Chapter Text
The first few months after the final showdown at the Lobo’s mansion are heavenly.
After 90 years of near-constant abuse, the peace that follows the grand disposal of the Count is the greatest reward Renfield could have ever asked for.
The first week or two was spent acclimating to life without the fearsome presence of Dracula hanging over him. Many nights Renfield would jerk awake, heart thudding in his chest with the anxiety that often came with neglecting his Master’s needs. It was difficult to adjust to a life where there were no needs to meet, other than his own, that is.
No more brutal killings, late night escapades, frantic relocations, or, perhaps worst of all, belittling and physical torture.
Adjusting to life without Dracula was not easy, but Rebecca, wonderful, patient, honorable Rebecca, was with him every step of the way. Their friendship grew stronger, and, with every day they spent together, Renfield began to consider Rebecca his single most greatest, treasured friend. Someone he could count on, trust with any aspect of his life (current and past), and rely on for sound advice.
Everything was, simply put, the best outcome he could have hoped for.
So it only made sense that everything would go straight to hell the second he found true happiness. After all, what comes around, goes around. And Renfield’s whole existence was the epitome of unfortunate circumstances leading to unfortunate consequences.
It was on a Wednesday that Renfield’s world broke apart. It wasn’t an unusual Wednesday, in fact, it was a beautiful sunny day that led to Renfield wearing one of the new t-shirts Rebecca had bought him recently. The shirt, colorful like the rest of his new wardrobe, featured a smiling cactus that exclaimed “Sunny days ahead!”
Positive affirmations were an essential sort to recovery, Mark had told him. So on went the cactus shirt and some new light blue jeans. A cheery outfit to match a cheery occasion.
Today was the day that Renfield planned on asking Rebecca on a date. He had gone back and forth on this for many weeks now, wondering if it was premature, if maybe she didn’t feel the same, if maybe he should just stay at the friendship stage. But, four months of constant outings, laughter, and texts had won over in the end (and his support group also agreed that it was time he make a move), so he had scheduled a nice brunch at the cafe they liked and planned to gently suggest the idea of a romantic dinner date.
Indeed, that Wednesday started off normally, with him buying flowers (daisies) for Rebecca and heading over to their usual spot at the cafe. It wasn’t until their appointed meeting time came, and Rebecca did not show up that Renfield began to worry. Rebecca had usually been on time for these outings, in fact, she was usually there way before Renfield. She was always prompt, no matter the occasion. And when no text came, not even a reply to his asking if she was okay, Renfield wondered if something terrible had happened.
It was that missed cafe meeting that began the downwards spiral. And it was that missed cafe meeting that found Renfield standing on Rebecca’s doorway, finger poised above the doorbell.
—
Renfield takes a deep breath and presses the old doorbell, the old-timey ding dong echoing through the door. He waits as the sound of shuffling feet approaches and the door creaks open, revealing a disheveled Rebecca.
She wears old, worn sweatpants and an equally worn hoodie, and her face, which had been carefully schooled into a neutral expression, immediately turns into a hate-filled grimace as realizes who is at her door.
“You,” she spits, eyes narrowing in anger as she looks at Renfield.
“Yes? Rebecca, is everything alright?” Renfield asks, not quite understanding what exactly was going on other than that his friend seemed to be remarkably furious with him.
Rebecca barks out a laugh, the sound harsh and out of character. “That’s rich, coming from you! Get the hell out of my face,” she growls, moving to close the door on him. He stops the door from slamming with the toe of his sneaker, the force with which she tried to close the door making his foot flare up in pain.
“Rebecca!” he pleads, holding his hands up in defense. “Please tell me what is happening, did I do something wrong? What is happening?”
If personalities were like light switches, then Rebecca’s had flipped the other way. And, somehow, Rebecca, one of the most level-headed, open-minded, and caring people Renfield had ever met had had her personality switch seemingly overnight. Without any rhyme or reason.
