Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The being currently known as the Doorman has always been fascinated by humanity. It's not the only one. A handful of other fledgling beings in the Outer Planes share the sentiment, and so they get together and have their little games, playing the role of gods both sinister and benevolent. It finds the former to be more entertaining, making tiny little humans kill each other with nothing but whispered words and vague dreams.

Eventually though, it gets bored of it all. The game gets easier with time, each new civilization an echo of the one that came before it, until each round becomes only mildly entertaining at best, tedious at worst. But still it keeps on playing.

It's thankful it did, for an idea comes to it as it watches a mortal form a cult, proclaiming themselves to be a chosen vessel of god. Hardly the first to do so, but they were the first to make the being wonder…

Turns out, inhabiting a human body is difficult.

Not in the sense that it's a hardship. Even the most incompetent cosmic being can take over a mere mortal with only the mildest of efforts. The difficult part isn't in the taking; it's in making sure the human can handle it for more than a half-second.

Simply put, the mind is weak, and the flesh is even weaker. The first human it possessed burst like a bottle with a river's worth of water flowing into it all at once. The second human lasted only slightly longer, mind cracking open under the weight of cosmic power until it got crushed. The third bled out from its orifices. And so on and so forth.

Its playmates watch its attempts, curious themselves as to what could be. They make suggestions: find a human at peak physical condition, or perhaps one with an affinity for magick. Maybe it is an issue of mental fortitude. Or all three.

Nothing works. They all break, one way or another.

Then the beings currently known as the Amber Hand and the Scarlet Flame happen upon them during one of its numerous attempts, and suggest a different path.

And so the fledgling deity now known as the Doorman fashions it's first human form.

Oh, it tried its best, but creation has never been amongst its varied talents. It is but a humble patron of entrances and passageways. It is only through its familiarity with possessing mortal bodies that allows it to thread its own essence into a physical approximation of man. Divinity molded into a human-shaped vessel.

And the body is only that and nothing more. Four limbs and a head, yes, but one made out of rumbling cyan instead of flesh and bone. It doesn't hunger, for gods cannot starve, and it doesn't feel pain, for even the greatest damage mortalkind can inflict is naught but a speck of dust landing on a behemoth's skin.

Still. A body.

Arms push itself off the ground. Legs hold its weight up. Eyes open. Earth feels… strange. Magick flows out of its new form in glowing wisps, and the air and the ground suck it all up like a malnourished babe, the pressure growing until it threatens to take directly from the source. The sensation is different. Novel.

Smiling with a mouth for the very first time, it walks.

It comes across its very first group of humans, who immediately start yelling and trying to kill it. Seconds later, it takes a closer look at their bodies, and realizes how large its form is compared to theirs. Something to rectify.

It begins to dismantle itself, unweaving and unwinding just enough that it is now the same size as the corpses on the forest floor. After, it looks through the bodies once more and chooses one it finds the least detestable to use as a basis. And then it starts knitting skin. And a face. And hair.

Once done, it is now a she.

The bodies also prove to be a useful template for how people look on the inside. Lots of squishy bits and all of it intricately connected and oh so fragile. She'll leave making organs as a project for another day. For now, she settles for taking theirs. It takes her only a moment to get her stolen innards in place and pulsating, starting a disjointed rush of blood that goes everywhere and nowhere. Hmm. That can't be how it's done. Perhaps a live study is in order.

She moves through the forest, her human eyes swiveling around to take in the new limits of her perception. Two eyes, two ears and one nose. Skin and tongue. That is all. Gone are the leylines and the double-, triple-, infinite-image of overlapping possibilities both realized and not. Here, she sees a tree in all its simplicity. If she really wanted to…

Suddenly the tree is not just a tree. It is fuel burning in campsites. It is home to birds and fungi. It is a sapling bursting from the ground. It is dead in its roots and it is bursting with life and it is fallen on its side—

Then it is simple a tree once more. So she could still see the world as she normally does. Nice to know, but where's the fun in that?

Animals soon start appearing, no longer scared away by her mere presence; it seems her current vessel does a better job at containing her divine aura. A cat makes its way through the underbrush with unmatched grace. Birds fly overheard, song spilling past their beaks. Beautiful. Simple.

Then she comes across a particular smell: sweet and metallic. She follows it and soon locks eyes with a lone wolf hunched over a deer. Curious, she takes a step towards it, pausing when the creature snarls, teeth and muzzle stained with wet blood.

She raises a brow and releases the tiniest bit of power, and the wolf drops dead on top of its prey, heart stopped.

She chuckles, before going on her merry way.

A couple of centuries pass. A blip compared to the eons of an Outer Planar being's natural lifespan, but more than enough for Earth and its mortal societies to change exponentially.

In those centuries, the being that will be known as the Doorman adapts, refining its domain as it evolves into a being of lock and key. It learns of humanity's little idiosyncrasies, dissecting the impetus and thought processes of its chosen subjects. Survival, it finds, is the most common motivator; food, water, shelter—it already knew this from the games of its "childhood", of course; one of its playmates used to abuse this fact, posing as a deity of harvest, giving and taking on a whim. But the nature of survival changed with each passing era, the rise of cities and trade turning survival into a pursuit of gold and silver. And with that came the rise of philosophy and art and conquest and industry and—and so many countless interesting things that shape the way mortals interact with the world around them.

It also refines its human form, having made a handful over the years. The latest iteration is that of a cherubic young boy, rosy-cheeked and innocent. He's found that one of the best ways to get humans to overlook the unnatural glow in his eyes is a pretty face and a sweet smile. And it is ever so entertaining, watching them grapple with cognitive dissonance as he unleashes his power.

It's the same body he wears now as he wanders through a forest, thinking about where to go next. He'd just had a very enlightening experience in the last few towns, watching how slaves reacted once they realize their shackles were unlocked. Some ran and hid. Some turned on their captors. Some even put their chains back on. Truly fascinating.

He stops in his tracks.

A familiar smell; sweet and metallic. He follows it and soon locks eyes with a lone man hunched over a body. Curious, he takes a step towards him, pausing when the man snarls, teeth and beard stained with wet blood.

"Run along, now, li'l boy," he rasps, voice like gravel. Crimson eyes peek from behind a curtain of matted dark hair. He isn't wearing anything except for the tattered pants and broken chains around his wrists, blood dripping from his chin to his bare chest, the outline of ribs straining against skin. The body—a man wearing a suit who isn't quite dead yet—gasps weakly, reaching out for help, but neither pay him any mind. "This got nothin' to do with you."

He steps forward, unheeding. "A vamp slave," he muses, before glancing down at the soon-to-be corpse. "And be he your owner, mistah?"

A snarl, the cracking of bone, and the suited man dies with a gurgle. The vampire stands to his full height. The snarl builds into a deep menacing laugh and the surrounding area grows unnaturally dark.

An intimidating sight—if the boy were anyone else.

"Pauvre ti bête," the vampire sighs, fingers flexing as his nails elongate into claws. "Just had to be curious, didn't ya?"

A rush of wind and the vampire appears in front of him, claws aiming for the young boy's throat to grant him a quick death—

A door creaks open, revealing a world of latches and bolts and seals, and arms are yanked back as manacles link themselves to ethereal blue chains blooming out of the entryway. The vampire startles, losing his balance as the chains pull, forcing him to his knees on the forest floor. His shock only lasts for a moment, before he lets out an animalistic snarl, muscles rippling as he struggles against cosmic fetters, uncaring of the way the skin of his wrists break.

