cross my heart and hope to die (epic vampire au) part one

Peter Wentz lived in a world of white. The four walls, the ceiling, the floor, and the door were all white. Even the ‘tinted’ window was made to look white. Even for his eyes, so precise yet highly sensitive, he couldn’t see through to the other side. The only thing in his world that wasn’t white was himself and his food. Occasionally, there would be conversations, mostly him rambling and struggling and yelling and screaming. Other times he would catch whispers of conversation through the heavily insulated and sound-proofed walls.

            His existence was just being wasted behind a damned mirror.

            “How are you today Peter?” The voice was the same one as always almost timid sounding at first--but it was the only voice Pete heard with any clarity, anymore, so he had grown past his initial hatred of it. The feeling had grown into a peculiar mixture of familiarity, annoyance, and resentment.

            “You shouldn’t have to ask anymore.” Was his bitter response, seething with aggravation as usual. The conversation always went the same for the first few minutes. Then it varied, a little, from day to day. It depended on what the Doctor was currently looking into.

            There was a slight pause; Pete predicted a sigh of frustration from the, no doubt, young Doctor. “I try to exercise the morality of politeness.” Again with the morality shit, he never failed to bring it up. Pete resisted baring his teeth towards the mirror—he knew it wouldn’t do him any good and would take more of his precious little strength than was worth it.

            “You look hungry.”

            “Damn ri—“

            “No profanities, Peter. We’ve discussed this. I’d hate to have to withdraw your—“

            “Dinner, I know. It’s been two weeks four days, and twenty two hours since I last ate.” Pete hissed, voice sounding as inhuman as it was, “You people will be the death of me.”

            This time the sigh was audible over the intercom, “Three hours, and you’ll get the supplements, Pete. I’m sure you were counting, though.”

            Pete almost ached with anticipation. It wasn’t any damn near close to the real thing—but damn it was better than nothing. Better than the slabs of meat they had tried feeding him in the first place. With technology, they were just getting better and better and better at simulating the taste and texture of human blood.

            “I want to die.”

            “To be honest, Peter, I can understand why. This isn’t forever, though.”

            “You’re just waiting for my coven to come running after me so you can start a big fucking war between the undead and the living? Let me tell you this, Doc, you’re not going to win.”

            “Doctor Stump, Pete. We’ve been through this every day.” That was an understatement, Pete thought. Pete was very quick to bicker with Doctor Stump about why he was locked up.

            “Yessir.” Pete said, rolling his eyes in an annoyingly human habit as he angled a glare at the window. He was too tired to move, to draw up the energy to hiss or bite or struggle or even just flip him the middle finger.

            There was a minute of mostly quiet, just the sounds of paper and pencil and various office supplies and breathing over the intercom that a normal person wouldn’t be able to pick up. Then the Doctor spoke back up, leaning back into the microphone, “Can you please describe your physical feelings?”

            “I’m so tired. I can’t move. I tried. I won’t be able to talk to you tomorrow without those supplements.”

            “This is the longest you’ve ever gone without anything, am I correct?”

            “Yes.” Pete responded, voice hoarsening with the thought. “My mouth is dry. If you were in this room I would kill you without a moment’s hesitation. Anyone. I used to be picky. When I get out of this damned place—“

            “Peter,” Doctor Stump’s voice was stern, “Don’t finish that sentence.”

            Pete laughed, hollow and dry. “As if you care what they do to me. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

            There was another rustle of paper, and Pete could hear voices in the background, but too distant from the microphone for him to clearly make out. “Peter, how long have you been in there?”

            “Four years. Five months. Sixteen days. Twelve hours. Five minutes. Forty Five seconds to now.

            “You’re right . . . You were indestructible.”

            “I still am.”

            “You said it yourself, just a little bit ago, ‘You people will be the death of me.’” There was a short pause, and the microphone clicked off. Pete cursed, loudly, regretting the effort as he felt his muscles ache—they sapped up energy in his body attempting to stretch to the last edges of his vein and keep all of his limbs in working order should he need them.

            He sat there, thinking, for a while. He wasn’t really counting the seconds like he usually did. He just sat there, eyes closed, head tilted back.

