would’ve seemed almost a blessing, if it would get the other off the familiar’s back. That it would drive his attention away, leave him alone, at least for a little while. The vampire was satisfied, teeth bared as he praised what he considered a man with the killing skills of an infant just learning to walk, Renfield should be happy. He could breathe, even if it was for just a moment. 

So it really shouldn’t have bothered him when he found a letter floating out of one of the body’s coat pockets. It was addressed to him with a loopy scrawl on the envelope. He knew he shouldn’t snoop, he was taught better than that. Still, the man was dead, and it was already open, the content of it out for the whole world to see. Renfield raised an eyebrow curiously, tossing the bloodied garment over his arm as he knelt down to pick it up. 

It was from the man’s wife. A heartfelt, almost tragic plea hoping for him to return soon. Stating that the war had to be over at some point, it was only a matter of time. The familiar gasped as his eyes scanned the rest of it, hand lightly touching his chest. That would’ve been enough had it not been for the photograph that he found pasted on the end of it.

There stood the man, a woman who had to be his wife and the person writing the letter, and a young girl barely above the age of 5. They looked so…happy. Such a loving family. And if that wasn’t the worst of it, the end of the note certainly was. 

“Please darling, Charlotte’s been asking about you. I don’t want to lie to her even if she is just a girl, but…she is your daughter. She’s already lost a brother. She doesn’t need to lose a father as well….” 

The girl looked almost like…

He couldn’t. It was too much. Gingerly, he folded the letter back up, tucking it away into the man’s pocket and walked up to the body that lay across the room. He was surprised the other hadn’t gotten to him yet, but then again, it was an army so it wasn’t that shocking. Sighing, Renfield, as gently as he could, pulled the coat over the man’s peaceful form. At least in death he could have his family with him. 

Something the familiar would never get. 

That night he struggled to fall asleep, not quite a rare occurrence, but something made worse by what he had done. The man had a family for christ’s sake. Hell, most of them probably had a family and there he went, ruining them all for the sake of someone who couldn’t care less. He didn’t think it would hurt this much but….

God how the girl looked so much like his Lillie.

She probably wouldn’t recognize him now, had he got the chance to see her again. Hell, he didn’t even recognize himself, how could anyone else let alone his own daughter ? He was a stranger. A stranger that abandoned the one thing he wished so desperately to return to. 

Silent tears pooled in the corner of his eyes, he wouldn’t cry. He just wouldn’t. Instead he lay pitifully remembering in the cold, ratty hovel that was his “bed” as his brain replayed memories of him and his former love. Before he knew it, he was a young boy again. Barely an adult. Hopelessly in love with the woman who would be his wife. His clumsy attempts at romance only drew her closer as he remembered the moments they shared together. Their first date, their anniversary, their wedding, and eventually, his little girl’s birth. She looked so much like her mother. They were the perfect family. 

His heart ached knowing he could never return to that. Relieving that life didn’t soothe his tortured soul, yet he still felt....joyful somehow. Even if that man was just a shell, it was a shell he gladly hid under as he drifted off into his first pleasant dream in over a decade. 

 _________________

The second time was quite a bit after that. Settling into their new dynamic, it was evident that Renfield had some problems, but that was to be expected. Dracula had a sort of…fondness in the familiarity of the other. Knowing he was always around made the vampire feel oddly comforted in some way. That he couldn’t leave. Even if their relationship was one of desperation and service, he took pleasure in the other being there. He wasn’t a friend, no no, don’t get him wrong. Nor was he just a mere slave. He was…well what was he exactly? 

He was a pet. In a sense. Eager to please, meek, subservient, and ever so loyal, Dracula just couldn’t believe it. How he managed to only become more so as the years went on was a feat only achieved by a select few. That select few being the poor Robert Montague Renfield. 

So, one could only imagine the fury that exuded the monster when his familiar was committed to an asylum and hadn’t returned. 

It’s not like he wanted to go there. He didn’t even think he belonged there. Plus, this was the 70’s, they couldn’t just send someone to an asylum against their will anymore. Well, he thought they couldn’t anyway. There Renfield was caged like the dog he was occasionally compared to by Seward and Dracula, amongst many others who had the misfortune of finding out how he was. He’d been sent there as a punishment, to teach him how his actions had consequences. A lesson that he personally felt as if he knew by heart by now, yet his master seemed to disagree. However, he was there for much longer than the other had anticipated. It was only supposed to be for a short while, a few months or so, and here he was sitting here in the blandly designed room for the 338th day.

