Okay, new record with the waiting, sorry. I wish I could say it won't happen again, but the last half a year has been crazy and there is no end to the madness in sight. Anyway, thanks for everyone who's been sticking with me so far and the reviews left. Enjoy now.
Between his fourteenth and eighteenth year of living Scud had avoided to look into the mirror. It wasn't because of any visible harms, though he had a little scar across his chin from a fight with one of the watchdogs, or because he found himself too ugly to the sight.
It was because he saw her in his face.
He saw her in the blue of his eyes, the way his brows furrowed and how his lips almost automatically pulled together when in thought. She seemed to come alive again when he studied his own tired features, almost as gray as the walls around him. Like a silent reminder that he was truly and honestly alone, the only thing to keep her in this world his body and memories.
When the nurse of his ward said he would look more like her every day, he had punched the poor woman. She was sent home with a shock and Scud fixed to his bed for the rest of the night.
Back then, he had tried to forget her. And for this Scud still hates himself.
It's more difficult for him to have someone touch his face, feel those features of his mother, than anything else. The first time Deacon let his fingers carefully feel over the bumpy scars on his stomach it was uncomfortable, a new sensation, but those scars weren't as much a part of him as his lips or his cheeks. It felt distant and distant was okay. But when he traced the outer line of his brows, gently flattening the wrinkle in between with a thumb, there had been nothing more tempting than the sight of the opened door.
Despite his public hate for everything human, Deacon is fairly interested in Scud's humanity. It feels like cheating on a part of himself with letting this stranger explore parts of his body Scud had avoided to feel himself for so long.
Most of the time, he endures it. Really endures it because it's only months of self-training that keep him from batting those restless hands away. Then there are days when he can't seem to care for it, for everything this meant to him. Or had meant? This dream-like state, not sure whether he's sleeping or awake, has followed him ever since, almost haunted him at times. It got in handy during long nights to blend out the happenings, but there were situations where it got him in trouble more than anything.
Every time he seems to drift off, putting up that wall to block out her memory, the hands are back, their touch so gentle it repulses Scud.
Some nights, he wonders whether he really doesn't care about it all anymore, or just suppresses it, together with everything else. Including her.
xXxXx
They have this silent agreement, a wordless deal to not spill a breath over this. About what they have, or not have. Depending on the viewing angle.
But what they did agree on is a reoccurring of, well, this.
A little awkward at first, to put it smoothly, and less hurting for Deacon's pride. Despite his long, long experience he encounters moments which leave him a little bewildered and not sure of what to do. Like the one time when all of a sudden a switch seemed to go off in Scud's brain and he just stopped moving, lying there next to him and not responding to any touch or word. At a loss of ideas, Deacon decided to just tug the human under a blanket and wait for him to come back from whatever place he momentarily was. Or the time when he called the boy a dirty whore, out of sheer excitement and arousal, and suddenly had a shaking, sobbing picture of misery in his lap. Those were the nights that didn't really go well.
But there were others too, of course. This was him, Deacon Frost, after all.
The greatest achievement so far was when Scud actually showed a reaction that was not acted but completely spontaneous.
A long, drawn out "Fuuuck..." when he slid his fingers deeper inside the warm body, curling them just a tiny bit, but enough to have the human asking for more. Not literally, but they don't need much words to communicate anyway.
If Deacon is honest with himself, and he mostly was, this isn't the way he usually handles things. Even when a certain level of finesse is required, he tries to speed things up, get them over with before he loses interest. Which happens often, and quickly on top, especially when they take too long. Up to now it has always worked out, though, so no worries there. But with Scud – and he's often somewhat sulking at the thought – everything is so much different. A part of his brain tells him the rather unpleasant truth about this: he got pussy-whipped by a mentally unstable human. The other part is just happy about every tiny achievement, not even bothering to present him a satisfying explanation as to why that is. And every time Deacon tries to think of a reason himself, he is met with a concrete mental block that gives him headaches, if anything.
So, instead of bending the human over and do as he would normally please, he asks for permission first. Kind of, in his own way. Deacon had never and will never have to ask for sex like someone who was not theoretically in the position to just do as he likes, this he tells himself, but there are certain reactions to his presence which are just as good as a loud and audible "Fuck off". Though Deacon is fairly sure the boy wouldn't dare to say that out loud, not yet at least. He learned to read the signals, the moment when the light in those eyes goes out or when the movements become cut-off, almost robotic. It's those nights when he spends his time at the other end of the room.
It had been going well for the past days. But as always, it couldn't keep on going well forever.
He wakes to the usual darkness, her silent embrace soothing for his mind. Darkness doesn't mean to him what it means to humans. It's not the black that threatens to swallow the sight, drowning them in a wave of vulnerability. This is Deacon's light, his time, his natural environment. He learned to love it, her, and the peace her shadows offer. So when there is a throaty shriek to his right, it takes him a moment to figure out the why of the situation. It is quickly found, moving, fidgeting, until a loud thud echoes through the small space of the improvised coffin and a moan that sounds a lot like a concussion.
Before the boy can do any more harm, to himself and Deacon's furniture, the top glides up and Deacon reaches for his phone with the one hand, with the other steadying Scud as the human clutches a growing bump on his head.
He can't remember calling his medic this often, but as always, despite all maledictions, his door bell rings shortly after, pressed by a perfectly manicured finger whose owner still has to stand on her toes, especially when the height-adding heels are missing.
No word is shared on their way over to the couch where Scud sits with a blanket wrapped around his lean form. Deacon had offered a cooled blood bag to sooth the pain of the impact which Scud had, expectantly, refused.
He shoots the small woman a quick smile before his head is roughly pulled to the side for examination.
"Have I ever told you the downside of this job?" she asks, taking out a tiny flashlight and waving it on front of the boy's eyes.
"A side of me always wants to know why. Why there is half a body hanging from a ceiling fan or how this woman fell through a seemingly shut drain to break her ankle. Or where those bruises come from, those bumps and scratches in places where the sun doesn't shine. But the other side, which is luckily the more dominant one, says to not bother, to keep things the way they are. Not-talked-about. Untouched, figuratively."
Seemingly satisfied, she puts the little flashlight aside and gives them a long look over her frameless glasses.
"But I still wonder", she ends her short narration.
"Understandable", Deacon comments, his eyes almost automatically gliding over to Scud, who just shrugs, the blanket around his shoulders making a little rustling sound.
"I hit my head on the coffin", he says slowly. "Couldn't see much in the dark. Not a suckhead, y'know."
There seem to still be some flaws in their silent communication.
"Out", Missouri commands and her tone let there no doubt be.
Almost apologetic silently Scud sidles away from the scene, the blanket draping over the floor, until that sound too is out of the two participants' reach.
Deacon is not scared of Missouri, there is no reason to be, and she is still just a human. But sometimes he could swear those gray eyes hold more soullessness than his own.
