by Kallysten
Blake's gaze was back on him, wary and tired, and Marc had to quell the sudden urge to shake him until Blake moved, growled, whined, or did anything at all. Instead, he sat at the desk, the only other furniture in the room except for a small dresser, and emptied the glass of water that had been set there in the pitcher nearby. His fangs extended, and he slashed his wrist before holding it above the glass. Blood slowly started filling it, so dark it almost seemed black in the poor light dispensed by the bedside lamp on the dresser. When it reached about an inch high, Marc pulled his wrist back and mindlessly licked it clean, knowing it would close within seconds. It wasn't enough blood to satisfy a presumably ravenous vampire, but there was this small question about what Blake was exactly. If blood wasn't on his diet, it wouldn't take much to figure it out.
Moving the chair back so that he could turn and see Blake, Marc held the glass toward him.
"Fresh from the tap. Or as fresh as you can get tonight, seeing how you don't seem ready to let Kate open a vein for you."
It was only when Marc had reminded her that, by her own admission, Blake panicked whenever she got close to him, that Kate had agreed it made more sense for Marc to try. Somehow, the idea that Blake might enjoy her blood more than Marc's was as upsetting as the thought that he was hurt at all. Another effect of the way Blake had called him for help, undoubtedly. Marc really needed to rest and clear his mind.
Blake stared at the glass for a long time, and Marc wondered whether he could smell what was in. He never even started to reach for it.
Standing, Marc moved closer to Blake and placed the glass practically under his nose.
"Take it, Blake. Drink."
Blake's left hand twitched on his thigh, and Marc stared at it. How could he not have noticed before now the state of Blake's hands?
"All right, I'll hold it for you, then. But you've got to help me."
Marc let out a small growl of frustration as blood trickled down both sides of Blake's mouth but—he would have bet on it—very little if anything at all passed his lips. Blake flinched back at the sound, spilling more blood on his chin.
"I thought I mentioned something about you helping me,” Marc grumbled. “But I see you're as cooperative as ever. Nice to see that whatever they did to you, they didn't change you that much."
There was a box of tissues on the desk next to the water pitcher; Marc put down the nearly empty glass and lightly wet a couple of tissues.
"Here, clean..."
He cut himself short when he remembered the state of Blake's hands. All ten fingers were unnaturally crooked and bent, probably broken and set wrong on purpose. Someone would have to do something about that, some day. Marc didn't want to think about it, didn't want to start planning already how he would break these once perfect fingers to allow them to heal properly this time.
Without adding a word, he dabbed at Blake's lips and chin with the wet tissues, cleaning the blood off. If he refused to feed, be it human food or blood, how long would he last before wasting away? Would they have to force-feed him? Hardly the best solution seeing his mental state, but if there was nothing else they could do...
As Marc thought and tried to find a solution, Blake's eyes flickered down, so briefly Marc almost missed it. Then he did it again. The third time, Marc realized it was his wrist Blake kept glancing at. The blood had clotted, the cut was all but healed, but it seemed to fascinate Blake the way the glass had not.
"OK, let's try,” Marc murmured, and reopened the cut as before.
Blake's eyes widened when Marc extended his arm toward him, and this time they flickered up, toward his face. Blood was slowly flowing from the cut and sliding along Marc's wrist, a drop forming and threatening to fall any second now. Before it could, Blake carefully leaned forward and flicked his tongue at the blood. His eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure, and he came very close to smiling as he took another small lick. And another. The touch evoked a tactile memory for Marc, and his body responded to it as it had for decades, hardening instantly.
Muttering to himself, Marc sat on the bed next to Blake, his back resting against the wall behind him as he tried to make himself more comfortable. At this rate, it would take Blake all night to take in the equivalent of a small mouthful. Another flash of fangs widened the cut slightly, and after a moment's hesitation Blake started feeding again, still with small, delicate licks. Even with the state of his mangled hands, it would have been easier for him to hold Marc's wrist rather than lean toward it like this; yet, his hands remained on his thighs, and he never touched Marc with anything over than his tongue and lips. Marc could only wonder whether Blake's fingers had been broken because he had dared touch—himself? Someone else?—when he had not been supposed to.
For a long moment, Blake fed from him, so painfully slow that Marc had to reopen the cut twice more before Blake pulled back, apparently satiated. The entire time, Marc tried to figure out what would come next. This town was under attack, and it hardly seemed like the best place to nurse Blake back to health. Familiar surroundings might help ground him back into this world, too.
Marc had a house up north, in a small town so insignificant—and so hard to reach, wedged between two rivers and a mountain—that it had escaped both demon attacks and attention from refugees. He and Blake had lived there for a few weeks at a time over the years, whenever one of them, or both, was hurt badly enough to need rest.
The next night, he decided as he watched Blake curl into a ball and drift into sleep. They would leave the next night.
It had been a long time since his Master had offered him more than a few drops of blood.
A very long time.
Blake was wary at first, afraid that it was yet another test. Was his Master trying to see if he knew his place, knew what was proper? Would he call Blake greedy, chastise him for taking too much blood from him, and reclaim every drop—and even more?