The boy squats down in front of the creature and croons, letting his real voice echo through, "Pauvre ti bête," and it's enough for the vampire to still, to realize just how powerless he is in this moment. He laughs, injecting enough youthful enthusiasm into his voice to sound like a normal child once more. "You're an interestin' one, monsieur. A vamp for sure, yet you look jus' like a hairy rougarou." Then he smiles, lets his eyes flash brighter. "No matter. You will die screaming, all the same."

He waits for the vampire's eyes to dim, for the bravado to fade and the defeat to settle.

What he gets instead is awe.

"What are you?" the vampire breathes out the question like a prayer.

He raises a brow. It's… certainly a different reaction than what he's used to.

The vampire gazes into the glowing pool of his eyes, unblinking. "Never… never seen anyone like you." It's strange. The mix of emotions in his voice. Awe and fear, yes, but underlining all that is a wave of excitement and a hint of hunger.

Curious, he opens his true senses and sees—a lonely man who misses his little sister and an immortal vampire who shed his own name and a dangerous beast who kills without remorse and a charming thief who crossed the wrong noble and an irreverent hunter with a taste for the divine—then he is simply looking at a wretched slave once more.

"You're an interestin' one, monsieur," he repeats, the last possibility still playing on his mind. The vampire's manacles unlock with just a thought, the chains dragging the metal back to his domain before the doors close. A small keepsake.

The vampire doesn't seem to notice, unmoving on his knees. Still enraptured. Still hungry.

"I changed my mind. You'll die, but not today. Not to me." The boy stands up and when the vampire tries to follow suit, he raises a brow and releases the tiniest bit of power. The vampire stumbles back and drops dead on top of its prey, heart stopped.

Not permanently, no. He's too interesting to kill. He's made sure that this creature would recover shortly after, and the boy is excited to see what he'll do once he does.

The vampire earns his infamy within a few decades. The Drifter, they call him. An immortal vampire who'd shed his own name. One who thinks of himself as an inevitability, like time or gravity. The closest an earthly creature has ever been to divinity, and yet still no match for even the lowest of patrons. Amusing. Interesting.

So interesting, in fact, that she lets herself get accosted down a dark alleyway. She whirls around with a gasp when the Drifter gets reasonably close enough for a human to notice.

The Drifter, in all his glory. And what glory it is. The stench of death emanates from his entire being. A blood-splattered leather coat wraps around a robust figure. His hair is shorter now, beard trimmed. A far cry from the wretched slave she encountered all those years ago.

"W-who are you?" she asks, playing up the role of trembling victim. She forces her breath to quicken, simulates a shakiness in her voice. "Good sir, please—"

"Don't play games with me, tataille," the vampire rumbles, not approaching just yet. "Ain't fallin' for that trick again."

She looks into that crimson gaze. There's caution there, but also a peculiar excitement. Like he's happy to have found her. She drops the act with a put-on frown. "Hmm. Well, you're no fun. What gave it away?"

"Fear reeks, but you smell like nothin' underneath that rose bush perfume. No fear, no sweat," he takes a deep breath. "And I've only ever met one bein' that smelled empty and had eyes like lightnin'."

"I see." Yet another thing to rectify. The scent, not the eyes, for there's not much she can do about that; divinity cannot be hidden away so easily, after all. And to think she thought she had already mastered the art of imitating the human form. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind, Drifter."

The vampire grins at the mention of his moniker. "You know my name. Don' tell me you were lookin' for li'l ol' me?"

"If I was?"

"I'd be delighted. Cuz I've been lookin' all over for you, cher," Drifter takes a few steps forward. She lets him approach, curious as to where this is going. "For years, I've been wonderin'… what the blood of a god would taste like."

And that's—that's what she'd been hoping for, that time all those years ago. For the possibility of the irreverent hunter to be realized.

She laughs, a tinkling sound, and puts a lace-gloved hand on her cheek. "My, my. Aren't you forward? And 'god'? However did you come to that conclusion, good sir?"

"What else could you be?"

She smiles without answering.

Drifter's lip curls, and he leans into her space, not stopping until his arms are braced on either side of her, boxing her in. "You told me I was interestin' back then."

"I did."

"Am I still?"

"Hmm," she eyes him up and down. "Less so, with all this chatter. And the smell."

His grin only widens, sharp teeth glinting underneath sparse moonlight. "Then it's not my company you want. But something else. Something maybe only I can give you. S'that right?"

"You sound like you've an idea as to what it is I want from you."

Drifter chuckles. "You wanna hear my guess?" His hands travel down until they find her hips, resting their weight on the generous curves. Romantic, if not for the growing hunger seeping into his tone and gaze. "You're here, slummin' it up with us mortals, because you're curious. You wanna know what makes us tick. What makes us motivated. And that day, you saw what makes me motivated. Right so far?"

"More or less. You mortals are just so… fascinating. And you," she hums, wrapping her own arms around his neck, completing their parody of a lover's embrace. "You are the most fascinating one yet, thinking you can hunt down and devour divinity."

"What makes you think I can't? The only reason you don't have my teeth in your throat is cuz I'm holdin' back and bein' polite."

She laughs out loud at the audacity. Truly marvelous, this creature!

"A taste, then." She unwinds one of her arms and takes off a lace glove with her teeth, an entryway vanishing it before it could hit the floor. She flexes her hand before simply willing the skin to part. A cut appears on the meat of her palm by the base of her thumb. A couple of inches long, and deep enough that blood—brighter and more viscous than it should be—leaks from the opening without effort. "A prize for being polite, and to motivate your future pursuits."

Crimson eyes lock in on the small incision, nostrils flaring. She brings her hand up as if to cup his cheek, not stopping him when he cups the back of her hand with one of his own and noses into her palm, uncaring of the way red stains his skin, before kissing the wound with something akin to reverence.

The first drops of crimson make it to his tongue—and the mask falls off. Eyes flash bright, claws ripping into her bodice and wrist to hold her in place as jaws clamp down, teeth sharp enough to rip off her entire hand—

And once again, he's dragged down to his knees by chains. Still, he fights, frenzied by bloodlust and the taste of divinity. He growls and snarls as he thrashes wildly, hunger taking over and shredding his polite facade to pieces, revealing the dangerous beast within.

"Naughty boy," she chides. "You almost got me."

The vampire barks out a loud guttural laugh, one that makes his barrel chest heave and shake, manic grin emphasized by the blood smudged on his face like rouge. "Can't blame a man for tryin', mon tataille."

"Indeed." She pushes herself off the wall and straightens her skirts. "Well, good sir. I'm afraid I have to go now. It wouldn't do good for a woman of my age to be seen so late at night with a man of such ill repute." She takes a step forward, and Drifter snarls and snaps his teeth at her ineffectively. She holds up a hand, catching the glove she took off earlier as it falls out of a portal; she extends her arm, before dropping the lace glove between his knees, fluttering her lashes coquettishly. "Good luck with the hunt, Drifter. I do so hope for your success."

Her chains vanish around his form, and he lunges forward the moment they do, claws outstretched—

But with a single step back into the portal behind her, she's gone.

Their little game of cat-and-mouse continues throughout the century. Drifter succeeds twice amongst countless attempts. It's twice more than the being that will be known as the Doorman expected from him. The vampire finds them no matter the face they wear, and each encounter is amusing at worst, exhilarating at best. They still sigh fondly the feeling of being caught off-guard by claws raking through flesh, the Drifter's presence hidden behind a shadow weave moments prior; it seems that the hunter spares no expense when it comes to the chase.

