Fight or Flight

[Whit]

Closed to Peter Parkman

The invitation had been sent via mail a few days in advance, and had been wrapped in a scented envelope that smelled of Intuition for Men by Estee Lauder. There was a wax seal on it in the shape of a calligraphed 'W'. Inside, the stationary upon which the invitation was written was of the highest quality, thick and durable with what looked like tiny strands of silver marbled and woven into it. The ink was black and the words had been carefully had scrawled by the original writer, simple text that gave a location, time and date, and then the initials ‘W’ and ‘C’ in the bottom corner. He had sent it earlier in the week and abruptly gotten busy with the very same business that the paper inside detailed.

He didn’t quite forget that he had sent the notice to his sire, because he was at the building in question on the day of the meeting, but he was not out in the front where one normally might have found him. Instead, Whitaker was carefully tucked away behind a door that was closed but not locked. To him, there was no danger of someone unwanted bothering him because it was after business hours. He was able to daywalk, and had been up before the setting of the sun to relieve his staff for the evening. The front door to the cozy shop was unlocked though the sign in the front said that the business was closed for the evening. Graphical Bibliophilia.

It had once been a supermarket though all evidence of that other than structure had been ripped away. Broken up into several sections, there were rows and rows of bookshelves where there had once been aisles, these bookshelves containing graphic novels of every genre and variety. One could purchase items to maintain a collection, like specially designed bins, shelving units, and plastic wrap. There was also paraphernalia from various fandoms scattered all over the place. There were costumes and props, and even original set pieces from television shows and movies. It was, in essence, a temple built to the gods of the nerds.

But Whitaker was not out front. He was past the double doors that led to the back of the building where deliveries were usually made and stock was stored. He still had part of it set aside for that very reason, if only because he had a legitimate business to run, but there were some additions he had made to the structure. A laboratory for one. Specifically, he had a slab with a body bound onto it. A rogue vampire laid there with its throat already open, and vocal chords snipped. Whitaker, had them peeled apart and taped to neck flaps so that they could not heal back into place, which made screaming an impossibility. He was seated to one side with his sketchpad in hand and a ringed notebook underneath it. Shoved into the spiral rings was a pen to be used when he needed to record data.

But he was drawing with a mechanical pencil, glancing for a moment to the moving corpse and then back to his page. He had finally cracked the chest open after having peeled back layers of dermis. A saw had been used to snap a ribcage right down the middle and clamps held it open like some kind of gaping maw. Of course, he had to be careful not to actually remove anything lest it turn to ash. The process was meticulous and he was going through the process of drawing layers of organs. He’d already determined that they were essentially useless. The heart did not beat. The lungs only expanded when the rogue needed to speak or when it wanted to scream. It kept doing that, trying to scream. He had eventually, at one point, gotten tired of the bags inflating and used a scalpel to carefully relieve the air in them by essentially collapsing the pair.

The digestive system was essentially pointless, which made Whit curious as to where the blood went when a vampire drank it. His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth, caught between his teeth as he concentrated on the details. He was not a gifted artist in the least, it seemed. All around him were various instruments of various use. There were beakers and vials, burners, a sink to wash everything, chemicals with different uses, and a myriad of surgical and scientific instruments. Everything had its place, and the whole room was surprisingly well lit, white, sterile.

An alarm told him that someone had entered the store so he turned away to tap the intercom. “Towards the back, through the double doors with rubber on the bottom.” He said absently before he turned back to his work. He wore a polymer apron to catch any splash, but was otherwise unclothed save for a pair of boxer briefs in the same white as the rest of the room. His clothing was neatly folded and laid out on a chair in the distance where it could not be disturbed.

[Peter Parkman]

Peter had been thinking a lot about life and death. It was morbid topic, to be sure, but after recent events he couldn’t help himself. He’d folded himself away and focused on work; he’d stayed away from the Animal Rescue until Shawn’s body had been taken away, and the mess cleaned up. But he still couldn’t walk into the back room without remembering, imagining that he could smell the blood or feel it on his skin.

A hefty sigh huffed from his lips as he fell back in his chair. A big leather affair with soft cushioning and smooth movement. Well-oiled. In the corner of his study the fire burned, spreading warmth through the room in both light and atmosphere. At home, Peter was comfortable. He’d retreated into himself, probably distant even to Jersey. The pen clicked as Peter put the lid back on; he had a nervous twitch, whereby he would flick the pen back and forth between his fingers. Because the pen was of the expensive fountain variety, and he’d learned from past mistakes: black ink everywhere. The stains still maimed the oak of the desk, having sunk into the lacquer.

There was a book open in front of Peter; a heavy, old copy of Dante’s Inferno. To the side, a leather-bound notebook. What was he trying to find? Some kind of argument? Something to make him feel better, maybe. The rules of life and death had seemed so simple before. One was borne. They lived. They died. They died of old age, or of disease, of some horrible accident, or an animal attack. There was nothing but life in between, the ups and downs of it. And no one could know what came after death, if anything. People had their beliefs. Peter had rationally believed that nothing came after death. They were all just organisms. The rational progression, the great circle of life. They die. They rot. They feed the earth, which in turn fed the living.