Rebecca laughs again, and slowly opens the door again, shaking her head with a frown. “You’re really a fool, aren’t you, Renfield?” she asks, and he’s even more alert now, the use of his last name triggering alarm bells in his mind.
Rebecca hasn’t used his last name since they last disposed of the Count, not after Renfield had declared his freedom, and Rebecca affirmed that she would call him Robert from then on. Another way to erase all associations with Dracula.
He opens his mouth to question her usage of his last name, but she starts to speak again, the vitriolic rage clearly evident in her tone.
“How could I ever want anything to do with a stain of a human like you? Hell, you’re not even a human,” she waves her arm at him in disgust. “You’re a monster, just like him. All these senseless murders, you think I can just erase them from my mind? I can’t stand to look at you, knowing what you’ve done.”
Renfield stares at her, aware that his jaw has fallen open, but he’s too shocked to close it, the course of events stunning him more than the time Dracula threw him in a frozen lake with just his thin nightwear on. A lesson to remind you of your place, he had sneered, and Renfield dimly thought about how this situation with Rebecca was arguably worse than that memory.
At least then, he had just nearly frozen to death and then been revived. Now, it felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest, but everything was still physically intact.
“B-but, we talked it over, a-and you said—“ Renfield splutters, but Rebecca raises a hand, silencing him.
She leans in close to him and takes in a deep breath before exhaling and snarling, “I said what I had to because I thought you had some decency left, but you’re beyond saving. And what’s even worse is that you’re a husk of a being, just a puppet who commits crimes and still has no fucking spine.”
The words echo of Dracula’s own insults, and Renfield finds himself lost for words, the strangeness of the interaction leaving him dumbfounded.
He blinks, pauses, and then pitifully whispers, “I don’t understand, I haven’t done any crimes in months, and you yourself said I made progress.”
Rebecca blankly stares at him before titling her head to the side and shrugging her shoulders. “So I lied. Big deal,” she says blandly. “And you can just as easily revert to your habits. Once a murderer, always a murderer.”
“It wasn’t for me! You know the situation, Rebecca!” he argues, now feeling panic begin to sweep into his bones. He’s still not sure what is happening, but it’s awfully clear that something is very, very wrong.
It’s almost like Dracula possessed her, but that’s not possible, he’s cut up into several concrete cubes in the sewer. He has no power, none at all, it truly can’t be him. Renfield plays through the possibilities in his mind, his confusion disappearing in favor of stomach-turning nausea and anxiety.
“Rebecca,” he says again, and she locks eyes with him, the coldness in her gaze sending shivers down his spine.
“What the fuck do you want?” she hisses, taking a step towards him, hands clenched in fists.
He’s now too scared to say anything, frozen, and powerless to do anything as Rebecca begins to scream at him.
“I am leaving you for a reason, you fucking piece of shit! All you did was take from me, assumed I cared about you. You were the worst thing that could have happened to me,” she pauses to take another deep breath. “And, I will never be happier than the day I hear you died for your crimes.”
The sobs he had been repressing break out of him then, his body flooding with shame, his heart shattering. Whoever said words cannot hurt clearly had not experienced true heartbreak. He drops to his knees, begging her to give him a chance, explain why she hates him suddenly, was any of their friendship real?
She laughs at him again, a deep disturbing cackle as she steps out of her house and shoves him to the ground.
“Pathetic!” she screeches, drawing back her hand to slap him. “You’re delusional to think you deserve any friends, any love. You worthless fuck.”
He’s still on the ground, scrabbling to sit up on the dead grass that is outside her front porch as she aims a kick at his ribs, leaving him doubling over in pain.
He’s babbling about his love for her without truly realizing what he’s doing. “Please, please,” he rambles on, crying. “I love you! I love you so much, I miss you, please.” He’s a mess, and he’s making a fool of himself, but he can’t be bothered to care when she’s tearing apart every piece of him that still had life.
