Dropkicking Bullet Shells
If I did it for the popularity I would have picked the worst pairing ever with this one. But this is the pairing I love most (and the strangest too) and I couldn't care less whether it's one person who reads my story or 100. Still I'm thankful for every reader who sticks with me, like you, so thanks for that.
The next time he catches Scud's look there is something in the young man's eyes. He can't tell what it is, but when he returns the gaze Scud doesn't look away.
Deacon waits for the confusion to turn into anger. He has to wait longer now.
xXxXx
The paper feels rough and uneven between his fingertips. It doesn't only look old, it smells old. Dust particles lessened the black ink to a faint gray, barely rising against the lutescent texture of each page. Scud lets one fingertip glide over the letters. They don't make much sense to him as they are written in a foreign language. The books only caught his interest for standing in one of the apartment's corners, as if to be hidden from curious eyes. Having a lot of time to kill on his hands, now that he is woken from his catatonic state, Scud investigates the home of his master more carefully. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but he does this with the hope of maybe staying a little longer here.
He got used to the angled rooms, the glass walls, the wide balcony and the shutters which glide down with a bare sound. By now Scud memorized what he is allowed to touch and what he better keeps his hands off to avert a dark glare from across the room.
Sometimes, though, he leans against one of the glass walls, pressing his hand against the cool surface with the knowledge that it will leave a faint print, just to tickle Deacon's temper.
The man would step close to him, close enough that Scud has to lean his head back a little, offering his throat, to avoid breathing into his face. They would contemplate each other a moment, before Deacon says "Don't do that", lowly, just to earn a roguish twinkle out of eyes a deeper blue than his. But Scud does as he is told, would always so and pushes himself off the wall. One time he, of course accidentally, brushed his hip against that of his master and Deacon jerked a little backwards. Scud pretended like he didn't notice, but when he turned a slightly wicked smile started to spread across his face.
"Having found something interesting?"
Scud doesn't look up. He closes the book and carefully shoves it back between the others standing on a solid, mahogany shelf. They look even older, the wooden back carved with cuts and signs of having been passed between hands for years and years. Scud presses his thumb to one especially deep cut.
Almost like his own skin.
"Nah", he says and turns away from the damaged thing. "Reading's not really mine. I rather watch some old horror movie, at least used to."
The slightly dismissive expression on Deacon's face was predictable. Scud snorts and turns to walk back into the living room.
"Guess you never watched a movie."
"I did", Deacon says and it sounds almost defending. "When the very first movie came out I was there to watch it."
"Wasn't that, like, just a train riding towards the camera? Heard people flipped their shit and ran out of the cinema screaming 'cause they thought it was a real train hitting them."
Now it's Deacon's turn to chuckle. It still sounds strange coming from him.
"Yeah, it was kind of the spectacle. But that wasn't the only movie I watched." He sits down on the couch opposite of Scud's. "I saw the first Dracula movie."
"You're kidding", Scud laughs, accepting the cigarette the other man offers him. "How was it?"
"Well", Deacon starts, lighting the tip and taking a long drag, rolling the taste on his tongue for a moment. "How would you like it if, let's say, sheep made a movie about you and claimed that you could turn into sunflowers?"
Scud thinks about that for a moment. "Not so funny, I guess", he admits.
Deacon shakes his head, the cigarette firmly held between his fingers.
"So it's not true then? You can't turn into bats?"
"Careful, Scud."
"Sorry, I just-" Scud cuts himself off, not able to contain the little laugh falling from his lips. "It's just, I don't know, there are so many of you. Don't you have some cool super powers or something?"
"I can move three times faster than a human, the worst wounds heal within 24 h and the only things able to kill me are silver, sunlight and garlic. Not cool enough for you?"
"Nah", Scud mumbles, searching Deacon's face for any sign of anger, but finding none. "I mean, if you could fly or had a cape... you know, 'cause capes make everything ten times cooler. Imagine Batman without a cape, just him in his little panties and those small tights, I mean-"
"Do you always talk this much shit?"
It sounds less harsh than intended and when Scud snorts loudly, he catches something like a smile pulling at the other man's mouth. He swears the flutter in his stomach is only because he didn't eat that night.
xXxXx
As glad as he is that Scud is back to life, because, yes, at this point Deacon ruffled himself to admit he is in fact glad, the delicate situation is a constant lingerer in his mind. His mood tilts every time he gets another disappointing call from his companions. The next time Mercury's name appears at the surface of his phone Deacon resists the urge to just ignore his priorities. One foot wrong and they would be dead, this he is aware of.
"Nothing?" he asks before anything else.
There is a harsh breath at the other end of the connection. "No", Mercury answers tersely and it sounds like she needs all of her composure to not break into a yelling fit.
"I see", Deacon mumbles because there is nothing else to say. "Keep looking."
With this he ends the short conversation. Better than to open another discussion of "Would you please think about it?" or "What have you become, Deacon?". He doesn't want to think about either of those questions and refuses to with an almost childish stubbornness.
In all those years of his existence Deacon Frost has lost control of things exactly two times. He wouldn't let it happen again just to answer questions that aren't worth thinking about.
Still, when he sits, maltreating his phone with looks that are meant for a very different person, there is this feeling on his back, like long claws digging themselves into his flesh, ready to strip him off his skin and tear at his spine. It's the feeling of an approaching tailspin, and he doesn't like it. In moments like these, and Deacon knows it's a way too human thing, he remembers times that should be forgotten because they don't belong to his current lifestyle anymore. Times where he could count on a guiding hand, something to shelter him from those claws.
With an elongated nail he carves little lines into the expensive wood of his table. Shelter, what nonsense – Deacon Frost doesn't need someone to protect his ass. He wouldn't have been able to come all this way – as a non-pure blood, he thinks grimly – if he had counted on anyone but himself. Even Mercury and Quinn know only the necessary about him, since he is their creator and it is his duty to take care of them, not the other way around.
But... nothing speaks against a little guidance, right?
When he reaches for his phone his fingers don't hesitate this time as they fly over the buttons, searching his contacts until they find a name older than his own. It takes only a couple of rings, then a voice appears at the other end of the connection and Deacon opens his mouth to speak.
