admitting he hadn't earned his injuries would require a level of self-importance he had never managed to cultivate.
therefore, cause remained stubbornly loyal to effect.
if one were interested enough in conducting a proper post mortem—and siddharth briefly considers that he might qualify for that—they would've arrived at several complicated conclusions, slowly becoming evident to the battered entity now.
one: antagonizing the leadership of a particularly unpleasant vampire coven had, in restrospect been an error.
two: assuming hundreds miles would discourage creatures of crossing state lines for vengaeance demonstrated an optimism entirely out of character
three: relying on local vampires to display a loyalty beyond immediate convenience had proven, once again, futile
four: he really needed some fucking friends.
he files these observations away accordingly in their neat little folders, though none of it proves particulary useful now. it wasn’t necessarily ideal: the amount of blood he could feel draining from his face, then the trail of it that followed him home to those conventional apartments. by morning, the desert would oxidize it all, turn it brown and disguise it as something else. las vegas excelled at that. evidence rarely survived sunrise.
his building finally comes into view, close but his door not close enough.
despite the fact that he had been a vampire of nearly a decade, his healing abilities could still take their slow time, but that wasn't necessarily the issue. the issue was the fact that he was too weak to hold himself up. he needed more blood.
he tells himself proximity is the only deciding factor, as he crashes onto her door. her door being closer to his, that is. but that's a matter of opinion at this point. his knuckles meet the wood with considerably less authority than intended, dragging rather than rapping.
thankfully she's home.
inside he can hear the television chattering away, four elderly women arguing with a cadence only lifelong friends seem capable of possessing. he catches fragments of laughter. a familiar theme song.
the golden girls. ironic.
"amusing, your choice of words..."
one bloodied hand finds her forearm for balance. crimson fingerprints bloom against her skip and leave their imprint on her forearm to match the streak of blood upon entering.
"long time no see, hot wheels."
gravity begins negotiating its own terms, however, and the collapse into her arms isn't as graceful as it is when their on the rink.
There weren’t many things that made Daisy sick. She insisted that she had seen it all. As much as anyone could, without working in a hospital or being present in the middle of a battlefield. She’d seen gun shots and stab wounds. She’d felt blood gushing from heads and watched someone throw up until their stomach had no more contents to give. During a scary movie, she played the role of cool kid, oh this is nothing, she would insist. I used to see worse when I was a kid.
And she had. On more than one night she’d come home - or been awoken - to her father, and anyone else he may have roped into his schemes, in the kitchen bleeding out. Sometimes in the bathroom. Always with rolls of bandages and sharp needles. He kept antiseptic under the sink, exactly for that purpose.
It wasn’t the blood that bothered her. Not really. Concern began bubbling in her belly as if her body was beginning to reject last night’s supper. Blood pressed against her arm. Crimson dripping down, down.
❝Jesus Christ -❞
Only barely does she mange to catch him as he falls into her arms. Daisy looks to the left, then to the right, but the hallway is empty, save for Sid’s blood. She drags him inside, slipping and sliding the entire way to the bathroom. Instinct takes over, like she’s done this before. She has done this before, in two decade old memories she had boxed away and left to rot. His blood slicks her arms. She can’t get him in the tub, so she leaves him on the vinyl floor of her bathroom, grateful for the first time that its not real tile. There was no way she was getting her security deposit back, anyway.
❝What the hell are you doing?❞ The reality of their new situation begins sinking in; she has a half dead man in her bathroom in the middle of the night. The only medical training she had was forced upon her by her father. What did she think she was going to do with Sid? Patch him up? Call an ambulance? If he wanted the hospital, she never would have seen him. If she was going to patch him up, then why didn’t her hands stop shaking? She wants to hit him, so she does, regardless of his current physical well-being. ❝What the hell is wrong with you?❞ Suddenly angry, terrified, worried, and confused, every emotion begged to leak from her. ❝Why the fuck did you come here? So you could die in my bathroom instead of…❞ For once, she doesn’t have another word. For where would be the preferable place for people like them to die? The assholes who claimed no one and had nothing. The people who left first to avoid being left behind. Certainly they didn’t deserve a peaceful death in bed, like so many wished.
❝I’ve got bandages. Somewhere,❞ Under the kitchen sink. Just in case her dad ever got out of prison. Just in case he ever tracked her down. Just in case he needed her to patch him up again. Her hands won’t stop shaking. ❝I won’t forgive you if you die on my floor. I’ll bring you back just to kill you myself.❞
