Ok I wrote this one today. you can yell at me for this one.
Blood Bound Part 2. Rated T for mentions of violence.
"To the shock and alarm of law enforcement all over the Baymont area, the convicted serial killer known as 'Herobrine' escaped containment during transport to a higher security prison around noon yesterday. Residents are advised to avoid spending time alone outside, and to call the police if there is any suspicious activity. Law enforcement is…"
Steven tuned out the rest of the broadcast, forced to focus all his energy on staying upright. Sometimes he was lucky enough to get a seat on the subway home, but today it was jam-packed, forcing him to stand and clutch a handle above his head for dear life. He hoped the other passengers couldn't see how hard he was fighting to stay upright.
Herobrine, wasn't that… the man he gave blood to once?
Today had been an especially rough donation. The facility had requested two pints instead of one, and also harvested some plasma. He hadn't had a chance to eat between drawings, and had only gotten through the day by fantasizing about taking a nap as soon as he got home. Now he just hoped that he'd make it home before he passed out. The world spun rather dangerously with each turn the train took.
Something was being announced through the speakers, and the doors slid open. Steve blinked as people began to file out, looking at the electric sign above it - oh, Notch, this was his stop. He quickly slipped out before the doors could close on him.
Each step was a chore as he made his way up the stairs from the station, knuckles white where they clutched at the railing. It was about two miles home. One step at a time, Steven plodded his way down the sidewalk, his thoughts a constant loop of don't pass out don't pass out don't pass out don't pass out. It wouldn't be the first time he had fainted after a blood draw, but passing out alone and in public would undoubtedly be far more dangerous than in a sterile hospital room.
Finally, the front door of his apartment came into view, and he nearly collapsed just from relief. Fumbling his key out of his pocket, he jammed it into the lock and pushed the door open. Stepping into the entry hall, he shut the door behind him and locked it, sagging against the wall with a sigh. Almost there…
Wait, why were his lights on?
Steve blinked at the light spilling from the living room entryway. Was that… he could hear the TV, too. Had he forgotten to turn them off before he left? He was certainly scatterbrained enough for that. Notch, his electric bill was going to be through the roof if he kept this up…
Steve stumbled forwards, intent on turning off the electronics and passing out on the couch, but he froze stiff the moment he got a good look at his living room.
A stranger was reclining on his couch, watching his TV comfortably with a bag of chips in his lap. At first, he didn't seem to notice him, but the tiny gasp Steve made alerted the man to his presence. The stranger glanced over, only to offer him a sharp-toothed grin.
"Evening, Stonewall."
The world spun dangerously, and the last thing Steven saw was the ground rushing towards him before he blacked out.
.
.
.
The soft chatter from the TV was the first thing he heard when he eventually woke again.
Steven scrunched up his face at a touch, a finger poking his cheek.
"C'mon, get up." The voice urged. Why was it so familiar? "Eat this before you waste away."
"Huh-" The word came out in a croak, and he coughed, blinking his eyes open. Before him was a plate, on which was a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The plate was held up by a hand, and following the hand down to its owner revealed a face with blank eyes and sharp teeth.
Steven jerked. "Herobrine!"
"You remember me!" Herobrine grinned, standing up straight. Steven's mouth opened, then closed.
"Y-yeah?" How could he forget? The man had been drugged up and exhausted when he met him the first time, but he had spilled half his life story to him, something Steve doubted many others knew. "I heard- the radio- you escaped?" Still grinning, Herobrine nodded. "Why are you in my house?" Steve's heart rate spiked. "I swear I didn't tell anyone, anything you said-"
"Calm down, Stonewall." Herobrine interrupted him, still offering the sandwich. "Eat something, for Notch's sake, you're pale as an egg." Steven blinked, momentarily stunned.
"…an egg?"
"Eat." Herobrine shoved the sandwich at him more insistently. Finally, Steven obeyed. He did feel awfully weak and queasy still.
As he scarfed down the sandwich, Herobrine took a seat opposite him. The killer was dressed in nondescript, secondhand clothing, faded and a bit torn. Dug out of the garbage, most likely. But what was he doing here? How did he even get here?
Herobrine crossed one leg over the other, patient, as Steven finished his sandwich.
"So," he began, conversationally. "You must have questions."
"You're right about that." Steve wiped his mouth off on his sleeve, still too exhausted to care for table manners. "What are you doing here? How do you know where I live?"