"Interesting turn of events", she begins, "not so much."
"There's an explanation and if I bothered to give you one, I would", Deacon sneers, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
"Believe me, you do bother."
For a moment they regard each other with flaming looks, a "Why the hell would you care?" dancing on Deacon's tongue. But then he decides to go along with it. If the woman insists.
"Scud is mine now", he says lowly, the words tripping from his lips easier than he thought.
Missouri nods.
"You screwed him."
"Did not! Well, I did, but surely not in the way your twisted mind imagines. It was all... consensually, as you would put it."
"Consensually?" Missouri repeats, the fake disbelief in her voice on the edge to sarcasm. "Yes, absolutely. Now, I almost worried there. Let's switch to a more pleasant topic, shall we? Just yesterday I read an article about this perky thing... have you ever heard of the Stockholm Syndrome?"
"It's not like that!" Deacon busts and takes a defiant step into the woman's direction. Missouri doesn't even bother to stand, looking up at him, the purse which always contains a needle of garlic just in reach. "This isn't some sick mind game I forced him to. He came at me, believe it or not."
"Not", she hisses. "Really, how stupid can one be? You even believe yourself, don't you? From your point of view, everything's just perfect, finally no more resistance, you don't have to bother kicking him over the place anymore. No more ruined suits, hm?"
"Watch your mouth", Deacon snaps and feels the flesh around his canines tingle in anticipation.
"Watch your back", Missouri retorts, now rising to her feet. It doesn't make much of a difference. "Because this cozy, domestic thing won't turn out well for you. You may have forgotten the situation over your nightly feeling up, but I'm at the heart of the scene and I'm hearing things. And this you can believe me, they don't sound so pretty."
She makes a small pause. "I thought to see a change in you, Deacon – but I just discovered more of you, and that's never a good thing."
"You think I'm like him?" Deacon clenches between his teeth, barely suppressed anger shaking his form. "It's difference, he endures no harm. I promise you, Missouri!"
Why he feels the need to convince her, this human woman, of his innocence, or what it may be that comes close to it, steps out of his reach of understanding. He is instead faced with a despair that hasn't gotten him this badly since Alastair doubted him. Deacon may be a vampire, cruel of nature and not the most charming companion at times, but he's not a liar.
"I shouldn't even bother to explain to you, or try to, because I'm a little over my head here too, but I don't want him hurt. And I can't endure the thought of all of this happening to him again. He should have it good, and this I'm trying to accomplish to the farthest point possible by my hands."
The silence that follows his confession is just pushing the anger bubbling under his surface.
"So?" he snaps yet again.
"So what?" Missouri mutters, suddenly a shadow hanging over her features. "What do you expect of me? I've spent more than half my life in this business. People of your kind have been promising me all kind of things, you're not the first to experience this situation. They all explained it so well, so convincing I thought, every time, that maybe things really do change, turn to the better. Happy endings. But then I was the one to scrape away the remains, literally. I'm far beyond believing, Frost. Shouldn't have tried this at all."
With a sigh that seems to come from the depths of her chest, she leans down, closing her purse and hanging the medical bag around her bony shoulders. Deacon shudders, the feeling of defeat also overcoming him.
"Just make this one promise, and promise to keep it: if you do it, do it quickly and don't make such a mess. Okay? My back isn't getting any younger."
xXxXx
Scud hears the door close again, waiting for the sound of approaching steps. It doesn't come for a long time, but when it does, he can hear the change before he sees it.
"Probably shouldn't have mentioned that?" he mumbles, cracking a weak smile when Deacon appears in the door frame. The other man looks at him with an unreadable expression. Not the "I will break your neck and you won't see it coming" kind of unreadable, but just unreadable. Like a white, blank page, empty of things to say. "Shall I make up for it?"
He stands, lazily dropping the blanket to the floor where it lands in a formless, wrinkled mess. The air is cold against his bare skin, Deacon doesn't bother for heaters for obvious reasons.
By now Scud has figured out that he likes to have his neck kissed, gently sucked, though he sometimes wonders about how much the man can really feel. The physiology of vampires has been something far out of his interest up to now. It's not hard to get a reaction out of him though, be it by memories of his human life, or out of real feelings. As Scud realized, Deacon is someone who likes to get to the point. This doesn't necessarily mean he skips foreplay every time, he's way too good at that. But often enough, for his reactions are quick and rushed, like a petrol drained puppet set on fire, the hot flames indulging the form in seconds.
He stops, frowning, when his own wandering hands get no respond.
"You okay?" he whispers, trying another experimental nibble, but yet again receiving nothing but cold silence.
The gentle push against his form is unexpected and rather surprised Scud follows the lead and takes a step back.
"I need some time to think", he says suddenly. His usually smooth voice has taken a gravelly tone and Scud flinches just barely at that.
"Should I get out?"
Deacon shakes his head, bends to pick up the blanket and drapes it back around Scud's cooling body. His hands rest on the human's shoulder for a moment, before he shakes his head again. "No, get back to sleep. There are some things I need to do, but I'll be back at sunrise."
"Well... okay", Scud mumbles uneasily, hands almost automatically reaching out to pull the warming fabric tighter around his form.
He waits until Deacon has left the room before dropping back onto the bed. The previous warmth has left it completely, not just in a physical way.
xXxXx
The night has always been a part of Mercury's life, even before her death and rebirth.
Daytime... it just hasn't been her thing. She preferred the dark and the mysterious. Everything was more sensual during the night and the people more relaxed, like they could finally expose their true natures to the world without the revealing light of day to remind them of their filthy living. Mercury, though back then that wasn't what people called her, liked to watch the revellers go down a path she knew they would never return from. They wasted their lives like they wasted their money, in company of the wrong people and for the completely wrong things. Mercury knew of their destinies, those sad tragedies that were all the same in the end, and it gave her a feeling of superiority. It was the only thing in her own life that made her feel in control of things. And people were just so predictable, once you figured them out.
It had been this reason that attracted her to Deacon. She couldn't figure him out that easily. He stood against the masses, like a different kind of shadow. But it was easy to see that he belonged to this place just as much as she did, knowing about the other tragic souls accompanying them and having her little game taped sooner than she would have liked.
He was different. And that infuriated her! How dare come this stranger into her territory and make her lose her favorite game?
But it all changed when Deacon made this offer, the offer to lead her down a path that would bring her to the dendritic heart of night itself. Make her a part of it even.
How could she say no to that?
The memory makes her smile. Not a warm, loving smile – that's no exactly her style. It just reminds her of the life she was given, and how her previous one seemed so dull and wasted. Just like those other lives she had watched from her spot. Mercury isn't a watcher anymore, she is in the game now - and she never loses.
All of this goes through her head while her claws cut away the man's skin as if it's made of butter. His famous last words consist of an incoherent splutter and a gurgle that is followed by more blood gushing to the surface. Then it's over and his dead shell lies to her feet, draining her already dirtied boots in new blood.
