languid and honey-sweet

the next day...

"What the fuck?"

He freezes, standing by the window. The sight before him is...terrifying, to say the least. He feels like he's in a nightmare. He spent the entire duration of patrol mulling over the things he said to you before he left. We both know you won't, except you did.

He stares at the kitchen of your shared apartment. All of your water bottles that you constantly left by the sink are gone. The vase of flowers you always left on the island is empty. Your collection of cheesy magnets is gone, the fridge stripped bare.

He looks to the living room. The stack of your books that always accompanied his own is missing. Your coffee mug no longer sits empty on the coffee table atop your favorite coaster. Your stupidly girly throw blanket is no longer draped over the couch.

"What...the fuck," he whispers to himself again. "No, no, no, no, no..."

He walks to the front door. Your shoes—usually tossed haphazardly by the door, thrown over his own boots—are nowhere to be found. Your keys are not in the ceramic bowl by the door. Your collection of puffer jackets and coats no longer clutters the coatrack.

Jason swallows, and only then does he register the growing lump in his throat and the pit of dread in his stomach. "Baby?" he calls out, as if this is all some sick prank. "C'mon, doll, don't do this to me, where are you?"

He slams open the bedroom door. "Fuck," he breathes, shoulders dropping. Your cluttered mess of brushes and foundations and powders is gone, the dresser's surface wiped completely clean of excess from your makeup—it looks untouched, like you were never there.

The bed is stripped bare—that was your comforter and pillowcase set, after all. The clinical white color of the pillows and mattress seem to mock him and everything he lost.

He opens the closet. Only one half of the space is now occupied—his half. The rack that once held your shirts and hoodies, the organizer that once held all your "going out" heels, the overflowing laundry basket you never let him touch...all of it is empty.

"No," he mutters again, entering his final destination: the en suite bathroom.

He finally lets his unshed tears fall as he stares at the room. Your pink towel? Gone. Your fragrant shampoo and conditioner? Gone. Your decadent body wash that he loved to sniff off of you after your showers? Gone.

...Your toothbrush that once accompanied his by the sink?

Gone.

With shaky hands he pulls his phone out from his pocket, immediately going to check your location. "Location unavailable, what the hell does that mean?"

With his heart in his stomach, he clicks a few buttons and suddenly he's waiting for you to pick up the phone—you're his one and only emergency contact, of course.

After a few rings, it goes to voicemail. "Fuck!" he exclaims, calling again.

Voicemail, again.

10 times he calls. Each time, the line rings thrice before sending him to voicemail. On the last call, he finally leaves a message.

"Doll, where the hell are you, baby?" he asks into the phone, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I know I said you'd never leave but please, all– all your stuff's gone and I don't know what to do. Please, please pick up the phone, ma. I- fuck, I love you, come back."

He hangs up, not noticing—or maybe just not acknowledging—the tears streaming down his face. "My baby," he sighs, taking a seat on the couch. If he doesn't sit, he might collapse with how much he's shaking.

For good measure, he shoots you a bunch of a few texts asking where you are, why your location's off, and telling you that he loves you.

He tosses his phone to the side, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to get this shaking to stop. The apartment feels cold and clinical without you or your belongings in it.

He doesn't like living alone—or at least feeling like he's living alone.

Jason doesn't go to the manor at all that day. He spends the entire day busying himself with random chores around the half-empty apartment and checking his phone every 5 seconds.

With every one swipe of peanut butter onto a slice of bread, he checks his phone for your location, a call, or even a text back. He never thought it'd take him 20 minutes to make himself a PBJ sandwich.

He's wiping down the bathroom counter when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Y/N has started sharing location with you.

"Oh, thank fuck," he sighs deeply, feeling as though a weight has been lifted off his chest. He doesn't know if you meant to turn on your location again, but the details don't matter now—he needs to get his baby home safe and figure out what the hell happened.

The address in his phone led him to another apartment on the other side of Gotham. He almost second-guesses his GPS until he sees your car parallel parked outside the complex. He can see boxes in your trunk which likely house everything missing from your own apartment.

He gets out of the car. Apartment 117, he's looking for. "Please don't be with another man, please don't be with another man," he whispers in a chant to himself. It's not long before he's stopped right outside the apartment door, the little dots on his phone—one representing you, the other him—shown as being 10 feet apart.

A shaky fist raises to rap his knuckles against the door. He stands there for probably two minutes, and he begins to wonder whether he's made a mistake. Just as he's about to walk away, you swing the door open.

Wait, not you. His brows furrow—he recognizes the girl immediately as your friend Sydney from the unmistakable sleek ginger hair.

"She doesn't want to see you," the girl says.

Jason has to look down at her, but he subconsciously tries to make himself smaller. The last thing he needs to do is scare off the one person who can lead him to you.

"I...I really need to see her, Sydney," he murmurs softly. "We– we had a big fight last night and now all of her stuff is gone. I just need to talk to her."

"I know what happened," she says, ready to shut the door. "You're a dick, Todd."

"Wait– don't shut the door—"

"—Syd, it's okay. I'll talk to him."

His entire rhythm seems to slow, his body calming down once he finally hears your voice. It may not be directed at him, but that kind, gentle lilt could soothe him under any circumstances.

"Doll?" he mutters, trying to peek around Sydney to get a glimpse of you. "Oh, baby..."

You brush past your friend, offering her a grateful smile before shutting the door behind you. You and Jason stand alone in the stuffy hallway, the walls suddenly too close.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"What're you doing here, Jason?" you ask finally.

His breath hitches. It would go unnoticed to most, but not to you. "Don't call me that."

"Your name?"

He nods. "No...I'm supposed to be Jay or– or 'baby' or 'handsome,'" he replies. "Jason feels too...formal."

You sigh, eyes diverting from his and focusing on the decorative plant stood in the corner. "You never answered my question."

"What am I doing here?" he shifts to meet your gaze once more. "Ma, what are you doing here? You had me scared shitless when I got home! Your– your stuff was all gone, you wouldn't answer my calls or my texts. Baby, I–"

"You what?"

"I thought I lost you." That familiar lump is clawing up his throat again. He tries to swallow it down, tries to brush away the sudden burning in his nose and behind his eyes.

"Shouldn't you be thanking me?" you murmur. "You told me that you wanted me to leave; you dared me to. So I did."

He cups your cheeks and you can feel the tremor in his warm hands against your skin. "Babygirl, you have to know I didn't mean that," he whispers oh so softly. His blue-green eyes are so gentle and assuring as they stare into yours, albeit a little glossy as well. "Oh, fuck, you're my everything, darling, I could never do without you."

You swallow as his hands drop from your face, arms falling to his side as his head falls to your shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers. You feel a sudden wetness against your shoulder when his arms engulf you. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

You take a deep breath. How could you not forgive him? Your sweet, broken Jay...

Fuck if Sydney calls you 'easy.'

You reciprocate his hug, tangling both your hands in his hair to cradle his head. "Oh, Jay..." you shush him gently, lips trailing a path of kisses across his hairline. "I know..."

"I don't deserve you," he admits.

"Is that why you're trying to push me away?" you ask him in your soothing voice.

He blinks, staring into space for a moment against your shoulder. "I...yeah. I think that's exactly why."

You smile softly, resting your temple against his. "Then we can fix it, okay? Together."

He nods, finally picking his head up to meet your gaze again. "Together."

You look into his eyes for a bit. "I'm sorry for my...extremities. Y'know, moving all my shit out of the apartment and ghosting you and—"

"—Ma," he cuts you off, eyes imploring you to slow down. "I understand. You had every right to be angry and act on it, okay? I'm sorry, not you. Never you, my baby."

You lean in, hands cupping the back of his neck. He goes gladly, soft lips meeting yours in a gentle, slow kiss. There's a tinge of salt on your tongue from his tears slipping down his face, but you don't mind. You pull away after a few moments, resting your forehead against his.

"I love you," you reassure him. "I'm not leaving. I'm yours. I love you."

He nods. "I love you, too, doll."

Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.

Some storms arrived quietly.

Others kicked the front door off its hinges.

This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.

***

Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.

"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."

You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"

"I can do the rehab at home."

"Like the last time?"

He flinched at the memory, just a little.

"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."

He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.

"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."

"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."

"Mhm."

"Frankie..."

He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."

"Which tone?"

"The pity one."

"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."

"I am a fuck up, cariño."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.

"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."

"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."

"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"

You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."

You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.

Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

"Look at me," you pleaded.

He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.

"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"

A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."

A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.

"I'm scared."

"I know you are."

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."

Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."

He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."

You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."

A tear slipped down his cheek. 

"I'll always be here, rooting for you."

"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."

You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."

Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."

"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.

Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.

He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."

And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.

"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."

You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."

That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.

"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"

You felt his nod more than you saw it.

***

A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.

For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.

The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

It had been by mistake, really, that you'd found out about James. After your parents' nasty divorce, they'd liquidated their assets and gotten the hell out of dodge, to opposite sides of the country, leaving what was supposed to be their retirement home to you. Your job being remote made the move easy. You could dial in from anywhere, really, so why not a sleepy little town? It was nice enough, you supposed, but your first time seeing it was when you pulled the U-Haul truck into the driveway to start unloading.

Your neighbours were nice, if a little nosy, but you didn't foresee any real friendships there. But the house on the hill—you could see it peeking through lush trees—its roof crested with ravens, seemed interesting. You thought that maybe, as you drove past it for your first grocery trip, a young and hip whimsigoth might live there. It was a far-fetched hope, maybe, but so far everyone you'd seen in this town was married with kids, or an empty nester. You hadn't seen any twenty-somethings at all.

You weren't one to back down from a challenge, so you packed some muffins (store-bought—you weren't about to waste time in the kitchen if they were to be rejected) into a basket and set about heading up to the hill.

It had been the beginning of fall, at the time, but it seemed like all of the trees on the property had begun their change of green to yellow and orange earlier than the others in town. You wondered if it had something to do with being at a higher altitude. There were no cheery lawn ornaments like the homes near yours. No wind chimes or ceramic frogs or funny little gnomes. The grass had been cut, but it was mostly blanketed by leaves. Distantly, you realized all you could hear was the rustle of the branches in the breeze. There were no chirping birds. Tipping your head back, you saw the row of beady eyes on you, a silent brigade of midnight black ravens considering you, tilting their heads, snapping their beaks curiously.

There was no driveway, no garage, and also no car parked on the street. That was really what made you pause. But you braved the porch step, the wood so faded it looked gray, and fixed your fingers around the heavy knocker. It protruded from a ram's head, the ring clasped in its jaw. Maybe the homeowner was a pagan, or something.

There was no doorbell, so you knocked with enthusiasm, hoping it was loud enough. All the windows were covered by gauzy curtains in wine red or a faded cream, so you couldn't see in. The thin strips of glass on either side of the door were of the stained variety, different pieces making up a pattern you couldn't quite catch. All you could tell was that it looked dark inside.

You waited, tapping your foot against the soft wood. There was no welcome mat, either. Yet you hesitated to believe that the house was abandoned, because otherwise, who had taken care of the lawn? After a full minute of standing still, listening to the house, trying to tell if someone was coming to answer, you knocked again. The knock knock knock sounded like the banging of a gavel.

It seemed to do the trick, though. Another thirty seconds of waiting, the house completely silent, and then the door flew open. You stared in surprise at who stood before you.

He looked a little young to inhabit the place alone, as he blinked eyes of crystalline blue at you. But that wasn't what had you trying not to gape at him. No, the man before you stood in pajamas of black silk, an eye mask pushed up over his forehead, his brown hair sticking every which way. "I don't want whatever you're selling. And please, be considerate. I was resting."

His words curled around you like smoke, and it almost made you shiver. You didn't think his tone was meant to be seductive, but for some reason, it had you flushing. So, this mysterious stranger must work nights, or something. "Oh, I—I'm not trying to sell anything. I, um, I just moved in? Down the hill." You jerked a thumb behind you, as if he needed the clarification. "Just introducing myself."

He peered at you sleepily, looking largely unimpressed. "Are those meant to be for me?" His eyes travelled down from your face to the basket.

You'd forgotten it had been resting in the crook of your arm. "Oh, um, yes!" You unfolded the checkered dishtowel on top to reveal the muffins. "Best way to get into people's good graces is with food, yeah?" You were aiming for upbeat, though the feeling felt like it had been leached from you the second he'd fixed you with that disdainful look.

"No, thank you." He said tersely.

Of all the people you'd imagined to live here, he wasn't one of them. "N—no?" Who the hell rejected muffins?

You felt yourself deflate, your spine curling to hunch in on yourself. Rejection never felt nice. But then you remembered, as he went to close the door, that you weren't some pansy. He was already looking at you like you were slightly more stupid than the general population. You drew yourself to your full height, though he was still taller than you. It didn't matter that he'd been polite. You knew he was just trying to get you to go away.

"Is that all?" He asked, clearly ready to close the door in your face.

"I guess so," your eyes narrowed. "But for future reference, the considerate thing to do is take the damn muffins. I don't need to know if you immediately throw them in the trash."

He remained unperturbed. It was mildly infuriating. "Alright. Goodbye."

Before you could blink, the door was closed. You felt like the ram's head was judging you. "Dick." You muttered, turning on your heel.

You thought you heard something on the other side of the door, but decided not to pay it any mind. It wasn't until you'd reached the gate that you heard the door open again, followed by that same seductive lilt: "Close, but my name is actually James."

You didn't see James again for a couple of weeks. You didn't want to ask your other neighbours about him, but you certainly didn't stop them when they brought him up. From what you'd come to understand, people hardly ever saw him. In fact, you were probably the person that had spoken to him the most in recent months. He worked nights somewhere, though no one knew where. But it sounded like his house and lawn were always in pretty pristine condition, though no one ever actually saw him out there doing maintenance. He was, in large part, a great big question mark to your small town.

You planned to never interact with him again. The key word there was 'planned'. But one night, just as you were planning to cozy up on your new couch and watch an episode of the police procedural you'd been hooked on, there was a gentle knock on your door. You snuggled your cardigan around yourself—it was a wearable blanket, really—and padded to the front of the house. You assumed it was a neighbour with leftovers—they really loved bringing you food, pitying your single status.

It was dark out, the sky the blue of a jewel, but your porch light washed everything with yellow. You were more than a little surprised to see James standing on the other side. He was wearing a long black coat over what looked to be tailored trousers and an expensive looking shirt.

"Hello," he said.

Just the one word sounded musical. You kept your arms crossed over your chest. "Hi."

