Don't Lose Hope
Summary: So two vampires walk into a bar…
Disclaimed.
Friday night at the Blood and Brew Pub. Dark wood paneling, glasses clinking and the quiet chatter of patrons, a pimply-faced college student setting up his bagpipes in the corner. The atmosphere was nice, the people didn't bother her. Ivy might even have been able to enjoy it, if she hadn't been working.
She brooded at the bar, just another of the scores of Cincinnati's human residents who flocked to Inderland hot spots, seduced by the undead and the promises they offered. That was certainly what her marks thought, Ivy observed, judging by their staring and the hormones that were wafting in her direction. Oh, how wrong they were. She inhaled deeply, allowing her biology to react naturally, and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, they were pitch black, and she indulged herself in a pointed smile at the two men.
Their reaction was comical. The first vampire crashed headfirst to the ground, his feet still propped atop the table, and the second's face drained of blood so quickly he turned paler than an undead. With a muffled cry of "Tamwood!" they scrambled for the restroom at the back of the bar, knocking over two chairs and a table in their frantic dash. Ivy wasn't worried that they'd try to escape. Even if they were desperate enough to try the single small window, her owls were outside, ready to make a meal of whatever crawled out. She turned back to her drink.
A man slid onto the stool next to her, planting his elbows on the bar and hunching his broad shoulders underneath his rain-spotted leather coat. "Nice night," he grunted, curling his hands around the steaming mug the bartender brought him. Ivy didn't answer.
This didn't seem to upset him too much, and, tired of making conversation, he turned away and focused his attention on the television mounted in the corner, sparing the bagpipe player a glance when a particularly loud thunk sounded from the stage. His hair was brown, carefully maintained and gelled into spikes over strong features. He had muscled limbs, and moved with a subtle and surprising grace that drew Ivy's eyes to him, no matter how much she tried to focus on her run. Her gaze slid from the restrooms and back to his seated form whenever he moved, a strange magnetism she couldn't explain.
The man signaled the bartender, nodding to his empty mug, and he disappeared into the back. Ivy's enhanced senses caught the shrill beep of a microwave, and the barman slid a fresh mug across the counter. The scent of its contents caused her eyes to widen, and she took a sharp breath.
Blood.
Immediately, her pupils dilated, but Ivy thought she could handle the temptation. For some reason, the thick red liquid wasn't as enticing as it usually was.
"You're a vampire," she said, but something was off about the man. It gnawed at the edge of her perception, but she couldn't pin it down.
"I am," he allowed, and turned to study her. "So are you."
"I'm not practicing," she objected, feeling guilty for some reason she couldn't comprehend. It wasn't like she had anything to feel sorry for; that was just the way things were. She couldn't help it if she would turn into a soulless, bloodsucking monster, but still, she defended herself. "I don't drink blood."
The man shrugged, turning back to his drink. "No helping it. At least no one dies."
Ivy turned to him, her curiosity piqued. "No one dies? You don't mean… it's donated?"
He scoffed flatly. "There are much better uses for donated blood than sitting in my stomach. No. It's from the butchers." The man took another gulp, glancing at her for her reaction.
"You can do that?" Ivy felt a wave of anticipation rise in her stomach, and ruthlessly quashed it. But the idea that she wouldn't have to hurt people for blood was too tempting.
"Not really," he said, no emotion in his voice. "Blood is blood, but it won't ever be the same."
"But if I can just -" Ivy began, then stopped. She didn't know what she was going to say. 'If I can just taste some. If I can just satisfy my instincts. If I can just relax for one moment, so I won't have to worry about killing the people I love.' She folded her hands in her lap, silent.
"Just what?" the man asked her, in an eerie echo of her thoughts. "What you have is worth a million chances to feed. Being able to live without being a monster? You're strong enough to survive without it, no reason to give in."
Ivy stared at the bar. "I've been fighting for three years," she said quietly, blinking furiously. "It's not working anymore, it's getting worse."
"So get better at it," the man said unwaveringly. "Deal with it. You're never going to get anywhere if you don't try."
"Oh, and if I'm a saint while I'm alive, I won't lose my soul when I die?" Ivy snapped. "It doesn't matter! At least this way, no one will get hurt!"
"Of course not," he said patiently, with the tolerant tone of trying to explain something to a small child. "But that doesn't mean that you won't be able to get it back."
This stopped her short. She'd had nearly three decades to get used to the fact that she was going to die, and then she was going to come back to life. Even as a child, her parents had never tried to hide the ugly truth of it, and it had always bothered her that she would be coming back different. She'd had ten years to see her mother go through the transformation and lose everything that Ivy had loved about her. But this… no one had ever told her that she might get to keep her soul, after all.
"Don't lose hope, Ivy," he said. "There's always a way."
"Why?" she asked him incredulously. The kind of resolve it must take… "Who are you?"
"I've been dead for a long time," he sighed into his mug. "There was a point… where I just couldn't see people get hurt anymore. And as for who I am?" His half smile had a bitter edge to it. "I'm just a friend."
A commotion at the door caught her attention, and she turned, half watching the leather-clad man slip off his stool and disappear into the back of the pub. The redhead at the door finally made her way past the bouncer, stalking indignantly to a booth, and Ivy's lips quirked up as she recognized her.
Rachel caught Ivy's eye, and the vampire left her stool at the bar to slide into the red vinyl bench.
"How's it going, Ivy?" Rachel asked as Ivy reclined back into the seat.
"Hey, Rachel," Ivy replied, thinking about the conversation she'd had. She looked at Rachel, and smiled.
Don't lose hope.