What did Dracula do with Renfield being gone all that time? A small part of him had the notion that maybe he’d gone and replaced him. And a guilty part of him, as much as he tried to ignore it, wished he hadn’t. On one hand he could potentially have his freedom, the possibility of a new life, and on the other, it was like he lost his purpose. The one thing he felt, by hardly his own notion, that he was good for. 

He didn’t enjoy being there. The place felt eerily sterile, the other patients barely spoke a word to him. With good reason, he figured and what he hated most of all was the nurses. Oh the nurses. The way they treated everyone, not just him, like an incompetent child. How they spoke down in that cheeky dreadful tone only used by newborn parents, or outright said nothing at all. They didn’t dare to care or try to put up with his nonsense. And why should they? It’s not like they could help. Not like they could end the thing he got himself into. Everything about it was particularly awful in its own way and Renfield awaited the day he’d be let out. 

Each day that passed however, that became increasingly bleak. He couldn’t get out himself, there was no chance they’d allow it. He was already suffering from delusions that he was half-alive, his nightmares reappearing even more as the fear of being left there ate away at him. Why was this his punishment and not the beating, demeaning, and every form of discipline the other could give? Why did his master leave him? He was supposed to come back. He just had to. 

He had to. 

Well, his prayers (or whatever you could call it) were answered that night by the sound of screams and the omnipotent figure unlocking his door. His fit of rage Renfield could recognize anywhere. Hearing how quick he went to doing away with the staff and other patients. In his tortured mind, he hated how desperate he looked when he made eye contact with the man, covered in fresh blood from his most recent hunt. 

“Renfield…” Dracula whispered in a rare gentle tone, eyebrows furrowed in a mix of confusion, anger, and what he thought to be…concern? No, he knew better than to think that. Even so, the familiar hung his head in shame, body frail from months of little to no stimulation. He didn’t bear to say that he somehow missed his master. How he was genuinely relieved to see him for once. 

The man half-smiled, a bloodied hand reaching out to cup the other man’s face. Holding out a closed hand, he opened it in front of him. A moth, wing slightly fluttering as it fought its last moments of life. The first he’d gotten to see in his entire time at the asylum. Curiously, he tilted his head at Dracula. Was this a trick? But the unwavering gaze assured him that this one instance, it was not and eagerly, almost too eagerly, he ate it. 

How pathetic he was, Robert thought that night. Not even the god of his former faith could look down and forgive him. The longer he stayed in the institution, the more he craved his master. Even now as he shifted his body on the ground of their building, body aching from the beating he took just moments prior. The man hadn’t come back to heal him yet. He might not this time, he figured, thinking it best to leave the familiar to dwell on his thoughts. And now that he was alone, Renfield shook his head. “What’s wrong with me?” He muttered between winces of pain. With a sigh he tried to imagine what else could’ve made him this way. Why this mattered more than it should have to him. 

Perhaps it was further back. Maybe it was more than just missing his wife and daughter, something even before them. 

He was a lonely child, a sheltered one at that. He was different from his siblings who were each so spirited and bright in their own ways. His brothers, the prototypical boys of their time but so much older than him. By the time he was able to talk they were out of the house, leaving him and his parents to figure out how to raise someone so different in comparison. His father ended up taking no interest in the idea and threw himself into his work. 

Granted, he was getting up there in age and he didn’t exactly want to leave his family with nothing. But barely having his father around, by the time he died when Robert was 8 the man was dead to him already. It’s not like his brothers could fill that role, they had their own families at that point. So, the boy and his mother were left alone. 

Was that it? Growing up with a father that some sick part of him craved that in the other? He hoped it wasn’t. No. 

He missed the safety, the stiff yet unwavering love that was there. The fact that someone out there cared about him despite all of the pain she must’ve gone through. That she noticed him and maybe to her chagrin, made quite the sensitive soul as a result. 

He missed the one part of his life that he didn’t ruin. 

“Well darling, it looks like it’s just you and I.” She smiled somberly as the two looked up at the headstone. The boy, unresponsive, just nodded slowly; her words barely registering in his head. Resting her hand on his shoulder, she bent down to his level and scooped him into her arms. His gaze still fixed on the engraved epitaph, he continued watching as the two walked away; his mother biting her tongue even more now. 

If only his mother could see what he had become, how disappointed would she be. No, not disappointed, not even ashamed at that…no. Afraid. Afraid that this was what her son had become. A servant, a low-life, a killer, and a pathetic, sniveling one at that. At least the last part was something she would remember. Her little boy had always been the more sensitive type. 