"I wanted to apologize for my behaviour the other day." it had been weeks, but you let it slide, curious as to where this was going. "I realized I never even asked for your name." He looked at you expectantly then.

Well, if you were going to be saying his name in vain, you supposed it was only fair… You gave him your own in a short, brisk tone. You didn't like how you felt when he repeated it back like a caress.

"Did you come all the way here just to ask for my name?" You shifted your weight, staring up at him.

"No, I thought we might get to know each other better. May I come in?" He all but crooned.

He must have thought that turning on the charm would get him into your good graces. "Um, no."

If you'd had your phone on you, you would have taken a picture of the clear shock on his face. "nNo?" He repeated, incredulous. The silky seduction had melted away.

You frowned. "No. Why would I, a single woman, let a strange man into her house at…" you glanced at your watch, "eight o'clock at night? Sounds like a recipe for danger, don't you think?"

It was very obvious to you that James had had no doubt in his mind that you were going to let him in, and this roadblock was something he hadn't considered. He didn't know how petty you could be. The crease in his brow smoothed out, and he met your eyes. You believed that his stare could have been hypnotic, if you weren't already disillusioned by his charm. He said your name again, and it gave you goosebumps along your arms. "I'm sorry for the way I acted. I unfortunately tend to be a tad irate when roused from sleep."

His tone was interesting, to you. The words he used, even. He didn't talk like anyone else you'd met. He fixed you with a pleading look. "I'm not a danger to you. I'd just like to talk to you. Please, can I come in? It's a bit cold."

You felt the irritation pass across your face. If he thought his handsomeness and dulcet tone could make you bend, he was wrong. "I already said no, dude. Come back tomorrow in the light of day and maybe we'll talk."

That was when you saw the frustration in his gaze. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing it all the more, the toes of his shiny black shoes kissing the threshold of your home. For a split second, you thought he might force his way in. "I can't. I'm… indisposed. until evening."

You shrugged, unwilling to feel bad for making things difficult. "Well, I guess we'll never get to talk, will we?"

With that, you closed the door in his face, much like he'd done to you. You refused to shoulder any guilt. You didn't have to be nice all the time, and certainly not to him. Still, you, thought, as you made your way back to the living room, to the cozy cocoon of the couch, you wondered why he'd been so insistent.

You were surprised when you heard a knock at the door the next day. It was a little earlier than the day before, but it was still night time, and you were still unwilling to let James in. He stood on your porch looking totally out of place next to your rocking chair. "Hello. I came earlier today." he began, his tone pleasant, hands behind his back. "May I come in?"

You didn't hide your ire this time. "Do you remember what I said yesterday, or do you have selective memory?"

His mouth opened, then closed, a flash of something in his eyes that you couldn't quite decipher. Finally he said, though you detected an edge to his voice, "Yes, but like I told you, I was regrettably tied up."

"And like I told you, I'm not letting you into my house at night."

You caught the gleam of his teeth in the lamplight. He looked like he wanted to snarl at you, to snap. You got the feeling that it was a herculean effort for him to stay composed. "Would you listen, please?" he asked, his eyes locking onto yours. "I am not a danger to you."

For a moment in time, you felt suspended in honey. It had the cogs of your brain turning very slowly. He did seem harmless enough. Maybe social cues were hard for him. Maybe he just needed someone to take a chance, seeing as your neighbours hadn't tried to befriend him. Maybe you should invite him in, offer him some tea and a slice of cake. Maybe you could be friends after all. He gazed at you imploringly, eyes like shards of ice. He ran his tongue over his teeth as you considered, and that was what snapped you free of your stupor.

"Sounds like something a dangerous person would say." you bit out, feeling lightheaded and woozy. "Now go away, or I'll call the cops."

"Oh, you're a dreadful woman." He complained.

It almost made you laugh, the whine that escaped him. It made him sound like a little boy that hadn't gotten his way. "I'm merely trying to rectify the misunderstanding we had, and you're being incredibly unreasonable." he continued, spreading his hands.

At this, you couldn't help but smile. "You do realize that we could just talk right here, right? I mean, we're talking right now. And unfortunately for you, I thrive on being unreasonable."

"Horrible girl," he murmured. "Alright, have it your way."

You thought he meant that the porch discussion was a go. But no, instead he turned with a flourish that made his coat flap like a cape, and he stole down the steps and to the pavement, walking away without a second glance.

What a strange, strange guy.

You didn't see him again after that. Briefly, you'd worried that he'd try this line of questioning every night until you gave in (which you didn't believe you would), but the next night, there had been no knock at the door, and neither had there been the one after that.

You only enjoyed a week of quiet evenings, though. You had been informed, through word of mouth by your neighbours, that the water would be shut off tomorrow morning for a few hours. Apparently, most of your suburb went to the town hall meetings. It was old fashioned, you thought, to have to learn that information by being there rather than receiving a notice in your mailbox. And unsurprisingly, your mind slid to the house on the hill, to James.

You sincerely doubted that he would know about it. and against your better judgement, you thought it was only right to let him know. Begrudgingly, you made the trek to his house just as the sun had begun to set. You waved to your neighbour as you passed, pointing at James's house, and they nodded, continuing to hose down their car.

You didn't really think you were in danger. Especially not in daylight. But it didn't hurt to let people know your whereabouts, just in case.

The air was crisp and cool. Half of the homes on your walk had already decorated for Halloween, with pumpkins on their doorsteps and cobwebs strung across their windows. It crossed your mind that you'd have to buy a box of candy to give out, this year, rather than your usual wager, which was to keep it for yourself and hide with all the lights off.

When you got to James's house, you heard the mournful hoot of an owl, though you couldn't see one. It was still light out, just barely, his house awash in blazing orange. You caught the faintest glow from behind the set of cream coloured curtains on the left side of the house. So, he was home, and likely awake, if the theory of him working nights was to be believed.

When you went to knock, however, the ram's head greeting you like the last time, you paused. Right by your sneakered foot, in an uneven splotch, was a dark stain, about the size of a baseball. It was soaking into the wood, an unsightly mark. Your eyes trailed back the way you'd come, your body turning to the steps you'd just walked up. They were smaller, in an uneven line, but they were there. You saw them disappear off the path and into the grass. Your focus returned to the biggest one, right next to you, right at the door.

It could have been anything. Motor oil, black coffee, ink. The fading light made it hard to tell. But something in your gut said that it wasn't. Screw the ram's head. You settled your hand on the blackened handle and tried it. The door gave way under your fingers.

It opened like a yawning mouth, to a hallway with a runner of crushed velvet. The walls were a deep mahogany. A slightly dusty chandelier of crystal glimmered above your head. The floor was dark, but if you squinted, you could make out the trail. "James?" Your voice was more quiet than you'd meant for it to be, but you felt like it was all you could manage.

You suddenly envisioned him working in the garden, perhaps cutting himself with shears, and coming inside to try to dress the wound. It could have been anything, really. But you followed the path through a dated sitting room—the room with the cream curtains—and to a kitchen.

"Oh, fuck."

You didn't realize the words had escaped you until James's eyes, bright and alive, settled on yours. You were much more focused on the blood coating his mouth and chin. Specks of it splattered the collar of his shirt. You couldn't bring yourself to look at the doe, its leg still twitching, laying prone on the kitchen island.

It was a horrifying, gruesome sight. So were the red tinged fangs protruding from James's mouth. The entire thing was like a scene from a horror movie, and you'd never much cared for those.

James stayed put. "Don't scream," he said softly, "I'm usually much more tidy than this, but I have been incredibly hungry as of late."

He looked woeful, like a fallen angel, one hand extended towards you like he could hold you in place from there.

You didn't scream. You couldn't. Any air you'd had in your body was trapped somewhere you couldn't access. Your legs had locked up too, a bad sign. You had no idea how fast or strong he was, and instinct told you to run. You watched, disbelieving, as he wiped at his chin with his thumb. There was still an obvious streak of crimson there, and you both knew it.

"You are incredibly calm for someone witnessing this for the first time." He observed.

"Who says I'm calm?" As it was, your voice sounded shaky.

"I can hear your heart. I can smell your fear, but you haven't overreacted." He looked at you curiously. "Though perhaps you are in shock…?"

"Are you going to kill me?" you breathed. It was suddenly very, very clear to you that this was something you should never have seen.

He had the gall to laugh. "No, of course not. Not unless you share what you've seen."

You didn't believe him—why would he spare you under the promise of keeping such a horrifying secret? Sensing your doubt, he smiled. You didn't know if he was banking on his handsome features, but crusted with blood and giving you an eyeful of his fangs wasn't helping his case. "The pretty new neighbour found dead in her home? I feel that would invite more questions than I'd care to answer."

He'd stayed put at the counter. He watched your gaze move, against your will, to the doe. "Don't look at the animal, look at me," he murmured.

You were afraid to. Instead, you focused on the doe's ear, letting your vision tunnel. "If I run, are you going to chase me?"

"Will you keep my secret?" He sounded almost amused.

"Yes." You didn't know if you meant it yet, but it was the only right answer, the only way you could see yourself getting out of this house.

"Then no, I won't chase you. I'm not very good at that game. I get a bit… competitive."

At this, you did look at him. It made you inhale sharply, that statuesque beauty marred by blood. "So I can just… go? You'd let me leave, just like that?"

He spread his hands. "Come now, I believe we have a bit more of a conversation to get through first, no?"

"What's there to discuss? It's clear that you're a—"

"Don't say the term you're thinking. I don't much care for it." He said, dismissive.

You could only blink at his casual demeanour. Vampire danced on the tip of your tongue. You felt like you need to say it, to confirm it for yourself. But he continued. "Creature of the night is more apt. At least I think it is. I do more things than drink blood. I still have a soul." He sounded almost… delighted to be able to talk about this.

"Please," he said, gesturing to you—no, behind you. "Wait in the sitting room while I dispose of this," He patted the doe's flank, "and we can speak this further."

You took a stumbling step backward. He said your name, and you looked up. "Don't run," he said, mouth curling into another smile. "I'll be most disappointed."

You ran.

As soon as he'd begun to heft the deer over his shoulders, you had shuffled into the living room and waited until you heard the back door open. Then you bolted, finally finding your strength. You streaked through the door, letting it bang behind you, and pelted down the path and across the street. You felt like you were bounding down the hill at the rate of a bullet. The sun was gone now. All you could think was home, home, home.

You were breathing hard as you crashed through the door. Your hands shook as you locked it and leaned against it, your mind tumbling wildly. As soon as you were able, you staggered around the house, drawing your curtains. You pushed your dining table in front of the door, then turned on all your lights. You needed it, to feel safe. Of course, light didn't equal armor, but the illusion of it made you feel better.

It occurred to you, as you stood in front of your knife block, that you might actually be safe. It was night time now, yes, but… the two times James had come around, he'd asked to come in. He'd never forced his way through the door. Maybe it had just been him maintaining his façade of politeness. But maybe… maybe that old folklore was true? Maybe he couldn't come in unless invited. You decided it was a possibility, but you weren't about to blindly trust in it.

It was a good thing you had nowhere to be tomorrow. You had a feeling you were about to settle in for a long night of guard duty.

James had hoped, as he'd gone into his backyard, that you wouldn't run. He'd hoped you'd have a little more sense, a little more curiosity, to stay and talk. But he wasn't surprised when he heard the patter of your feet, the distant swing of the front door. He'd merely sighed as he began the long trek into the woods behind his house.

He thought, as he dug a shallow grave for the doe, that you had handled it remarkably well. You hadn't passed out or screeched in fear. You hadn't fallen to your hands and knees and begged for your life. And, he thought with reluctance, clearly you had some sense of instinct to protect yourself. You'd gone to the one place he couldn't simply enter.

The moon was low and round in the sky as he stood in the street in front of your house. Everyone here seemed to have a bedtime of nine pm. The road was quiet. He was in no danger of being hit by a car. He observed your house, the soft glow of lights on in every room. He could sense you, sense your heartbeat. He couldn't make out the churning of your thoughts. He had the vain hope that you would be more reasonable the next day. If you were going to keep his secret, it was only right that you knew all the facts.

But still, he watched your house for a little longer, every detail of it as clear as it would have been to you during the day. He listened to you moving around inside, a mouse in your cage. He wondered what tall tale you were telling yourself, what you were spinning to make it all make sense. The thought made him smile. Whatever it was, it was probably wrong.

You slept a little bit, after the sun came up. You'd camped yourself out in the living room, seated on the floor with your back against the couch. The knife in your hand clattered to the floor, and it roused you from your dozing until you crawled up onto the cushions and napped until mid-morning. You didn't really want to be conscious, at the moment. You were still wrapping your head around what you'd seen.

You didn't really believe James when he said he would let you live as long as you kept his secret. What was in it for him? There was no reason for either of you to trust each other. And what you'd seen of him so far wasn't entirely promising.

When you finally started your day, you remembered there was no water for the next little while, and you stood staring blankly at your shower, which you'd have to go without. Distantly, you thought James must be sleeping. It was a bright, clear day. His 'night shifts' now made sense, at least. The sun must be a real vampire deterrent. At least it meant that you were safe, for now.

Your day passed by slowly, which you were grateful for. You were anxious about nightfall. You had no idea whether he'd decide to show up at your door, try to convince you again to let him inside. You remembered the blood on his skin, the clear blue of his eyes, like he was fully alert. It made you consider the fact that he didn't hear you enter his house. Had he been taken over by blood lust, consumed by the taste and smell, to the point that he hadn't noticed? It was hard to believe.

When the sun melted away, you prepared to be vigilant again, though you knew you couldn't keep it up forever. As it was, you ended up falling asleep sometime in the night, only to wake up sore from sleeping on the floor. Your bones creaked as you stood and stretched.

When you left your house, intent on heading to the store for groceries, when morning came again, you found a note tacked to your door. It was on clean white parchment, tidy handwriting at its center.

You are formally invited to dine with me this evening. I promise that you aren't on the menu. - James.

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. At the invitation, and at the poor joke. It did nothing to reassure you. Your first thought was to crumple the note up and fling it into his yard as you went past. You hesitated though, your hand not quite making a fist, not quite creasing the paper. Instead, you walked it back inside and left it in the dish you usually kept your keys on.

You weren't going to go, you decided. It was foolish. And there was no time indicated on it, either. Evening could mean four o'clock or eight o'clock, and you weren't keen to venture outside at night, not anymore.

But as you went about your day, the idea kept writhing in the back of your head. What if you brought yourself some protection? What if you went, but stayed firmly on the doorstep, firmly in the sunlight, where he couldn't get you? If that idea was true. You found yourself picking up more garlic than you needed to buy. If only you knew how to get your hands on some holy water… or a stake.

