▽ ɪɴsɪɢʜᴛ

[Jameson Dade]

He was talking. Honestly, Jameson didn’t quite put that together until after the fact, because he was busy staring and then there were some other effect of the high that seemed to ruin his ability to notice anything outside of what his laser fine attention had settled on. Had he put that to something constructive, he probably would have made something out of his life other than having become a junkie and a thief. As it was, he had this Pavlovian response to abusing substances. You see, he had spent most of his time high with Max. His brain was wired into having the man there; it had actually been what had caused him to spiral so insanely out of control after the man had died. That feeling of being close to someone he’d thought was lost forever. Maybe his brain was just permanently broken.

Whatever the case, he blinked, his lashes over-long for what any guy should have been allowed.

Wh-what?

What in god’s name was he even talking about?

“Remember that time we decided it would be fantastic to break into the department store and replace all the mannequin heads with Furbies?” Now that had been fun. But he and Max had always been like that, the two of them against the world. They had gotten into ample trouble in their time, usually without any other reason than that it seemed like a good idea at the time. He watched as the man drank from the bottle. He was content to let the other have it all. He must have been thirsty after going so long without anything to drink. He only really took note again when the guy wandered off to look through his collection of music. He had an entire lifetime’s worth, everything from fringe artists that nobody had heard about to classics. He loved just about everything he could get his hands on.

Fall Out Boy, Dimmu Borgir, and Pink were present in the part of the collection that Max poked through, which left Jameson shuffling after him. Something wasn’t quite right. Something…nagged at his mind. He was forgetting something. Someone. So he flopped onto the couch and decided to try and remember, but all there was inside his head were memories. Not all of them were good. When Jameson’s father had been imprisoned and Max’s family had disinherited him. They had still been underaged, and on the streets with addiction to feed. There had been things the two of them had been forced to do just to survive, things that had been both violent and depraved. Sometimes they were more one than the other.

They had seen the ugly part of life, and Max hadn’t made it through.

That was right. He was…

Jameson turned his head from where he lay on the couch and it was like a lens focused. There he was, Robin. How had he even thought…

He didn’t want to think about it.

It felt like there was this sudden burst of pressure behind his eyes, and a pain in his skull, in his throat, that trickled into his gut. Agony twisted in him and he sniffed at the air. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. No. He couldn’t cry in front of Robin. What the **** was wrong with him? He shot up, rod straight and then stumbled to his feet once more. “You can spend the night on my couch if you want. I have to go sleep this off.” He aimed his footsteps towards his bedroom. He had gotten exactly what he’d wanted. But then not at all. Next time. Next time, he told himself, he would be prepared and he would actually get to enjoy it.

But he couldn't let Robin see him a mess. Couldn't let the man see how much of a fuckup he really was, and how totally not in control he could be. So he fled.

[Robin Little]

Robin continued to drink the wine – the wine in one hand, the nicotine-stained fingers of his other hand trailing over the music collection. He found something old – a nice bluesy album, to suit his sudden languid mood. He imagined that they were in the middle of Mexico, over a hundred degrees outside, and a fan overhead only pushing the hot air around. Flies. But blues music and booze would make it all better.

Jameson had mentioned something about mannequins and furbies, and Robin only shook his head as he was browsing the music. Maybe some Jeff Buckley, actually. Yes, he changed his mind. Jeff Buckley would do them wonders. Jeff Buckley… and furbies. He wondered if Furbies could sing like Jeff Buckley and shook his head. Of course they couldn’t. That was ludicrous.

It was just as Robin was slipping the CD into the CD player that he heard Jameson get up behind him – told Robin to sleep on the couch. Maybe it should have twigged, that something was wrong. It should have, because they had hardly even got started, and already Jameson wanted to go sleep it off. Robin wondered if this was the first time he’d gotten high off someone’s blood. Had it not worked properly? But it was only a fleeting question and a fleeting thought and Robin’s brain was far too addled, far too mushed, to focus on any one thought for too long.

