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Deacon, like clockwork, wakes at sunset. He comes to inside a bathtub, in a tiny little bathroom unfamiliar to him. He winces at the dryness of his throat, the hunger roiling in his gut, and wounds that are mostly closed over. His head pounds and pulses, though he has a hard time placing if it’s from the frenzy clawing at the back of his mind, or the human whisky he can taste on his own tongue. Whatever the case, Club Crepuscule did a number on him, and he knows he left with someone .
(He thinks that, somewhere along the way, they drank each other’s blood. The complications of a blood bond only adds to his list of concerns.)
Slinging an arm over the side of the bathtub, Deacon groans as he rolls onto his side, working slowly to try and pull himself upright. His clothes smell faintly of burnt smoke, with some buttons undone or missing, and bloodstained edges where rips tear through material he’s kept pristine for decades. Pulling himself to a sitting position, he fixes what he can and smooths down his shirt. He isn’t exactly in the business of wearing anything even remotely revealing, but there isn’t much he can do in his current situation but mourn the losses. Catching his breath, he looks around the bathroom.
“Damnit,” he mutters, spotting the telltale signs of a hotel in the form of mini soaps and shampoos. He’d hoped that he’d spot something to clue him in on who he left with, to give him some semblance of who he’s dealing with and how to exit as quickly and gracefully as possible, but that’s off the table already. “Alright, here goes.”
Pushing himself to his feet, Deacon steps out of the bathtub on legs that feel far too weak. The frenzy scratches at him, begging to be let out; Deacon forces it down as he glances at the mirror, for once glad he can’t see his reflection. He has no desire to see the hungry glint in his own eyes, nor the blood smears. With only a moment’s hesitation, he opens the bathroom door.
The hotel room it swings open on is quiet and empty. The walls are bare, painted in a beautifully pale pink that could almost be taken as a shade of white. Wood panelling runs in thin strips, breaking up the monotony. All things given, it’s one of the nicer places Deacon’s found himself waking up in since his unlife began.
Stepping into the space fully, Deacon casts his gaze to the window. The curtains are drawn tight, covering all potential light from seeping in. With caution, he pulls one back, catching a glimpse of the fading colourations of sunset. The streets below are familiar enough to him for him to lodge a guess at the area he might be in.
“What are you doing here, Deacon?”
Arthur’s voice. She sounds tired, haggard, in the same way Deacon feels; he smiles at her, an easy, simple thing that only lingers for a fleeting moment before it vanishes again.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I remember very little of last night,” she replies, eyes narrowed. “Last I remember… Elysium.”
“So it was you I left the club with, huh?”
“It seems that way.” Arthur screws up her nose, arms folded over her chest. “ Unfortunately .”
“Ah, well…” Deacon’s gaze drifts across Arthur’s features, “I could stand to do worse, I suppose.”
Arthur huffs. “And I could stand to do better.”
“Surely you could have. Ladies queuing up around the block for a taste of ya.”
“There’s no other women here. Just you.”
Deacon cracks a smile. “That your way of admittin’ you like me, Arthur?”
Arthur turns her gaze away, to the view out the window. “Or something.”
“If I had to wager a guess, I’d say that young prince is here, too.”
“Yes. You’re free to take him with you, Deacon. Hell knows he’d be safer.”
“I got a city to sort out,” he says, “I don’t need to be stuck babysittin’. Not when I can leave ‘em with you, Arthur.”
“Charming, aren’t you?” Arthur remarks dryly.
Deacon flashes her a blindingly bright smile. “Ah, I do try my best, sweetheart.”
“Your best involves leaving me with two young vampires and that halfwit of a guard?”
“Yes, it does.”
Arthur exhales audibly. “Deacon, I’m not cut out for this. For any of it. You should be taking them, not me.”
“None of us are put together all the time, darlin’.” Deacon fumbles with his shirt, tugging it up until it exposes the surgical scarring on his chest, a little less neat than it would be on a mortal. “These are physical proof of that.”
“ Those were a good thing.”
Deacon shrugs. “Sure, maybe. But those aren’t my only scars. Most are a lot uglier. You can admit you’re scared.”
“No.”
“For the boys, I mean.”
“I’m not scared , Deacon, I’m a realist.” Arthur glares at him, her eyes flashing with something far more monstrous than Deacon dares to name. She’s beautiful regardless. “Those kids are going to die with me. I cannot guarantee their safety – Would you put the blood of a prince upon me?”
“Two of them, I’d wager.” Deacon pushes his hat back up by a few centimetres. “But you care. That makes you a better choice than me.”