"It's me. We should talk."
xXxXx
The door is wide open. Before him stretches a corridor, bathed in pure white, similar to that in Deacon's bedroom. The only thing aspirating something like life into it is a little white table, with a white vase and a white lily inside of it. What sense that has, escapes Scud completely.
He peeks through the door, letting his gaze glide up and down the walls and deliberately ignores the impatient huffs to his left.
"So", he starts slowly. "You still serious about this?"
He glances at Deacon and is regarded with a look that would make him retreat right back inside if this situation wasn't so ridiculous and downright silly.
"Yes, I am. What about you?"
"Don't have much of a choice, do I? It's just... this so came out of the blue. A color I somewhat miss here, just like any other kind of color. Isn't that white a little overdoing it?"
His cheeky speech can't exactly cover the nervousness shaking his deep core. When Deacon came up to him, throwing a bundle of clothes into his lap with the words "Put this on. We're going out", his jaw may or may not have dropped in both excitement and confusion.
"What-? Hey, wait up", he mumbled and scrambled to his feet, following his master's pace. "What do you mean going out? Like, out out, or? I don't get it."
The glare he received made any other word get stuck in his throat.
"Yes, out out. And I want you to look decent because we're going to visit a friend of mine. So, do me the favor and spare me your annoying little voice. It's like a high ringing tone inside my head every time you open your mouth and ask another of those dumb, unneeded questions. Just get yourself ready, okay?"
"Wait, you have friends?"
Scud was too excited to pout on the insult and so he slipped into the black slacks and the wine red shirt, feeling both awed and weird when he felt the fine fabric on his skin, taking in Deacon's scent because he was yet again wearing the man's clothes. His skin even looked a little less pale, and Scud was sure his master didn't just grab any clothes. Especially not if they were about to visit a friend of his, something which his brain refused to fully grasp since, even for a vampire, Deacon was a rather antisocial companion. Maybe it was due to the whole pet situation, as Mercury liked to call it, but she and Quinn had been the only vampires regularly showing up in his master's apartment. Now that he was thinking about it, Scud felt a little bad for covering up what Deacon had left of a social life.
All of this goes revue inside of his head as he hesitantly steps out of the apartment, the safe place where he has spent the past month inside of. They aren't even outside of the building and Scud's heart already jumps in utter tizzy.
Deacon leads him to a door which turns out to be an elevator. Scud doesn't like elevators, hates the small spaces and the metallic smell of them. But he keeps this to himself as he feels he has already strained the other man's nerves to a rather critical level.
As always when he's nervous, it awakes the urge to fill the tensed silence with chatter. He would have never dared to do so with Anton or any of his customers – not that they had anything to talk about – but he found himself a new confidence with Deacon.
"So, this friend – what's he like? You know him for long?"
"Scud, I'm immortal, every one I know I know for a long time."
"...cool."
Enough conversation for now.
Scud looks up at the ciphers lighting up every time they pass another level on their way down. He frowns when they ride past the first floor.
The doors glide open, releasing a soft ding and they stare into the black of the parking garage. Scud keeps close to Deacon as they walk through the barely lit place, suppressing the urge to turn his head and look behind him. Parking garages have always been creepy and Scud knows out of his own experience that they're a favored spot for shady folks of all kind. After all, he used to be one of them.
They reach a black sports car, the surface looking like it has never been used before. Scud looks it over with an unconvinced frown.
"Ever heard of status symbols?" he asks, glancing up at Deacon.
For a moment he is regarded with a cold glare, then followed by an even colder "Get in".
He has his hand already reaching out for the backseat door when Deacon shakes his head.
"No, the front."
Scud shrugs and turns to follow the command. Despite his despise for the modern car he inhales the full leather scent and feels an old quirk of his revive. Back in his former employer's workshop it always had been Scud who fixed the old cars. At the end of the day when his work was done Scud had dared to sit in the cars a little longer, sinking deep into the leather seats and imagining what he would do if he could actually afford a gold piece like this. Definitely not let it corrode in some garage.
Sadly, Deacon's car lacks the touch of old times the other cars would carry. Scud ignores how cramped the space is compared to a Mustang's and leans his head against the headrest, ready to space out when he feels the hairs in his neck stand up. When he turns Deacon is staring at him. Scud shakes his head in question.
"What is it?"
"Seat belt."
"Yeah?"
"Put it on. Now."
He bites back the sarky comment dancing on his tongue and reaches around for the desired object. As soon as the lock clicks Deacon hits reverse and Scud grabs the door handle for balance.
"Why do you drive anyway?" he asks, biting back a prayer when they not-so-smoothly round a corner.
"The man we are going to visit likes his privacy and two pairs of eyes is one pair too many already."
"Mhm", Scud breathes between pressed lips. "But you do want us to arrive there alive, right?"
"I'll think about it", Deacon mumbles, chuckling when Scud throws him a dark glare. He slows down when they leave the parking garage, turning right to fill into the nightly L.A. traffic.
Scud knows this is a night like any other for the hundreds of people walking over the pavement. People who head home, just went out or on their way to another person who too would see this night as just a normal night.
But for Scud this is the first night outside of Deacon's apartment, outside of Anton's mansion with it's chambers and cells which he was never supposed to leave. He is here even though he shouldn't be and he sees things he thought he would never see again.
Scud never liked Los Angeles, but it's particularly beautiful tonight.
Every now and then he glances over to Deacon, but he is of course not as moved by the sight as him. Instead he seems to tense up with every passing minute, the relaxed expression long gone. Scud swallows the questions dancing on the tip of his tongue and leans his head back against the seat, staring up at the illuminated buildings with their endless rows of windows.
As they drive, the buildings get smaller, the streets no longer lighted by flashy signs and restaurants but street lights. They pass normal houses now. Some of them look very modern, with a large yard and some are made entirely of wood. By now Scud doesn't recognize the street names anymore. But they keep driving, past the houses, past the street lights until they reach the city limit. Scud rifles his memory. They should be in San Fernando Valley now as the mountain chain rises to their view.
