HEDONIST

It’s too late, now. Danny meant to say get out of my apartment and never come back. Danny meant to say I fucking hate you and everything you stand for. Danny meant to say never follow me again or I will have you killed. He meant to, he did. But he just---

It’s too late, now. 

Danny should have made good on his threats from before. Danny should have told him no, get someone else to get your pills from that locker. Danny should have said a million other things than his surly affirmations and noncommittal scoffs. He should have meant what he said, too. Empty words easily ignored by a man who had heard worse from worse people and still followed them around like a lovesick pup. 

It’s too late, now. He should have told Francis to keep him, to handle him, to stay away from him, something. He should have avoided them both, not fallen into their beds or had them fall into his, drunk and high and something like in love with both of them in that moment. The moments grew longer, he grew to looking at his watch or his phone, expecting something from either of them, getting cross when both were busy and he was left to drinking alone. He had options, but none of them were remotely interesting too him. ( he didn’t trust any of them, either. not after what happened with Thomas. if Frank wanted him dead, he’d be dead. if Roderick wanted him dead, he’d be dead. he’s half certain their Doctor wants them dead, but he’ll deal with that when it comes, oh, but it’s too late now for him to back out, to run. ) 

It’s too late, now. 

Roderick is tucked into Danny’s side, skin to skin, scar to scar, and Danny has his arm around him. Roderick is asleep, smaller and terrifyingly fragile, some sort of Frankenstein’s monster of spare parts barely stuck together with duct tape and the chains keeping him tied to the Doctor. Roderick is warm, the covers are thrown to the side, to Frank, who is bundled up in a small ball on Roderick’s back, lips barely brushing his shoulder in her sleep. Danny should have just said no, just said get out, and meant it instead of knowing Roderick would stay. 

It’s too late, now. Danny should have been cruel to Roderick after the first time they kissed, strong hands shaking as he kept his grip around Roderick’s throat. He should have said never again. He should have done anything besides ignoring the hazy memory of it. 

It’s too late, now.Danny is kissing Roderick again, lips on his forehead and a hand in his hair. They’ll have to wake up soon, instead of all pretending to be asleep as they are now. It’s too late to say don’t come back, because Danny’s sleep is finally steady again, because he wants them around all the time, because he is selfish and self destructive and knows this only ends in heartache and death but he’s weak and he never meant any of it, not even at the start. 

Marked; once, at least. A lion’s tail snipped at birth, a voice that cracks glass, a light kept inside him and blood magic. He has enemies, still, and doesn’t want to fight anymore. He owes some Fae from the mountains, or something like that. She comes when he needs her, and he does the same. Blood magic and Fae magic are funny things, especially when working together. She might be something like his employer, but he’d hardly admit to that. They have an arrangement, he stays in New York, or close enough, and mostly keeps his head down. Mostly. 

He still has enemies, some of whom followed him across centuries and across hemispheres. ( Em is good for that, at least. ) 

The specifics:

Danny is about 375, picked up the name Daniel sometime around 1860 when he was in London the first time.

He was High Warlock of Hong Kong from 1806-1841; settling there after he got tired of piracy, leaving after Hong Kong was ceded to the British. The years leading up to his self-imposed exile were rough on him and he pulled back drastically from ambition and leadership.

He spends much of his time drinking, or with Francis Bauer, or avoiding feelings for Roderick S. Kasun.

He doesn’t have anything he doesn’t want. 

( he’s learned how to want what he can have. he can have a nice apartment in Hell’s Kitchen with white walls and blinding sun and clean lines. he wants that. his couch has a mysterious bloodstain on it from a criminal maybe bleeding out on it. he wants a new couch without unfading brown and purple marks. he can have a drink. he can hear nagging voices about duty, about people he left behind, people who died or will die soon enough, people who couldn’t see beyond the walls of the prison they built up of drug trafficking and protections rackets and bribes. he wants a drink. ) 

Nothing. No problems. Just peace, quiet, and a glass half full of vodka. 

Some days he doesn’t remember. It’s fine. The unstoppable march of time. They were uneventful. ( more bloodstains, how did he manage to spend five thousand dollars in one bar, who the fuck is rhonda? and why the fuck is she so determined to go to new orleans with danny? )

Some days he just drinks water. Some days his hands shake and he feels sick and he knows, he knows, he just wants a drink. No problems. He doesn’t have any problems. His problems are in Taipei. His problems are in the West Coast. His problems speak coded Cantonese and use knives and bats and rope. He just wants a drink. A drink.

Another lost day. He’s fine. He’s just tired.

There was --- someone. Something. Bright light, the smell of clean skin and gunpowder, like sun warmed yellow petals and a summer day. 

My, my, Mr. Liu.

They are alone when he wakes up. The couch is not white, the coffee table before him covered in various files and reference materials. The woman. Seated on a loveseat under the window, the sun catching her cheeks, her collarbones, her pulse. The obvious question is stalled as he tries to collect --- something, something other than the searing pain in his skull, the astringent dryness in his mouth. He overdid it. His hand goes to his eyes. He doesn’t hear the woman move, the Cyrillic language newspaper still in front of her nose, but he knows she’s fully aware of him. 

He has, admittedly, woken up in stranger places, though she... is a different breed.

Danny is very familiar with hangovers. This is not one. Not entirely. There is water before him. He doesn’t have a voice, not yet, but she is biding her time. Good God, what is he in for? 

Minutes pass, she keeps reading, he slowly maneuvers upright. She’s bare foot, her legs tucked underneath her. He can’t tell her age --- his age, at least, older, maybe. He can’t tell if it’s the not-hangover, but she seems too bright. Like the light is drawn to her. Funny.

“Who are you?” His voice hurts. He has a feeling, a bad feeling, that she knows exactly who he is, what he is, and where he’s been. A woman like her. Well, she looks at you and knows too much. ( later, he’ll be too aware of her skills in judging someone’s character, in making wagers. always bet on the house, right? she is the house.  )

“Good morning.” Clipped, purely American, the newspaper folded and set aside. The hair on the back of his neck raises and he clears his throat. She’s not a Boss. There’s no way. But she’s something worse. He doesn’t know the word... “You have some terrible luck, Mr. Liu. Have you ever been drugged before?”  A heavy sigh. Bad luck. He rubs a hand over his face. He can see this isn’t going to go any other way than she wants, at the pace she wants. “Thank you.” Pulled through stress roughened lungs. The details will reveal themselves later. The broad facts, as he sees it; he owes her, now, that she saved him from dying in the gutter, that she knows who he is, that she was watching, or someone was watching for her, that she moved him, had means to move him, that, upon closer inspection, she is not a giant, but very small.  He thinks that she is trouble, terrible, terrifying.