It was with great reluctance that you found yourself at the scene of the crime. You must be stupid, you decided, as you stepped onto the porch in the golden sun. It was just after five. A small assortment of things were hidden in your purse. You hoped you didn't have to use them. The bloodstain was gone from the wood, like it had never been there at all.

You didn't have time to knock, though you'd stood out there considering for a good few minutes. As soon as you raised your hand, the door opened, though James wasn't standing on the other side—at least, not where you could see. "Please, come in," You heard from behind the door.

You scoffed. "Not on your life."

You heard him make a tsk sound. "You're in no danger. I've left the curtains to the dining room open. you'll be perfectly safe in there."

You wanted to be suspicious, but you detected no lie—you'd seen yourself that the heavy red fabric you were used to seeing hadn't been blocking the window. You were quick, guard up, to scramble into that room. You heard the echo of the front door closing. And, with some dismay, you could smell garlic, along with butter and rosemary. So, the half-crushed bulb in your purse would be of no use to you, you surmised.

He disappeared into the kitchen, and you suppressed a shudder. The last time you'd been in there… Well, you'd rather not think about it. Especially not if you were expected to eat something. The wallpaper in the dining room was dated. It had probably been red once, but now it was a faded pinkish colour. The damask pattern was almost invisible to your eyes. The table was made of dark, polished wood, with matching chairs, the cushions made of golden fabric. It was a room made for lively dinner parties, you thought, the table easily able to seat eight people.

You chose a chair right near the middle, letting yourself wear the sunlight on your skin. Tiny dust motes danced through the air. "Do you drink wine?" James called, his voice echoing through the house.

Yes, you did, but something told you that you should have your wits about you for this meeting. "Water is fine."

You drummed your fingers over your thighs. It felt strange to sit here, waiting for him, for whatever he was going to bring out. What if it was something drenched in blood?

You were about to find out, you supposed. James came in carrying a pitcher of water first, filling a glass and setting it down for you. You gave him an uncertain smile, but waited until he'd gone again before picking it up and squinting at its contents. There was no telling if he'd drug you and drink you dry.

After sniffing the rim and deeming it safe—or so you hoped—you took a sip. It tasted just like the water at your own house. You took it as a good sign.

It was only a couple more minutes before he came back with two white plates. The first one he placed in front of you with flourish, the second directly across the table, before taking a seat. That side, you noticed, was just barely out of the sun. You hid a grimace. You'd be subject to that piercing stare, that catlike smile, the entire time.

You were mildly surprised by your dinner. It was a beautifully seared steak, nestled between roasted potatoes and asparagus. It looked like something from a recipe book. James was already cutting into his, a decidedly rare one, by the look of the piece he speared and put in his mouth.

"You can eat real food?" You asked, not reaching for your knife and fork, not yet.

He smiled, amused, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. "Yes, I can. Though it's not very fulfilling."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes roamed the room as he thought of how to answer, before settling on you. "For you, I suppose it would be like chocolate. You can eat it and survive on it, barely. But it doesn't benefit you at all."

It was an adequate answer. "And the sun?"

He laughed then, before chewing on another piece of steak. "If you're asking if I'll turn to a pile of ash, the answer is no. But it can be extremely uncomfortable for me. Like a sunburn. It will make my skin peel and flake, and I'll become quite ill. I am able to withstand it more than I used to, though."

It was curious. James was answering your questions with seemingly no caution, like he believed you'd never repeat what you learned. Like he was certain. His eyes flicked to your plate, still untouched, before settling on you again. "Is it not to your liking?" He considered you for a moment. "Are you a vegetarian?"

"No," you picked up the knife and fork hastily, "I'm not. This is all just very weird. I'm sitting across the table from a va—"

"Ah, ah, ah," he chided, waving a finger. "We don't use that word, if you please."

You cut into your own steak. It was—thankfully—not nearly as rare. As you eyed his plate, you felt his own could have still been mooing in the field it came from. "What's your aversion to that word?" You met his stare as you took your first bite.

And damn it all to hell, you had to suppress a moan. Who knew that an ageless being could cook a steak so well?

Though you gave no outward reaction, James still seemed to know that you were enjoying the food. He seemed utterly delighted, in fact. He didn't respond until you'd stabbed a potato onto your fork and really began to chow down.

"The word carries a… negative connotation, for me. I was turned against my will." He looked to the window suddenly, his expression wistful. You suspected his mind was far away.

"I at death's door, you see. And then I wasn't, but I was reliant on that coven for decades. It isn't something I would wish upon my worst enemy."

You sat in the silence of the admission. You wondered how long ago he'd been turned, how long ago he'd been free from the rule of other vampires. You weren't exactly sure how open he would be. Instead of digging into his past, you sipped your water and asked, "Ever kill someone?"

He made an amused sound, though not quite a laugh, his gaze snaring you once again. "Of course I have. There's a steep learning curve. The human body is oh so delicate." His eyes roamed over your neck. "But I haven't in recent years. Most of my kind hunt for sport. The thrill of the chase, the unique taste of fear. It is a mere appetizer before the main course. I, however, prefer to leave my prey alive. I'd rather keep my sources around for repeat visits, rather than have to find new ones each time."

"And the doe?"

The half-smile he gave you then wasn't quite enough to bare his fangs, though his teeth still glinted. "I was very hungry. I hadn't eaten for a while. It can sometimes be easier to hunt in the woods, hidden by the trees. I didn't want to wait until dark to let myself into somebody's home."

At this, you couldn't stop yourself from gaping at him. "You don't—you don't mean that you take blood from people in town, do you?" Surely not. Qouldn't that have been the first thing your neighbours told you?

Your gobsmacked expression had James letting out a laugh, the sound rich, musical. Enchanting, really. "Why travel far when I have a veritable buffet right down the street? Though you shouldn't worry. They've all invited me in. They just didn't know that once they did, I was free to come and go as I please. And they don't remember, afterwards. I'm very good at what I do, now."

The knowledge made you drop your fork with a clatter. "Was that what you were going to do to me?"

You remembered his insistence at coming in.

He had the decency to look chastised, borderline embarrassed. "I apologize for that. As I told you, I was utterly ravenous. And you're new, fresh blood. I admit I was curious to know your flavour." He paused, before adding, "I'll do my best to behave myself around you, but you should know never to invite me in. I can't make the promise that I won't still try one day, if I'm desperate."

It should have scared you. But the second half of his admission, the gentleness with which he said it, had disarmed you. He seemed to be able to tell. "At least you're honest," you finally said.

"You aren't afraid. Why?"

"How do you know I'm not?"

He sat back in his chair. "I can get a glimpse of emotion. If they're strong, especially. But you aren't afraid. And your heartbeat is strong, healthy. You're taking this very well. Why is that?"

You shrugged. "I wish I could tell you. I don't really know, myself." You voice was little more than a whisper, your thoughts turning inward.

Because the truth was, you didn't know. For all that he was being perfectly gentlemanly right now, you'd seen him with blood on his mouth. He'd just admitted to you that he'd wanted to drink yours, to leave you none the wiser, a stupid little snack roaming around town. But there was something about him, about the way he'd spoken so openly, that had you believing him. You shouldn't have been sympathetic, but you thought that maybe he was lonely. If the only other vampires he'd known had been bad ones, it was no wonder he kept to himself. And you didn't doubt it was difficult to make friends with prey, because that was what you were. You'd grow older, and he'd stay the same. He probably wouldn't live here forever, not if he didn't want people to notice that fact.

You'd both lapsed into silence, your plates untouched. You were the first to resume. "So, what does this make us? This unholy alliance. Am I supposed to be your friend now?"

James considered you. "I suppose it does. I haven't had one in a very long time. I don't know whether I'll be very good at it."

The answer was melancholic. You wondered if he was thinking of that person right now, his last friend. "I guess we'll find out."

Against all odds, you did settle into some semblance of a friendship. You would visit him in the day, if he was awake, keeping to sunny spots of his house. He'd given you a grand tour, though he'd kept you at arm's length and stuck closely to the walls. He'd opened every set of curtains so that you would feel safe.

The attic had been your favourite room. The window was circular, made of stained glass, like the ones at the front door. The floor and walls were a grayish wood, and there was a grand piano tucked away in one corner. Various chairs, lamps, and side tables were clustered together. Much of it was turn of the century. You'd dragged your fingers along the keys, more noise than melody. "Do you play?"

"I used to." He admitted, leaned up against the wall out of the sunlight. "I was the entertainer for my coven most nights."

You knew that those weren't fond memories for him, though he still hadn't told you much more. "But you kept the piano?"

"I try not to think of it very much, but it's a hard aspect of my past to leave behind." He admitted.

Aside from the attic, it had been interesting, delving into his possessions. You'd seen many things that looked like they belonged in museums. looking through his armoire, you'd found remarkably well kept clothes from over a century ago. Judging by the way he continued to dress now, you believed he had a soft spot for the time he'd left behind. His current attire was much more modern, the tailored trousers and shirts, but everything carried an echo from the romantic period.

You could imagine it easily, James strolling a street at night, the roads lit by oil lamps, cobblestones slick from rain. And he would have been dapper in a top hat and long coat, a handsome young man on the hunt. You believed that smile could open doors without him having to say much of anything.

You liked listening to him when he talked. Sometimes, he sounded like someone from today's time. But most others, his speech was antiquated, like something he'd never quite shaken off. It was one of his more endearing qualities. He spoke like he'd come out of a classic novel.

James came to you, sometimes, though you kept it to your front porch. He hadn't asked to come in since the first time, but you would catch his eyes straying to your door while you talked. You didn't know whether he was curious about your own belongings, about how you decorated, or if it really came down to wanting to drain you dry.

You continued to dance this strange two-step with him, as the leaves turned brown and brittle. As Halloween passed, and you and he walked through town, looking at the groups of families decked out in costume, the decorations strung up in storefronts—everyone here seemed to take part, really. James almost fit in completely that night, standing beside you. He'd worn his more dated clothes. He looked like he was in costume. Of course, only you knew that it was the real him. The most you'd managed for your own costume was a headband complete with sparkly red devil's horns, picked up at the dollar general.

He'd smiled at a woman as you'd stopped at a crosswalk. You could see her flustered smile. If it had been daylight, you were sure you would have seen a blush across her cheeks, too. "Was that you using your evil powers on her, or is that just a quality you have?" You'd asked him, glancing sidelong.

The smile he'd given you was decidedly more toothy, his canines visible. "I've always been charming, creature of the night or not."

"Right…" your tone was dry, but it was only to cover your own reaction to his attention. You'd never admit it out loud, but sometimes looking at him was like staring directly into the sun. He was wildly dazzling, especially when he was having a good day.

On a good day, he was charming. It was dangerous, actually. More dangerous to you than his fangs or his speed or strength. It was dangerous because he had the ability to make your head spin with nothing more than a rakish grin and a few choice words. His chivalry was also unmatched.

But you also knew him enough by now to know there were an equal amount of bad days. He'd vehemently denied it, but when he was approaching hunger, he was quite difficult to deal with. Petulant, fussy, and altogether irritable, you'd send him away from you and tell him not to contact you again until he could act right. He'd usually part from you with a frown and a muttered, "You are a wretched girl. I'm being perfectly reasonable."

He would never admit to you that you were right, every time.

You couldn't get a sense of how often his feeds were. You didn't know if it depended on amount or the span of time, and you didn't want to ask. But you always knew when he had. Over time, his eyes would become less blue, more an icy gray. It would draw you back to when you'd discovered his true nature, to the piercing shade of blue they'd been after he'd drank from the doe. Blood brought life back to him, in a manner of speaking. You kept the knowledge to yourself.

After the year's first frost, you started seeing Christmas decorations popping up. The town square, a place that was known for holding events during holidays, had lights strung into its trees. It started to get darker earlier. It would soon be too cold to sit with James on your porch. Your visits would be more limited.

But for now, you kept to walking around town with him. You were safe among other people. As it was, you were listening to him complaining about the cold. You hummed, hands in the pockets of your puffy coat. "I would have thought you'd enjoy the winter."

He frowned at you. "The cold makes my reflexes slower. I may not be able to stand in the sun, but I crave the heat. Why do you think I chose a home with such a large fireplace?"

It was an interesting aspect to learn of. "How much slower?"

"Hmm?"

"How much slower does it make you?"

He exhaled with an irritated whoosh. "It depends on how cold it is, how hungry I am. I would still be faster than you," he said, looking you up and down, "but not by too much. If you had a stake, you'd have a better chance of using it."

You raised a brow. "Is your weird, witchy hypnotic power still strong?"

Because yes, you'd learned about that. He'd explained that it was something to do with pheromones and eye contact, though you didn't really understand. And you'd refused a demonstration.

"Yes, unless the person I'm using it on is strong willed. And we already know that you are."

"We do?"

At this, he looked guilty. "Well, yes. The first time I asked to be invited in, I, ah…" He ran a hand over his mouth. "I tried it on you. I wasn't at my full strength, but I still should have been able to overpower you. But you have a strong mind. I couldn't bend you to my will."

You scoffed, shaking your head. You weren't offended, not really. You could have guessed as much. "Just for that, I feel like I should be allowed to take a stab at you just once."

"Mmm, maybe one of these days, you will."

His comment drew you both inwards, for a time. Already you rejected the notion. You couldn't imagine a circumstance that he would allow himself to be so hungry and also in your presence, to the point of real, mortal danger. Of course, it was a possibility, a small part of you argued. But knowing him, knowing how his mind worked, at least a little… No, you didn't believe there would ever come a time where that would happen.

You'd just walked the perimeter of the square with him, passing by what was now a quite dead rose bush, sagging against a small cluster of nearly bare trees. James's gaze settled somewhere around your shoulder. "Hold still," he instructed, hand reaching for you, "you've got a leaf in your hair."

You shouldn't have felt such a prickle of awareness. You couldn't detect the touch of his fingers between your strands of hair, pulling the offending foliage free. The following touch, however, the barest brush of his fingertips on your neck as he pulled away, had you holding your breath. Inexplicably, you felt your heartbeat speed up. If he heard it, which you guessed he did, he was kind enough not to comment.

You pivoted, needing to break the contact. "Does hot chocolate do anything for you, or does it hold no appeal?" You asked, willing your voice to come out evenly.

He watched you for a moment, thoughtful. "It's not my preference, but I suppose I could be persuaded."

