Auribus teneo Lupum [Kendal]

[Aleksei Vovk (DELETED 10076)]

Aleksei roused half an hour later, less by choice than the poor choice of shifting his weight. The injured hip took the brunt of the weight, the resultant pang drawing him sluggishly to the surface. He was still for a heartbeat, the fingers of his right hand pressing against the raw edge of the wound instinctively. The flesh beneath his fingertips was taut; flushed with inflammation, though absent of any herald of infection. There was no jagged border around the edge of the wound; the skin was curiously smooth to the touch, only a faint heat radiating against his touch. A neat line of stitches rose beneath the rectangle of once pristine gauze; creating a faint impression stained a dull crimson, edged in the insidious rust of dried blood. A clean, antiseptic scent clung to his skin; a hallmark of the care that had gone into the ministrations of an unseen hand. It was unexpectedly considerate, given the nature of his imprisonment. That alone made him wary. Not the act itself, but the reasoning behind it.

Whether Baxter or a member of his staff, it showed a command of knowledge few in the city were privy to. An understanding of the /unique/ makeup of his biology. In short: an awareness of exactly /what/ he was. It was borderline taunting, in its own right; an acknowledgment that his body lacked the necessary resource to knit organically. Normally, a wound of its severity would heal within a handful of days, if he were lucky; flesh and muscle weaving together with no more aid than a steady supply of blood. At best, what little scar tissue generated would fade within a matter of weeks, his body devouring the protein within the excess buildup of collagen, forcing it to vanish into a line of white as fine in breadth as a strand of hair, if at all. Normally. He didn’t have that luxury now, and the fact that /someone/ was aware of that fact was an annoyance.

He rose a moment later, skirting the tray that now held empty dishware, the barest remnants of the morning meal clinging to their surface. He made his way into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly moments later.

He emerged some twenty minutes later, his hair damp, slicked close to his scalp, wearing the replacement slacks that had been generously left out. He was entirely shirtless as he emerged; water running from the wet tips of his hair to bead against his chest, collecting in the hollow of his collarbone. It was in this state that he chose to perch on the edge of the mattress, one leg crossed neatly over the next.

[Kendal]

Baxter wasn't sure at what point Renato had blacked out but thankfully by that point, the vampire's body had already begun to stitch itself back together. If he had to guess, it was likely that the Telepath had lost close to three or four pints of blood in the process of Baxter trying to siphoning a single pint from him for their guest. But it was no issue; sacrifices had to be made for the greater good, after all. He carried Renato to his bedroom, letting the man rest on his bed before he headed back down to the blood bath he'd left in the kitchen, pausing at the doorway to survey the scene, trying to decide if he should clean up first or take the blood over to Aleksei. In the end, he decided that the man would have to deal with a drink that was a little congealed. Baxter couldn't afford to have his marble counter or glass tiles stained.

It wasn't so much that the fact that the materials had been expensive. Even if his tiles were made of cheap porcelain or his counter made of that same linoleum as his first, shabby little apartment on College Street, he would have treasured it jealously all the same way. It wouldn't have matter that the linoleum was started to peel in places from the previous owner's indiscretion or the fact that the some of the tiles had begun to yellow, no longer the stark and pristine white they were the day of their creation. There was this social taboo that floated around in the more liberal-minded circles of the population that material possessions weren't important. The idea was that material, /physical/ possessions came secondary to experiences and feelings; things that could stand up to the test of time were far superior to mere objects that eventually gave in to erosion and decay. It was an idea that Baxter found to be bizarre. His property, the things he owned weren't mere physical landmarks in his life. They were testaments of his ambition, hints of his tastes. The fact of the matter was that his property and all that he owned was of his possession, making them an extension of himself. To neglect it all, material, aesthetic or abstract, would be like neglecting himself.

It took close to an hour to properly scrub all evidence of the struggle off of his counter, the floors and the adjacent walls before Baxter was finally satisfied with the result. He collected the glass of red in a hand and headed up the staircase, passing the second floor on his way to the attic.

The door opened to a strange sight of a man sat half-naked on the edge of the bed that had been provided for him. Baxter's brows lifted as he processed the scene before he stepped in fully, letting the door shut behind him.

"You're getting your pants wet." he criticized in a cool tone as he headed over to a panel, letting the glass wall lift fully so he could step inside with the glass of Renato's blood.