But everything had changed, now. People could be snatched back from death. They could become death. But they couldn’t be gods. Their power was not everlasting, as Peter had learned firsthand. They couldn’t save everyone who needed saving. Death still had to fill its quota.

The invitation that Whit had sent was neatly tacked to the notice board by the door, the red ribbon holding it securely in place. It was time to go, and Peter, deep down, didn’t want to. He’d become a recluse and he wanted to stay a recluse. But he had played the role of god and he had snatched someone back from death. He had succeeded, at least that once. And how could Peter ignore such a grand gesture? No phone, no email. A letter. No one sent letters anymore.

So he stood, and he pulled on his jacket. He closed the book on his desk. He closed the notebook, and he piled them, smaller on top of the bigger, pushing to the very centre of the desk. The pen went back into its usual spot, perfectly aligned with the other pens. A scrabbling of nails on wood was heard as at least half of Peter’s coterie of dogs stood from their sleeping positions as he moved out the office door. He made sure they all had bones and were securely locked in the yard, their beds warm in their specialised kennels.

As soon as he entered Whit’s shop, Peter only wanted to browse. He wanted to see if there were any here that he didn’t have in his own collection. He wanted to paw through the special editions, like a man deprived. Whit’s voice crackled through the intercom, however, causing Peter to jump out of his skin; his tall body ran right into a stand, though he caught it before it fell over. He fixed up the comics inside, all evenly spaced. Only then did he do as he was told, wandering through the shop to find the door that was specified. Peter’s mood had lifted, somewhat, as soon as he’d stepped into the shop. He was anxious every time he stepped out of his usual routine, but the comics had comforted him.

At first, when he stepped through the doors, there was a smile on his face; why hadn’t he sought Whitaker out earlier? A good old-fashioned debate about the historical myths surrounding life and death might have been exactly what Peter needed to get the mood out of his system. What he witnessed, however, had him gagging and stumbling backwards, straight back out the doors through which he had come, tripping over his own feet. When he landed, there was a loud resounding crack of tailbone against tile. The doors swung and the surgical whiff of blood greeted Peter’s senses, he groaned in disgust, scrambling to his feet as he attempted to get as far away from the scent as possible.

[Wearing]

[Whit]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--
<Whit> By the time that Peter had found his way to the back, Whitaker had placed his sketch pad to one side, along with his notebook and pencil so that he could retrieve his scalpel from the alcohol bath it had been soaking in. He was leaned over a body, carefully using the flat of the blade to nudge internal organs around as if in search of something. He had a splatter mask on with its plastic visor held down over his features to ensure that none of the residue got onto his skin. He glanced up when Peter pushed his way through the doors and the sound that came from him was akin to a click, his jaw crunching together when his sire took a step back an away from the scene. He should have known that would happen. Peter seemed to be unable to handle blood. And so he deftly removed his mask and then pried the plastic apron off of his body so that he could briskly step into the shop. He wore a pair of striped ‘Ravenclaw’ inspired socks that were pulled up his calves but otherwise only seemed to have on a t-shirt and a pair of tighty-whities on. “Don’t leave.” He said, arms folding over his chest, hip cocked.


<Peter Parkman> Peter hadn't thought about leaving the shop entirely. He hadn't thought about anything, except how best to get away from the dead body and the blood. The image was still there, burned into his retina - more vibrant and more gruesome than the scene actually was. In his mind, he could see the body stretched out in black and white, almost, but the blood? It was brightest red he had ever seen. He could imagine it pooling beneath the body, even if it wasn't. Blood and unreasonable violence seemed to be the only things (so far) that were able to send Peter Parkman into a spiral of irrationality. On his feet, he'd managed to land heavily against a counter somewhere, the solid object holding his lanky body up. "What are you doing in there? Wh...why are you doing it?!" Peter asked. His voice wasn't raised. But nor was it entirely calm, either.


<Whit> Whit could tell almost immediately that something was not entirely right with Peter, not a surprise really. The older man had a certain need for order. The world had to fit into certain categories, and everything needed to be neatly sorted or he didn’t quite feel right. At least. That was what Whit assumed it was as he locked his gaze on the other man. He was unmoving and quiet at first, his lips forming a thin line that was neither pleased nor displeased. The only indication of concern for the other man was the wrinkling of that skin between his brows. Which was not to say that he didn’t care. He did. But adding to whatever emotion Peter was feeling seemed like a poor idea. “I am dissecting a mostly dead thing. I am doing it because I want to edify myself as to the nature of the vampiric body and anatomy.” He answered rather plainly. Though he doubted that was really what his sire was asking.


<Peter Parkman> "A mostly dead thing?" Peter asked. Now that the scent of blood and death was only vague, only a discomforting thing at the edge of his senses, he was able to, in part, summon back his wits. He was able to stand properly, to push his hand through his hair to re-arrange it into its usual neatness, and to tug at his jacket to achieve the same end. To apply some order to his body in order to partly sooth his frazzled nerves. Although Whit's calculated, academic wording was of small comfort, and Peter could understand why one would want to study and thus know more about oneself - and might have been completely on board if it weren't for his rejection of blood and violence - the gore had thrown him off balance. Peter's eyes widened. "Are you telling me you've got another vampire in there? Alive?!"


