Worth 1000 Words

“Did you turn the porch light on?”

Jim didn’t answer. Arms crossed and a frown furrowing his brow, he was watching Thomas walk down the staircase.

“You dressed up as a wizard,” he said, a heavy sigh lurking in his words. “Again.”

Thomas fastened his robes closed and smirked. He knew the costume was garish, large black stars and moons on shiny silver satin with a matching, fur-lined pointy hat. Garish was precisely what he had wanted when he’d bought the attire, but that wasn’t all. Against the satin, he knew his skin seemed darker, less coffee and milk and more polished ebony: he looked utterly corny, but he looked good. Jim might not be fond of wizards, but he liked undressing them—or at the very least, Thomas.

“You know me,” Thomas drawled. “I like my little rituals.”

Coming closer, he adjusted Jim’s striped scarf. It looped around his neck three times over his coat, and both ends still fell nearly to the floor.

“At least,” he added, “the kids will know what I’m supposed to be. They’ll just look at you and think that’s how you usually dress.”

Jim shook his head but he was grinning. He slid his hands under Thomas’ robes and grabbed his hips to pull him forward until they were toe to toe, then chest to chest.

“One day,” Jim murmured against Thomas’ lips, “you’ll have to tell me what’s up with you and all things wizard-y.”

“One day,” Thomas retorted, allowing his accent to slink back to the London inflections he had lost over the course of the century, “you’ll have to tell me what’s up with you and all things British.”

Jim’s hands slid to Thomas’ ass and squeezed. “Not all things British. Just my gorgeous boyfriend and Doctor Who. In that order.”

Need surged through Thomas, flashing straight to the tip of his suddenly aching dick. He pressed forward, caressing Jim’s lips with his own, but before he could deepen the kiss three knocks on the door announced the first of their little visitors.

