![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
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?"
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?"
no subject
"I'm sorry," he says after a few seconds. "I didn't drink anything. I just got bit. I swear."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"You're still there, I promise."
no subject
This changes everything.
"The fuck're we gonna do?" he whispers, and then laughs a little hysterically. "How the fuck am I gonna shave?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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?"
no subject
"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."
no subject
"I feel okay now. Mostly." He tosses the bag into the trash can. "Thank Christ you're over often enough for that, though."
no subject
"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."
no subject
And Spike is right. He wouldn't hesitate.
"I'm sure."
no subject
"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."
no subject
He smiles wryly. "If nothing else I could use some help cleaning up all that fucking blood."
no subject
"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?"
no subject
no subject
"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."
no subject
"Shit, it's making me hungry all over again."
no subject
"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?
no subject
"God, you fucking tease." He turns away and grabs a roll of paper towels off the holder.