Jameson did strike him as the kind of man who’d get high and immediately want to go out and wreak havoc on the town. But not tonight, obviously. And normally, Robin would be entirely sensitive to Jameson’s space. He would have nodded and said yes, sure. And he would have slept on the couch because at his point, he was far too tired and far too out of it to even attempt to make his way back to that unwelcome motel, where some stranger would have come through during the day to make his bed and clean up. It was such an impersonal space, and he knew he really needed to do something about finding somewhere more permanent to live, soon.

But Robin was high, and he was slightly tipsy, too. He hadn’t eaten for a while so that alcohol went straight to his head. With Jeff Buckley still crooning in the background, Robin followed Jameson.

”I’m actually really exhausted. You know? Like. Bones deep,” he said. He admitted it. He was so ******* tired, and the mention of sleep had reminded him of it. He toed out of his shoes before he fell onto the bed, face first. Only on one side of it, crawling up until he found a pillow. He at least was sensitive enough to not take up too much space.

”Goo’night,” he murmured, and closed his eyes.

[Jameson Dade]

Jameson’s bedroom was much like the rest of his house, which was to say that it was hardly immaculate. Only where there was evidence of his chosen profession outside, there was evidence of his personal life inside. But he needed the chaos. Like some old circuit board whose hardware was far too esoteric and fragile to be updated, he operated in a near constant state of bedlam. The reason for this was simple; like was attracted to like. Most people craved order because most people sought out order in the universe. Humans had created mathematics to explain the nature of everything in numbers. They inherently looked for patterns and clues, and sought to create whole and complete impressions where there was nothing but randomness. That was the truth of the universe. Entropy.

Most people were a three or four on the chaos scale. They never fully gave themselves over to obsessive compulsive perfection, but they rarely went in the opposite direction either. Not really. Not unless there was some reason, like the way that life could slam hardships into a person like a hammer smacking the head of a nail. People became unhinged when they became party animals, or addicts. Harmless, reckless creatures in the grand scheme of things next to the perfection of true monsters. Jameson was an eight. Constantly. Daily. In that way, he wasn’t even in the same world as everyone else, because he was slightly just left of center. He would never be able to pull off ‘normal’. Never.

He had clothing scattered about in little piles that looked like they might have at one point been designated as clean or dirty, but somewhere along the way, Jay had lost the plot and started again, or mixed up which they were. He had relics of his childhood all around, like the one certificate he had gotten from school saying he’d won some sort of award framed alongside some of his favorite pieces of his own work. He was artistic, not that many people knew that. He mostly just used water color to show the things he saw when he was completely lost in his own mind, high as a kite. None of them looked quite real, but each had details that were taken out of the waking world.

His windows had been heavily modified so as not to allow light in the room, which was to say that he’d tin foiled over them, then stapled two or five black out curtains over each to be absolutely sure not even a tiny ray of light could get in. The walls that didn’t have paintings hanging on them were a canvas of their own, with words written in paint across what had likely once been antique white. In black. When he did end up moving out of his apartment, the owner was going to be pissed. There were scenes as well, faces. He’d painted Mora with her startling blond halo, blood clinging to her lips. It was an unfinished piece that spread over three walls, a growing mural of Jameson’s experience of the world, a continuation of the neatly affixed images in their little square boxes.

His bed was comfortable, a pillow top with a down feather mattress on top of it and matte red sheets that went with a firetruck comforter. His tastes, though childish, were warm and soft; which was the only thing heh ad been looking for when he had been searching for bedclothes. He arrived in his room and carefully stepped over a pile of books he had been gifted by Emma some time before. She liked to do that, drop in on him from time to time as if to be sure that he hadn’t fallen back into drugs, and she usually brought some kind of text with her, something from her book group or the like that she thought he might enjoy. He hadn’t done more than crack one or two of the books open, mainly because he felt this pressure to read them. Like they were supposed to be a distraction from him ******* up. That was by far too much pressure for a few pages and a good storyline.