But as years pass, they begin to feel… bored. Not with Drifter, no, but aside from him, the rest of humanity pales in comparison despite all their idiosyncrasies. They wander the world, inflicting unspeakable torment on select individuals and studying their bodies to pass the time, but each new city they visit begins to feel like an echo of the one that came before it.

They're in the midst of wandering when they feel it. The call of another being. They follow it down the winding streets of New York and into an empty building, and is delighted to see one of their old playmates.

The Baroness, it calls itself now. Just like them, it has decided to venture into Earth. It is familiar with their obsession and boredom both, and has a proposition. An offer to experience something new.

"A hotel?" they muse as a vision is pressed upon their conscious. A high-rise building—the very same they're currently standing in—in pristine whites and golds, with more rooms than it should feasibly be able to hold. Welcoming and decadent, yet oh so easy to get lost in. A fitting manifestation for a being of mazes and labyrinths. "And so the sacrifices check themselves in without a second thought. Clever."

The Baroness hums at the compliment.

"And the experience you're offering?"

They're presented with another vision. Their current form, wearing a uniform, greeting people by the door. Walking around and cleaning after them. Acting—no, being a servant. A lesser.

Pride itches its way to the surface, mouth curling into a sneer so wide it tears fabricated skin. Their true voice bubbles out with a hiss, making concrete tense. "You dare?"

The vision changes rapidly. A laundress entering a room to collect a rich man's bloodied sheets. A butler serving tea as two women giggle about secrets that could damn their families for generations. A bellhop pushing a luggage cart and observing different guests as he goes about his day.

Unnoticed. Unremarked.

A new vantage point from which they can study humanity.

They take a deep breath, pull back their power. The walls shudder and relax, no longer straining. "Apologies, my friend. It seems like I made a hasty assumption." They put a hand on their chin, only considering it for a moment more, before smiling. "Very well. I accept your proposition. I expect this to be an intriguing experience."

The light of the sunrise creeps through a window, casting a smile on the wall. To the right, a door cracks open, the creaking sound lilting like a question.

"What I call myself?" They hum. "I think I shall adopt a new moniker. And a new face to go along with it. To celebrate our partnership." They think of the bellboy from the vision, and smile. "What do you think of 'the Doorman?'"

Chapter Text

His latest form is his best yet. It comes with the whole kit and caboodle: alveoli, synapses, hormones—why, he even included vellus hair and freckles! The product of centuries of anatomical study. A near-perfect imitation of the male human body and all its tiny flaws, if not for the subtle otherworldly glow that of his pupils and the keyhole on his sternum. Divinity cannot be hidden away so easily, after all. Still, this form is more than sufficient for his needs.

He straightens his hat, and looks at the mirror to assess himself one final time. Red-orange hair coiffed to perfection, prominent cheekbones dusted with freckles, and blue eyes curved by a customer-service smile. He runs a hand down the front of his freshly pressed uniform, the keyhole design placed perfectly above the one in his chest. Then he straightens his back, putting one arm behind him at an angle, the other straight down his side.

The Doorman, in the flesh.

Perfect.

A bell rings in the distance; he opens up a doorway and steps out into a hotel lobby. "Greetings, master," he calls out to the empty air. "Shall we resume working on the kitchens today? The head chef reached out to me yesterday with some concerns regarding pantry space."

The lights hum in reply, and he makes his way towards the kitchens.

He and The Baroness have come into an understanding. To serve mortals, as truly and completely as he should for the experience he wants, he must first come to know how it feels to serve at all. The Baroness had been against this, unwilling to place itself above someone who is by all rights its equal, but the Doorman had been adamant. And so a contract was formed, his power merging with that of The Baroness's. Or perhaps merge isn't the right term. Lend might be more accurate. A temporary synergy of sorts, with him as the servant and The Baroness as the master. Most of his doors now lead to The Baroness's winding halls and extravagant rooms, and he spends the initial weeks of his newfound servitude preparing these halls and rooms for mortal guests. His extensive research comes handy as he makes an extensive list of creature comforts they could include to the hotel's services, and staffing accordingly.

He finds it a relaxing task, all in all, especially since his new master proves to be a benevolent one. Likely due to the fact that most, if not all, patrons have an innate respect for each other no matter the difference in power or domain. It is why he was quick to take initial offense with The Baroness's suggestion and why it, in turn, was quick to reassure him otherwise; such disrespect is one of the highest infractions one can commit against another amongst their kind.

He notices too the way the new hotel staff react to this benevolence in the form of generous pay and reasonable working hours. Apprehension at first, then wary hope. Then when no strings appear to be attached, they're throwing themselves into work with much enthusiasm and passion for their craft. He passes by a janitor; the old man smiles at him, appearing perfectly content with a mop in his hands and an invisible leash around his neck. He's reminded of the slaves that put their chains back on, and understands just the slightest bit more.

The Baroness's grand opening is a huge success, and so are the years that succeed it.

Most of their clientele end up being in the upper class of society. Vampiric nobles, well-known celebrities, and wealthy businessmen—all of them attracted to opulence and indulgence like moths to a flame. They flit about the impossible structure that is the hotel as they drink and dine and dance; and if some of the less prominent guests, the ones who won't be missed, never make it out? Well, as far as he's concerned, they've merely extended their stay.

Doors open. A smile and a respectful bow.

"Good afternoon, madam. Welcome to The Baroness."

The elderly woman doesn't spare him a glance as she walks on, yelling at the young man following behind her to hurry up as he struggles with her heavy luggage.

The Doorman steps up and summons a luggage cart. "Allow me," he says, and easily hauls the suitcases onto the cart while the butler blinks at the cart's sudden appearance. He watches as the confusion grapples with gratitude, before the latter wins and the young man gives him a jerky smile.

"T-thanks, sir," he says in accented English. "I appreciate it."

"You're very welcome. Pardon me, but your accent—Ixian?"

"Ah. Yes. Half, but this is my first job here on Earth actually. I've been doing my best but—" He flinches as the old woman yells for him, and he bows his head at the Doorman one last time. "T-thanks again for the cart, sir. Best not to keep the madam waiting."

The Doorman watches as the young man scurries after his master, humming thoughtfully before snapping his fingers. A few meters away, unseen by mortal eyes, a portal opens up and drops a recruitment flyer into the Ixian's backpocket. After all, good help is hard to come by these days.

And my, did he underestimate how bothersome it would be, especially with people the likes of the old woman. The entitlement they feel, the respect they demand, the liberties they take—all because they were born or married into wealth and privilege. A fragile pedestal, given the many ways life can easily take that wealth and privilege away.

He can't say he enjoys being treated like dirt underneath their shoe, no, but it is entertaining to subtly assert his power, watching them grapple with cognitive dissonance as they're unsettled by an unremarkable bellhop.

But alongside the chaff comes the cream of the crop. New York is a fascinating place, and he never knows who he's going to meet. Perhaps it's due to his former nomadic ways, but he doesn't recall a time where he found so many absurd individuals gathered in one city. There are some that catch his eye immediately the way Drifter did—such as the detective with the cursed tome and the walking amalgamation of corpses trying to find answers—but many of them he wouldn't have deemed worthy of his attention at first glance. Only through repeat interactions do they reveal just how interesting they are. Truly an experience that keeps on giving. Well-worth dealing with the occasional annoyance.

Though sometimes, the occasional annoyance happens to also be an interesting character. The latest one that comes to mind: a narcissistic stevedore, so bafflingly one-dimensional that he actually used his true sight on him once and all he saw was Lash talking about Lash, Lash admiring Lash, Lash brushing off insults against Lash—again, baffling. And utterly fascinating.