The trust between you had grown, though you were still careful to heed his warnings. James had asked you once, playfully, if he could come in after he'd walked you home. You'd almost said yes, not wanting the conversation to end there, your fingers frozen from being outside, but you'd denied him, like you promised you would. He'd given you a satisfied look, like he was proud of you for passing the test.

That didn't mean there weren't a couple of times where it hadn't been so light and breezy.

To your knowledge, James had used his power to get himself access to a few homes in the neighbourhood. He would go in when necessary, take what blood he needed, and steal away into the night once more without a trace of what he'd done. But you had a feeling that sometimes, James ignored his thirst in order to spend time with you. It was made more obvious one evening, when he was bidding you goodbye. Or well, he was supposed to. You were caught off guard when you turned to say goodnight after unlocking the door. Suddenly, he was right there. You caught his scent, smokey and warm, as he leaned over you, one of his hands finding purchase on the brick by your head. His voice was a low rasp by your ear. "We've had such a wonderful evening, my darling, why end it here? Let me come in with you, hmm?"

You felt like you'd had too much to drink, though you hadn't had a sip of alcohol. You were off-kilter. He certainly didn't stand in such close proximity to you like this often. You should have seen the signs of his hunger earlier—his eyes had been a more glacial gray, and he'd been a bit fidgety—but you had been distracted by the lighthearted debate you'd been having about what made books classics. He, being around for the birth of many of them, had had some interesting takes. And that was one of the things you loved most about being in his company. the ease of which you could let a conversation whisk you bad in time. He made you feel almost like you'd lived it, too. And now, you were dealing with the consequences of his company.

You came to your senses, though just barely. His eyes were boring into yours, but the briefest flicker of his teeth showed in your periphery. His mouth was just slightly open, and you got the idea that he was breathing in whatever intoxicating aroma your blood gave off, coursing through your veins like a current. You put a hand up, brushing the lapels of his coat. Of course, you'd be no match for him if he really wanted to bite you, but your hand on him seemed to give him pause. "I'm afraid I can't do that, James. When's the last time you ate?" You kept your voice soft, unguarded. You didn't want him to feel any guilt.

He blinked once, like he was breaking the spell, and then closed his eyes. You saw the guilt anyway. "I'm—I'm sorry, I forgot myself. I'll go."

He had put distance between you in the span of a second, already on the street. He turned to walk up the hill. "James?" You called out, tentative.

He didn't speak, but he stopped to turn and meet your eye. "It's okay. just please go and eat."

He nodded once, a complicated mix of emotions crossing his face, and then kept going. Even though you were friends, you were both very aware that he was predator, and you were prey, and that wasn't likely to change, no matter how comfortable you felt.

He was much more careful after that. You almost never saw his eyes as anything other than blue, and you started to wonder if maybe he was taking care to drink every time he planned to see you. It was sort of flattering, though you'd never tell him that. You got the idea that he wouldn't be very happy, if he knew.

You'd never asked James about his time with his coven. You knew it was a sore subject, and didn't want to risk upsetting him. You figured that if it was a story worth telling, he would come to you when he was ready. You could only tiptoe around the subject.

Your hunch was right.

Cold, crisp morning light filtered in through the attic window, and you stood in the center of it. James was tucked away in the shadows, dragging an idle finger across the piano keys. Even though he wasn't playing a composition, it still sounded musical to you, each note precise. "I know you said that you mostly played for others," you said, treading carefully, "but did you have any favourite songs?"

James shook his head. "They all played much the same to me. But my coven's leader preferred Horowitz or Rachmaninoff. We had private audiences with them many times."

It was the most he'd told you so far. You warred with not wanting to push it, and being wildly curious. You settled for the safest question you could ask. "I take it you played at your leader's request, then."

"Yes. Though they were more demands than requests." He pressed down on a key, the low thunk ringing across the room. "One could never say no to Johann."

Johann. Immediately, you didn't like the man. "And if you did?"

James sounded very far away, when he responded. Like he was coming to you from a different stretch of time. "Then you would learn what true pain felt like."

It was a foreboding answer. You stood in the silence, unsure what to say, but James turned on the bench to face you. His fingers played some sort of melody, even though he was no longer looking at the keys. "There's no use telling you his name, because you'll never meet him, but I supposed it makes the whole thing easier to tell. When I was with him, he ruled with an iron fist." His eyes flicked away, a distant expression painting his face. "Some of our kind don't care to use their power to make their feedings more pleasant to the host. Some drink up the pain and fear as well as the blood." He looked directly at you. "To Johann and his underlings, it was a fun, sick sport. Many of them were old enough to forget what humanity was."

There was a warning in those words, you were sure. James was telling you that while he might be affable and pleasant to interact with, there was potential that he wouldn't be, one day. That he would become a true monster, a yawning pit of hunger in the place of a soul.

"But not you?" you asked. In many fictional vampire tales, you remembered them saying that blood lust was an untameable beast.

He twisted away, back to the keys. "No, not me. My transformation was… traumatic." He laughed, though it was flat. "They usually are. But I refused to be like him, like them. It was my only way to defy him, to keep my conscience. I thought I would die under his rule, and I often thought my actions to resist were pointless. I didn't have any hope of being free." The admission sank in your gut like a stone. "It was pure luck that I got away, and that I managed to stay away."

You itched to cross the room and slide onto the bench beside him. To hug him and tell him that as long as you were around, he would only have blue skies and better days ahead. But you refrained, glued to your spot in the sun. There was nothing you could say to take from the decades of torture he'd endured. All you could do was make sure there was no way for it to happen again.

You both let the topic drop, unwilling to press on the wound anymore than you already had. He'd already given you much more than you'd ever expected to get. You admired him, cast in shadow. His side profile, the shape of his jaw. The way his hair fell across his forehead, only to be raked back by his nimble fingers. The cut of his clothes, so unlike what other men wore. He was like no one you'd ever met before, no one you would ever meet again. Your very skin felt warm at the thought, but you pretended it was just the sun heating you to your bones, instead. "What matters is that you are away. This town doesn't even have a population of twenty thousand. And unless Johann is looking to join the HOA meetings, this place probably won't be very interesting to him."

You didn't now what spurred it on. You'd known James for a full season, now. Christmas had come and gone, and he'd respected your wish to not exchange presents. Instead, you'd shared dinner on Christmas Eve before you left town to stay with your mother for a few days. It was the night before you were due to come back to what had become a cozy little town, to you. You had been trying to curb your enthusiasm, but your excitement to see James again couldn't be cured.

It started when your head hit the pillow. The sheets were cold, and you shivered, burrowing deeper under the blankets. The moon peered through the edges of the curtains, and you shifted away from the window, intent on sleep. And you fell through the layers of wakefulness, teetering right on the edge of deep, dreamless rest.

But you felt more than heard the rustle of fabrics. Distantly, with your last bit of awareness, you imagined it to be your own sheets, shifting with your movement. You thought you could almost smell something smokey, woodsy, rich. It was familiar. You couldn't place it. The tethers of consciousness were beginning to snap, but some part of you was still clinging on. The sigh, the soft murmurs were whispered to the recesses of your mind, like a caress. You thought you heard your name, but it was mumbled. A comforting touch, trailing along your skin like soft sparks of electricity. The graze of something against your neck. You felt it twice, three times more, before there was a firmer press. You thought it would hurt, the pressure, but instead, it felt like a release of every fear, every worry, tension you didn't even know you were carrying. Your own voice, slurred and thick as syrup.

"James."

You woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed, a hand flying to your neck. It was smooth, untouched, no slick blood. No wandering hands on your body. The air smelled clean. You'd dreamed it, dreamed him.

You should have been unnerved, uncomfortable with the idea. But your body, traitorous as it was, only felt a buzz of energy, a surge of contentment. A thread of… longing. You'd never asked James if being bitten was painful. He'd alluded to using his influence to make it as pleasurable as possible for his hosts, but you had no idea what that truly meant. Especially since his influence seemed to slide off you like water off a duck's feathers.

Would it really be so bad, to offer a vein to James? If he'd been feeding from the other residents in town like he said, he must have had some semblance of control. No deaths had been reported. The only murder you'd seen had been the deer. You had a feeling that causing the end of a life, at least a human one, would haunt James. Despite his lack of social gatherings, you knew that he enjoyed being among the living. You could see it every time you went out together. You thought that perhaps he yearned to soak up the sun with you sometimes, when you mentioned going shopping in the middle of the day, or walking your neighbour's dog as a favour. Was there really a threat of harm in being another source for him?

You rubbed at your neck again with a heavy sigh, before curling up in your bed once more.

Sleep was not to be had after all, it seemed.

You took care to erase the dream from your mind. To your credit, you greeted James normally, upon returning to town. You went for dinner at a popular restaurant as soon as the sun went down, and he asked you questions about your family, eyes curious in the candlelight. For all intents and purposes, your return was as unceremonious as it could have been, both of you on your best behaviour. But still, as you filled the silence, the thought began slinking around in the back of your head like an unwelcome guest.

You waited until you'd both ventured back outside. You paused under the awning as James reached to fix your scarf, fishing it from the collar of your coat to lay it properly around your throat. You'd become used to such ministrations, though sometimes you could feel your heart skip a beat. His tongue poked out just a little as he concentrated. "I think this colour suits you quite well," He said, straightening. "It brings out your eyes." His hands lingered a moment longer than they needed to.

You tucked your chin into the plum coloured cashmere. "This was one of my Christmas gifts."

The streets were mostly empty, the lamps dotted along the sidewalk illuminating the way. It was around a twenty minute walk, to make it to your house. Gallantly, James offered an arm, and you folded your gloved hand around it, leeching some of his body heat. The twinkle of stars overhead seemed to make the snow sparkle. You hesitated before speaking. "When you use your influence to feed… Is it taxing, for you? Does it take a lot of energy?"

You felt his eyes on you, but kept staring ahead. "…It depends," he started slowly, "on who I'm influencing, and how weak I am. I've built up a good enough rapport with most of my hosts. It's as taxing as lifting a pebble, for them. For you, to truly bend you to my will, it would be more akin to pushing a boulder uphill. I could do it, but it would take time and focus. There are some rare humans with such iron wills that it would be as difficult as trying to move a mountain. It's easier to go for a weaker, more malleable target than expend my energy working on a stubborn one. It takes less effort than physically overpowering someone, but it can still be draining."

"And… Have you ever had a host that you didn't need to manipulate? That just… offered themselves up?" You could hear with your own ears how unsure you sounded.

At this, James looked at you until you met his eye. "No, never. Any human that's done that has had some sort of altering of the mind. Some of my kind will push hard, even when their target is weak willed. And pushing too hard can splinter a human's psyche, damage them completely." He paused, swallowing, looking away. "Johann used to do that, sometimes. Keep the human around, half-gone and pleading to be useful, until he got bored of them."

An bird cawed as you passed the last of the shops, and you saw the brush of inky black feathers in one of the trees. You were starting to get towards the residential part of town. You hadn't truly thought through how you would offer your… services, as they were. But now you felt too afraid to. Not because you were scared of James, but because you were afraid he would say no. He hid it well, but he treated you as delicately as spun sugar. Even if you told him that he wouldn't have to try manipulating you, that you were willing, you knew he would turn inwards, blame himself for making you think it was okay.

Still, as you traversed, arm in arm with him, you considered it. Maybe you'd be able to work up the nerve, at some point, but it wouldn't be tonight. The tiny shred of your thoughts that you kept locked away peeked out then. They were the ones that made you imagine the sensation of James's mouth on your neck, his hands on your body, the way he might say your name. You desperately willed the ideas to dissipate into mist. You doubted he was interested in you that way anyway. A part of you bitterly thought, from time to time, that you were only close because you'd happened to divulge him of his secret. As far as you knew, you were the only human soul to know of his true existence.

You shifted the conversation to something lighter, instead focusing on what had gone on in town while you'd been away. "I take it you completely ignored the fireworks display that they put on for New Year's?"

He scoffed, drawing you closer when a heavy gust of wind buffeted you. "So much excitement over some loud noise and repetitive lights. I've never quite seen the appeal."

January brought some of the coldest temperatures you'd seen since moving here. And what better way to pass a day off than to while away the hours until nightfall than to lose yourself in the town's library? James had told you a little of the town's history, something he'd looked into during his endless spare time, and it was the perfect day for you to do so, as well. You'd already finished your work for the day. Remote jobs certainly had their perks. So you'd braved the subzero temperatures and settled in one of the wingback chairs near one of the big windows, flecks of snow idly swirling by.

You got lost in the archives. Newspapers going back one hundred years were still mostly preserved, with old, yellowed photographs of earlier residents. You noticed relatives of your neighbour, Virginia, easy to spot by their light hair and tall statures. Some last names stuck out to you as well, and you traced your finger over the likes of Wilson and Parker. Some of their offspring still lived here, too.

It was downright cute to read about winners of the annual gardening competitions—something that still went on to this day—as well as to spot when new traditions had been formed. You liked knowing more. If you were going to stay here for a while, it was nice to brush up on the town's history. At the very least, it would give you something to talk about at the next gathering you were invited to, rather than standing awkwardly to the side or clinging to a passing neighbour.

When you deigned to look outside again, night had already fallen, a soft dusting of snow across the pavement. The wind shook the branches of the trees planted outside. In the summer, the area in front of the window was an outdoor reading nook, but now, the benches were blanketed by ice. You stretched, standing and shuffling the archives into a neat pile to give back to the librarian. You weren't surprised to find James lingering by the front desk. He'd known of your plans, had offered to meet you when he woke up. He still looked adorably sleepy, his hair a bit of a mess, though you didn't know if it was bedhead or the result of the weather. He straightened when he saw you, brushing his hands down the front of his coat, though the fabric was already perfectly smooth. "I'll warn you, it's quite biting out there," He said by way of greeting, already extending his arm for you to take.

You waved a hand, unbothered. "Yes, well, I'm not as… delicate about the cold as some people."

He huffed when he pushed at the heavy doors. "You really are a wicked girl. I'm merely sensitive to it."

You weren't able to keep a straight face, nor hold in your laugh. "Sensitive is certainly one way to put it."

You loved moments like this the most, where there was nothing heavy to discuss. as much as you were unfathomably curious about James and his entire sordid tale, what you really enjoyed were the pockets of time that you spent together with no agenda other than each other's company.

The wind whistled as you cut through it together, up the main street. There were no cars or other people out tonight. Really, it was too cold to be traipsing about. Your fingers and toes were already starting to tingle with discomfort. You kept your head bent against the frigid air, your forehead practically touching James's shoulder from how closely you clung to him.