<Whit> He watched as the other man re-arranged himself and knew it for what it was; a ritual used to calm the nerves and regain composure. His own lips sealed carefully and he sucked against the back of his teeth for a second. He felt, just a little, like a child who had been caught doing something he knew was wrong – which was an irrational feeling really. He contemplated how best to answer. “Yes. And, in a manner. I don’t really think it qualifies as ‘alive’ in the traditional sense of the word. I would have nabbed one that was truly gone, but they seem to turn to ash usually when that happens.” Which had been something he had learned very early on in his experimentation. He probably should have felt a little bit of empathy for the creature under his knife, but it was vital that he understand himself. Because that was the only way he could ensure his own continued survival. Like. Why was it that he didn’t seem to need blood every day? He had a power that granted it to him, but it eliminated his need to hunt. Was he therefor adapted in a different way than another breed of vampire might have been?


<Peter Parkman> The thought almost had Peter gagging again. Gagging not on the scent of blood, or the taste of it, or because of the sight of it, but more the inhumanity of it. They weren't human anymore, but did that given them the right to act any less human? 'Humanity', as a term, was only coined and applied because the majority of the world know not that vampires exist. They do not believe in aliens. And anyway, Peter didn't consider himself as inhuman. As less than human. As not human anymore. He was merely a human with heightened abilities and stronger, more volatile reactions. "That is a thinking, feeling person, Whit. Not just some animal to be experimented on!" Peter said. His hand twitched, and he had to shake it to rid it of the twitch. Peter's humanity outweighed his discomforts. He took a deep breath. He steeled himself as he pushed away from the counter he leaned against. He strode toward those dreaded doors with purpose. He couldn't stand there a minute longer knowing there was someone behind them in pain.


<Whit> He could almost feel it. The righteous displeasure in his sire. And then the other man began to move and Whitaker, who was standing immediately in front of the doors, was forced to take a step out of the way. He was not about to stop the other man from doing what he wanted. He could not, as a matter of fact, have stopped Peter had it been in his will to do so. But there was a new feeling that spiked through him when he watched the other man approach. His mentor. The man who had turned him. It was this sensation that sat on the outer fringe of shame without ever quite dipping inside. His lips parted like he wanted to say something. Then he snapped his teeth shut. “Peter, you cannot handle going in there. Stop, and I will release him.” He said, trying to salvage his own dignity for as long as he could manage.


<Peter Parkman> Peter was not the kind of man who needed to prove himself. He wasn't the kind of man who did things in order to appear more appealing to other people, or to please other people. Maybe his inability to deal with any kind of violence - maybe his abject horror of blood - made him weak. He could remember Whit's siring; he could remember how was not strong for his first childe of his. He couldn't take the lead in that situation, and he knew this might lower Whit's estimation of him. At least he could be strong in his convictions. He'd wanted to walk into that back room not to prove he could, but because it made him more ill to think about what was going on inside than it would to step into it. He'd been determined, because he had not thought that Whit would agree. He had assumed that Whit would stop him. He paused just before the doors. Peter was a rational man and he knew Whit was right - as good as his intentions might be, walking into that room could be more disastrous than it was helpful. So he nodded, instead. "Please do. Whitaker."


<Whit> His jaw worked at that answer. He had meant it when he had said it. That he would go back and let the vampire go, but he didn’t really want to. That was obvious on his features, though he fought past the dread clawing its way through his belly before he brushed past the other man and into the back room. It was a small matter to cast the blood magic that was inherent to his kind. He restored some of the rogue vampire’s vitality with the power that thrummed through him, and then he cut his bonds. It was the beginning of night, so there was plenty of time for the creature to find cover. Or find blood. Whatever the case, he left the back door open, so that the beast could crawl away. It was not caring. Nor loving. But it was effective. And then he marched right back through the doors so that he could stare into Peter’s eyes. “Say it.” He said.


<Peter Parkman> Peter didn't watch. He stepped back and away from the doors when Whitaker went inside, so that he didn't have to smell the blood, or see it. Or hear anything. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and his shoulders hunched as he went back out into the aisles of books. The shop was closed and the lights weren't on, but people could be stupid. They could be insistent, or they could be downright criminal. Out of the corner of his eye, all around him, there were images of superheroes. Peter had all the abilities to be a superhero, but he did nothing with them. What did that make him? He had no idea what Whit expected him to say, when the boy came to confront him. Peter could have asked, but he said what was sitting on the tip of his tongue. "The door wasn't even locked. Anyone could have just walked in and stumbled across your little experiment. Have you got no regard for your own safety?"


<Whit> That had not been what he had been expecting. And not hearing it just made more of that feeling, that clawing feeling, dig deeper through him. Some part of him wanted to hear Peter say those words, but they weren’t coming out and that complicated things. His chest felt heavy and then a sigh finally escaped. He probably looked ridiculous, standing there without proper clothes on. He probably should have nabbed those when he’d been in the back, but his mind had been on other things. “I. You are right. I was careless.” Which was a lie. Had someone stumbled in, it would have been a criminal act. He would have killed them, and felt very little in the way of remorse about it. Trespassing was illegal and punishable by death in a few places. Maybe not in Canada, but in enough to assuage his guilt. But he knew that Peter would not understand that so he kept it to himself. “But that’s not what I meant.”