"Everyone knows where you live." Herobrine shrugged. At Steven's horrified look, he laughed and continued. "I saw you walking home yesterday, and I broke in after you left this morning." He nodded to the door. "Your lock isn't exactly state-of-the-art."
"Well I never thought it would have to deter a serial killer." The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and Steve covered his mouth, looking worriedly to his intruder. Herobrine, fortunately, only seemed to find it amusing.
"Well, luckily for you you got a friendly one." He told him with a grin. "I'd advise upgrading, though. You're very valuable." The words sent a chill through him, and Steve gave him a worried look.
"…you didn't answer my question." He repeated himself. "What are you doing here?"
"Hiding out." Herobrine turned to hook one leg over the arm of the chair, sprawling out sideways. "Everyone and their mother is looking for me, and I can't exactly just throw on a hoodie." Steven swallowed a grimace, looking away.
"I suppose I don't have any choice in the matter."
"What do you mean, of course you- Stonewall." Herobrine cut himself off, waiting for Steve to look at him again. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Could've fooled me."
"I made you dinner!" Herobrine threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Besides, I owe you my life. You don't think you deserve at least a little loyalty for that?" Steven blinked, his face becoming guarded as his meaning set in.
"…so you're preserving me for in case you need blood again."
"Oh Notch, you're so paranoid." Herobrine pressed a hand to his forehead. "No. I don't intend on needing more blood anytime soon, anyway."
"It's not paranoia! You broke into my apartment!"
"And it's a good thing I did!" Herobrine gestured to him. "You were half-conscious by the time you got here, I'm impressed you made it at all. How much blood did they take?" Steve blinked at the apparent care for his well-being.
"Uh… more than usual." He thought back to the day before. "I'm usually fine, I just… didn't finish my breakfast this morning."
"Notch above. How is this your full-time job and yet you don't know how to take care of your body?" Herobrine scolded him. "What was your plan when you got home? Starve to death on your living room floor?"
"I wouldn't starve." Steve protested. "Even if I did pass out, I'd wake up and make myself something eventually."
"I couldn't help but notice a lack of any decent protein in here." Herobrine folded his arms. "That peanut butter was about all I could find." Steven shot him a suspicious look.
"…you were going through my food…?"
"To keep you from dying!"
"I'd be fine." Steven sighed heavily. "I don't get a lot of perishable food since I have to travel a lot. I eat out a lot, too, I was just too tired to try to get anything tonight." Brine gave him a suspicious look.
"…how often are you giving blood?" He asked. Steven gave a helpless shrug.
"Every… two weeks or so, usually. Sometimes more."
Brine blinked. "You know the average donor is only allowed to donate every two months?" Another shrug.
"My blood is in higher demand. Well, not really. That is, my blood is in less supply." Steven rubbed at his left arm self-consciously, which had a dark bruise on it from his time at the donation facility. Brine just gave him an incredulous look.
"Land sakes, he's going to kill himself." He muttered under his breath, then pushed himself to his feet, holding out an expectant hand. "Give me your credit card."
"What?"
"I'm ordering you a pizza. Give me your credit card." Herobrine didn't falter. Stunned, Steve dug his wallet out of his pocket, handing it over with trembling hands. Herobrine took it, started to move away, then stopped. "…and your phone."
"There's a phone in the kitchen." Steven pointed, then paused. "Wait, you don't have your own?"
"I'm a convict, I've been out of prison for one day, cut me some slack." Brine shot him a grin, then vanished into the kitchen to call the nearest pizza place.
Steven lay quietly on the couch, absently watching the flashing lights and colors on the TV. The carbs and protein from the sandwich were starting to kick in, his hands not shaking so badly now. He mused over Herobrine's words, again wondering if the killer truly had his best interests in mind. He seemed against the concept of Steve giving blood frequently… to ensure that he would have blood for him if he needed it? But he'd said he wouldn't. And, oddly enough, Steve believed him.
Herobrine walked back into the room, sinking down in the chair and scooping up the remote to change the channel. He flipped through until he found a news channel discussing his escape, which he sat and watched with interest. Having nothing better to do, Steven watched as well, listening as the hosts described Brine's escape and his appearance to those who may be watching out for him.
"Why do you let them hate you?" He murmured at last. Brine turned, raising a brow at him. "You only kill people who deserve it, right?" In his eyes, at least. "Why do you let them believe you're a senseless killer? Why don't you tell them what you told me?"
"Whole lot more trouble." Brine shrugged a bit. "Besides, 'they deserved it' doesn't hold up that well in court."