James's change in demeanor was as abrupt as a shift in the air. One moment, your laughter had been carrying across the street, and the next, you could feel the change in his body, muscles coiled with tension. It was like when you could feel the sky, close and low, an impending storm on the horizon. "No… I was so careful," He murmured to himself.

You didn't have time to ask him before your senses became aware too, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up in warning.

There had been no one there in one breath. By the next, he was standing a little ways away, under the intersection's stoplight. Tall, imposing. If Dracula had been based on anyone, it would have been him. He was stick thin, his long coat hanging off his frame. He was built more like a scarecrow than a man. You could make out his widow's peak even from the distance at which you stood. You didn't understand how he could look so sickly, the heavy circles under his eyes making them look sunken in. His skin was pallid—you could still tell, even though the only light was coming from the moon. You would have thought someone who took blood and life so voraciously would look to be in better health. You wondered if it had something to do with his humanity, or lack thereof.

You knew who he was, without having to be introduced.

"Ah, Bucky. it's been so long, my old friend. I've been looking for you for quite a while." He stood in the middle of the black street, the moon low and full, painting him in ivory.

Johann, in the flesh.

There was no time to run—no use to try. You knew you wouldn't get a single step before Johann would be there, snapping your neck as easily as a twig.

"Don't call me that," James snarled, teeth bared. You were rattled. You'd never heard him so affected before. He'd stepped just a little bit in front of you, your hand falling from his arm, like he was preparing for a fight.

"You've brought us a nice meal, I see." Johann was observing you, paying no mind to James. He cocked his head to the side like a magpie spotting a shiny trinket.

James reached behind him, finding your wrist and gripping tight enough to bruise. It wasn't on purpose. You believed he might have been as scared as you were. "Play along." It was whispered so quietly, you thought you'd imagined it.

To Johann, he said, tone firm, "I don't share my food. This one's mine; This whole town is."

Everything about you and James screamed tense, but there was nothing you could do except follow along with whatever he decided to do. You'd long since thought that James was a lover over a fighter, and you supposed you were about to find out. You didn't know if Johann would entertain the notion or not. He steepled his fingers together under his mouth, his eyes still on you, before making a soft tsking sound. "Ah, Bucky. You always were such a valiant boy." His tone was mildly chiding, like he was scolding a pet or a small child. "But do you really think I've come to you alone?"

James's fingers flexed on your skin. Whatever look passed on his face amused Johann. "Yes, yes. I've brought a few of your old friends with me. You remember Margaret, I'm sure? Aldrich? You always used to have fun together. Ivan too, yes. He's such a fan of quaint little hovels like this one." At this, he glanced around, his look of disdain clear.

The next thing he said was in a hushed whisper, almost too faint for you to hear, but it sent a chill racing down your spine. "If you don't wish to complicate things, you will give me the girl as an offering for forgiveness, and you will come along when I have finished here. Or would you like to see how many families we can eat our way through instead?" Johann smiled, then, like he was doing James a simple kindness.

You waited, your every cell singing with fear. But not for yourself. It had taken James years to get away from his coven. You were sure it would destroy him to go back. But he would do it, if it meant keeping you, and everyone else, safe. The silence made your skin hurt. Whatever Johann could see in James's eyes, he revelled in it. "I'll do you a courtesy, give you a day to decide, yes? Let this one," he gestured to you, teeth on show as he grinned, "say her goodbyes. That's the same courtesy I afforded you, you'll remember. I let you lay side by side with your loved one. Until then, Bucky. And do take care to be prompt. You know how much I hate being made to wait."

He was gone with a swish of his coat, like you'd imagined him there. Like he'd never been. The cold night came rushing back to you. You were shivering, shaken. Your teeth clicked together, the rattling uncontrollable. You weren't sure if it was due to shock or the weather.

You hardly noticed James's arm coming around your shoulders, tucking you close, nor the brisk pace he set. He didn't stop until you were blinking into the warm yellow light of the chandelier in his foyer. It looked so merry, the glow, that you really did start to wonder if you'd dreamed Johann up. It took a few minutes of him standing in front of you and rubbing his hands up and down your arms, inviting heat back into your body, before you zeroed in on the matter at hand. "They can breach your house. Invitations don't work for you, do they?" You asked it, but you already knew the answer.

"Yes, that's right."

"Come to mine, then. We'll be safe there while we figure out what to do." It was the easiest thing you'd ever offered up.

James gave you a searching gaze, hands stilling on your shoulders. The worry in his eyes was as clear as a neon light. "I told you never to invite me in."

"I trust you, James."

He looked wounded when you said it, instead of pleased. "No," He said brokenly. Saying your name seemed to cost him something, the way it was wrenched from him like it was a piece of his soul. "You should go. Once you're inside, you'll be safe. I can take care of it on my own."

He was putting on a brave face. It made you so impossibly sad. You knew that by 'taking care of it', he'd go to Johann. He'd bargain in some way to spare you, and sentence himself to more misery. And you were sure that this time, Johann would ensure that no repeat attempts to escape would work. "No. Come with me. Stay with me, please. You'll be safe too. He won't be able to get to you."

His touch on your face was hesitant, gentle as a butterfly's wing. Your lids fluttered at the feeling. "I need to keep everyone else safe. I can't do that if I'm with you. And what good is my life if I let humans die in my wake, when I'm the one he wants?"

You put your hand over his, holding tight, like if you were strong enough you'd be able to keep him there. "Let me do something. Let me help you."

James closed his eyes, like it was painful to look at you. He leaned forward, his forehead tipping to yours. "I promised you that you wouldn't be in danger. I have to keep that promise, you dreadful girl."

You felt tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, your throat tight. You had a horrible feeling that if you let him out of your sight, you'd never see him again. "James," you breathed. It was all you said. You couldn't force any of the other things you wanted to declare out. The words coated your tongue, your teeth, instead.

"Let me take you home." Home was imprinted in your skin, his lips brushing your forehead before he pulled away from you.

"Why did he call you that? Bucky?"

He flinched, eyes downcast. "It was something… something my sister used to call me. That's all. He used it to mock me."

It wasn't all, not by a long shot. But a story from the past wasn't going to help you, not now, and he'd already suffered enough. He swept his thumb across your cheek. "Let me take you home," he repeated.

You let him. James kept you bundled in his coat, the extra layer saving you from the biting temperature. Its hem reached your ankles as he walked with you, his steps quick, his hand firm on your back. You hurried down the hill together, to your house. When you unlocked the door and stepped in, you turned to face him. He gripped the lapels of the coat, more to steady himself than anything, but you imagined for a moment that it was because he couldn't bear to go. "He won't act right away. He likes to play with his food. He'll give me tonight, but it's all I have. I need to prepare."

"What are you going to do?"

He hesitated; he was considering lying to you. But his face softened. He was giving you the truth, instead. "I don't know."

He was letting go of you too quickly. You scrambled to catch at his wrists. "James," your voice was more steady than you felt, "I'm inviting you in. Please come in."

It felt like the air around you shuddered, like some great beast you couldn't see was shaking itself free of chains. You thought it impossible for James to look any more heartbroken, but his expression was more stricken than before. "You shouldn't have done that."

"It's a precaution. If your plan doesn't work, come here. Please. Please promise you will." You refused to let go of him, not until he agreed.

He hung his head. He was quiet for the space of three uneven breaths, before he whispered, voice catching on the wind, "I promise, you horrible, wretched creature."

It made you smile, despite the situation. You had never minded when he called you that. You dropped your hands from him, even though your body was shrieking at you to drag him inside. "I'll see you." You spoke like it was gospel. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He couldn't bring himself to be honest that time, so he chose the lie. "Tomorrow."

And then he was gone, the only evidence of him being there the scent of him, and his coat, still wrapped around you.

You paced in your kitchen. The cheery white and blue back splash bore witness to your strides as you thought, chewing on your lip. You had to help him. You couldn't just sit by and let him go back to Johann's coven. It wasn't fair, for starters, and it was just so morally wrong that it left you feeling like you needed a shower, as if you could scrub the idea of it away.

James would be furious if you used yourself as bait, you knew.

But you would be furious with yourself if you didn't do something. There were too many things to consider. Each idea you dreamt up was discarded in a steadily growing pile. Johann was very obviously a god compared to you. Even James would struggle to take him on. There was little that you could do. And you would probably fail.

You'd risk yourself for his freedom. You had this blind faith that he'd save you, if he could. That was what he was trying to do right now, by making you stay here. But even if he couldn't, you didn't care, if it meant that he could evade Johann. It was startling how sure you were. That you'd risk your life for him, without a second thought.

You clipped the corner of your counter with your hip as you turned sharply. Your eyes drifted up, not really seeing at first, but then they caught sight of your fireplace, across the house, in the living room. Tiny as a sprout, an idea started to take shape. You had no idea if it would really even have a chance at working. But as it began to form in your mind, wild, unfiltered hope started to build.

It felt like one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, to keep away from you. James had resisted contacting you for the rest of the night. He knew you wouldn't sleep, knew that if he just stood on your porch step and knocked, you'd welcome him with open arms. He couldn't do that. Not when he wasn't sure that he'd be strong enough to leave you when it came time to. Saying goodbye once had been hard enough. And he couldn't risk damning you. This penance had to be taken alone.

He worked through the night, quick and quiet. Just because he didn't enjoy the hunt like most others, didn't mean he lacked the skills. And he'd always been good at hunting big game. It came at a cost—it always did—but each kill he made brought him closer to the goal. Thinning the herd wouldn't solve the problem, but he was damn well going to make sure he did something about it before he condemned himself.

James was not strong enough.

He'd worked through the night, right up until first light. He felt himself dragging, but wouldn't allow himself to sleep the day away. He was too worried to do that. He was out of his house, a smudge of dark against the snow, as soon as the sun had started to dip away. He ignored the queasy ache he felt as the light grazed his skin, and kept at the job.

But then, right as the moon made her debut, he found himself on your street. He stood there, looking at your house. The shape of the roof, the dark gray of its shingles. The brick, which had been painted white by the previous owners. Your big rocking chair on the porch, its tasselled red cushion. James thought it would be the last time he saw it. He thought he'd already seen you for the last time, the night before. This was to be his final, silent goodbye. But then he saw a shift in the curtains upstairs.

You saw him. Of course you did; you'd been looking outside all day, sequestered safely indoors. Just because James couldn't handle the sun well didn't mean that Johann suffered as much.

You were moving down the stairs, shoes scuffing on the carpeted runner, and flying to the door as quickly as you could. You didn't want him to go before you could say something. You put one foot on the threshold, and—

"Please don't come out." he called, but his voice was soft, hushed, like he didn't want to disturb your neighbours. "It's not safe."

Your foot hovered there, defiant. You set your jaw. "I'll do what I like, unless you come in." You rested the toe of your shoe on the porch, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

He could see you were serious. You were surprised that he didn't try harder to sway you into staying in. You felt a pang in your chest, when he got close enough. His eyes were the silver of steel, flinty and tired. He didn't look well, not at all. His clothes seemed to wear him, instead of the other way around. You plucked at his sleeve with your fingers. "Come."

A sigh, a murmured, "terrible girl," but he allowed you to pull him in behind you, your hand slipping to his.

Having James in your house didn't feel any different than it had with him out of it. There was no ripple of awareness, no notion of a protective shell. The invitation has done it all, the day before. Just James, on the beige rug that hid the scratched floorboards. Just James, outlined by the open door, the black night, until you closed it, the lock snapping with a clunk. Just James, bleary-eyed and still, looking only at you, instead of the basket of laundry at the base of the stairs, or his coat that he'd left you with hung on one of the pegs on the wall, or the bills on the side table that you hadn't dealt with yet.

"You need to eat." Your voice betrayed your concern. You crossed your arms, unable to tear your eyes from him.

"There's no time for that. I don't have the wherewithal to hunt, let alone use my influence."

"I'm right here."

You'd finally said the words. They didn't seem the register, the meaning behind them, at first. Confusion furrowed his brow, and you longed to smooth it with your thumb. Then, all at once, realization crossed his face, horror passing soon after it. "Don't say that."

"James, please. You look like you're going to pass out. I'm here, and I'm telling you it's okay. Please let me help you."

He turned away, a hand covering his eyes. "No."

You didn't even think about what you were doing, but the next move you made was to close the distance between you and wrap your arms around him. Your forehead brushed his jaw. You felt it tense against your skin. "You're going to give away your freedom for me." You sounded braver, more sure, than you really felt. "I won't let you do that without offering something in return."

He'd stayed as still as a statue while you'd embraced him, but his body was warm. He settled, infinitesimally, into your hold. Slow as molasses, you felt his arms encircle you in return. You felt the shudder of his sharp inhale, heard the low sound in his throat, because that breath had made him inhale your scent. You wondered how enticing you smelled right now, when he was at his weakest. "You don't even have to influence me. I want to help you, James. Please let me."

"I…" He breathed into your hair.

Then he was really holding you, his arms firm, his hand stroking up and down your spine, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. "You would do this for me?"

"I trust you. You won't hurt me. and you need this. I'd do this for you. I'd let you drain me dry, if it would give you a fighting chance." The admission floated free, tangled around you both like a thread.

He shifted until he was cupping your face, making you look him directly into those wide, gorgeous eyes. "I won't take a lot. Just what I need to… to get by." He swallowed hard, your eyes flickering to the movement and back.

"I want you to be at your strongest. Do what you have to."

Still, he hesitated, tucking you hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing against you skin. You fought a shiver of delight. You hadn't realized how much you'd been craving the touch, any touch, from him. He trailed his hand from the shell of your ear down to the side of your neck, tapping his fingers gently. It was an idle rhythm, one that took a second to identify: it was La Vie en Rose. He'd played it once or twice in front of you, though never in full, and it was a song that you'd always liked. The melody played in your head, in time to his fingers. You felt your shoulders loosen from their tense, tight position, your head tilting a little to the side. "Relax, darling girl. Just relax."

He might not have been using any influence on you, but you could have been fooled. Your body seemed to uncoil at his words. The hand at your neck stopped tapping, turning into a soft caress. You almost wanted to close your eyes. You saw his fangs from the edge of your vision as he bent his head. "Your scent has always been breathtaking to me," His murmur, by your ear, made your stomach do a somersault. "I could smell you as soon as you moved to town. I've never been so seduced by one person's blood before."

You could feel your heart rate picking up, and you knew that James could, too, a breathy chuckle escaping him. "I told you to relax."

"I'm trying," you muttered, though you didn't sound very convincing.