The slip in Renfield’s mind happened before he could think more of it at the thought. This had never happened before, he’d only ever gotten to his younger, still relatively adult self, but now? Now he was….a child? A little boy in the skin of an even more pitiful man. Curling into himself on the concrete, he bit back a shaky breath. 

Biting at the skin of his index finger, his eyes shut tight, his insides twist at the realization of how far he had strayed from that sweet, innocent child. One who had the world at his feet, even if it was a lonely one. 

He feels more alone than ever as a reluctant sob escapes his lips. What a miserable existence, maybe his master was right. 

Perhaps this was all he was truly good for. And all he would ever be. 

“Oh.. mama… I’m so sorry…”

 _________________

The boy knelt on his knees, merely seconds away from bursting into tears. A slew of apologies pours out of his mouth and feels as if they fall upon deaf ears. No one is there, but he feels otherwise. He can hear there’s something else…no, some body else there. He knows exactly who it is and yet, they don’t show themselves. Maybe it’s to tease him, maybe they actually aren’t there and he’s just losing his (or whatever semblance of) grip on reality, whatever it was. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he gasps for air. 

Mouth run completely dry, he turns his head to both sides. Tired eyes realize that he is in fact, alone. Alone in this dark, musty, abandoned manor. Before he can think about it, the overwhelming fear creeps in the back of his throat. Not of what might happen to him, but of the eeriness of his isolation. He’s alone, in the dark, completely at the mercy of whatever might stumble across him. 

The kid just can’t take it. 

His knees curl up to his chest and he hugs himself as tightly as he can. Hoping that if he just closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of his fingertips, his fear will go away. He’s supposed to be brave! Be like Mother taught him. He’s not a baby. Only babies get scared like this, and he most certainly isn’t one. 

Right? 

He lies on the cold hard ground, shivering every other second, the only warmth being from the inside of his chest. It feels like it’s on fire, the only part of him that is truly warm. Desperate to escape, for someone to find him and take him far away from here. To feel the charade of his fear being chased away when he knows there’s far worse waiting for him at any opportunity. To be taken care of, even if it came at the expense of everything. 

His flesh, his family, his mind, his sanity. 

The boy cries. Tears rolling down his cheeks that he tried so hard at keeping silent only falling victim to the gasps and sobs he can’t escape from. A weeping, disgusting mess, completely in character for the child he really was. Normally, he would have been disgusted with himself, but he doesn’t even have the awareness to by now. If he tried, it would all come out unintelligible; words slurring and broken. Such a pitiful little wretch, no longer a man, reduced to the very state of what he’s lost. 

The Count, appearing in the shadows of the doorway, stands watch at the sight before him. Oil painting of Lamentation hanging above the fire, amber ashes steadily rising and falling, burning out in the blink of an eye. The shivering, croaking husk of a man lay in the middle of it all, chest steadily rising and falling in an uneasy sleep. However, for all he knew, the familiar could very well just be pretending. He often did so. Unable to sleep for more than an hour at a time, he’d spend the rest of the night in which he had nothing better to do. Puttering about doing god knows what. 

And yet in this state he looks much younger than he already was. Not a man nearing a hundred, but a child. A torn, shivering, broken little boy, the slightest thing seeming as if it could shatter him. 

He decided to humor him. Just this once. Sensing that something was very well off, he approached his crumpled form and sure enough, he was sleeping. Though it looked more reluctant than anything else. He listens as the boy whines from the floor; the muffled sound of syllables that could only be made out as some version of “Mother.” 

Dracula sighs, nails stroking the man’s soft hair, watching as he stirs in his sleep. His body twitches and exhales, a beautiful sound to his ears. Not his favorite, but still sweet. He whimpers for a moment upon the feeling of something…someone touching him. He shifts his hold on the boy to cradle his head, brushing the tufts of hair that dared to cover his face, gazing at him with a not unfamiliar fondness. 

His admittedly adorable big eyes look up at him, turning glassy once again. Before he can slur out a slew of apologies, in the fear that he was just seconds away from this tenderness turning into well-deserved punishment, the man lays him back down. A soft hush, like a waterfall falling on his ears. 

“No need for that, now is there, boy?” 

“No.” His head shook in response. Dracula’s teeth flashed momentarily as his cheeks pulled into a smile. Oh, what a darling. Pleased to hear that even in his current state Renfield knew how to obey, to not act out more than he already was, he cooed. 