A presence brushes against the edge of his senses, taking him out of his thoughts. Back to work then. He holds open the door once more, this time for an old woman wearing the skin of her younger self. He smiles. "Good afternoon, Lady Geist. Welcome to The Baroness."

"Good evening, miss. We hope you enjoyed your stay at The Baroness."

The young lady gives him a polite nod, before making her way to her car where their newly hired Ixian valet awaits with her keys. He waits for her to drive away and for the valet to go back to his business, before leaving his post and turning into the nearest alleyway to greet his unseen guest.

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

Silence. He raises a brow.

"Holding your tongue? How very unlike you."

"What the fuck did you do?"

The question makes him frown, clears a bit of the excitement he felt upon learning his personal hunter was in the area. "Pardon?"

Drifter steps out of the shadows. "What the fuck did you do?" he repeats, as if Doorman hadn't heard him the first time. "Piss off some other god? Lost a bet? Or is there some bigger picture I'm not seeing here?"

Doorman tilts his head. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"I'm talkin' about this whole getup," the vampire drawls. "I know you. You're no servant, tataille. You like actin' innocent, sure, but only because you like the way people react once you reveal your teeth." He looks him up and down, taking in his uniform. "So imagine my surprise when I tracked you down and saw you personally tendin' to the Viscount's bags."

"The Viscount, you say?" Doorman's lips curl into a smile. "Why, his latest visit was two weeks ago. Don't tell me you've been stalking me ever since?"

"I was," Drifter says, tone curt in a way that Doorman's never heard before. "Thought you were playin' another one of your games at first. So I watched. From the outside, of course. Couldn't risk you catchin' me too early. And all you did was hold open doors for a bunch of rich fuckin' assholes. So I said, maybe you're playin' a long con this time. But then I saw that man try to put his hands on you."

Ah. Yesterday's incident. The guest in question was a senator's son, well-known for his licentious behavior. A crass young man, prone to taking liberties with other people's bodies.

"And I thought to myself, this is it." He grins, mimicking the bloodthirst he must've felt at that time. "I'm about to watch a man die. Get his ribs used as doorknobs to open up his chest. After all, I've seen you eviscerate people for less. But then," Drifter stalks closer, grin pulled down into a sneer. "But then. He comes out of the building this morning, with a pep in his fuckin' step. Unharmed. Untouched. Until I got to him that is. Heh."

At that, Doorman narrows his eyes. "Mr. Morrison hasn't checked out yet."

"Mr. Morrison has bigger issues to deal with," Drifter mocks. "I'm afraid he won't be able to make it back in time as he's already checked out, if you catch my drift."

"Drifter," he intones blankly. "Please do not tell me you've killed one of my guests."

The vampire barks out a laugh, eyeing him with something akin to disbelief. "So what if I did? You gonna be mad about it? Don't tell me you fell in love with the way he groped your ass, cher—ack!"

"Mr. Morrison," Doorman starts, uncaring of the way Drifter gurgles and struggles, pinned as he is to the brick wall by the throat, "is a well-known guest at The Baroness. The fact that he's now gone missing," he tightens his grip, bone creaking— "will lead to the very public presence of law enforcement on hotel grounds, which will lead to people questioning The Baroness's reputability. Something we can't afford, considering we will be hosting the annual Baxter Society Gala in two weeks."

Having to deal with those paranoid old coots is something he isn't looking forward to. Or… perhaps he could spin this in the hotel's favor. It's not like Mr. Morrison died on hotel grounds; Drifter did mention following him when he left the building this morning.

He looks at the vampire before him, still clawing at his arm and leaving tears in his sleeve, before clicking his tongue and letting go. Drifter wheezes and coughs as he pathetically falls on his rear. Hmm. He might've overdone it, letting his power seep into the man and sapping him of his energy and innate magic, but he had to make sure he learned his lesson.

"I'll let it slide this time, on account of our past dealings, but let this serve as your final and only warning." He leans down and tilts Drifter's chin up to meet his eyes. "Harm one of our guests again, and you will find yourself gifted with an extended stay at The Baroness. Are we clear?"

Drifter's face twists into a snarl but doesn't say anything, which is probably the closest thing to agreement that the Doorman's going to get. With that, he straightens back up and turns around, opening a doorway and inspecting his sleeve as he does. He doesn't know how salvageable this jacket is with all the little rips and tears, but their house tailor is top-notch—

"What a waste," Drifter growls out behind him.

The Doorman stops mid-step, turning his head the slightest bit. "Oh?"

"You," he coughs, "have all this power. All this freedom. And you let yourself get shackled anyway."

Doorman turns around fully, meeting Drifter's crimson glare head on and my, isn't this a first? He's encountered the vampire in many different states, but never angry.

"Shackled, you say?"

"Would you prefer collared?" Drifter sneers as he pushes himself up to standing again, supporting himself against the wall. "Like a dog called to heel. Bet you would've barked had Mr. Morrison asked. Customer's always right, right? Ha!"

Doorman tilts his head, recalling the first time he encountered the vampire. Gaunt and starved, broken manacles around his wrists. Recalls the hunger on his face when Doorman showed off a fragment of his power. A hunger that, on second thought, may have been for something more than carnal.

A hunger to, perhaps, reach the same heights. Attain the same freedom.

"You know what? I've got coin from all my years of huntin' down rich folk. Might just decide to see what The Baroness has to offer myself," Drifter leans his head back, grinning savagely. "Order you to bark, before makin' you bare your neck."

Doorman huffs. All these weak attempts at riling him up. To what end? To see if he can still fight as he did? Very well, then. If that's what he wishes for…

A door creaks open directly behind Drifter, revealing a world of latches and bolts and seals—Drifter snarls and lurches forward to avoid getting caught—but he's too slow. His arms are yanked back as a familiar set of manacles lock themselves onto his wrists. Chains slither around his waist and neck, pulling his upper body back against the wall.

"You—!"

"I think you are misunderstanding something here, Drifter," he says, stepping forward, cyan meeting crimson as he looks him in the eye. "I am not shackled, nor am I collared. My decisions are my own. And I don't owe anyone an explanation for anything I do, least of all you."

He watches as the lingering anger on the vampire's face fades into wary respect, and holds back a huff. To think that all Drifter wanted from this exchange was reassurance that he could still play their little game.

"With all that said," Doorman smiles and steps back, "if you really wish to become a patron of The Baroness, please make sure to adhere to the standards and decorum we expect from our guests. Do so, and I'll personally tend to your needs."

Drifter chuckles at that, the sound slightly breathy what with the chain pressing against his neck. "You invitin' me in, cher?"

"Of course." He lets his smile grow just a touch bit too wide. "Everyone's welcome at The Baroness."

Drifter tenses as the air shivers at those words. An open invitation for a vampire to come and go as he pleases. He licks his lips, considering. "This'll make huntin' you easier, mon tataille."

"Oh, but I figured you need the advantage," he coos, earning himself a rather fearsome glower. "And please, refer to me as the Doorman while I'm in this form."

"The Doorman?" A scoff. "What kinda fuckin' name is that?"

He arches a brow, before saying, "Well, if that's all, Drifter, I have to get back to work. I'll be seeing you around."

The chains vanish around his form, and he lunges forward the moment they do, claws outstretched—

But with a single step back into the doorway behind him, he's gone.

Days turn to weeks, and life goes on. The Drifter hasn't sought him out after their last exchange, and he admits, it's gotten a little boring since.

So on one particular night for no particular reason, after checking to make sure they have no nocturnal guests who might need his services, he wills his human body to sleep.

