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Chapter Text

The Doorman. Leave it to that airheaded buffoon to name himself something so obtuse in his most recent life.

It’s more of a title than a name, though he supposes he can’t speak on the topic of names. Drifter left his own name behind centuries past, crowning himself with the moniker bestowed to him by the very rabble he hunted.

He slinked into town not too long ago, following whispers of a ritual taking place; when the trail he tracked took him past the territory of his least favorite god, he thought he’d swing by for a visit, see if he couldn’t get a bite to eat while he’s at it. Imagine Drifter’s surprise to find the man of the hour- of the door- to be wholly and completely absent from his post. 

From his street-side perspective, leaving the Baroness entirely unguarded. 

Drifter flung open the double doors with gusto, and took a deep pull of air, anticipating the familiar smells of the hundreds of mortals held safe within its walls. A buffet of the well-fed and wealthy, ready to be plucked from their beds in the night.

The mischievous delight of breaking and entering died quickly on his tongue when he smelled nothing living at all. 

The stale, empty lobby raised the hair on his neck; every surface was clothed in a fine layer of dust. Every curtain and drape was closed. Even the front concierge desk was entirely vacated. Empty. The lilting, gentle piano blues that seemed to play endlessly, always at a distance, was nowhere to be heard. All the things that breathed life into the building, even the color from the walls, the light from chandeliers overhead, seemed muted, lessened.

Where was the fun in dropping by to torment his old friend if the doorman wasn’t home? But that couldn’t be the case, the doorman rarely abandoned his station. It was one of the few irritating details of the god that Drifter could reliably count on. And now it was null and void.

He had to be here somewhere. The vagabond set out, stalking the halls of the desolate hotel for any sign of life. 

The scent of the doorman- his very unique ichor, warm linen, lightly scented hotel handsoap, cleaning agents- blanketed the inside of the Baroness like a protective hex, making it nearly impossible to find him by the Drifter’s normal means.

He moved without his usual gait, cautious. For once, using his brain rather than trusting his instincts. He knew well from visits in the past that this place had a mind of its own when it felt like it. And if it was capable of opinionated thought, it sure as hell didn’t like him.

The Baroness gave him an absurd nostalgia for one of his favorite hunting grounds; the American south. Specifically, the lotus eater’s dens and casinos that dotted that vast desert like a manmade oasis. It was a sickly sweet trap, meant to lure its victims into partaking in its revelry- to lose the desire to leave at all. To forget time itself, and waste away until all that was left was a satiated husk. Places like that are perfect for finding an easy meal, so long as he doesn’t find himself falling victim to the very same tricks that caught his prey.

If the Baroness was a lotus tree, it was rotting from its roots. Wilting, losing its potency. He didn’t want to be caught inside of it if that delicate trap collapsed around him. If for some god forsaken reason the bastard-

He stops. Snorts and frowns. He keeps walking.

The vampire is sure the doorman is simply playing some new game with him. Putting a unique, unexpected situation in front of him, leading him on a chase through the stairwells and corridors. He had to use the stairs, as neither elevator came when he called.

As confused as he was, he knew this: Nothing could put that slippery entity in the ground, not a thing on Earth.

He sighed out his nose, stopping in his tracks in some unknown hallway on some unknown floor, when he heard, for the first time since he entered the hotel, sounds of life.

A half-mile down the hall, two cleaning staff- followers, cultists, employees- walked around the corner.

Their eyes met. They froze, like deer. And like deer, they bolted in the opposite direction. Not wanting his only lead to vanish, his walk turns into a gait, then a run, quickly diminishing the distance between them.

The doorman’s followers were very aware of his existence- in the doorman’s own legends and mythos, he was always in the margins, always  playing some role or purpose- at least, for the past several centuries. The drifter had been a friend, a foe, a lover and a scorned monster. An animalistic chaos to offset the other’s divine symmetry. 