"Even if the law wouldn't endorse you, surely the media would sympathize if they knew why you did it." Steven insisted. "They'd love a vigilante. That's a scoop they barely have to work for." Brine snorted softly.
"You think so?"
"Of course."
"Well, the more anonymous I stay, the better." Brine shifted in his seat, looking back at the screen. "I don't need newscasters theorizing about my next move. If they're right, they could tip off my targets."
"They're already theorizing about your next move." Steven pointed out.
"Yeah, but they're way off course." Brine pointed to the screen, where the hosts were talking about the type of people Brine usually killed- 30-50 year-olds, apparently. "I'll be out of the state in a week. A contact of mine has informed me of a potential target down in Johnsburg."
"Contact?" Steve looked at him curiously. "You have allies in this?"
"Sure. Some I've helped in the past and want to repay me, some found out about me other ways. They help me find predators who prey on innocents so I can wipe them out." His words made Steven shudder a bit. The way he spoke so casually about killing…
The doorbell rang, and Brine looked up.
"You'll have to get the door." He gestured down the hall. "My face is plastered all over every channel." Steve blinked, then nodded, standing up and moving for the door. "Don't forget to tip!" Brine tossed him his wallet as he passed by, which Steven managed to catch by a very small margin.
He collected the pizza - an extra-large, how much did Brine think he ate? - and gave the delivery driver a $20 before heading back inside. Brine had vanished into the kitchen, and emerged a moment later with two glasses of orange juice. At the quizzical look Steven gave him, he shrugged.
"You need some fruit, and I'm not about to put pineapple on that." He sank down in the chair again, setting one of the glasses on Steven's coffee table.
"I don't mind pineapple on pizza." Steve set the pizza box down next to it, sinking down on the couch again. Brine stared at him.
"You're sick." He opened the pizza box, grabbing a slice and turning back to the TV.
"Was an extra-large really necessary?" Steven asked as he grabbed one as well.
"Figured you can have leftovers if you're still exhausted tomorrow." Brine told him, not looking away from the TV. Steven blinked, grudgingly acknowledging his forethought.
The two of them ate dinner in silence. Eventually, Brine got bored of hearing about himself, and changed the channel to some weird, late-night history documentary. He didn't even really seem to watch it, Steven supposed he was just one of those people who needed background noise all the time.
By the time he had finished eating, Steven was feeling a lot better. His limbs didn't quiver and shake, and he was no longer on the verge of collapse when he stood to go put the remaining pizza in the fridge.
"You still haven't answered my question." He spoke as he returned to the living room. "Why are you here? Why me?" Brine turned to him, looking momentarily confused.
"Ah." He sat back in his seat. "You… I told you my story. There are few who can truthfully say that about me. And you didn't laugh, or mock me, or be cruel to a man destined for execution." He shook his head. "You sympathized. You held my hand while I was drugged up and in pain." Steven blinked, his face coloring a bit. Ah. He remembered that. "So… I figured the safest place in the city was here." Herobrine continued. "That you wouldn't turn me in." He turned, meeting his host's gaze. "Was I right?" Steve chewed his lip, going over his options. Obviously he wouldn't turn him in in front of him, but he could easily do so as soon as he wasn't looking. And yet…
"Yeah." He said at last. "You were right." He jabbed a finger in his direction. "But you'll be out in a week, right?"
"A week." Brine confirmed, the grin returning to his face. "In the meantime, I'll do your chores for you, since you're a fudgin' horrible caretaker of your body. Also, please go grocery shopping." Steven just shook his head in bewilderment. It seemed that every new thing that came out of his guest's mouth caught him by surprise.
"I'm not a great cook." He found himself saying.
"Oh, I can cook. Do you like Mediterranean food?" Herobrine started rattling off ingredients, only stopping when Steven pressed a hand to his aching forehead. "You should go to bed." He urged instead. "That nap won't get you very far."
"Ah… sure." Steven turned around, steering himself towards his bedroom in a mild daze. "Don't ransack my apartment."
"Ah, if I'd wanted to ransack your apartment I'd have done it before you got home." Herobrine waved him off. "Now go to sleep." Steven obeyed, shutting himself in his bedroom to change into his pajamas.
As he lay in bed, eyes shut, with sleep bearing down on him steadily, Steve mused over how differently this evening had gone than how he expected it. He had a serial killer in his apartment.
And… somehow he was okay with it.
