frey deadlock..

drifter finds your scent comforting, always has. he describes it as warm and 'full of life', metaphorically and physically. you're sure if you asked him to explain further, he'd just describe the scent of blood to you. still, you take it as a compliment. a man like him, who's boiled his life down to the thrill of the chase, still finding things to be soft about. you're flattered, truly.

he swears your scent changes based on your mood. that's why he's so adamant on making sure you have the best time with him. but sometimes, he catches you at the wrong moment. you try for him, you really do. it's rare for him to stick around for more than a day or two, and when he does, you are practically attached at the hip to him. he doesn't mind, really. he's aware of his… behavior. the problem is, he's a stubborn old dog. he calls himself 'drifter' for a reason. he never intended to stay too long, even if you had him wrapped around your finger.

it's that very thing that gets to you. it had been a rough couple of weeks, and all you really craved was a soft touch, something gentle. what a shame it was, your partner was out prowling patrons knows where, getting his fill of blood.

you curl up in your bed, pulling a pillow close to your chest as some sort of hollow comfort. it feels a bit pathetic, but you do your best to fill the void drifter has left in any way you can. you face the window, watching lights flicker, the smoke rising from buildings. a melancholy air settles over the cursed apple— which is what you tell yourself to make you feel better. yes, it must be all of new york that's moody, not just you. it does little the soothe the ache in your heart, unfortunately.

however, before you can get comfortable enough to brood, your view of the city gets obstructed by a large figure. you raise your head, before realizing just who it is. you groan as the man grins.

you wanted to see drifter. but, at the same time, it suddenly felt sickening. you craved his touch again, but irritation caught up faster than relief or happiness did. before you can shoo him away like some crow, he opens your window from the outside. you can tell he was about to say some snarky, maybe a little too nasty comment, but he pauses when he sees your frown.

"what's wrong? do i still got blood on me?" he looks down at his shirt, and wipes his mouth. yes, he still has blood on him. he always has blood on him. but that's not what you were frowning at.

all you find you can muster is a pathetic, childish little "go away."

he looks at you like a dog who's just be told to go home when there's food out. then, he laughs, finally stepping into your apartment and onto your bed.

"ain't no way you're tellin' me that," he chuckles, looking down at you. but when you don't smile, he deflates a little. "really?"

you feel your throat stiffen, and your eyes burn. you mentally berate yourself for this.— why are you about to cry? at what? what he said, or him showing up? you wanted him here, dammit. he showed up at the exact time, and yet— you do your best to hide it, simply pouting at the man. but of course he notices, he always does. for how much time he spends apart from you, he can never find it in himself to ignore any signs you give him, good or bad.

"awh, cher," drifter murmurs, reaching out to you with those big hands, still bloody. you jerk your head away, closing your eyes tightly. "c'mon… don't be like that."

but you, to his dismay, continue to be exactly like that. you shuffle further away from him on the bed, clutching the pillow to your chest for emotional support. you don't dare to look at him. this breaks his heart more than you know.

you can feel him staring at you, before you hear fabric rustling as he sits down. he doesn't say anything else, staying almost deathly quiet, as if you were a timid little mouse who would run away at any sound. after a few minutes of your defiance, you open an eye and look over. he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes haven't left your form yet. he gives you a concerned look, one that's almost uncanny for a man like him.

you don't say anything. neither does he. he's unsure if you're ready to talk, and wonders if you'll just turn your head again if he tries to speak. after another moment of silence, he figures he might as well try.

"i've clearly done somethin' to upset you, so…" he takes a chance and scootches just a little closer, "… mind tellin' me what it is?"

you feel like it should be obvious. but when you stare at him for a little while longer, he doesn't continue. he only raises his eyebrows, prompting you to speak.

there's a million ways you want to phrase it; 'you're never around', 'i wish you were here more often', 'why can't you spend more time with me?', but all you can choke out is—

"you left me."

drifter's eyes widen, and he reaches out, a flicker of something passing through his eyes— reflection?— before he stops himself. he's being surprisingly mindful. and it's clear he doesn't know exactly what to say.

