Author's Notes: I've been wanting to write a Rose Tyler/Peter Vincent story for quite a while (since the new movie came out, tbh), but I refrained for a long time largely because I wanted to focus on my original stories, but after reading several outstanding AU crossover stories I couldn't resist any longer. That, and I want to get some feedback on my writing technicalities (characterization, style, plot, etc) that I wasn't getting from my originals. Given my past track records with fanfics, I'm not sure if I'll see this through to the end, especially since my original novels still hold priority, but writing it writing, and I'd rather be working on something than nothing at all.
With those notes, enjoy! This story is ridiculous, but hopefully it will be fun and engaging, so that's all I can really ask for.
Chapter One
Rose stood on the veranda of the Hard Rock Hotel's Vanity Nightclub, taking a much-needed breath of fresh air as the music from the reception inside continued to throb against her back. The sun had set hours ago, but the intense heat of the American Southwest afternoon continued to cling to the night, making the lights of the Las Vegas Strip shimmer as though the whole city had been submerged underwater. Las Vegas truly was a city like no other she had ever lived in. By day the ochre stretches of desert and red Nevada mountains baked beneath a scorching sun that felt entirely too cruel to be the same star that shone over her native London; by night the hotels and casinos that lined Las Vegas Boulevard sparkling like the jewels on a gaudy necklace, creating a visual cacophony of neon lights and flashing billboards. Her goal had been to get as far away from her old life as possible, and this was the first time she felt like the truly succeeded.
New job. New city. New Rose. Mission accomplished.
"Hey, gorgeous!" a voice thick with drink slurred to her right. She looked down to see one of the night's patrons sprawled across the padded benches around the veranda's fire pit, his tie already off and collar open. The light of the unnecessary fire shone off his freshly-shave head and glittered off the sequins on the dress of the young woman across on his lap. He waved an empty beer bottle up at her. "Be a doll and go get us a couple more drinks, will ya?"
Rose put on her best customer-service smile as she plucked the bottle from his fingers. "Coming right up!"
"And I wouldn't say no to a helping of some of that fine ass when you're done tonight," he said with a smirk and a wink despite the girl nuzzling his crotch.
"Looks like you already have your hands full tonight, mate," Rose said as she walked away, careful to keep her smile in place until she was back inside the club. The headache that had been lurking behind her eyes all night rose to a new pitch as the music and flashing lights assaulted her. The party was already in full tilt, helped along by the host's generous open bar. Rose navigated her way through the sea of hot gyrating bodies on her way back to the bar with the grace attained only through years of experience, dodging the advances of both men and women who would pull her in with them if she allowed them to. There would have been a time, years ago, when Rose would have been one of them, the short skirt of her dress riding up until her knickers peeked out from below the hem, drink sloshing over the rim of her glass, the knee of her bloke waiting for her to perch upon from one of the shadowy booths lining the walls in between dances. That had been another lifetime, lived by another girl who happened to have the same name and face as she did.
Rose pushed her way through the crowd amassing before the bar, using her elbows to clear a path. Behind the marble bar top the bartenders moved around each other like dancers of an intricate ballet, slinging beers and mixing drinks against the backdrop of glittering bottles. She could not help but eye the tips being stacked along the tower with some envy. She had only been living in Las Vegas for six months – only two of which she was employed, thanks to the city's still-struggling job market – but she was quick to learn that in the casinos, a good bartender, like a good dealer, was king, and she, a lowly waitress, was no more than a peasant in the hierarchy. Still, she felt like she didn't have much to complain about. She had only been employed here for a few months, but they were already scheduling her to work the private parties than booked the Vanity on weekends, a privilege that was usually reserved for the veteran servers, so it must mean she was doing something right. The job wasn't a bad one, either; it paid the bills comfortably, it was more high-energy than working at a shop, and she got to meet interesting people on occasion. Most importantly, it was an easy job to leave on a moment's notice without having to worry about anyone missing her.