"Waste of time", she comments and kicks the hand that lays as if reaching out to her with a disgusted snarl. "I told you those familiars know nothing! MacHorvath wouldn't be that stupid. Last time I'll listen to some crap idea of yours."
She turns to glare at Quinn who shrugs his shoulders.
"What are you bitching about? Deac told us to leave nothing untried, so that's what we do."
"This isn't about some orders he gave us, this is about time! And we're running out of it", she adds with an angry hiss. "The last useful source we had preferred to jump in front of a train than to let us lay a hand on him. It's a fucking wonder we got this one. You know what I think? He already knows about us and this guy was just bait to keep us occupied!"
It's not like Quinn is completely stupid. He is just as naïve as a newborn baby. Mercury hates to be paired up with him, a displeasure she never bothered to hide, for when it's not about physical strength Quinn has not much to offer. It sometimes even happens that he begins to squawk just when Mercury is about to get an idea, but losing it the instant his awry voice fills her head instead.
"Or", he starts, a dumb grin starting to pull his thin lips apart, "you're just a paranoid bitch which hadn't gotten laid because... oh right, your boyfriend's shagging a walking blood bag now."
"I will fucking rip you apart!"
Their short tussle is interrupted when the door to the basement opens with an announcing squeal. Both stop dead in their tracks, Mercury's hands still around Quinn's thick neck and his hand reaching for the knife at his thigh, a souvenir from a previous – slaughtered – familiar.
"Why am I not surprised by this picture?" Deacon asks wryly, slowly stepping down the crooked stair.
"She started it", Quinn squawks in a child-like manner, as good as he can with his windpipe clutched by unforgiving hands.
"Fucker", Mercury hisses but lets go of him. She beams up to Deacon, swallowing the anger that tightens her chest at the memory of their last face-to-face encounter.
He catches her look, but remains silent. By now Deacon realized his eyes learned to betray him, giving away more than he usually intends to.
"So?" he starts, his gaze wandering through the little basement and landing on the crumbled form of the dead familiar. Some of his limbs are laying in unnatural angles, the bones broken in ways so they still wouldn't pierce the skin but destroy the flesh underneath. The poor bastard must have been in indescribable pain.
A neat work, a work by Mercury's hands.
And a reflection of what Deacon put her through the past month. For this he feels bad, partially.
"Nothing", she mumbles and stems her arms akimbo. "Think this whole deal had been a set up."
Deacon nods. He had thought of this possibility, but hoped until this point that maybe Lady Fortune would grand him some luck. Not that he believed in any gods, it was more of a habitual thing.
"Well, that's a pity", he mutters, trying not to let his voice sound too worn out.
Above their heads the ceiling hums in a quick and steady rhythm, the old concrete shaken by the club's nightly life. For a moment all three of them just stand and stare at the scene displaying in front of them. Even Quinn cuts the less than witty remarks.
"What now?"
Mercury's face has darkened in, what, worry. Her expression is stern, still having that slight hint of anger, as usual, but her eyes carry the same anxiety she wore when Deacon turned her. He wishes he could sooth her now as he did back then, but his hands are empty of flat motivational phrases.
"You did good", he says instead. "You two did good. I should have known it wouldn't be this easy."
"No thing, Deac", Quinn comments, followed by a nervous laugh. "I mean, it's no big deal, right? We haven't even started yet. We could always... y'know, interrogate more of 'em. Some of them have to know something. Right? Merc, what do you say?"
But Mercury keeps silent. She is still watching Deacon, as realization sinks slowly in.
"You have no idea what to do next", she says, the words coming out like a breath, mirroring the defeat in the man's eyes. "That's it, you don't know what to do anymore."
As he would love to negate the statement, Deacon can't. Because it's true. There are no more cards up his sleeve. He has set them all on his companions and familiars, the trick that used to work out every time.
"But...", Quinn starts, his head wildly swinging from Deacon to Mercury, and back again. "Does this mean... we- we give up?"
"No", Deacon shakes his head, but avoids to look at him directly. "But there is nothing we can do right now. Only wait for MacHorvath's next move, which he probably has planned out already."
"Like mice in front of a snake", Mercury spits. She hates not being able to do anything. Just, sitting and waiting for a blow. Her fingers twitch nervously just at the thought of it.
"We will be ready", Deacon interrupts her thoughts. "Whatever it is he keeps for us, we will be able to take it. There is only so much he can do without waking Dragonetti's suspicion. Just keep your heads down, no more hunting, no more corpses scattered in the basement... he's got nothing on us if we are there to catch the hit."
Mercury nods in somewhat agreement, the move too sharp to cover her uncertainty. Quinn mutters something in the background, but is the first to step forward and grab the dead familiar by the ankles, or what's left of them.
"Better get rid of this then?" he mumbles, a small smile pulling at his lips.
xXxXx
"Don't go."
The man looks down at him, the gray of his eyes flashing with guilt for a brief moment. Then they return to their usual bluntness. He looks at him as if he couldn't recognize him, and it hurts Josh more than the fiery tirades his father likes to give.
He tugs at the worn out jacket once more, his fingers shaking by the held back tears.
'Men don't cry. Tears are for weaklings not made for life.'
Josh swallows around the lump in his throat. On his lips lies a silent "please", but he knows this has never worked on the man before.
"Josh, come here."
Before he can move a warm hand lands on his shoulder and pulls him back, firmly. His father's gaze follows him, then it flicks up to his mother. There is no guilt in his eyes this time. It's something way worse.
They stand like that for a moment, all three of them. His father's hand is still clutching the door knob, the sea bag dangling off one shoulder, as his mother holds him pressed against her front. Josh is barely tall enough to reach over her navel, but he can feel the excited heart beat in the finger tips pressing against his chest.
"What are you waiting for?" It sounds less like a question than a challenge, like his father might really stay this time, with them. Forget whatever he thinks may wait for him out there and return into the warmth of their living room. Maybe it would even be one of those rare evenings where Josh would snick up into his lap and cuddle against the man's form without being pushed aside. Usually, when this happened, he was just too drunk to take notice of the boy, but one time, Josh remembers well, a blanket has been draped around his form, just as he was falling into a dreamless sleep.
As his gaze flickers up to the silent man in front of him, the memory seems almost spurious.
"What about you and the boy?" he asks, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
"We will be alright", his mother croaks. Her fingers clutch the fabric underneath tighter. "We have Ben and Madge to look after us, and, in case..."
Her voice dies, not able to finish the sentence.
The man nods and turns back to the wooden door. The knob gives a whimpering creak and Josh feels the urge to rush forward. He can't go, he can't-!
"One of those days...", she suddenly starts again. "One of those days, I wish you wouldn't come back."
