#cha!

the second he lays eyes on you, the phone in his hand practically shatters, then vanishes. and he's all white teeth and dimples and eyes black as the night outside. and, well, look at that! he's got so much more to print. every night he's there, bell trilling over the door, with some piss-poor excuse for a report or spreadsheet that just must be printed, right then. you're pretty sure some are meeting notes taken by an assistant. one time it's a list of office supplies that need to be reordered with no punctuation and a number of nearly offensive spelling errors. so yeah, he's obviously making up reasons to come over.

and fine, it works on you. he's slimy, sure. but he's a tiny bit charming and unlike the rest of the city, he's awake at the same hours as you. all too happy to swagger across the dark road and follow you into the back room to fuck you absolutely brainless. for where you're at, it's basically the perfect arrangement.

except after a few months... maybe you actually like him? completely by accident. he's just so... consistent. comes by to see you practically every shift and even if he doesn't have time to go into the back, he's always got time to take you apart with his eyes and promise next time. when you mention your birthday off handedly, he remembers it. comes by that night and spends an hour between your legs like he doesn't have anything else better to be doing across the street, then still hangs around to bend you over a printer. he kisses you softly after, and that's happening more and more. he insists on being the one to button up your clothes. he jaunts over when he's stressed, pissed off about some meeting or braid-dead employee, and you can see the second the frustration leaves him because it's the second he sees you smile when he walks through the print shop door.

then he's over one night, and you're making out up front (very unprofessional, but hey! your clothes are very much on and his hands are still in PG-13 territory) and you tug on his shirt collar mid-groan, accidentally spotting--blood?

you break the kiss. yes, blood. one hard yank and his top button pops, but even with his tie on you can see that beneath that crisp white cotton is blood. a lot of it. splatters.

not his.

you balk and before you can stammer out a complete sentence, max has you tugged into the back with the door slammed shut, out of sight of the windows, talking a thousand miles an hour as he tries to explain. not a psycho. not a serial killer. just... a vampire.

you're a fucking killer, you try to correct, but he tuts like this is semantics and also maybe offensive. ridiculous. and you see red. he's obviously fucking with you - obviously fucking dangerous - and you're so mad and betrayed that you fell for it that even though he tries flashing his fangs at you as proof, you're already reaching for the closest sharp object.

it ends up being a pencil, which, okay. not the greatest weapon of self defense - but to your shock max only tries to sidestep your stab, not coming after you at all.

which means it hits. you're angry, so maybe that helps. and it plunges in right under his collarbone - through shirt and skin, right into his chest.

he falls on his ass from the impact, maybe shocked you've actually stabbed him - and the second he's down pure, raw panic tears through your chest. you scramble after him, panting, wide-eyed with horror. despite what you believe him to be, faced with his approaching death you don't want him to die.

"I'm sorry, oh my god, max, fuck, I'm sorry--" you keep saying, helplessly palming his chest. you can't pull it out, right? won't he bleed out faster? "I'm gonna call 911. don't move. oh my god, okay I'm gonna get my phone, don't move--"

but max just blinks up at you with the oddest expression. awe and shock but also, what? like he's a little impressed? and to your great horror he remains perfectly calm as he reaches up to grip the pencil and without blinking yanks it out of his own flesh, then casts it aside. you wait, but no blood trickles out. there's no gush of a slaughtered artery. your mouth slacks open, lost, while max pushes himself up to sit without issue.

"you're---" you stammer, unable even to say it. max rubs the heel of his hand over the wound as if only mildly inconvenienced by a bruise.