            Then something unexpected happened.

/***\

            “Peter?” This time the voice came from something other than the crackling intercom he was used too. He opened his eyes, turned towards the door. His senses were overwhelmed. The subtle temperature change (that he was all too sensitive too), the background noise from the other room, the light change, and the smell. He took in a deep breath through his nose, mouth open, fangs elongated.

            Damn.

            Pete had never seen him, but he would recognize Doctor Stump’s voice anywhere. He had imagined what the Doctor might look like, more than once or twice, but had never come up with that. He was practically a kid, and he looked wholly to young to be a Doctor (early twenties, perhaps?). He was a little on the chubby side, but that was okay—not everyone had his own metabolism, and he was only about Pete’s height. He was wearing a pair of generic-looking black jeans and a dark shirt with a white lab coat unbuttoned. The hat covering up most of his (blonde? Strawberry-blonde? Red? The lighting was so messed up in that room) hair and shadowing his blue-green eyes was the only thing really out of place, well, his sideburns looked a little strange too.

            But Pete only gave those things a glance over. He was focused on the Doctor’s skin, smooth and pale—porcelain like (but not quite as perfect as any of his kind’s). He could see his veins running like a network underneath that gorgeous skin. And he could smell it pumping through his veins.

            He could barely even move.

            “Peter. They’ve come for you.” Doctor Stump said, his voice was just above a whisper. He sounded anxious. His heart rate was abnormally fast and Pete was all too aware of that fact.

            “Who?”

            “Your friends.”

            Pete felt a surge of relief for a quick second, but then went rigid—something about the Doctor’s manner. This wasn’t what he was wanting it to be, this was bad for him.

            “They’re not coming for you.” Doctor Stump continued, “They’re coming after you. They think, it’s been messy out there. Some of them have been killed. They think that you tipped us off on how. I . . . Doctor Hurley wants me to get you out of here, out of the country as soon as possible.”

            Pete laughed, bitter and sarcastic.

            “I can’t move, Doctor Stump. Are you forgetting?”

            Doctor Stump looked vaguely nauseas for a moment, “I know. I . . . We have a few death-row inmates that are being kept here for psychiatric analysis. Doctor Hurley suggested that you should go ahead.”

            A feral grin of anticipation slipped onto Pete’s face. He could suck the damned bastard’s dry. “I can’t move, though, Doctor Stump.”

            He looked flustered again. “I understand. I’ll return momentarily.” Pete got the vague idea the Doctor knew he was being manipulated. That made him grin even more.

            The Doctor was careful not to turn his back on Pete, wisely enough, as he exited the room. He counted the time exactly (fourteen minutes and thirty three seconds) until the Doctor returned, pushing a haggard looking man in his mid to late thirties. He stopped in front of Pete, pushing the man down towards him.

            Pete’s reaction was almost instantaneous (sluggish from the lack of energy), he grabbed the man by the shoulders and pinned him down, knees on either side of his hips, back bowed, lips on his throat immediately—fangs sinking in, blood rushing into his mouth, down his throat.

            The man screamed, yelled, thrashed around. Pete grinned, not letting the man so much as squirm an inch away from him. He was in too much of a hurry to make this feel good for the dying man.

            Pete was all too aware of Doctor Stump’s fidgeting in the background, the hesitant scrawl on his clip board as his eyes remained glued on the scene in front of him. He was frightened, nervous, terrified—his heart was racing. He had good reason to be. Because Pete was keeping his eyes on Stump, not this insignificant man beneath him.

            The taste of his blood paled in comparison to the mere scent of the Doctor’s. Perhaps it might just be that the Doctor was the first human he had smelled in years? Or maybe it was something else; Pete didn’t much care to think about that at the moment.

            The man’s heart beat stopped, so suddenly Pete almost didn’t expect it. He licked the drops of blood from the wound, tracing his tongue over his own lips to pull the last remnants.

            When he stood up, it was with all the grace of a King and the predatory stance of a Leopard. Doctor Stump didn’t have the time to even flinch before Pete was right next to him, leering. The Doctor didn’t breathe at first, before forcing himself to relax and breathe steadily.