No one would have noticed the way his father's shoulders tensed at this comment, how the knuckles around the door knob turned white for a second, before the show was over. Josh started to breath heavier, his thumping heart and small pants the only sound filling the small hall. He grabs those hands around his shoulders, blunt nails digging into thin skin and just when he feels a scream starting to build in his throat, ready to burst, the door swings open.
And then he's gone. Quickly swallowed by the dark of the stairway.
Josh feels something in him thrash up, just to die away when his mother begins to sob quietly.
Now this is all they have left.
xXxXx
He wakes to the feeling of cold lips against his neck. Scud yelps, pushing against the weight against his sides and receives a little groan.
"Sorry", he mumbles into the dark, reaching out, carefully this time, to brush over Deacon's forehead he had just previously smacked.
"All fine", Scud hears him say, followed by a weary sigh. "Should have thought of that..."
The mattress gives slightly in under the new weight and it takes them a moment to arrange themselves, until they have settled in a position with Scud's legs sneaked around Deacon's waist. He places an apologetic kiss to the other man's forehead.
"Sorry 'bout earlier", he whispers, not sure why he keeps his voice low. There is no one in the apartment but them. "Hope Missouri didn't try to tear you a new one."
"Don't worry about it, she did that often enough. It's a kind of thing between us."
Scud chuckles, pulling himself closer to the body he got to know during the past weeks.
They lay like that for a few moments, the silence not as uncomfortable as it had been at times. Scud listens to his own heart beat, the only one there is. Before his next move he clears his throat, shuffling even closer and placing a hand on Deacon's neck. He can't see a thing in the darkness of the room and usually it would scare the living hell out of him, but Deacon's presence is like a soothing anchor, a silent reminder that there is nothing to hurt him here.
"You maybe, uhm, wanna do something?" he mumbles, biting his lip just for the show of it, feeling the other man's eyes on him. A rustle of fabric and he shivers at the nails tenderly stroking his sides.
"Do you?" Deacon asks in return.
Scud smiles. He knows Deacon does this out of courtesy, something he wouldn't have thought him to ever accomplish. He also knows that Deacon knows he mostly does this for him. Scud has become a little blunt to the topic of physical release. He sees it from a more neutral side. Though he still takes pleasure in it and enjoys it, with Deacon, it still has a certain meaning for him. A professional side he can't yet shake off.
"Still have to make up for earlier", Scud jokes. Only that it takes the wrong direction.
Suddenly the hands on his sides are gone and he feels Deacon move onto his back.
"You don't have to make up for anything", he speaks into the space above them, his voice taken a gravel tone.
He feels his heart jump, quickly to recover from his paralyzed state and inches closer again.
"That's not what I meant", he tries to explain and worries a spot on Deacon's jaw. "I just want you to relax."
He places a kiss right onto the corner of the cold mouth. "Want you to forget 'bout anything that's keeping this pretty head of yours occupied. Come on, didn't mean it like... like that..."
"I know", Deacon whispers, turning his head to return the coy kiss. Their lips part with a small smacking sound. Scud laughs. Suckhead becomes a whole new meaning with the way Deacon kisses.
"But, to be honest, I'm pretty tired. It's been a disappointing night, so, let's just go back to sleep. Okay?"
Scud nods, burying his face into the crook of Deacon's neck so he wouldn't see the expression on his face. He feels it's his fault that it has been a disappointing night for the man. Usually, he always thinks it's his fault if things don't go right.
The fights of his parents, his father's leaving, all those evenings in his bed when he listened to the tears of his mother in the next room. Then her death. The orphanage and how he always stood out. His shrink had only let him go because she had given up on him. The following years that mixed to a blur of shadowy figures and dirtied memories. The capture, he deserved it, everything that had been done to him. He should have died there, really should have. It would have been easier for Deacon. He is just in this much trouble because of him.
Scud holds his breath, counts slowly to twenty, before he releases it again. When his head begins to spin with shame and the urge to just claw his own face off, this is what brings a short peace to his mind. Still, his unease mirrors in every fiber and muscle of his body.
Deacon sighs, patting his back lazily. "Go to sleep, Scud."
"Okay. 'm sorry."
xXxXx
The letter with it's clean, white envelope creates an obtrusive contrast against the dark wood of Deacon's desk. He stares at the small thing as if trying to set it on fire. Sadly, it refuses to and instead keeps on being an insult to his view.
Who in hell's name still writes letters? It's just another showing of Dragonetti's dusty traditions.
Like it could bite him, he reaches for it with careful fingers, reveling for a moment in the sharp sound the thin paper creates as he rips it open and pulls out the folded writing. It's an invitation, it's always an invitation. Another one of his "parties", with everybody who is anybody. Saying, the same old bastards who will look down on him and ask him rhetorical questions about his growing tribe or proud family history. Alastair had history, but he never attends to those events. In this they share the same distaste for their race.
He looks up at Petty, his unwillingness displayed in his features.
"Do I have to go?" he asks.
"I fear yes, sir", the young woman answers. "I have laid out a suit for you and called a chauffeur. He should be here in an hour."
"Since when do you have this letter?" Deacon frowns.
"It came today, Mr. Frost. But I think it may have been... troubled to reach it's destination in proper time."
"Has it already been opened?"
"No, sir."
Deacon mutters under his breath and screws up the piece of paper in his hands. So the letter has been deliberately held back. And probably opened. Not that he would fear about any secrets being spilled, there is only so much a preprinted letter can give away, but if they have done it with one, there is nothing to keep them from doing it with the rest of his mail. Deacon rubs his temples, glaring at the torn envelope on his desk. He feels weirdly vulnerable. And indescribably furious. How dare they touch his stuff?
"I will retake my place in the hall now, sir."
"Hm? Oh, yes, of course."
He watches her walk away, her high heels making light clicking sounds on the marble floor. Suddenly she turns her head to the right and smiles at someone. Scud must have woken up.
With a drawn out sigh Deacon rises from his chair. He feels... old. Never have so many things gone wrong at the same time. He isn't used to having so little control over his life, something Deacon definitely doesn't want to become a habit.
"Morning", Scud greets as he steps out of his bureau. Deacon suppresses the urge to snarl.
"It's night, if you haven't noticed", he mutters, directing to the windows in a vague gesture.
"Well, it's morning for me, since I just got up. Night is when you're sleeping, morning is when you get up. And I just did."
Deacon looks at him as if he lost his mind for a moment, before shaking the boy's rationality off. "That doesn't even make sense. Maybe Missouri was wrong and you do have a concussion. Just do me the favor and keep your mouth shut, okay?"
As he trots past the human he could swear he heard something like "Grumpy McGrumpington", but chooses to ignore it. He still needs his nerves for the upcoming event.
He steps into the kitchen, opens the fridge and closes it with a glare again. His whole body feels like it's preparing for a fight and his stomach twists uncomfortably. If it wasn't for the anger, he would call it social anxiety. But it's not that, he's not afraid of people – he just hates them.
"Having a bad day?" Scud slides onto one of the counter chairs.