…

And somewhere out in the Outer Planes is a being of lock and key. Most of it, anyway. There is a small part of it on Earth, molded into a near-perfect imitation of the male human body and all its tiny flaws, if not for the subtle otherwordly glow of its pupils and the keyhole on its sternum. Asleep, as much as a mere construct could be.

For an inexplicable reason, its gaze is drawn to the keyhole in its chest as it continues its observation of itself, and a bout of curiosity takes hold of it; the same curiosity that compels it to study humanity, to allow itself to be hunted by a lesser, to act as a servant. It wonders, what if…

It reaches out to the keyhole—and turns the lock.

He wakes up, eyes bleary and unfocused as the last echoes of a lock clicking shut fade away—and that, in and of itself, is strange. He doesn't need sleep, not really, but he does do it from time to time to break the monotony of his routine. And he doesn't dream either. Did he will himself to sleep yesternight? He doesn't quite remember.

He glances at the small clock in his room. Well, no matter. A mystery for later. For now, it's time for him to start his day. He summons a doorway to the closet to retrieve a freshly pressed uniform for the day—

He pauses.

He summons a doorway to retrieve his uniform—

He summons a door—

Nothing happens, and something that feels like dread trickles into his system. Like lead in his stomach.

He gets up from his bed, and heads to the bathroom to inspect himself. Red-orange hair mussed by sleep, high cheekbones marked with pillow creases, and blue eyes...

And his eyes are blue. Not glowing cyan. Just blue. A normal blue. The mortal kind. He leans in, brings up a hand to drag down his lower eyelid to better inspect the color, only to wince and pull back when his fingertip makes contact with the surface of his eye.

He blinks, staring at his hand. Discomfort? From such a small thing? He does it again, laughing giddily at the new sensation; his voice echoes around the small bathroom, and he laughs even harder when he realizes how human it sounds. No otherwordly reverb. Just the natural acoustics of a tiled bathroom.

Fascinating. Utterly fascinating. He shan't squander this opportunity.

—

He spends the rest of the hour in high spirits. Getting ready without the use of magic isn't exactly a novel experience, but in this powerless form, it feels different. Stepping under the shower makes him jump, goosebumps rising all over at the sudden chill. He flips the shower handle, and the temperature gets higher and higher until it's almost unbearably hot. He fiddles with the temperature some more, relishing both the warmth and cold. It's all just so much more vibrant against his flesh. So is the feeling of suds in his hair and soap against his skin. And the slide of a freshly pressed uniform. Truly wonderful, the sensation of being clean.

He's back in front of the mirror after getting dressed, running his hands through his own damp hair and wondering how to style it when he feels it.

A looming presence. Nowhere, and everywhere. Familiar and strange and heavy. So heavy that his mind strains under the weight, heartrate and senses stuttering with confusion at the unseen enemy. Lost, is the main thing he feels. The open room is suddenly a labyrinth, the very walls talking, an indescribable voice echoing in his mind—

Ḍ̶̛̀͌̒͋͑͘͝҉̷̧̲̭̲̳͔̣͚͆̌́̇̚͜͝͝ₒ̶̧̧̪̮̲͉̲̺̣͊̏̈́͒̉͋҉̷͖̰̻͈̺̦͇̀͋̔͑̎͌͗́̽͘ₒ̷͔̥̻̜̣͑̽͗̕҉̸̢̯͎̤̩̖͇́̄ͅᵣ̶̧̞̦̬̰͉̝̑̉̾͗̑̍͗̑͆҉̷̨̨̹̮̙̮͈̪̼̆̓ₘ̷͍̳̀҉̶͚͈̤́ₐ̴̞̫̲̘͚̏҉̶̰͓͎͑͐͝ₙ̷̰̝̩̻͚͕̟̹̺́͒̅̌͛͐͝҉̷͕̦̩̪͌͑̓?̸̨̺͙̦̯̭̝̏͂̓͂̋̌͐͗̈̚҉̶̡̛͇̘̙̰͈̉̋͊̌̑͐̕

—a moment and an infinity later, it is gone. The pain of his mind almost reaching its breaking point stays, but there is no longer the feeling of something incomprehensibly large rooting around his brain, leaving cracks in its wake. Now, he is simply disconnected. Like he is seeing himself through a separate lens, mind floating above his physical form.

And he stays floating for some time. Eventually, some things return. The cold floor against his cheek. A tacky wetness running down his ears and nose and eyes. Voices coming from the hallway.

"…must want us to go somewhere. People always say that The Baroness is haunted, but this is actually the first time I've experienced it for myself!"

"That's… great." A pause. "So why exactly are we following it?"

"Victor, this might be a sign! It's your first time here right? What if the hotel knows something about where you came from and—look! That door just swung open!"

"Paige, I don't think—"

"It is definitely leading us somewhere. Aren't you curious… to see… Doorman? Oh my gosh, are you okay?!" Footsteps rush into the room. A hand, warm and soft, turns his face, and he blearily blinks his eyes open to see Paige staring down at him. Oh, that's right. She was scheduled for an evening reading today, wasn't she? "Doorman, can you hear me?" she asks, voice thick with concern.

"Paige, slow d—what happened?"

"I—I don't know!"

Another hand finds it's way onto his skin, colder than the first but comforting all the same. Victor appears in his periphery, wearing a thick jacket that covers up his scars. "It doesn't look like he's still bleeding." Bleeding? Is that what the tacky wetness is? "For now, let's get him off the floor."

His body gets jostled as he's lifted off the ground. Someone lets out a faint whimper.

"It's okay, you're okay," Paige shushes. "We're just putting you to bed. Victor—"

"I got him. Could you go get a towel?"

He's put down on a soft surface, body shuddering as his aching muscles are given rest. Something warm and heavy settles over him from the neck down. Footsteps, more muttered conversation, and a wet towel dabs at the corner of his eyes and mouth and ears, lifting off red. It's the last thing he sees before his eyes droop close and he drifts off into nothingness.

Chapter Text

The first thing he notices upon waking is the weight of fatigue in his bones. Rare. The last time he ever felt tired was a few decades back, when he pushed himself trying to reform his body too fast after Drifter thoroughly tore it apart.

"…think he's—he is! Doorman? Are you alright? Can you hear me?"

The second thing he notices is the sound of a certain bibliomancer's voice. His eyes flutter open to the sight of Paige by his bedside. He sits up with a groan, stiff muscles protesting against the movement—

He pauses at the sensation, the ache because that—that is novel. There's never been a time where he's not in full control of his body, and now here it is, protesting against him.

"Doorman?"

Ah, but he has company right now. It would be very improper to ignore them in favor of exploring his newfound humanity, unexpected as they are.

"Miss Paige," he greets, noting how rough his voice sounds. "Victor," he adds, glancing at the walking amalgamation of corpses leaning against the wall near the door. His eyebrow goes up when he notices the thick corduroy jacket. It bulges strangely at the back of his shoulders and elbow due to the metal protrusions that conduct electricity through his body, but it's enough to hide most of his otherness. "I see you're wearing a top for once, though hardly a weather-appropriate one."

"No shirt, no service, right?" Victor drawls dryly, before nodding at Paige. "Jokes aside, I just came here to watch her do her thing. Figured there might be children at a storytelling session and I'd rather not have anyone thinking I'm some sort of pervert."

Amusement bubbles up at the thought of Victor scandalizing the guests with his bare chest. "Snrk." The sound escapes him before he could stop it, and he puts a hand up to cover his mouth. He clears his throat, ignoring the way Victor's eyebrow goes up even higher and Paige's eyes go starry. "Ah, forgive me. A momentary lapse in decorum."