<Peter Parkman> Peter wasn't sure why it surprised him that Whit was so amenable. That he agreed to so much - to let the vampire go, and that he had been careless. Why did he expect Whit to be affronted, to defend himself? Maybe it was because they'd spent so long apart. Not only had Whit's siring not turned out at all like Peter would have hoped, in the end, but it was so soon afterward that Whit skipped the country. The boy was independent, and he didn't need Peter telling him what to do. Peter had no right to tell him what to do. Peter didn't believe that he had that right. But it wasn't surprising to Peter that he hadn't understood what Whit meant. He rarely understood - especially when he was expected to read between the lines. He wasn't very good at that. "What did you mean?"


<Whit> He breathed. He didn’t need to, but he did, big lungfuls of it that pulled through his nostrils and left him feeling more and more hollow and not…less. He wanted to say it, to outright accuse the other man, but he couldn’t immediately. If he said it, and Peter acknowledged those words, then there was no way to take them back. And he felt this pressure behind his eyes. He felt like a petulant child and he hated that because of how independent he was. “Say that you regret turning me. That you’ve regretted it ever since I took that first life, and that you think I’m a monster. Tell me that you cursed me.” He finally said, in as even a tone as he could manage. Even so, it came out a little shaky. There was more emotion there than he really knew what to do with.

[Peter Parkman]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Peter Parkman> Peter blinked. He stood silent and still, tall even though his shoulders were hunched forward. Regret had never crossed his mind. Nor had disgust, or disappointment. He had not been thinking about himself, or about Whit, not really. They were just pieces. He had been thinking about the vampire on the slab and how he (or she) must feel, and everything else had been inconsequential. It took him a while to gather the words in his head - he knew how he wanted to respond to the accusation but he didn't know quite how to put it into words. "We are all the sum of our parts," he started. But even that didn't seem quite right. "What we do in the past doesn't matter. What we do in the present does. I don't feel regret because regret connotes a longing to change something that cannot be changed. It's not possible to change the things we've done in the past. We are products of our history," he said. He shook his head. He was probably making no sense. "I don't regret anything. I do not like what would appear to be your tendency toward violence. But that is your history, not mine. East and West are always bound to clash, but they are not always at odds."


<Whit> Naturally, it was not as simple as a yes or no answer. That had, in honesty, been what he had been hoping for. There were a couple of false starts, and Whit felt a little bit like Peter was trying to talk his way around it, around the way that he was certain his mentor felt about him. He was skeptical, but at the same time, he felt like there was no way Peter could possibly be lying to him. So he licked over his lips to wet them when everything was said and done. That feeling was still there, but it was shifting through him. “Are you saying that you did not curse me?” He asked a second later, because that was a matter of utmost importance to him. Because after Peter had shown disdain at his method of having acquired cash. Well. Things had gone to ****. And some part of Whit felt like Peter had the power to do that. But that also didn’t make sense, and maybe that was why there was this great big gaping hole of cognitive dissonance going on.


<Peter Parkman> "Cursed you?" Peter asked. He was confused. If he were angry at Keara for what she had done to him, Peter was over it. For the exact same reasons that the had laid out for Whitaker - history was history and there was nothing that could be done about it. After everything Peter had gone through with Kallista, he was even more certain of his own footing, in some ways. He had reacted the way he had with Kallista because she had severely disrupted his sense of order. She had attacked him for something that was months old - something that he had thought was water under the bridge. He couldn't understand how other people could be so unreasonable, and it was other people's unreason that caused the majority of Peter's issues. At least, they were unreasonable from his point of view. "No. Yes. I mean - being a vampire can be either a curse or a blessing. There are good things and there are bad things, just as there are good things and bad things about being human. I listed the bad things before I turned you, and you took it anyway. Do...do you regret it? Is that what you're saying? Do you think you're cursed?" he asked. This was what Peter had feared would happen. Whitaker had rushed into this decision. He had not thought about it. And now he had regrets.


<Whit> Vampirism as a curse. That was not what Whitaker was talking about, which told Whit, that Peter had absolutely no clue about the darkness his progeny had stepped into. And for the first time in a very long time, he felt really whole in himself. Like he was a complete person and not this insect under a microscope. He wanted to hug his sire. He wanted to walk right over and throw his arms around the man and crush him, but he knew that wasn’t something Peter would have been comfortable with. “No. I guess I’m not. Maybe…” He trailed off, and chose not to continue that line of thought. “I do not regret being turned. In fact…you know that I am an orphan, right?” He asked, even as he slumped a little against a wall. He felt like there was this massive weight which had been taken off his shoulders.


<Peter Parkman> Peter stood still. If he moved, it would be back to that room. Like someone drawn to the scene of a car crash even though they're afraid of what they might see - even though they know the scene might haunt them for weeks. The urge was to go and make sure that the vampire was free - and to go and help whoever it was. Peter didn't know how he would help, but he wanted to anyway. There were plenty of animals who came through the rescue centre who'd been victims of cruelty. Peter applied the same kind of care to them as he would so his own kin. But he didn't move. He stayed with his progeny, because somehow, in this moment, that seemed more important. The talk of curses - something seemed not quite right. Peter nodded. He wasn't sure whether he knew or not - had it come up in conversation in the past? Regardless, he knew now. "Is that why you feel cursed?" Whether or not Peter had done it, the fact remained that for some reason, Whitaker thought he had been cursed. And that was what mattered.