That, and he turned up scratching at the Baroness’ front door every time he passed through town, yelling to high heavens for a certain hotel greeter to welcome him back to the cursed apple. Suffice to say, if these two didn’t know who he was, they would soon learn.

“You.” He snarled, grabbing them both by the back of their uniforms, one to each hand. One of them immediately went limp, hanging like a kitten from his claws. The other struggled to twist, to see what beast had decided their fate. 

“Stop struggling, there’s nothing to be done now.” The one, a young man with a round face and dark glittering eyes, scorned the other, a woman with small oval glasses and a fear-stricken expression, whose attempts to escape began to wain. His next words were directed at the vampire himself, said with a reluctant reverence. “How can we be of assistance to the doorman’s shadow?”

He had mixed feelings on being called the doorman’s anything, but at least one of them had some sense.

“What are you talking about,” the other one cried, “if we work together we could-“ Enough of that. He tightened his grip, a threatening growl working up from deep in his chest. She went silent.

He crouched down to bring himself level with them, noting how they both flinched away with an air of amusement. “If ya know what’s best for you, you’ll listen to this one,” he said, nodding towards the man. She shakes like a leaf in the wind, nodding in robotic, quick movements.

Despite the rough treatment, he’d taken great care not to leave any lasting marks on the doorman’s whelps. While it would be extremely satisfying to take his frustration out on these convenient little creatures, he feared they were just another piece on the ever-shifting game board he’d been navigating since he stepped foot inside the hotel. What would his dear old friend do if he broke two of his favorite toys?

How convenient that there were two of the doorman’s most devoted simply walking around in the otherwise empty hotel. No, Drifter is smarter than that. He left nothing more than holes in the crimson fabric of their uniforms, careful.

Ain’t nothing that says he can’t give them a good scare, though. “Where is your master?”

Her braver half responds in a weak voice. “The doorman is…busy.” The pause was suspicious, as were the hands working anxiously at the hem of his shirt.

The drifter frowned, venting the tide of his frustration by shaking them roughly.

“He’s busy.” Drifter repeated mockingly. “Too busy to come runnin’ when two of his little lambs go missin’?”

The bluff is foolproof, because in any other circumstance it wouldn’t be a bluff at all. His ear twitched in annoyance as the young woman’s barely controlled breathing became an arrhythmic whine.

“The doorman is in no state to be attending guests at this time. If,” the man swallowed, face pale, “If there’s anything you require, we would be happy to accommodate.”

He huffed, grip tightening. The drifter rose up to his full height, pulling the man up to eye level with him. “Yea.” He bared his teeth in a severe grin that was anything but friendly. “Yea, and I require the doorman. So y’all’re gonna go an’ fetch him for me.”

The man blinked owlishly.

The other one spoke up. “The doorman is indisposed, he will not be made to go anywhere.” Their voice was a whimper, grating on his nerves. “But we could take you to him.”

“Finally! Music to my ears, chevrette.” When he dropped them, they scrambled to fix their uniforms, checking the damage on each other's backs, elated that the tears were only surface-level. Their flitting about reminded him of a certain god, and he felt the swirl of unkempt vitriol rising once again.

“You lead, I follow.” He barked, and the two staff of the Baroness wasted no time complying to his demands. He lumbered behind their skittering footsteps, keeping a close eye on the pair as if they could up and disappear the second he looked away.

The halls seem to comply to their whim in a way they never did for Drifter, and the path towards their destination is orderly, without a single turn or tribulation. 

While they walk, he mulls over the few granules of information he shook out of them. Describing the doorman as indisposed in any context was laughable. It just wasn’t possible. He wondered what in this realm or the next could have possibly harmed an eldritch deity of the doorman’s caliber to render him helpless. He wonders what shape the being is in, what damage was done. He wonders if he will get to finish the job some other poor sap started, giddy with the prospect of bloodshed.

All that thinking distracted him; soon enough, the three stood before a simple door. Like the hundreds of other doors they had passed thus far.