            Pete grinned, wide and full of mischief. “You’re good.”

            “You’re not the first that I’ve dealt with, Pete.”

            “You’re too young.” Was the vampire’s quick snap.

            The Doctor smirked this time, “Jealousy. It’s so much easier to tell what you’re feeling when there’s not that piece of glass. Your facial expressions are very easy to read.”

            Pete snarled, at him. “I thought we were in a hurry?”

            “Vaguely. We can’t really leave until tomorrow.” There was an awkward pause as he looked to the clipboard in his hand, “Can you handle being in public without making a scene?”

            Pete laughed, “Why of course,” he said, leaning in just a little closer to the man, turning his eyes up towards the nervous Doctor, “How else would we find our victims?”

            “Everyone is different.” He exclaimed, “I’m going to take you to the residential quarters of the facility. I understand that you are not . . . human, and you operate and function differently from those of us who are. But for the sake of getting you out of here in one piece and getting me out alive I need you to be on your best behavior.”

            Pete considered for a moment, “I don’t understand why you remaining alive is so imperative to my escape.”

            Doctor Stump grinned, “I’m the only person in the country right now who can protect you from them in the slightest. I know you’re strong Pete, but there are more of them, and if my memory serves me correctly, some of them are even older than you.”

            “How can *you* protect *me?*”

            “Because I can get you out of here absolutely traceless. You wouldn’t even be able to go back and find your own trail.”

            Pete considered for a moment and recalled how eerily scentless the white room had been before the door opened, even after he knew humans had come in to check his stats. “I’ll give you a chance, Doctor.”

            “Patrick. You won’t want to call me Doctor in public. We’re going to try and be inconspicuous, if you know the meaning of the word.”

            Pete leaned in again, “I can deal with that . . . Patrick.” He said, ducking in swiftly to peck a kiss on his neck before darting away, quickly.  “Let’s get this show on the road.”

            Patrick took a deep, shuddering breath. “I swear to God, Pete. I can put you in so much pain if you screw this up.”

            “I’m selfish. You’ve proven to me that I need you.” Pete said, fangs showing. Patrick turned, silently and went out the door. Pete followed, just slightly jumpy from using his senses being able to soak in so much for the first time in a long time. “You’ll be fine.”

            After locking the door to the white room, Patrick led him down a corridor filled with identical doors and long mirrors. Pete stared straight ahead, memorizing the Doctor’s walk and scent, his heart rate, everything he could about his physical appearance to fill in his memory. To make all those long conversations a little more concrete in his mind.

            They reached a door and Patrick poked in a code on a keypad, Pete subtly peered over his shoulders—memorizing it just in case, and they walked on, climbing a flight of stairs and taking a few more turns—finally stopping at one of the first doors in the new corridor they were in.

            Patrick typed in yet another key code on pad next to the door, and then stuck the key into the door, turning it and pulling it out—the door opened for them, and Patrick ushered him in, Pete jumping when it closed behind him.

            “The residential wing is relatively new; it has some of the most advanced technology that we haven’t been able to integrate into the old wings of the research and observation building.” He explained, “I live here. It’s like an apartment or dorm. It’s a lot easier and more convenient than living elsewhere. This operation is very secret and going in and out of the gates is a pain in the ass.”

            “I can see why. Not everyone would like knowing their government was keeping vampires and god knows what else right next door without telling them.”

            “You’re right. They would rather not know that you exist at all.”

***

            “It only smells like you.” Pete said, an eyebrow raised, “Only you.”

            “Watching you takes up most of my time, besides, ‘secretive operation.’ It’s too inconvenient to date anyone outside and none of us ever really have free time at the same time.” Patrick said, in his room—gesturing to a small stack of clothes with a shoe box on top of it, “I borrowed these from a few people around, mostly based off of what you wore in the photos where we were observing you. We can get you some more shortly.”

            “You weren’t there, but for four, five hours a day—never all at once, either.”

            “I haven’t been in a relationship in a long time, Peter. And it isn’t much of your business.”