<Whit> He needed to sit down. Or move away from that wall, or do something really other than just stand there. So he straightened himself once more and brushed past his sire, motioning a few steps afterwards for the man to follow him. There was an office on the other side of the building where he handled the administrative part of running his business, and so he led the way there. There were some comfortable chairs at least, a desk. Everything was plainly decorated, because he hadn’t had time to personalize. “No. I…well you know how Keara treats the lineage like family? Well I never really accepted my adoptive parents as my mother and father. I was still a child, but older by the time they got me, and that bond just wasn’t there. I think you know better than anyone how I have these barriers. I just don’t let people in. But I kind of…well I view you like a father, Peter. I know that may not make sense to you, but I never accepted the Concords, and I accept you in that role. That’s who you are to me. Do you understand?” He asked before pushing the door to the office open.


<Peter Parkman> Peter could see where the conversation was heading. He'd taken a seat in one of the proffered chairs - only now noticing Whit's state of dress and resisting the urge to tell him to go and put some pants on, just - and he shifted uncomfortably. Keara. Yes, Peter was very well aware of how much Keara considered her bloodline as family, and of her tendency to call him her son. In fact, the only thing stopping Peter from cutting Whitaker off and telling him in no uncertain terms that he was NOT Whit's father was the memory of Keara's reaction. When Peter had told her that he was not her son, she had taken it personally. It had hurt her for reasons which Peter could not fathom. He wasn't her son. In the technical way that mothers have babies and babies are born, he was not her son. He had a mother. A real one. Though she may not be alive anymore, she had still existed, and Peter didn't need a replacement. But he had learned that others liked to cling to the definition, to skew it to make themselves feel better. To deny what Whit was saying would be to hurt him - or at least, this was why Peter had paused. "I understand, insomuch that I can see your point of view," he said. He had questions. But he was still stuck. "Why did you feel cursed?" Classic Peter.


<Whit> He knew that answer for what it was. Had it been any other time, Whit probably would have been annoyed, because he would have preferred the man just outright tell him he didn’t agree with the viewpoint. “I don’t mean literal father, Peter. I speak only from an adoptive sense. You and I have a lot in common, and I’ve always felt there was a connection there. I don’t need you to acknowledge me as your son or anything as dramatic as that. I just need you to understand that I view you very much in a paternal fashion.” He finally said, trying to explain himself a little bit better, even as he sat across from the other man, one leg slipping to cross over the other right at the knee. His hands folded into his lap. Really, it sounded a lot more like a negotiation for treaty than it did a heart to heart. “I…” He stopped, unsure of himself. “Some odd things have been happening to me lately.” He began.


<Peter Parkman> Peter had known that, deep down. It wasn't something he was going to think about until later, but there was Whit. Explaining it. And the weight that had lifted from Whit's shoulders settled very heavily upon Peter's. Was it better to have known that or not? It wasn't that he felt burdened by it, but he was very aware, now, of letting Whit down. He had been aware of it before, and would readily admit to all his shortcomings. But his shortcomings were okay, in a way, because Whit didn't have to let them affect him. But now, Peter has to wonder whether they do. He is very aware that by being considered a 'father', he is more able to disappoint Whit. He cleared his throat and shook his head, as if trying to file away the information into the right drawer, in the right room, to make it fit into his ordered world. "Odd things. Like what?" he asked.


<Whit> He was not entirely done, and so he pushed forward with his line of thought. “Before I continue explaining about the curse. Well. I only tell you about the whole father thing because I want you to know that I trust your judgment. More than, and above anyone else’s. Period. I know that I have my weaknesses, and those are unlikely to ever go away, but I need to know that even with those weaknesses, you’re never going to just…abandon me. Or leave me. Or tell me that you don’t want me anymore because of something I have done.” Which was a lot to ask of Peter. A lot to dump on him, really. On some level, it was very selfish, but Whit believed plainly in letting someone know and understand one’s wants, needs. “As for the curse. Well I see spirits. Like dead people? Like all the time, they’re constantly crowding around me in public places. I have to have my businesses and home blessed monthly or they seem to just come after me. Drives me mad.”


<Peter Parkman> Peter shifted again in his chair. He was looking for something to fix; something to put back in place. But there was nothing there, in that office. It was bare, as if waiting to be loved. Such a cold space for a conversation that was anything but. Peter was not a cold man. In fact, he cared far too much for someone who could be so analytical. "Flaws are inherent in every person," Peter said. He had them - oh, he knew he had his flaws in abundance. Jersey had them. Keara had them. Enver had them. Even Kallista and Nakia, even Danton - though he kept his distance, he didn't hate them. Nor has he ever abandoned anyone - no one but Arthur Pembroke. He'd tried to leave Arthur behind, though he kept catching up again. He shook his head. "I'm not going to abandon you," he said. And he could say it with confidence. Peter doesn't just give up. "And... maybe it is similar to your problem with plants. To my ... aversion to blood. I can't go near water. I can't cross bridges. Do you think it's a punishment?"