“A big ol’ temple like this, an’ he’s slumming it in a two-bed hotel room?”

“Actually, sir, this was a short notice arrangement. The doorman doesn’t require personal chambers or belongings to do his work, so we had nowhere to put him when he-“ they became background noise as he scented the air, listening intently to the room beyond.

The doorman was in there, alright. Having confirmed this, Drifter shoved the two aside with as little force as he could muster, grasped the doorknob, and let himself into the room. He slammed the door in their faces, their help no longer needed, their presence unceremoniously dismissed. 

Turning away from the door, he found the room dimly lit, the overhead lights forgone for the solitary glow of a bedside table lamp. There was no movement whatsoever, the stillness only broken by the rustle of bed sheets.

“Ah. You found me.” A voice that was normally smooth and polished as brass rasped forth from the darkness, rough as sandpaper. “I had wondered if you would give up.” He sounded so faint, quiet. There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “I’m oddly…glad. Isn’t that curious? Some foreign part of this body- this brain- finds comfort in a familiar face-” the doorman’s monologue is sharply ended by a cough, then another. And another.

Drifter briskly crossed the room, in time to see the doorman doubled over himself in the nearest of the two beds, eyes shut and hand drawn in front of his mouth. Any momentum the creature of the night had been coasting on to get to this point all but fizzled away completely, replaced with a sour sense of wrongness.

“What’s this?” He deadpans, gesturing to the whole of him. The god’s uniform had been replaced with some kind of casual wear, hidden slightly by the blankets that now pooled around his waist. A book, some kind of journal, lay discarded at his hip.

There was an assortment of other items within arms reach; a box of tissues, a bell, a silver tray with a single cup of steaming tea, several ledgers, pens, pencils, and other books, extra pillows-

“What kinda game are you playing, huh?” He snaps. The doorman catches his breath, straightening just in time to have his upper torso pinned to the headboard in one clawed hand. As close as he was, Drifter could see the glassy haze in his red-rimmed eyes, the wetness under the raw irritated skin of his nose. He could feel the shallow puffs of hot air from his mouth, the way heat seemed to ebb off of him, like standing next to an open furnace.

Incredulously, he looked so mundane, so tired. He looked disgustingly human.

Drifter raised his voice. “It is, isn’t it? Make yourself look all sad and weak, hiding away in some unguarded room, sending your dormice to meet me like some kinda sacrifice!” He tightens his grip on the man, claws going through his thin shirt like a hot knife through butter, not quite piercing the flesh beneath. “You knew I was comin’ the second I stepped on the doormat outside, an’ you decided to play some long sufferin’ game a’ hide and seek with me? Well I ain’t playin’ no games. Not tonight. I ain’t a fool, cher.” He spit the endearment at the man like a curse.

The doorman, affronted by the burst of anger, takes a steadying breath, preparing to speak. Before he can get a word out, his face contorts, starting with a twitch of his nose and bunching up until-

A sneeze loud enough to be heard across all layers of reality sends Drifter flinching backwards, the mattress bouncing and cushioning his fall. Freed from the beast’s clutches, the man’s placid expression darkens, a hand sluggishly reaching for a tissue.

When he speaks, it is with a heavy weariness unbefitting a god. “It may have been a game, to start. Not on you, mind. Had I known you intended to visit, I wouldn’t have given in to curiosity so easily.”

“As you are well aware, this body- in spite of my inhabitance- has retained its mortal charms. Eating, sleeping, bleeding; the drive to experience all aspects of life. I can remove them easily, if I wanted, but,” he pauses to cough into his hand again, reaching for the teacup. “What good is inhabiting a mortal form if all of the mortality is stripped from it?”

Drifter is, for one terrifying moment, speechless. The doorman continues, either not noticing or not caring.

“I was particularly bored that day. I happened to notice a guest in passing, suffering from some ailment. A sickness. A simple airborne disease.”