"It's not-", Deacon starts, but drops the rest in a snarl. How can one single person be so annoyingly positive? Usually no one's really positive around him. Active, in a vengeful way, but not exactly positive.
Scud plays with a crumble on the counter. He is not the tidiest person, an experience Deacon had to make at this point several times. "I heard you two talking. You're going out again?"
He looks up to the other man, his eyes giving away just the slightest hint of worry.
"I have to", Deacon sighs, almost apologetically. "It's some official thing and Dragonetti already has his ugly pop eyes on me. Right now I'm trying to stay out of his focus."
"I see", the boy nods, but it's obvious he's not completely satisfied with the answer. "So... it's bad?"
"What's bad?" But Deacon can already imagine what he means.
"The thing, y'know, the situation, with..."
He halts, hesitantly and suddenly his whole world is sized down to the crumble under his fingers. Deacon watches him, leaning against the counter from the other side, not sure whether to lean in or back away. Scud swallows heavily.
"Say it again. The thing you said in, in the bathtub."
Deacon straightens his position, leaning forward and searching Scud's eyes. When the human looks up to him, his gaze full of fear and doubt, Deacon tries a reassuring smile.
"You're safe here", he says, voice firm. "He won't hurt you again."
Scud nods slowly. His gaze flickers and his lips are tightly pressed together. When his hands begin to shake, he quickly hides them in his lap.
"'kay", he whispers, coughing when his voice cracks.
Deacon doesn't feel comfortable with letting him alone, but he has no other choice. He wouldn't stay long, only talk to the necessary ones, endure some sarcastic comments and judging looks, and then head back again. It wouldn't take the whole night and when he's back, he could take care of Scud as much as the human needs.
"I have to get ready now", he says slowly. Dimly, he notices that Scud nods, but keeps quiet.
When he moves around the corner, he stops behind the human's slumped form. For a moment his hand is hovering over the skinny back, but then he drops it and heads for the bedroom. Not without his stomach twisting in guilt.
xXxXx
They say their good bye almost professionally. At least on Deacon's part. Scud stays frozen in his spot while he watches the man put on his coat and head for the door. His whole chest tightens with the sight.
'Don't worry', he tries to calm himself, 'he said you'd be fine, Deacon wouldn't lie. Don't be such a sissy, it's one night.'
He cracks a fake smile when Deacon turns to wave him good bye. As soon as the door falls shut, the little courage Scud had felt rise up in his chest dies out, and he finds himself standing in an apartment that is suddenly very quiet and very lonely.
Deacon allowed him to move around his home, except for the bureau, but there is no corner Scud hasn't explored yet. He sits down on the couch, pulls out a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and listens to the distant sound of running water, as drag after drag the nicotine floods his system. His fingers are constantly fidgeting with the stub in between, or pulling at imagined fluffs on his clothes. His bright mood from earlier is erased and Scud regrets having himself allowed to be so positive in the first place.
After his fifth cigarette his mind is a little eased and he stands on shaky legs. He feels vulnerable in the wide living room, with his back to the open space and those glass walls all around him. He decides to go back to sleep and hopefully wake up to the sound of Deacon coming back. With his clothes still on, he falls face first into the pillows, grabs the one next to him, Deacon's, and curls around it. With this little reminder of safety, he falls asleep.
xXxXx
He never knew wood could make such loud noises.
That's the only thought to cross his mind as the door splinters and the tip of an axe is starring right at him. Josh is standing in the hall, still in his pyjama. A knock on the front door has woken him up and sleep drunken he had stumbled out of his room, only to be greeted with the sight of this.
Just when he opens his mouth to yell for his mother, a hand shoves itself in his view, pressing his jaw shut.
"Shh", his mother whispers. "Make no sound."
Her breath is warm against his cheek. Josh notices how quick it goes and how the hands holding him shake like they never shook before.
He is hauled up, the world turning into a wild blur as the pictures on the wall slide past his view in a rush. They all seem contorted and his head feels so light.
They enter a room and despite the darkness Josh makes out the contours of his parents' bed and large closet. His mother curses under her breath when another noise fills the air – a door being kicked open.
She sets him to the ground, whirls around to close the bedroom door, very carefully and grabs his small arm to drag him over the closet.
"Mommy?" Josh whimpers, the first tears entering his eyes. He is so confused.
"It's okay, baby, it's all fine", she whispers, but her voice is higher than usual and she shakes like a little leaf. "Get in here."
She opens the closet's door and nudges him in. Josh grabs her hands, while her other is shoving at him.
"I'm scared", he trembles, the first coherent thought to enter his mind the one to break his mother. She hiccups, the wetness on her face catching the bright moon light that falls through the window.
"I know, Josh, but don't be. Don't be scared. You'll be alright, I promise, everything will be alright. Just don't make a sound, no matter what you hear or see. You don't make a sound, Josh!"
She grabs him by his thin shoulders. It hurts but the boy is too stunned to say a word. The tears are now blurring his vision, he can't see his mother's face that is distorted in panic and pain. With the next blinking, the tears fall free and with his voice shaking almost too badly to speak, he whimpers: "I promise."
His mother smiles, rubbing a thumb over his cheek.
"My sweet baby", she mumbles.
A crashing sound against the bedroom's door pulls a panicked shriek from her throat. Her nails bury into his flesh as she turns him around and pushes him into the stuffed closet. Josh falls to his knees and when he looks over his shoulder, the doors close behind him, blocking his mother from his view. He wants to scream, yell for his mommy, feel her arms around him. But he promised, and so he keeps quiet.
Another crash, the sound of wood flying through the air like he had heard it just minutes before and a loud yell from his mother. Then there are voices, Josh can't tell how many, but they fill the air completely. The only one he can make out is hers. Something falls against the closet's door and Josh swallows a shriek. With both hands pressed against his mouth he scrambles back until his heels hit the wall. The small space is filled with clothes of his mother and his father, draping over his shoulders like thin arms and embracing him with a familiar scent. Josh digs his nails into the skin of his mouth, when his mother begins to scream.
It's the only thing to fill his world and he doesn't know how long it goes, but when she falls silent, he can still hear the sounds in his head. They won't die out, not even when the doors open again and a man in a blue uniform is filling his view. He shouts something over his shoulder, then he crawls into Josh's space, invading his world.
He says something, a smile showing his crooked teeth, but his eyes are full of sorrow. Josh keeps quiet, his mother told him not to say a word.
They take him with them, away from his safe place in the closet and then there are hands on the back of his head, pressing his face into the man's shoulder. He can't see, but he smells. A smell he will never forget. He catches a glimpse of the room as he stares down the man's arm. Everything is red and as he walks away, Josh sees his mother's face. The gold of her hair is dirtied and the little he can make out of what used to be his mother, is staring up at him from one eye, dead and cold. Josh screams.
xXxXx
The party is just as expected. Boring and full of ass climbing non-pure bloods. Deacon lets his gaze wander lazily, as Dragonetti at his right fills his ear with trifles. He nods every now and then, but doesn't really listen. His eyes search the room for a certain person, but he can't seem to find him. Finally, he finds a reason to turn around and look his companion in the eyes.