As Rose waited for the bartender to fill her order, she couldn't help but catch snippets of conversations from her coworkers, and tonight they were all focused on a single subject: the Hard Rock Hotel's headline stage show, Fright Night. Or, more accurately, its former headline show. Seeing how she had only worked in the casino for a couple of months, Rose only had the abbreviated version of what happened, that the combination of a tragic accident involving one of its key performers and a breakdown suffered by the show's star, Peter Vincent, caused Fright Night to be closed for the better part of a year. Mr. Vincent recovered in time, and for the past eight months or so the hotel was gearing up for a great comeback for the show, but a number of unforeseen setbacks such as technical malfunctions and accidents on the set that oftentimes involved the staff and performers kept pushing opening night further and further back. Judging by the energy fueling the bartenders' conversation, there had been another incident that was going to result in yet another setback.
"No one got hurt, thank God, but it was a close enough call," a bartender named Marie said as she poured a perfect Cosmopolitan from a shaker to a waiting glass. "The whole set piece jut broke away from the wall and came crashing down. I don't know how much it weighs, but I know it's all metal, so I'm sure it probably would have killed anyone who was under it."
"Shouldn't it have been welded down or something?" another bartender whom Rose didn't know asked.
"That's the thing, though! The people who were there said that it didn't look like it just came loose and fell, but more like it got torn from the wall and thrown. That's some crazy shit right there," a younger woman named Phoebe exclaimed, waving a bottle of tequila to emphasize her point. "One of the newer performers quit right then and there."
"Hey, hey, hey! You spill it, you buy it, girlie!" Marie chastised her. "Anyway, it doesn't matter how it happened. The manager's going to have to get an inspector out now to look at all the sets to make sure it wasn't some crappy weld job and to make sure something like this won't happen again, and who knows how long that's going to take."
The second bartender snorted. "I'll bet you all the tips we make tonight that they won't even bother. That freak show's been losing money for years. No one was going to see it befire, and I honestly don't see how a comeback's going to change that. They should have kicked Vincent to the curb a long time ago and brought in someone new."
"Here you go, Rosie," the fourth bartender jarred her from her casual eavesdropping as he loaded up her tray with a round of fresh drinks. "Everything going all right out there? I've already seen a few of those guys out there make a swipe for you, and by the looks of how things are going already we're in for the long haul tonight. Just let me know if anyone starts to get too grabby with you."
"If they do, you can have whatever's left of them when I'm done," Rose said with a grin as she gathered up her tray, hoping she could salvage whatever tips she could get for herself with a speedy delivery. As she tried to dodge around a particularly rambunctious group of girls she bumped the leg of a man sitting at the bar, causing his dubiously green cocktail to come dangerously close to spilling over the lip of his glass. Rose had only enough time to offer him an apology and a smile before she plunged back into the fray, unaware of not one, but two gazes tracking her every move across the nightclub.
Peter Vincent sat at one of the Vanity's marble bars, lost in thought as he stared into the depths of his glass, the shifting lights from the dance floor making the Madori cocktail glow like a liquid emerald. It was not the worst party he'd ever been to, but it was by no means the best, either. The DJ was decent, not relying solely on the shit that plagued the radios nowadays and the alcohol flowed freely, ensuring that all caution and pretense of the guests were abandoned long ago. He already received half a dozen of suggestive looks from women who were not uneasy on the eyes, even without his leather pants or his stage getup that he was sure any of them would recognize in an instant thanks to the Fright Night comeback posters that plastered every inch of the hotel's interior. Two years ago, would have taken almost no effort on his part to get one of them - or two, or three even – to go back to his place for the night. Two years ago, he would have ruled this scene, never mind the fact that he was not a guest nor knew anyone here – being the casino's resident celebrity meant he was automatically on the VIP list for all events that took place at the Hard Rock, whether their hosts knew it or not. That was the whole reason why he came down here tonight, wasn't it? To cling to the last vestiges of his old life?