Finally shocked out of his stupor, Drifter cracks a grin, shoulders hitched with silent laughter. “You tellin’ me, all this- this is-“

“You must understand, it was novel, at the time. Something new. I thought it might be entertaining. Fun, even.” In the low light, Drifter can see a blush rising on the pale man’s already flushed face.

“You’re sayin’ you got sick on purpose, just to, what, see what would happen? Pauve ti bete! I can’t believe this.” And now he was sitting at the foot of a hotel bed inhabited by the mortal god, which for all the world looked like a man who called in sick from work with the common cold.

The doorman’s expression is solemn. “It was worse than I anticipated. I underestimated how strong the effect would be, how debilitating. I resigned to temporarily close the hotel until further notice when I…” he stammers, eyebrows cinched. He closes his eyes and turns away, hiding his mouth behind the teacup. “…when I overworked my body, and it collapsed.” His words trailed off into a mumbled admission barely audible over the drifter’s laughter.

“An’ ya left the front door unlocked? Your brain must really be cooked.” His amusement rumbled from deep in his chest. He turned so he could slam his own back heavily against the headboard beside the fledgeling god.

The sick man took a long, slow drag from the cup, trying and failing to retain any dignity he had left. When he was done, he set it back on the tray with a shaky hand.

“No, it was locked. I opened it for you.” 

The silence after the doorman speaks says more than anything he could think to say. The words settle in his mind, and he turns them over. There’s some odd pressure behind his sternum, a phantom pain from a time when he had a heartbeat to match it.

“Now why would ya go and do something foolish like that?” He mumbles, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling. His arms lay limp at his sides, all the fight drained out of him.

“I’m not entirely sure, myself. I think something about being so- how did you put it- sad and weak, has made me crave something I rarely find use for.”

He knows the other is waiting for him to ask, and he rises to the bait anyways. “And what’s that?”

“Company.” 

Drifter snorts at that. The doorman was a solitary creature by nature, perusing relationships in a purely analytical manner and discarding them when they lost their luster. The doorman he knew wouldn’t stoop so low as to entertain the idea of companionship.

He let his hand cross the shallow divide between them, poking the doorman’s thigh through the blanket. “Ya got all those pretty little worshippers out there running around playing housekeeper, and you decided pulling little ol’ me off the street was more to your liking? I don’t believe it.” The man’s leg twitched, drawing away slightly from the touch.

“You may leave whenever you wish.” The scorn in his voice, however weak, was palpable. Drifter just grinned, stretching out like some giant lazy jungle cat.

“Naw, I’m not done with you yet. Didn’t come all the way over here to up an’ leave the moment things got interesting.” He stands, throwing back the blankets that had been so neatly tucked around the man, and it spoke volumes about the man’s lack of composure that he didn’t immediately retaliate in any way.

The vampire made a show of throwing his coat, hat, and shoes across the room. He upset the sheets farther, kicking extra pillows off the side of the bed, tossing the doorman’s book onto the bedside table and knocking the teacup on its side. Unable to find the strength to stop him, the doorman simply frowned, watching the scene unfold. Finally, when Drifter was satisfied with the mess he had created, he dropped back down beside the man and threw an arm around him, pulling him against his side. His greasy mane of hair landed squarely on the doorman’s bony, sloped shoulder.

Having known the god and his temper for centuries, he knew they were well past the point where the doorman would normally call upon his otherworldly power to shift the balance in his favor, to either escalate their violent throes or end them. He did neither.

The vampire was startled to feel a weight settle across his own head; the doorman returning the gesture with a long suffering sigh.

“I take it you’ve decided to stay, then?” The doorman murmured dryly, slowly but surely settling more weight against the other. As if moving at a snail’s pace negated the act of reciprocating the affection altogether. 

Was it affection? Calling it by its true name turned his mouth to sand. He preferred when they fought, bloody and visceral, tearing into each other’s immortal flesh in an endless dance, claws and eldritch magicks clashing and glancing off each other, but never landing, never ending in finality.