He flopped into his bed. Bucket was there, per the usual. He’d been busying himself with slobbering on something and the moment Jay had fallen into his comfortable cloud, the dog had immediately bound to his side, clearly used to the schedule. He had not expected that he would be joined by Robin, who promptly fell to the other side. Jameson wanted to tell the guy to go back to the living room, but his lips thinned at Robin’s words. Tired. Yeah okay. “Night.” He whispered in response before his canine companion decided that he would needle closer and effectively shove Jameson to the center of the bed between the pair. The sun would be up soon, and he was exhausted himself. That or he’d gotten the affliction by way of communicable infection. He yawned, useless as that was for him.

Then he simply slumped and twisted to lay his cheek on a pillow. With Bucket at his back, crowding up one side of the bed, he ended up snuggling against Robin’s body. The man wasn’t awake, so he couldn’t rightly complain, could he? The last thing he saw before his eyes fell shut was a figure standing over the bed. It wore a black robe and when the shadows around it shifted, he saw a skull in the place of a face. Was it Death come to greet them? Was it an illusion brought on by the substances being processed through his system? He didn’t have a chance to wonder.

He roused some many hours later, when the sun was disappearing behind the horizon. He could not see it, but he had this sense that it was happening. A groan left him, a low rattle really from somewhere deep in his chest that echoed in his throat before pouring past his lips. He didn’t feel alive. Well no. He obviously wasn’t. He smacked his lips and realized that Robin was still sleeping against, or technically somewhat under him so he half drew himself up, stretching one arm towards the sky as the other anchored him to the bed with a flat palm. Bucket snored. And in the corner of the room, he caught sight of a silent figure. A quiet man sitting there on a chair that had only hours before been filled with various art supplies.

Dr. Thomas Ozymandias did not look particularly pleased. Not that he seemed angry. His features were, as usual, this painfully neutral landscape that seemed to lack emotion or concern. He had a beard and light brown hair that was going grey at the temples. He still appeared young despite that, likely because he seemingly lacked wrinkles. Ageless, or as much so as a man could be, with eyes that rivaled Jameson’s in their vivid blue. “What?” The vampire asked in the least defensive tone he could manage. He was nearly certain that he had fucked up in some way and had absolutely no clue exactly how that was.

“Is that a corpse?” The words were direct and the tone was less than conversational.

“No, that’s Robin. I told you about him. He’s the guy I feed from.” There was a look the psychotherapist wore. He had once worked to treat Jameson’s mind, his myriad of problems. Since then, he had become the youth’s thrall, though it had not changed the dynamic of their relationship entirely. There were obvious differences, but he was sharp witted as they came with a tongue that might have been a steel blade.

“You do realize that he seems to be suffering from chronic, sustained bloodloss, don’t you?” It was a question, but it was a statement all at once. Ozymandias said that a lot. That most questions were secretly just statements dressed differently. Jameson licked over his lip; this sinking feeling working its way in his gut. He felt, for all intents and purposes, like a child who had been found out doing something bad, and was being scolded.

“He’s fine. I mean I guess he’s a bit pale, but that’s probably because he does nights now.”

“You are an addict, Jameson. And that is an excuse. A long as you excuse your poor behavior, you will continue to do it.” Thomas then moved to stand and tossed the vampire a bag containing the drugs he had shared with Robin. “I found these, which I am going to guess means that you ingested them in some way. I wasn’t aware your kind could do that, but I would suggest you stop. I have read your history and your reports. I know how you act when you are under the influence, and you are wildly dangerous to yourself. Throwing in strength, speed, and preternatural charm is a recipe for disaster. It will end up getting you killed. Or him killed.”

The man’s gaze was unforgiving as always and then he reached into a suit pocket and withdrew some pills which he tossed along with the drugs. They were in a pill bottle, a large one. “That is a mix of B vitamins, Iron, and a few other supplements he likely needs to properly regenerate the blood you have been using. If you want to keep him alive, I suggest you start thinking about how your actions will impact him.” It was delivered as calmly as a surgeon informing a family that someone close to them had died on the table. Then he left, exiting through the door he had entered from. A chill worked its way down the vampire’s spine as he watched the departure. And…he was left there, suddenly feeling not so wonderful about the start to his evening. He didn’t usually deal with stress well. He was an avoider. He avoided. So he laid the pills beside Robin’s cheek on a pillow and then got up and out of the bed so that he could make his way to the kitchen and begin on breakfast.

