Story Notes: Sometime after the chip. I could narrow the timeline down but.. nah, not in the mood right now.
A/N: Thought of this one while I was sick a while back and fevered. It occurred to me that I never much thought about the temperature of my skin and wondered if vampires ever did. Disclaimer: Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either.
Warmth
warmth (wormth) n. - 1 a) the state or quality of having or giving off a moderate degree of heat b) the degree of heat in a substance, esp. when it is moderate; mild heat 2 a) excitement or vigor of feeling; enthusiasm, ardor, zeal, etc. b) sympathetic, cordial, or affectionate feelings or nature c) slight anger 3 a glowing effect obtained by using red, yellow, etc.
Humans don't seem to think much about the temperature of their skin; unless it's brought to their attention by disease or weather conditions. They walk through life never thinking about the energy being created just by living; every part of their bodies radiating unbelievable warmth. The blood ebbs and flows under the skin and around organs; not just bringing life, but cooling and warming the body. It's fascinating really.
And they never thought about it. About the miracle of it. He thought about it. Perhaps too much.
He sometimes tries to remember what it felt like to be human. Not that he wants to be one again. He was weak then. He was nothing. Now he is strong, powerful, a force of bloody nature. His senses are enhanced. He can track by smell. He can see in almost total darkness. He can hear the frightened heartbeat of prey from blocks away. The rich, multilayered taste of blood more than makes up for the curiously flat taste of everything else. He can feel textures hidden from the thing humans call 'touch.' His mind isn't cluttered with the demands of a living body: too hot, too cold, breathe, foot went to sleep, eyes tired, digest, muscles ache, mouth dry, bladder full, heart beat. But he can not feel his own skin. Oh he feels the pressure of touch and the sting of pain, he can feel the burn of fire and bite of ice; but that is just nerve endings. He can never again shiver in the cold or feel too warm in the heat.
Humans think it an annoyance. They sweat with exertion, flush with fever or strong emotions, and have to dress for the weather; and they complain about it! They never stop to think how wondrous it is that they can fog the winter air with their breath. It is only the heat, the warmth, inside them that makes it possible. It is why snowflakes melt on their faces, chocolate melts in their hands, and ice cream liquefies in their mouths. It heats the beds they sleep in and fogs the windows of parked cars. He thinks he knows the reason that heat is signified by variations of the color red. Red is the color of blood and blood is life, heat, warmth. There used to be a false warmth, just after feeding; heat and energy stolen from his victims. It surged through him, plumping and nourishing his body; dead veins singing with life. It made him feel truly alive, if only for moments. Soon, all too soon, the blood would die and cool and his body would go back to being slightly colder than room temperature. He always lost the warmth.
He doesn't want to be human again, not really. If anything, he pities them. They stumble through their short, often pointless, lives and could never know the freedom that his kind does. Humans think there are rules to follow; rules they don't make for themselves but strive to uphold anyway. They can't see the world as he does. The only rules he follows are the ones he makes. They are simple and they work: never welsh on a bet, only make promises you intend to keep, do unto others before they do unto you, if it isn't nailed down (or if the nails come out fairly easily) then no one really wants it and it's asking to be stolen, try not to lie because the truth can do so much more damage, no one does something for nothing, and loyalty has to be earned. They may not be pretty (Hey, he is evil, sort of, so what do you expect?) but they work for him.
So, no, he doesn't want to go back to the strictures and bindings of being human, not to mention easily broken bodies and certain mortality. He does, however, miss the warmth. Except when he is around her. With her, he misses nothing. He always knows when she is near; there is a heat in his chest and a shiver down his spine that could almost be life.
He had thought, at first, that it was hatred. The others like her that he had fought, well, it was nothing personal. They were each warriors for their respective sides who had stepped into battle knowing only one would walk away. There was a kind of honor in that. He had respected their fighting skills, if nothing else. But she- she had made him lose his detachment. She had made him lose the thrill of fighting to win, of being the best. With her, he had begun to fight just for the sake of fighting.
They had danced together like leaves in the wind: turning, twisting, floating through the air, tumbling together and then apart. He had wanted to see the myriad shades his hands could paint on her skin and know that, every time she looked into a mirror, she would see that he had marked her. He had wanted her to wince during the day and remember his face. He had wanted her to give up her precious blood to his hands; besides, the smell had made him crazy. He had wanted to show her how strong he was. He had wanted her to submit to him, though he would have been disappointed if she had.
Heck of thing really, when he finally realized what was actually going on. It was horrible, unnatural. It was also bloody embarrassing. But he can't feed with that sodding chip in his head and he can't fight her anymore either.
He only feels really alive now when he fights with her. He loves to see that glint in her eyes when they fight something nasty. He can smell her excitement, hear her breath hitch and see the pulse pounding in her neck. Her heartbeat is sometimes the loudest thing in his world. She is a beckoning light in the dark. She shines brighter than the sun and burns through him just as painfully; all graceful lines and mortal blows. She can make such lovely death with her hands. He can't get her out of his head, or his dreams. He needs her like a drug.
She never quite manages to follow through with her threats to finish him off and he wonders if, maybe hidden somewhere deep inside, she feels the same. He could never have dreamed that, in loving someone he is supposed to loathe, he could recapture that lost heat. That warmth.
oooo