"i— oh, darlin'…" he finally speaks, but it gives you nothing to work with. it's clear he's struggling with words; which was funny to you, it felt like he always knew what to say.

when words fail him, he turns to touch. he pushes himself closer once more, placing a large hand on your knee. he sucks in a breath, like he's waiting for an adverse reaction. when all you do is sniffle and look into his eyes, he relaxes a little.

"look, i'm sorry," he mutters, as if those words took a great deal of effort to speak. you narrow your eyes at him and he is quick to defend himself, "i didn't know— i didn't think that it'd be such a… a problem?"

his tone does little to make you feel any better. he sounds unsure of himself, like he was reading from a script that he didn't know how to act out yet. you furrow your brows and place your hand on his wrist, wrapping your fingers around it. he squeezes your knee gently, as if to say he doesn't want to let go, before reluctantly letting go. he sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"what i meant to say is… oh, i don't know," he admits defeat finally, deflating a little. "i didn't think about it."

that lessens the blow for you. just a little. at least he admitted to it. but you still find yourself at a loss for words. sure, you had gotten an explanation, but you felt like it wasn't enough. a little voice inside of you called you selfish, but the louder voice told you it was okay to feel that way. you weren't the one who left him alone for weeks at a time.

so, what do you do? you pout. it may not be the most mature response, but to be fair, what he's been doing isn't exactly mature either. drifter scoffs; once again, he didn't mean to, and he tries to catch himself. it turns into a half-laugh, one you can't tell if it's genuine, or if he's nervous.

"how about this," he starts again, leaning forward a little bit, hoping to catch your gaze. "you tell me how i can make it up to you."

"you could stick around more." your response is immediate and blunt. he expected this, of course.

still, he found it a bit of a hard ask to deliver on. you both know why. his nature is to wander, his existence had been whittled down to hunger for so long, his pallette ever expanding.

he doesn't hide his reaction. his eyebrows furrow and he lowers his head, but he doesn't protest. he gives a reluctant sigh— which does little to quell the pit in your stomach—, before nodding.

"i know—" he cuts himself off, pursing his lips. he sucks in a breath, before he tears his gaze away from you, finally. "i'll try."

the answer is not good enough. he knows this too. he is too ashamed to say it out loud, but he knows this will not do.

"i don't want you to try," you turn towards him fully, finally reaching for him. you place a firm hand on his shoulder, one that does little to comfort the sudden doubt he holds. not that you meant to comfort him. "i want to see you more. i want to be around you more. i want to fall asleep with you and wake up to you."

you squeeze his shoulder, and he looks back up at you.

"i'm sick of just pretending that it doesn't hurt when you're gone for so long," the words were flowing now. a mediocre response like 'i'll try' was enough to flip the switch, and now you couldn't help but spill out the word stew in your brain. "'cause telling myself you'll come back doesn't work that much anymore. i know you do come back, but—"

and you choke. you feel a tightening in your throat as tears prick your eyes once more.

"it's not enough."

drifter's body loosens for a second, as he raises his head. he doesn't know what to say. your words hurt— it's been a long time since he's felt like this. since he's had to really commit himself to one thing, one person. connection was something that was long gone, he thought. specifically with the living, with someone so warm and full of life. he knew he wasn't an honest man, especially in undeath, and yet he selfishly found himself looking for something to hold onto. he had done so without realizing what kind of effect it had on you. and only now did he realize the consequences that followed.

his heart squeezes, and he finds himself floundering, reaching up to cup your cheeks, fingers twitching when he remembers the way you acted just seconds prior. but he wants to hold you. he doesn't like it when you cry, after all. your smell loses the warmth and vitality he adored so much.

before he can even come to a conclusion, his hands cup your cheeks. large, cold, and metallic smelling hands. his thumbs catch your tears almost instinctively, and through the blur you can almost make out a near distraught look on his face. you don't pull away this time, your hand meekly letting go of his shoulder.

