forthedog | (no subject)

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neil

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He should have gone to a fucking hospital.

Later he'll wonder why he didn't, and he'll come to the conclusion that it was a strange, instinctive kind of self-preservation. He wouldn't have been safe there. No way. So maybe he shouldn't have, then.

A wave of shivering weakness washes through him and he almost pulls the bike over. Then he doesn't. Home is barely a mile away now and he's going to make it.

He hadn't always been so sure.

He's not certain how long ago they had him. He never saw them coming, and it was so fucking stupid because he should have, he had somehow forgotten - at just the wrong moment - that one little mistake is all it takes to get you fucking killed and not realizing how many you're dealing with counts as more than a little mistake. They had his arms behind his back, at least five of them, though he managed to take the head off a sixth. He had looked into their glowing eyes and had been sure the bite was coming, and a lot worse than just one, but it hadn't. Not then.

He had been aware of darkness. The musty smell of underground. Sounds in the black. Distant laughter. He had heard a snarl, had dragged the knife out of his boot without thinking, and then it was on him fiery agony in his throat even as he stabbed and slashed blindly.

The rest of it was a blur. All of it was a blur. Fighting for his fucking life in a way he's not sure he's done since he came here, no finesse or skill but desperate animal viciousness, and the same from whatever was with him in the dark, hissing and screeching and trying to tear him apart. He had no idea how he managed to scramble away, hands and face slick with blood. He had rolled, shoved himself up to his feet, had run in the direction of cooler air, angry shouts behind him. Had run through the dark, the splashing sounds of his footfalls echoing into something roaring and threatening just at his back.

Until the air was fresh again, and he was stumbling out into a shallow pond in the park. As it turned out, less than half a mile from where the bike was parked.

He smells like blood and rotten things and storm drain. He supposes it could be worse.

Gravel under the wheels. He pulls to a stop and almost falls in the process of getting off, stabilizing himself with one hand on the seat while he sucks in air and wills the world to stop spinning. How much blood has he lost? He's definitely lost his machete. Fuck. He can get a new one, but fuck.

Inside.

There's a light on in the kitchen and one in the living room, though he supposes it's possible that Neil simply left them on for him. He almost falls again getting in the back door, smearing blood on the doorframe and again on the counter in the kitchen. He fumbles for a towel. Something to press against his neck.

"Neil?" 911 might still be an option, he thinks vaguely. Maybe a good one. Christ, he feels sick, and he shambles toward the living room. "Neil, you... God, you up?"

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It's late, but I can't sleep. Instead, I'm sitting in the living room, fucking around on the laptop, paying a few bills and answering emails, when I hear the garage door open. Finishing off the last of a warm beer, I close the laptop, and I'm getting to my feet when the kitchen door bangs open.

"Hey, yo-- Oh fuck," I breathe, rushing forward. There's blood. So much blood, smearing the walls and staining his whole front. If it weren't for the towel he's got pressed to his throat, I wouldn't even know where it was coming from.

"Oh my God, oh my God, Mike. Jesus Christ," I say, hands hovering until I finally decide to take hold of his shoulders and press him down into a chair.

"What happened? Mike. What the fuck?"

The girls are upstairs. Oh Jesus, they're upstairs. I can't let them come down.

"I'm okay," he tries to say, but it comes out in an awful croak and anyway it's pretty much a lie. He's not okay. He's not anywhere in the vicinity of okay. He's already starting to shiver as Neil pushes him down, and he squeezes his eyes shut as that awful weakness shudders through him again, pain stabbing at its heels.

"A bunch of 'em... jumped me. I never saw 'em coming." He coughs out a laugh. "Shoved me into some cage match bullshit."

"You're not fuckin' okay," I hiss, my hand on his face, but he feels cold and clammy, his skin a weird grey color that I know is fuckin' bad.