[Whit]

Not going to abandon him. He heard the words before they were spoken, heard them somewhere deep inside himself, in his mind. He had known Peter for long enough to have guessed them before it ever became an issue, but it was one of those situations in which Whitaker needed to hear them spoken out loud. Normally, this was not the case. He was very good at keeping a distance from people, at making sure that people only ever got little bits and fragments of who he really was. It was his defense mechanism, the way he made sure he didn’t get too attached because that same sentimentality was what had the power to break him. Hard as it was for him to make an exception for Peter, there were dividends to be collected. Trust. More powerful than any currency.

“I will always listen to you. Even if I don’t like what you have to say. If there is one person in the world selfless and genuinely good enough to prioritize me above his own desires – I know that person is you.” There was no intensity in those words. He was not an emotional creature, and it felt like, after their brief conversation just moments before, he had been drained of them all. Not quite exhaustion, but something similar. So the delivery was somewhat flat, if a bit on the side of relieved.

But that didn’t change how true they were.

He had learned from a young age that nobody was truly charitable or kind. Maybe it was because he had been brought up in a Catholic institution, and he’d seen the way that servants of a higher power acted, at times, like little more than beasts. Or maybe it was that he had been given up and never known the people who had given birth to him. Even his adoptive parents, as good as they had been to him, had treated him like a fashion accessory for most of his life. When he had told them about his illness, they had responded in all of the right ways. ‘We will fight this. We will fight this together, and you will beat it. You will be the boy that beat this cancer.’ They had talked about starting up a foundation for him when he made it clear that there was no way to save him.

They had cared, but somewhere at the back of their minds, their thoughts had been on how his affliction would impact them, how it could be turned into a positive for them. He didn’t blame them, because they loved him in the only way they knew how. And it was love but it wasn’t the kind that Whitaker had needed at the time. They were not the people he had wanted, and as callous as it was of him, he had returned exactly the affection they had given him. That was perhaps one of the greatest cruelties he knew. To have the discernment to distinguish between forms of caring on that level, and not give totally and completely of himself.

He was selfish; it was who they had raised him to be.

“I previously felt it was a punishment. I am reassessing how I view the situation now. Though I agree, I think it may be similar to what you’ve described.” He didn’t feel any particular way about it anymore. When it had possibly been caused by Peter; the curse had been devastating to him. It had burned in his soul, and made him feel sick every time it had surfaced in one interaction or another. The knowledge that it was just some random chance not only alleviated his sense of guilt, but it freed him of the perception that he had somehow brought Peter to ire. That had, at its core, been the issue in its entirety.

“I am sitting here in my underwear.” He observed before moving to stand. “I am going to go find my pants and check to see that it got out. By now, the blood should be ash. Would you like to come and help me clean up?”

[Peter Parkman]

Peter had asked the question for a reason.

Did Whitaker think that this curse of his was a punishment? Now that he knew that it wasn’t Peter who had burdened him with wrath, did he still feel like it was some kind of punishment? Peter’s eyes narrowed as Whitaker told him that he was re-assessing. Yes, similar to what Peter had advised – an aversion. But that didn’t mean it might not still be some kind of punishment. In the end, Peter was dissecting Whitaker’s words to see if he felt any kind of remorse. Peter was staring hard at his progeny, at this boy that he had known, but he known him very well?

What if he felt no remorse? What if he could chain living beings to stainless steel trolleys and cut them open and feel nothing except curiosity? Peter’s heart turned in his chest. Not his real heart, not literally. But it was a sinking feeling, as if that heart had turned stone-cold with dread.

Abandonment was not on the cards, but for a few seconds, Peter saw the future. Not the real future, but a possible future. A future where he would be constantly finding Whitaker in similar situations. There’d always be blood. And no remorse. Peter’s eyes – the brow still furrowed and a peculiar kind of fear still glinting in the greenness of them – followed Whitaker as he stood, and made his plans to put on pants and clean up.

He will always listen, Whitaker had said. But what did that amount to, in the end? Would he change his ways if Peter asked him to? Peter wasn’t too sure how he felt about that. Where he had given Whitaker this life to save him, what kind of life was it going to be if Peter was always there, stopping Whitaker from doing what he wanted to do? In the end, it could only breed remorse.

But Peter had to snap out of it. The future wasn’t happening now, and it was a future that may not come to pass. Just because Whitaker had had some undead thing strapped to a gurney didn’t mean that he was unfeeling. It only meant … it only meant that maybe he didn’t think quite like Peter did. It was a phenomenon young Arthur had taken a very long time to grapple with – that everyone did not think like him. That everyone had their own personalities and their own special tics. It infuriated him, that he couldn’t figure them out. He could figure out a maths equation and he could know all there was to know about Marcus Aurelius, but he couldn’t figure out the person sitting next to him. He couldn’t understand why the wanted to beat him up all the time.

He cleared his throat and followed Whitaker, though he didn’t follow him entirely. He lingered by the door.

”I can’t go in until you tell me it’s clear,” he said. He eyed the door warily – and would wait until Whitaker found his pants, would wait until he was sure the vampire was gone and that all blood was out of sight, and out of mind.

