Our couple is tentatively trying to figure things out. If you're still reading, thanks. I love to hear from you more than anything.

Mitchell and Josie belong to BBC, TW, et al. Thanks for letting us tell more stories about them.

Big thanks to SunnyFla, Carianna, and WhiteHare for all the help and head-pats.

"What just happened?"

" I...I let you drink from me, sort of. You're not dead, so it's only temporary."

"Did you know it would be like that? Had you ever done that before? "

"Not exactly."

"You aren't bleeding are you?"

"No, I'm okay."

I've some idea of what he's been through. Now I feel sick. It's hard to look at him.

Becoming a vampire is being born and dying in entirely the wrong order. It feels like being garrotted, drowned in boiling tar, and crushed to death, all at the same time. And then the agony begins. You realize there's no way out.

We've been venturing out more and more, going to the shops, to the pub, to the park. Mitchell likes to take walks at night through neighborhood streets, listening to the sounds of cars and doors and the low murmur of other people going about their business, doing ordinary things. Watching from the outside is starting to make him restless. He wants to participate.

I learn there are things vampires do not take for granted: Ticklish knees. Finishing the crossword puzzle. Eyebrow plucking. Tilting the pinball machine. Backrubs. Licking the spoon after the cake goes in the oven. Waking up beside someone else who may or may not have ridiculous hair, but you're not telling.

I am watching the end of a television interview with Martha Graham, so Mitchell has gone out for cigarettes and orange juice. Ten minutes later, laughter echoes from the stairwell.

The door bursts open, and Mitchell comes in, followed by the wonderful, miraculous, completely unexpected James. Mitchell says, "Just as I got back from the shop, your friend dropped by. It's great to finally meet him." He turns to James. "I've heard so much about you. All good things." He grins broadly at me.

"And it's wonderful to meet you too," says James, arching an eyebrow. I don't know how I'm going to explain my long absence. Still, just hearing the sound of his voice makes me happy. I throw my arms around James, nearly knocking him over. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed my friends.

"Hello, Josie. You've got your strength back, I see." James straightens his necktie. There might be a tiny smudge of lipstick on his cheek. "How's your health? We were concerned after you'd told us you were poorly. It's been weeks since then, and we were getting worried. You do look a bit thin. Are you fully recovered?"

"I'm much better, thanks. Really didn't mean to be out of touch for so long. Time just got away from me. I've been a bit distracted." I fidget with the hem of my dress where there's a loose thread.

"Evidently. Why didn't you say there was a new man in your life? You could've told us."

Mitchell and I exchange a look. "The circumstances were … unusual," I finally say.

"I see," says James uncertainly.

"Things have calmed down quite a bit. And I'm so glad to see you."

He smiles. "I'm glad you're all right. Your new friend is quite charming. The two of you should come round our place sometime soon. We can have drinks and catch up."

"We'd love that," I say.

"We really would," Mitchell says.

James has gone home, but not before extracting a promise that we will visit with him and Albert sometime in the next week.

I wipe sweat from my forehead. Glad as I was to see James, I'm incredibly tense now. "God, I hated that. What should we say when people ask how we met?"

"Hm. It's quite the fairy tale, isn't it? You know, murder, kidnapping, drugs, monsters. The usual."

"Very funny."

Albert greets us at the door with a smile deepening the lines at the corners of his bright blue eyes. His short dark hair, shot through with bits of grey, is mussed and pointing in all directions. He's wearing a ribbed green turtleneck daubed with numerous shades of paint, and khaki trousers to match.

"Come in, come in, come in!"

I make introductions. Mitchell is standing beside me with a frozen expression. He towers probably six inches over Albert, who notices his discomfort, and puts a hand on his arm.

"Don't be nervous. We're not judgmental, we're interested. Josie is obviously fond of you, and you seem to have appeared out of nowhere. We want to hear more. Would you like a drink?"

"Love one."

Inside the flat, half the sofa is covered in assorted lengths of wooden stretcher stock in the process of being assembled into canvases ready for painting. Mitchell has cleared out a space for himself on the other half. I'm perched on a footstool beside a stack of several large paintings that lean precariously against the wall. James sits crosslegged on a pillow on the floor. An oversized white smock covers up his customary jacket and tie. He is flushed pink all the way to the top of his nearly bald head, as if he's been exerting himself. He pushes up his wire-rimmed spectacles and says hello. Albert busies himself fetching drinks.

"So, what brought you to London?" asks James.