"Jesus. Why the hell did you come home. You should be at the fuckin' hospital," I say, fumbling around for my phone, but it's not in my pocket. "Goddammit," I growl, scrambling back into the living room and throwing sofa cushions around until I find it.

"I wasn't-" Thinking, he might be about to say, but then the shivering and the pain meld together and produce an absolutely horrible child that grips every muscle in his body and wrenches, arcing his body back in a spasm of agony. He feels his teeth baring themselves as the air is crushed out of his lungs, and he tries to gasp, but it isn't doing a lot of good.

"Neil," he manages, and then he's tumbling out of the chair, hitting the floor with a dull, ugly thump, the towel falling away.

"No, no, no," I gasp desperately, like I can somehow stop this from happening, like I can fucking wake myself up, 'cause obviously I've fallen asleep at the computer and this is just a nightmare. We just got back on our feet a couple weeks ago, just got back to normal, and this... this can't be happening, oh God.

"Mike, please," I say, and I'm on my knees beside him, the phone clattering to the floor, "Please don't do this, don't do this." My hands on the side of his face, willing him to take a breath, but he's shaking violently under my hands, eyes wide and unseeing.

Well, this pretty much sucks, he thinks. He can feel himself convulsing, rigid and shaking and rigid again, can taste copper in the back of his throat. It feels like hours since he's taken a full breath, and the world is rapidly receding through a very dark tunnel.

And he knows he's dying.

And it sucks. And he should have had more time. But he had never really imagined that it would be up to him. The worst will be what Neil and the girls will have to go through all over again, and it just fucking sucks.

The black closes over his head.

I don't even recognize the sound that tears out of my throat, raw and angry and utterly baffled. Because this can't be real. This can't be happening.

I can't fucking do this again.

"No, no. Don't leave me here," I sob, my hands fisted in the front of his coat, and I know I should be doing something. I should be calling an ambulance. I should be doing fucking CPR, I should be going upstairs to check on the girls, but I can't make myself get up.

Not completely black.

It comes in flickers like distant lights seen through the trunks of a dark forest and he watches it, bemused. He doesn't really remember the transition between the beach and the train except in the most fragmentary way, and maybe this is more of that. Maybe this is him traveling to wherever he's going next.

Okay.

Then it's getting brighter, hard flashes in both of his eyes - strange, he had forgotten what that was like. But they're inside his head, not outside, and now he's aware of his body again.

And it's different.

He's not breathing, but he doesn't feel the need to. There's a kind of cool hardness settling into his bones. He feels himself blink, once, and then his body arcs upward again as if spiked by electricity, though this time there's no pain.

Interesting.

"Jesus fuckin' fuck," I gasp, when he suddenly jolts back into motion. I'd say back to life, but there's no breath, his body oddly still apart from arch of his spine, and his eyes...

"Oh my God, Mike?" I say, choking on a relieved sob, before my brain even catches up and I realize that this isn't right. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, did you drink from one of those assholes?"

Isn't that how it works? God, this is so fucked up.

He doesn't answer. He flails a little, scrabbling at the floor beneath him, trying to push himself up. His mouth feels very strange, like there's less room in it than there was before. Just a little.

"Neil," he manages, and it comes out a little stronger than before. He gets himself a little way up on one elbow, fumbling for Neil's arm. "What the... the fuck're you taking about?" He closes his eyes and winces, his stomach lurching again.

but everything feels better. Somehow.

"What am I talking about?" I say, bordering on hysteria. He's deathly gray in the harsh light of the kitchen, his eyes glowing bright yellow, and peeking from behind his lips are a pair of sharp fangs.

"Mike, you just... you fuckin'... You just died on the fuckin' kitchen floor, you asshole," I hiss, the gears in my head finally turning at a speed that makes higher thinking possible. I push to my feet, grabbing him by the arms and saying, "Get up. Come on, we gotta get you outta the kitchen, your daughters might come down."

Just another fuckin' Sunday night, I guess. Awesome.