            “I like to know people inside and out. It’s something I do.”

            “You will not intimidate me.” The Doctor said reading through what Pete was attempting to do, his movements suddenly rigid and careful as he put folded clothing into a suit case.

            Pete had Patrick leaned over onto the bed, next to the suitcase, in a moment—hips lined up, Patrick’s back to his chest, tongue licking a stripe up his neck desperately.

            “God, you don’t even know how long I’ve wanted to take a bite out of you.” He laughed bitterly, “Ever since the first damn day you spoke to me over that microphone.” He hissed, “And then when you opened that door . . . You smell,” Pete paused, swirling his tongue against hot skin again, scraping his teeth against it not quite hard enough to tear the skin at all, “so good."

            “Let me go Peter.” Patrick said, surprisingly calm sounding and surprisingly commanding.

            “Why should I?” Pete asked, softly, voice reverberating against Patrick’s skin, teeth pressed flat against his skin as he sucked, hard, bringing blood just beneath the surface of his skin.

            Patrick groaned, “Peter, Let me go now.”

            Pete hissed against the Doctor’s skin, stretching his jaw wider as if he was going to sink his fangs in—and then he pulled away, backing off from him entirely pressing himself against the wall, flat.

            Patrick remained leaning over the side of the bed, bracing himself on his hands.

            “This isn’t a good idea for you. You’re on a suicide mission. Why are you doing this?” Pete asked, slowly, after a moment as he glided towards the stack of clothes—picking them up and walking back towards the bathroom.

            “You’ve been my life for four and a half years, Peter.” Patrick said, “I have watched you, talked with you, studied you.” He paused, grappling for words, “I want to help you escape the monster you’ve become, because that’s what we do. We take things like you and make them as human as they can be.”

            Pete was as still as marble for a moment, “I don’t feel guilty, a surprising amount of us don’t. It’s survival of the fittest, and ‘things like me’ are at the top of the food chain. I don’t mind what I’ve become.” He said, going back into the bathroom and clicking the door shut behind him.

            “I’m going to save you.” Patrick hissed, barely audible, as he clenched his fists in the comforter.

***

            The next day, Patrick packed up his car with most of the contents of his ‘apartment.’ It wasn’t that much, just a guitar, clothes, hats, and an assortment of vaguely family-heirloom-looking things. Pete helped him, careful with the fragile things and stayed a distance away from Patrick.

            “We’re leaving Chicago.” Patrick had told him before he went to bed—visibly exhausted—and he had gotten them up before dawn to pack the car. Patrick dug out a pair of sunglasses for Pete, the sunlight would be too damn much once it rose and he pulled his sleeves down and his hood up (it was winter, he wasn’t out of place, or anything) and climbed into the car, curling up in the passengers seat and turning away from Patrick.

            “The sunlight really doesn’t hurt?”

            Pete shrugged, “It’s uncomfortable. It makes me paranoid, makes my skin itch. My senses are the most dulled in the daytime. People exist, there’s too much to smell, too much to hear, too much to take in. Sensory overload,” he paused, “I remember being told that was why we were nightwalkers. Because our ancestors would otherwise be condemned to constant overload, constantly paranoid because of it.”

            “We’ll be driving all day. How often do you need to feed to stay at regular function?”

            Pete snorted, “You should know that Doctor.”

            “I should. But you never needed to function at full capacity in that setting. We had to keep your diet controlled for our own safety.” Patrick explained carefully, turning the heat on.

            “Sometimes twice a night, sometimes every other, it all depended.” Pete said, “If I get hurt bad—a tricky fall, a deep wound—I need to eat more, to compensate . . . If I’m just ‘staying in shape’ as you might put it, I need to eat about every night. I don’t have to drain them dry . . . but it’s just easier to do that. For them and for me, really—otherwise the death is long and slow, it’s nearly impossible to recover from.”

            “I figured as much. Will it be too unbearable to wait until we get to New York? I’d prefer you didn’t at rest stops or small towns.”

            “Yes.” Pete answered, instantly.

            “How do you dispose of the body?”

