Title: Blood Debt
Characters: Squalo, Levi
Summary: Squalo is going to owe him for this.
Notes: Once upon a time, I helped write an AU about vampires called Bloodsport. As it so happened, andreaphobia at LJ happened upon it and encouraged me to start giving some serious thought to actually writing the sequel to that fic... so here we are, with a little thing that picks up right where Bloodsport left off. Blood, gore, vampires, and 1208 words.
Blood Debt
Namimori's watcher and his fledgling make embarrassingly short work of Squalo, all told: the fight between them consists of the exchange of a few swift blows before the watcher pins Squalo's arms and the fledgling tears into Squalo's throat. The fledgling feeds as all fledglings do, without restraint or grace, letting Squalo's blood flow over his fangs and claws and drinking greedily until his first thirst is sated.
But not his first blood rage, apparently. That he vents on Squalo's body, tearing into it with fang and claw till the pieces of him are scattered across the alley. It's less messy than it could have been, potentially, since at least the fledgling drained Squalo first. The fledgling isn't satisfied till Squalo is in pieces, and only then does the watcher intervene. He moves as the fledgling stands in the midst of his carnage with his shoulders heaving. When the fledgling rounds on his sire, the watcher closes a hand on his neck, driving him to his knees with a casual flex of his wrist. He slides his hand under the fledgling's chin, uses his thumb to force the fledgling's chin up, and licks the fledgling's throat as he strains against that grip. Namimori's watcher is unrelenting, however; he holds the fledgling there, methodically grooming the blood from him, till his fledgling takes the hint and submits to him, going pliant in the watcher's grip and tilting his chin farther back. The watcher continues to hold him for the space of a human heartbeat, then another, before releasing him.
They take to the skies then, the watcher leading his fledgling away, leaving what is left of Squalo scattered behind them. The fledgling hasn't left much blood in him, and without blood, Squalo is doomed—too drained to make more than feeble attempts to regenerate and crawl to the safety of shelter before the sun's dawning brings him the true death.
Sitting on his haunches, cloaked in shadow and with his own presence made small and unnoticeable, Levi considers the quandary this places him in. He has no real love for Squalo, who is arrogance personified, and would have killed him himself decades ago, had other obligations not made that—undesirable. It would be easy now to leave Squalo in the places he lay until the sun burned him to ash.
Levi tastes the idea, gives it long thought as the moon sinks in the sky. At length he discards it with a sigh as too displeasing to carry out. When the time comes, it will be his claws and fangs that rend Squalo to pieces in preparation for the true death. Vicarious satisfaction is no satisfaction at all.
Too, there is the little matter of their mutual master. Levi is loath to admit it, but Squalo has a knack for handling Xanxus that no one else seems to be able to replicate (and Levi has tried, many times). Xanxus is not at all likely to be pleased with Squalo's death, and no one else has Squalo's genius for getting Xanxus to eat enough to feed the human blood in him. (Or perhaps it is that Xanxus will tolerate receiving human food from no hand but Squalo's, annoying as that thought may be.)
Decision made, Levi launches himself from his perch, dropping down to the ground to hunt the scattered pieces of Squalo. It takes a bit of time, thanks to the fledgling watcher's rage, but at last he finds all the major pieces of Squalo and dumps them into a cardboard box dragged from a pile of rubbish. Squalo is currently beyond caring about his dignity, and it amuses Levi to survey the macabre jumble of his limbs and head and torso, all bloodless and pale in their battered cardboard container. There is a bolt-hole nearby, a safe haven against the sun for those careless enough to be caught without other shelter when dawn approaches. Levi stows Squalo there and launches himself into the hunt, conscious of the night slipping away from them. But Levi is and always has been an efficient hunter. The drunk he finds curled in an alley to sleep off a night's excesses is barely worth the name of prey, no challenge at all for Levi's not inconsiderable skills. The dawn is coming, however, and Levi knows when to set aside his own pride for higher ends. The man is still drunk, and barely does more than moan faintly when Levi drags him aloft and arrows his way back to the bolt-hole.
Squalo is as Levi left him, in still pieces, though perhaps some of the ragged gashes in his flesh have drawn together somewhat. That gives Levi a moment's pause for grudging respect. Whatever else he might think of Squalo, the other vampire is strong. He wonders, briefly, what would happen if, with Squalo safe from the sun and his duty to their master discharged, he simply left Squalo here. How long would it take Squalo to pull himself together again?
But Levi dismisses the idea eventually, tempting though it is. It is no bad thing to think of Squalo owing him a favor. It will gall Squalo to know what he owes Levi, to know that someday Levi will collect on that debt, though not until he is ready. Levi contemplates that and smiles to himself, full-fanged and pleased, and goes about straightening out the mess of Squalo, fitting the pieces of him back together. As he does, he considers the savagery of the fledgling watcher's fury, which is apparent in how viciously Squalo has been ripped apart—by main strength, it seems, not by anything as elegant as the slice of claws and fang. It is disquieting to consider this, what it might mean, but—he is a fledgling, only a fledgling, even if a watcher. Squalo is strong, it's true, but he was caught unawares. And he is not the strongest vampire Levi knows.
Fledglings are easy to kill, despite their ferocious strength. Fledgling watchers are little different, else there would be more of their kind in the world. And, too, this fledgling belongs to Namimori's watcher. Knowing that, Levi has to wonder about the likely trajectory of the fledgling's lifespan. It's altogether likely that the watcher will tire of his fledgling quickly and turn him out, and then—
Well, they will have to see.
When he has Squalo pieced together and arranged to his satisfaction, lying straight on the floor with his colorless eyes staring at the low ceiling of their bolt-hole, Levi picks up the drunk and rips the sleeve back from the man's arm. The drunk groans sluggishly, then cries out and wakes from his stupor when Levi slices a deep gash in his wrist and lets the blood flow down into Squalo's mouth. Levi ignores the man's thrashings and watches Squalo instead as the blood slides between his lips. The seconds pass, unmarked but for the panicked gasps and animal sounds of the drunk's terror.
Then Squalo's throat moves, swallowing the blood.
Levi smiles, air cool on his fangs and rich with the scent of blood, and settles in to feed Squalo as the sun paints the earth and concrete above their heads with gold and crimson.
end
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