"I didn't-" But as Neil drags at him his tongue slides reflexively along the top of his teeth and he feels it. And at the same time the scent hits him, warm and rich and sweet, and when his stomach lurches again it's not nausea but hunger, sharp and ravenous.

He freezes in the act of getting up, staring up at Neil, and it's like he can see through his skin to the veins beneath. The hot blood rushing through them.

"Well, shit," he whispers.

"Yeah, shit," I say, and I know he's dangerous right now. I'm unarmed and he's probably starved, newly turned and unable to control himself, but I can't spare the effort to be afraid.

Standing in an awkward half-crouch, I bend over and snatch the phone up off the floor. It's stained with blood, dark and congealing, and there's a fuckin' mess on our nice hardwood floors, but I'll deal with that later, too.

I dial the first number that comes to mind, the first safe person I know to call, smearing blood across my cheek as I press the phone against my ear, still trying to haul him to his feet with my other hand.

On the other end, there's a muffled, "'lo?" and without bothering with niceties, I say, "We gotta problem. How soon can you get here?"

Fifteen minutes is the answer I get, which means he's on the south side of the city, but before I can tell him to hurry, the line goes dead.

"Fuckin' vampires."

He stands, still staring at Neil, then staring around at everything. The quality of the light has changed - there's more of it, for one thing, and it seems as if it's on subtly different wavelengths. He still can't see through his right eye, but it's not like that was a huge problem before.

He doesn't feel bad at all anymore. Except for the hunger, which is pounding through him, threatening to overwhelm anything else. He looks at Neil again, wondering if he should put more space between them.

"I can smell you," he murmurs. "I can smell your blood." He clenches his fists, turning half away. He can guess who Neil's called, and he's never been happier to know Spike than he is right now. "Fucking hell."

"Yeah, great. Fangs to yourself, honey," I say, pushing him toward the bathroom down the hall. "Just... go in there and take off your shirt."

Without waiting to see if he's gonna do what I ask, I head toward the fridge, pulling it open and grabbing a bag of blood from inside. Thank fuckin' Christ for Spike. Seriously.

On my way back toward the bathroom, I stop to listen, but I don't hear the sound of footsteps upstairs, so with any fucking luck, the twins are still asleep.

He does what he's told, moving in a mild daze, though every new instinct in his body is screaming at him to turn around, march back in there, grab Neil, and rip his throat out with his teeth.

It's not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, so there's that, at least.

In the bathroom, he's just stripping off his shirt - stiff with drying blood - when he glances in the mirror, and sees what looks like a shirt half inside out and floating in midair.

He groans and closes his eyes.

The wound on his neck, he can tell by feel, isn't as bad as he had feared - no neat punctures but a real tear with nasty, uneven edges. But it's mostly stopped bleeding, only a sluggish ooze - and barely warm. Cooling, like his skin.

He did die on the kitchen floor. That's exactly what he fucking did.

Crowding back into the bathroom, I hand over the bag of blood. "Drink that," I tell him, grabbing a washcloth from the shelf behind him and holding it under the tap.

He takes it before he realizes what it is, and then he can't get it to his mouth fast enough, biting through the top and sucking it down. Everything tight in him eases at once at the thickness, the taste - of course he's tasted his share of blood before, knows that he likes it, but it's never been like this.

But it's also not perfect. He's still extremely aware of the fresh source very close to him now.

"Would be better warm," he grunts, then dives back in again.

"You really wanna badmouth my cooking right now?" I say, lips twitching faintly at the corners, and I feel like I should be afraid, like I should be upset, like I should be sobbing in the corner, but I'm kind of just tired. And a little amused.

Our lives are so fucking weird.

"Come 'ere," I murmur, stepping toward him, wiping at the blood staining his skin. I don't know why it feels important to clean him up, when there's other shit to worry about, except for that he's my husband and it's kind of my fucking job.