"i'm sorry," he says rather softly. quietly, even. "i didn't know. i wasn't thinkin' right— when am i ever thinkin' right when it comes to you?" he tries to lighten the mood with that little comment, but his voice drips with a vulnerability you have never heard.

it makes your stomach turn— or maybe it's butterflies?—, and yet you can't bring yourself to pull away. this is what you wanted, and you'll be damned if you squander an opportunity like this. he holds you so gently, cradles your face like you're the most delicate thing he's met. you can tell he wants to do more, but is too hesitant that he himself may make it worse.

he relaxes a little when you dont pull away, some weight lifting off his chest. when you leaned into him, his heart stuttered, like he was a flustered middleschooler who was holding hands with his crush for the very first time. your reaction surprises him, but his own shocks him more. perhaps it was the previous context that made this feeling heavier, one realization followed by another.

he liked this.

a lot.

suddenly it barely made sense as to why he had spent so much time away from you. maybe new york wasn't too bad? there was certainly an abundance of food here, from all sorts of places. it was fine dining for him. and it'd be enough if you were here with him, right?

drifter looks down at you, before lifting his heads to cup your head, fingers threading through your hair. his touch is gentle, and you swear you can feel a slight tremor. you'd question it, or even tease him, but you can't get the words out. you can barely organize your thoughts.

it's nice to be held like this again, even if he smelled like blood and sweat and smog. it may have been an unpleasant smell, but it was something you missed, too. every little thing was. you cant help but take a deep breath, allowing his scent to settle in your lungs. he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest; he knows what you're doing. it's the same thing he's done to you every time he's had the chance.

one of his hands falls away from your head, moving to your back, stroking up and down slowly. his hands, for once, feel oddly warm. you don't question it, at the very least, they aren't soaked in blood. its a comfort you weren't expecting, especially from a man as cold as him. but it seems that you have struck a chord within him. one that has not been plucked in at the very least a decade— or maybe a century?

the silence between you is comfortable. not oppressive like your demeanor had been before. drifter wants to speak, his mind is starting to run a million miles per minute, words piling up. but he doesn't. at the same time, he doesn't know what to say. this isn't the end of the discussion, he knows that, he just doesn't want to ruin the moment. you're so comfortable, with your tears cooling over your cheeks and your little sniffles as you try to regain your composure in his arms, why would he want to move onto the next part? he'd rather wait until you're ready.

and after a couple seconds, ready you are. you slowly pull away from his chest, lifting your head and straightening your back. he reluctantly lets go, his hands dropping to his sides.

"you could… do more of this, too," you gesture vaguely between the two of you, smiling just a little. "a good cuddle is nice every now and then…"

"oh, darlin'…" he drawls, grinning childishly. "that wasn't exactly a cuddle, but… i wouldn't mind doin' that more often."

you both share a laugh, before you tilt your head to the side.

"y'know, a couple date nights would be nice, too," you hint.

he seems stunned for a moment, before blinking away his confusion. "you and me got different…. appetites. you know that, right?"

you nod.

"so… you just want me to invite you out to go huntin' with me?"

"no!" you huff, fake pouting this time. "real date nights, drifter. like… like dinner and a movie—"

"—now i ain't exactly got money, cher—"

"you kill so many people and you don't look for their wallets? at all?"

drifter pauses. you pause. he looks away like he's thinking. once upon a time, he did take any and all cash he could find on a person, but that was in his younger days as a vampire. now, it really didn't matter to him. what use did money have to him? he didn't need much, just a good meal and a place to stay. but for you, well, maybe it was time to start searching bodies once he had gotten his fill.

you can see the light bulb go off. hell, you can hear it. you can't help but give him a smug little smile as he nods slowly.

"i ain't had much of a reason to go lookin' for their wallets 'til now, i suppose," he hums, sitting back and scratching at his scruff.

"well, you better start," you keep up this bratty bit, just for a little, "'cause now i'd like to see some fine dining in the future."

"fine dining?"

he's stunned, now. his jaw drops like the concept is new to him. or like he knows what follows.

you nod.

"the kind where i gotta dress up all fancy like?"

you nod again.

he deflates, looking kind of like a puppy who came in from the rain. "does it mean i gotta shave…?"

you shake your head, and he lights up like a christmas tree.

"maybe i can handle a couple of rich folk and fancy food for you then… as long as you let me get some dessert after?"

you raise your eyebrow, giving him a questioning look. "are you implying—"

"blood, cher. i mean blood. you know how tasteless most food is to me out here. so… if you could look the other way while i grab a bite or two…"

well, it's a start. you close your eyes and nod in agreement.