(Gentlemen, not even time
is as tender as it once was. There are

cracks in our ships;

Gentle man, not even your space
is as soft as it once was.

- Reasons On the Decline, twcpoetry)

A slight AU in which Conrad has not taken well to being dead. He nearly starves himself in the process of ignoring everyone who started this.

The harsh lights of streetlamps overhead don't hurt his skin, but make his eyes buzz through to the back of their sockets, downtown becoming a surrealism painting as he hurries his way past. His hunched shoulders try to create a barrier between the world, marching just as hollowly and as dutifully as a soldier doing its rounds - rounds, a trip to the store in which he silently wishes blessings upon night-owl gas stations and shops on the corner. Passerby hurry and slink past, a mixture of sleaze and mildly scared citizens getting back to their places for bedtime or assembling in alleyways for something a little less cozy and legal. These 'somethings' vary widely, but none are particularly pleasant; they're the sort that people like Lamont deal with, and probably the doctor, at some point.

These things are interesting against his will, like hearing about murder on tv does or seeing those articles labelled Worst Torture Mechanisms of All Time. Conrad is that middle type of person that probably can't even be called a person anymore, which stings a bit, but he tries to focus on the grocery list in his mind instead of all these things that hurt his head. It still swirls just from the blinking, flashing lights, and kicking his heels he seethes down at the gritty sidewalk.

There's a block of concrete left to go, and the relief of reaching his destination gets tired feet moving faster. Perhaps if he weren't so impatient life would treat him better, but tonight, at 1 am with the air still besides the tepid wind, nearly everything bad happens.

.

First he believed he was being mugged by some sleazy passerby, mentioned beforehand. The thing about cities - especially so late, when nobody is so alert as to care - is that nobody really meddles in your affairs. Not even when you're stuck in this kind of situation. And so when Conrad meandered past one of the dark alleys between two tall buildings, hands in his pockets with eyes glued to the ground, nobody noticed when he disappeared.

He finds himself whisked into a cold wall, and through some unknown cause the shock of pain cracks through his abdomen. A creaking sound falls, dripping, from his mouth. He's breathing shallowly and his eyes are glowing and feral like a cornered animal because, when it comes down to it, he is. Conrad's fingers scratch against the surface of red brick, and one of two men have shoved the something a couple inches into his dead stomach, and it's really a wonder how much you can still feel when you're not alive anymore. The sharpness slides through his skin. It feels like frostburn dipped into steaming hot water, and upward the glittery blade cuts.

Between his ribs like a taxidermist gutting a deer and the sound he makes is a liquidy, panicking gag.

There is a canteen of something in their hands. The hunters are aiming a sloppy splash into his sternum, and just as his feral strength registers, he's doubled over with a wounded growl and tears welling into his eyes. His knees give way. Rosewater sears into his stomach and burns the lining, and they hadn't sawed all the way up to his heart, but his innards still shake from their carriages; they poke their heads through the gap in the skin from under his shirt. Conrad wretches dryly on the ground, and he's aware that his glasses are somewhere broken on the concrete too, his hands stinging with gravel-and-grime rubbed palms, and he mutely watches while two pairs of boots slip closer. One lingers behind the other, both cloaked in dark clothing with rugged faces etched with concentration. Hunched on all fours, he realizes he's making it easy to heave that knife up right about now and end this.

And here's the horribly ironic thing: Conrad had done all this avoiding to keep from dying in the first place. His guilt over everything in life is welling and swirling in his mind through a thick fog of animalistic panic. The redhead kid who'd done this to him really wasn't at fault, in the end. With the Hunters so close he realizes this, with a piercing pain almost as big as the hole in him. It was all so counterproductive, running away, telling him to fuck off. He breathes shallowly, with little hisses of air that he doesn't need.

He figures he should have probably told Hanna it was okay just once in his life, because he's just a poor kid, and they're actually not so different.

Maybe he should have talked to his mother more often; he hated her, and he remembers so many nights crying, and days crying, hours crying he couldn't count on 10 or 100 or 1,000 fingers. He almost does now, but his eyes are all dried up with fear, and his head pounds; bad memories and thoughts float like dust particles in light and his mind is so jumbled, and he is so

mad

that he wasted all this

time

doing nothing.