"Wow", Scud mumbles, not able to keep the nervousness off his voice. "The man sure likes his privacy, huh?"
The answer he didn't expect doesn't come and so he tries to find comfort in the fact that Deacon could have killed him on multiple occasions already but refused, so why should he do it now? So far away from civilization. All alone, where surely no one could hear Scud screaming, like a real psychotic killer.
Yeah, why should he?
After what felt like hours and a zigzag drive up a rather steep mountain way which has Scud's empty stomach do flip-flops, a house finally comes in sight. Or more like a castle. Or a manor? Maybe both. Definitely old, Scud decides as he looks over the uneven stone walls, made of bricks that are partly covered in rambler roses and ivy. Though the way they drive up looks new, as well as the, seemingly freshly cut, hedge blocking their view to what must be the garden.
Where Deacon lacks the cinematic romanticism of a vampire, this guy has taken all those suckhead movies a little too serious.
They park right in front of the entrance. Alienated, Scud steps out of the car, almost tripping as he climbs the stairs to a wide wooden door, always one step behind Deacon. Not out of respect, more out of fear something might jump him out of the dark.
It's just when they reach the top step that Deacon turns to him. They haven't shared a single word on the ride, not like Scud ever expected his master's mood to be stable once, but the look he gives him now is even worse than the tensed silence in the car.
"Listen", Deacon says and he pins Scud right in place with a single look. "You don't speak, you don't stare at him, you don't do anything that might embarrass me in any way because if you do I promise to hurt you in ways which are far out of your imagination. Understood?"
"Then why did you take me with you in the first place?" Scud croaks, barely holding in the miserable keen stuck in his throat.
Deacon opens his mouth to answer, closes it again and only shakes his head in silent dispraise. He tugs at his black suit, pulling it into place rather harshly and turns to the door. Scud tries to swallow down the rising nausea and takes a deep breath of the fresh night air. Just in case this might be his last one.
The sound of a door bell, so loud it rings through his body, breaks the nightly silence. Just for a moment though before the door opens and the figure of a woman appears. Scud is sure this is not the friend Deacon talked about but he still bows his head a little.
He dares to glance up at her, catching a warm smile that pulls a pair of painted lips apart. Blood red, as Scud automatically thinks.
"Hello", she says, her voice dark and calm. "Deacon, it's nice to see you."
She stretches one hand out to him. When Deacon carefully accepts it she puts her other hand right over his, squeezing it lightly. Scud notices the color of her skin and how it almost shines brightly against that of Deacon.
She's human.
"And who is your companion?"
Her eyes land on him and her smile lives on just like that. Scud avoids her look, and he can't but feel bad for it.
"This is Scud. May we come in?"
"Of course", the woman says. Her tone has lit in curiosity.
She steps aside to make place for them and as Scud walks past her he notices not only the dark dress covering her form but also the glyph right over her heart. His own makes an excited jumps when the door closes behind them.
"I will go and find Alistair. He surely is still in his study room."
With that she walks off, her long dress making no sound despite the long strides she takes. Deacon watches her, but keeps silent.
They stand in a wide hall, the ceiling so high Scud has to crane his neck a little to see the chandelier hanging from it. Now he really feels like he stumbled into some old horror movie. He glances around for any hunchbacked butler, but finds none.
His paranoid train of thoughts is abruptly stopped when the sound of approaching steps fills the hall. His eyes land on a man, steadily walking towards them. Scud has no doubt this is the friend. The man looks old, way older than Deacon, maybe in his late Forties or early Fifties. He too is dressed in a dark suit, but fills it out better than Deacon. The hand he reaches out for the other man is large and looks like he could crush Scud's skull with a single squeeze.
"Deacon", the man named Alistair says and looks at Scud's master with a stern expression, green eyes giving only the faintest hint of emotion away.
"Alistair", Deacon replies in almost the same tone and accepts the hand with more confidence this time. "Thank you for inviting me."
"It's been a long time. I'm glad you called."
The moment of them shaking hands and staring at each other unblinking feels excruciatingly long and Scud balances from one foot onto the other, feeling his neck strain a little as he keeps his head bowed. He doesn't even mind being told not to look too long, this seems like a very intimate moment between the two vampires. It's not like he would care much.
"And this is your companion?"
Scud resists the urge to flinch away when Alistair steps in front of him. He stares at the hands which are able to lift his imagination to higher levels and prays for them to stay in right that place.
"Pet", Deacon corrects him, his tone having taken a sharp note. "He is my pet. His name is Scud. No sense to wonder about it."
Alistair hums, a noise that seems to come out of the depths of his broad chest and finally steps away again.
"So you have accepted Dragonetti's conditions?"
"I have accepted no one's conditions."
"As per usual."
"Why don't we go have a seat in the dining room? The meal should be ready by now." The woman's voice interrupts the short slugfest, strengthening Scud's decision that she is most likeable of everyone else in this room.
The whole situation seems unreal to him, more so when they sit down at a long wooden table, Alistair at the head, the woman to his right, Deacon and him to sit at his left. It almost feels like one of those awkward dinners where the family is forced to come together, only to realize there is nothing to talk about. Scud dares a quick look at the round. Alistair is looking at none of them, just staring straight ahead. Much like Deacon who maltreats the table's surface with looks as if to burn it. The woman who's name hasn't fallen yet catches Scud's look, smiles and tilts her head a little. A strand of ebony hair frees itself from behind her ear. In the next moment a hand is there to brush it back. Alistair curls the strand around his finger for a second before gently tugging it back in place. The woman's attention turns to him and her smile even brightens.
Confused Scud follows Deacon's manner and stares at the smooth surface of the table.
Instead of the hunchbacked butler he had waited for a man and a woman enter the wide room. Their clothes give their position as servants away. Scud knows those outfits, the maids in Anton's home wore almost the same. Even though his former master's servants didn't look as relaxed as those two. It wasn't unusual that most of them ended up as food, just like the pets and even some familiars. One time Scud watched one of them try to run. They caught her and the large stain that had followed and soaked into the carpet was then cleaned by her colleagues. After that none of them ever again tried to run.
