Manhattan, Meatpacking District - November 1890

Not for the first time that night Henry wonders what the bloody hell he's doing here.

Here is an empty, sinister back alley in the Meatpacking District, after nearly tripping on the freight train tracks on 10th Avenue. Thankfully, no one is around so late to witness his clumsiness.

No one human, that is.

It's a frosty November night, and he shivers. Despite being made of the finest wool by one of the most upscale tailors of Bond Street, his coat is still not warm enough to fend off the cold of an American winter. He's just happy Bea and he arrived in New York after the Great Blizzard of 1888 and hopes this year is not a prelude to a repeat performance.

Patrolling in New York is similar to patrolling in London. The smells are the same, hints of sewer and garbage, a potent odor of meat and dairy coming from the surrounding warehouses, and the sound and humid air emanating from the Hudson instead of the Thames.

He could be home with a nice cup of Earl Grey and his old, battered copy of Pride and Prejudice. Or maybe Jane Eyre. He meant to start that one a while ago but hasn't found the time yet. Too many books, too little time.

His hand squeezes around the stake he's holding, focusing on his surroundings. It wouldn't be very clever of him to be ambushed because he was daydreaming (or is it nightdreaming, in this case?) about Mr Darcy or Mr Rochester.

He hasn't used the stake yet tonight since Bea and he went their separate ways, but he can hear some shouting and grunts in the distance. Sounds like Bea is more busy than he is. He's not worried though. His sister excels at this. She always has.

It is their legacy after all.

Bea thrives on it.

Henry…Not so much.

He's good at it though. The last 5 years of training made sure of that. Besides, just because his heart was never in it doesn't mean he would allow himself to fail and dishonor his family's name.

Putting almost 6000 kilometers between them and their grandmother had been a crucial necessity propelled by his father's unexpected passing and his older brother's increasing worry for his younger siblings. (he hates that word. his father hasn't passed away. But when he needs to be alert and focused like tonight, the word sounds better in his head than 'murder')

But Henry is not naive. Even from an ocean away, there is no doubt Mary Mountchristen-Windsor still has her eyes on them and their every move.

Antagonizing her even more than they already have would be madness.

Just as he decides to give up for the night and join Bea, a vampire appears from around the corner on his right and Henry sighs.

The fight is quick and expeditive, and in less than a few minutes, the vampire is a pile of dust on the dirty ground.

Henry wipes his hand on his trousers, turns around, and bumps into a wall.

Wait, not a wall. There's a man in front of him, and Henry's slayer senses failed him spectacularly, as he didn't even hear him sneak behind him.

The first thing Henry notices is his height. Henry's a tall man, but this one has a couple of inches on him. Despite the darkness, Henry can't help but appreciate the fact that he's also extremely handsome with golden brown eyes, dark glossy curls, and a devastating smile…

…which reveals a nice, shiny, white pair of elongated canines.

Oh, bollocks.

Henry barely has time to entertain that thought before being pushed against a stone wall.

"Well, well, what do we have here? A baby Slayer? Christmas must have come early," the vampire drawls with an appreciative grin.

Henry rolls his eyes at that. Yes, he looks young, and the slow aging process doesn't help, but he's 25, for God's sake.

He has a retort on the tip of his tongue before he thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. He raises his hand, ready to stake the stupid - and very handsome, God help him- sod and finally be reunited with his warm bed and his books.

The next thing Henry knows, the stake is on the ground and he's being pressed against the wall by the vampire's strong, obviously muscular body.

Suddenly, Jane Austen is the last thing on his mind. The vampire has one hand curled around his neck, and the other presses Henry's shoulder against the cold bricks. A predatory grin adorns his lips, and Henry thinks that this is decidedly not a good time to wonder about how long and pretty his fucking eyelashes are.

The pressure on his neck and shoulder intensifies, and he can feel the man's thigh slip between his own and put some pressure on his crotch. His nose detects a rather intoxicating, spicy mix of santal, cardamom, and violet, and…is that cinnamon?

The vampire brings his lips against Henry's throat and gives it a lick.

Henry gasps.

The tip of the vampire's fangs are now grazing his skin, but he doesn't bite, nipping softly at the smooth flesh, as if searching for the best spot to feed.

Henry's always been told they go straight to the jugular, but alright, this one likes to play with his food.

If Bea doesn't arrive in the next few seconds, he's probably fucked. And not in a good way.

That being said…He assumed that he would probably be scared out of his mind if confronted with this situation. He's found himself in some dire straits sometimes, but never to the point of being so overpowered like this.

He's waiting for the terror to settle in, the feeling of finality and 'well, this is how it ends' to overcome him, the resignation of dying so young without a real chance of accomplishing anything useful. He didn't even get to say goodbye to Fitzwilliam, his beloved beagle.