.

This time, he does not do nothing.

This time, his claws are crackling into the grotesque talons of nothing humanlike, and he reaches in a blink of speed 'twixt the swing of the blade and its landing. He rears with a sound that isn't normal, and the thing clatters on the floor; when the man's backup comes over, weapons jarred from slippery hands, he swings himself at him, movement fluid and fluent. The guy is sent reeling back. He's new on the job, but everyone says that one vampire can't be too much, right? Right.

His blood is ringing through his ears. The rookie hunters' blood is being sipped like nectar through a honeysuckle's trumpet. He can't feel (other than something closer to life than he's ever been, even when his skin was fresh and full of colour, when his eyes were that dull brown instead of bloodshot eyes with scarlet irises, and although he'd been made fun of for the boring shade he'd very much take that back now). And the only reason he stops draining them is 'cause his stomach is eaten by burning rosewater in cherry-flecked flesh. Conrad takes one last long drink, akin to a dog lapping water from a muddy backyard puddle.

.

By the time the city's met with morning light, Conrad is no longer in the alleyway with the valiants and the tools of their trade. At 2:30 a.m. he slumps against a new alleyway, a familiar alleyway, and he feels safe enough to forget about knocking. His vampire mind knows that this is Good, and that inside is Not Good, inside is tedious and he's sure that inside is quite unsafe as well, if he decides that he wants one more little snack. Hunched, anemic druggies are really stronger than they look.

At 2:33 a.m. Worth finally peeks out at whatever the fuck made that noise in his alleyway. He cracks the door and is immediately met with the answer. Something slumps over with a grunt as he opens it, and in his confusion Worth leans to observe the vamp successfully blocking his office. His form worms faintly on the ground, and after some consideration, Worth figures he should probably help him.

Conrad wakes up enough from his haze to groan angrily incomprehensibly. The doc uses surprising care in picking him up, but he's literally gutted like a fish, and so it's difficult overall - especially with the blood-drunk vampire whining at him. He never really comes to properly, his eyes bloodshot and peering up at times. Almost always a mix of ferality and disgust. Always disgust, actually, but sometimes he recognizes him more than others. Conrad mumbles some incoherent things as he's escorted in, louder with discontent when Worth comes close to ghosting oozing innards; the simmer of his organs has calmed some, but the rosewater still works like peroxide bubbles on a sore.

Conrad's propped onto a cot like a ragdoll and falls right onto Worth's fur-lined shoulder, but about the second he pokes at a dilapidated liver it sends him rocketing back once again from his personal space.

He gasps like his lungs have been filled with water.

"N-" The shock of the touch brings him to more human-seeming senses. He stares down at the gloves feeling up his insides, and his face twists as if he's going to be sick. When he looks up at him, he gives him something shifting toward repugnance. "Eugh."

"Thanks," his saviour drawls.

He recoils, even though he's in between the doctor and the slightly-peeling wall of the room. The cot isn't big enough to scoot himself a safe distance, so he's stuck looking mildly offended and puffed like an angry bird as he tries to avoid the touch of his grimy acquaintance; he realizes slowly, however, that his condition is too bad for stalling. It's as if it hurts more to look at it, and when Conrad's eyes slide down the length of his stomach and notice the little cavern where there should not be one, he goes whiter than normal. It churns his stomach that Worth can see right now from underneath the edge of the fabric, pulled up slightly against the rest of his sternum.

Hunters gut people like deer. Worth marvels at this with a little fascination.

The mute sting of it all is nothing compared to the imagery, or compared to the fact that vampires' bodies don't heal very well - being dead and all. He's very sure Conrad has grasped this fact. The doctor reaches to gingerly encircle his wrist, the one lying slightly limp across his organs, and frowns tiredly at the panicked member of the undead. He should probably say something calming, because before long he's going to start hyperventilating, though Worth is sure he doesn't have to do that breathing thing at all anymore.

"You're real annoyin'," he grumbles out.

And that's good enough for now.