He is ripped out of his thoughts when a simple white plate is placed in front of him. For a moment he stares at the deep red liquid swimming before his eyes, then his head catches up and his stomach clenches painfully.
"That's tomato soup."
The woman is directly looking at him. She must have sensed his unease.
"Do you like tomato soup? I just thought it would be nice if our meals matched as much as possible."
After her words his look is all but dragged towards the other plates. The filling of Deacon's plate is just as red as his, though the smell, as faint as it may be, tells it's no kind of soup at all.
"I...", Scud starts, "...I feel sick."
In the time in which Deacon whirls around to him, his eyes throwing silent maledictions, Alistair nodded to the woman. Scud stares at Deacon, trying to somehow apologize before his gaze again lands on the plate. He feels bile jump up his throat and presses the back of his hand to his mouth.
A pair of hands is gently but firmly grabbing his upper arms, guiding him off his seat and out of the room. Away from the picture, away from the smell.
He just stumbles over the oriental looking carpet, through a hall lit by smaller chandeliers until, finally, they reach a bright, white room. Scud grabs the sink as soon as it is in reach, hanging his head. The sound of water fills his ears and then there's a wet cloth wiping over his forehead in careful movements.
"I'm sorry", the woman says. "When Deacon said he would bring someone else I didn't expect... I thought he would bring one of his own kind."
"A vampire?" Scud mutters, the word feeling weird on his tongue. He has his eyes still closed, breathing through his mouth and focusing on the cool feeling the water leaves on his skin.
"Yes, a vampire."
Scud winces, grabbing the sink tighter until his fingers hurt from the pressure.
"Who are you?" he croaks and can't bring himself to be ashamed as his voice slips higher. Not in fear, not exactly, just in utter confusion.
This is all too much.
"My name is Moira. Alistair is my... let's call it partner. I used to be his pet, but he began to see more in me. Sadly, I don't know that much about his and Deacon's relationship. They have a certain history."
"Is he Deacon's creator?" Scud whispers. Before his closed eyes the world begins to spin.
"No", Moira says calmly. "But he took care of him."
The cloth disappears from his skin, only to return soaked with fresh, cold water. Scud grabs Moira's wrist, wincing when the water catches in his lashes. She hands him the cloth silently so he can press it against his lips.
"I am truly sorry", she says lowly. With a hand she brushes over his tousled hair. Scud doesn't ask what for.
xXxXx
Deacon stares after them, Moira and Scud, as they hurry away from the scene. He is enraged, has every right to. After everything he has done for this pathetic little human he doesn't manage to not completely screw this one night. He asked for one thing and Scud had to mess it up. Stubbornly, he ignores the voice in the back of his head that says that, maybe, Scud just hadn't been ready for this yet.
"I'm sorry", he says, not facing Alistair because he doesn't want him to see how little control Deacon has left. "That pet is no good. I should have known he would ruin it."
Alistair keeps silent for a while. Deacon feels the eyes on his back and so he turns around, swallowing the anger down for the moment.
For the moment.
"When you called, earlier this night", Alistair starts, eyes on the plate before him but gaze visibly lost, "and said we should talk, came all the way up here and accepted Moira's presence, I thought it wasn't you. To be absolutely honest, I believed to never hear or see you again. So, imagine my surprise. But not only that, you have a pet. You may refuse to say that you accommodated to Dragonetti's... manners, but that's what it is in the end. Or perhaps not? Deacon, if you want to talk and actually say something with meaning – now would be the best time."
He doesn't look at him while talking and something inside of Deacon stings at this gesture of belittlement. Like he isn't even worthy the disappointed looks.
"The best time?" he echoes, searching Alistair's face. "The best time is long over. The best time would have been before I took that pet. Before you began to develop a liking for that human woman. The best time would have been before you've written me off for the companions I chose or the decisions I made. It would have been the best time if you hadn't left me."
"As far as I remember it was you who chose to revive his puberty and act like a spoiled brat, completely ignoring the rules which were made to protect us and pushing away everyone who didn't agree with you, including me."
When Alistair looks up and watches him through sharp, green eyes, face darkened by an everlasting frown, Deacon shivers. He quickly brushes it off, hiding his body's reaction by straightening his suit.
"I shouldn't have come", he mumbles grimly and is about to stand up.
"Sit, Deacon", Alistair says. It's not a growl, doesn't even sound any bit of angry, but it's a tone Deacon knows just too well and which always managed to put him back in his place.
Almost reflexively he drops back onto his seat, gaze lowered in both shame and ire.
Alistair huffs, leaning back in his chair and looking over the man to his left. "When I found you, on the edge to insanity, driven mad by hunger and the wrath every newborn carries, I could have killed you. In that night I could have ended your pity with a flick of my wrist and moved on, like nothing happened. You could have been yet another by his creator abandoned newborn, not able to cope with the weight of the present you were made. You could have been just another nameless halfbreed, it's ashes left to sink into the mud, like you never existed. But... I didn't. I pulled you out of that hole you fell into, brushed the dirt off your face and fed you. I showed you how to use your new gained powers, how to hunt, how to erase your traces and how to fully grasp the meaning of immortality – what it truly means to be immortal. Or so I thought. But then you developed this hate and this need to rebel... and it was like you fell right back into that hole. But this time you wouldn't let me pull you out, instead you pushed me away. You never cared to explain to me why that was and I will admit that I was disappointed and still too caught up in grief to come after you – but now you are here. All I do is wonder why, Deacon. Why? After all this time. Why are you here now?"
His hands are hidden in his lap. One of the things Deacon always hated about Alistair was how he would never raise his voice, never lose that relaxed expression of his like everything goes just like he planned. Deacon never managed to maintain that much control over himself and Alistair always let him knew how disappointed he was about this.
Even now he is calm, every word that comes out of his mouth sounding absolutely sure and strengthened in it's meaning and purpose. He glances up to his self-appointed mentor. The shame that tightens his chest is familiar and just as unpleasant as it had been then.