"No, no! Don't apologize! It's just—wow," Paige smiles. "I didn't think you could laugh like that. You look way more relaxed than you usually do right now. Especially without the full uniform."

"Without the full uniform?" Doorman looks down to take stock of himself. His jacket's been taken off, folded neatly and set aside on the nightstand, but the rest of his uniform sans his hat and shoes is still on him. "Ah. Did you perhaps…?"

"Oh! Sorry, we didn't know what to—we got here and you were unconscious," Paige says, wringing her hands together. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I remember," he puts a hand on his forehead, brow furrowing as he tries to recall what lead him to this state. He woke up human, then as he was getting ready, there was a familiar voice, his mind almost breaking as it tries to comprehend—"The Baroness." He staightens. "It spoke to me. Attempted to, at least. I think that's what caused me to collapse."

No wonder his first attempts at taking over a human failed so spectacularly, if that's what happens with just an attempt at direct communication.

"Oh my gosh, that's amazing!" Paige sits up, awe plain on her face. "What was it like? Well, I mean it probably pretty bad since we found you passed out on the floor and bleeding out of your face holes—that… sounded weird. But! What was it like?"

He blinks at her, a bit overwhelmed. "What was what like?"

"Talking with The Baroness! She's like, the spirit of the hotel, right? Were there words involved? Did she talk in English? Because earlier it felt like she was talking to us as well, leading us here with flickering lights and opening doors—wait, should I refer to the hotel as 'she'? I mean, I assume so because The Baroness, not The Baron but—"

"Maybe one question at a time, Paige," Victor says, still leaning against the wall.

"Ah—sorry! I sometimes just get carried away and—"

"No, no. Your enthusiasm for knowledge is understandable, Miss Paige. Commendable even." Doorman says, mentally going over her rambling words. "You say The Baroness led you here? To me?"

Paige glances at Victor, who shrugs, before she answers, "I think so? I mean, we were looking for you so I could ask about getting access to the hotel library. After finishing the storytelling session, we went looking for you. That's when the lights started flickering and doors started closing behind us—"

"You finished?" he startles, before clearing his throat. "Ah, pardon me for interrupting, Miss Paige, but I was under the impression your session was scheduled for eight-thirty in the evening."

Paige stares at him, head tilted. "Um. Yes? Why?"

"What time did you collapse?" Victor asks, catching on quick.

"It was… hm. I got up at five in the morning, so perhaps an hour past that?"

Paige sucks in a breath through her teeth, and she and Victor share another glance. "Doorman, when we found you, it was already past nine in the evening."

"Huh…"

That long? Truly? It must be, for they've no reason to lie. Time doesn't hold much weight for beings such as he, but they remember the passing of each milisecond as they inch ever so slowly towards the heat death of the universe. This may very well be the first instance he's lost time, and even though fifteen hours is nothing but a blip in his entire existence, the fact that he doesn't remember that much time passing has him off-balance.

"Interesting."

"Interesting." Victor repeats, voice flat. "You spend fifteen hours on the floor bleeding out of your orifices, and that's all you've got to say about it?"

Doorman gives him a little smile, before turning to the bibliomancer. "You were saying, Miss Paige?"

"Oh, please. Just Paige is fine. I think we're close enough to drop the formalities, especially with me spending the night in your room," she jokes, before cringing moments after. "I didn't mean—oh god, not like that! It's not like we were alone since Victor's been here the whole time too. I mean—!"

"No worries, I understand what you mean," he cuts in, holding back a chuckle. "Paige, then."

She smiles gratefully. "How about you?"

"Hm?"

"What's your name?"

"The Doorman should still suffice."

"This again?" She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and huffs. "It's not like you're on the clock right now. You must have a name."

He smiles.

"You know, the way you smile like that to avoid answering questions kinda makes me want to sock you in the mouth," Victor comments from the side.

Paige turns to him with an affronted, "Victor!"

He doesn't back down, mismatched eyes boring into Doorman's. "I'm just saying. We spend all night playing nursemaid, and the first thing he does is ask us questions while barely answering any of ours. Hasn't even thanked us."

Oh. That was pointed. And surprisingly effective. He puzzles over the sudden knot of guilt and embarassment that has him fighting the urge to shift in place and shrink away from Victor's judging gaze.

"Tsk," Victor crosses his arms and looks to the side when he doesn't say anything in response. "Figures."

"Victor," Paige hiss-whispers beratingly, before turning back to Doorman and trying for a reassuring smile. And that, of all things, is what makes him give in and look away. "It's okay if you don't wanna share. Everyone's entitled to their secrets and—"

He brings up a hand to cut her off before she could launch into another rambling apology. "No, Paige," he sighs. "He is right in this regard. I have been remiss in showing you two my gratitude." He looks them in the eye, addressing them one after the other. "Thank you, truly. And I apologize for not being forthcoming. The truth is…"

He trails off. How much does he wish to share? And how much would they believe? This version of him, his story—it's absurd, he's aware of that much, for why would someone with unfathomable power spend their time serving their lessers?

"I do not have a name, because I am not human," is what he settles on, gauging their reactions, expecting shock. What he gets instead is mild interest from Victor and vindication from Paige.

"I knew it!" she stands and cheers, before catching herself and sheepishly sitting back down. "I mean—wow! Not human. That's… wow."

He raises a brow at her. "You knew?"

She flushes. "I mean, I kinda figured it out when I saw you easily loading some heavy luggage onto a cart. At first I thought you might've been just like, secretly buff beneath your uniform, but then there's also the way your eyes glow. It's really faint, but once I noticed it, I couldn't stop seeing it. I'm also not sure what kind of non-human you are? Definitely not any of the obvious ones, like vampire, werewolf, djinn—you knoww…."

Huh. Well, that makes things easier, though he doesn't bother correcting her use of the term non-human. Humanity is far more all-encompassing than their definition of it, the variance between each so-called species too insignificant to truly differentiate them from one another. To a patron, at least.

"I am not any of those, no. If I were to describe myself as something you're familiar with… hm, an angel, perhaps?"

"You're an angel? Heh," Victor chuckles. "Now that's funny."

"Angels…" Paige reaches down to her usual stack of books on the floor and taking out a thin notebook. "Can I ask you some more questions? Oh, and do you mind if I take notes?"

"Go ahead," he says, amused by her enthusiasm. "Feel free to ask as much questions you have. Right now, I am an open book." He casts Victor a look at that as if to say, see? He can be forthcoming. The man rolls his eyes.

"Great!" She takes a pen out from her pocket, clicking it open. "Okay. So. Angel. Did you have a specific type in mind? Are you more of an archangel or a principality or a seraph or something else?"

"Ah. Do forgive me but I'm not as well-versed as you are with the mythology of angels." And truth be told, he mostly chose them for the aesthetic.

"No worries! But can you tell me how you're like angels then?"

"Well, for one, I am currently working in service of a higher power—"

She gasps. "Is it The Baroness? Oh my gosh, so she's not just a spirit inhabiting the building!"

"—yes, The Baroness. And yes, The Baroness is far greater than a mere spirit. Simply hearing its true voice would be enough to break a mortal's psyche."

Her pen scritches against the page as she scribbles furiously, most likely writing her theories alongside the actual information she's being given.

"Okay. Do you have any innate abilities specific to what you are? According to literature, angels have certain roles specific to them, like how the virtues govern over nature and its elements while the principalities govern over specific nations. Archangels are messengers, etcetera etcetera. Do you have anything like that?"

"I do have my own domain of power."

"Ooh! Tell me more!"