"Guess not." He lowers the bag again, licking his lips, and the hunger has lessened. It feels controllable. He moves when Neil tells him to, tilting his head to the side without thinking about it, giving Neil access to the worst of the wound.

"I'm sorry," he says after a few seconds. "I didn't drink anything. I just got bit. I swear."

Nodding, I say, "You look different than Spike. Than the other vampires I've seen around. I dunno... maybe this is something new."

Tossing the washcloth into the sink, I lean back against the counter, just looking at him. "Guess you can only be so careful," I say flatly. He spends his nights hunting monsters, it's a miracle this didn't happen sooner.

He nods. Whatever had come after him... It hadn't been like anything he had ever run across before. He hadn't needed to see it to know that.

He glances back at the mirror. "I'm not showing up in there." He catches his bottom lip under one fang. "It's kinda freaking me out."

Glancing over my shoulder, seeing the place where he should be, I turn back to him, my hand reaching up to briefly touch his cheek.

"You're still there, I promise."

He closes his eyes at the touch. He hasn't had time to internalize it, what it had meant to want to do that to Neil and to want it so badly, what it might have meant if his daughters had been there, what it might mean now. Everything that this implies. Everything this might mean for how every day from here on out is going to go.

This changes everything.

"The fuck're we gonna do?" he whispers, and then laughs a little hysterically. "How the fuck am I gonna shave?"

"I don't fuckin' know. Ask Spike, when he gets here," I snort, letting my hand rest more fully against his cheek, but I stop myself just short of pulling him into my arms.

Mike's dangerous on the best of days, and I'd like to stay alive for now.

On cue, I hear the back door open, heavy footsteps and then a muffled, "Bloody hell." It looks like a fuckin' blood bath in the kitchen, I don't really blame him.

"In here," I call, just loud enough that I know Spike'll hear, but being careful not to wake the girls.

It had taken him twelve minutes, cutting a straight path through the city on his bike, to hell with one-way streets and traffic signals. The boy might not have been specific, but Spike could hear the panic in his voice, knew this wasn't the time for dawdling.

As soon as he pulled into the drive, he was hit with it. Assaulted by it. Blood, and not just anyone's.

The garage was wide open, the bike lying on its side, a puddle of blood on the drive, little dribbles leading up to the door. The knob was tacky with it, and nostrils flaring, he shoved aside the ache, the hunger, the need to bring his fingers to his lips and lick away the residue.

Inside, it was no better. No easier. It was like bathing in it. Mike, everywhere. Literally.

Not knowing what to expect, he followed the boy's voice toward the toilet, standing in the doorway and taking in the scene. Three bodies in the room, one heartbeat. Golden eyes peering back at him. Wonderful.

Andrea was going to lose her mind.

Arching a brow, he drawled, "You've really gotten yourself into it this time, mate."

He doesn't quite laugh, glancing down at the mostly empty blood bag still in his hands. Everything they've done together, and the idea of Spike turning him never occurred to him as even a distant possibility. Nothing beyond some of his more twisted fantasies.

He never believed he would really be in this situation.

"Understatement of the fucking year." He glances at Neil. "Six of 'em jumped me. Dragged me into this underground shithole with a big motherfucker I never actually saw. I shouldn't have gotten outta there alive."

"You kinda didn't, man," I point out, looking up toward the ceiling when I hear a soft thump from upstairs. "Shit. Excuse me, I gotta--"

I glance at myself in the mirror, quickly wiping at the smudge of blood on my face, but I don't have time for anything else. I shove past Spike, calling over my shoulder, "Just... take care of him."

Funny thing is, I know I can trust him to do it.

I take the stairs two at a time, busting into Mack and Flo's room just as they're about to try and come out into the hall. Fuck. They're all sleepy questions, wanting to know what the noise is, wanting some water, wanting to know where Daddy is. My heart's nearly beating out of my chest, but I'm good at this. Good at keeping them calm when I'm ready to crawl out of my own skin.

