Chapter Text
Impulse is having a bad luck day.
Not that Impulse is a great believer in luck. His outlook on life is “things just kind of happen, but some days are worse than other days,” or something. This is a worse-than-other-days day. So far he:
1. Spilled engine oil on his suit at work in a way that won't clean out in time for the next work night;
2. Hit his head really hard coming up out of the oil change pit;
3. Couldn't work any more overtime even though he's good at it and needs the money;
4. Viewed an apartment at five in the morning and
5. almost fell asleep while he was driving back from the apartment viewing, and
6. almost burned alive before he could get into his apartment in time;
7. Didn't plug in his phone before he slept for nine and a half hours and missed several important calls;
8. Fell immediately back asleep for four more hours, making him rush his shower, laundry, and anxious nightly scroll through local restaurants and clubs,
9. fumbled his first shot at a meal and got kicked out of a nightclub, maybe for good.
The first eight were only small, unattached awful things, the kind that build up in a busy week. He didn't deserve any of them and he's going to stay mad at it. That last one makes the most sense and is the most deserved, because it's by far the creepiest thing he's found himself doing in recent months. Cornering someone in a dark, rather grimy corner of a nightclub isn't something he's good at, because he doesn't want to be good at it. It makes him feel gross. It makes the other person feel gross. He wishes every time he does it that he never had to do it in the first place, and never needed to again.
But he's getting hungry. Well. Thirsty.
He's gotten better at reading his limits, relying less on a calendar date for eating and more on when it's harder to wake up in the afternoons, or when he can't heal small bruises, or when he has to dress in layers to even feel the leftover sun's heat just after dusk. It makes his patterns less recognizable and his victims less frequent.
It also means that sometimes, he just forgets! Those are bad days, half-dozing until the closest possible moment between dusk and work to sneak something in.
This is the last possible day that Impulse can get a proper meal in before he'll have to have an emergency snack. He needs to get better fast, or a whole bunch of people to get really chill about a lot of things faster.
He's relocated far away from the place he was kicked out of, and he's got his reservations. It's an opening night for a new bar—there was a quiet opening a week ago, so everything's not brand new, and there shouldn't be anyone with cameras out poking around for good shots. But the chaos and noise are the sort generated by a bunch of people who know each other from somewhere, and Impulse doesn't know any of them at all. He could mingle, but his patience feels like it's about to snap, so he pulls back to the nearest calm and quiet space.
There's a balcony with chairs outside. The air is still pretty hot at night, humming, but Impulse feels it distantly. The wall opposite, for another building, is painted with a fresh mural. The colors are muted and slick in the light from the balcony windows. Impulse pulls away from the exit and a little to the left, to a dark patch, and steps on someone's foot.
“Oop!” Impulse says, at the same time the other person says, “Sorry!”
Impulse whirls around. He only has to look slightly downwards. “Are you good? I didn't see you.”
“Fine,” the person he stepped on says, wincing a little bit. “I'm good. Y'know, the party's in there.” He gestures to the bright windows.
“Yeah, that's why I'm out here.” Impulse grins at him. He can't hear anyone else in this nook between buildings, and it's protected from the street. Silence rings in his ears.
The other person snorts. “Me, too, man,” he says. “I—that's just too many people for one space, you know? I'm good out here. At least until things simmer down.”
“Me, too,” Impulse echoes quietly. He doesn't know how to get them away from the window. He doesn't want to start right here—they're almost too dark to see from inside the building, but not quite.
“I guess you can stay,” the other guy says, crossing his arms faux-grumpily. “As long as you don't step on my feet anymore.”
“Nice,” Impulse says. It really is hard to string words together. Maybe he's worse off than he thought. He should do it now. No, that--he can wait a little longer. He has to. “Just some introverts hangin' out.”
