Chapter Text
If anyone needed a good example of what confusion looked like, they need not look farther than him.
Reviving the diced corpse of his abusive past boss, only to find himself with a younger, flirtier version of him, and then ultimately lose him to yet another spell that somehow involved time travel and the reinstatement of his older boss (yet he was nothing like his older boss) was just a cursory outline of all that had happened to Renfield.
And to say that he was confused was an understatement. Look up ‘confusion’ in the dictionary, and there’s bound to be a picture of him.
“I can hear you thinking again, Renfield,” Dracula’s voice pipes up, and Renfield jerks his head up, watching as Dracula continues to pull sheets off the furniture around them. “It’s distracting.”
Pulling sheets off of furniture should hardly count as laborious brain activity, yet Renfield decides to not question him on this. It’s already odd enough that they’re back in the Weavert mansion. The tour guide, Jeff, bless his soul, is once again unconscious in the lobby, and they really ought to tell him to take a long, restful vacation somewhere far from here for all the trouble he’s been experiencing lately.
Hell, he feels like he needs a restful vacation following this whole ordeal. The Dracula he once knew and followed is long gone, and he might as well have whiplash, he’s moving through different Dracula's so fast. And, on top of that all, he’s beyond confused about how he feels about the man. He’d begun growing attached to the young Dracula, but, according to Madame Couteau and this (new?) Dracula, the young Dracula is also long gone. Now he has this Dracula who looks like his old one, but acts entirely different to him.
And to think all this could have been avoided if he just let his old boss rot in the sewer in the multiple cubes he and Rebecca had diced him into.
If he was being honest, it would be easier to say the whole situation could really have been avoided if he hadn’t stepped foot inside the Count’s castle 90 years ago, but he’d be a fool to say that he could have avoided the curiosity that drew him to the Count in the first place.
It was a lose-lose situation. And, somehow, it was becoming more fucked up as the hours went on. For he had landed back in New Orleans and seemed to be actively re-living the events he had gone through with the original Dracula.
Only this Dracula was insisting on bonding and had dragged him to a graveyard to bury four corpses and reanimate a fifth one so that they could “get to know each other better.” Of course, that hadn’t gone to plan, and they nearly got caught by Rebecca and some other cops. Dracula, though he wouldn’t tell him to his face, had swooped in and got them out of the situation just in time. Which was lucky as Renfield wasn’t exactly eager to find himself being interrogated in the police station again. Especially not when Rebecca seemed to have no recollection of him, and he had no grasp on reality anymore (since when was time travel a thing?!).
So, here they were, back inside the Weavert Mansion, in a room he hadn’t been in yet, Dracula muttering about getting some furniture for them to sit on, and a pumpkin man statue dressed in an impeccable three piece suit staring at them from the corner.
There’s so many things Renfield could say, but he settles on one of his lesser worries. “Are we still planning on reanimating that corpse?” he croaks, and Dracula yanks another sheet off a chair with more force than is required in response.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Renfield mutters, and Dracula is once again silent, opting to examine the ornate wood detailing on the chair.
“Exquisite furniture, less exquisite statues,” Dracula comments, running a hand over the chair. “And you’re correct: reanimating a corpse to officiate an interview between us seems to not be in the cards for tonight.”
“I thought your other self warned you to avoid pumpkin man statues,” Renfield voices, but Dracula merely quirks an unamused eyebrow at him.
“Your point being?”
Renfield gestures to the three-piece-suit-wearing pumpkin man statue to the right of them. “My point being there’s one right in the room with us and most likely at least a dozen more scattered throughout the house.”
“And?”
“They’re murderous creatures! I’d prefer we find alternative lodging for the night,” Renfield huffs, and Dracula rolls his eyes at him.
“You have a centuries-old vampire by your side and have your own portion of his powers. A nicely dressed statue should hardly be a threat,” Dracula frowns at him. “And I’d prefer we not stay in an abandoned hospital.”
“So the fact that your counterpart explicitly warned you about these statues has absolutely no meaning to you,” Renfield retorts. “Oh, and I’m also glad to see that your preferences trump mine in this case.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?”
“Are you always this difficult?” Dracula groans, collapsing into the chair with an exasperated wave of his hands.