She’s almost a beautiful force of nature, screaming in his face about how “his love is the most poisonous thing she’s ever encountered.”
He takes it, hoping she will calm down and admit that she was overreacting, that this is not real, but she barrels on. “The only thing you can do for me is experience the same fate you doomed your master to,” she bitterly snaps, beginning to walk back towards her front door.
“Rebecca!” he calls out, his voice cracking. “Wait!”
She stops, turning around to look at him apathetically.
“Please,” he tells her, opening his arms in a show of openness, tears still pouring down his pale cheeks. “I know, deep down, at least at some point, you cared about me too. This isn’t truly you!”
She’s silent, watching him with that uninterested look in her eyes, but Renfield know she’s listening.
“Whatever he told you or whatever you may think, it’s not true,” he murmurs, and she’s now walking towards him, slow and purposeful.
“You’re insane,” she snaps. “He is not here to excuse you from your actions. Nor is he influencing me. I am capable of determining that you have no worth in this world all by myself, thank you very much.”
“Rebecca, please!”
“You’re too much of a burden on this world,” she mutters, running a hand over her face tiredly. “I regret ever meeting you.”
“You don’t mean that,” he answers, his voice weak and pathetic, and he’s beginning to wonder if this is truly just karma coming around finally. Taking away his happiness the second he got it.
She’s almost gentle as she places a hand on his shoulder. “Renfield, look at me,” she says, and he blindly obeys, placing his trust in her one last time.
He sees a flash of light before he sees the blade, the sun reflecting on the shiny knife that Rebecca now holds in her other hand.
He meets her eyes, his breaths quickening. They look at each other for a few seconds, and she pretends to contemplate the weapon in her hand, but he knows her too well. She already knows what she wants, and he’s still frozen, disbelief cementing him in place.
She clears her throat before evenly stating, “The question is, really, why let you go when I can serve you your punishment now?”
His lips part to protest, but he doesn’t have any time to say anything before she plunges the knife deep into his abdomen. He hunches over, instinctively curling his hands around the knife as it protrudes from his stomach. He gasps as she twists the knife side to side, movements rough and unforgiving.
“Rebecca,” he groans, and she rips the knife out of him before shoving it back into his stomach.
Can anyone see her killing him in broad daylight? Was this really happening? Why is she doing this? She wanted to kill him? Why? His thoughts ram into his brain, and he’s too much in shock to react beyond the small breathless gasps that he is emitting.
She yanks the knife out of him once more before taking a cloth out of one of her sweatpants’ pockets to wipe it clean. He’s falling backwards onto the grass before he realizes what’s happening.
“I can claim self-defense, and people would believe me, what with your track record and all,” she says plainly, examining the now clean knife. “It’s a gift to the world to be getting rid of you. Should have done it so much earlier.”
She really must have never cared about me, he thinks, and part of him still wonders if this is somehow the Count’s doing, but the pain of the moment holds him from fully analyzing the situation.
“Now get off my lawn, your blood is not a suitable decoration,” she scoffs, kicking his left shoulder, and he struggles to get up, wheezing at the effort.
She watches him emotionlessly as he stumbles to his feet and hurriedly bundles himself into his car, thankfully still parked on the street in front of her house.
The pain in his stomach is excruciating, and he presses a bloodied hand to the wound to try to stop the bleeding; the effort futile but the action instinctive. He jams the key in the car ignition, heart hammering in his chest as he peels away from the curb, mind screaming in confusion, the betrayal cutting as deep as the physical wound Rebecca inflicted on him.
It’s a cruel way to end a seemingly sound friendship, and he’s sure he’ll be puzzling over it for the rest of his miserable life should he survive the drive back to his studio apartment.
For now, it’s enough for him to acknowledge that he’s once again alone and Rebecca, for whatever reason, has made it extremely clear that she wants nothing to do with him.