But it never comes.

Instead, long, slow swoops of…something curl in his belly. He becomes extremely conscious of the way the vampire's knee rubs against his neither region, his hot breath on the sensitive skin of his collarbone, and how every nerve ending in his body seems to detonate like fireworks. He closes his eyes and bites on his lower lip, afraid of letting out the wanton moan building in his throat.

When the feeling of horror finally, finally invades his chest it is not because he thinks of his impending demise. With sudden clarity, Henry realizes he's not scared.

He's aroused.

His slayer's instincts kick in and with his free hand, he reaches into his coat's pocket, pulling out a small pistol and pressing it against the man's chest.

"I know you're not a werewolf, but I'm sure a silver bullet through the heart might still inflict some damage," he says, surprised and a bit proud at how steady his voice sounds.

The vampire releases him and steps back, raising his hands in surrender. He smirks, and Henry sees a look of…appreciation flashing briefly in his eyes.

"Alright. New deal. I don't bite you, you don't shoot me. We stay out of each other's hair."

Henry nods but doesn't lower his gun. Despite his gran's claim that "a good vampire is a dead vampire" he learned early on that, just as humans, all is not black and white in the vampire world and some of them are useful members of society. He prefers to remain prudent still, especially considering the way the vampire narrows his eyes at him, and Henry feels himself squirm under his scrutiny.

"You're Henry. The Mountchristen-Windsor Line. Arthur Fox's son," he says with a final certainty. As if Henry is some sort of renowned personality whose face and family's line of work are plastered on every newspaper. As if he's not just boring Lord Mountchristen-Windsor who prefers to spend time in his library than waltzing on a ballroom floor. He almost laughs at the idea of the faces some of the people he meets in these shindigs - as Americans say- would make if they knew of his nighttime activities.

He doesn't though.

"Keep my father's name out of your filthy, bloodsucking mouth."

"Hey, I don't mean any offense. I was an aficionado. Saw him a few times on Drury Lane when I lived in London. He was a fantastic actor. I mean, Vicky herself was a fanatic."

Henry's brain comes to a screeching halt. "Vicky as in…Queen Victoria?"

The vampire nods and Henry's eyes widen.

What the…The utter disrespect.

He hesitates between laughing and being offended on behalf of Her Majesty. The adrenaline starts to wear off, and the former wins. He quells the bubble of nervous laughter as the vampire shrugs, "She's the one who asked me to call her that."

"Right."

"Anyway…this has been real fun, but if you're here that means the lovely Lady Beatrice is not far and as a Slayer she's much scarier than you. No offense."

"Offense is absolutely taken," Henry answers through gritted teeth. He wishes he had a more clever retort and he's going to hate himself when he comes up with one in the morning - too late.

"Henry!"

Bea's voice resonates from down the street and the vampire grins. "That's my cue. See you around, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor."

He walks away before turning around with a mock salute. "I'm Alex, by the way."

And he's gone.

Flabbergasted by the whole ordeal, Henry doesn't even hear Bea catching up to him. She looks almost pristine in her coat revealing a pair of trousers that once belonged to Henry and had been adapted to her frame. One can't exactly slay vampires wearing petticoats. The only clue of her previous slayering activities is a strand of ginger hair that escaped her bun, and a slight pink flush complimenting her fair skin. She looks lovely, but her petite frame also exudes confidence, her every movement deliberate and poised. That, paired with a devilish smile and an unwavering gaze, never fails to surprise the undead who see her as their next, easy meal. It's a deadly combination and she never hesitates to use it to her advantage. No wonder the vampire - Alex - took to his heels. Realistically, Henry has to admit he was right. Bea is scarier than he will ever be.

The pride he harbors for his big sister knows no bounds.

"So? How many did you get? It's rather busy tonight."

Henry opens his mouth and closes it before saying. "Well, there was this vampire…" He trails off, not sure how to explain what happened.

Bea gestures to the pile of dust a bit further down."You staked him?"

"Uh, no. That was another one. This one was different. Tall, handsome, well dressed…very long eyelashes. Oh, and he knew Dad, and you. Also, he was rather chatty. And insufferable."

Bea gives him a look.

"That was…rather specific. And you didn't kill him? You just had a nice chat in the middle of Manhattan at night?"

"Well, he tried to bite me, and I threatened him with my pistol, so the intention was there, but then we didn't? I'm not completely sure what happened to be honest," he fibs, as he is pretty certain his sister doesn't want to hear about how his traitorous body reacted to the vampire's proximity and the unwelcomed feelings it elicited in him.

Very unwelcomed. Henry can't stress that enough.