“Not usually, but I have been through quite the ordeal, so the way I behave may have changed from what you expected,” Renfield fires back, feeling equally frustrated.
Of course, it’s at this tense moment that the pumpkin man statue decides to move, because, honestly fuck his life. Can’t have one decent conversation without something happening.
The statue hurtles towards Dracula before he can even react, and Renfield stands gaping at the easiness with which Dracula was overtaken. The supposedly all-powerful vampire wrestles with the statue for a moment before transforming into a flurry of bats, and, naturally, flying out of the room, leaving Renfield alone with the statue.
“You have chosen to return,” the statue growls, and Renfield rapidly shakes his head.
“I wouldn’t say I chose to,” Renfield replies, and the statue tilts his head.
“Yet here we are, two figures in a dance until the end,” the statue snarls, and Renfield takes the moment to stuff a few bugs in his mouth from his little pill box. He’s glad he had the foresight to replenish his supply after the fight with Apache Joe, but even as he feels the energy surge through him, he finds himself too slow to react as the statue effortlessly picks him up and slams him down on the ground.
The pumpkin man lets out an animalistic growl as he lifts his foot to stomp on him, and Renfield rolls out of his way, scrabbling at a discarded sheet and throwing it into the man’s face. It buys him just enough time to get back on his feet and kick the statue against the wall.
The statue stumbles, and then raises its head, grinning with its sharp teeth as it looks at Renfield. “Your vampire left you alone,” he comments. “What does that say about you?”
“What, is this a therapy session?” Renfield shakes his head, jumping to his feet. “He left in the face of danger, that’s all there is to it.”
The statue seems to smirk, lifting a gloved hand to tap against his chin in thought. “He left you in the face of danger, you mean to say,” he replies, and Renfield feels his chest constrict as he realizes the pumpkin man is right. Dracula did leave him. Again.
As if echoing his thoughts, the statue continues, “He did leave you, and he hasn’t changed. You know better than that, Renfield. And you deserve better than that.”
Suddenly this is no longer a fight, but Renfield isn’t sure he likes where it is heading. Arguably, it is more dangerous territory than a fight, but he still finds himself rooted to his spot opposite the statue, listening to the strangely apt observations of a decorative figure.
“You don’t know me,” Renfield says, and the pumpkin man laughs, a throaty sound that borders on unpleasant.
“On the contrary, I’d say I know you rather well. I’ve seen this very situation numerous times,” the statue grins wider, rubbery lips stretching eerily. “You see, I used to be a therapist.”
“Explains the unprompted psychoanalysis,” Renfield mutters, and the statue tilts his head in acquiescence. “But it hardly explains the fact that I’m talking to an animated pumpkin.”
“The world of the undead is not strange to you, Renfield,” the statue remarks. “Why start questioning it now?”
The statue did have a point, Renfield thinks. This may as well be a regular Tuesday for him. “How do you even know my name?” Renfield asks instead.
“I have ears, you know,” the statue snarks. “I’ve heard your beloved vampire refer to you as ‘Renfield,’ unless you have another name?”
“I used to go by Robert,” Renfield mumbles. “But I left the life of ‘Robert’ behind when I became his familiar. I’ve been going as ‘Renfield’ for almost a century now.”
“Yet another loss of your autonomy,” the statue says, and Renfield thinks back to what the statue said earlier.
“What did you mean when you said I deserve better? And why did you stop fighting me?” he asks, and the statue shrugs.
“I recognize an unwilling participant when I see one, and I believe this anger can be channeled into a more productive mission.”
“That being?”
The statue’s eyes dart to the door where Dracula had flown out and purses his rubbery lips. “I believe you are aware that we detest vampires?”
Renfield recalls the previous pumpkin man that the younger Dracula had smashed. During their fight, he had said something about Mr. Weavert not liking vampires. “Yes, but I know not why,” Renfield says, and the statue narrows his eyes.
“Mr. Weavert had his entire family murdered by vampires,” the pumpkin man statue bluntly replies, and Renfield winces. “He made it his life purpose to construct defenses against that ever happening again. Which is why we are the way we are.”
“He made pumpkin man statues to defend against vampires?” Renfield frowns, considering this. “How would that help?”
“It helped me find you, didn’t it?” the statue replies. “And I have the distinct understanding that you would be the perfect person to help me take down the man who is responsible for Mr. Weavert’s pain.”