No. It did not address the problem. No, he probably would not. Not directly. Not until it was either nearly too late or entirely too late. Bucket was left with the human, a source of heat on the bed, that would need to be taken out when it finally roused. Until then, Jameson intended to pull together what he could with what ingredients could be found in his pantry and fridge.

[Robin Little]

The weight of the world settled on Robin’s shoulders as soon as he lay down. He didn’t even hear Jameson say goodnight. The drugs and the alcohol and the lack of proper nourishment, combined with the major loss of blood – none of it boded well for Robin’s poor body. To begin with, there was only darkness. Sleep came like a death knell, and perhaps Robin’s body was thinking about it. Starved of its health, perhaps it wanted to rebel, or give up. Either or. It didn’t matter.

It was the nightmares that woke up him up. This time there were zombies involved – but this time they weren’t funny. They weren’t trying to perform Olympian acts. They were dead living people. They were people who had once been alive, now dead but incognizant. There was nothing in their eyes. Their eyes were milky, leaking clear fluid onto faces that were half dragging from their skulls. As their teeth gnashed, they fell out, blood dribbling over their chins. But their hands were claws, and they were chasing after Robin, who’d tripped. And as much as he tried to crawl backward, as much as he tried to stand and run, he couldn’t. He was stuck in mud. One of them fell on top of him, its gruesome face striking at his neck.

Robin woke with a start, but he couldn’t move. A rasping squeeze of breath came from his throat, and he didn’t know what time it was. It was still too dark, and he needed the sunlight. When he woke up from nightmares, he needed some kind of light – even if it was just moonlight. But there was nothing. There was pitch blackness, and something cold over his back holding him down. He needed to pee, but he couldn’t get up. His entire body was shaking, shivering. Not just with cold, but with illness.

But he didn’t know whether he was awake or whether he was still having a nightmare; sooner or later he fell back to sleep, clutching a pillow to his chest and praying for the comatose darkness that had come in the beginning.

When he woke up the second time, it was after another dream. A dream, this time, rather than a nightmare. He was a child again and there were men’s voices; his father’s, maybe. His father was around, once. But Robin couldn’t remember him. There was no face attached to the voice – just a blur. He didn’t know what they were saying, but he got the impression they were talking about him. His father and…. And who?

The voices ceased and Robin woke with a roiling in his stomach. A rank, acidic coiling that needed to come out. And immediately. He fell out of the bed and cursed – the palm of his hand found his forehead. He expected to see blood, but there was none. Regardless, it felt as if his head were splitting in two. He had been to Jameson’s apartment before, so he knew exactly where the bathroom was – and he made a beeline toward it. He didn’t even get to slam the door behind him, and the projectile vomit barely made it into the bowl. He heaved and retched until there was absolutely nothing left in his stomach, and then he retched some more. The acid burned his throat, the taste acrid on his tongue. He groaned. He might have laughed, but he couldn’t. He felt like crap. He couldn’t remember a time he’d felt this bad. His head spun, the uncontrollable retching had only made the migraine worse. He felt like he could pass out – but that if he did, it wouldn’t mean anything good.

So he stayed where he was, held up by the toilet bowl, breathing in the scent of his own bile, focusing only on staying awake.

[Jameson Dade]

The kitchen could have been used as evidence of some sort of addiction. The majority of food was either frozen or easily prepared in only a few minutes. There were a myriad of snacks, and very little in the way of fresh ingredients that would have required a shelf life of less than a few months. The good thing about dining with Jameson was that if there was ever nuclear fall-out, he had the market cornered on non-perishables. He had realized about three seconds into trying to find something for breakfast that nothing would have looked like a traditional meal, so he ended up making a run to the store. Thankfully, he was in walking distance, so he left Bucket and Robin to their own devices in the twenty or so minutes it took to get there, gather some supplies and return.