Set before Blurred Nights.

~~~

“Where are we going?”

Caught up as he had been in gathering and packing up his possessions, Marc hadn’t noticed that Blake had taken his cue from him and was doing the same. He grimaced and looked away, dragging his bag to the bathroom. A comb and first aid supplies were shoved in with his clothes with little care.

“So?” Blake repeated from the door. “Where are we going this time? I thought you wanted to finish training the town before moving on. They’ve come a long way but they’re not ready yet.”

A thread of regret curled itself tight around him with Blake’s words, but Marc shattered it with a shrug. Pushing past Blake, Marc stepped into the living room and to the wooden chest in which they kept their arsenal. He sorted through the weapons and chose a few of his favorites. A heavy crossbow and a few steel bolts, a sword and its sheath, heavy with the memory of past fights. They went into a second travel bag with much more care than Marc had showed so far.

Blake had stopped packing by now and a scent of uncertainty was wafting about him. It wasn’t a scent Marc had ever associated with his Childe, and he rubbed his nose absently at the unfamiliarity of it.

“Sire?” Blake finally said, his voice barely making the word a question.

Marc forced himself to look at him then and hardened his gaze.

“Jen heard about a town across the country. They’ve got mages working on closing a breach there. That’s where we’re going.”

The grin that bloomed on Blake’s lips was one Marc had seen often enough; the anticipated delight in front of the upcoming battle. It made the next words a little harder to pronounce.

“I want you to stay here and keep organizing the militia.”

It was difficult to tell what Blake thought of that, but Marc knew him well enough to guess. His face slowly closed off, his wariness obvious. He was beginning to understand.

“Where do I join you when I’m done here?”

Tightening his hold on the bags’ straps, Marc hoisted them over his shoulder.

“You don’t.”

Marc had expected Blake to protest at the news, to laugh it off, to complain or demand an explanation. Instead, he sneered.

“I knew Jen was a bitch.” He spat her name as though it were poison. “I see I had it wrong. You’re her bitch, not the other way around.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Marc had dropped both bags to the ground. The next instant, his fist was connecting with Blake’s face.

Marc was used to Blake’s particular brand of disrespect, and the insults thrown at him had long since to matter, not when Blake could curse him in one breath and suck his brain out through his cock with the next. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t tolerate the same disrespect toward Jen. Granted, she wasn’t Marc’s Sire, but in the past weeks he had come to regard her as such. She was his elder, she shared his views on the Pacts and his determination to see the demon invasion to an end, and Blake simply had no right to insult her.

Marc and Blake had fought before. Their scuffles had always had a playfulness about them, and even when blood had been shed, when bruises had been inflicted, they had always ended up clawing at each other’s clothes and fucking until exhaustion. This time, sour despair tainted the air whenever Blake struck at his Sire or received a blow in reply.

When, bloodied and panting uselessly for breath, Blake remained lying on the floor, Marc picked up his bags again and left, feeling his Childe’s eyes on him long after he had left the building.

Jen gave Marc’s bruises a critical look when she climbed into the car, but she didn’t question him, or ask for an explanation. All she said was, “I knew this kid was trouble. You’ll be better off without him.”

Marc didn’t reply and started the engine.

Between a Sire who shared his commitment to fighting demons and a Childe who only cared about his own enjoyment, the choice was easily made.

He hadn’t thought he would start regretting it so fast, though.

When Jacob had seen his dad wear a tie before, he had thought it looked a little funny. Now that he had to wear one, he thought it looked funny and kinda uncomfortable, too. As soon as his dad was done doing the knot, Jacob pulled on it.

“It’s too tight!” he complained.

“It’s supposed to be,” his dad said, with a little smile right at the corner of his mouth. He tightened the knot again, but not quite as snug this time. “There. Don’t touch it again. I promise you can take it off after the ceremony. Do you remember what you have to do?”

Jacob sighed a big, big sigh. Sometimes, his dad acted like Jacob was still a baby, but he was almost seven!

“I have to walk slow,” he recited, “and hold the pillow really straight in front of me, and stand next to you and Uncle Craig until he needs the rings.”

“Very good.”

Jacob’s dad had pulled a comb from his pocket and now he was trying to comb the bit of hair on Jacob’s forehead that never wanted to lay flat. Jacob did his best to remain still but he was tired of getting ready, he wanted to go to the wedding already.

But since they had a little time, maybe he could ask the question he had meant to ask for a little while. His dad was sitting on the edge of the bed, and over his shoulder Jacob could see the picture of his mom on the wall. He hadn’t dared ask until now because sometimes talking about his mom made his dad sad. But he was happy for Julie and Craig, he had said so, so maybe he wouldn’t be sad now.

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Were you and my mommy married?”

Jacob’s dad looked at him with big, round eyes for just a second. Then he started combing Jacob’s hair some more, looking really closely at what he was doing.

“No, we were not,” he said quietly. “Vampires can’t get married.”

Jacob frowned. “Why not?”

His dad shrugged and put the comb away. “That’s just the way it is. The law says vampires can’t do some things, like getting married.”

Jacob frowned a little harder. Sometimes, the law wasn’t fair – like when it said vampires couldn’t have children and that was why he couldn’t tell anyone about his dads.

“What if the law said you can?” he asked. “Would you marry my mom, then?”

Jacob’s dad smiled, but he still looked a little sad. “I would have liked that very much, yes,” he said softly. “And I think it would have made her happy, too.”