"Say, have you seen Anton MacHorvath?" he asks, trying to sound as nonchalantly as possible.
Dragonetti falters, interrupted in his speech about pure bloods and the importance of traditions, and shoots Deacon a curious glare out of pale eyes.
"MacHorvath?" he echoes, like he's hearing the name for the first time. "He hasn't greeted me yet, so I assume he has not yet arrived."
"Of course", Deacon mumbles and falls back into his state of disinterest and resignation.
xXxXx
For a moment, everything is turning. The walls are upside down and it feels like he is being pulled from a great height. Scud clutches the fabric under his fingertips. He's panting, like he just ran a mile and his heart is beating painfully against his ribcage. With a grunt he sits up, moaning when the world spins back into it's right place, but the feeling in his stomach stays. He is bathed in sweat, some has wet the bedsheets and Scud knows Deacon will make a fuss about it.
He covers his eyes despite the darkness. His head is ringing with the memory of the dream and there is something wet pressing against his fingertips that isn't sweat. Scud sighs and wipes his hand on a dry pillow. It's not the first time he dreamt about his mother being murdered, but it never has been this intensive. There is an echo of her screams, and it's burned into his conscious mind.
"Please", he whispers into the dark of the apartment. "Please go away."
There is no answer.
Suddenly the sound of the door falling shut yanks him out of his state. He stares into the darkness of the room, and when his head catches up his heart begins to feel lighter again.
Deacon is back.
He crawls out of the bed, trying to rearrange his clothes, but realizing there is not much sense to it. Then he heads for the living room where the lights are still turned on.
"Deacon?" he calls, falling into a little jog. The sense of safety is catching up with him. "You're already back? Good, to be honest, I was a little worried. Hey, how wa-"
He breaks mid sentence. His body shakes, despite the feeling of his blood turning to ice. The world begins to spin again.
"No", he whimpers and he stares at the man slowly walking into the apartment, hands burrowed in his wide coat. "No, no, no, no..."
His heart is beating so fast it must burst out of his chest any second. If he lives that long, a part of his mind adds.
"What a nice place", Anton purrs, letting his gaze wander through the apartment. He smiles, a fake cold smile like Scud has seen it so many times already. "Frost really has no taste, has he?"
Then Anton's eyes land on him.
xXxXx
It took him so long, way too long, to find Frost's place. The idea of intercepting his letters just came recently, the moment when Dragonetti told him he was planning yet another party. Anton wasn't even sitting in his car, when the order was already out. The difficulty with Dragonetti's letters was that it was almost impossible to find out their final destination. That is, if you don't have the needed connections to get a hold of the messenger and test his loyalty to his master to an expert level. He failed, but, generous as Anton was, let him go. With just three fingers missing. The little wretch helped him after all. As soon as Frost's address was noted, the rest pretty much fell in place by itself. Dragonetti wouldn't start to fidget so soon if he arrives a little later, and so Anton has time. A lot of time, and he would make sure to enjoy every second of it.
"I missed you", he whispers, just sharp enough to see the human's form tense up. "Did you miss me too?"
He doesn't approach him directly, instead takes his time to investigate the place. He picks up a thing or two, sets it back down with deliberate carefulness and acts as if he hadn't noticed the rabid heart beat thundering in his ears. The sound awakes a welcomed memory in him and Anton sighs at the imagined feeling of flesh around his fangs.
"I went through a lot of troubles because of you", he muses and lets his gloved fingers wander over the smooth surface of the counter. Making his way into the pet's direction. "Mostly because I wasn't expecting Frost to be such a fool. A little brat who doesn't know his place maybe, but rational enough to not challenge me."
He draws the last two words out and ends them in a warning growl. The human looks like he is ready to faint any second. Anton can smell the panic flood his living system and it kicks his own arousal.
"You should be thankful", he purrs, now only a few steps separating him from the warm body. "I gave your life a reason. Don't tell me Frost was able to do the same? He's not half the man to be capable of what I am able to do."
His voice lowers and he lets his gaze wander over the human's form. He looks better, healthier. Frost must have taken care of him. The reason for that is slipping out of his mind's grip. "Did he mark you? Did he make you his own with a little ink and some glyph on your skin?"
Another step and the breath in the pet's chest hitches. "Or did he really make you his own? Are you his bitch now, sucking him off whenever he pleases and riding him like the filthy little slut you are? You're probably welcoming him with spread legs every night he returns. You should both thank me, I taught you so well."
He raises a hand, letting it linger inches over the human's skin. The heat radiating off the body is waking the predator in him. For the next words he leans in very close and lets his rotten breath dance over the pet's face: "I can still taste you."
The human is shaking like a leaf, eyes going into the distance, losing the soul behind again. He is already retreating to whatever place he went to when Anton took him. A slap across the face would always pull him back again, but this he won't do, not tonight. Although every fiber in his dead body is screaming to reach out and take what is rightfully his. This is his fucking pet after all! With a heavy sigh he tries to calm the rage thrashing inside of him again. No, not tonight, he can wait, he waited so long. It will make the victory just so much sweeter.
"But the reason I came here", he says as if continuing a story, "is to leave a message. For Frost. I want him to know that neither he nor his companions are safe from me and that I give him one last chance to get things right. If he doesn't do just as I say, he will regret the day his maker bore those fangs through his skin and made him one of us! He can't win against me and he knows that, always did. So, what can you expect from all of this, my little pet? Frost won't protect you. He will realize his failure and turn you back, to me, where you belong. I have waited so, so long for you, my pet. But next time, and this I promise, I won't be so generous and kill you. Next time, we will have real fun."
xXxXx
His cell phone rings and Deacon is just too happy to leave the conversation. He excuses himself halfheartedly and, with a sigh, picks up.
"Yeah?"
A sob at the other end, then a sniffle and incoherent mumbling. Deacon's posture goes rigid. "Who's there?"
"Mr. Frost?"
"Miss Bloom?" he asks, alarm and panic grabbing at his chest. "What is wrong? Why are you calling?"
"I'm so sorry", she whispers before another hiccup shakes her voice. "I didn't know... he just came in and I, I- I'm so sorry, sir, I couldn't know!"
"Miss Bloom", he whispers while making his way through the crowd as quick as possible, "calm down and tell me what happened."
Another sniffle, Deacon can feel she is fighting to regain some self-control.
"It's him, he was here. He just... he just came in and- it's Scud."
Her voice breaks again. Deacon stops dead in his tracks. The only sound that fills his head is the quiet sobbing of his secretary and nothing else. He knows some of the people are staring at him, wondering about the shock displayed on his features, but his whole focus is now on the little voice at the other end of the connection.