She keeps looking at him, obviously debating if the subject is worth pursuing and he gives her his most innocent look, making his boyish look work in his favor for once. She's not fooled one bit.

"Alright," she says, changing the subject. "I heard about this nest-"

"Behind you," Henry interrupts her, looking pointedly above her shoulder and she swirls, her stakes raised and ready.

"Do you mind? We're having a conversation here."

She easily stakes the vampire, muttering, "How unbelievably rude," before dusting her coast with a grimace. "We should go home. This is becoming more crowded than Covent Garden on a Sunday morning."

She starts walking towards their carriage, and after picking up his stake, Henry follows her without further ado.

"Do you remember that coffee shop on the corner next to the millinery? They had those little blueberry scones that were simply delicious. I miss London sometimes."

"Enough to go back?" he inquires, bewildered.

She lets out a brief laugh. "God no. Phillip risked way too much for us to go back."

They reach their carriage and Henry grabs the reins as Bea is about to climb on the front seat.

"He said his name was Alex," he blurts out because he can't let the topic go for some reason.

"Who?" Bea frowns and turns around.

"The vampire. The other one. The one I didn't kill."

Understanding dawns on her face. "Oh. Probably Alexander Claremont-Diaz then. He fits the description you gave me, especially the pretty eyelashes," she says with a teasing smile and Henry repeats the name in his head.

Alexander Claremont-Diaz. It suits him. A long-ass name for a pretentious, uncultured prick.

And yes, as far as name goes, Henry is aware of how hypocritical he's being.

"So you do know him?"

She shrugs. "I met him a few times. His sister too. Lovely woman. She works for the Washington Post.."

"Who is he? I'm sure I've never seen him before."

"You probably did. You just didn't pay attention."

Henry nearly scoffs at that. If he had crossed paths with Alex before, he definitely would have paid attention.

"Anyway," Beatrice keeps on, "He's Vanderbilt's lawyer, and he works for some other prominent families as well. He and his sister were turned at the beginning of the century. I don't know the whole story. You should ask Percy."

"Percy knows him too?"

"Percy knows everyone, dear brother. You know that."

They both climb in the carriage. Henry clicks his tongue and the horses move forward.

"If you manage to get away from your books, you might see him again at one of the next soirees," Bea tells him. "But I suggest you steer clear of him."

Henry lets out a quite inelegant scornful snort."I'm not afraid of him and I doubt he will attempt anything after tonight."

Bea shakes her head, a fond yet slightly exasperated look on her face. "Oh, darling. He's not going to kill you. He's going to break your heart."

Brooklyn, Alex Claremont-Diaz's house - May 1891

The room is solely lit by the fireplace, barely illuminating the two figures on the bed and giving it a golden hue, creating a warm and comforting atmosphere. The house is silent at this late hour, and the quietude is only broken by the occasional whispers, gasps, or soft moans.

"Is that a stake in my ass, or are you happy to see me?" The tone is slightly breathless but full of mirth.

"Oh my god, Alex, Seriously? Are you trying to kill the mood?"

This is a hypothetical question because at this point no power in the universe would be able to pry Henry's from Alex's very capable hands. And body. And everything else.

Alex is in Henry's lap, the aforementioned hands sliding up his back, slow, tender, fingers spread wide and he feels every touch like fire burning from the inside out.

Alex shifts his hips, setting a slow and steady pace and their gaze meets, and Henry tries not to lose himself in his brown eyes.

He tries not to lose himself in his everything.

He thrusts up, sinking himself inside Alex, quicker and deeper each time. Alex catches his lips in an open-mouth kiss as he smiles and murmurs "Hen," a touch of reverence in his voice.

A pleasant heat starts coiling at the base of his spine and his hand trails back up the soft, golden skin of Alex's arm. "I'm close," he whispers breathily.

"I've got you, sweetheart," the vampire lets out in a hoarse voice.

It makes Henry's toes curl in the sheets just as pleasure blooms low in his stomach and he tilts his head back and shivers as white fangs shine in the dark.

"Now," he exhales and closes his eyes as Alex plunges his canines into his neck, right at the same time he's hit, in perfect synchronicity, with a wave of pleasure, lighting every nerve ending of his body on fire. A breathy laugh and a string of intelligible words escape from his throat.

Alex is right behind him and lets go of his neck gently to let out a guttural groan as he comes between them, making a mess of their stomachs, his release mixing with the crimson trail flowing slowly from Henry's puncture wound.

They meet in a searing kiss as they both come down, his lips molding to Alex's like they are one and the same, and Henry feels his body sag, his head a bit dizzy both by the intense pleasure and blood loss.

His eyes are still closed but he hears Alex biting his own wrist before pressing it against Henry's lips, and he takes a few sips, feeling immediately replenished.

