Daniel looks as though he is wondering the same thing, mouth open to respond though all that comes out is an exasperated laugh. “I’m sorry, am I not living up to your Dracula fantasies well enough?”
“I—no—first of all, that isn’t—” Jesse is tripping over himself in a way he isn’t familiar with, “—you complained in your note about how fucking bright your apartment is—wouldn’t a coffin sort of, fix the whole need for blackout curtains?”
“Check back when I wake up early and burn the living shit out of myself, see if your suggestion still makes sense.” Daniel rolls his eyes, slipping a helmet from where it hangs off the handlebars of a motorcycle. Because of course there is a motorcycle.
Jesse’s stomach drops a couple feet.
Not quite to the ground but enough, enough that he stops.
“You’re bringing me back on…that?”
The quirk of an eyebrow, amusement in the smile that statement earns him. “I didn’t let you fall while you were unconscious did I? Don’t tell me this is the thing that scares you, Jess.”
“Oh…uh, hi?” There was a girl standing in the hallway, her cropped blond hair stuck out in every conceivable direction, and nothing in her demeanor felt…
Expected?
Normal.
Typical of a human seeing Henry in a well lit room.
He'd watched as she noticed him, the sleep in her limbs solidifying into a stance that almost looked accusatory. There wasn’t any fear. There was just…annoyance. Like he was the one intruding.
“You’re one of Vee’s friends? Clients? Employees? Haven’t seen you up here before.”
Who?
Exactly what had gone on in his absence?
“Vee?”
“I’m not fuckin’ calling him Angelface,” He watched the girl scrunch up her nose in disgust. “anyway—it was only fair.”
Henry heard the quiet postscript that didn’t make it past her tongue. The silent he named me. He tried to reach out and catch the thread, find the name, find any kind of context. But he’d never really been good at that with anyone aside from…
Well.
“Anyways,” the girl started again as she stepped out of the hall towards the little kitchen, making sure to keep at least six feet or so between them both the whole way—though she didn't seem bothered enough to keep eyes on him. “Are we actually gonna get to the part where you tell me who the fuck you are? Because if you kill me Vee’s gonna be pissed—and I’m gonna haunt you for like a million years.”
The angel squeezes his eyes shut. If he just ignores the words—
“You offer me this and say I cannot be yours, if you would just let me in—”
Retreat. Somewhere into the depths of his own mind. His blood runs a trail from his throat to the floor. It aches. But the silence, the silence is worth whatever momentary discomfort he has to endure.
Or it would be worth it.
Were there any to be found.
The angel could end this.
Has always had the power to do so.
Any number of words could do it.
But there is guilt, and an unwillingness to give up what is familiar.
But where is the voice he is retreating from? Find something that makes sense for the last words he recalls hearing.
“You don’t want to be mine,” how often does he even speak anymore? When was the last time he strung more than a sentence or two together? Gave anything more than a destination, a reprimand, a goodbye. “you don’t want what that entails.”
These aren’t the right words.
“I do.”
Does he really?
Does he understand what he’s asking for?
Unlikely.
Could show him—fingers twitch—nails sharp—make it a mirror, make it the same. The ever present option to make him afraid again. To send him screaming. To order his mouth shut and have it be broken by the all consuming twist of flesh and bone.
The angel doesn’t want that.
Not really.
Decades of being side by side have shifted this creature in his eyes. The angel cares about him. Loves him maybe. But not the way he is wanted to. The creature is his, but that isn’t by his own doing. Hen chooses to be here, again and again. Chooses company that rarely speaks to him. Company that does not so much offer its throat as demand to be taken. Though thankfully some of the overt deference has been lost over the years, echoes remain. Direct requests are seldom denied. At least he looks the angel in the eyes now. At least he isn’t afraid to talk back.
Sometimes the angel welcomes his company, not that it changes his behavior much. He has long since stopped trying to be someone, anyone, anything resembling a person. There is a comfort in the disconnection, in cutting off so fully who was there before, and all the pain that person carried. He can’t always keep up the illusion. It is especially hard when Hen is so insistent on drawing lines between them that would humanize them both.
