Author's notes: Okay. Definitely the final part to this series. And I'm not just saying that because I'm running out of song titles from the OST that would work. I guess after this I have three options now: A 'Near Dark' fic I've been thinking about, a final part to the first lost boys series set in present day, wherein Mike and Sam have their own versions of mid-live crises, and perhaps a new LB story set in the middle of the film and going off in a different direction. Obviously still with a David/Mike slant. Maybe. Dunno. Might be co-writing with the wonderfully awesome Kagemirai. The point is I've got a million possibilities brewing right now. Anyway, enough of this boring author's note, and onto the story...


Lucy sighed, sitting on the edge of her bed and leaning forward to stare at the luggage set in front of her closet, unzipped and half-packed. She needed to protect Sam. If she didn't take him out of this awful place, it was only a matter of time before something much worse happened to him. Of that she was definitely certain. But...

She pressed a hand to her mouth and sobbed into it, closing her eyes. It seemed like no matter what she did, she'd be saving one of her sons at the cost of the other. Why wasn't there a way she could protect them both? Lock them up in a little box, keep the key around her neck, and make sure nobody ever harmed either of them ever again? And who could she honestly blame, but herself?

A thousand images flooded her mind. Images of what could happen to Sam...and what could happen to Michael...and what truly scared her the most. If he was wrong, and if staying in Santa Carla didn't help him hold on to his memories, retain whatever it was inside him that still remembered he was her son...would there come a day when he turned on them, killing Sam and destroying whatever was still left of the real Michael?


As a kid, you learn to use silverware and napkins when you're eating. If you're smart, or have at least half a brain cell, mastering the art of table manners comes pretty easy. But you can't feed on blood with a fork, and forget about using a bib. Might as well wrap yourself in a sheet, for all the good it would do. Basically, Michael was a mess as he lounged on the gritty motel bed, wiping his chin and neck down with a well-worn comforter while he perched at the edge of the bed flipping through channels. The remains of his meal, a tangle of limbs on the mildew speckled carpet.

The place was a dive. Santa Carla would be better off without it, once the boys were done tonight and ready to torch. But they didn't make a habit of just floating around the city burning shit to the ground, from what he could tell. He'd gotten the distinct impression this was a special occasion, a cathartic release after a week of hell. Particularly for him and Star. Especially him, he thought as he flipped the shitty TV off and tossed the remote behind him. Figures the one time he had access to a bit of cable, there was nothing on.

He stood up from the mattress and stretched his arms behind his back, yawning. Michael wasn't sure whether he should trust him or not, but David had actually given him some privacy while he ate for once. Some privacy in general. It was bizarre. And ever since they'd taken Sam home, the bastard had been pretty damned quiet. No...Michael didn't trust any of it. He just knew David was planning something. Some new kind of torment or irritating attack to catch him unaware so he could either be humiliated or boned against his conscious will. He hated the sense of paranoia brewing in the back of his mind, and even more...he hated the idea that it would be there for the rest of his god damned life.

'Pack'. Yeah. Sure. And they'd done so many things to make him feel like he was one of them. He mentally sneered. What a load of bullshit. He felt like the little kid on the playground bullied by his older brothers because he couldn't figure out the password to get into the clubhouse. Only with a lot more blood-drinking and freaky sex. Speaking of which, he just knew any night now David would try to pull something again on him, trick him...and his own stupid body didn't think that was such a bad idea.

Michael turned his head at the sound of footsteps outside of 'his' door, followed by the shaking of the door handle. The scent of cigarettes and old blood were so strong, they might as well have been pressed right up against each other, his nose buried in the hollow of David's collarbone. He really wanted to hate that smell. But the feeling just wasn't there.

The door drifted open, and he quickly crossed the threshold, shutting it behind him and glancing over at Michael's mess, clicking his tongue against his teeth with a sarcastic hum of disappointment, "that's no way to treat a lady, Michael."

He rolled his eyes and took a step back, eyeing David from head to toe, "are we leaving?" He glanced towards the window. They had a few hours before sunrise. Plenty of time left. Which could only mean he was in for some kind of stupid speech.

David narrowed his eyebrows, flopping down onto the bed and leaning back on his elbows, "relax. Not gonna bite..." he paused, "unless you-?"

"...No," Michael replied dryly.

"Fair enough," David shrugged, "offer's always on the table. I meant what I said...we're not doing anything until you beg for it." Early evening half-finished handies aside, of course.

Michael snorted, "...good luck with that. What's this about, huh?"

David shifted until he was lying on his side, head propped up on his hand as the mattress protested beneath him, "I just wanna talk. Having fun tonight?"

He shrugged, "mom wants to leave Santa Carla. She's only staying because I'm pretty much going nuts. Nothing good on TV. I'm stuck in a motel room with one of the biggest dicks on the planet...but other than that, I'm doing alright."

"Biggest dicks? I'm flattered."

"Fuck off, David." This was quickly becoming his nightly mantra.

The blonde leaned over to pat the empty side of the bed, only moderately blood-stained from Michael's earlier meal, "come here."

"I'd rather not," Michael shrugged as he trailed towards the mattress and flopped down on the edge beside David. Their clothes were still on, so he was fairly certain he'd be safe. Fairly. If not, there was a letter opener on the bedside stand. "What's with you? No threats? No growling or groping? Someone rip your balls off?" Not that he was complaining. He was just...confused. And a part of him wondered if this was some new stupid plot to embarrass or attack him.

"I swear, I just want to talk."

"Okay, talk."

"...and I have a proposal-"

"Here we fucking go!" Michael stood up from the bed with a frustrated huff, "I don't want to hear it! No more proposals, David! You trick me every god damn time!"

David sat up, holding up his hands, "just hear me out. No bargaining chips. Nothing to do with your little mommy or Sammie. I promise."

Michael eyed him suspiciously, "what is it, then?"

The blonde smirked, his face smoothing into a more innocent and human guise, as if that would earn him any bonus points, "I just want to make it clear first that I haven't been lying to you. Selective information technically isn't lying," David explained, holding up an index finger to illustrate his point.

What...the...fuck...was he talking about?

Sighing, Michael rubbed at the bridge of his nose with both hands, "yeah? And?"

"I'm going to tell you something. Afterwards, you'll let it go, we'll move on, and all you'll have to worry about is just how incredible our next fuck is going to be. Deal?"

"...I won't worry about it at all. I promise. So just say whatever it is you're going to say," Michael lowered his hands and wondered just exactly how many years it took for David's ego to get so big it could power the world's largest fucking dirigible.

David grinned smugly, supremely satisfied with himself, "we can read each other's minds, and we've been listening in on you like a soap opera."


'CRASH!' "YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Star sat up on the bed, hastily buttoning up her shirt, eyes wide with shock, "what was that!?"

Paul snickered as he leaned forward to pull her back into his arms, pressing his anxious arousal against the small of her back, "I think Davey just dug a hole."

"What?" She looked back at him over her shoulder, confused, and also a little agitated about the fact that he never seemed to think with the head on his shoulders. If they went at it again, she'd have to ride home naked. Frankly, she wasn't too keen on the idea of being a modern-day Lady Godiva. Certainly not on the back of a motorcycle either, considering how much she chafed just thinking about it.

"Don't worry about it," Paul nipped at her neck, "just means Dwayne won the bet."