"It wasn't right", he says sharply, though quieter than intended. "All this time humans were nothing but cattle for us. They were food, blood bags on legs. You told me... you said we were superior, but then, all of a sudden, you changed your mind and followed every of Dragonetti's ass-climbing words about peace and how we have to live in compact with the humans. With cattle! And I didn't understand, see, I wasn't rebelling or anything – I just didn't understand and it made me fucking angry, okay? You never bothered to explain things to me, it was always the way it had to be, the way someone chose was the best for us and then we all had to live by that. So, no, Alistair, it wasn't me who abandoned you – you abandoned me!"
By the end of his speech his voice fills the whole room, words echoing off the walls but quickly getting lost in the wide space. His hands are shaking and he forms tight fists, not even flinching when sharp nails bury into his flesh.
Both men stare at the table, not able to stand the look in the eyes of one another.
"I have never been human", Alistair mumbles slowly. "I have never seen a sunrise or felt her beams on my skin. My heart never lived, my body was always cold. But I always knew about the preciousness of life, not only for me, but also for them. I never told you the humans were cattle and I won't take the blame for your wrath towards them. But I do take the blame for leaving you angry and lost when I should have been at your side."
"What does it change now?" Deacon mumbles.
"The reason why you're here, that's what it could change."
xXxXx
They sit in silence for a while now. Scud still feels the nausea coming in waves, always taking him back when he thinks his legs are able to carry him again. Before his knees gave in Moira took him by the hand and sat him down on the edge of the large tub. When Scud gave it an investigating look he decided that it's way bigger than that of Deacon and wondered if Moira ever spent a night in it, clinging to the man who marked her, forced her into this situation until he chose to take care of her.
"So, you're a couple, or what?" he asks.
"By social standards, yes", Moira answers. "But it was a long process, and a surprising one."
"How did he find you?"
"Alistair didn't exactly find me. Before him I had several other masters. I was practically born into slavery as my mother was caught while she was pregnant. It's a wonder they didn't kill her, or me, for that matter. Instead I was passed from vampire to vampire for many years. I think it was spring when he took me with him, couldn't have been older than twenty maybe. Weird, I remember the day when I wanted to run but not the night when he took me. But I do remember how he changed. Alistair has never been cruel to me, just very distant. Until that turned into something else..."
"How?"
Moira throws him a quick glance, a smile that's lost in old memories dancing around her lips.
"Oh, I don't know. He never let me see much of what was going on in him. But I guess he was lonely and not quiet ready to give up the safety of that loneliness. What you have to know is that Alistair is not like those vampires you may have encountered. He belongs to a way older generation and even if it may sound cheesy but he has a different standard of values. All those turned city vampires, they are brutal, inexperienced. They were thrown into a world already dominated by violence and crime... they know no other way."
Scud knows exactly what way Moira means, but none of them says it out loud. Absently, Scud rubs over the scars on his stomach, having every one of them remembered by now and how they press against his fingertips, the feeling still alienating. Like they don't belong to him. But they do.
"Do you love him? Alistair, I mean."
"Love is such a simple word to describe what I feel for this man. Gratitude, respect, the feeling of not being alone – that comes way closer to it."
She doesn't say it, doesn't ask the question, but Scud knows what lingers on her tongue.
"Deacon is not like Alistair", he says slowly and his voice almost breaks with tiredness.
xXxXx
He once heard if people held something to themselves for a long time the words would just sputter out of them like a verbal fountain when they couldn't take it anymore.
This night Deacon learned this sadly doesn't fit him.
Every word, every sentence that is supposed to explain his situation and all that mess is a fight. With each information his own pride rages up to keep him from spilling any more than this. The whole time, while he tells Alistair what happened from the night he made the deal with Anton until the night he saw that video tape of Scud, there is a voice inside of his head that tells him to stop, to quit acting so helpless and weak. But Alistair's looks are encouraging, for the first time in many years and that is enough to keep Deacon going.
When he ends the silence feels weird. Deacon never thought he could be this nervous about someone's response to what he said. He can almost feel his heart flutter, a memory he thought to have lost long ago.
"I don't know what to do", he mutters defeated. "It's all turned into some big blurry mess and I don't know what to do."
He feels tired, not just in a physical way. The feeling of having spent every last drop of energy goes far deeper than the muscles and the bones. He can't even bring himself to be angry at himself for being tired and showing it.
"Say something", he whispers, voice a little rough from the endless talking.
Alistair draws a hand through his slicked back hair, forehead falling into thoughtful wrinkles.
"Anton MacHorvath is a soulless, dishonorable, traitorous man who is only looking for his own advantage. He has no heart and that is what makes him dangerous, Deacon. That is what makes us all weak, the heart that is. But it's also what encourages us to make certain decisions. If I had been like Anton I would have let you rot in that hole. But I'm not, I'm not cruel and that was your luck. Just like it was the human's luck that you didn't let him die."
"That had nothing to do with heart", Deacon mutters, leaning his elbows on the table to press his palms to the eyes. "I took him because he came in handy in that situation."
"Yes, maybe in that situation he did", Alistair says, leaving it at that.
They share another quiet moment.
"He tickles you", the older man mumbles, "he tries to get a reaction from you, something careless so he can trip and get you. So that is what you shouldn't do."
"But I can't just ignore it", Deacon snarls and remembers Mercury's annoyance about the topic. If she had felt the same belittlement as he did with Alistair?
"As you know, I have never been part of this business of yours. Shady clubs, public human meals, familiars who crawled out of the darkest corners this world has to offer... but I will try and see what I can do. Don't put your companions for this on the line, Deacon, I know what they mean to you. Especially this girl who really is just... but we had this conversation already. Don't let it flood your head, things will turn out fine for you."
"What about Scud?"
The question is out before he could think about it. Deacon takes the hands off his face and searches that of his mentor.
"That depends on what he means to you", Alistair admits. "What does he mean to you?"
Deacon snorts, shrugs and leans back on his seat, as if to escape the question.
"He is a human, he means nothing. When all of this is over I will just... get rid of him, somehow. That's the only thing to do."
"You know, Deacon, it doesn't have to be like this. We don't have to hate the humans, just like they wouldn't have to hate us. I thought you might understand this even better than me, what with your former life, because I saw you and more than your face I saw the back of your head. You always turned around, you always looked back. But then you stopped."