“I’m sorry, but who even are you? And you’re asking me to turn against the man I just went through hell and back to revive? Why would you even think I would consider such a thing?” Renfield sputters, mind reeling at the sudden turn of events.
The statue lets out a small huff before extending his gloved hand. “My name is Dr. William Weavert, and, if you choose to put it that way, yes, but I’d prefer to think of it in terms of an unlikely alliance that will bear mutual benefits.”
“Sure you weren’t a lawyer in your past life?” Renfield mutters, shaking the proffered hand, and the statue, or, Dr. Weavert, merely raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “And you clearly fail to understand what I’ve been through.”
“You’ve been through enough, Renfield. We both know it, and why lie to yourself? This isn’t the same vampire you brought with you the previous visit. You know, deep down, that he won’t fill that void in your heart.”
Renfield rubs his eyes tiredly, letting out a long sigh. “If, and only if, I decide to side with you, what is your plan?”
The statue’s eyes twinkle in amusement. “Why, it would not be very wise of me to reveal the plan if I don’t have your full and complete commitment, hmm? How do I know you won’t immediately reveal my plan to your vampire?”
“You run the risk of betrayal either way,” Renfield points out, frustrated. “I could just as easily tell you I agree and then tattle to Dracula.”
“Fair point,” Dr. Weavert concedes, and then looks at the watch on his wrist. “It’s very telling that your vampire still has not returned for you, don’t you think?”
Renfield grits his teeth together and crosses his arms, doing his best to appear annoyed with the statue. It’s hardly the statue he’s angry with at this point, but it almost feels ridiculous to say that he’s annoyed with Dracula considering he’s hardly his Dracula. Hell, they hardly know each other, so maybe this is just his way of handling things and maybe he’s actually gathering back-up for Renfield. Maybe he’s fighting another pumpkin man statue. Maybe…maybe…maybe.
But even to Renfield, the argument is weak. Dracula may have claimed to have an enlightenment regarding his treatment of Renfield, but this is hardly a decent start. If anything, Renfield is tempted to side with this Dr. Weavert. What has he got to lose anyway? Another version of Dracula? His attempt at a happy ending? His sanity? All those things were already lost, some more than once. It would barely make a difference if he lost them again at this point.
He finds himself extending a hand to Dr. Weavert without realizing it.
“I take it that this means you agree to collaborate to bring the end of Dracula?” the doctor asks, eyeing his hand.
“I suppose,” Renfield replies, raising his eyes to meet the doctor’s. They’re a nice blue-gray, and Renfield distantly thinks of his wife, who had similar blue eyes. It’s an eerie reminder of how life has a funny way of circling around.
Dr. Weavert takes Renfield’s hand and gives it a quick, firm shake. “Then the end of Dracula is now our immediate concern.”
“Your plan being?”
“Well, clearly, your first attempt at killing him did not work, so we should resort to more unorthodox methods,” Dr. Weavert muses.
“More unorthodox than dicing someone and throwing them in a sewer?” Renfield mumbles, and Dr. Weavert lets out a sardonic laugh.
“Renfield, if we want to bring around the end of Dracula, it must be by his own hand,” Dr. Weavert states, and Renfield finds himself, once again, confused.
“You want him to end himself?” Renfield whispers, half-horrified at the idea of forcing someone to pain such as that, but the statue quickly waves his hand at him, with an equally horrified expression.
“No!” Dr. Weavert exclaims, eyes wide. “What kind of therapist do you take me to be? We must bring back the young Dracula, and have them duel against each other. A vampire would know how to kill a vampire.”
“And then what? You still have a young Dracula left over,” Renfield points out, and Dr. Weavert shrugs.
“He is of no concern to us. It is this older Dracula that wronged Mr. Weavert, and we both know the young Dracula holds a different frame of mind to this older one,” Dr. Weavert pauses and then smirks. “And I am quite sure that you would be amenable to bringing back this younger Dracula.”
“You didn’t like him much last time,” Renfield protests, but the doctor just waves another unbothered hand at him.
“We can’t win everything, but it would bring us much peace to destroy this current, older version of him and agree to co-exist with the other, younger one.”
“This makes no sense.”
