Warning for needle/syringe use for the injection of demon blood.
Sam wakes to bright sunlight, alone. Well, not alone in the room. Just alone in the bed. Alastair is sitting in the armchair, with a syringe in one hand. He turns it about in the sun. It's full of what definitely looks like blood. Sam's throat constricts at the sight of it. He's distracted by his stomach growling, though. Sits up and rubs his face and looks at the clock—four in the afternoon. He sighs. He's starving.
He eats all three muffins Alastair had brought, and crumples the bag. Tosses it in the trash and sits back on his feet. He wants more to eat, but he doesn't particularly want to ask for more.
Alastair looks at Sam. "Come here." He gestures.
Sam slides off of the bed and pads over—he feels a little sleepy, still, but clear-headed and somewhat energized. He sits in Alastair's lap and tilts his head, questioning. Alastair runs the fingers of his free hand down the pale, soft inside of Sam's arm, and straightens it out until Sam's elbow joint locks. For a moment, he lingers on the delicate green lines of Sam's veins. Then he circles his fingers tightly around Sam's arm, a little painfully, and raises his syringe.
"Sam," he murmurs. "This might pinch a little."
It does pinch. Sam wrinkles his nose at the sharp pain of the needle. He frowns, too, as foreign blood enters his system. He feels a little unbalanced—weighted to one side. His whole arm feels strange. But Alastair kisses his the crook of his elbow, setting the syringe to the side, and swipes his thumb over the dark bead of blood that's formed where he pricked Sam. He holds his finger to Sam's mouth, and Sam licks the little bit of redness away.
"Are you still hungry, pet?"
The answer is, of course, yes, so Sam nods.
Alastair reaches into the bag at his feet—Sam hadn't noticed it before—and pulls out another bag. Clear plastic, perforated, and full of small, mottled pink Muscat grapes. He wraps one arm around Sam's waist and with his free hand he plucks a grape from it stem and feeds it to Sam. One at a time, little dusk-colored fruits. Sam devours them. Even nibbles a little at Alastair's fingertips, just for the feeling of something between his teeth.
The flavor of the grapes grows more intricate, the more he eats, and he begins to feel that fuzzy, static sensation in his extremities. He shifts on Alastair's lap. Reality sort of slides along in his vision, so for a moment the world smears like it moves too fast to catch, and then it steadies. The light through the window becomes diffuse and somehow solid in appearance. Gold bars that brush along everything and dye Alastair's edges. Sam sighs—not unhappily. He plays with Alastair's hand for a moment, pushing against the fleshy center of his palm.
After a moment, Sam ducks his head and closes his mouth around Alastair's fingers, hot to the touch and still slightly damp with juice from the grapes.
Alastair pulls his hand away. "Not right now, princeling." He stands, lifting Sam in his arms, and moves to the bed. "I'd rather observe today." He lays Sam out on the sheets and runs his fingers down his side. Pats his belly and says, "Do whatever else you'd like, though." He pauses a moment. Lets his hand rest against Sam's stomach for a few seconds. "You've gained some weight. That's good."
He smiles, and it seems to slide off his face.
Sam chews on his lip and blinks slowly. Heavily. He reaches down and laces his fingers with Alastair's. But Alastair steps away. Sam pouts but he closes his eyes and stretches with a tiny squeak. He wilts into the sheets, entranced by the blue glow behind his eyelids and the texture of the blankets. He blinks his eyes open. Glances at Alastair's molten form, darted with gold and blue, and tilts his head. He squirms out of his clothes and tosses them to the side. Burrows into the sheets and blankets of the hotel bed. Grabs one of the extra pillows and curls around it, hugging it to his stomach.
Alastair watches.
He sits in the armchair with a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other, and watches Sam do almost nothing.
Sometimes Sam shifts, mostly he stays still. He likes his little warm cocoon. The threads feel interesting on his bare skin, and the shadows make faces, and the depths smell like laundry detergent and Sam's sweat.
Sam peeks out at Alastair from his blanket burrito. Alastair waves at him, and his fingers blur interestingly. Sam grins. Then Alastair's face goes skeletal and ethereal and Sam shies back into his cocoon, hiding his eyes behind a fold of blanket. He chances a brief glance back out, and sees nothing out of the ordinary other than a deep frown and the traces of blue specters flitting at the edges of his vision. But the longer he looks, the more things distort. There's the grinning skull face again, as Alastair speaks, and the specters solidify into half-formed words and figures.
Sam blinks, and they disappear again.
"Can you hear me, boy?"
Sam gives his head a shade and nods.
"Right." Alastair crosses his legs, ankle over knee, and folds his fingers together after setting aside his notepad. He eyes Sam. Remains silent for a moment longer before saying, "You seem shaken."
Sam shrugs under his covers.
Alastair moves from the chair to the bed, and pulls the sheet back from Sam's face. "This would be much simpler, I imagine, if you were able to speak more readily." He covers Sam's eyes with his spidery hand and hums to himself. Shifts and presses his fingertips to Sam's forehead. He's silent for a little while.
Then, "Ahh..." He draws away, but remains beside Sam, ignoring Sam's slight trembles. "The blood allows you to see my true face, among other things." He almost laughs. "If you were to step outside, you would see the silhouette of at least one reaper, and the shadows of many ghosts." He draws Sam into his arms. Leans against the headboard, with Sam half in his lap, and pets Sam's hair. "The world is much larger than it seems."
Sam huddles close to Alastair.
He blinks often, until the effects wear off past nightfall.
Alastair allows him to cling close through the night, stroking his hair and back. Soothing and repetitive.
Sam sleeps, and Alastair murmurs about dosage and frequency under his breath like a lullaby.