Two years was a long fucking time ago, and he was no longer that man.
He took a sip of his drink, the thick, too-sweet melon liquor that coated his tongue the only real familiar thing left in his life. The clausterfuck that he got wrapped up in that involved the Brewsters and Jerry the Vampire had completely uprooted his life in every way possible, liberating him and dragging him down at the same time: Liberating because he could at last lay his parents' ghosts to rest by finally accepting their true fate and not the one he fabricated twenty-five years ago, but dragging him down because it brought to light what a fucking joke his life had become.
There was no used denying it: Peter was quickly beginning to hate the very thing that his fame and fortune was built from now that he was able to accept that the horrors of the night were real and what they were capable of doing to people and their lives. The recent trend of romanticizing vampires in pop culture made him feel physically ill, and although his show didn't have any lovesick teenagers pining over their bloodsucker boyfriends, it still contributed to that image. He heard people who worked on the show comment that they were surprised that he wasn't more upset that the comeback for Fright Night was going to badly. The truth was that he just didn't give a shit anymore, and if it wasn't for that bloody contract renewal he signed six months before Charlie showed up on set posing as a journalist he would have gotten out of it a long time ago. He hated that he used Ginger's murder as an excuse to get some time off – she may have been a pain in the ass, but she was his pain in the ass, and her death left a giant ragged hole in his life – but after the slaying of Jerry there had been matters more pressing to deal with than entertaining a handful of slack-jawed tourists every night.
You couldn't kill a four-hundred-year-old vampire without turning a few heads, and undead ones at that.
Someone bumped into him as he raised his glass again, nearly causing its contents to slop all down his front. Peter felt his temper flare as he rounded on the offending party, ready to give them a proper telling-off…then stopped, the words freezing before they reached his lips.
The push of the crowd surrounding the bar and the demands of the guests only allowed him to get a brief glance of the server apologizing to him, but that was all he needed to find himself completely captivated by her. Kind, whiskey-colored eyes sparkled at him from a face that was far lovelier than any he'd seen in a long time, framed by waves of muted blonde hair. At first her mouth seemed just a fraction too wide, but that thought fled as soon as she smiled at him, banishing his former melancholy. He had never seen a smile given by someone to a complete stranger that was so warm, so full of life. Peter immediately began to wonder what the smiles she gave to her family must be like, or to her friends, or to the man who laid her down and worshipped her body with his lips and tongue. What did such a smile taste like? All his previous dwellings on vampires, the show, and his own sour self-pity were replaced by only one desire – the need to know for himself.
A sort of panic came over him as he watched her walk away bearing a tray of drinks, as though if he lost sight of her he would never see her again, and he was half-out of his seat with the intent on following her when a tap on his arm yanked him back to reality. Jack, the head bartender and one of the few people working the Vanity tonight who actually knew who he was, leaned over the marble countertop with a smile on his face.
"Her name's Rose Tyler and she's off at one," he offered.
Peter looked back out into the mass of people, desperate for another glimpse of the blonde goddess, trying out her name on his tongue. "Rose… Rose Tyler…" Oh, it felt so good to say. He couldn't possibly imagine what it would feel like if he ever had the opportunity to shout it in ecstasy.
"Be careful with that one, Pete," Jack warned, as though he could sense the magician's thoughts. "She's new to the city and a real sweetheart. She's not like the others."
No… No, of course she isn't. He could tell that much just by looking at her, and if Jack, a man who watched bartenders and servers come and go from the casino for the last ten years, said she was different from the other women he usually looked at, she must be something special. He wanted to ask Jack more about her so he at least had some hope of not immediately scaring her away when he finally did have the chance to talk to her, but another group of young women chose that moment to assault the bar, so he was forced into a restless wait. Every now and then he would catch sight of her moving among the dancers and idling parties and his heart gave a little leap inside his chest. It eventually got to the point where he had to move from the bar to one of the unoccupied booths nearby to prevent himself from trying to talk to her whenever she returned to the bar to replenish her order; he did not want to compete with the other patrons for her attention.
