Path of the Vampire forum

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.

“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.

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.”

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.”