He tried to stop himself when the slashes in his Master's flesh first closed, tried to pull away, but already his Master had reopened the cut, already he was offering his wrist back to Blake. And Blake was so hungry...
Maybe—undoubtedly—he would be punished for this later. But at least, just this time, he would quell the pangs of hunger that had twisted his insides for so long.
Goosebumps erupted all over Kate's arms, and she crossed them, standing as tall as she could make herself, and nevermind that Marc still towered over her. “No way."
Her voice was flat, and for that she was grateful. Throwing a tantrum or even appearing agitated would help nothing. She had to show Marc that she was serious. Show him that she wasn't going to let him take Blake away again after she had been sick with worry for so long. Show him—
"You do realize I wasn't asking for your permission, right?"
If her voice had been expressionless, his was pure ice. She tried to suppress a shiver as the cold slid down her back and held on to her calm by her fingernails. She tilted her chin a little higher and stared him down.
"If you think I'm going to let you take him away from me without a fight, you're in for a surprise."
For long seconds, he returned her stare levelly. It was hard to remember in that moment that they had been lovers. That she had felt something for him—that she still did. All that she knew was that he was trying to take Blake away. She had regretted often enough allowing Simon—allowing herself—to give up at Lakeview. She wouldn't give up again. She would never be able to look at Blake again if she did.
Eventually, Marc let out a quiet sigh. “You're as stubborn as he is,” he murmured, and sat down on the sofa. “Sit with me,” he demanded, and she wouldn't have complied if he hadn't added a tired, “Please, Kate."
She came to sit at the other end of the sofa grudgingly, her arms still crossed as she faced forward while he shifted sideways to look at her.
"Try to think this through.” He reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder. When she stiffened at his touch, he let his hand fall away again. “If I leave Blake with y
ou, what are you going to do with him? You said yourself he becomes hysterical if you get anywhere near him."
"I'll find someone to take care of him,” she stated, chin held high with determination.
Marc didn't hesitate. “You'll find someone. Someone like Simon, you mean."
She looked at him with wide eyes. It was a low blow, and she wouldn't have expected it from him. She could see even now that he wasn't happy about having said it; his mouth was twisted as though he had had a bad taste on his tongue.
"I'm not accusing you of anything. There's no way you could have known—"
"But I should have,” she interrupted him, shaking her head. “I should have seen—"
"No.” He reached for her shoulder again, and this time she let him. “Don't blame yourself for this. Please, Kate. Tell me you won't blame yourself."
She couldn't find anything other than earnestness in his gaze, and she wished for a moment that she could tell him what he wanted to hear. Try as she might, though, the words refused to come.
"I'm the one who brought Simon in.” Tears were trying to force her way to her eyes, but she refused to cry. She had cried too much over Blake already; she wouldn't cry anymore now that he was back. “I'm the one who asked him to help. I should have..."
A dry sob stopped her from finishing. She shut her eyes as tightly as she could, hoping to stop the tears, but she could feel them trickling from the corners of her eyes anyway. Marc's hand on her shoulder squeezed gently at first, but when she didn't manage to calm down, he tugged her toward him, catching her arm with his other hand and pulling her into his lap.
He closed his arms around her, tentatively at first, then more firmly when she didn't protest. How could she have protested, though? She felt as though it had been years since anyone had hugged her; decades since anyone had tried to comfort her. She had missed him, too—maybe not as much as she had missed Blake because of the anger and guilt that colored her memories, but missed him nonetheless. When he had shown up to check on Daniel, over the past year and half, she had always been jealous that he wasn't checking on her, too. And at the same time, she would have resented him if he had. She was no child. She wasn't weak. She was a soldier, and she could take what life threw at her.
Clinging to that thought, she struggled to get a grip on herself, and let the soothing motion of his hand on her back, rubbing slow, regular circles, guide her back toward calmness.
"Don't blame yourself,” he said again. “The past is the past. Blake will get better. That's all that matters."
She raised her head from his shoulder and, after surreptitiously wiping her cheeks, looked at him. Deep circles darkened his gaze and made him look exhausted.
"It's all that matters,” she repeated. “But I want to help. I need to. As much as you do."
For an instant, his mouth twisted, and she was sure he was going to object that he had a larger claim to Blake than she could ever hope to have. But after heaving a little sigh, he nodded.
"I know you want to help. And if I thought you could, I'd let you. But until Blake starts getting better, I think it'd be good if it was just the two of us. And if we were somewhere quiet. Somewhere peaceful. Far from any breach or demons."
"I could help,” she insisted. “I could—"
"Kate... He freezes when I say your name. You said yourself you can't be in the same room."
The simple idea of losing Blake again—of losing both of them—was making her sick to her stomach. “I could help,” she said again, now whispering.
Marc pressed his lips to her forehead. “When he's better. Give me a few weeks to bring him back, make him remember who he is. Then you can join us and he'll be glad to see you. All right?"
She wished he sounded more sure of himself. She wished she could believe it would truly be that easy. She also wished that she hadn't been certain he would leave with Blake regardless of what she said.
"All right,” she murmured. “But I want to say goodbye to him."
