Disclaimer: I don't own any of this... I'm just a slightly obsessed fan. Please don't sue me, I'm broke.
A/N: I've just recently begun watching the reruns and this story just sort of popped into my head. I've already got it pretty much written, so now it's just a matter of posting it. And you don't have to know anything about h/l to follow this... just read and nod and pretend you know who Mac is and you'll be fine.
Prologue:
The room was warm and dimly lit. The man smiled warmly at Peter as he ushered the young boy inside. Peter followed him in silent terror into the apartment, anticipating what he knew was to come. Waiting for the man to grab him and rip off his clothes and…
No, Peter wouldn't think about that. Not until he had to.
But the man didn't grab him. Instead, he led Peter into a small kitchen and gestured for the boy to sit down. Nervously, Peter perched in the edge of the chair, watching the man surreptitiously through lowered lashes.
"Are you hungry?" the man asked, his voice warm and gentle.
Mutely Peter shook his head. He hadn't had a proper meal in days, but there was no way he was eating this man's food. He was here for a reason and he just wanted to get it over with, collect the rest of his pay, and leave.
The man shrugged and began rummaging through the refrigerator. He heated up a slice of pizza in the microwave and poured a class of milk, then handed both to Peter.
Peter stared at the food, his mouth watering at the scent of cheese and tomato sauce rising from the pizza.
"I'm not hungry," Peter muttered.
The smiled and said in a firm but gentle voice, "Too bad. You're here to make me happy, which means you'll do what I want you to. And I want you to eat."
Peter looked from the man to the food and back.
"It's not poisoned," the man laughed. "What good would it do me to poison you now?"
Peter wasn't sure he believed the man, but he took a bite anyway. If the man wanted him dead, he would die and there was little enough he could do about it at this point. It was best to just go along with the man for now.
The pizza was delicious and Peter devoured the rest of it in seconds.
When he had finished, the man led him into the bathroom. But he didn't... do anything like Peter expected. He simply told Peter to get washed up and left.
After a few moments, Peter turned on the shower and pulled off his clothes. Trying not to think about why the man wanted him to do this or what the man might be planning, Peter stepped under the warm water. How long had it been since he'd last had a real shower? Years... not since his parents...
No, he wasn't going to think about that now. He couldn't afford to think now, to feel. It was too late for that now. Now he just had to do whatever it took to make the man happy.
A few minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, cleaner than he'd been in ages. He dried himself off and found a black silk bathrobe, much too small to fit the man. After a moment's pause, he pulled it on. Peter briefly combed his hair, trying not to look at his reflection in the mirror. Trying not to think about how thin he had become. Then he returned to the living room.
The man was sitting on the sofa. He looked up, smiling when he saw Peter.
Silently he took Peter's arm and led him into the bedroom. Peter felt his gut clench. Here it was. No matter how nice the man had been, Peter knew what was coming.
Cooperatively he let the robe slip from his shoulders, trying not to feel... exposed. He wanted more than anything else in the world to pull something over himself, or at least to fold his arm over his chest and hide himself, but he didn't.
Instead, he walked casually over to the man. The man smiled, his eyes moving hungrily over Peter's young, naked body. He reached out and caressed Peter's cheek, running his fingers through the boy's still damp hair.
Peter's heart was beating so fast he thought he might pass out. But he forced himself to stay calm and as relaxed as he could.
The man cupped Peter's chin in his hand, tilting his head upwards.
"Look at me," the man murmured.
Peter lifted his eyes, tentatively meeting the man's gaze. Dark, blue eyes, deep, kind and gentle. Peter felt something stirring deep inside. It felt strange, but good. Unbelievable good and… almost familiar. He could feel memories, hovering just beyond his consciousness. But he couldn't remember, not now. Now he had to focus himself on the man.
A finger, surprisingly gentle, traced its way over Peter's lips. The man stared intently into his eyes, almost like he was looking for something and Peter felt himself slipping, falling into those kind, deep, blue eyes. He gasped as he felt the warm, softness of the man's lips against his. It felt... it felt amazing. He had forgotten how good it could feel, just to kiss another man.
He felt the man slip his arms around Peter's waist, pulling him closer. But to his amazement, he didn't feel trapped by the man's arms. Instead, he felt warm, safe even.
And when the man entered him, it was wonderful beyond his wildest dreams. The man didn't hurt him, didn't leave him sore and bleeding, empty and alone. And when it was over, the man held him and stroked his hair until he fell into a light sleep, satiated, content and happier than he'd been in longer than he could remember.
The man watched the boy sleep, face innocent and young despite all he must have lived through. A child, really. Just a child. He stroked the boy's hair, lightly so as not to wake him. Waiting until he saw the boy's lips curve upward in a slight smile.
Then he carefully slipped out of bed and lifted his sword from where it lay, hidden beneath the bed. He didn't look at the boy. If he did, he would lose his nerve. So he just did it as fast as he could, swing the sword down onto the soft flesh of the boy's exposed neck.
He felt the familiar power surging through him, filling him, exploding from the boy's decapitated body. He threw his head back, screaming at the feeling... pure energy, coursing through his body. Filling his mind and body and soul with power. He was aware of nothing else, nothing but the energy flooding him, every aspect of his being.
When it was over, he dropped to the floor, gasping, exhausted. All around him was the remains of the Quickening he had just taken. The shattered window, smashed vases, bed splintered, thrown against the wall. And the body of a young, nameless, homeless, immortal prostitute, lying headless on the remains of the bed. Blood pooled around the body, staining the bed sheets and carpet a dull, thick red. The man felt revulsion and horror rising up from the pit of his stomach and looked away.
He sat there for a long time, surrounded by the chaos, crying softly. Crying for the death of a beautiful, young boy with no one else to mourn for him.