The boundaries of that violence were marked long ago. This softness- this affection- was something so foreign and unknown that he failed to see it for what it was until it had already infected him. He was, in a way, sick. This realization made his stomach turn.

He grunts in place of a proper response. To hell with it all. He was already here, he might as well burn the bridge in its entirety, now that he sees the fire for what it is. 

Shifting onto his side, he wraps an arm around the lean man’s waist, drawing him into the contour of his own body.

“My, you are freezing.” Despite the dour tone of his voice, the doorman’s feverish limbs snake around him, greedily leeching the cold from his body in turn. “Good to know I am still of assistance to someone in this state.”

No one else in all of creation would concern themselves with how well they could serve others despite being nearly bedridden. The thought, paired with all that had already transpired, made him roll his eyes.

”Ain’t you supposed to be resting? No wonder you’re still sick.” The words lose their venom before they even leave his mouth. Drifter tries not to grasp too tightly to the other, to find a balance between carelessness and attachment. He doesn’t know if he succeeds, and the unknown gnaws at him. 

Eventually, the reedy breath of the other calms, slowing to the familiar cadence of sleep. In the moments after, he finds himself overwhelmed with the strangeness of it all. How did he end up here? How did this happen?

Why was it happening to him?

He closes his eyes and finds himself lost to sleep as well, trying to find the wayward shred of love developing in his heart, hoping that if he can find it, he can kill it before it has the chance to grow.

Chapter Text

Imagine the doorman’s surprise when he woke. His head was still on his shoulders, which was nothing short of a miracle considering he’d taken the biggest risk of this life letting that boorish man in when he was, for lack of a more eloquent term, subdued.

But there were very few beings in this world that he would consider himself close to, and even fewer amongst them that he would consider letting get this close to him when he was in such a state. In his delirium, he must have felt the familiar presence of the drifter just out of reach and- without any conscious thought or consideration, surely- unlocked the lobby doors with what little connection he still felt to the Baroness. Distantly, he feels that he should have warned the staff of the unexpected guest.

Perhaps the hotel itself knew what he wanted, and was trying to appease him by releasing that mutt into his hallowed halls. It was sorely mistaken. Why on earth would his raw consciousness cling to that- of all the creatures, that- that- 

He sneezes, and it brings the world into sharper focus for just a moment, before his vision is reduced to the two eyes of his mortal shell once again. He worries for only a second that it may have woken the slumbering beast he was entangled with, before glancing down and catching those piercing red eyes watching him intently. 

Said beast opens its maw to speak. “Bon matin, ma moitié. Welcome back to the land of the living. Mostly living, anyway.” His voice is rough from sleep, but sincere. There’s an underlying warmth there that makes the doorman’s skin crawl. 

Ma moitié. Other half. “Please believe my sincerity when I say that you will never measure up to half of myself. Perhaps a quarter, at best, when you put the effort in.”

Drifter, who up until that point was lounging in the place between sleep and wake, scowls, pulling back from the other to look him in the eyes. “An’ after all I did for ya. Didn’t kill nobody, didn’t bite no one, hell, I even held ya like a baby for all of-“

When the (cold, so refreshingly cold after being cooked alive in this flesh) vampire tries to extricate himself from the tangled mess of limbs and blankets, the mortal man wraps his limbs tighter around him. “Don’t.”

Drifter stops, suddenly, before lowering back to where he had been laying. In the same breath, the doorman’s eyebrows draw together in disgust and confusion with himself. He didn’t want the drifter to be here, he didn’t want to be seen like this. His eyes are watering again, as is his nose, and he wants to clear his face with a tissue, but.

But the- Drifter was so cold. And he hadn’t, for unknown reasons, tried to push the god to violence yet. Trying to rationalize that behavior made the fever rise behind his eyes. He felt so small, like he was forgetting himself, like his thoughts were slipping through his fingers faster than he could consciously understand them.