It is easier to pretend he is nothing when on a hunt.
When staring into flame.
And in the case of Hen’s presence—when his heart is drained to silence.
“How come I never see you come back—” Cassidy cuts off, frowning like she’s trying to find the right words. “—fed." She nods toward the glass in his hand. "I’ve seen all sorts of people come out of the back room—they always look a little different than when they went in.” Another pause, frown vanishing in understanding “It’s because you’re their boss isn’t it—you think it’d be weird to bite your employees!”
The conviction she says it with startles a small laugh out of Vee. So much confidence for an incorrect answer. “No, Cassidy. That isn’t why—though I agree it would create a bit of an unfortunate dynamic if I were to bite my employees.” She’s caught him at a good moment, because he feels like giving her an actual answer for once. “While I’m aware the service I offer is a necessary one—I don’t like to partake. Be satisfied to know I have bad memories and leave it at that.”
“Wait—you don’t—you don’t bite people? Ever?”
Vee sighs. “Not in a very long time now, no.”
“Is that…hard?”
“Not anymore,” He tells her, “there were decades when it was, there are moments when it’s tempting, but it’s…” he trails off, searching for an apt comparison. “I imagine it’s alike to any minor addiction with which a person could become disgusted. Sometimes you remember fondly how it might have made you feel—most of the time you are aware it’s a bad choice no matter how you spin it.”
He’s made enough bad choices for several lifetimes. Had enough temptation for several more.
Cassidy hums, settling into the couch but still watching him more closely than he’d prefer. “Is it bad? What you’re letting people do?”
A slight smile, “What, making my kind pay for a meal—or hiring humans who happen to get off on it?” It has the desired effect, it makes Cassidy laugh, it lightens whatever questions are brewing in her head. He isn’t in that much of a giving mood.
“Gross. No—like is it dangerous for the ones doing it.”
“On occasion, there’s a reason I pay them so well.” How much value do you put on a person’s life? How much value do they put on their own? Damask isn’t cheap for those coming through the back—and likewise, those putting their lives on the line don’t walk away empty handed. “I do my best to keep casualties minimal. Mistakes happen.”
“And not mistakes.” It’s a mumble, barely audible.
Still thinking about Lauren then. Understandable.
Vee really shouldn’t have let her see that.
He won’t make the same mistake again.
“Both are dealt with in kind.” he reminds her, watching the slow repeated nod of her head. Quiet acceptance. Something like grief. What do you feel for people you don’t know? How do you sort through emotions for someone you only ever saw as a corpse?
“What’s it like?” Hesitant, soft, like when she’d asked if he was going to kill her.
“Specifics, Cassidy.”
“Getting bit, having your blood drunk, what’s it like?” She asks, “Unless you don’t remember—just ignore me if you don’t—”
“—I remember.” Vee cuts over her.
Pain and not. The rhythmic pulling of your own life leaving you. Sometimes pleasure and sometimes pressure and sometimes blinding for how it stung and later ached. The only thing grounding him for years and years and years. The moments he didn’t need to think, just bleed for other people. Not always bitten, Rin never did get used to the feeling of their teeth breaking skin—he never blamed them for going back to the blade. Scars built up only from constant use, the four points of contact in his shoulder Henry always went back to, the inner side of his forearms covered over and back over, bitten, torn, cut. Still.
“Glad everything has been established,” Daniel says, settling more comfortably. “Can I please go back to sleep now?” When Jesse does not answer, he adds: “D’you want to stay? You can stay so long as you shut up.”
That does absolutely nothing to help Jesse regain the use of speech.
It doesn’t matter though, Daniel’s face breaks into a little half smile and he pulls Jesse the rest of the way down with him. And Jesse lets him. Ends up laid next to him in bed, Daniel feels cool to the touch, a few degrees off from what could be realistically classified as normal. Just cold enough to be noticed.
And he hasn’t got a heartbeat.
Which is less alarming than Jesse thinks it should be.
A lot less.
Still.
He lays there, in the blacked out room, and the man beside him falls back asleep—really fast, all things considered. And surprisingly at ease?