[Whit]

Whitaker knew on some level that his sire had an ironic aversion to blood. Ironic, in the sense that he was a vampire, and needed it to survive, something of a catch 22 he supposed, when it came time to sustain his own life. Not so much a quandary when one considered that Peter was a genuinely good soul, who seemed to dislike the physical or emotional damage of any living thing. Pacifism was something that Whitaker projected because he disliked conflict; found violence to the chest thumping and grunting of lesser intelligences. No. Humans had evolved from apes; that did not, in fact, mean they had to act like them. With the ability to understand abstract concepts came the ability to sympathize with other creatures, to simply take their feelings into account and chose not to engage them in a fight. He chose not to get involved in skirmishes and things of that nature because he felt that they were fundamentally below him, but that did not stop him from engaging in acts of violence when they benefited him in some way. For Peter, it was something else entirely, a need to distance himself from those dark things.

Maybe that was how curses worked? Whit had come to find out that when someone was turned, their personalities became exaggerated in a way. Perhaps the truth was that nothing was truly a punishment. Maybe the truth was that everyone just had to deal with the illusions created by their own minds, the limitations they set for themselves. There were likely ways to test that, but none of them were particularly pleasant. For example, he might have loaded Peter into a cart and taken him across running water to see if he physically could. If that were the case, then it might point to one solution. He could do it again, with Peter being unaware (Passed out in some way) to see if that modified the response. It was entirely possible, because perception was a powerful thing. Especially for the kindred. They had the power to shape themselves into what they inherently saw themselves as.

And Whitaker looked like a corpse most of the time, with gaunt cheeks, sunken eyes, and pale flesh. What did that say of him? That he was afraid of death? Or that he had overcome it by embracing it. He had done that hadn’t he? When the obstacle had presented itself, he had quite literally thrown himself on the blade and taken his fate into his own hands. Put it into Peter’s.

He put thoughts of testing his theory to rest because he did not want to cause his mentor and sire pain, whether accidentally or intentionally. Perhaps when he became better acquainted with someone else, he might test those boundaries in a way that caused the least amount of discomfort. It seemed illogical to cause harm where it was not required. In fact, he would not have cut into the rogue vampire at all, had he been able to take a look at a specimen that was unresponsive but still viable. The problem was that vampires turned to ash when they were killed. Didn’t they? In that moment, he realized that he had not really done all of the research required. What if he had been able to spare the vampire some pain with some sort of drug combination? He hadn’t even bothered to try, because he just assumed his kind was immune to those sorts of things.

He did not feel shame at that. Not really. He was merely disappointed in himself for having not been thorough prior to making the first cut. He had been amateurish in his approach, and that was something to be lamented over. It was not a trait that he intended to perpetuate, so he silently vowed to himself that he would make any and all necessary observations, do the appropriate tests before he put someone under undue duress. He had the advantage of time on his side didn’t he? So what exactly was the point of rushing? Wasn’t there a phrase pertaining to that? Only fools rush in.

He was appropriately chastened, albeit not for the reasons that Peter would have liked, but it was something maybe. Maybe.

“Of course.” He responded as he led the way from the office. His first stop was to the front of the store so that he could snap the lock into place. He would not tolerate any further encroachment upon his territory for the evening, and then he turned on a heel to march towards the back. When he went through the wide, rubber bottomed, double doors, he was greeted with that familiar chemical scent. The rogue had promptly cleared out. There was not even a spec of blood to be found. The environment was sterile for the most part save for some ash scattered about. Almost everything was portable, tables with wheels, seats with the same. All of it could be moved and stored in one of the other rooms while he was not using it so that nobody would suspect that he had a laboratory in the back of his business.

It was genius really. If you asked him.

He had a small stand beside the dissection slab, and though it lacked wheels, it was small enough that it could be lifted. On it, there were his sketch pad, his pen, and a notebook that looked to be at least half full his tiny, neat script. He could fit two lines of perfectly readable text inside of the normal lined paper rule. His text was very straight, narrow, nearly like print. There were also five or six other flat surfaces spread out over the room with various pieces of equipment on them. Everything from beakers, to tubing, to gas lighters, to machines that likely served some unknown purpose. He had a collection of knives and bone saws, things to cut away clothing without damaging dermis. Then there were the larger things like vats of chemicals or devices that were all on trolleys so they could be pushed out of sight at a moment’s notice.

The whole thing had been expensive, but he had the money to spend.

“Come in.” he called out behind him before he grabbed his pants from where they had been laid down. He ended up tugging them on and up, fastening them into place before smoothing them over. “I originally wanted you to see this room under different circumstances. I am not entirely sure how fond you are of this particular set of sciences, but I had hoped you might enjoy it at least from a voyeuristic perspective.”

[Peter Parkman]

Peter waited outside. The comic store was, in fact, one of the better places to wait in; at least he had reading material to try to distract himself with. Except, that he didn’t really know which comic he had picked up, and nor were any of the words registering as his eyes drifted over them. It was hard to get the image out of his head, and it was hard to correlate the blood and the broken body with the boy that Peter knew; the avid creature in his class, with his aura of youthful innocence.

Peter ended up putting the magazine back on the rack; he pushed his hands into his pockets and stared at the spines. In the end, he distracted himself by straightening out the comics instead of reading them. They were mostly straight already—and if Whitaker were not careful Peter would start to re-arrange by a completely different system to the one already set up.