“Two bros chillin',“ The other person says. Impulse feels him staring. ”Hey, what's your name, stranger?“
”I'm Impulse,“ Impulse says. Mercifully there are some chairs stacked towards the back of the wall—an excuse to retreat further into the dim light. He can pretend he's going to grab some and sit down on the patio. He ambles towards them. ”Uh, what's yours?“
”I'm Tango,” and he follows easily, feet crunching over gravel after they step off the patio. “Sorry for asking like that, I thought you were someone I knew, but I guess now we know each other.”
“I mean,” Impulse says, leaning against the stack of chairs with his back to the windows, listening to Tango walk closer, “I don't think you know me know me. You don't even know my favorite color.”
“What, do I have to guess?” Tango sounds just this side of laughing. “Blue.”
“Not quite.” Impulse smiles at him and realizes it's pointless to hold on, to lure him somewhere darker—there's no way a human could see in this light. He wishes he could grab Tango by the arm right now, instead of waiting.
“Well, you have to guess mine,” Tango says, and unconsciously budges just that much closer. He finally catches sight of Impulse's eyes and freezes like a rabbit.
“Stay still,” Impulse says.
Tango nods.
“I'm going to bite your neck,” Impulse says.
Tango nods.
“It won't hurt at all, and I'll be fast. If anyone pulls us aside, I can do the talking, and you're gonna go along with everything, okay?”
Tango nods.
Impulse's throat--or maybe heart--squeezes tight for a moment. Tango seemed like a nice guy. “You're going to feel very peaceful,” Impulse tries, “maybe sleepy.”
Tango nods one more time.
Impulse pulls him in close and bites his neck. Tango gasps, an instinctual response, but sighs and goes almost slack, and Impulse closes his eyes. This is the fastest part, but it stretches out long and slow, because Impulse can feel the blood half-spraying half-pooling in his mouth and pouring down to settle in his stomach like languid sunshine. The grip he has on Tango's sides are warm, too, like he's a furnace, even through his jacket, except for the zipper, which grows colder as Impulse's body warms up.
This guy tastes... not great.
Impulse notes it immediately but knows not to pull away until he's reasonably full. The blood is nearly flat. There's not enough iron in it, and maybe some vitamins. Impulse has had blood from people before who were low in something, but they didn't taste this bad.
He pulls away, pressing the wound closed with his mouth before licking his lips. His stomach swoops at the sight of Tango's eyes rolling back into his head.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Impulse says, holding Tango upright when his knees buckle. “I said maybe sleepy. Hey—hey. Stay awake.”
Impulse can never tell when he's hypnotizing someone and when he isn't. There's no helpful indicator, like his eyes glowing. He just says things forcefully and hopes they stick. The 'stay awake' does not stick. Much. Tango doesn't so much as blink at him as much as keep his eyes open in small pieces.
”Uhh,“ Impulse remembers himself and tries to guide Tango to the road so he can get an Uber. ”Where do you live?“
”Mmm,“ Tango says, very loopily. Uh oh. ”Uhhh...“ he starts snapping his fingers.
”An address?” Impulse finds that his patience is completely restored, and he is much more nervous. There's no way he got away with that twenty feet from a party. Someone must have seen. They need to leave, and not be seen together.
“The, uh...” Tango gestures with increasing floatiness. “Pfff... The house...”
“Take your time,” Impulse says, and keeps Tango from falling over with one hand and opens his phone with the other. Tango remembers his address, stands very well until the Uber gets there, and then—right when everything is going well—grabs the front of Impulse's hoodie.
“C'mon,” Tango says.
“What—no,” Impulse tries to detangle himself from Tango. “I don't live with you—I just called your ride.”
“Elevator's broken,” Tango says, hitting about half the consonants, and looks up at Impulse pitifully. “I can't do the stairs.”
... Right. This guy probably lives alone. He climbs into the car and helps Tango do his seatbelt. His hands are still furnace-warm.
This is not. Ideal.
Impulse can't stop bouncing his leg. He checks the time—plenty before sunrise, at least. Tango leans against him, heavy and warm, and mumbles something into his shoulder.
“Huh?”
“I'm thirsty,” Tango says, or something like it. Impulse glances up at the rearview mirror. The Uber driver is watching the road, but they're probably listening.