[Aleksei Vovk (DELETED 10076)]

“How careless.” Aleksei’s dry rejoinder was soft, an octave lower than it had been hours before. Baxter’s observation wasn’t without merit; the fabric of his pants had darkened, twin patches of damp sketching an incomplete oval against the top of either thigh. “Not quite to my taste, but acceptable.” It was a rare moment of dishonesty. In truth, when he’d discovered the pair of freshly laundered clothes, neatly folded and nestled within the bottom drawer of the dresser, his reaction had been a wry smile. It had nearly been unnerving, in many respects; sowing a seed of private doubt in his mind. It undermined his previously held belief that he was the only one who had spent the past handful of months observing in silence, biding his time. He’d admired the tailoring; the crisp cut and clean lines of both shirt and pants alike. He was a man who’d come to know quality by touch; the attention to detail was something to be admired, if not envied.

His gaze settled on Baxter as he entered the room, taking in his slightly disheveled appearance with a critical eye. It shifted a moment later, drawn by the familiar scent of the liquid trapped in the glass he held. It was familiar; almost oppressive. It was difficult to describe the scent of vampire blood. Whereas human blood carried sharp, metallic notes that quickly soured as it oxidized, there was a curious flatness to the undead’s blood. A not-quite absence, but something was certainly lacking. It was bland - diluted to a strange mixture of rust and soil. The blood in the glass wasn’t fresh, he noticed, with the barest grimace of distaste. There was a weight to it, a heaviness. It was not unlike the sediment that collected at the bottom of a wine glass. There was a dull skein that coated the surface; evidence that it had begun to congeal.

There would be no clots. There was, at the very least, that small mercy. Curiously, whatever transformation their biology underwent once turned, vampire blood seemed to lack the platelets responsible for clotting. He rose a moment later, making his way over to where Baxter stood. His hand rose, fingers curling around the glass as if to take it. He paused, head tilting to one side, gaze narrowing. “You have something…” He murmured. The sentence trailed, unfinished. “Right here.” His raised a hand to his mouth, slipping an index finger between his lips, stilling as if thinking better of it. He leaned in abruptly, the hand dropping to cup Baxter’s chin, turning his head coaxingly, before his head dipped, lips pressing against the curve of his jaw. The flat of his tongue dragged across his skin a moment later, tracing its way up his cheek, lapping almost lazily at the dried blood that coated his cheek.

[Kendal]

Baxter's brows lifted again at the comment. "Hmm, no. I didn't think Zegna would be to your 'taste'. Maybe I should have had something shipped from the nearest Walmart." he replied with a small smile, his gaze flicking over the man's form briefly before lifting to meet his stare. He blinked and glanced down at himself, noticing the red stains on his shirt. His nose crinkled briefly before he shrugged, both in dismissal and as a silent reply to the critical eye from Aleksei. He held out the glass as the other man got up and skulked over to him like a wild animal from the Serengeti. Just as he was ready to hand the glass over, Aleksei froze and so did Baxter and he looked back up at the man, mirroring his expression. His fingers lifted to his cheek but right before he could make contact, the Crow's neck craned and his head tipped forward. If he'd been just a fragment of a second slower, it was quite likely that Aleksei would have had to pull back with a bloody nose. But as it were, the man's hand touched Baxter's jaw, stunning him to the point of paralysis and he had little reaction to offer in return. That is until he felt the tongue against his cheek.

The effect that the salaciously bold move had right then was curious. For one, it all happened in the matter of a single second. Baxter felt his left eye give a prominent twitch, flickering. His muscles tensed as he froze, brain trying to process what the **** this fool thought he was doing. His body had a different reaction. His skin prickled in a way that wasn't unpleasant. Or pleasant. Just strange and unexpected. In a way he'd never experienced it before. A chill shot up his spine to the base of his skull, causing his shoulders to lift briefly. He had to give the Blood Thief credit. It was a ballsy move and it had caught Baxter off-guard. He let out a quick exhale, biding his patience. Only to find he had none. His hand shot out, fingers curling around Aleksei's throat, squeezing faintly, just enough to tether him in place.

"Might not want to start something you can't finish." he muttered under his breath, the words privy to the other man alone, his cool gaze boring into the others face, locked in with the grey stare as his thumb lightly pressed against his jugular to seek out his pulse.

[Aleksei Vovk (DELETED 10076)]

He anticipated the reaction long before it came to fruition. He was nearly resigned to it; conscious of the fact that he lacked the reflexes to deflect the grip. To Aleksei’s credit, he was unperturbed by the fingers that curled around his throat. The skin beneath Baxter’s fingertips paled, blanching the color of old scar tissue for the space of a heartbeat, the outer edges taking on a slightly jaundiced appearance. The barest blush of color crept from beneath them, staining the flesh a dusky shade, highlighted in soft rose. It was enough for his breath to briefly grow uneven, slightly shallow. Each swallow brought a mild discomfort, the gesture rough, the muscles of his throat contracting against Baxter’s palm. He arched a brow at the murmured admonishment. The remark could have easily served as both warning and threat. Or none of those, instead a call to action. For the space of a heartbeat, it almost seemed as though he might follow through.