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Chapter 12
For the third time, Blake was on his knees seconds after Marc entered the room, and as he had done the previous night, Marc stopped him before he could start to undress and told him to sit on the bed instead.
"I thought you were sleeping,” Marc commented as he set the bundle he had brought down on the desk. “Good thing that you're not. If we do this tonight, I guess you'll have calmed down by the time we leave tomorrow. Probably best that way."
Blake's eyes remained on the floor, and if Marc hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Blake wasn't listening—or understanding.
"I'll go get Kate,” he continued. “She wants to say goodbye."
As Marc had suspected, Blake reacted at Kate's name; he started shaking so hard Marc thought for a second that he was sobbing.
"Hey, none of that, now,” he admonished. “She's not going to hurt you, just talk to you. And I'll be here. OK?"
Even as the words passed his lips, Marc realized how stupid they were. The scent of Blake's fear had increased the second Marc stepped inside; how could the assurance that he would stay there be of any comfort? Still, he would be present, to prevent Blake from hurting himself, and to see exactly what effect seeing Kate had on him.
Leaving Blake where he sat, Marc went to find Kate; she was still in the living room, exactly where he had left her, but her eyes seemed redder than they had been earlier. She had requested a chance to give Blake a proper goodbye. She seemed surprised when Marc told her they would do it right then, rather than the following night when Marc and Blake would leave, but she followed nonetheless, pausing for a few seconds at the door, out of sight, until Marc called her in.
Marc wanted to remain on the side and observe, but he simply couldn't. As soon as Kate stepped in, Blake's fear peaked and he became agitated, his eyes darting between her and Marc. Within seconds, he was kneeling again, arms covering his head as though he expected blows to fall on him. Marc caught the back of his neck as he was getting ready to bang his head on the floor.
"Calm down,” he said, quiet but commanding. Blake stilled, but he was trembling. Giving Kate a look that asked her to stay put for a minute, Marc drew Blake to his feet. When he understood that letting go would mean that Blake would sink down to his knees again, he held him upright with his arms around Blake's waist, practically supporting all of his weight.
A glance at Kate was all it took for her to step forward, a little hesitantly, until she was standing right in front of Blake. She talked quietly, calmly, and even though Marc tried not to listen to the one-sided conversation he had no part in, he still caught the tone of her voice, still heard her say words of love and offer promises of revenge. It was more than a goodbye, and Marc couldn't help feeling that she should have kept her words for when Blake would be able to appreciate and respond to them.
Supposing that he would ever be able to do either thing again.
She reached toward Blake's face at some point, and Blake jerked away so violently that he pushed Marc back one step. Her hand hung up in the air for an instant before falling to her side.
"Thank you,” she murmured, making eye contact with Marc for the first time, before returning her attention to Blake. “Get better, Blake. We miss you."
As she closed the door behind her, Marc slowly released his hold on Blake's waist; predictably, as soon as he was free Blake was once more back on his knees, once more shaking. But this time, Marc soon noticed, he was sobbing. Almost silent sobs, except for the ragged breaths accompanying them, which shook Blake's body harder than ever. Marc watched him for a while, at a loss as to what to do. Something in him demanded that he make Blake's crying stop by whatever means necessary, but as long as he wasn't hurting himself, Marc was reluctant to impose his touch on Blake and witness his augmented fear once more.
His eyes fell on the bundle he had left on the desk; maybe that would calm Blake down. Walking around the kneeling man so that he could face him, Marc tu
gged away the loosely wrapped fabric and uncovered Seneca, gleaming in its scabbard. He placed it in front of Blake as he squatted down. He had never wondered about Blake's sword until Kate had asked if he would take it when they left.
"Calm down, Blake. Enough tears. Look what I've got for you."
It took long seconds for the sobs to finally subside. Blake, however, seemed thoroughly uninterested by the weapon in front of him. It was almost as though he couldn't see it.
"Kate kept it for you. We thought you'd like to have it back. When you're ready."
What he didn't say was that he hoped that someday Blake would be himself again, and hold Seneca with the confidence and poise he had once possessed. Witnessing the utter lack of recognition in Blake's eyes, however, was heartbreaking. Marc wrapped the fabric around it again and stood, returning the bundle to the desk. Maybe he'd let Kate keep it, after all, until she came back to them.
"You look tired,” he lied. “Time for good, not-completely-vampire guys to go to bed."
With a sickening inevitability, Blake roused at the last word, stood, and started stripping. Marc prevented him from taking more than his pants off. How many times would he need to stop the programmed response before Blake understood he didn't need to obey old rules anymore?
"Lie down,” Marc said, gently guiding Blake to the bed. “Sleep."
Short instructions—orders, really, even if the thought was disturbing—seemed to work best, and Marc was pleased to see Blake close his eyes. His cheeks were still damp with tears, and Marc had the urge to reach down and dry them. But when he did, barely conscious of what he was doing, Blake's eyes shot open, his heartbeat suddenly became faster, and his hands, for the first time, came toward Marc, grabbed him, tugged him, until Marc was lying on the bed next to him, too stunned to even protest. Blake barely had any flesh on him, and his hands were useless, and still he had managed to pull Marc exactly where—presumably—he wanted him.
