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Greg maintains a show of calm as he opens his coat. Fingers the pistol. Forces himself to drop it.
The blank, predictably, bares her fangs and recoils as the firearm hits the carpeted floor of the Thorn Clothing warehouse with a deadened thump. The gun is soon joined by the stake and the handcuffs– there go his only friends in the world, Greg thinks morosely. Not that they'd be of much help in these circumstances.
Greg eyes the blank as he nudges the gun further away with the toe of his boot and clears his throat. Her eyes flick from the sad remnants of Greg's arsenal back to his face, muscles tensed. But she doesn't pounce. Good for him! Foot in the door and head still attached to his shoulders. Time for step two.
Greg launches into the speech, just like he rehearsed it. It's tricky, walking the line between looking desperate enough to be nonthreatening, but holding it together enough to seem useful. He puts a lifetime's worth of experience staying calm under pressure into keeping his voice steady. Making eye contact, keeping his chin up and his shoulders back.
This could be the end of the road for Special Agent Demetrios, Greg reflects. The blank looks dainty, but she could lunge forward and chew his throat out before he could turn and run. Worse, she could probably make him enjoy it. Hell of a way to go. Maybe he deserves it, after how things turned out for poor Wilson and Jankowski. But it's his last chance, and he's not going to give a fucking blankbody the satisfaction of seeing him cringe and squeal.
Well, not until she lays her hands on him. Greg is only halfway through explaining his predicament and she's already shoving a knife to his neck, suddenly so close his nose itches at the peppery notes of her perfume. His heartbeat explodes in his chest, and Greg feels a trickle of cold sweat run down his spine. He shudders as she cups his face– he hasn't been touched by another human being (well, in the loosest sense of the word, if she counts) in weeks, but the skin is surprisingly warm. Almost normal.
Not those fangs, though. As she leans into his ear, leering, he can't imagine being taken in even by that flawless face, knowing what those fucking teeth can do.
Her voice is imperious and sly in his ear. Greg nods along. Yup, anything you want. All that I've got. Yeah, your fucking circus monkey, fuck you–
He grits his teeth as she leans in to kiss his neck, tongue flicking out to taste the skin. Anything that moves, with this blank– but that's the point, Greg reminds himself. She isn't the misanthropic sewer rat or the glad-hander swinging his dick around. She likes to toy with people, push their boundaries. Think she's smarter than them. But that means she sees him as more than a walking blood bag, and Greg can handle some suggestive ego-stroking if it saves his ass.
There's a pause as she sizes him up, but Greg already feels his posture relaxing. She's made up her mind, like he thought she would. He's too juicy– ahem– of an opportunity to pass up.
When the blank holds out her split fingertip, his disgust is perfunctory. Whatever fucked-up game she wants to play, he's signed up to go along with it. He bows his head, presses his mouth to the beaded droplet.
The blood is stickier than it should be, too thick, but the sensation as it coats his tongue isn't entirely unpleasant. It almost tingles, as if his mouth is going slightly numb.
The sweetness– that's disturbing. It reminds him for a moment of fruit left to rot, but then it mellows, still savory but more reminiscent of a very dry red. He wouldn't down a glass of it, but since he'd assumed any transfer of blood in this negotiation would be going violently in the other direction, he can deal.
Without realizing he's doing it, Greg laps his tongue once against the cut, then gently presses his lips against the tender skin.
When he looks up, he has the full focus of Nelli's attention on him– eyes wide, lips parted, her gaze tracing Greg's features with open fascination.
Greg realizes he's still holding her hand.
"Uhhhh... okay. Great. I think this went well," Greg announces, to no one. He drops Nelli's hand.
Greg tries not to be concerned at the gleeful smirk that breaks out on Nelli's face, and acquiesces to the petting and cooing over her new "ghoul". Whatever that means.
He has to keep from rolling his eyes as she summons her lapdog with a snap of her fingers. He and Brad eye each other with, Greg presumes, equal distrust as Nelli oozes self-satisfaction, dithering over what to do with her new pet.
"Fun," apparently. Oh, scratch that– fun with Brad. For fuck's sake. Greg hopes he can at least get a decent meal before he has to watch Nelli exsanguinate her boy toy, or whatever freaky shit he has to be down for now.
Still, as he follows Brad out to the employee parking of the mall complex, Greg feels the crushing weight of his impending death lift from his shoulders. Improbably– insanely– his gambit worked. New boss, new lease on life. Special Agent Demetrios lives to fight another day.
One night at a time, Greg thinks to himself. He'll live to see another sunrise.