Jacob nodded, and held his arm out for the jacket his dad had picked up from the bed. He let his dad slip one sleeve on, then the next, then he asked his other question.

“What about Nicholas?”

“What about him?”

“Don’t you want to marry him?”

“Vampires can’t get married, remember?”

“But what if you can?”

Jacob’s dad looked toward the door, and when Jacob looked too he could see that Nicholas was there, wearing a tie and suit like them – except his tie didn’t look tight at all. He had a funny smile on his face, and his eyebrows were really high.

“Aren’t you going to answer the tyke’s question?” he said.

Jacob’s dad sighed. “I don’t think Nicholas cares very much about weddings,” he said at last. He stood and put on his jacket. It looked just like Jacob’s and Nicholas’.

“That’s not an answer,” Nicholas said, smiling even bigger now.

Jacob’s dad went to the door. He tugged on Nicholas’ tie and made it tighter. “Keep asking for an answer,” he said in his rumbly voice, “and you just might get a question instead.”

He walked out of the bedroom, leaving Jacob and Nicholas alone.

“He still didn’t answer,” Jacob said, pouting. He pulled on his tie again because it was still too tight.

Nicholas came to him and crouched down so he could make his tie snug again – but not too snug. He was still smiling, but his smile was very different now, happy rather than amused.

“He did,” Nicholas said softly.

Jacob was very confused.

Standing on the edge of the pier, Logan watches the sun go down. A symphony of red and orange is playing in the sky, echoed in the still waters of the lake. It matches the leaves drifting in the wind and caught in the reeds.

It has been a perfect autumn day, and it’s a perfect autumn evening.

Or rather, almost perfect.

Logan had plans for this lake, this pier, and for a sunset just like this one. He would have gone down to one knee right in this spot. He’d have pulled out a ring, simple but beautiful. He’d have offered words just as simple. Olivia would have said yes, of course, and the ring would have gleamed in the sunset when he’d have slipped it on her finger. They’d have been married right there, by the water side.

It’ll never happen. Vampires can’t get married.

Night falls, and soon the sky seems twice as dark, reflected in the water. The wooden boards creak under soft steps behind him. Logan turns to his lover – his love – and smiles at her, knowing she’ll see him even in the dark.

In his pocket, the small, square box seems to weigh a ton.

(Set after Blurred Memories… Long after…)

Platinum, because Kate’s eyes are gray, and all that more precious for it. A blue stone for the month of her birth; her second birth, the one that made her theirs, truly and forever. Blake and Marc talked - argued - about it for weeks, and finally agreed on a ring with two delicate curves wrapped around the gem, like their bodies wrap around hers, sometimes.

The image of the ring is engraved in Blake’s mind, and yet as they return from the store he fishes the box out of Marc’s pocket once more and flips it open with his thumb. The stone catches a stray beam of moonlight and gleams softly.

“What if she doesn’t like it?” he mutters, flipping the box shut again.

Marc plucks the box out of Blake’s hand. He doesn’t say anything, and wait for Blake to look at him to roll his eyes.

Blake can’t help but grin at his own silliness. “Of course she’ll like it,” he answers his own question.

“Of course,” Marc echoes, and the rumble of a laugh in his voice fails to hide his own nervousness.

What a pair they make…

Lying on his stomach in the shade of a tree, Austin flips through his sketch book, adding a few pencil lines on one drawing, shading an area in another, but unable to stay focused on any one page for long. Inspiration has been hard to come by, lately.

If Austin tries to pinpoint when drawing became so difficult, he doesn’t have to look very far. He used to call Regina his muse; maybe she was exactly that, more so than he realized. He can’t regret asking her to leave, though. It was the best decision he made – maybe not for his art, but definitely for himself, for his self-esteem, his pride, his happiness.

Although happiness, like inspiration, is hard to find.

Some bark debris fall down on the obstinately white pages in front of him. He brushes them away with the back of his hand and looks up, expecting to find a squirrel, or maybe a bird above him.

Instead, he sees stripes of color, like a strange orchid blooming on the tree. He sits up and gives the stripes a better look. He can now see the micro-mini above those long stockings, and long, reddish curls that move with the wind.

“Hey! Don’t look up my skirt, you pervert!”

Austin doesn’t bother defending himself or asking the girl what she is doing in that tree. His pencil is already flying on the paper. By the time she descends back to earth, he has two sketches already, and half a dozen ideas for more.

Dan pushes the door closed behind him. It bangs shut, sharp and loud as a gunshot. He’s too tired to react.

Once, he witnessed a madman try to kill a demon with a gun. Before that night, he’d only known what gunshots sounded like from old TV shows. Reality is different. Reality is always different. That’s a lesson he learned a long time ago. Or at least, it feels like a long time. Sometimes, he feels much older than he really is. Sometimes, he feels downright ancient.

Lately, ‘sometimes’ and ‘often’ seem to have become synonymous.

He should clean the axe. He knows he should. And still, he props it against the wall next to the door, blood so dark it looks black sliding along the curved blade and dripping onto the linoleum floor. It’ll stain. As well it should. Some things should not be washed out too easily, and blood is one of them.

When he turns again, Patrick is there, and Dan’s stomach clenches painfully along with his fists. The square of gauze stands out starkly on Patrick’s lower abdomen and the bruises on his face aren’t quite faded yet. Dan wishes that fucking demon were still alive, just so he could tear it apart again.

This time, he would make it slow.

Hurt as he is, Patrick takes one look at him and manages to look worried. He wraps his arms around Dan and draws him close – too close; he flinches against Dan, but he still doesn’t pull back. He’s too stubborn for his own good.

“Bad night?” he murmurs against the shell of Dan’s ear.