            “Sewers, wounds, gashes. I leave enough wounds to make it look like they bled out down there, enough blood in the body so it doesn’t look forced.”

            Patrick stared straight ahead, “It’ll be light soon.”

            “Enough time. Take me downtown. There’ll be people there.”

            So Patrick did. They parked the car where Pete was sure there was no camera (he could catch the glint from the sunlight, hear the mechanisms inside it) and went downtown. Pete went on ahead dodging people craftily, walking quickly as if he was going somewhere—Patrick following from a safe distance. Pete’s eyes turned dark, almost black, when he heard a girl walking out of a coffee shop in his direction.

            He was no telepath. But he had ways of enchanting his prey without speaking, without leaving anything for witnesses. He amped it up—it would draw in humans closer, more curious. He was so alluring.

            Then it was easy.

***

            The girl slumped in his arms, holding onto his jacket, loosely—as his lips tore once again into the skin at her neck—blood gushing into his mouth. God, it had been too long, too long. He hadn’t been able to enjoy himself last night. He couldn’t wait for a challenge, in the city. It sent his own heart pumping through the used blood in his body.

            “I never did anything wrong.” She whispered, her coffee cup dropping helplessly to the ground, the foamy liquid spilling onto the ground of the secluded alleyway.

            “Neither did I.” He whispered against her skin, loud enough for her to hear. He was making this easy—keeping things gentle, not sucking too hard, not pulling at her veins—as much as he could, as much as he could bear.

            “I know.” She whispered, voice hoarse. Pete was always careful, he never tore too deep in the throat—just bit into the artery, spilled the blood into his mouth, he was always as careful as he could be. Let them live as long as they could, let them talk to him.

            Patrick, in the background, swallowed—hand drifting to the bruise on his neck, rubbing softly at it. Thinking, pondering, understanding that he should be dead. Pete turned his eyes (black, coal, onyx black) from the girl to Patrick’s. They locked, fire and intensity versus icy cold fear. For all he was worth, Patrick couldn’t have moved if Pete dropped the girl and headed towards him.

            “The—the sun rises in-in an hour.” He choked out, “Hurry.” His throat, mouth was dry. He should be nauseas, instead he was captivated.

            Pete finished with her, her heart had stopped—he was full. Patrick stared, dully, as Pete did exactly what he told Patrick he always did.

            “Come on, Pete. We need to get back to the car now.”

            In a flash, Patrick was pressed up against the wall, wrists restrained above his head in Pete’s iron grip—lips pressed against his neck over the blue-violet bruise, nose rubbing against his neck, Pete’s eyes closed wistfully. “God, God, you’ll drive me crazy if you keep doing that with your heart, if you keep sweating, if you keep breathing.”

            “Pete.”

            “Doctor, shit. Shit.” Peter pulled his head away, thumping his forehead against the wall next to Patrick’s head, lips ghosting against the fabric of his shirt, “I—it’s not enough with you there, smelling like that. I’m not used to a human being so close for so long. Ever, I’ve never been. Ever since I’ve been turned—Ross was with me for all of half a week before I made him. God, stay away from me.”

            Patrick was careful to maintain steady breathing—trying his best to keep his heart rate steady. He had heard the story of Ross, Ryan—the first human Pete had tried to be close to after he was turned, years and years ago. It had failed miserably, Pete turned him less than a week after their relationship became serious. The fledgling vampire was killed by Pete’s ‘friends’ months later after revealing his new lack of humanity to his best friend without turning him. It had been one of the few sources of Pete’s guilt, as far as Patrick could pick up.

            But the Doctor had never heard Pete sound quite that guilty over it. “You smell the best, out of all of them. I don’t even remember a smell so tantalizing as yours from when I was in the cities, unleashed. God, but I can’t kill you or I’m screwed over. I don’t stand a chance. I’m not ready to die now that I’m out of there.” Pete tilted his head a little, trailing his nose through Patrick’s hair (just beneath his hat) to his cheek, breathing deep—smelling him, committing it to his memory. Pete pulled away, rolled the sleeves of his hoodie down and put the hood up—stomping off angrily in the direction of the car.

 part two of part one