“Good.” Bringing him to his chest, his arms wrap around Renfield and with a yawn, the boy slips the tip of his thumb into his mouth. Softly biting at the skin. 

A low voice croons out an old Romanian lullaby. One he’d heard from a mother, perhaps his own, at some point in the past. For whatever reason it had stuck with him and despite it hardly being close to any of the things he thought about day-to-day, it flowed naturally from his chest. Part of him wanted to stop, leave the boy there, shivering, sniveling. That ought to be the right thing to do. 

But, unlike most other times (minus the rare occasion) he witnessed the boy's displays of anguish, he chose to stay. 

He clung to him like never before. Clutching to the lifeline that was Dracula, the comforting, parental presence that he oh so craved. He saw into the boy’s mind. He knew this was what he had wanted. Now, at the very least. What would he be if he just left him like that? They could return to business the next day, after all the world wouldn’t stop spinning for just one night. 

Melting into the touch, the boy sighed contentedly into his master’s chest as he rocked him to sleep. The fire died down behind them. Although he himself didn’t necessarily sleep in a way that wasn’t simply being dead, Dracula felt his eyelids grow heavy as well. Perhaps the child had rubbed off on him, infecting him with more of his nauseatingly tender human attributes. Feeling Renfield go limp in his arms, he smiles, murmuring. 

“There we are, my little lamb. Don’t fret now, I’ve got you.” 

Closing his eyes, the comforting warmth of Renfield’s body seeped down into his bones as he fell asleep alongside his iubirică.  

In that almost dreamlike instance, Robert knew his master, his Dracula, meant it. And he believed it. 

His compliant familiar, a worthless insect, his precious little one. 

 _________________

Safe far away from the claws of the cat he played mouse to, Robert nestles his face into his blanket; settling into the warm darkness as his firefly shaped night light coated the room in its amber glow. His mind slowed down, giving his brain a much needed break from running like a hyperactive lab rat on its wheel to nowhere. For once, his turning into bed for the night wasn’t out of fear or overwhelming exhaustion. Just an hour prior he had adamantly refused to do so, only showing off how tired he really was. 

The darkness this time was different than the ones before. The ones spent curled up in the fetal position near seconds from having a heart attack as his mind sucks the very life out of him. Like…

Like his master. 

It had been a year since then. Of course, like Mark had said, the road to healing is riddled with potholes and pitstops, but what wasn’t what ailed him. He knew, he of all people knew how awful it was. How he didn’t deserve to be treated that way and that he was “worth so much more than what Dracula could ever give him” to put it in Caitlyn’s words.

It was that in the quiet nights he spent alone like this. Small and withdrawn, he feels useless without it. As if part of himself is still there, waiting for his master to come back. To be angry with him, shout, beat, and take his frustrations out on him. Fangs baring and face contorting in ways that only further proved novelists’ monstrous depictions of him correct. He feels like a freed chained up dog. He’s finally given his taste of freedom and half of his soul has absolutely no clue what to do with it. Because even when he was angry, despite all of the contempt they had for one another, he showed Robert the side of him that he’d longed for both then and now. 

He would be kind. He would care. He gave him purpose, a second chance at life when on the brink of death, kept him from snapping altogether. Saving him, rescuing him, both from the outside world and his own self. In that one instance in particular, that was the only thing he could ever ask or wish for from the creature, and he had done neither. Only when he was out of it. Stuck in the mind of the little boy he could never leave behind, did Dracula take pity on him. Feeding him what little entrails that could be considered empathy he had left. 

First a savior, then a captor, and finally, an addiction. And to Dracula, a parasite. He made that part abundantly clear.  

If only anyone but him could know how disgusted he was with himself for it.  

Yet, on nights like these. Where the moon hangs high and the city seems to stop, he knows, deep down that it’s better this way. He deserves to not suffer. If not only for himself, then for everyone else. The boy underneath it all, is still just a boy and now, he’s not alone in the notion of it. He has friends, a home, a female friend that he loves with all his heart, he has something that is utterly and entirely his. Not tied down by duties to another or at the expense of anyone else. 

As his dreams begin to take shape underneath his favorite dragonfly blanket, the voice he used to hear in the back of his head grows silent. His tears ran dry, no more to shed that night. 

Peacefully. For the, oh, he’s lost count of which time this was. Underneath all of the horror, muck, and anguish. Behind all of the complicated ways in which he was further from it in the slightest, he sleeps like a baby.