Dan sighs and carefully closes his arms around Patrick’s waist, mindful of that square of gauze he hates so much. He rests his cheek against Patrick’s shoulder and his eyelids drop closed. Images pop up at once, steel slashing flesh, cracks of lightning turning everything blue, but he doesn’t want to relive this fight quite yet, so he opens his eyes again. The curve of Patrick’s neck is graceful, even delicate. He presses his lips against it, feeling life and blood pulse, just a bite away.

“Bad week,” he breathes, remembering the fire and that burned doll. “Bad month.” He can almost taste the bile on his tongue; he never wants to see Patrick this broken again. He’s already told their squad leader he’ll quit – they’ll both quit – if it happens again. “Bad—”

Two gentle fingers draw his face up. Patrick’s eyes are too damn understanding, and Dan braces himself for the comforting words he’s already been given too many times. Words don’t mean anything anymore. Words don’t work.

But lips? Lips work, yes, pressing against his own and coaxing them open. A tongue comes next, pushing in like it belongs in Dan’s mouth, the same way Patrick’s cock belongs in his body. Chapped lips, demanding tongue, a little too fast, a little too strong, but fast and strong is exactly right sometimes. Like now.

Dan’s wide-open hands press against Patrick’s back. If he doesn’t do this, he’ll grab and clutch – and hurt Patrick again. There has been too much hurting today already.

Patrick is not as reticent; his hands are all over Dan, sliding under his shirt and stroking his skin like his tongue is stroking Dan’s palate and teeth.

“Getting better?” he asks, almost purrs, when he ends the kiss.

Dan purrs back at him – or tries to. It sounds more like a hum when he does it. Patrick won’t admit it, but Dan knows he loves that sound. He loves to cause it, especially. “Mmmm. A bit. Nice mouth. Other things that nice mouth of yours can do? ‘Cause that would—”

He laughs weakly when Patrick’s hands drop to his hips, fast and strong as they steer him toward the living room, but gentle, too, when they tug at his belt, unbutton his pants, pull them down along with his boxers and push him into his favorite armchair - their favorite armchair - the one that’s large enough for long, slow fucks.

They shouldn’t do this, he thinks dimly. Patrick is still hurt, Dan doesn’t want to cause him pain, doesn’t want—

Patrick drops to his knees and shuffles forward, right between Dan’s legs. His grin is absolutely obscene. Dan holds his breath because he knows what’s coming, but when the same lips and tongue that made him melt earlier, made him want, trail against his cock, he hisses Patrick’s name.

He was thinking. He knows he was thinking. But thinking is so hard. Lips and tongue move against his cock, gentle at first but soon fast and strong. He doesn’t last long — he can’t — but then he’s not supposed to. He knows Patrick; this was just to take the edge off. Round two will be an entirely different thing.

Lips that are much too satisfied smile at him as Patrick steps out of his jeans. With his cock jutting out in front of him, he climbs into Dan’s lap and hands. Eyes like a lightning storm on a summer night ask if his night is getting any better. Dan smiles and swipes his thumb over the bead of precome at the top of Patrick’s cock. He brings it to his lips and sucks on it. He can practically hear thunder when Patrick kisses him again.

In a minute, he’ll answer. When his brain starts working again and he can stop grinning like an idiot, he will. Or he could just forgo words altogether.

Lips. Tongue. Sweet and slow.

Hunter sneezes. Twice. And throws an exasperated look toward Cole.

Cole, however, remains entirely oblivious. Seated cross-legged on the floor, he’s pulling old, dusty - probably even moldy - books from a third moving box and setting them onto the shelves in front of him with something that looks a lot like reverence. There are four boxes still waiting at his side.

Hunter sighs. Loudly. “Do you really need all these?”

He can feel another sneeze attack lurking and raises a preemptive hand to his nose.

Cole turns a wounded gaze to him. “They’re my magic books! Of course I need them!”

As Hunter sneezes again - three times, this time - he makes his decision. The library can be Cole’s retreat. Hunter will stay out of it - and away from the dust.

The box in Vincent’s pocket could fit in his closed hand, and yet, it seemed to weigh a ton – to weigh as much as fifteen years of being mated to a vampire.

He kept moving it, as though it might grow lighter. At first, he kept it in his shirt front pocket; close to his heart, but the pocket didn’t close and he grew scared of losing it. Then he moved it to his jeans pocket, which was tight enough to be safe, but maybe too tight: the square shape was much too obvious. Finally, in his jacket inside pocket, but that, too, was too obvious as he kept reaching in to check it was still there.

In the end, it was just too heavy to carry. He set it down on Lilia’s pillow, and hoped that, on her finger, it would feel light as air. He hoped, also, that she would find it as beautiful as the past fifteen years.

Andrew can never predict when Jacob will ask about his mother again. There’s no pattern that he can see. The ritual is always the same, though.

He comes into Andrew’s office, babbles for a little while, then falls silent, his eyes darting toward the drawer in which Andrew keeps the picture album until Andrew pulls it out. Then, they look at the pictures together - again - and eventually Jacob asks about her.

Sometimes it’s just one small question. Sometimes, a dozen, with no link between them that Andrew can see, fired so fast that he barely has time to think of his answers.

Today, it’s an easy question, one Andrew can answer. It’s not always so simple.

“What was her favorite flower?”

A pang chimes through Andrew as the image of Cara’s funeral resurfaces; at twilight, the flowers seemed colorless. Andrew’s entire life did, away from the tiny bundle he had entrusted to Julie’s care for a couple of hours.

“Sunflowers,” he says, choking a little on the word.

Jacob’s eyes widen in surprise, or maybe excitement. “Really? Sunflowers are pretty! They’re yellow!”

“They are. And yellow was her favorite color.”

“Just like me!”

Jacob practically bounces on Andrew’s lap, sheer happiness radiating from him. Andrew can only wonder why it never occurred to him to tell Jacob about this before.