#vampire dad things

the palace hadn’t changed. lights low. fire lit. air sharp with salt and lavender. the staff were long asleep, but the house was awake. it always was when he came back.

lucien walked in with the kid tucked against him. no words. no bags. just weight and silence. the boy stirred once in his arms, let out a small sound. not a cry. just something alive. soft and new and too warm against him.

sian. five months old. born in july. heavier now. breathing steady against lucien’s chest. cheek pressed into the collar of his coat. fingers curled into the fabric like they’d always belonged there. he moved like he wasn’t afraid of him.

lucien didn’t speak. didn’t look at the portraits. didn’t glance at the mirrors. just crossed the hall and headed for the last door. the one no one else touched. he pushed it open.

the tomb room was cold. preserved. the air inside hadn’t shifted in months. it didn’t need to. moonlight poured in through the tall windows. it caught the marble first. the tomb. the ivy curling up the base. no one had trimmed it. he’d told them not to.

above it. the painting. her.

she hadn’t changed. she never would.

lucien stepped inside. the breath he took came too tight. he wasn’t sure why. not at first. then he looked at her. really looked. and realized he’d started to forget. not everything. not her voice or her hands. not the way she used to straighten his collar when he was angry. but the shape of her mouth. the angle of her eyes. the edges were fading. and seeing her now, full and still and painted in light, it hit him harder than he expected.

she was real again.

the boy stirred against his chest. breath caught once. then evened. he shifted beneath the blanket and made another sound. faint. but there. lucien adjusted his hold. not to comfort him. just to keep him close. it wasn’t warmth. not really. but it was close enough.

he looked up.

“bonsoir, maman.”

he lowered the blanket slightly. enough for her eyes to find him.

“this is him.”

a beat.

“sian étienne armand moreaux ryu.”

he said it like he wanted the room to remember. he didn’t explain why it took this long. didn’t say what happened in july. didn’t say what it felt like to see history repeat itself through a mouth that couldn’t speak yet. he just stood there.

“he has your eyes.”

his voice softened there. not gentle. just quiet.

he looked at her like she might speak. like she’d step down and touch his arm the way she used to when he was spiralling. but she stayed still. so he kept going.

“you got on a ship with a name and a knife. ran because they would have killed us. they didn’t want you. they didn’t want me.”

he looked down at the boy.

“and now i’m here. holding one of my own.”

sian kicked once beneath the wool. not hard. not loud. just enough.

“not royal. not wanted.”

he blinked once.

“but alive.”

he took a breath.

“i’m not proud of how he got here.”

his voice stayed even. not cold. not cracked.

“but i didn’t run.”

his jaw shifted. barely.

“i thought about it. i really did. but i stayed.”

the baby shifted again. his breath touched lucien’s collarbone.

“i won’t leave him. even if i don’t know how to do this.”

he paused.

“i’ll try. with her.”

another pause.

“even if she makes me want to rip my own throat out.”

his mouth twitched. not a smile. just weight.

he looked back at her.

“watch him.”

a breath.

“please.”

he didn’t say goodbye. he never did. he stayed a little longer. long enough to remember her right. then turned. the door clicked shut behind him.