Alex leaves a trail of kisses against his jaw, his hand searing a path down his abdomen, gathering some of the come and blood on his finger and bringing it to Henry's mouth, who opens it and welcomes the salty, coppery taste on his tongue. Alex repeats the gesture, this time bringing his finger to his own mouth and licking it clean with a sultry look from under his eyelashes that makes Henry want to go again almost immediately.

They stay entwined like this, uncaring of the mess between them, their breathing slowly evening.

"You ok, baby?" Alex asks softly, and Henry nods, burying his face in his lover's neck, still unable to form a coherent sentence.

He never expected this.

Never expected the tenderness and the caring and the complete bliss he found in Alex's every touch.

At first, it had been a way to itch a scratch, to get that bloody impossible cretin out of his system. A quick shag and they both would go on their merry way, preferably separately.

That had been 4 months ago.

And yet he's still here.

Bea's words from almost a year ago resonate, unwelcomed, in his head

He's going to break your heart.

He had been warned and had nevertheless rushed headfirst into the worst decision of his life.

(Or was it?)

He gives Alex one last, lazy, languid kiss before he pulls out, wincing at the loss of heat, and trying to ignore Alex's soft whimper. He grabs a cloth on the nightstand, cleans his stomach and Alex's, then gets off the bed, throws the cloth in the basin on the vanity, and starts collecting his clothes.

Alex frowns. "You're leaving already? It's barely 2 am." His face is impassive, but his voice betrays his disappointment.

Henry buttons his shirt, and looks at him briefly. He suspects Alex is as deep in this as he is, and the elation he feels in his heart is at war with the logical part of his brain screaming at him regularly that this dalliance is a bad, terrible idea.

"I don't want to risk people seeing me coming out of your house in the wee hours of the morning, love. You know that."

Alex shrugs and climbs out of the bed, unbothered by his nakedness. There's no doubt he flaunts it because he knows the effect it has on Henry. Henry doesn't exactly complain either.

He walks to a round table and pours himself a glass of brandy.

"Besides," Henry goes on, pointedly not looking at him, "I don't want to come face to face with Bea."

"Does she know?" He walks back to Henry, standing beside him and watching as he puts his trousers on, not bothering to fasten his waistcoat or tie his cravat.

"Yes. I don't keep secrets from my sister. That doesn't mean I want to come face-to-face with her in the hallway at dawn. She's an early riser."

"What did she say? When you told her?"

"She doesn't disapprove. She likes you. For some reason."

Alex chuckles. "For some reason? Are you saying you don't like me, sweetheart?"

Henry tries hard - and sadly fails - not to blush at the term of endearment but still gives Alex his most bland, uninterested look.

"I tolerate you. Barely."

"Well, you seemed to tolerate me well enough an hour ago when I was eating your a-"

He doesn't get to finish his phrase as Henry grabs him by the jaw and captures his lips. He learned very quickly in their relationship - since the werewolf incident- that it was the best and most gratifying way to shut Alex up.

Alex hums into the kiss, leaning and letting out a whine as Henry takes a step back and grabs his coat.

"Come on, Hen. Stay another hour." There is a vulnerability in his voice that tugs at Henry's heart, because God knows he would love to stay a few more hours too.

A few more days…A few more years? A lifetime?

He wished desperately he could stay and lounge in bed with Alex, and not just for the - spectacular - sex but for the odd companionship he found with the vampire. The hushed conversations in the dark. The knowing smiles and heated gazes from across a crowded ballroom. The jokes and even the gossip about some members of the High Society.

But it's just too dangerous. What they are doing is already reckless but selfishly, he can't stop.

He put on his coat and looks at Alex who still stands beside him, a soft look on his face, his curls in disarray, his fucking eyelashes, and freckles of gold in his brown eyes, cast there by the light of the fire. There is an array of emotions in those eyes that Henry doesn't have the time, but mostly the will, to decipher at that moment. He's already very close to throwing reason out of the window and pushing Alex back against the bed.

It takes a lot of willpower not to do it. One he didn't even know he possessed.

"You'll catch your death, darling. Go back to bed"

Henry's volition only goes so far, and he leans for another kiss, sweet and light, as he breathes him in and presses their forehead together for a few more precious seconds.

"Are you going to the Vanderbilts tonight?" He asks as they finally find the will to separate.

"Yes."

"Then I'll see you there."

Alex nods, and Henry takes a step back, opens the door, and checks the corridor. A last longing look, an imperceptible shake of his head, and he leaves.

A few minutes later he is in the street, walking briskly, a dark shadow reminiscent of the creatures he hunts at night.

The taste of Alex still lingers on his tongue.