“I can get you a...” His car. He left his car with water bottles in it. Impulse sighs. “You can get a drink when we get to your place.”
“Mmm.” Tango goes suspiciously quiet. Impulse cuts a look over at him to see him sleeping. He sways forward when the driver hits a stoplight, and Impulse presses a hand to his shoulder to keep him from slumping forward.
The Uber drops them off at a squat concrete building. Some dead potted plants are crowded outside at one of the balconies. A few cats stare at them from the steps. Impulse has given up pretending that Tango is in the walking stage of being drunk, and half-carries, half-lifts him up—
“Hey,” Impulse jostles Tango, who grunts uncooperatively. “Which apartment?”
“Fourth floor,” Tango mutters, rousing somewhat. ”Where are my keys...“
Nobody is outside on the steps or the balcony. There are lights inside some windows, but the talking is from televisions, not from people. The keys jingle in Tango's fumbling hands, but it doesn't make anyone come to the door to check why he's here so late. Impulse doesn't stop craning his neck to see behind him until he's got them both inside and locked the door.
Tango walks into a wall. ”Ow. Hahaha.“ he smacks his hands all over the pale paint and hits a coatrack that has a couple of umbrellas, a few jackets, and a pair of welding goggles. He walks facefirst into that, too.
Oh. ”Oh,“ Impulse says, and finds the light switches. The switch from dark to light is muted for Impulse, but he can see the colors a little better.
Tango says, “Frzkh!”
Impulse guides him by the elbow to a couch. He searches for the cabinet with glasses, pours some water from the tap, frowns, dumps the glass out in the sink and opens the fridge. By the time he has some orange juice ready Tango is bonelessly upright and tottering around the couch.
“What are you doing,” Impulse says wearily. He puts the glass down on the side table and drags at Tango's arm. “Come—come here. Sit back down.”
“Mrngh,” Tango says, but sits back down and drinks the glass of orange juice with both hands. Impulse takes the opportunity to hunt for the medicine cabinet. He frowns.
“Tango,” Impulse says lowly, “do you—do you have any iron supplements?”
“Hah?”
“Iron supplements,” Impulse says, knowing the answer already. “You've got some Emergen-C in here, do—are there any other vitamins?”
Tango meditates on this for a moment. “Banana,” he imparts, and drags a blanket over onto himself.
This guy's not going to recover if he doesn't get something. There's nothing much in the fridge, either. Impulse finds himself considering, genuinely, going to the store and buying groceries or—his car. Oh gosh. Is there any way he can come back and hypnotize him again to bring something in tomorrow? That's stupid. He's fucked. Okay.
He could just Uber someone to a grocery store. He could walk to one, maybe. That's so much money. That's so much time.
He has to do something.
Impulse closes the cabinets and checks on Tango. He wraps him in the blanket a little tighter and—the front door is this way, okay. Impulse opens his phone, realizes there's nothing that he can look at to actually improve his situation, and stuffs his phone in his pocket. He needs to go get his car.
Someone hits him with a baseball bat.
There's a short yell beforehand that Impulse twists to face head-on, which lets him see an aluminum baseball bat headed very quickly for his face. Impulse throws his arm up and the baseball bat hits his elbow so hard it goes briefly numb.
“What did you do with Tango!” the person swinging at him yells.
“I thought he lived alone!” Impulse yelps.
The swinging stops briefly. ”You what?“
“That—that sounded bad—” Impulse catches the end of the baseball bat in one hand and wrestles it free and bends it in half. ”I can—I can explain! Let me explain!“
”Oh my goodness,“ the man says in front of Impulse, staring at the twisted remains of the baseball bat. It's hard to tell if he's pale because he's terrified or if he's just not used to going outside.
Impulse doesn't drop the baseball bat, in case this guy gets any ideas, but he does hang it to the side in one hand. ”I can explain,“ Impulse says. He can not explain this. He draws a complete blank.
”What is happening,“ Tango groans from the couch, levering himself up on an elbow.
