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It comes upon quite suddenly, when the team has some downtime after their final discussions with the Archival Department member at P. Corp. No doubt this relapse was triggered by recent events.
The perks of carrying a gift from a Bloodfiend. His eyes feel heavy in their sockets, a feeling he hasn’t appreciated in years, and a dull ache resonates through his head. It’s a grim reminder of what they are to him—just a gift, things that don’t quite belong in his head, despite his current ownership of them.
They’d acted up in the past with more frequency than they do now that he’s ascended the ranks as a Fixer and become a big name. Things bother him less, now that he’s grown used to carrying the weight over his shoulders.
It’s no less humbling than it was back then. It always starts with the eyes. The throbbing pain, then the gradual clinging feeling of malaise. His bones feel too heavy and his vision too bright, his teeth too sharp and oddly pointed for comfort.
Thirst settles in the back of his throat, but it won’t be easily sated. A fever that won’t recede until he feeds or waits for the reaction to pass. Like a bad flu, it’ll put him out of commission for a few days. At least until his head clears and he can be certain he won’t compromise the next mission by being a danger to his coworkers.
A knock on the door. Dante always knocks twice and politely when they look for him. Vergilius props himself up to look at the doorway. When he doesn’t answer, the Executive Manager cracks the door open and peeks in, concern evident in the tension of their posture.
“Stop right there,” Vergilius manages, his tongue feeling foreign in his overly dry mouth. “You should leave.”
Dante cocks their head to one side like a confused puppy. Vergilius can practically hear the cogs in their head turning as they think. The hands on their clock twitch when they reply, a question that anyone would be able to parse, despite the issues with their speech: <Why?>
“I’m not feeling well,” he manages. It’s the honest truth, albeit oversimplified. Vergilius hopes it’ll be enough for them to turn away, let the subject rest.
Instead, the Executive Manager treats it as an invitation to stay, crossing into the room and approaching him with PDA in hand, fingers flying over its tiny keyboard.
Of course. If they had reason to be concerned, they’d take matters into their own hands. It’s how they’ve approached managing the Sinners, even despite their disparate personalities and odd tendencies.
Dante tilts the PDA so he can read it. [You should’ve told me earlier. How can I help?]
Vergilius shakes his head. “You should leave,” he repeats, even as the want for blood threatens to overtake him. In his effort to formulate a quick response, he cuts his tongue on the needle-points of his too-long teeth, and he winces at the sudden sting.
He can barely hear the whisper of blood flowing through their veins, the dull drumbeat rhythm of their heart. He fixates on it to maintain his focus through the haze of discomfort and hunger. They need to leave.
“What are you doing?” He asks when they don’t move. “Go.”
They should leave now.
Dante approaches the foot of the bed, looks down at Vergilius and cups his face in their hands. Vergilius shivers, half from fever, half from need. They’re not naive to what a Bloodfiend’s hunger entails. A moment passes and Dante shuffles their clock hands noisily, deep in thought. The cool touch of their gloves seeps into Vergilius’ fever-warmed skin and he leans into it before he even registers the relief.
Then the Executive Manager steps out, leaving a gust of wind in their wake. Good. Vergilius draws the sheets tighter around himself. Cocooned in their fabric, he hopes that the cotton will be enough to wick away the heat radiating from his skin. He can manage until the Sinners clear off to their quarters and make a run for necessities when he’s sure nobody will run into him later.
That way, he can avoid any incidents.
Dante returns unexpectedly, having only left to retrieve something from the office leading into his room. The penknife Vergilius usually keeps in his desk drawer flashes in their palm and he watches, apprehensive, as they peel the glove from their left hand and walk back towards him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Vergilius asks. Dante shrugs. They fumble for their PDA again, typing their response with their bare hand, slow but deliberate.
[We can talk more when you feel better. It’ll help if you aren’t hungry.]
Rather than give him the time to answer, they make a clean horizontal cut across their palm. Blood seeps out at the injury, first a slow trickle, then a thin, but steady stream. Dante closes their fist and offers their hand to his lips. Their message is clear: drink.
Vergilius whines at their offering, gives in to the tug of instinct and the overwhelming hunger. He takes as much as they’re able to give, licking deep into the gash. Dante’s breath hitches at the intrusion and they bend to sit opposite him on the bed, thighs framing his body. It’s a messy affair, with the fangs he’s not used to and his senses too sharp for comfort. The taste of their blood alone is intoxicating, has his head spinning and his hands grasping for the nearest available thing to ground him. He holds on to Dante’s arm like a lifeline, fingers leaving rust streaks where they wrap over their sleeve, sighing as the fever breaks. Dante swipes their thumb over his chin, smearing blood over the skin. Vergilius shuts his eyes, resists the urge to bury his face in their open palm again and lap at what’s left cooling on their skin.
No, that would be too unsightly.
He pulls back, at a loss for words, and looks at the Manager. Dante sits relaxed, pressing a handkerchief over the wound. The pain hardly seems to bother them.
“You didn’t have to,” he finally says, even though their solution worked. The reaction seems to have resolved; the hunger’s receded along with his fangs and his mind is clear. All that’s left is exhaustion; he holds Dante’s injured hand so they can fumble for their PDA again to type whatever they want to say.
[It’s okay,] they type, and pause. Their fingers skip over the keyboard again, [I wanted to.]
He drifts to sleep with the weight of Dante’s palm in his own. When morning breaks, he unlaces their fingers, careful to not disturb them, and quietly goes in search of the bus’ first aid kit. He wipes the stains from his face in front of the bathroom mirror, gives it one last glance and prepares a wet cloth for Dante to use when he wakes them up.
The fever doesn’t return.