It's Scud.
"I'm on my way", he says and hurries over to the doors.
xXxXx
Never has the way home been longer than tonight and Deacon feels himself sent back into the night when he tried to save Scud's life for the first time. But now he feels utterly helpless, with no body to cling to, talk to and reassure himself of a slow but steady heart beat. Maybe he will never feel that pulse under his fingertips again, never feel his warmth or his own hands, never hear that voice again...
He runs past the elevator and takes the stairs, reaching the door to his apartment in record time and all but busting it open.
Petty whirls around, staring at him with wide, teary eyes. Her mascara is a little smeared and Deacon directly notices the thick stream of blood running from her nose over her chin. Some of it has sprinkled onto her light rose blouse.
"I'm so sorry", she whimpers again. "He just walked in..."
Then he sees the unmoving form of Scud laying to her knees. He rushes past her, drops down to the floor and runs a hand over the human's carotid. There is a pulse, but it's way too fast, faintly rushing against his tips almost without a break. The eyes are open, half-lidded staring up, past him, somewhere into the distance. The usual warmth is replaced with a clammy coldness.
"He has a shock", Deacon mumbles. He shoves his hands under the boy's form and lifts him up.
"Bathroom", he commands shortly. Petty gets up immediately and opens the door for him. Without wasting a second Deacon crosses the room, enters the shower and turns it as hot as possible.
The water comes gushing down on them and within a second they are both drained. Petty is standing outside the showers, staring at Deacon with fearful eyes while he carefully settles on the shower's floor with the body in his arms. He rubs across the human's chest, hoping, praying. The warmth returns, but that could just be the water. Deacon knows it's just a memory, but his own heart almost hurts with fear, as he brushes the hair out of Scud's eyes, mumbling and placing soft kisses to his forehead.
"Come one, please, please. Come back to me, I beg you", he whispers, pressing his eyes shut as the hot water rains down on them.
Suddenly Scud's whole body tenses and then he coughs, eyes blinking and with a weak shriek he claws at the arms holding him.
Torn between relief and panic, Deacon holds him tighter against his chest, calling things like "It's me, it's okay!" or "I got you, Scud, I got you". It takes some moments before the human finally relaxes, having the little energy he had left spent again. He slumps back against Deacon's form, blinking away the water that had caught in his lashes and sucks in the air in harsh gulps.
They stay like that for several minutes, Deacon holding him, mumbling reassuring words, Petty watching them with new tears staining her cheeks and a hand over her mouth. It takes several minutes before Scud opens his mouth and mumbles "liar", before letting himself drift off again.
xXxXx
As the needle pushes through the thin skin, Missouri looks up at him expectantly. She remembers the last time she gave the boy an injection and almost received a black eye in return. But today he keeps perfectly still. He's not even looking at her, his gaze lingering on something to his side she can't see.
With a mutter she pulls the thin cannula out of his arm and presses a little cotton swab to the puncture wound.
"Hold this", she commands and Scud does as he's told.
She throws the utensils back into her medical bag and takes a searching look over the boy's form. He doesn't seem to have endured any harm, besides the obvious psychological damage.
"Did he touch you?" she asks bluntly. No sense being picky now.
"No", Scud mumbles, his eyes still avoiding hers.
"Did he take anything from you?"
"He didn't do anything", Scud whispers, his voice on the verge of breaking again.
"Well", Missouri starts, "then my work is done here. Take some rest, don't drive for the rest of the night and always drink enough water."
She stands and leaves the boy be. He doesn't even seem to have noticed her lack of presence. Deacon and Mercury are watching him from the other end of the room. Deacon is shaking, not with fear, but with wrath. Missouri comes to halt in front of them. A look from Mercury and she forgets the witty comment that had been dancing on her tongue.
"What now?" she asks instead, letting her bag unceremoniously drop to the floor.
A row of brutal looking familiars, some with uniforms, some without, is hanging around and inside the building. Missouri mustered everyone of them on her way upstairs and wondered if she was getting too old for the job.
"I'm going to fucking kill him!" Deacon hisses. In all those years, she has seen Frost spreading his fury several times, but it never send such violent shivers down her spine. He is also the only client she visits without two bodyguards watching her back, something she regrets now.
"Don't lose your head", she tries, voice hard. "That's exactly what he wants."
"She's right, Deacon", Mercury voices in.
"He hurt my secretary, he broke into my apartment and he threatened my pet – I am going to end him. No one's playing with me like that, no one!"
The two women share a quick look, having a silent agreement they never before thought to have one day.
"Look, Frost, I know you're angry, I would be too if someone touched my stuff, but this isn't some silly boy fight... this is real and from what Scud said, MacHorvath is just waiting for you."
"No, he's waiting for me to give up! I'm going to kick his teeth in and keep his fangs as a trophy, that's something he won't expect."
It feels as if his whole form is on fire and something raging up inside of him again and again, kicking against his self-restraint to not go and rip MacHorvath apart right now.
"Call Quinn", he tells Mercury. "I need him and his men here."
"Okay", Mercury mumbles, knowing there is no sense in arguing with her maker.
Missouri rolls her eyes, but keeps quiet. The situation is scaring her more than she would admit to show, the fear of having to pick up the pieces afterward gnawing at her insides.
"You'll go down, Deacon", she comments. "And you're going to leave a path of bloody limbs and despair behind. Do you really want that? Do you want that for him?"
With a short gesture she waves into the direction of the boy. For a moment, Deacon shifts uncomfortably, but then he strides past her and right into Scud's direction, the small woman completely forgotten.
He crouches down in front of Scud, one hand carefully on the boy's thigh. Scud doesn't even look at him.
"I'm sorry", he says.
"Liar", Scud mumbles and pulls his hand away when Deacon tries to reach for it. It takes all of his composure to not let the surprise and rage overtake him. With a deep breath he rubs a thumb over the human's thigh, trying to find his gaze. But Scud is somewhere else, having shut down completely.
It's like they're right back at the start again, only that the roles are reverse.
"I wasn't lying, Scud. I thought- I thought it would be safe here, that he would never dare to take this step. But I was wrong and you had to take the hit. I'm sorry for that, for disappointing you. I will make up for it."
There is no reaction, but he didn't expect one. Deacon gets up again, just when Mercury approaches him.
"I called Quinn, he will be here in a minute. We should go, Deacon."
He nods, but his gaze is still locked on Scud. One good thing about the fury flooding his system, is that it keeps out the guilt that threatens to weigh his heart down.
"I have to go now", he says lowly. "But I'll be back, I promise. Everything will be alright."
Just when he wants to turn around, Scud shifts, looks up to him. He breathes harshly, already on the verge of breaking down again. Deacon halts.
"Don't go", he mumbles and swallows against the tears forming in his eyes. "I don't want to be alone."
"You won't", Deacon tries to reassure him and sinks down to him again.