”Stay there,“ Impulse says, at the same time that the stranger says, ”What did you do to him?“
”Oh, my goodness,” Impulse says. He avoids everyone's eyes, which is hard, because everyone's staring at him. “Tango and I were—at a party—”
“Did you drug him?“
”No!“ Impulse says. ”He's—he had a little too much to drink, so I took him back to—here.“
”Tango doesn't like drinking,“ the stranger says. ”He's a lightweight.“
”Zed,“ Tango says from the couch. ”I'm not a lightweight. You're a lightweight.”
“Exactly,” Impulse says, “so there's no way he could make it on his own.“
“Why were you in the medicine cabinet?”
”Uh,“ Impulse says, and takes a step backward, towards the door. ”In case something could make Tango feel better.“ He should have lied. That sounded terrible.
”I feel fine,“ Tango says, getting up again.
”Tango,“ Impulse says, hoping a little bit of the hypnotism is still there, glancing at Zed's feet, knowing he can't move any direction but backwards. ”Tango, sit back down.“
”What did you do to him,“ Zedaph says.
”He's gonna be fine,“ Impulse says. He pulls back to the umbrella stand and leans slowly down to set the broken baseball bat on the floor. Zed doesn't budge an inch. ”Uh—get him some iron supplements, if you can. Maybe some fruit?“
”Tango doesn't like fruit,“ Z ed, looking Impulse up and down. He frowns. “Is that—is that blood on your shirt?“
impulse looks down at his shirt. He needs to stop wearing white. But there's no—stain...
”I distracted you! HA-JAH!“ Zed says, attacking him a second time. Impulse throws up his arm again, but it's not a baseball bat this time, it's a butter knife. It dents the sleeve of Impulse's jacket.
”Would you please stop trying to kill me,“ Impulse snaps, and grabs the butter knife out of Zedaph's hand, and screams. It is red-hot. It burns the top layer of his skin with a hiss of steam and clatters to the floor.
”JEEZ,“ Impulse yells. ”What was that for?!“
”You are in my house!“ Zed says shrilly. ”I'm in a t-shirt and shorts! You drugged my best friend!“
”Everyone shut up,“ Tango says from the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water. ”I've got a headache.“
”Sorry,“ Zed says. ”I'm trying to dispose of this guy.“
”You could have just let me leave,“ Impulse hisses.
”Did I have something to drink?“ Tango says, half to himself. ”Ugh.“
Zed looks at Impulse with his eyebrows raised. ”Why, Tango,“ Zed says, staring at Impulse's face, ”do you not remember what happened last night?“
”No,“ Tango says. He scratches the bite mark on his neck. The breath stutters in Impulse's throat.
Zed ducks down and picks up the butter knife to brandish it at Impulse. ”I think you should explain,“ Zed says.
”I told you Zed, I don't remember.“
”Not you,“ Zed says. ”This guy.“
Tango finally looks over at Impulse, holding the wrist of his injured hand tight to stop it from shaking. ”Impulse?“ he says. ”What are you doing here?”
“I,” Impulse says. “I—hey, don't poke me with that. I, um,” Impulse licks his mouth one last time to make sure that there's no blood in the corners of his mouth. “I took you home. Do you remember the Uber?“
”Uhhh,“ Tango says. ”Nope!“ He shuffles over to them both. ”Zed—why are you—a butter knife? Seriously?“
”No, watch this,“ Zed says, and swings it towards impulse's other hand.
”Cut that out!“ Impulse yells, flinching back. He should have left already. But now Tango is awake, and he—he wants to explain. He hasn't told anyone this. Not even...
”This is the nice silverware,“ Tango says, looking about halfway awake. ”Jeez, what's all over it—oh my gosh, is that his skin? Zed!“
”Oh, that's quite nasty actually,“ Zed says. ”It burned him. See?“
Tango whistles. “Yeowch,” he says appreciatively.