"I was here on business," says Mitchell, "but I left my job soon after. I needed a change."

"And how did you two meet?"

"My neighbor was having a party," I say. "We bumped into each other in the hallway. Mitchell was waiting for his lift home, and I let him wait in my flat. We got talking."

"Josie is quite the conversationalist," says Mitchell, with just a trace of a smile.

"He's very persistent."

"I am when I find something good."

"There are so many of these. They look interesting." Mitchell says, flipping through the stack of canvases.

"It's a series we're working on. Things we've seen on the street. We take photographs and then paint from them."

"What is this a picture of?" The canvas he's looking at is about six feet wide and covered in multicolored blotches that form a vaguely oval pattern.

"It's shit. Dog shit, if I recall correctly. I paint from life, but I make the colors go however I like."

Mitchell bursts out laughing. "You're joking!"

"I'm not. Well, not about that. I think it looks nice that color, don't you?"

"I never really thought about it. But I will now."

"How about this one?" The picture is mostly white, but with a series of sweeping black brush strokes of different sizes, punctuated with grey squares and dots. A tiny swathe of blue traces along the biggest horizontal line that runs nearly the full length of the canvas. To me, the painting resembles a crowd of people queueing at the post office, the grey dots resolving themselves into faces atop black brushstroke bodies.

"That one is nothing in particular. It may have started with a pile of newspapers, but I can't remember. I'm more interested in what you see in it."

"It looks like a hawk catching a rat," says Mitchell, squinting a bit.

James' expression is neutral. "All right," he says.

I'm dumbfounded. How could we see such different things? After awhile, I see what he means. The white area is nearly bird-shaped, with the large horizontal acting as the horizon, one of the squares being swept up in the bird's talons. The dots and brushstrokes become a meadow on the ground below.

"Do you ever sell these paintings?" asks Mitchell. "I bet a lot of people would love to buy them."

"We're working on it," says Albert.

James rings me. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he starts in with the questions.

"Your new friend. Is he the jealous sort?"

"No, why would you say that?"

"We didn't hear from you for weeks, and it turned out you'd been shacked up with him all that time. You have to admit, it seems a bit dodgy - he shows up and you disappear. Does he treat you well?"

"Mitchell's sort of shy, but he's good, and he'd never hurt me. I feel safe with him. He even does the washing up without being asked. He's not perfect, but who is?"

"Josie, what aren't you telling me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're being all... squiggly." In my mind, I can see his hands illustrating the squiggle. "Like you're making excuses for him."

A deep breath. "Well, okay." Can I explain it without lying? Here goes. "When we first met, he had a bit of a...a drinking problem, but now he's got it under control. It was rough going at the beginning but we're all sorted now."

"I was worried it might be something like that." There's no mistaking the disappointment in his voice. James pauses, but I don't volunteer any more. "He seems awfully nice, and it's clear he thinks very highly of you. Just be sure not to lose yourself. You should be your most important project. You're too wonderful to wind up consumed with someone else's problems."

"Don't worry, I can look after myself. I have my limits, and he understands that."

"Glad to hear it. There is something intriguing about him, isn't there? He's quite pleasing to the eye. And he seems thoughtful and open minded. Albert and I, we do like him. But we love you. We don't mean to pry, we just want to you be careful."

"It's fine, you're my friends, and I know you're looking out for me. I'll be all right. Come see us sometime. I think we're ready for company."

"Mitchell, have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Since you became a vampire?"

"No, not really."

Then what is this?

"Do vampires... erm... date?"

"Of course they do."

"But not you? Why not?"

"Well, with a human, I couldn't... wasn't possible."

"How about with a vampire?"

"Dunno, maybe I never met the right one."

"What happened with the girl? The human one."

"I went to war. I didn't come back. It happens."

Perhaps, somewhere in Ireland, there is an old woman who remembers him, the way he bites his lip when he's concentrating, how he's ticklish on the insides of his elbows, the little dark freckle on his forehead. I suppress a twinge of envy toward this imaginary old lady for having known him before he was... damaged, first by the inhuman horror of the Great War, and again by vampires. It was so long ago. How can it be possible that he's actually here, on my couch, talking to me like it's no big deal?

"Come here, would you?" I press against him and his arms wrap around me. He feels solid and real enough: bristly face against my cheek, hands that smell of tobacco and soap. He's returned from the war fifty-odd years too late. He spent all those years an unloved, fearsome thing. How could he possibly be someone's boyfriend?