It was as vexing as it was curious. He hated being taken from his work by something so small as a virulent disease. He loved the way this body fought to survive against it, the gross cocktail of symptoms that ravaged his senses. He hated surrendering so easily to wanting and having to rely on others to care for his needs, it was supposed to be the other way around. It was antithetical to the character he played in this body.

Trapped (safe? No,) in his embrace again, Drifter sneers. “You’re getting sloppy. One a’ these days you’re gonna let me in and I’m not gonna be so nice.” He bared his teeth, but it lacked the usual edge that normally accompanied the expression.

“All of my vitality appears to remain inside my body.” He says, peeling a hand off of the drifter’s back to examine his nails with faux interest. “So perhaps you’re mistaken. Or perhaps I need to make a habit of contracting viral diseases. I’ve heard tuberculosis is rather popular this year.”

Hook, line, and sinker, the mutt begins to growl again. The doorman usually hates when Drifter makes that animalistic sound, but here, in this moment, it has taken on a new color. Almost comforting. He tries to pull him closer, and his untethered mind yearns for the many limbs of his true form, the unending strength to hold tight to him. He drags his fingertips into the other man’s back, as if to press into his flesh, as if he could fuse them together, could keep him here definitely, permanently-

Drifter kicks his shins, voice raised in warning. But he doesn’t attack. He doesn’t draw blood at all. 

Another moment of clarity strikes the mortal god. “It must have been hours-“

“Yea, fourteen-“ the other mumbles.

“-since you last ate. Let me-“ despite a lack of coordination and the strong desire to stay glued to Drifter’s side indefinitely, he raises himself up as if to leave. Perhaps he could take the other with him, summon the strength to carry him- no, no, putting him on a luggage cart would be easier.

A large, clawed hand still crusted with his last meal’s innards reaches up, crudely wrapping around the collar of his shirt and pulling him back down. 

There was the ire he had been missing. On instinct, the doorman attempts to bring forth his weapon of choice from the pocket of the Baroness it was kept in. As expected- as he had tried multiple times over the past several days- not a single passageway would open to his call. Not since the Baroness allowed Drifter entry.

He tries to summon some of his signature composure instead, to face the monster that was looking down at him like he looked at so many of his victims.

After a considerable amount of time, the pinpricks at the center of those red irises dart to the bedside table. He reaches over the doorman, steadied by a hand pressed to the man’s chest. He wheezes under the pressure, feeling acutely where his ribs bend under Drifter’s weight. When the creature relents, he has something in his claws, which he drops onto the man’s chest in place of the hand holding him down. It is the call bell that his employees had left with him, a temporary solution to his powerlessness. He hadn’t found himself desperate enough to use it yet.

“Ya look like you’re gonna throw up. I dunno if you can even do that, but I ain’t taking any chances.” The drifter puts some distance between the two by sitting up on his haunches, and the doorman is silently glad that he is capable of reigning in his leashless desire for contact, for the moment.

“Why…” The doorman takes a breath, interrupted again by his feeble body’s attempt to fight the sickness. “Why are you still here, if not to feed on me. You’ve had every opportunity.” I wouldn’t be able to fight back, and wouldn’t that be something new and exhilarating, he doesn’t say.

“Look at it from my perspective.” Without breaking eye contact, he reaches across, a single finger tapping the bell. It chimes with an ethereal echo. “I’m in town for that ritual takin’ place soon. I ain’t got nowhere to be until then, and if I stay here, I get free bed and breakfast, and entertainment, to boot.” He pauses, leaning in slightly with a malicious smile. “That’s you, if it wasn’t clear.”

The doorman sniffs in distaste, but refrains from saying anything untoward as the door to the room creaks open, and three of his human employees enter, punctual as ever.

Two lead, having brought fresh linens and clothing. The third trails behind, pushing a service cart. It seems that, without any direction or expectations, they brought a strange combination of hot drinks and soups. No solid food to be found. He finds this odd, though he vaguely remembers sick guests requesting similar amenities to be brought to their rooms in the past. Perhaps it was some human way of dealing with the effects of illness.