"Formerly, I was a being of entrances and passageways, but over the years I've refined my domain into something more precise. A being of lock and key." he pauses, frowning to himself, putting a hand on his chin. "Huh. That sounded weird. Usually I'd have a whole spooky reverb going on whenever I say that."

Paige ignores that last part, focusing on writing down his answer. "Entrances and passageways, lock and key… so that's why you're named the Doorman! And your powers, I assume they have to do with opening and closing paths? Portals? Is that how you're always so on top of things at the hotel?"

"More or less, yes. Ah, and there is one more thing. The main reason I said I'm similar to an angel."

"Let me guess," Victor drawls. "Your cherubic good looks?"

Doorman beams at him. "Right on!"

"What."

"I'm flattered that you think so highly of my appearance. But yes," he turns back to Paige. "He's correct in the sense that aesthetically, they're the closest to my true form. 'Be not afraid', and all that."

"Your true form… that's, wow. But wait," she frowns, reading back on her notes. "You mentioned something earlier, about hearing The Baroness's true voice. Did you collapse because you weren't in your true form when you heard it?"

"Ah. No. That happened because I woke up this morning without my powers."

"Huh. Interesting." Then she blinks, doing a double-take. "Wait, your powers are just gone?!"

"Correct." Doorman gestures to himself. "I am, for all intents and purposes, human. And The Baroness… hearing its voice directly isn't something that the human mind can comprehend without breaking, as I mentioned earlier. Though I assume it didn't know either, else it wouldn't have attempted to do such."

Page frowns, muttering to herself as she reaches down to her stack of books to retreive a thick tome. She thumbs through it with a speed born of familiarity, stopping on page with an illustration of an angel: winged and holy and nothing like him at all. "Do you remember anything? Anything at all that could maybe hint at what caused this?"

He hums to himself and thinks through the events of that morning. The previous day, he still recalls in perfect clarity. How many guests that came through, what rooms were booked—and he very much still had his powers then. Ah, but the memory does stop somewhere approaching midnight, a few hours after he'd clocked off and went to his rooms. And then he woke up, bleary-eyed and with the last echoes of a lock… clicking shut…

He straightens up and starts unbuttoning the top half of his shirt, ignoring the way Paige gasps. He'll apologize for the impropriety later, but right now, he has to see—and there, on his sternum, is the keyhole that serves as a reminder of his divinity, but instead of a yawning void that leads to the Outer Planes, the inside of it now contains a thin layer of not-quite-metal.

Locked. Just as he suspected. He runs a finger down the golden trim on the sides. He must've missed it while he was showering, entirely too occupied with the sensation of water hitting his skin.

"What is that?" Paige murmurs, curiosity taking over decorum as she kneels on the bed beside him and leans in to inspect it. "Why do you have a keyhole on your chest? Is it usually like this?"

"It's the source of my magic, you could say," he answers, tapping at the covering. "And no, it's not usually like this. It's been locked."

Paige blinks up at that, brow furrowed. "With a literal key or…?"

"Any idea who could've done it?" Victor speaks up for the first time in a while, having stepped closer to look at Doorman's chest.

He shrugs. "Myself, I suspect."

Silence follows the admission, and when he looks back up, he's met with twin stares of incredulity.

"Yourself," Victor repeats, tone flat. "You. Locked away your own powers."

"Mm." He takes the opportunity to button up again. "There's not much that can subdue a—someone with my powers, and even then locking things up is my domain. And as far as I'm aware, there's only one other person aside from myself who's even aware that this part of me exists. Well," he nods at them, "before today that is."

"And this other person—are you sure they couldn't have done this?"

Doorman tries to imagine Drifter sneaking his way through the labyrinthine halls of The Baroness and into his personal chambers. It's certainly possible, especially if the vampire decides to splurge on magic items that would help conceal his presence once more; maybe he might've even found one that could negate his powers entirely. On the other hand…

"If he was behind this, I would no longer be here." The way Paige's face lights up with alarm makes him chuckle, only for it to turn into a cough that has him grimacing and rubbing his throat as he becomes acutely aware of a mild throbbing pulse around his head. "Ugh, what is this…"

"Doorman, you okay?"

"I… I'm not sure. I feel a bit dizzy and my throat is all dry. And I have a headache, I believe."

"That doesn't sound good." Victor says. "A lingering side-effect?"

"I don't know it's—" he breaks off into a cough once more.

"Hold on—dizziness, dry mouth, headache… aha!" Paige shoots up out of her seat and scurries to the bathroom. There's the sound of a drawer opening and the faucet running before she runs back in with a full glass of water. "It's just a hunch, but you are human now and all the things you said are effects of dehydration and your skin looks dry. Plus, you were bleeding out for who knows how long so your body probably lost a lot of fluids—so here," she thrusts the glass into his hands. "Bottoms up."

Deciding to entertain her, he lifts the glass to his mouth—his eyes widen, a pleased noise slipping from his lips because oh my, the first gulp is absolutely heavenly. Gone is the dryness of his mouth, soothed with each pull of his throat as what feels like ambrosia flows down his gullet and into his stomach. But it's over too soon, the last of the water gone within seconds.

He licks his lips, before opening his eyes—when had he closed them?—to a quiet audience, the awkward silence broken by Paige chuckling. "Wow. You sure were… thirsty."

"I suppose I was," he says, before looking down at the empty glass forlornly.

Victor snorts, before taking it off his hands. "I'll get you another glass. Maybe two."

"Ah—thank you, Victor."

He's pleased to note that the second and third glass are just as refreshing as the first. He lets out a satisfied little sigh, feeling miles better than he did before drinking. "Goodness. If plain water tastes that good, I can't imagine how other bevarages would taste like."

"You're acting like you've never had water before," Victor says.

Doorman gives him a smile. "I have, but only because of curiosity. Not needing to drink nor eat happens to be one of the many differences between your kind and mine."

Victor clicks his tongue, before glancing at Paige, who has brought out another book and furiously cross-checking her notes against it as she mutters under her breath, fingers leaving a trail of green wisps, magic leaking in her excitement. "Paige? You good?"

"Hm?" She looks up from her books, before returning to the present "Oh! Sorry, it's just—not everyday you get to feel like you're in a supernatural mystery." She laughs sheepishly, before addressing Doorman, "By the way, can I see the hotel library tomorrow? I've heard you have some rare books in there, and honestly what I have onhand right now won't be enough to look into this. And with all this information you gave me, we'll be able to be more discerning when it comes to what books we'll need to get your powers back!"

"Oh." Doorman blinks, tilts his head. "I wasn't aware that was your purpose for asking those questions."

A look of hurt crosses her face for a split-second, but it smoothes over so fast that he thinks it might've been imagination on his part. "Of course that's what it's for. I mean, I do want to get to know you better, but my priority was always to help you."

Oh. That is… hm. All this time, he'd been indulging her questions the way one would indulge a child, but the way she frames her curiosity—as a desire to know him, instead of a need to study that which is unknown to her—it fills his chest with a strange mix of guilt and unfamiliar warmth and leaves him feeling like he owes her an apology.

"Thank you," he says, sincerely this time. "And you may access the hotel library tomorrow. I'd warn you about proper care and handling of the books, but given that you're you…" He chuckles.

Paige, unaware of his little dilemma, beams. "I can't wait! We should—" she breaks off into a yawn, loud and wide, before she catches herself and covers her mouth. "Oh! Sorry, it's just been a long night and all. We stayed up because weren't exactly sure what to do. Like, what if you started bleeding in your sleep or something?" She chuckles awkardly.

"Oh no," Doorman straightens, gut churning with… shame? Mortification? "I've been a less than gracious host, taking up your time with such a personal matter."