“That makes it worse,” Arthur mutters darkly. “What happens if I die for them, Deacon? What happens when two young vampires of royal blood, with no experience or knowledge, are left alone?”
“Give yourself some credit. You’re smarter than that, and probably a hell of a bitch to try and kill.”
“Deacon, please. Spare me your optimism.”
“Well…” Deacon pauses, looking back out the window. “Then you die, and they find a way to survive. The punk one – Emizel, was it? – isn’t too stupid. He’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe.” Arthur turns on her heel and retreats rapidly into the bedroom. Deacon lingers for a moment, mapping out the streets in his mind, before pulling the curtains shut and following. There’s not much separating it from the small area they’d been in before, made up of a tiny kitchenette and a couch; there’s a curtain over the doorway that he pushes his way through easily.
“Arthur –”
“Don’t you have a city to attend to?” she says, her tone somewhat harsh. Deacon sits on the bed, keeping his eyes on her.
“The moon’s only just come up. What’s the rush?”
Arthur casts him a glance, her eyes narrowed. The room feels far more tense than it had moments prior, as she hesitates by the nightstand, her eyes meeting his. “You can’t help me, Deacon.”
“Not with you bein’ so determined to keep yourself this closed off.”
Arthur takes a few steps to cross the space, standing directly in front of him. “What are you getting at, Deacon?”
“Look, you don’t know me — Not well, anyway.” Deacon reaches out like he’s going to cup Arthur’s cheek, but settles for curling it over her shoulder instead. “But if you need a friend, you’ve got one in this city.”
“I don’t need a friend, Deacon.” Arthur exhales, leaning forwards, closing some of the distance between them. She hovers there, nose to nose with the sheriff, eyes flicking up from where they’d settled on his lips as she continues, “Not from you.”
He catches her gaze and holds it, trying to read something more in her expression, but he finds nothing hidden there. There’s nothing closed-off or stormy about it, not like there was that first night they met, or even in the club. Arthur, for once, is an open book, laid bare for Deacon to read as he pleases. Taking the hint, he leans in and kisses her sweetly. She tastes faintly of human whiskey and his own blood; dimly, Deacon has half a mind to wonder about the events of the prior night.
Arthur’s right hand comes up to the side of Deacon’s neck, curling just so, enough to press her fingernails lightly into his skin. He can’t feel it, not really , but it’s there anyway. Giving up any semblance of control he had, Deacon lets her dominate the kiss, taking it from soft to something more heated. Leaning back, his head gently hits the headboard as Arthur climbs into his lap, her other hand settled onto his waist. He moves his own hands; his left falls from her shoulder down to her thigh, the other curling into her hair. Arthur pulls back, breaking the kiss, her pupils dilating a little more than they reasonably should in the lighting.
“You got places to be, sweetheart?” Deacon’s voice dips low, reverberating in his chest.
“Not at the moment,” Arthur replies, shifting her hand to run her thumb along his jawline. “Soon, though.”
“Shame.”
“Shame,” she echoes before leaning back in. Deacon knows, when her mouth is on his and his fingers tangle in her hair, that none of this will last. That none of it means anything beyond this, beyond something simple and carnal. Despite it all, he cannot help but love Arthur, to as much a degree as someone can love one they only met a few days prior. He knows he may not get this chance again, that whatever she’s chasing might break her more than any unlife could, and so he kisses her like he means it.
A loud knocking on the door pulls the both of them apart. Between the banging, and the yells, Deacon catches her gaze.
“I should… That’s Emizel,” she says, breathless.
“Will I see you around?”
Arthur winces a little. “No. No, if… I don’t think you will.”
Deacon drags her down and kisses her for a final time. He doesn’t linger, but it isn’t chaste either. It’s all he can do to keep from doing something stupid, like asking her to stay. Arthur draws back, a sadness to her expression. Deacon can’t bring himself to catch her gaze again as they disentangle and stagger to their feet.
The hunger itches at him again, reminding him that he’ll need to hunt. There’s far more pressing issues than the woman he woke up in a hotel with. He wishes his heart would understand that as well as his head does.
Arthur pushes the curtain aside. “Come on, Deacon. I’ll see you to the door.”
Pulling his hat back on, Deacon offers her a smile. “Ah, ‘course. Always the proper lady, huh?”
“Something like that,” she says.
(The blood bond tugs at Deacon. He tries to pretend it doesn’t exist — maybe that way, everything will hurt less.
It doesn’t.)