Drifter looks at the three of them with a look in his eye that the doorman is all too familiar with. In the absence of a firearm, he swats at the vampire's bicep with the back of a hand. It seems enough to keep the dog at heel, and prevent a scene from developing when he is in no state to clean up afterwards.

While two of the staff unload their treasures, a third reaches beneath the cart, drawing up a bottle. It’s a vintage of some kind, the label too obscure for him to date, but recognisable enough to identify as richly aged sanguin, one which was normally reserved for visits of the vampiric viscounts of the North American baronies.

It was wasted on this street vermin. They would have a conversation about this misstep when he was capable of holding a conversation, again.

In the meantime, Drifter looked like the cat that got the cream, taking it from her hands with a disgustingly over-sweet “Merci beaucoup, fleur.” Which made him retch, bile sticking to the back of his throat.

It seemed like everything beyond his comfortable prison was going swimmingly, which both soothed his mind, and upset his heart. He should be out there- there were probably many people returning to the city for the ritual, people who would need a place to rest their head and prepare for the oncoming summoning. He should open the Baroness again, should be there to greet them.

They leave. Drifter breaks the wax seal on the vintage with his thumb, wedging a talon under the cork, and launching it across the room.

“You disgust me,” the doorman says as Drifter tips his head back, drinking straight from the bottle. A thin trail of red liquid trails from the corner of his mouth, mixing with his beard. He resists the urge to take a tissue to it.

“Look in a mirror.” Drifter grunts back, thumbing it off his face and licking his hand clean. Like an animal.

He can feel wrath pooling behind his eyes, hands tight in the blankets. When the bottle is emptied- he doesn’t stop to breathe until it is- Drifter looks at him, and blinks slowly before throwing his head back again to throw a biting laugh to the heavens.

“Wanna tear my head off so bad, huh. Wanna put some new keyholes in this old shirt.” He tosses the bottle to the floor, standing and stretching. “But you can’t, can ya. Poor thing.”

He walks over to where the soups and such were cooling, looking at the selection with disinterest.

“Say, here’s something you can do: tell me which of these you want.” The fledgeling god feels the desire to rend the vampires’ flesh returning to him like an old friend. “Well, Doorman? I am requesting your humble assistance. Get to it.”

With reluctance, he points to what appears to be a Matzah ball soup, which the other sweeps up and brings to him.

“Ain’t this fun. Normally it’s you watchin’ me eat.” Drifter slumps down onto the other, unoccupied bed, head balanced on his hands. “Not nearly as exciting, though.”

He studies the soup, dips the provided spoon into the broth, brings it to his lips to test the temperature, and finds it balanced at the perfect warmth to drink without burning himself. He makes a note of which of his followers- his employees- was responsible, for future commendation. Perhaps employee of the month.

While he took his time, so as not to spill it, Drifter stared at him, morbidly rapt. The spoon was nice, correct, but it wasn’t efficient. His throat went dry and scratchy in the seconds between spoonfuls.

Before he could put more thought into it, he forwent the spoon entirely, lifting the bowl to his lips and drinking with a kind of reverence he was more often on the receiving end of. It was heavenly. He would know. 

Eyes closed, breathing heavy through his nose, he lets everything else become background noise to his own personal rapture.

“Holy hell…” Whatever Drifter had to say about his lapse of judgement could wait. He’d had multiple lapses, recently.

Before he was done drinking, the bowl was empty, save for the Matzah balls themselves. He pulled back, looking at the vessel like it offended him. The creaking of the other bed’s mattress draws his eyes to the shadow there, whose eyes are wide as saucers.

He wants. He wants- “That. Bring it to me.” He points at another bowl, this one containing something deep and red (tomato bisque? borscht? blood?).