Leaning against him, my body is tense and awkward. There's no place to put my arms. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm okay, just thinking. What are we to each other? And why couldn't you be with anyone before now? "

"Listen. This started before I met you, but I can't do it alone."

"So I'm nobody special, just a way for you to get out, is that it? Was this all a convenient accident for you?"

"Come on, you know it's more than that. This was your choice as much as it was mine. You didn't have to help me when I came back, and you certainly didn't have to take me to bed. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. And you know I think you're fucking brilliant. You always seem to know what I need to hear. You won't let me be the monster. You expect me to be human and so I am."

A defensive tone is creeping into his voice. I move over to put a bit of space between us, but he turns to face me, leaning forward, his eyebrows lowering into a threatening look. "I can only assume there's something in this for you, or you would've thrown me out a long time ago. Why haven't you? Every time I do something that might frighten anyone, you pull me closer. Why is that? A person might think you've a death wish. Do you?"

Each question is like being poked with a pin. It's hard to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

"No. I'm still not afraid of you. Every time I see you act that way, I'm less afraid."

"It'll never be gone. It's just below the surface, always."

I've some idea what he means. A vampire's black, sucking emptiness is like nothing else I've ever felt. When I put my head on his chest, it sometimes sounds like a gale hissing across a deep cavern. But this vampire is sitting here in my cluttered flat, with his bare feet on the coffee table beside a cup half-full of cold tea. In the corner of the bedroom, there's a basket of vampire's underwear and socks waiting to go to the laundry. I've been trying to convince the vampire, unsuccessfully so far, to let his hair go curly. The vampire likes his eggs either boiled five minutes or scrambled, but not too dry, with toast cut in triangles.

"You've come through so much, and you're still here. Of all the things you could have done, you chose this. And you keep choosing it, every day. That's remarkable."

"It's necessary."

Christ, but I'm getting irritated. "Stop it. I took care of you because you were ill, but I'm not your Florence Nightingale, I'm your girlfriend, right? Right?" Why did I even bring this up? "Now I want a cigarette, but not here, because I can't reach the other ashtray from here and the one in the kitchen is better anyway. I don't know why."

With my composure about to crumble, I walk out, leaving him alone on the couch. I smoke standing up in the kitchen, stubbing the cigarette out in the good ashtray, the bright orange melamine one.

There's a loud clunk and a clatter from the other room as a piece of furniture falls over, or is kicked. I hear muttered cursing and shards of broken china scraping against the floor. We're running out of teacups.

A few minutes later, Mitchell pulls a chair up to the little table by the window. "What just happened with you?" he says. "What did I do?"

"You were acting like an arsehole. You've been here three months already. Do you even see me? I need you to see me. Not a girl who helped a vampire get clean. Let's be real people to each other, Mitchell, isn't that what you want? Look, I'm in love with you."

He rubs his forehead as if he's got a headache. "How am I supposed to respond to that?"

"What would anyone say? Or, really, what would you say?"

He gives a short mirthless laugh, then there's a long silence. He seems like he might say something, and then doesn't. Instead, he exhales loudly, lights a cigarette of his own, and rubs the side of his face again. I take the ashtray and set it down on the table in front of him.

"What do you want me to say? A normal person would say, I love you too. And he might say, let's get married, and... and... get a dog, and paint the nursery, and go to the cinema on Thursday nights. But I can't."

"Why can't you go to the cinema?"

"You know what I mean. No matter what I do, it won't be like that. And you want that, don't you?"

As long as I'm with him, whether it's just for another week, or for years, this question will be in the back of his mind, and mine. We both know it.

"Are you ready to stop doing this? I'm not." I fight and defeat the urge to start crying, instead taking a few long, slow breaths. "My world is so much better with you in it. Nothing is ordinary anymore, not even ordinary things. And when you're not acting like a jackass, I quite enjoy your company."

He shakes his head slowly and gazes into the middle distance, exhaling smoke. "You make me better than I am, you know. I'll always want that. But it's not fair to you, is it? I want you to be happy."

"For God's sake, we're not obligated to be miserable! But since neither of us knows exactly what we're doing, let's say we get to make up how this goes. I want us to be happy. We can just be us. I won't let you use me up. When it's too much, I'll let you know, I promise."

"I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you because of me."

"I know."

"So are we good then?"

"We're good."

"Sorry for being an arsehole. I still think you're fucking brilliant."

At least he doesn't pat me on the head.