Impulse contemplates tearing his hair out. ”Tango,“ he says. ”I have—I have to go. Here.' He pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, writes a phone number on it in pen on his thigh, and presses it into Tango's hand. “Buy some iron supplements with this. If you see me again, call this number.”
“What?” Tango says. He tries to give the money back. “No—no! I need you to explain! What happened at the party, dude?”
“I can't,” Impulse says, “I can't tell you. I gotta go.” He turns around and tries the door handle.
”Wait,“ Zed says. ”Silver burns you. You can't look us in the eye. You fell for my bloodstain-on-your-shirt trick. I know what you are.“
Impulse freezes, but can't turn around. Tango protests, but Zedaph shushes him.
”You're a werewolf!“ Zedaph says, leveling a finger at Impulse.
This is Impulse's final straw. He breaks down into hysterical laughter.
”C'mon, Zed, everyone knows werewolves aren't real,” Tango complains. Impulse laughs harder.
“Well, what else could he be?” Zed throws a hand towards Impulse, whose knees have buckled and set him to the floor. “Just look at him! He's—he looks like a supernatural kind of guy! Is he a ghost or something?”
“I think he's a vampire,” Tango says, “'cause there's a weird mark on my neck, and it's itching like crazy.“
”Oh,“ Zedaph says. Impulse wheezes silently on the floor. A siren wails to life outside. “But he's breathing.”
“You're right,” Tango says. “But I'm... righter.”
Impulse thinks he might be crying. It's hard to say. Laughing when you don't actually need to breathe feels weird, anyway, so another weird feeling is difficult to separate from normal weird and additional weird.
“Hey,” Tango says, poking Impulse with his shoe. “Get up so I can give your money back.”
Impulse works his way upright, gasping, and wipes his face. “I'm not taking it back,” he says.
“I don't need it,” Tango says, and holds it out. “We're doing fine.”
“Your blood tasted bad,” Impulse says.
”Rude,“ Zed mutters.
”You need more iron, and uh, vitamin B, maybe,“ Impulse says. ”Especially after you—lost so much blood.“
”You can taste that?“ Tango sounds somewhere between appalled and fascinated.
“Yeah,” Impulse says, and clears his throat. “Uh—unfortunately. For you.”
“How fast is your burn going to heal?” Zed asks. “For science.”
“I don't know.”
“Will it heal faster if you drink more blood?”
Probably. “I don't know.”
Tango lets the bill flutter to the ground and shuffles back to the kitchen.
“Would you mind if I study you from afar,” Zedaph says, pulling out his phone. Impulse almost slaps it out of his hands but doesn't want to do any more damage to him.
“Don't do that,” Impulse says.
“Okay,” Zed says, and resolutely holds the phone up anyway to take a picture. Impulse smacks it aside.
“Stop,” Impulse says.
“Hey, does this stuff work on you?” Tango calls from the medicine cabinet, holding up a box of bandages and an antibiotic.
“Me?”
“Yes, you, vampire boy,” Tango says.
“I guess,“ Impulse says, eyeing Zedaph warily.
”Now,“ Tango says, setting everything down on the counter and prying open Impulse's burned hand, ”tell me what happened.“
Tango doctors up Impulse's hand while Impulse explains. It will for sure heal by the time Impulse has his next meal, but this will hold him over in the time being. More importantly, if he plans this right, he's never going to see these people again, which is something, at least. They can just laugh this off as a weird night. Impulse chatters in a friendly way and smiles and finally gets up to leave and get his car back and leave these awful 24 hours behind him.
”Hey, uh,“ Tango says, cleaning his hands off in the sink. ”I have a request from you.“
Impulse stops in the hallway. Zedaph gave up trying to take a picture of him when all the photos came back blurred, and both of them watch him openly, warily.
”Since I'm not taking your money,“ Tango nods at the twenty Impulse stubbornly left in the floor, ”but you said you were a mechanic, and you wanna pay us back, can you take a look at our car? It's messed up.“
Impulse checks the time. Three hours before sunrise.
”I have time,“ he says, and holds the door open for them both, so they can lead the way to the parking lot.