His shadow scoffs, not intimidated by this display of power by the bedridden god, standing to reach the bowl, bringing it to his side. The beast’s grating voice- whatever drivel or insult he has waiting- is drowned out by the loud, incessant, human urge to soothe himself, to drink as much as he could, to make the itch in his throat and lungs go away. A small piece of him, so distant now, wonders if this is how the creature feeding him feels, when he is compelled to kill, and drink his fill of humanity’s lifeblood.

Unusually silent, Drifter sits again by his side, watching intently as he discards the spoon and pulls the bowl to his lips. It is good, so good, whatever it is- flavor is unimportant. It is thick and warm, and settles deep within him like a balm to his aches.

Becoming greedy, he attempts to forgo swallowing altogether. Predictably, he chokes, and the bowl is pulled away from his hands. Red runs down his chin, dripping onto the pristine white sheets below, and he feels the sharp pang of shame splash across him like cold water.

“Well, now.” A large thumb traces the path of the liquid up to his mouth, swiping across his lower lip. The man brings it to his own mouth, tongue darting out to wipe his hand clean, again. “Hell of a show you’re puttin’ on, actin’ like some freshly turned spawn.”

The doorman, outraged at being treated like some kind of whelp, reaches for the bowl again. It is held away from him. “Uh-uh. Human bodies ain’t made to eat like that; unless you wanna have the ‘unique human experience’ of emptying your stomach over the lip of a toilet bowl, you’ll go slow.”

It continues like that, in an agonizing display of helplessness and desperation barely contained. Eventually, despite wanting to keep drinking, his brain was sending synaptic signals and warnings to the rest of him, cautioning him against continuing. He almost ignores them.

Like he ignored every warning his body sent prior to his current situation, unaware of how horribly he had miscalculated until his vision was leeched away, and his knees buckled. Until he hit the carpeted lobby floor in front of all of those people, some poor guests’ luggage scattered to the ground. Humiliating.

This time, he heeded that warning.

When he lowered the bowl, he allowed it to be taken from his hands. Now acutely aware of the mess he’d made, his nose wrinkles in distaste.

“Don’ be embarrassed, now. This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Drifter chuckles, helping himself to another bottle of sanguin. “How’s it feel, being human? Are you having fun?”

“I feel like I need to bathe.” He responds, dryly. How quaint; bathing traditionally was something he rarely bothered with. At first, when he was new to this life, he thought the act was quite novel. However, its repetitive nature quickly bored him, and he decided for efficiency’s sake to use his magick instead. It was faster and more effective, by far.

It was unfortunate that he had no access to that skill, now.

“Say no more, ma cherie,” Drifter croons, and the merry tone of his voice is concerning; it is the voice he uses when he knows for certain that he has his prey so well in his clutches that he can afford to play with it before he makes the kill.

“Don’t call me that.” The doorman quips, lips drawn into a thin line.

“Ah, what’s the point of hangin’ around here if I don’ get to have some fun, too.” The feral wraith closes in, two huge hands wrapping around him under his shoulders and knees.

“Absolutely not, unhand-“ He’s lifted, sheets falling away. His skin has lost its rosy glow, pallid and waxy. Though there’s likely been no real change, he looks terribly gaunt. 

He backhands the vampire, who only laughs harder as he traipses towards the ensuite bathroom. “You- you-“

“Don’ you worry, I’m not staying in here with you.” He deposits the doorman by the shower bath, where he has to steady himself unright with a hand to the wall as the world spins in his vision. “Unless you want me to.”

The doorman stops breathing. A pin could hit the tiled floor and it’d be the loudest sound in the world.

Then, after a very long pause, Drifter’s serious expression breaks. “Eh, nah. I ain’t feeling that generous. Maybe take me out to dinner first. Oh, wait.” He cackles at his own joke as the doorman seethes, hand traveling down the wall to locate the faucet.

He feels slightly stronger, after eating. Enough that, when Drifter turns and lumbers out of the room, he extends his connection to the Baroness, causing the bathroom door to hit the vampire on the way out. His muffled shout on the other side brings a small smile back to the god’s face.