“Neither does anything else, Renfield, yet here we are,” Dr. Weavert scoffs, and Renfield sighs again.
“So, how do we go about this? The younger Dracula is gone, as in permanently gone. This Madame Couteau performed some time reversal spell, and I was told it’s irreversible. I fail to see how we can possibly do anything.”
“Why, Renfield, you have no imagination, and you neglect to consider my mere existence. There is more magic in the world than not, and I have the perfect idea.”
“Well, I’ve been standing here chatting to you for longer than I would want to,” Renfield argues. “You either have an idea or you don’t.”
“Madame Couteau isn’t the only one with peculiar capabilities,” the statue says ominously, pulling a pocketwatch from one of his waistcoat pockets.
Renfield is about to ask what the hell that’s even supposed to mean when Dracula finally decides to show up, this time waving his arms dramatically and hissing as he tumbles through the doorway.
“Pumpkin men be gone!” he shrieks, still flapping his arms around. If Renfield wasn’t so angry with him, he would find it comical. Instead, he watches Dracula slowly lower his arms as he realizes that the room is empty. Where Dr. Weavert went, Renfield couldn’t say, the statue seemingly vanishing into thin air the second Dracula stepped foot in the room.
“He’s gone?” Dracula asks, turning to look at Renfield with dismay. “I was entirely prepared to ambush him.”
“With the time you took, I would have either been dead already or defeated him myself,” Renfield snarks back, and Dracula actually flinches.
“I’m sure you understand that it is difficult adjusting to the 21st century,” he begins, and Renfield cuts him off with an exasperated sigh.
“Save it for someone who cares,” he spits, and then turns on his heel, leaving Dracula alone in the room.
He’s not sure where he’s going, but he finds himself not caring, instead relishing every step he takes that leads him further away from Dracula. Part of him wonders if he stepped too far and inevitably incurred the wrath of Dracula…after all, in the past, this kind of behavior would have resulted in certain-death. Yet, with each passing minute, Dracula fails to appear before him, and Renfield finds himself accepting that this truly is not the master he once knew.
He comes to several conclusions: he’s most certainly confused about his feelings towards the vampire (yes, yet another tally to the number of times Renfield has admitted to being confused these past few days). And sure, he may have no idea what the hell he’s doing. And, maybe most pressing of all, he’s not sure why the fuck he is standing in front of Mulates.
The restaurant used to be his main hunting ground/place he found peace in, and he distantly recalls the large-scale fight he found himself in that resulted in his entire identity changing -- at least for some time and before everything turned upside down. He finds himself pushing the door open, navigating to his usual table as if on auto-pilot.
Maybe it’s a good night to get drunk and forget about the past few days. He plops down at his table and lowers his head as he looks at the drink menu. When he raises his head, a handsome raven-haired man in a three piece suit sits across from him.
“Uh,” Renfield sputters, unsure when and how this random stranger sat at his table without him noticing. “Can I…help you?”
The man leans forward with a smirk. “Oh, I’m sure you can, Renfield,” he says, and Renfield internally curses the universe. Could he not even get one hour to himself without some random thing happening to him?
“Who are you?” Renfield squints at the man, and the man just raises his eyebrows.
“I should mention that, as a psychiatrist, I technically have a medical degree. Your sudden case of amnesia is rather alarming, I must say,” the man says, and Renfield feels his stomach roll uneasily.
“But…you’re not a pumpkin,” he replies stupidly, staring at him as realization dawns on him.
“No, I’m not,” the man grins.
“But,” Renfield repeats, the rest of the sentence dying in his throat as he struggles to understand this new turn of events.
“Whatever will we do now that I am not a pumpkin statue?” the man, or Dr. Weaver, teases. “What a delightful conundrum.”
“How?” Renfield mumbles, still staring.
“I told you, Renfield, there is more magic in this world than not,” Dr. Weavert replies, tilting his head. “I trust you’re ready to follow through with the rest of our plan?”
“The rest?” Renfield shakes his head. “You haven’t even told me the beginning!”
The doctor pulls out the pocketwatch once more, rubbing a finger over the design over the front before popping the case open, revealing a glowing watch face.
“I don’t need to tell you if I can just show you,” he says, and that’s the last thing Renfield hears before he’s sucked into the glowing numbers of the pocketwatch.