But Whitaker didn’t keep Peter waiting for very long, and when he called him into the back room, Peter tentatively pushed through. His hands immediately nestled back into his pockets. He was like a timid animal with wide eyes, ready to run away and the slightest loud noise or snarling maw. But all the instruments appeared to be cleared away, and Peter visibly relaxed.

He swallowed, and nodded, though a frown creased his brow.

”I’m not a scientist,” Peter said. Matter-of-fact. ”I’m a historian. Beyond science of an Anthropological nature, I only take mild interest,” he said. His interest in science only went as far, really, as the amateur study of space. He had a telescope, and collected magazines (which he read thoroughly before passing on to the homeless man who lived near the Asylum). He cleared his throat and stared at Whitaker, curious and thoughtful.

Peter wondered where Whitaker’s hope came from. And why it should exist. It wasn’t the hope itself that Peter questioned, but the shape of it. He had hoped that Peter would enjoy it? Peter shook his head.

”I’m not sure where your hope came from. You… know what I’m like. Around blood? I couldn’t watch that kind of thing, I certainly couldn’t enjoy it. What made you think that I would?” Peter asked. His tone was purely curious, and there was no accusation. He didn’t lean against any of the surfaces. He didn’t look around. He kept his eyes firmly upon his childe, his shoulders slumped. He could smell the ash. It wasn’t as disorienting as the blood, but it was still a reminder. Peter tried to ignore it.

[Whit]

Informative, and yet entirely missing the point – which appeared to be the case frequently when it came to Peter’s over-literal sensibilities.

The term ‘voyeuristic’ had been more important to the phrase than anything else really, and even that had just been code for Whitaker offering up a means to bond with the man. Noted, there was a certain lack of regard for Peter’s very specific tastes, but Whit had errantly assumed that his mentor would have the same global love for learning that he did. Mild interest. As it had been termed. His jaw slowly tightened with the same irritation that was commonly evident when someone went to great lengths to impress someone, only to have it summarily either rejected or scoffed at. Perhaps that was not exactly as it had played out, but that was how it seemed.

He stood there for a moment in silence.

“I was not specifically referring to this room being used in the same capacity as a local morgue so much as its potential for other endeavours. Potentially experimentation.” He listed one possibility and left it at that. Clarification made, he decided that it was time to put things away. He started with the tables on wheels. Most of the gear in the room had not been used, and was in various stages of cover so it did not require cleaning. The equipment was there for wheeled into a much smaller side-room, where most of it locked into place in the handy storage facility. The lock to get in was fairly complex, and really the only one with sure access to it was Whit. He mainly wanted to dissuade anyone from even attempting to break in.

The work there was short due to the mobile nature of the stations he had designed (an ingenious mechanism if you asked him). And by the time those were put away; it was fairly clear that Peter was at least mildly uncomfortable still with the whole thing. This left Whitaker to gather the cleaning supplies together himself (he didn’t even ask), which primarily involved a large scrub brush on a stick, a bucket with strong sanitizing agents, and a set of gloves. His shoes and socks were still tucked away somewhere, so he did not bother to put on the protective covers he might have normally worn. No danger of there being ill-effects on dead tissue.

“Perhaps you should take a look at the comics. I have some merchandise that might interest you.” It was not an outright dismissal, but Whitaker wanted to finish up and the last thing he needed was someone staring over his shoulder. When he was done, he could always find his way back to the more public part of the store and pick his conversation with Peter back up. He then turned back to the task at hand, which happened to be using that scrub brush to clean away the ash from the slab, and on the ground. He nudged it towards the center drain, and would eventually spray things down before he considered himself finished.

[Peter Parkman]

There were subtle queues that people gave off that were indicative of their state of mind. Most of the time, a person’s mood could be written all over their faces; it could be read in their words, in their tone of voice. Human instinct normally stepped in so that other humans could understand, at least at a basic level, how another person was feeling.

Somewhere along the line, Peter had missed out. The only reason his businesses succeeded as they did was that, at least three of them anyway, he didn’t have to deal with the public. The people he dealt with were as pedantic as he was. They were like-minded, and they didn’t mind his literalness. It was a strength in his favour, rather than a loss. Generally speaking, however, Peter didn’t understand when someone else was offended, or upset. He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t read it. Didn’t know it, unless they told him outright. There were things that he said and did that were often misconstrued, simply because he did not understand the humour of others. He always took them seriously.

Peter had opened his mouth to ask what kind of experiments Whitaker was referring to, but he was cut off mid-sentence by the boy telling him he should go out and look at the comic books. Peter blinked, and wandered back out into the main space. The doors swung shut behind him, and he was left to stare at the shelves and their books.

If Peter were a normal person, he might have picked a particular comic from the shelf somewhere, might have found himself a seat and read until he was summoned, or found. In fact, he had planned to do just that, but he couldn’t figure out what he needed to read next without looking at his own collection first; and even then, he continually dithered about the logical order that he ought to read things in.

So when Whitaker emerged, after however long it took him to clean up out back, he would find Peter not reading, but having completely rearranged a set of shelves in the order in which he kept them at home. He had only planned to do one set of comics so that he might be able to find something to read; but that job had spiralled, and now he couldn’t stop.