When he got back in, he realized that Robin was still down, which was mildly disconcerting. The man had slept through a lot. Maybe Ozzy was right. Maybe he was standing at something of a cross-roads when it came to his friend. He could either continue along to the rickety bridge called complacency, or he could do something about it. His instinct was to just ask Robin. On some level, he felt like if the human wanted it, then he could automatically handle the abuse to his body. People had the ability to feel when they were going too far in the wrong direction didn’t they? Except that wasn’t true of him. He hadn’t really known until it was far too late, and he’d all but fucked up his body beyond recognition. Vampirism had been kind to his appearance.

He knew a little bit about cooking, enough to have gotten him through as a child. His mother usually sent him off to school with a handful of cereal. He got free lunches there, because on paper, his family was very poor, and dinner had been generally comprised of either fast food or whatever he could find lying around the house. Weekends were generally long stretches of hunger, because Marla Dade would usually get high on Friday night and not sober up again until halfway through Monday. When she had a job, that was. Jay had figured out the basics of the culinary arts. Enough not to burn water, so to speak.

By the time he was done, there were smears of pancake batter on some of the cabinets and on the counter from where he had gotten overzealous with the stirring. It was just the automatic mix, but he made a pile of three fluffy pancakes that were slightly misshapen. Two eggs over medium, and two strips of bacon. Breakfast of champions if you asked him. He included syrup and butter, along with some fresh orange juice on a makeshift tray made out of what appeared to be half of a discarded pizza box. His plates were all paper, and utensils mostly plastic.

It was not until he began to make his way down the hall that he heard the sound of retching. At first he thought that Robin must surely have been hung over. But that didn’t really make sense did it? No. Not really, he’d only had a little bit of wine. So he placed the tray down on the bed and scowled visibly at Bucket when the newly roused dog sniffed a little closer to try and see if he could get at the food. The Golden backed off. But likely only for the moment. He then grabbed the bottle of supplements that Ozzy had left behind so that he could march back into the hallway. He shoved the door to the bathroom open and stood there in the entryway for a moment before he ended up moving to lean over the human. The scent of vomit was gross, but he ignored it. A hand came to rest on Robin’s back, gently patting, and then remaining a moment later to trap heat, giving a lax massage over the muscle of shoulders.

“Here, these should help.” He said as he held up the bottle. “A doctor friend suggested them because I have been drinking your blood too often.” It was probably true. Most people could only give a pint or two before they felt dizzy or otherwise impaired. He had been feasting solidly for weeks. And the evidence was as starkly plain as the puke stains on the white tile. He could not afford to keep treating Robin as he had, not if he wanted the guy to survive.

Actually stopping never once occurred to Jameson. Maybe if he had been someone else, someone stronger, who cared more about his morality or the life of another living being. But the truth of the matter, as terrible as it was, as much as it revealed just what kind of person Jameson was – was that he didn’t want to deal with killing off the source of his high. It was a gross attribute, but it was his.

“Anyway, I made you some breakfast. And you have to let me take care of you if I am going to keep treating you like my own personal pin-cushion-slash-buffet.” A pause as he dragged his lips between his teeth, chewing down on the plump flesh there, a nervous habit if anything. “Where have you been staying?” Because the truth of the matter was that he needed to keep a better eye on his human.

[Robin Little]

Robin looked up at Jameson as if he were some alien from another planet. Though, rather than ‘looked’ it might seem as if he was glaring. Or, maybe he just looked really really confused. He wasn’t really confused, but probably just looked it. The black hair on his head was a fluffy hot mess, and there was a string of vomit-tainted saliva drooped, glistening, over his chin. His lips were similarly gleaming, though they can’t have looked at all appealing. If possible, Robin’s skin was even more pallid than before, with black circles under his eyes—eyes which were bright against the whiteness of his complexion. One eye was closed, and the other was squinting against the light.

To think, he’d been craving the hot, hot sunlight, and now the overhead bathroom brightness was causing his head to crack a little more in two.