The boy's gone in a hurry, leaving Spike room to crowd into the bathroom, taking up the empty space against the counter.

He folded his arms across his chest, eying Mike critically.

"You didn't tear the boy to pieces. I'm impressed," he said, plucking the bag of blood from Mike's hand and licking away the faint residue dripping on the outside of the plastic.

"I've come across these, before. Only a few. Stake them, and they go up in a poof of flames. It's bloody weird."

"Yeah, well, they're new to me." He wishes he could sigh properly. It feels like something appropriate. Instead he touches the wound on his neck again. Just one more scar on top of many. Assuming it even heals that way.

"I almost did. Tear him to pieces, I mean. I could smell him, and it was like..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Is it like this for you? How the fuck do you deal with it?"

"It's always stronger when you're first made. You get used to it, to controlling it. But it's always there," he said, reaching toward Mike's face and pushing up the other man's lip with his thumb, exposing the neat and oddly elegant fangs there.

With a dismissive snort, he let go.

"If you can't control it, you need to keep away from them. I'm sure you know that."

He arches an eyebrow at the snort - he may not be able to see them, but he can feel how they differ from Spike's, neater and smoother, and apparently not something he can control as far as placement goes.

"I feel okay now. Mostly." He tosses the bag into the trash can. "Thank Christ you're over often enough for that, though."

"You need to be sure," Spike said, with an added weight of seriousness. "The boy can look after himself, but you hurt those little girls, I imagine you'll greet the sun before I have a chance to put a stake in you."

He faces Spike squarely. Neil is one thing, and he had genuinely been unsure about that for a moment or two, but he has no doubts about this. Not now.

And Spike is right. He wouldn't hesitate.

"I'm sure."

"Alright. Though, I don't particularly like the idea of leaving you here, tonight," he said, because he knew how unpredictable fledglings could be. No matter how strong the thought they were, the thirst was always stronger.

"You can ask the boy, but I think I'd like to stay in the basement, if it's all the same to you."

"I'd like you to." It's not that he doesn't trust himself, he realizes. It's that he needs someone, someone who knows what this is like. Someone who knows it in a way that Neil can't, that hopefully he won't ever.

He smiles wryly. "If nothing else I could use some help cleaning up all that fucking blood."

"Oh, first you make me the nanny, now I'm the sodding maid, as well? Wonderful," Spike said, rolling his eyes expansively, "Don't you have a little woman upstairs, for that sort of thing?"

"Yeah, but he's being the nanny right now. Anyway, I think he's already got enough of my blood on him for one night." He sighs and opens the medicine cabinet, rummaging for some of their heavier duty bandages. "I'm guessing I don't have to worry about this thing getting infected. Or anything getting infected. Ever."

"That'd be my guess, but it's not like I'm an authority. The rules aren't all the same, anymore, I can hardly keep track," he admitted, stepping into the kitchen and looking down at the puddle of blood with a frown.

"What a waste."

"Tell me about it." He hadn't really noticed it before - there had been sort of a lot going on - but when he follows Spike back into the kitchen the scent and the sight of it hits him in the face. Blood everywhere. Fresh. Recently pumping through the veins of something alive.

"Shit, it's making me hungry all over again."

"I'd avoid drinking your own, if I were you," Spike said, brow arched as he dropped to his haunches and smeared a fingertip through the puddle.

"Apart from being pathetic, it doesn't do much to quell the hunger." Eyes on Mike's face, he sucked his fingertip past his lips, licking it clean. Whatever rules they had about no longer using Mike as a personal drinking fountain, this certainly didn't count, did it?

He rolls his eyes, groans- and the groan isn't entirely exasperated. Sex and violence - sex and blood - already enjoyed an unusually close relationship in his head, but now they're grappling with each other, intense and tearing at him.

"God, you fucking tease." He turns away and grabs a roll of paper towels off the holder.

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