"There is no sense in looking after the past."
"No, not looking after it... but sometimes it can be an anchor and remind us of what we used to be and how things were. The past isn't always bad, Deacon. Sometimes it helps us to see present things more clearly."
xXxXx
They still stand in the doorway when Deacon starts the car and they slowly roll down the way. Scud looks at Moira through the front window. When she catches his gaze she lifts her arm to wave him goodbye, her smile faltering just for a moment. But that's when they take a turn and the couple disappears out of his sight, replaced by the view of the road ahead of them.
Scud can tell that it hasn't been an easy night for neither of them. Deacon holds the steering wheel in a tight grip, not having bothered with looking at him since he left the dinner with Moira earlier.
"I'm sorry", he mumbles, daring to glance at Deacon's stony profile. "I really am."
He is met with icy silence, something Scud thought to prefer over the usual audible outbursts of the man. But as it shows, he doesn't.
With a small sigh he leans his head back against the window, feeling the cold of the window crawl over his skin and his own hot breath dampening the glass. As a kid he had liked to draw pictures onto the stained windows, until his father told him not to because it would leave dirty fingerprints.
They still have some hours left until sunrise but the city is as lively as always. Scud watches a group of young women pass by as they wait at a traffic light. One of them is wearing a tiara with an improvised looking bridal veil hanging down her back. A stag party. Scud had never been invited to one of those, too loosely his friendships to share such an event with someone like him.
He follows them as they stumble down the street, laughing loudly and singing incoherent drinking songs.
When the hand lands on his thigh he flinches just barely. It feels strange there, though it's not grasping. It's just lightly resting, unmoving and almost shy looking.
He turns to Deacon but he is staring straight ahead. Scud doesn't brush the hand off until the lights turn green and Deacon grabs the steering wheel again.
It's the closest he gets to an "It's okay" as possible.
The rest of the drive is shared in familiar silence, but now it feels like someone took all that tension out. Scud tries to enjoy the last minutes until they are back in the apartment. The building comes far too quickly into sight and Deacon could slow down a bit, he wouldn't block anyone here, but Scud doesn't dare to ask. Instead he closes his eyes when they enter the parking garage and only opens them again when the car comes to a halt.
They step out of the car, take the elevator upstairs and walk through the short white corridor. Deacon unlocks the door and holds it open as Scud enters. As he steps into the apartment Scud can't but wonder when he will be able to leave it again. If that will ever be the case.
"Wanna smoke?"
He nods and follows Deacon out on the balcony. He accepts the cigarette, takes the lighter from his hands and counts the still illuminated windows of the building opposite of them. This time he counts twelve.
When he releases his eyes again, Deacon is looking at him. Scud frowns.
"What?" he asks curiously.
But he only shakes his head. "Nothing. Let's get inside."
As Deacon closes the door Scud stretches, lifting both arms high above his head and listens to the crack of his bones, how all of that tension that has built up during the night seems to flood from his muscles.
"I guess I, uhm, gonna crash now. Pretty tired", he says, making some slow steps into the direction of the bedrooms. "But, uh, thank you, for the whole night. It was... nice."
Deacon nods, but keeps his body turned towards the glass doors, hands still on the handle. Scud chews on the inside of his cheek. Guess there's no sense in asking if he's mad. But the man remaining completely silent does worry him since Deacon is not exactly the person who would keep his mouth shut to punish Scud. The last time he did that it didn't last long and the whole thing ended with Scud on his knees and an awkward night after. Maybe it's for the better to not poke him and just enjoy the silent treatment, as much as possible.
With that as a final conclusion Scud retreats to his bedroom, closing the door behind him very carefully.
As he lays on the bed he hears the shutters glide down. They spent half the night driving around and Scud does feel tired, but sleep is something he waits for without success. There is no clock in the room, the only clock in the whole apartment is the one in the kitchen, still Scud is sure it's early morning already. As he tosses around, stuffing the pillow frustratedly and still finding no comforting position, his thoughts begin to wander. Back to Moira and Alistair, what the woman told him and how absolutely content she had seemed to be with her situation. Like she had an actual life there. With that old, emotionally disabled suckhead who climbed out of God knows what graveyard.
He thinks about what Moira said, that Alistair isn't Deacon's creator but that he took care of him, and how that would mean the old bastard had some kind of soft spot containing maybe something like sympathy.
A vampire with a heart. The thought pulls a joyless laugh from his lips.
His heart thrums in rhythm to the music which sinks through the door separating him from the rest of the apartment. Scud searches his memory for the song, but can't seem to remember it. Still, it's kind of familiar...
He frowns and sits upright in his bed. He didn't notice the music until now.
On bare feet he tips through the room, carefully opening the door and peeking out into the living room. The music gets louder as he follows a soft voice between the glass walls. The sound echoes off the smooth surfaces and seems to come from every direction, a little scratchy and uneven, like it's a really old song.
Deacon has his back to him when Scud finds him. He's standing in front of a small table and on it something he can only guess to be a record player.
"Didn't know you had one of those", he mumbles, leaning against the wall to his left.
Deacon throws him a quick glance before facing the endlessly turning record again. "Yeah, I forgot about it. But when you had this book in your hand I remembered. Not that much of a friend of music anyway, not this kind at least."
"Billie Holiday, hm?" Scud asks and steps a little closer, glancing at the cover balancing on the edge of the small table. "That's something I didn't expect..."
About this he is completely honest and not afraid to show. The other man could not take it as an insult that Scud didn't expect him to be a friend of old music. In Scud's eyes his master had always seemed to enjoy the modern lifestyle.
He also didn't expect him to turn around and ask: "Have you ever danced?".
Scud snorts and buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans, suddenly feeling a little misplaced in his worn t-shirt between the books and the fine glass and the voice of an already dead woman.
"No", he replies, hesitantly and looks anywhere but Deacon's direction. "Do I look like it?"
"If I went by your looks I'd say you couldn't even read", Deacon snaps, but doesn't lose the small smile playing around his mouth. "But you surprised me there, so why not give it a try?"