It took quite some time—at least it felt like a million years to Robin—for the words to compute. When he took the pills from Jameson he didn’t even ask what they were. He assumed that they would help, and he immediately opened the bottle. He tossed two (which was actually three) tablets onto his palm and swallowed them whole, cringing a little as he swallowed the remnants of his own vomit with them. They stuck in his throat, so he crawled on over to the sink after putting the lid back on the bottle and discarding it on the floor. He stood on his knees as he gulped some water down. After which, he filled his palms with the ice-water and splashed his face. It made him feel only slightly better.

”At the motel. Highway Four… or something,” Robin said, before he slumped down against the cupboard. Water dripped from his face and clung to the stubble on his jaw. He had no idea why it was called Highway Four. He supposed it was on the main road into town. Maybe, once upon a time back in its heyday, it was worth four stars. Not anymore.

”I think there’s a mouse that lives behind the fridge. I called him Pinky,” Robin said and laughed, though the laugh soon turned into a cough which then turned into a groan, and his hand flew to his stomach, which happened to roll unpleasantly. He began a half-lurch back toward the toilet bowl, but his stomach settled and no vomit came. At least he wouldn’t be throwing up those new tablets, whatever they were. He didn’t seem too keen on leaving the bathroom any time soon. But he continued the conversation as if it were just an ordinary morning.

”Girlfriend kicked me out, see. I could probably pay rent somewhere but at least at the motel, room service is included. I don’t even have to make my own bed,” he said. He’d learned his lesson, though—he didn’t try to laugh. He just smiled, crookedly.

[Jameson Dade]

The other man was an absolute mess, and Jameson couldn’t help but feel like he should have felt more guilty about the whole thing. He didn’t really, which was probably a problem he would never really address. Which was not to say that he did not feel bad. He did. The last thing he wanted was for Robin to get hurt and, for whatever reason, to be unavailable to him in the future. In essence, he didn’t want the other man to end up dead. If that meant laying off for a few days so that Robin could regenerate his blood in a natural way – well that was just something that Jameson was going to have to live with.

The way Robin smiled though, it drew a similar expression from the Allurist – more in the vein of comforting and confident than anything else. Everything would be fine. They had caught the problem before it could totally destroy the other man. They had caught it, and they would not make the same mistake twice. At least, that was what Jameson told himself internally. Even if that was not entirely true. Addicts were infamous for lying to themselves, and the truth of the matter was that he only had as much resolve as it took to get Ozzy off of his back for a while. Though he did take legitimate concern when it came to his friend’s living arrangements.

“Yeah no. I’m going to clear out my spare bedroom.” Which was currently filled with quite a lot of junk he had picked up over the past several months whilst breaking into high security jobs. He also kept his cash in the linen closet, neatly lined up in high stacks that were ready to fall out the moment the door was pulled open. He didn’t precisely trust banks, especially not with huge sums of illegally gained money. None the less, he had selected a course of action and was not going to stop until he saw it through to the end. Or until he got distracted by something more interesting. “You can move here if you want, I mean. “

Which was really just an excuse for Jameson to keep an eye on the other man, make sure he was eating properly and taking his ‘medication’. Maybe that was a little on the not-so-subtly controlling side, but the vampire figured it was for the best in the long run. The last thing he needed was to try and nurse the guy back to health, only to have another blood sucker end up draining Robin dry.

He then leaned so that he could reach for the other man, shoving a shoulder under an arm so that he could lift Robin fully to his feet and get him walking towards the bedroom. Hopefully he didn’t get sick all over everything. “If you want to stay there, you should at least give me the exact address so I can drop by sometime with free food.”

[Robin Little]

Robin half grunted, half laughed as Jameson pulled him up into a standing position and started to half drag him down the hallway. Robin wasn’t in the mood to actually move very far, but the idea of a bed was a nice one. Even if a scalding hot shower would have done him some good, too—but that would require standing. And keeping himself balanced. And he felt far too weak for any of that.

