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They’re drinking. Felix isn’t at all sure if James can even get drunk, but he seems to find some comfort in it anyway. Maybe it’s a Count thing. And Felix is just tipsy enough to think it’s a good idea to ask, “How did you get turned, anyway?”
James stills, his hand stiffening on his glass of vodka, and Felix thinks he’s overstepped. He’s trying to figure out how to back out of this conversation, how to apologize and leave James his secrets, when James glances away and says, “I was captured. Like you, I suppose.” His lips twist, in a little miserable smirk. “I was intelligence before I was a vampire. On her majesty’s secret service . . . or at least Naval Intelligence, which was close enough. And we were at war, and I was a patriot. Still am, I suppose, in my own way. Although I’ve learned a lot since then. Learned not to be so bloody narrow-minded, if nothing else. But that was then.”
He takes a sip of his vodka, his eyes distant. “They tortured me,” he says, quietly. “The Gestapo.”
Felix knows James doesn’t like people being touchy-feely with him, doesn’t like being “coddled.” Knowing what Felix does now, he suspects it’s some kind of 1940s thing - men aren’t supposed to be weak, be vulnerable. But Felix is a modern man, and he can see that James is in pain, so he reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Something we’ve got in common, then,” he says softly.
(He wonders about that one line of James’s, learned not to be so bloody narrow-minded. James has never seemed uncomfortable with Felix’s race or disabilities - but how easy is it to shake off that kind of prejudice? Would James be disgusted if he knew Felix was in love with him?)
“I wouldn’t talk,” James says. “So, eventually, they left me for dead. I was bleeding out . . . I would have died. And then a man appeared.” He draws in a breath. “He was Abwehr, I think. A sympathizer . . . and a Count. He said, ‘This is all I can do for you, son.’ And he turned me.” James gulps down the rest of his vodka. “I suppose he thought it was a mercy. Maybe it was.” His lips turned upward, wry again. “After all, if I preferred death to unlife, I’ve had plenty of chances to make that choice.”
Felix surprises himself with the vehemence of his reaction to that. “Good damn thing you didn’t. Or I’d never have met you.” He squeezes James’s shoulder.
James looks up and meets Felix’s gaze with a genuine smile. “I would’ve expected you to believe it’s better to be dead than undead. Isn’t that the official stance of HNT?” His tone is a little guarded, but not hostile. They’re still learning how to be friends again, now that James’s secret is out in the open.
It sounds horrible when James puts it like that, but at the same time, Felix doesn’t want to lie to him, doesn’t want to sugarcoat his actual views. He takes a sip of his beer. “I used to think that,” he admits. “Maybe I’ve got something to learn about not being narrow-minded, too. And I still . . .” He shakes his head. “You’re my friend - you, the way that you are, now. But you’re . . . not the same man you were before you died. And I don’t know if I’d want to be . . . changed like that.” He looks back at James. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you here. I’m glad you made it this far - however it happened.”
James looks back at him. “It’s not the same thing - I mean, what you think, it isn’t narrow-minded. Or at least not the same way I was.” His lips curl, self-deprecating this time. “Whatever my former self might have thought, men who like other men don’t actually have any interest in attacking people.” He gives this a moment’s thought, and then adds, “Well, no more than any other human, at least.” He shrugs. “But I do.” He pours himself another glass of his expensive vodka. “That’s why I joined MI6,” he says, his eyes distant again. “So that I could kill people. The alternative was worse. I don’t enthrall people. I’d rather be dead than live like that, and I’d rather die than inflict it on people.”
Felix glances at him, and then away. “I did it too,” he admits. “For the CIA. And I didn’t - you know. I didn’t need to do it to survive.”
“Patriotism,” James says, with a little smile. “Another thing we’ve got in common.”
“Sometimes I wonder if it’s not better. What you do, compared to what I did,” Felix says, very quietly. “Because you don’t really have a choice, do you? And I did. And the things I did . . .” He shakes his head. “Sometimes they don’t seem worth it.”
“I don’t regret what I am,” James says. “I’ve been very lucky, in a way, more so than most people. I’ve lived this long, seen the world change . . .” He glances over, and smiles. “Got to meet you.”
Felix chuckles and leans closer, squeezing James’s shoulder again. “You’re getting soft in your old age, James,” he says, fondly.
James chuckles too. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just learned the value of friendship.”
More than friendship, Felix thinks, and he leans a little bit closer, thinking how easy it would be to lean over their glasses and press his lips against James’s. It would complicate everything, of course. But maybe it would be worth it . . .
And then James’s phone rings, and James swears and pulls it out of his pocket. “M,” he mutters. “I’ve got to take this.”
The moment passes. Ah well, Felix thinks, as James excuses himself to another room to speak to his boss. Maybe another time.