"What, with you?"
"No, with the broom. Come on."
For a moment he stares at the hand stretched out to him, before taking it, slowly, like Deacon could pull it away in the last second and go "Just kidding", leaving him looking like a complete idiot. But he doesn't and tugs at Scud's arm until both of them stand in the middle of the small place. Feeling awfully awkward, he lets his arms and hands be arranged by the man, one on the right shoulder, the other lightly resting in Deacon's own hand.
"Now this is really easy-"
"That's what you say."
"-You just move in rhythm to the music, slowly and without any hast. Just let it guide you. See, like that. It's not that hard, right? Just listen to the music, to that beautiful voice of Miss Holiday – who was really lovely, by the way."
"You met her?"
"I'm not the philistine you seem to think I am."
"To be honest, I don't think that much of you at all", Scud mutters, looking at his feet and watching not to step on anyone else's, just as he watches to keep a certain distance to the other body. "Man, I feel stupid..."
Deacon huffs, just barely, but pulls him a little closer. "That's because you don't let yourself be guided. You're worse than Mercury, she can't give away control either."
'Thanks for comparing me with that psychotic bitch', Scud silently snaps and holds his breath when Deacon bumps into him, having not followed the other man's movements and not taken that step back that might have saved him from the mini heart attack he just received.
"You dance often?" he asks, trying to cover his fastened heartbeat.
"Not really", Deacon mumbles and grips his hand a little tighter. "The time for dancing is over. Should have done it more often when the music was still made for it, but back then it was just a tactic to seduce prey – and I can tell you they did a better job than you because you're as tense as a buck about to be ripped by lions."
"Well, hello?" Scud snaps and tugs his hand out of that of Deacon. "I told you I never danced and that I feel stupid. It's just not my thing, okay?"
"Dancing's everybody's thing", Deacon says lowly and grabs his hand back, placing it on his other shoulder. "This better?"
Scud throws him a weak glare. It's not exactly better, but at least more relaxing for his arm. And he feels less opened up like this. He reaches around until his fingers hook into each other and just lets them hang there, feeling Deacon move slowly and rhythmically.
"Not as bad as you thought, hm?"
The words are almost rasped, their speaker seemingly lost in the moment. Scud shivers a little, but shakes it off and stares at his feet again. Deacon and him are pretty much the same height, so every time he bows his head the upper strands of his hair almost fall into the other man's face, tickling his lips and chin.
"Could be worse", Scud admits slowly.
They stay like that for a moment, just moving to the soft sounds as the record turns relentlessly. Then Deacon clears his throat, breaking Scud's focus on his feet and having him lift his head.
"What happened at Alistair's home", he begins, pauses and now it's his turn to avoid Scud's look, "that wasn't your fault and I should have understood that you weren't ready for that yet. After everything that happened, after all those things Anton did... I mean- I'm sorry, okay? And I promise to not put you in a situation like that again, ever."
He falls silent after that, fixating a point somewhere over Scud's shoulder. How long has he been thinking about this? When did he choose to apologize? Scud anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip. He knows he should say something but can't bring himself to open his mouth and do so. His heart probably already gave him away, the way it sped up and presses against the ribcage in a lively manner.
"None of that should have happened", Deacon mumbles and when he looks at Scud, he can see that he really means it.
In any other situation he could have controlled it. In any other situation he would have been able to keep his head out of it and focus. But in the last month his world has been turned upside down, again, for the second time in not even a year and Scud knows it's normal to just snap at some point. People do it all the time and he did a good job at avoiding this until now. But at some point everyone does, and in the short breath he pulls himself closer to Deacon and leans in, Scud decides that no one could ever blame him.
He knows what a vampire's skin feels like, what the lips taste like and how they smell. They all felt, tasted and smelled the same. There was iron and earth, maybe a hint of perfume from the clothes, but overall they were just blank. Nothing to distinguish them, nothing to separate them. They were all the same.
At first Deacon doesn't move at all. He stops to dance the second Scud's human warmth spreads over his own skin, sinks into his flesh and blood and awakes a memory deep inside of him. His entire body moves before his mind does, hands tightening their grip on slim hips and pulling the other body close, pressing him against his own from head to toe, like he wants to sink into him, into that warmth and that smell of life.
Deacon almost growls into the kiss, one hand grabbing a fistful of dark hair and holding Scud in place as he takes the human's mouth. There is no resistance when he licks over reddened lips which open up obediently. Scud almost melts into the way Deacon wants him, whole body going slack and soft. When he grabs the pet by his rear and presses their groins together Scud gasps and a small keen escapes his opened mouth.
"Please."
He tilts his head back and Deacon has his mouth on the throat within a second, lips pressing against the flushed skin.
"I'll do anything you want."
Another primal growl rises from his chest and the grip on his back tightens, fists grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer. He can hear Scud's heart thunder in his ears, the smell of iron in the blood underneath clouding his senses.
"...don't do this."
Suddenly the warmth disappears and Scud stares at him, strands of hair hanging in his eyes and a look of utter bewilderment on his face.
"What's wrong?" he asks, a little out of breath.
Deacon stares at the hands, his own hands, gripping the human's shoulders and keeping him at a distance. He swallows, the taste of Scud still on his lips.
"No", he mumbles and shakes his head violently. "I can't do this, I shouldn't..."
"What? Can't do what?"
"This, I mean... Look, you don't have to do this, it's okay, I appreciate it, but-"
"You what?" Scud interrupts him and suddenly the look of confusion turns into that of anger. "You appreciate it? Are you fucking kidding me?"
Deacon, still having his hands on Scud's shoulders, stares at him, completely uncomprehending.
"No, why would I? I mean it, Scud, you don't have to do this."
"Oh, I know what I have to do, thank you very much. God bloody dammit, you are the most sissy-assed, ignorant little dipshit I've ever seen, man. You appreciate it? Are you... are you joking?! Have you ever, just for one tiny second, thought that, maybe, I wanted this? That I made this decision and wanted to do this? No, probably not, because in your head I'm so fucked up that I never have any plan of what the hell I'm doing. Right? Isn't it like that? Just because some cruel asshole thought it'd be okay to rape me and torture me, he managed to fuck up my brain and turn me into some kind of delusional psycho? That's what you think I am? Wow, fuck you."