"Try to be a creeper a little harder, man. I don't think you're quite there yet," Jack said when he replenished Peter's drink an hour later.
"Piss off," Peter retorted before Jack's words caught up with him. "She hasn't said anything to you, has she?"
Jack chuckled. "No, she hasn't said anything. I did tell her earlier to let me know if she was getting any unwanted attention from anyone, so I'll make sure to deliver the message to get lost personally when she does."
"Wingman of the year, you are," Peter grumbled.
Once Jack was gone he scrubbed a hand over his face. Christ, I'm acting like a schoolboy with his first stiffy. Next thing I know I'll be calling Charlie for advice. Peter snorted a laugh into his fresh drink. Then again, maybe that's not a bad idea. He's still with Amy, isn't he?
The night wore on, and the crowds began to wane as people began to move onto other scenes or retired to their rooms with their partners for the evening. Rose continued to work diligently up until the end of her shift. Peter contemplated getting her attention, to ensure that he had the opportunity to talk to her before she left for home, but he couldn't think of any conversation starters that didn't sound like he was only looking for a one-night stand. She was the kind of woman who deserved more than that, and although he wouldn't say he was looking for a relationship with anyone at that exact moment, he didn't want to muck up the chance to get to know her.
She was taking one last order of drinks for the night when he realized he was not the only one watching her.
He was a good-looking bloke, which meant Peter automatically didn't like him. He was perhaps closer to Rose's age than Peter was, with a face and body that looked like it was crafted by a Greek sculptor and perfectly styled hair that shone like spun gold. He was exactly the type a young, eligible girl would be interested in instead of a scruffy, half-washed up entertainer who spent most of his days drunk on an alcohol that was only supposed to be used as a mixer. If this man made the first move, it was game over for him. Peter narrowed his kohl-rimmed eyes, his hand tightening around his glass. Fuck off, you bastard, she's mine, I saw her first.
Peter watched him as he watched Rose make her rounds, but the longer he observed the man the more he realized that there was something just…wrong about him. He couldn't put his finger on it at first, but then he finally figured out what it was that was bothering him so much. The man was standing too still… Far too still for any living person. In fact, the only thing that seemed to move on him all were his eyes. Dread replaced the jealousy that was previously boiling in Peter's chest in an instant. He knew all too well by now that there was only one creature capable of remaining that motionless without being dead.
Or completely dead, at least. And it had chosen Rose – his Rose, he found himself thinking possessively – as its prey tonight.
Not on my watch, it won't.
At the bar, Rose was returning her tray and untying her apron, exchanging words and a smile with Jack. He asked her something but Rose only gave him a confused look before shaking her head. Jack's eyes flickered briefly to Peter's booth, the meaning behind that one gesture clear: You're missing your opportunity! but the new development of the night sent Peter's mind into a tailspin, overwhelming him with the need to keep her safe, but every thought on how to do it just sounded worse to him than the last. Insist that she accept an invitation to come up to his place for the night? Follow her back to her house to make sure she got in safely then stand sentient outside in case the creature showed up?
And as he continued to contemplate his dilemma, the vampire continued to watch Rose, hunting her from the shadows.
Peter shifted in his seat, feeling the stake of holly he kept on his person at all times poked him in the ribs under his coat, reminding him that there was more at risk here than just one woman (although he hated thinking of her as a "just"); a single vampire, even a young one, could cause a lot of damage if left free to roam. No, this had to be dealt with now; he was not about to have the deaths of anyone else hanging over his head.
With a final smile and a wave Rose bade goodnight to he coworkers, weaving through the Vanity's remaining patrons as she left the club.
The vampire was gone as well.
Shit!
With no further thought Peter launched himself from the booth, his long legs getting tangled beneath him for an instant before he was able to get them sorted out and gave chase.