His lips parted, gaze semi-lidded as Baxter’s thumb pressured lightly against his jugular. The pace of his pulse was sedate; there was no telltale kick, no sudden, erratic flutter caused by a rush of adrenaline to give him away. “I intend to finish it,” he whispered, lips a hair’s breadth away from ghosting against Baxter’s own. He abruptly drew back, the hand cupping the man’s jaw falling away. He reached to accept the glass a second later. “Thank you,” he finished, tipping the rim to his lips as he took a deft step backwards. His composure was firmly intact; as if he’d never drawn closer to him at all. The first brackish hint of blood coated his tongue a moment later, the taste at once familiar and foreign. It wasn’t, by its nature, a taste one ever fully grew accustomed to. The sensation that followed was more welcome; an awakening, of sorts. It was similar to the sensation generated from static shock; not inherently painful, but abrupt, at time startling in how it forced awareness.

He was gratified all the same; his senses sharpened almost immediately. It was not unlike discovering you’d been mildly concussed; partially deafened by an explosion, and gradually recuperating. Sound was sharper; colors and textures brighter, carrying a certain crispness. “You were right. I’m more of a Brioni man.”

[Kendal]

His stare remained locked with Aleksei's as the man's breath brushed against his lips. His gaze narrowed, irritation flickering over his pale gaze before he lolled his head away just as the hand dropped from his chin.

"Your breath smells like ***." he muttered. It didn't. But that didn't matter. It was a comment that he'd blurted out. A defensive mechanism, maybe, or a deflection of sorts. He looked he glass once it was emptied, peering into it briefly before glancing up at the man. He stared at him with a curious expression, trying to decide if the response was a retort or a brag.

"Not impressed." he shrugged. "A man who sports a five thousand dollar suit and still goes out to steal from others, is clearly lacking. Either you steal it all. Or you earn it all." His tone was, as always, flat though there was a dull glint in his eyes. "Anything else is just lazy. And lazy is… hardly impressive." He tapped his fingernail against the side of the empty glass.

"You're welcome, by the way." he added. "It wasn't an easy task… but I can't have my guest starve, can I?" he cracked a small smile then.

[Aleksei Vovk (DELETED 10076)]

A low chuckle escaped him at the retort. Baxter’s ill temper was somewhat expected. He couldn’t entirely blame him; his patience would’ve dwindled long ago if their roles were reversed. “Back to that, hm?” He asked idly, moving towards the bed once more. “Disappointing, if predictable.” He busied himself with reaching for the neglected shirt as he spoke, carefully fitting his left arm through the sleeve, pausing long enough to straighten the collar, reaching out to pinch the stiff material between thumb and forefinger, guiding it into place. He was silent as he slipped his right arm into the appropriate sleeve, deftly buttoning the front. “I understand. Must be a shock, learning you aren’t untouchable. Though I’d hoped it would take more to rattle you.”

He paused, not entirely thawing, but content to play the role he’d been assigned, at the very least. “Couldn’t you?” He countered, arching a brow. “Though it’s admittedly frowned upon in polite society.” Not that he was willing to delude himself that either of them were intimately familiar with the whims of society. He studied him for a heartbeat longer, curiosity roused by the small smile. He released a short sigh a second later. “I’m going to guess you didn’t just come to bask in my presence.”

[Kendal]

"I'm not here to impress you so whether or not you are, or whether you aren't disappointed is really none of my concern. The weight of the disappointment is something you'll have to carry on your own." he replied without skipping a beat.

"As far as being 'rattled', I just don't like strange people touching me, let alone drag their tongue over my face like some contact-starved mutt. I don't think that's something that's unheard of, hm?" Baxter shook his head and smiled wanly. "You must not know me very well if you think coming in here and getting handsy will somehow bring me to my knees, like every other idiot in this city that thinks with their respective cocks and cunts. Like a filthy animal in heat." He nearly sneered before catching himself. His shoulders rolled back, spine going rigid. "People who are so easily weakened disgust me. And I will never be one of them." There was a sharpness in his expression that glinted like the edge of a newly forged blade, an intensity in his gaze that roared like wildfire.

"Now it's my turn to be disappointed. I thought you were a man of class. A rare specimen. But you're proving to be just as dim-witted as the next asshole in Brioni, thinking that sort of name-dropping will somehow forge a reaction. I'm sorry, did you expect me to fan myself? Flush prettily?" He arched a brow, amusement colouring his features. "Maybe you expected me to recoil in fear of your illustrious wardrobe?" he chuckled quietly. "I don't give a **** about polite society. I have my own uses for you. Uses I need you to be alive for." he said and turned, picking up the glass and turning to head out.