It was infinitely harder to relax at the brush of his mouth right under your ear. You didn't know at first if it was supposed to be a kiss, or if he was just breathing you in. You became more certain at the soft, unhurried trail he left down your neck. It took everything you had to hold back a whimper. Your hands came up shakily, landing against his chest. You didn't know if you wanted to grab him, to hold on, or not. You felt like your atoms would shake apart and reduce you to nothing.

The first graze of James's teeth was welcome. The kiss he placed was messier, more open-mouthed. Your face grew warm at the idea of there being a mark left behind, the reddish colour of a hickey blooming in his wake.

The second touch of his canines was more firm. You didn't quite realize when he'd bitten you, at first. It was more like the prick of a thorn. You'd thought this would be the worst part, his fangs sinking into your flesh, seeking the red river beneath your skin. But instead, your eyelids fluttered closed, your mouth parting on a sigh.

You couldn't feel the blood leaving your body. You weren't really aware of anything, for a long, long time. Only James, one hand secure around your waist, the other cradling the other side of your neck, his lips at your throat. The quiet sounds of satisfaction he made, almost like a purr, his chest seeming to rumble beneath your splayed hands. Your head began to loll. You were sinking into a state of contentment you could only have dreamed of. Nothing else mattered except this. You wanted to curl closer, to lay against his shoulder, to become completely boneless in his wake, and let him take, and take, and take.

There was a small whine of displeasure that sounded like it came from a tunnel, a long way away. You didn't realize that it came from you, because James had stopped feeding. You swayed slightly on your feet, his tongue against your skin. Surely he wasn't done already? Why, he must have only just started! "James," your voice was slurred—you couldn't even tell if you'd spoken out loud or if it was in your head.

A gentle, fleeting kiss was placed over the spot that he'd pierced. "You're alright, my love. You'll be just fine."

At this, your eyes did close, and you felt yourself lean forward—or maybe you were falling—until your cheek rested by his collarbone. You felt very, very tired. The world went topsy-turvy for a moment, and it took a few long seconds to register that James had picked you up, swinging you into his arms, and was walking you into the living room. He was careful when he put you down on the sofa. Your hand shot out when he released you, touching his jaw, his chin. "Your eyes are blue again." Your voice sounded fuzzy.

They'd never looked so blue, you thought. Such a brilliant colour, rich and warm. And you were the cause. You gave him a lopsided smile. Worry creased his brow before he willed it away. "Lay back and try to rest. I may have taken a little too much, but you will recover. I swear it."

"I wish you could stay," you murmured, allowing him to push you back against the cushions.

"I wish I could stay, too." He held your hand in his, thumb rubbing across your fingers, before kissing your knuckles.

The resignation in his eyes felt like it could tear you in two. Distantly, a tiny part of you began to scream, to try to shake you back into wakefulness, into focus. "Do you have a plan?" You asked. You were forgetting why he needed one. Something important…

"To keep you alive." He started to let go of your hand, and you held fast, your other one coming down to stop him.

"I spent last night killing members of the coven one by one. They were scattered around, but I still managed to scent them and destroy them. I couldn't risk them coming back here on their own time, once I'm gone."

The explanation rang a bell in your head. That was right. The reason behind him drinking your blood. He was going away, to protect you. He lifted your hand again, though this time it was to look at your watch. He made a noise of frustration. "I have to go now. My time's almost up."

"Don't go." You pleaded. but you were too weak to put up any semblance of a fight. Even if you had been, it wouldn't have mattered. You were no match for him.

"I have to. For you. Remember? That's what this is all about." He touched your brow, your cheek, your jaw, like he was committing the shape of your features to memory, something to keep him alive once he was gone from you.

"Please don't leave me, James." Your voice sounded small, almost childlike.

He looked at the floor, but not before you saw the flash of anguish in those brilliant blue eyes. "I must. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

James tilted your chin up with his fingers, and pressed one final kiss to the corner of your mouth. You wished you'd had the wherewithal to pull him closer. "Our time together has been some of the best of my life. Please don't let my departure dampen your spirit. You are much too special to mourn someone like me." Then he stood, quick as a bolt of lightning, moving from your grasp. It took effort to sit up again, to try and reach for him, and he had already rounded the back of the couch, striding to the door, before you could try to stop him.

He gave you one last look at the door. If one look could speak, a novel would have poured forth, sprouting into existence, the pages filling with words upon words upon words. You could almost hear them, in the stretch of time where his hand found the lock and twisted.

And then there was nothing but the silence of your house, your slow, sad heartbeat, and a feeling of melancholy so strong you would have fallen to the floor if you'd been standing.

It took much longer than you liked to stop your head from swimming. You felt dizzy, like everything was just slightly off-kilter. But you didn't have time to waste. You had even less time than you'd hoped for. You knew James would likely go hunting for Johann, rather than just meet him. He might be giving in and offering himself up, but you doubted he'd simply lay down and show his belly.

You had the distinct feeling that Johann would know if you left the safety of your house. He expected James to bring you along, anyway, for you to be a sacrificial lamb. Well, you'd already decided that you would be. Just not in a manner that he might expect. If you were to die tonight, you wouldn't be the only one.

The walk uphill was hard. Harder still with what you carried with you, stolen from your neighbour's back porch. Your muscles felt like jelly. Each step was a battle, but you had to keep going. It was the only thing you could do, now. You should have felt the cold, but it didn't bother you as much as you thought it should have. You had a task in mind, and you'd damn well make sure you finished it.

James's house loomed at the top of the hill. Snow covered the roof, and like the first time, a group of ravens observed you curiously. They flew away as a group, a series of flapping wings and eerie caws, as you stumbled up the front steps. It was like they knew what was about to happen, and wanted to get the hell out of dodge. The gargoyle above the attic was a silent sentinel. Your footprints on the snow path were uneven. You were so, so tired.

The ornate looking key was made of iron. It fit in the lock easily. You'd had it since the day before, feeling it in James's coat when you'd hung it at your door. The ram's head kept a watchful eye on the street as you pushed through the door. Snow and slush slid off your boots and onto the rug. It was an antique, golds and reds and blacks in an intricate design, kept as clean as the day James had bought it. The velvet runner stretched down the long hallway.

The fireplace still had logs in it. You were glad—you didn't have the time or the energy to spend building it. You were anxious as you waited for the flames to catch. Once you were satisfied, listening to the crackle and pop! of the wood, a merry little tune, you moved to the next part of the plan. Your load became lighter as you traversed the stairs, weaving a path through the rooms. By the time you made it to the attic, you were able to discard what you'd been carrying, tucking it out of sight behind the piano.

The trips from the attic to all the other rooms in the house were the most taxing. Some lamps were small, the kind you'd imagine belonged on a nightstand. crystal and stained glass, oil and gas. Others were bigger, as tall as you. Lugging those around with both hands had you almost meeting your end at the bottom of the steps prematurely. But you managed, miraculously. You could imagine the cheery glow from outside. It might have looked like James was entertaining guests, from the way each room was lit up.

You stood in the sitting room for a few long minutes, feeling woozy. You might not have been able to smell the evidence of what you'd done, but it was making you lightheaded anyway. Or maybe that was the adrenaline you'd used up. But it wouldn't be long, now.

In fact, it wasn't long at all, as you stared into the flames. He didn't announce himself, only swept through the front door with ease, a brush of his coat, the tap of his boots.

Johann stared at you curiously. "Hello, little mouse. You came out of your house. Where is your protector?"

You made yourself look into those bottomless pits he called eyes. "Ridding the world of your kind, I'd expect." Your voice sounded thin, even to your own ears. At least if Johann killed you, you wouldn't be a very satisfying snack. You doubted you had very much blood left to give.

"And so you decided to offer yourself up to me here? How very poetic. What a gorgeous tableau it will be, for him to find your body here, in this place he calls home." You wouldn't describe the expression on Johann's face as a grin. It was too grotesque, too alien, to be called that, all teeth and no feeling.

His hands flexed at his sides, involuntarily. You thought he might be imagining squeezing the life out of you. "Come and get me then."

"Oh, sweet creature," he crooned, "I enjoy the chase much more. Run, little mouse. Let me enjoy the hunt."

It seemed that Johann was too excited by the idea to notice what you'd done. It had been your biggest gamble. Just because you couldn't smell it, just because it was odorless to a human, didn't mean it was that way to a vampire. But it seemed he was too distracted by you. So you'd give him the chase that he wanted. You needed him closer, anyway.

You slipped away into the kitchen. You couldn't hear Johann as you moved through the room, coming out into the dining room. The glow of the lamp in the corner bathed everything in yellow. You made your way back to the foyer. You couldn't anticipate the blow, but you definitely felt it in your ribs when you made impact with the wall. The gilded frame beside you shuddered and fell from its hook. Johann was silent as a wraith. But he let you go, watched with satisfaction as you wheezed, pressing a hand to your side. "Come now, little mouse. I want to taste your fear."

It was grim. You'd had a feeling he'd want to do it this way, to break you down until you were nothing, until you were battered and bloody, before sucking out your life. He let you dart away, halfway up the stairs, before a strong hand curled around one ankle and pulled. Your chin met one of the steps with a clatter, your eyes watering immediately. Your teeth rattled. Your ribs shrieked in protest. You clawed your way up, staggering to the landing.

And so the game went on.

Johann would let you get a little ways away before throwing you into walls, against furniture. Before yanking a handful of hair from your scalp. Before grasping at your wrist so tightly that you felt your bones bend a little before they snapped. Your scream was a long way off. It sounded like it came from under water. Blood had started to pour steadily from your nose. The last push had sent you face first into an ornate mirror. Your head was ringing.

You couldn't keep going. The spare room was where you decided to take your final stand. Decked out in blue and gold, the colours made brighter by the lamps dotted about, you made it to the window. You couldn't see the moon anymore. It was covered by the clouds, like it didn't want to bear witness to your death. You felt like you were going to throw up, you were so dizzy. Pain wracked every nerve. You had no idea how you were standing upright.

Panic finally started to take over when you couldn't get the window open. It was stuck fast, and you couldn't use the force that you needed with a broken wrist. Your nails started to splinter and break as you pulled and pushed, willing it to open, praying that it would.

"Little mouse, you are a fool to think you could get away from me. Where would you go? The only way out that way is down. Is that your wish?"

Johann was a spindly shadow in the doorway. Your fingers, slippery with blood, left marks on the white paint of the windowsill. Yes, your plan had been to go down. To make it out onto the overhang and try to scuttle down the gutter. It had been your only potential escape route. But it seemed the window had taken an oath to stay closed, and it would be keeping its promise.

Johann inhaled, eyes growing heavy. "Ah, there it is, little mouse. I wish you could smell it. Your fear is so exquisite."

He took his time, steps slow, as he crossed the room. You sagged against the window, too tired to move.

"Did your dear Bucky tell you that he begged me to save his sister? He thought I was an angel come to rescue them from harm, when we met."

His joy made you feel unbearably ill. "All that blood. What a wreck, that train collision. So many dead. So many dying."

Johann stopped in front of you. You had to crane your neck to meet his eyes, and it made your head throb. He looked behind you, then. His teeth gleamed. "Well, he's come just in time to see you meet your end."

Oh, no.

You'd hoped that James wouldn't have to see it. You didn't have time to register Johann's hand around your neck. One moment, you could breathe, and the next, your life was being squeezed out of you. And suddenly, you were cold.

The shattering glass didn't register for you for a long moment. But then you became aware.

Johann had slammed you through the glass. Blood was running from the back of your head, coating your neck. And he was holding you, dangling you like a worm on a hook, outside the window. Your hand scrabbled weakly at his wrist. "Do you remember, Bucky?" He laughed when you wheezed. His voice carried across the night. "Your darling Rebecca? She tasted so sweet when she screamed. I've never quite tasted a terror like hers, not since. But yours," He focused on you, instead of James, somewhere down below. "Yours might be close, little mouse." The curtains billowed around you, drawn out by the wind.

Your was name was shouted with a panic you should have felt. Instead, you were strangely blank. The pain in your ribs, your wrist, your head, fell away to a far-removed sensation. The cold was from the winter air, you thought. But it could have been the feeling of death's fingers reaching for you, too.

You let your hands dangle uselessly at your sides. Your fingers shook as you reached into your pocket. Your legs pinwheeled like they were trying to tread water, like they were seeking solid ground. "Shall I drop you, little mouse? Shall I let him try to catch you? Let him hold you as you die?"

Flick, flick, flick.

Whoosh.

The curtains turned gold, and so did Johann's coat. The lighter in your hand fell away, clattering off the roof and disappearing below. The fire was greedy, seeking anything it could reach.

He dropped you with a howl, his hands coming to his clothes, trying to pat at the fire, but it was no use. He was kindling in that room of gas and oil, the propane you'd lugged through the house. The fire was infinitely more hungry to feed than he was.

Your knees slammed against the overhang, jarring you and slowing your fall.

But you did fall. Gravity was a merciless goddess. She pulled you through the air. The house looked like a small, blooming sun. You didn't remember hitting the ground. All you could register was James, his arms around your prone form, his hands wet and red, his eyes wet too, and so, so blue. His mouth formed words, but you couldn't hear them.

Your plan had worked, and it was all you had set out to do. James would be free, now. A long, dark sleep sounded very nice, indeed.

James didn't know who had called the fire department. A neighbour had seen the house light up like a torch, he supposed. He heard Johann's shrieks of agony as he cradled you, tried to keep you conscious, but it was no use. The sirens racing uphill were all that kept him from panic. Johann was ashes by the time the firefighters pulled out their hoses.

You were light as a feather when James lifted you and brought you to the ambulance that had followed the firetruck up. They wasted no time. As soon as they saw you, they got right to work. The noise and chaos was deafening. James focused on your thin breaths instead. He thought you might have still been alive by sheer will. He'd caught you, but you'd both hit the ground hard, anyway. If he was injured at all, he couldn't tell. You were the concern. If you died…

The questions started as soon as the ambulance raced away. The local police were staring in amazement at the tinderbox on the top of the hill. James used any influence he had to pass off the most believable lies he could think of. It came down to him deciding on you house sitting for him while he was out of town, and an intruder breaking in. He couldn't explain the fire quite as well. It was chalked up to stray embers from the fireplace and the foolish amount of old lamps he'd collected.

As soon as he was able, James made it to the hospital. Your chart was very long. Internal bleeding, broken bones, a hell of a concussion… not to mention the blood loss. You didn't smell like yourself right now. The transfusion had muddied your scent, for the time being.

Your neighbours dropped by—half the town did, really—to drop off baskets of fruit and muffins, cards with well wishes, flowers and teddies. And James accepted them all on your behalf. It was the most the residents had seen of him. You hadn't woken up yet, but he wasn't concerned. You deserved to rest, after what you'd accomplished. You deserved everything.