"You can't know that", Scud croaks and now he fully turns to him. He grabs the hand reaching out to him. "It's never ending good and I don't want you to leave me, please, I don't-"
A hiccup breaks off the rest of the sentence.
Deacon cracks a weak smile. "It'll be okay. I'll have Missouri and Petty look out for you here until I come back."
He watches Scud lift his hand to his mouth, placing a soft kiss on his wrist. He tries to ignore the knot in his chest.
"And when I'm back, it's finally over. I will take care of him and then he will never hurt you again. Never, you hear? I will make sure of that, Scud."
There is nothing to convince him, Deacon can see it in his eyes and the way he clings to him, even when he stands up and gently releases his hand from the boy's grip. A look and Missouri is there to place her hands on his shoulders.
"Don't worry about him", she says firmly. "You take care of that bastard, and when you're back, Frost, I expect double-payment."
She smiles and Deacon tries to smile back, but it comes out as a worried line.
He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave Scud behind. Again. But there is no other choice. He has to put an end to all of this, and he has to do it tonight. With a last look on Scud he leaves the apartment, the view quickly blocked by the row of familiars following them. They enter the elevator and Deacon takes a look at Mercury. She is staring straight ahead, silently.
Deacon straightens his posture.
"When we leave the building", he says, "I want you to head into the other direction. Leave the city, the country at best. Just go. I don't want you involved in this."
He expected a fight, an insult, a heated argument. But he didn't expect the laugh that escapes her throat. It's not an angry one, in fact, it sounds honestly amused.
"Oh Deacon", she purrs and throws him a quick look. "We're far from you telling me what to do here. If you hadn't noticed, I'm in this just as much as you are, such is Quinn. I'm not going anywhere, my place is here, with you. No matter how you feel about us, you're still my maker and my friend. That's more worth than an immortal lifetime spend in loneliness."
They stare at each other for a moment. But then Deacon chuckles and shakes his head.
"Turning you was my best decision", he admits.
"Damn right."
xXxXx
Petty yelps when her nose is bent back into it's original position. She reaches for it, but Missouri bats her hands away.
"Don't touch it, stupid. Here, take this", she says and hands her a cold application. "It'll swell, but if you don't play with it, it should heal quickly."
Petty nods.
"'ank you", she mumbles, voice sounding like she caught a cold.
"We all had a tough day today, angel cake." Missouri gives her a pat on the thigh and turns her attention back to the silent boy. He hadn't said a word, but on the other hand, Missouri hadn't exactly tried to make conversation.
"He'll be fine", she tries to reassure him for the God knows what often time. She lost count of it. It has been some hours since they left and so far no report on their state.
Scud nods, but it seems robotic. She could bet he doesn't even listen to her anymore.
Petty to her side fidgets. "I'll ko an' see iv I ca' see 'em", she suggests and, with a wave of Missouri's hand, leaves the apartment.
That leaves just them two. Doesn't matter, Missouri encountered more miserable situations. As she mentally goes through all those times Scud turns a little to her.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks quietly.
"Good payment."
"That's not the reason."
Missouri looks at him, considering her next answer. "You see, I'm a doctor. It may not look like it sometimes, but I am. Just like every doctor I did it for the same two reasons: to help the people, and money. But I quickly discovered that this whole "helping the people" part is more frustrating than I thought. In most cases, I couldn't even really help them – it was more of putting a delay to things. Don't ask me how I got into this, this whole vampire doc thing, it just happened. You kind of just slide into it, but, I guess, you know that yourself, don't you? Mhm, thought so. So, with the time, it got more about the money. But the first part stuck, deep down, or something, and when I saw Deacon, with you... let's say, it was a really difficult, twisted thing, but it put more hope in me than I thought it ever would. I think you two are doing a better job than most other people, and you keep working on it. That's something."
During her talking, Scud had lifted his head and is now looking at her. His gaze is still unsure, kind of wary and the tiredness is written all over his features. But he seems to have listened to her, really listened to her, and Missouri smiles at him. Maybe it even got to him.
Suddenly her phone rings and with a curse she jumps up from the couch, searching her purse for the small thing.
"Yes?" she barks. There is a moment where she says nothing, then all the color leaves her face. She drops the phone and Scud can hear Petty's shrill voice on the other end. Scud slowly stands up.
"Missouri?"
"Hide!" Her eyes are filled with panic and Scud feels his stomach do a violent turn. She reaches out for him with her small hands, pushes him, but he doesn't move an inch. "Run, boy – just go!"
That's when he hears the angry screaming. Missouri gasps, another curse escaping her lips. Then the front door flies open and in a wild whirl of ashes and dust Mercury enters.
"Where is he?!"
She finds his scent before he sees him, which is plausible, as her left eye is missing. Where a pale blue should be, Scud stares at a bloody, hollow socket. His stomach does another turn and now he backs away.
"You fucking, little maggot - I will kill you!"
She lunges for him but collides with Missouri's small body as the woman steps into her way. Scud shakes his head incomprehensibly. In the back of his head a voice starts to speak, but he doesn't want to listen.
"I don't... I don't... why-"
Mercury thrashes, lunges for him and backs away with a horrified scream when a silvery fog suddenly embraces her. Missouri is back at his side, in her hand a little spray gun. When the furious vampire yanks her hands off her face, the socket started to bleed again. Thick blood runs down her pale face and not even her untouched lips or the blond of her hair could make her look any less brutal now.
"It's you!" she screams and clutches at her chest as the silver eats away at her already burned skin. "You killed him! It's your fault, you fucking killed him! He's dead, Deacon's dead. You hear me? He is gone and it's your fault! You-"
"Get her outta here!" Missouri barks at someone over Mercury's shoulder and then there is Quinn's large form behind her. Scud catches his look and he can see the wrath bubbling behind them.
"Come one, Merc, we have to go. Now!"
He all but drags the screaming woman out of the apartment, both leaving a trail of smeared blood on the floor. Missouri's shouting the whole time, making wild gestures before throwing the door shut. The abused hinges make a painful squeaking sound, barely drowning out the screaming and curses which fade out with every passing second.
"Good grief", she mumbles and brushes the ashes off which collected on her clothes when she collided with Mercury. "Scud, are you alright?"
She turns and catches the look on his face. Carefully, she approaches him. "Scud?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you alright?"
"Sure", he mumbles. He looks down to his feet. Some of Mercury's blood has sprinkled onto his shirt and jeans. The picture of her hollow eye socket is ghosting in front of his view. What did she say? Oh yeah, Deacon is dead. So they lost. They lost, Deacon is dead and judging by the way Quinn panicked MacHorvath already on the way to him.
"I think you should go now", Scud says and looks at Missouri. She suddenly seems so small and so weak.
With careful steps he walks over the bloody puddles on the floor, sits down on the couch and puts both hands over his mouth.
Make no sound.