”Are you going to make my bed and provide room service?” he asked, still with that crooked grin on his face. Truth was, he was just being optimistic about the situation. In the end, he didn’t particularly want to be living in a motel. That was kind of sad. And it wasn’t a home. It was impersonal. Every day that he woke up in that place he felt lonely, as if it were not a loved place. He imagined all the people who would have passed through, and slept there for one single night before moving on. He thought those places should install some kind of bookshelf. A good will bookshelf, where people would take a book but leave one behind. Keep it constantly recycled. Books and shelves always made a place feel like a home, no matter where it was.

It didn’t take long for his mind to catch up—to quit joking and actually nod with all seriousness.

”That would actually be really fantastic. To stay. I’ll help you with the spare room,” Robin said. He could be a bit of a leech, sometimes. A bit of an ***. He often took things that were offered to him and never gave anything back—but it wasn’t because he didn’t have good intentions. He was mainly just a failure at life. And, just like he had helped Lorelai with the dishes back at Hoshkosh, he could at least help to clean out the room that was slated to be his.

”I can pay rent if you want me to,” he said, but then he laughed—a snorted chortle of a laugh that sounded slightly wet with the glug still stuck to the back of his throat. He swallowed it down with a cringe.

”…though I’d just really be giving you back your own money,” he said. He almost suggested that Jameson stop paying him for his blood—to pay Robin instead by letting him live without paying rent. But that seemed like a sordid kind of set-up, and Robin would need money for other things, too. So he didn’t suggest it—he told himself that he would instead think about money later.

Money was only good for stress. It was best not to think about it at all.

[Jameson Dade]

Jameson was the type of person who rarely felt the need to be serious for longer than a few moments at a time. He had an easy smile and an even easier laugh. Loved to do both actually, and tended to be pretty good at getting others to follow suit. He did not however, look particularly light-hearted or even really pleased when the first thing out of Robin's mouth was a joke. His expression did not so much sour as even out on an emotional level, his brows furrowing, his lips forming something of a thin line that made them seem almost unpleasantly deflated. His intention was not to scold, but he almost felt the need. Not because he was disappointed or even truly upset. He just wanted Robin to take the whole thing seriously. His health, at least.

Still for selfish reasons, but the concern was still there.

And maybe that was why he was careful to wipe his features of feeling. Because he was concerned, but he also didn't really have the strength of character to tell the other man to get real. Even for a moment. He was thankfully saved from his cognitive dissonance, even in its brevity, by the other man's change in tone. "You. Are not going to help me with the spare room. You are going to rest in bed, eat red meat, and take supplements until you aren't so weak that standing makes you vomit." He replied as kindly as he could before he all but dropped the other man onto the bed, careful not to disturb the tray of food he'd laid out there for Robin. He then retreated to one corner of his bedroom so that he could begin to search through a pile of things to look for a blanket, which he found a moment later.

"There are some books scattered around so you have things to read. And I will be just down the hall, so if you want to chat, I'll be in calling distance." Though he supposed when Robin did finish his food, he could grudgingly allow the man to pull up a chair and watch while Jameson worked. The vampire had strength on his side, and some of the things in that spare room were either heavy or...well dangerous. He didn't have a particularly sophisticated containment system, and there were all sorts of dangerous or illegal chemicals laying around in little more than vials, bottles, or barrels. The last thing he needed was Robin fainting and causing a massive fire or explosion.

"And no, you don't have to pay rent. This place is cheap anyway. We'll just say I don't have to pay you for...a fourth of my feedings out of the month or something? I don't know. Whatever works for you really." His hand lifted as he gestured in the air, fingertips over knuckles, a swirling motion as if to say 'go on'. Though really he was just trying to make a better idea come to mind. Maybe he was going through a mental rollodex. If that were the case, his search came up empty. And he backed through the door, his hand resting on the door.

"Now. You eat up, and I will get to work clearing out that room. If you feel better in an hour, then I'll let you come watch. If you hear an explosion, get out of the apartment as quickly as you can. I wouldn't be shocked if this place doesn't exactly meet all of the safety codes it is supposed to, and the last thing we need is for you to end up baked." A pause. "Well I mean cooked."

And then he slid through the door.

End thread. <3