He took the time to watch you, to listen to your breaths and your heartbeat, a cadence so familiar to him he could have played each beat on his piano. But the piano, like everything else in the house, no longer existed. Still, he tapped the matching rhythm against his knee, loyal at your bedside.

The day that your eyes fluttered open, James had already been gazing at your face. The bruise on your chin was so dark it almost looked black. He had no idea what Johann had done to give you that specific injury, but the doctor had said you were lucky you hadn't broken your jaw.

James scooted his chair forward until his knees brushed the bed and its starchy white blanket. His hand found yours, and he squeezed gently on your fingers. You did your best to squeeze back. You blinked at him, weary. "Did I actually survive that?" you croaked, your voice like sandpaper.

"You did." He helped you sit up enough to drink some water.

"Cool." You said with a wince, reaching a tentative hand to touch your ribs.

James gave you a look that was so severe, you shrank backwards. "You are the most foolish girl I've ever met. What were you thinking? You very nearly died." His anger was a quiet thing, but it was there all the same.

"Yes, well, I did factor that possibility in, you know. Figured it was worth it if I took out that monster in the process." You grimaced at the thought.

"How did you even…?" He shook his head in amazement.

At this, you had the audacity to look smug. "Virginia told me that she had bought this fancy, odorless propane for her husband's barbeque. I wasn't sure if it was really odorless, but it was the only thing I could get on such short notice. I guess I'll have to reimburse her…"

"That was so incredibly reckless."

You nodded sagely. "Well, so is collecting like, a million oil lamps. Probably wouldn't have been so flashy if I hadn't put those everywhere." You paused, out of breath. He could tell it was difficult for you to speak in your condition, but he had a feeling you wouldn't take kindly to being told to stay quiet. "I take it your house is toast, then?"

He nodded, bringing your hand to his mouth. He rested his lips against the backs of your fingers when he spoke. "It's barely more than a frame."

"That's okay. I have more than enough furniture at my house. You're not going to need much. Well, except for a new wardrobe."

You were talking like it was the obvious conclusion. That James, with no place to call home, would stay with you in yours from now on. He stared at you, wide eyed, at your easy smile. Your reaction to his expression was delayed, but your mouth flattened into an uncertain line eventually. You sounded decidedly more shy when you added, "If you want to, that is."

"Wretched girl. I'll go wherever you go, wherever you are. For as long as you'll have me."

It wasn't even close to what James wanted to say. He wanted to prostrate himself at your feet, to worship you until the end of time. And to keep you by his side for lifetimes upon lifetimes. He'd had the tentative, traitorous thought for weeks, but he'd never entertained it. It wasn't the time to now, either. But it cemented itself in his mind much more firmly.

"Be careful what you say. Forever is a long time." Your smile was back, a soft, sure thing. Like maybe you had a thought as to where his mind was at, even if he hadn't spoken it aloud, and you didn't mind one bit.

"Not with you. Forever won't be long enough."

You know he’s awake. Even in the silence, there’s a restlessness in the way he shifts, the subtle movements of his body as he adjusts to the feeling of your skin against his. You’re lying on your side, Bucky’s warmth pressed against your back. His arm is draped around you, his breath steady but not deep enough to lull you into sleep.

His hand is still curled around your waist, but you can feel the tension in his fingertips.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder, and you hold your breath, heart stuttering. It’s a quiet gesture, tender, like a promise in the stillness. His lips linger there for a moment before he shifts, moving you to lie on your back so he can hover over you, propping himself up on his metal elbow.

Without a word, he moves the strap of your sleep tank top off your shoulder. The delicate brush of his fingers against your skin sends a shiver down your spine. His lips follow, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone, the heat of his touch making your stomach flutter.

Your breath catches, the quietness wrapping around you like a cloud, creating a bubble of softness in the dark. He doesn’t rush. There’s no urgency in his touch, only the quiet need for closeness. His hand drifts to your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin as he presses another kiss just below your ear.

You turn your head, meeting his gaze in the dark. His eyes are soft, pupils wide, but there’s nothing forced in the way he looks at you. Just calm, just love, his rawest form.

“Bucky…” you whisper, your voice a quiet murmur in the night. He doesn’t say anything at first, but his lips curl into a small smile.

“I know I know,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I should be sleeping.”

“Yes, you should be.”

“So should you.”

You give a little shrug. “Can’t really sleep when you kiss me like that. Not that I mind, at all.”

He kisses the side of your neck, and his breath is warm against your skin. His arm tightens around you, pulling you deeper into his embrace, and for a moment, you close your eyes, letting the silence wrap around you.

“You okay?” you whisper, your voice barely audible in the quiet room. His lips brush against your hair as he nods, his hand gently caressing the side of your face.

“I’m good,” he murmurs, his voice rough but full of comfort. “Just needed you close.”

You turn slightly, your face now inches from his. His eyes are soft, filled with a quiet understanding that you don’t need words to feel. The night stretches on, and the silence between you is never uncomfortable, only soothing, a quiet space that belongs to the two of you alone.

Bucky presses one more kiss to your forehead before pulling you in even closer, his arms wrapped around you in a close embrace before you breathe him in, and shut your eyes.

x

Bucky usually runs warm, heat lingering in his body even after the day has bled away, so the chill in his bare shoulder tells you everything you need to know—he’s been standing outside for far too long. His face is slack with distance, eyes unfocused, an expression that sets something uneasy twisting low in your chest.

“Why don’t you come inside?” you murmur, voice barely more than breath. “It might help.”

On nights when the dreams turn cruel, Bucky chooses the cold. He’s never put words to the reason, but you know it anyway—some quiet, irrational fear that he might hurt you. You’ve tried to convince him otherwise, tried to remind him of the safety of the bed you share, but he always insists he’ll come back soon.

This time, though, soon has stretched into nearly two hours, and the worry has crept up your spine, lodged itself tight in your throat.

He doesn’t react to your touch—doesn’t so much as flinch. He remains utterly still, as if he hasn’t even registered that you’re there. Unease tightens in your chest. You tilt your head slightly, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his face, searching for some sign of him beneath the distance.

Your brows knit, lips parting as concern softens your features. Your thumb lingers against his chilled skin, reluctant to pull away, as though warmth alone might coax him back to you.

“Baby,” you murmur, voice trembling just enough to give you away. “You’re cold.”

Bucky's metal fingers twitch slightly at the sound of your voice, but he still doesn't turn. The moonlight catches the scar on his cheek as he finally speaks—low, rough with sleep and something darker.

“Know that.”

A pause. His bare flesh is clammy under your touch and you move into his point of view, stepping closer before raising your hand to his face. His expression doesn’t change but he leans into it like a man starved for comfort even as his body tenses against it.

His breath hitches when you wrap an arm around his shoulders—not pushing him toward warmth yet just holding, because Christ knows this one time maybe words aren’t what either of you needs right now. He smells like snow.

You inhale, and something in your chest gives—a small, aching pull meant only for him. His shoulder is solid beneath your cheek, familiar and cold, and you rise onto your toes to reach him, drawn there without thinking. Your lips brush the skin of his shoulder in a kiss that’s barely there, a gentle promise rather than a demand, before you ease back again. You look up at him, searching his face, trying to offer a smile that doesn’t quite hold but is honest in its effort.

“Bucky?” you whisper. You take a small step back, giving him the space you know he needs, even though it costs you. “Will you come inside with me?”

His gaze remains fixed on the horizon, but when you step away it flickers down to watch you move. For a long moment he just stands there, silent and still, as if fighting an internal battle that only he can hear. Finally though, the tension in his jaw eases almost imperceptibly. His shoulders slump with a sigh before he turns to face you.

“Just…”

He falters, words caught in the roughness of his throat. A muscle in his jaw jumps as his hand clenches and unclenches uselessly at his side—a silent struggle for control.

“Just for a little.”

“Sure.”

You open the door to your apartment, the moonlight bleeding in across the carpet and step aside, allowing him room. He walks inside, and there’s flecks of snow on his hair. He’s barefoot, and you can see the gooseflesh along his exposed arm and chest.

“Want the fire?” You keep your tone low, nodding to the empty hearth. He shakes his head, and you swallow. “How about we sit then?”

Bucky lingers near the doorway like an apparition, half-there and half-elsewhere, his metal arm flexing without his awareness as his gaze tracks your movements around the room. His bare feet leave faint, darkened impressions against the floorboards—evidence of the cold he’s carried in with him. When you gesture toward the couch, his throat works visibly, a sharp, single swallow before he gives a small nod and moves toward it in measured, careful steps.

He perches on the edge of the cushion instead of sinking into it, spine rigid, shoulders pitched forward as though he’s bracing himself for something unseen, even in stillness.

“You shouldn’t be this close,” he murmurs, the words barely more than breath—soft enough to be mistaken for thought rather than warning, perhaps meant that way. And yet, when your hand brushes his knee anyway, absentminded and gentle, he doesn’t pull away this time.

“Sorry,” you say lightly, a hint of playfulness in your voice. “I just happen to like being close to my favorite person.” You deliver it as if the last few hours hadn’t left you restless, as if his absence hadn’t pulled you from sleep and set your heart pacing.

His jaw tightens, working once before he finally shifts and eases himself farther onto the cushions. You retreat just enough to give him room, folding your hands neatly in your lap. Your fingers fidget there, betraying the concern your smile refuses to show.

One corner of his mouth tugs upward, not quite a smile—more a reluctant flicker of dry amusement than any real annoyance. Moments like this rarely coax even that much from him, so you hold onto it, claim it quietly as a win. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t put distance between you, and that alone feels like progress.

The quiet thickens, settling around you, dense with all the words neither of you is willing to give voice to.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says softly, the sentence snagging on the way out. “I’m okay.”

It's an age-old lie and you both know it.

You nod, though the motion feels stiff, constrained by the tight ache in your throat where your worry has settled and refuses to ease. It’s still there, pulsing through you, impossible to shake.

“You were gone almost two hours, baby,” you say, and your voice betrays you anyway—cracking despite your best effort to keep it gentle. You swallow hard, forcing a small, unconvincing softness into your tone. “Anyone would’ve worried just a little.”

His shoulders draw in at your words, tension rippling through his frame as if he’s bracing for a blow. A flash of guilt crosses his face before he dips his head, chin angling down, eyes fixed anywhere but on you. He curls in on himself slightly, posture closed, guarded.

“I just needed to clear my head,” he murmurs. The excuse is thin, barely substantial enough to stand on. His gaze drifts toward the window, toward the stretch of night beyond the glass, and for a heartbeat he looks like he belongs to it—narrowed into himself, all edges and shadow, the very thing he despises. “Didn’t think you’d even notice I was gone.”

Your mouth tightens before you release a slow, careful breath, the kind meant to keep your voice steady.

“Of course I do,” you say quietly. It isn’t sharp or defensive—just honest, edged with feeling, like the words have been sitting in your chest all along, waiting to be spoken.

He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens instead, a muscle jumping there like it’s fighting to keep something contained. You reach for him anyway, resting your hand on his thigh in a small, grounding touch. He doesn’t lean into it, doesn’t pull away—just stays there, rigid beneath your palm. You give a gentle squeeze, hoping he feels what you can’t quite say, before you stand and move around the couch.

“I’m gonna make you some tea,” you murmur, already turning away, your steps quickening as the sting behind your eyes sharpens. “Get you warmed up.”

In the kitchen, you open the cupboard and grab a mug, hands moving on muscle memory. Water sloshes as you pour it in, the sound too loud in the quiet room, and you slide the mug into the microwave. While it hums, you brace yourself against the counter, palms flat, shoulders dipping as you blink hard—once, twice—holding the tears at bay.

The microwave beeps, sharp in the stillness. Bucky's head snaps up at the sound—too quick, too alert for a man who claims he was just clearing his head. His eyes track your every movement as you pull out the steaming mug with unsteady hands.

When you turn back toward him, his face is unreadable again. But there’s something tense in his posture now—a coiled readiness that wasn’t there before—as if he expects you to say more or maybe… to break entirely.

He doesn’t reach for the tea when it's offered; just stares at it like an unknown variable instead of comfort.

“Didn't think I'd need warming,” he says quietly, and it sounds less like denial and more like an apology already half-spoken between you.

You blink before silently picking up his flesh hand, and placing the mug within his grasp. He takes it with stilted movements before raising it to his mouth as you sit down, pressing your elbows to your knees and steepling your hands in front of your lips, eyes on him.

“Sorry.” He murmurs after a moment, and takes a sip.

“It’s alright.” You whisper, hoping he can’t hear the waiver in your voice.

Bucky's grip tightens around the mug—just for a second, knuckles paling under the strain—before he forces himself to relax. The steam curls between you both like something trying to bridge the distance, but his shoulders stay locked in place.

“Didn't mean to make you...” He cuts himself off with a rough exhale through his nose, jaw working. His gaze flicks down at where your hands are pressed together before landing on yours again with quiet intensity. “You always say that. You shouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t mind,” you murmur, brushing your palms down your thighs, a tired habit meant to ground yourself.

“But you should.” His voice sharpens, edged with frustration that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with himself. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this shit. Why do you keep doing that?”

You’re so tired—tired of the fear, the waiting, the wondering if he’s safe inside his own head—but none of that comes out. All you want, all you’ve wanted all night, is to know that he’s here, that he’s okay.

“Because I love you,” you say.

The words are almost inaudible, faint as a whisper in the wind, yet they hold the burden of all the emotions you can’t bring yourself to speak aloud. They tremble in the air, fragile and fleeting, yet each one is a quiet confession of everything your heart is too heavy to express.

Bucky flinches —actually flinches, like the words are a physical blow. The mug trembles in his grip for half a second before he sets it down too hard on the coffee table, tea sloshing over the rim. His breath comes faster now, uneven and sharp through his nose.

“Don't,” he rasps. "Don't say that shit when I'm—" He cuts himself off with a growl of frustration, dragging both hands through his hair until it's even more disheveled than usual. When he finally looks at you again there's something wild in his eyes—somewhere between anger and despair. “You don't get to love me after what I've done.”

The metal fingers of Bucky’s left hand curl inward involuntarily as if remembering their own violence. You flinch at his words, blinking hard as your eyes moisten. “Don’t be like that.”

Bucky puts down the cup, rubs a hand down his before his eyes flick to yours and you can see the ache there.