With a harsh jerk he pulls himself free from the loose grip on his shoulders and takes a step back.
"You really thought I'd do this for you, didn't you? Yeah, because you're the arrogant, self-centered brat everyone's calling you! Know what? Forget it, I'm not in the mood, master."
For a second Deacon just stands and stares, trying to comprehend what just happened. But then his face darkens and a derogatory snort escapes him.
"Like that ever mattered", he mutters.
Scud feels his expression slip and deep inside of him something just cracked. Before Deacon sees how much the words really hurt him, Scud turns around with a last annoyed "whatever".
But he doesn't come far as a hand lands on his shoulder. He whirls around, trying to push Deacon away but losing his balance and thus having them both tumbling to the floor in a mess of limbs and groans. The world spins before his eyes and Scud moans, shaking his head to clear his vision. He remembers the weight on him and when Deacon manages to push himself up, Scud doesn't waste another second. His knuckles collide with the cool surface of Deacon's face, a small crack echoing through his ears. It's probably just due to the surprise, but Deacon falls off of him, hitting the ground just as hard as he did. In the next breath Scud is on him, straddling his waist and already lunging for another hit.
He wouldn't have if he hadn't forgotten the thing with the three times faster than humans.
All air gets pressed out of his lungs when his back crashes into the floor, even harder than before and then there is a hand around his throat, bending his neck back at an unnatural angle. Scud grabs the cold wrist, trying to loosen the grip, but failing miserably. He stares at Deacon above him, sees the long white fangs exposed in the dim light of the room and the primal rage distorting the man's face into something cruel and predatory. The bit of pride that manages to rise inside of his mind swallows down the keen that wants to dwell up. He probably couldn't make a sound anyway, not with the way Deacon cuts off all air.
It's just a split second, but the thought crosses his mind that this is it, this is his end and that it doesn't come from the man who wanted to kill him, but from the man who promised not to. He would laugh at the irony of the situation if he could, instead he feels a tear slip out of his eye's corner.
He watches Deacon's face soften, the fangs slipping back in and then there is pure terror in the man's eyes. The hand around his throat vanishes, leaving Scud coughing and rasping for air.
"Fuck, I'm so sorry", Deacon whispers, holding both his hands up as if not knowing what to do with them. "Scud, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"
The rest gets cut off when Scud lunges up, grasps him by the front of his shirt and pulls him down into a forceful kiss. It's not gentle or shy, how first kisses should be, it's brutal and desperate and leaving him breathless again. His hands rake through Deacon's hair, pulling and shoving, trying to get even closer to him. A loud moan escapes him when Deacon rolls his hips into him, having lost the battle by now. None of them can't bring themselves to care about it.
Deacon hisses into the kisses, frantic words falling against his lips.
"You're killing me", he whispers and reaches around to lift Scud's back off the ground, grinding into him.
Both of them know this could be done more gentle, more careful. But right now, this is the better way. Scud is the first to tear at Deacon's shirt, ripping at the fabric and managing to send one or two buttons flying off. It doesn't take long though until the other man gets it and starts to unbutton his shirt, pulling it off when he's only half done and casting it carelessly aside. Scud's hand are already on his belt, fingers still quick and sure even in a situation like this. Their lips only separate so Deacon can pull the already worn out shirt over Scud's head, but then they are right back and Scud grabs his face, blunt nails digging into the cool flesh.
He presses into him, Deacon does, hiding his face in the crook of Scud's neck and just breathes, takes in the scent and lets it cloud his senses yet again. It's only when the human begins to wriggle under him, hissing an impatient "Come on!" that he snaps back and hooks his fingers into the waistband of the loosely sitting jeans on Scud's hips. They slip over jutting hipbones, his nails scraping the small hollow in between and Deacon hears him gasp.
The taste of iron clings to his mouth, even though he hasn't hurt the fragile skin. Scud's lips are red and slightly pulsing, enough to awake the memory of a certain taste. Deacon hates clothes, this he decides now. With a last pull the jeans are off and it's only the fabric of his own slacks that separates him from the hot skin.
"Please", Scud mumbles, biting Deacon's bottom lip and then releasing it again. "Just do it already."
A button, a zipper and then he's frees, hard and leaking. A quick stroke, smearing a mixture of saliva and precome over his aching cock because somewhere between the kissing and the roaming hands Deacon remembers that he doesn't want to hurt Scud. Then he leans back in, smothering Scud's form with his own and catches the small yelp that escapes warm lips as he pushes in.
He had a lot of partner's before, but he never had a human, and there could never be a better first time than Scud.
The legs wrapped around his waist urge him on, just like the desperate keens and the nails digging into his upper arms. Scud has his neck craned back. He doesn't look at him, eyes pressed shut but mouth hanging open to release wave after wave of pleads and curses.
Deacon watches him as he buries his cock deeper and deeper into that heat, feeling every slip of skin on skin as he moves, driving back in and swallowing down his own words. He doesn't want to miss any of those needy noises for which he had waited so, so long.
With his arms placed on each side of Scud's head he cranes his neck to kiss that of the human. He won't bite him, that's out of question, the feeling of a living heart thundering against his lips already enough of a satisfaction.
When Scud starts to mumble his name, the same sound falling from his lips over and over like a mantra, Deacon gets his hands under the already bent back, lifts him off the cold stone floor and into his lap.
He sinks deeper in and both moan simultaneously, foreheads leaning against each other.
Scud feels good, he really does, but Deacon won't tell. He probably has been told too many times already.
They move together, slipping against one another's body. Scud has his hands back on Deacon's face, gently cupping it, still mumbling his name. It sounds so nice coming from him.
When he reaches between them and strokes Scud in rhythm to their movements, the hands disappear from his face, instead now there are nails scraping over his neck, digging in so hard it should hurt. But all of his focus is on Scud and when the human comes he follows shortly after, face pressed into the crook of Scud's neck and listening to his name being formed by red lips one last time.