The drive home is a blur, his mind occupied with flashes of Rebecca and his body occupied with keeping him alive as long as possible.
It’s as he lurches through the doorway of his apartment, the blood from his stomach dripping on the floor, that he begins to feel his heart slow. Familiar as he is with death from his time with Dracula, he can tell that it’s the beginning of the end.
He unsteadily crashes against his kitchen countertop, raising a slippery, bloody hand to his fridge door, now only one thought in his mind.
As he yanks the fridge door open, he nearly cries in relief, the pitcher of Dracula blood sitting on the top fridge level like a beacon of salvation.
Hurt as he is, he can’t quite bring himself to terms with the idea of dying in such a manner. And disgraceful as it is to come crawling back to his Master, the Count’s blood is his only chance at surviving this wound.
He doesn’t bother to pour out a glass, the urgency of the matter leading him to sloppily pour back the pitcher into his mouth, the liquid splashing half on his cactus shirt, half into his mouth.
The effect, though, is instant. He slams the pitcher down on the countertop, groaning as he feels his stomach knit itself back together, his heart struggling to regulate itself as his body concludes that death is no longer imminent.
It’s only once he’s gotten his breathing back under control and he’s slumped down against his fridge that he hears the voice. Soft at first, the voice grows louder until Renfield has to double check that no one has entered his apartment suddenly.
But the voice is one he’s heard for decades. The hoarse drawl that echoes through his brain is unmistakably Dracula’s. A torment he thought he had rid himself of months ago.
But when he tunes in to listen to the voice, warmth floods through him against his better judgment, his body reacting positively to the familiarity of the voice.
“Oh, servant,” the voice hums. “It seems you missed me as much as I have you.”
“What—“ Renfield begins, but the voice shushes him.
“No, no, my dear pet, you’ve done a good thing drinking my blood, strengthening our bond once again,” the voice sighs. “I know you regret what you did, mistakes do happen. And I know you’re ready to right your wrongs. To get back on track. Continue to serve me as the faithful servant you are.”
Renfield stays silent, the poster on his apartment wall advertising finding freedom of one’s mind now nothing more than a mocking reminder of his failure to be free from his Master.
“So you’re going to find all the little cubes you cut me into and we will start again, hmm, Renfield?” the voice of Dracula buzzes through his mind, and Renfield finds himself nodding.
“Yes, Master,” he tonelessly answers.
The voice hums again in approval. “Because no one will love you like I do, Renfield. No one will care for you as I do. I am all you have, don’t you see?”
“Yes, Master,” Renfield repeats, closing his eyes in an effort to try to ignore the terrible ache in his chest as his mind replays the confrontation with Rebecca over and over.
He sets out for the sewers shortly after placing the Dracula blood back into the fridge. He doesn’t bother changing into clean clothes, his clothes are already bloodied and beyond any hope. The muck of the sewer won’t make a difference.
It’s with a heavy heart that he begins to wade through the filthy waters, searching for any cement cubes, memories of Rebecca seared in his mind.
Maybe Master was right, he thinks. No one will care for him as he does. After all, he gave Renfield a purpose. He never betrayed him. He always brought him back to life. And he had reached out to him even now, after all that had happened. It said something to the tenacity of their relationship, if anything.
Love with a human wasn’t in the cards for Renfield, then. Rebecca was right—he wasn’t a human anymore. He was a monster just like Dracula. And it was a monster’s love he deserved.
Meanwhile, unheard to Renfield, the Count cackled gleefully, his consciousness stirring in excitement as he used Renfield’s mind to watch his progress in uncovering his body. While he had no full physical form as of yet, the months of lying in the sewer had finally yielded results; his healing had been extremely slow, but he had managed to extend his influence over to Rebecca, erasing her affection for Renfield and replacing it with unbridled hatred. All part of his plan to bring his servant back to him.
Because domination’s the name of the game, and what is a master without his servant?