“Like what,”he snaps before he can stop himself. It's not really a question—just more of that restless tension spilling out. Bucky's shoulders shift back, jaw flexing under the flesh of his face as he fights himself. When he speaks again his voice has dropped, gone dark and rough like a warning. "You keep telling me that you love me and I—I can't—I don't understand why you—" He swallows hard, mouth working as he struggles with the words. “I don't deserve you.”

You look away, toward the cold, empty fireplace, rubbing your hands up and down your arms as if you can warm yourself through sheer will. “I just want to help,” you whisper, the words trembling as they leave you. A tear slips free anyway. You swipe at it quickly, almost angrily, like you’re embarrassed it dared to show.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you add, voice breaking despite yourself. “You aren’t broken.” Your breath stutters, exhaustion seeping through every syllable. “I just… I love you.”

And that’s the worst part—the way love feels so useless right now. Like all the care in your chest can’t reach the places he’s hurting. You’re scared it never will. You stand there with empty hands and a full heart, aching with the fear that wanting to help isn’t enough, that loving him might still leave him alone in the dark.

Bucky moves before he thinks—fast, sudden, the kind of reflexes that usually get people killed. His metal hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-swipe at your tears—not hard enough to hurt but with enough force to make you freeze.

“Don't.”

His voice cracks on the single word. He looks down at where his fingers are wrapped around you like it's some kind of betrayal.

“You don't cry,” he growls, but there's no real anger in it—just something desperate and panicked beneath the roughness. “You don’t get to be this good when I'm—I'm this.”

The hand not holding onto you lifts slightly as if considering reaching for your face before aborting halfway into a clenched fist hovering between you. You glance at his hand, then back to his face before you release a rattling breath. Pressing your lips together you move your face to the hand wrapped around your wrist, and press a kiss the knuckle of his thumb.

Bucky stills, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction with your touch. He's holding his breath, every line of him pulled taut with what he's fighting to keep contained inside—a violent storm kept at bay by will alone.

His fingertips are freezing against your skin, trembling like the leaves outside. He wants to pull back, to withdraw, to shut himself off from the heat of your touch until everything feels numb and safe and cold again.

But he won't. He won't let himself. And that's how you know he's breaking.

“Please,” you whisper against his thumb, and his grip on your wrist loosens. You take his hand, dragging it your face and pressing his palm to your cheek. “Don’t shut me out. I-I know you’re scared. It’s okay, to be scared.”

Bucky's fingers flex against your cheek like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. He is scared—scared down to his bones—and you see it now through the cracks in his armor.

You reach up with your free hand, fingers gentle as they trace the edge of his thumb. Your touch is a quiet plea, the closest you'll get to begging.

His throat works around a gulp, something vulnerable and raw slipping through in the sound. A beat, two—then, finally, he speaks, voice hushed. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You could never.”

He smells like snow and winter storms as you scoot closer, your knees bumping his before you sniff, your eyes bouncing over his face, a face you’ve grown to adore so much. Bucky's breath hitches when your knees press against his, the contact too much and not enough all at once. His metal fingers twitch where they're still cradling your cheek—like he wants to pull you closer but is terrified of what might happen if he does.

“You don't know that,” he murmurs, rough with disbelief. “You can't know that.”

But there's something in his eyes now—something soft and aching beneath the fear. The way you're looking at him makes it hard to remember why staying cold was ever a good idea. His flesh hand lifts shakily toward yours as if unsure whether touching is allowed.

“I’m your girl,” you whisper, the words soft yet unwavering, grounding you just as much as they do him. When he responds with the faintest nod—barely perceptible, but undeniable—your breath escapes in a shaky exhale, a wave of relief easing the tightness in your chest as you close the distance between you. “And I’m here,” you add softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A rough sound catches in the back of Bucky’s throat, something broken and unguarded. His head dips forward, and he rests his brow against yours, the touch gentle but heavy within his shadowed mind.

"I'm not good for you," he mumbles.

His hands have a mind of their own now, sliding across your cheeks, your shoulders, your hips like he's searching for something solid to hold onto. You smell like home—warm and safe and good despite everything he's done, everything that's happened, and Bucky's so tired of fighting the urge to drown in that feeling.

“I'm not,” he hisses desperately, even as he leans into your touch, his breath shaking.

“Don’t shut me out,” you whisper, leaning closer, your nose brushing his. “I trust you. I trust you with everything, Bucky. You just have to trust me.”

Bucky's gaze flicks between your features, face taut with conflicting emotions. For a breathless moment you see them warring beneath the surface—fear, hope, doubt, and something that looks painfully close to trust.

Then, finally, he closes his eyes, head ducking toward your shoulder as his shoulders slump in surrender.

“I do trust you,” he whispers, voice thick with unspoken pain. “It's myself I don't trust.”

You cup the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, grounding him there. “It’s alright,” you murmur, the words meant as much for him as for yourself.

He doesn’t answer. He only breathes you in like you’re the last steady thing he has, his hand slack and unguarded in your lap. You close your eyes, chest tightening, wishing with a quiet ache that you could gather every broken piece of him and keep it safe inside your own heart—where nothing could touch it, where he could finally rest.

There's a quiet desperation in the way Bucky presses closer, his hand curling around your hip like you're the only thing anchoring him to the ground. He's shaking again—not that violent trembling from the winter cold, but a shiver that speaks more to exhaustion than to nerves.

He tucks his face into your shoulder, breath warm on your throat even through the fabric of your shirt. You can feel the steady thrum of his pulse there, a little too fast even now.

“I'm tired.”

“Come to bed.”

You ease back, then rise, offering him your hand—not an insistence, just a quiet invitation. He looks up at you, fatigue etched into his face, and reaches for you. Gently, you shake your head.

“The other one.”

He stills, gaze flicking to the metal hand as if it might pull away on its own. You kneel in front of him, lowering yourself until you’re eye to eye, close enough to feel his breath hitch.

“It wasn’t your choice,” you murmur, voice soft as a promise. “But it’s part of you now.” Your thumb brushes his knuckles, steady and warm. “And I want all of you.”

Bucky stares at your hand for what feels like forever.

Slowly, hesitantly, his metal fingers flex until they're curled around yours. He's not looking at you—his gaze is fixed on the place where your fingers are tangled as if he's waiting to be proved wrong.

But you hold on, just as gently, as if you couldn't dream otherwise. When he drags his head back up, your gaze meets his—and the tension in his shoulders eases, just a bit.

"C'mon," you hum softly. "Come to bed, sweetheart."

You coax him up with a gentle pull, and he comes with you toward the bed, slow and careful, like he’s bracing himself for the quiet that waits there.

The mattress dips when he sits, the frame giving a soft creak beneath his weight. You climb in beside him, the sheets cool against your legs as they whisper and bunch around you.

He lingers at the edge at first, shoulders tight, hands resting uselessly in his lap like he doesn’t know where to put them. That nervous energy hums through him—restless, contained, aching. After a beat, he shifts closer, then closer still, until his arm slips around your waist, tentative. He draws you in against his chest, breath stuttering as he presses his forehead to your hair, like he’s searching for something solid to hold onto.

The tension bleeds out of him slowly, bit by bit, as you lie there in the shadowed quiet of the bedroom. With his face tilted into your hair and his hand splayed wide along the span of your back, Bucky takes deep, slow breaths. His body still shakes at random moments, like there's tension trying to worm its way back into his muscles. But he's warm and solid beside you, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat slowly slows to something closer to normal.

"Can you—" He stops, swallows. "Can you say it again?"

“Say what?” You murmur into the darkness. His head shifts, pressing the plush of his mouth to your neck and you let your eyes close. His hand moves to the center of your stomach, fingers spread along the fabric of your shirt.

He's close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin. Your heart flutters at his proximity, but you stay still, patient.

"The thing you said before," he murmurs.

You can almost hear his throat work under the sound as if it's suddenly dry. His hand presses down gently, fingers rubbing small circles against the soft fabric.

"The last thing you said." When he speaks again, his voice is so quiet you almost think you're imagining it. "Say it again."

“I love you.”

The words leave you bare, unguarded—no armor, no rehearsed strength—just the truth laid down between you. You turn onto your side to face him, the movement slow, careful, like you’re afraid even this might be too much. Your hand comes up to his face, cupping his cheek where the light fades into shadow, and your thumb traces just beneath his eye, feeling the tension there, the things he never says.

“I love you,” you breathe again, softer now, the words trembling as they sink in. “Do you hear me, Barnes?” Your voice breaks, quiet and aching. “I love you.”

Bucky's skin is rough beneath your touch, stubble scratching your fingertips as he closes his eyes at the words, almost as if you'd hit him. His throat works, his breathing a little shaky, and the hand resting low on your hip grips tighter, fingers curling into flesh as if to hold the reality of you beneath his skin.

He's still afraid, you can tell—afraid you're going to break or disappear or realize he's not worth it. But he doesn't pull away. He doesn't let go of you. He just breathes.

"I hear you," he whispers. You smile, small and hidden, and let your eyes flutter shut for a moment. Warmth covers your hand and when you open them his hand is atop yours, eyes on your face, blue and searching.

Your eyes meet his in the darkness, then drop to where your hands are intertwined. You curl yourself closer to him, the heat of his body a familiar and comforting presence against you. He's solid and warm and real, despite the fear still clinging to his shoulders. His hand tightens unconsciously around yours, like letting go might somehow make him lose you altogether. When you shift to wrap your leg around his hip, he lets out a shuddering breath.

"Y'know," you whisper softly, "I can feel you thinking."

“Just don’t know how I got so lucky,” he murmurs, and he kisses the top of your head. “And I did. Get lucky, I mean.”

You hum, sleep beginning to pull at your muscles and Bucky tugs you to his chest.

The quiet deepens, wrapping around you both. Your breathing evens out as sleep pulls at you, but his stays uneven, caught in his chest like something unsaid. He shifts beneath you, settling flat on his back, keeping you tucked against his side, arm curved around you in a way that’s half-protective, half-desperate.

Your head rests over his heart, and he can feel how warm you are there—how real. The steady thud beneath your ear betrays him, beating too fast, too loud, refusing to calm. He stares at the ceiling, eyes burning, thoughts circling. This closeness scares him. How easily you fit there scares him more.

His hand finds your hair, fingers moving slowly, carefully, as if he might lose you if he presses too hard. The touch isn’t practiced—it’s searching, uncertain, filled with something he doesn’t know how to name yet.

“You’re gonna fall asleep, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice rough. After a pause, he exhales, the words slipping out like a confession meant only for the dark. “If you do… just know I’m tryin’. With you. I—” He swallows. “I care about you more than I know what to do with.”

“I know,” you murmur against the worn cotton of his tank, the words soft and certain. “I know you are.”

A low hum rumbles from his chest in response, the sound warm and grounding, before he dips his head to press a gentle kiss into your hair.

Sleep tugs at you both then, slow and inevitable. You sink deeper into the circle of his arms, your body going heavy with trust, his thoughts finally easing as the quiet claims him. And just as you begin to drift, his voice reaches you—soft, unfocused, like a truth spoken without defenses.

“I love you too.”

x

extras:

sleeping with cold!bucky

Bucky hadn't slept. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a decent night's rest; a full eight hours instead of the two or three he managed to steal between Grant's cries and his own restless thoughts.

Had it not been for you practically offering to move into the ranch during those first few weeks easing some of the stress, some of the worry, it would've been worse.

A hell of a lot worse.

Truth be told, he didn't remember much of that first night.

Only fragments; the sound of Grant crying, the crushing weight in his chest, your voice on the other end of the phone telling him to hold on.

Most of all, he remembered you.

Your steady presence had tethered him to the moment, keeping him grounded when everything else threatened to come apart. Not just him, either. Grant, too.

God, his boy had suffered the most.

Most nights Bucky found himself staring at the ceiling long after Grant had fallen asleep, wondering how she could've just up and walked away from him, from them. From the little boy she'd sworn was going to be their whole world. The one thing that was supposed to change everything.

He's not sure how he's supposed to do this.

He wasn't supposed to do it alone.

Dolores had promised they were in this together, that Grant would be the blessing that fixed all their problems. That he'd make them stronger as a couple. Happier.

What a load of shit that had been.

A soft cry crackles from the baby monitor resting on his nightstand, sleep completely evading him as he lets out a weary sigh, his eyes squeezing shut.

Five minutes.

That's all he'd managed to get before Grant woke again, his cries calling for him through the monitor. With a soft groan, he drags a hand down his face, willing the remnants of sleep away as he pushes himself upright, the mattress protesting beneath him.

"I hear you, buddy," he calls to his wailing son. "Daddy's coming."

He reaches for the monitor as he gets to his feet, another cry sounding through the speaker.

Then your voice follows; Soft, Sleepy, Familiar.

Bucky stills.

"Hey, sweet boy, why the tears?" you murmur. "Shh, s'alright. I'm here. Don't you worry, I've got you."

Grant's crying doesn't stop immediately, but it begins to quiet as your voice drifts through the speaker, wrapping around him like a warm blanket. Gentle assurances fill the room as you rock his son, soothing fears neither of them fully understand.

Bucky lets himself stand there a moment, breathing, your voice not only calming his son, but him as well. Anyone would've walked away by now. Patted him on the back, reassured him he had this, promised to check in, and then never looked back.

But you?

You stayed.

Day after day, you showed up for him, for them. You stayed through the sleepless nights and endless bottles. Through the mountains of laundry neither of you could seem to keep up with, though you tried. You stayed through the nights Grant cried for hours and the mornings Bucky could barely drag himself out of bed. You cooked when he forgot to eat, held Grant when his arms grew tired, sat beside him when the house felt too quiet.

You stayed.

Bucky exhales slowly, like the thought itself is too heavy to hold, and it is, because the truth is he doesn’t think could do this without you anymore.

And god why does that scare him?

Another soft cry crackles through the baby monitor, pulling him back before he can sit too long in that realization.

He moves without thinking, finally stepping out of the room and down the hall, the worn floorboards creaking beneath his feet. The nursery door is slightly ajar, warm lights spilling into the darkened hallway.

His fingers inch the door open, his steps stilling as he catches sight of you; you’re in the rocking chair you helped him choose Grant tucked against your chest, one of your hands moving slow and steady over his back while the other keeps the bottle angled just right. Your head is tipped slightly forward, eyes heavy, like you’ve been awake far longer than you should’ve been, but still watching his boy.

A soft tune leaves your lips, Grants eyes slowly losing their fight, as sleep threatens to pull him under, and as he watches you with him Bucky gets it. He feels safe, his boy is safe. With you.

He doesn’t move right away, opting to watch the rise and fall of Grant’s tiny chest against yours the way your hand keeps moving, steady even in sleep.