"Oh," her eyes widen, and she starts waving her hands in protest. "No, no! I didn't mean it that way. We chose to stay and help. Really!" She turns for backup. "Right, Victor?"

He shrugs. "If by 'chose to stay', you mean 'the door wouldn't open and let us leave', then yeah."

"Victor!"

Doorman glances at the clock, eyes widening when he sees its half past three in the morning. "Goodness! My apologies to you two. Please, allow me to get you a room each here at The Baroness. Free of charge. It's the least I can do."

"You really don't have to—"

"We'll take the rooms. Thanks," Victor says, cutting off Paige's demurring with a nudge to her side.

"Let me show you the way." Doorman goes to get up when the door swings open on its own. He swings his legs off the bed, only for the windows to rattle and the lights to dim like a warning; when he gets back on the bed, the rattling stops and the lights turns back to normal. "Or it looks like The Baroness shall do it for me." He looks up at the ceiling. "I'll leave them in your care."

In the distance, a call bell rings.

He turns back to his two guests. "Let's talk more tomorrow. I have my work—" and goodness, he skipped an entire day, didn't he? Hopefully no major incidents happened since— "but feel free to visit the library at your leisure. I suspect The Baroness shall show you the way, should I be unavailable."

"We'll see you tomorrow then, Doorman." Paige picks up her stack of books, hugging them against her chest. "Good night."

"Good night, Paige."

She steps out into the hallway, Victor following after her like a silent sentinel, but then he stops. He looks at Doorman over his shoulder. "I still don't trust you. You know that, right?"

Doorman simply smiles.

Victor shakes his head. "One of these days…" he mutters, before stepping out of the room.

The door closes behind him, leaving Doorman alone.

Well, mostly alone.

"Thank you, friend," he says to the open air. "I appreciate you sending them while I was… indisposed."

The lights flicker once, the quiet hum of electricity just the slightest bit louder, sounding almost solemn.

"Are you trying to apologize?" he asks, bemused by the thought. "I know you didn't mean to. Neither of us could've seen this coming. Truthfully, I'm more disappointed at myself. In my overeagerness, I overlooked certain facts," he looks at his hands, turning them this way and that, musing, "The mind is weak, and the flesh is even weaker."

A wave of tiredness comes over him, and his mouth opens into a yawn—oh, another first. How fun. Still, he deigns to listen to his body this time, lying back down and closing his eyes before letting out a sigh.

"Tomorrow will be interesting," he murmurs, before sleep could fully take him. "Dealing with guests… on an equal footing…"

He falls asleep, missing the way the floorboards creak and bend into something reminiscent of a frown.

Chapter Text

He wakes up feeling empty. Horribly empty. So empty that his stomach emits a loud sound akin to that of a beast. And his throat is dry once more.

"And here I thought people were exaggerating when they say they could eat a horse," he muses out loud, idly noting the scratchy quality of his voice, before getting up and out of bed. He notices a kink in his spine, and he frowns at the disagreeable tightness. What is it that humans do to alleviate it again? He puts his arms behind his hips, and extends his spine forward, groaning at the satisfying stretch. "Humans. So high maintenance," he mutters. No wonder morning yoga sessions are so popular these days. Perhaps he can attend one such session? Ah, but there's work to be done. He'll have to save that experience for another day. He looks at the time—

And something frantic and agitated grips his soul, heart jumping to his throat as for the first time in his life, he panics. He's late, more than late. A stray thought crosses his mind, one telling him to pick apart this strange new feeling but it's almost ten o'c clock, for heavens's sake and has to get ready— Should he shower? No, there's no time—

He rushes to the closet, almost tripping in his haste, only to find himself unable to open it. He tries to force it open, but the doors remain firmly shut. He narrows his eyes, pride rankled as he's faced with a door he can't open. He pulls once more, putting all his weight behind it, but the wooden doors refuse to budge. Which makes no sense because there's no goddamn locks on the—

The lights hum. He looks up at the ceiling.

"Open it," he grits out, knuckles white as he grips the closet door handles. "I do not have time for this. I'm late."

The Baroness, of course, doesn't answer.

He glowers at the closet door. "You may be my master, but prohibiting me from doing my duties is a breach of contract. Open. The door."

Wood creaks, and then the air on his arms stand as he feels a looming presence in the room. Nowhere, and everywhere, yet infinitely more subdued than the first time he'd felt it. The rising dread is nearly enough to make him back off, but his indignation makes him hold his glare and stand up straight despite the animal instinct to cower at the overwhelming power surrounding him—

A brisk knock echoes in the room, breaking their tense stand off.

Doorman glares at the room one more time, before going to see who it is. "Ash." He greets the Ixian by the door, the young man he 'rescued' from one of their guest's employ. "What can I do for you?"

"Good noon, sir," he greets, and there's undisguised curiosity in his eyes as he very subtly tries to look into Doorman's room. "Were you arguing with someone or…?"

Suddenly, he realizes how ridiculous he sounded, arguing with the unseen, and finds his annoyance with The Baroness doubling. He smiles, trying to keep his true feelings from showing on his face. "Ah, I was just on the phone. Now, may I ask what's brought you here?" And by here, he means his private hall which nobody but himself should be able to access. His annoyance triples.

"O-oh. Right." Ash hands him a letter. "Front desk told me to deliver this to you. Said it's a letter from the big boss?"

Raising a brow, he takes it. Barring himself, The Baroness doesn't communicate with its employees directly all too often. When it does, it does so in the form of missives manifesting in the hotel's small mailroom, addressed to whoever it needs to talk to.

He neatly rips the side of the envelope open, and unfolds the piece of paper inside. He reads it once. Then another time to make sure he read it right.

Then he takes a breath, something he's seen humans do to calm themselves, only to find it does very little to quell his indignation. He glances up at Ash, who immediately pretends as if he hadn't been trying to sneak a peek. "Did anyone else get a letter?"

Ash nods. "Delivered one to HR. And Front Desk got one as well—"

"Did you happen to glance at the contents of their letters?"

The Ixian brings sheepishly scratches at his cheek. "Y-Yes, sir. I caught a glance. They both said the same thing."

"Which is?"

"You've been placed on indefinite leave for health reasons, and that anyone who catches you trying to work has to report you to the boss."

His eyebrow twitches. His annoyance has now been upgraded to frustration.

"Thank you, Ash," he says, trying to keep his jaw from clenching. It doesn't seem to work, as the young man twitches nervously. "You're dismissed."

"O-okay. Bye, boss! Hope you recover soon!" Ash says, before almost rushing down the hall. He doesn't run, thankfully. He's made sure to drill into their new recruits that barring emergencies, running in the hallway is not allowed. It gives off the wrong impression should a guest ever see them.

He waits for the Ixian to disappear down a corner, before closing the door. He slowly makes his way to his bed, sets the blasted letter on the nightstand, and sits back down, tries to steady himself by closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. This is fine. This isn't something worth getting angry over. So what if he didn't wake up on time and became the first ever patron to be late at something? So what if The Baroness barred him from doing his job? So what if he, a being of lock and key and entryways and passages, was unable to open a simple closet door—

His stomach rumbles once more, and suddenly, he realizes what exactly they mean by 'the straw that breaks the camel's back', as he starts cursing The Baroness and his human form in every language he knows and can still pronounce with his human tongue.

Throwing expletives into the empty air, while cathartic, does not fully alleviate his anger. So to complete the experience of acting like an uncooperative adolescent, he has parked himself in his bed and is refusing to move no matter how much the windows rattle.

"If you do not wish for me to work, then fine," he said earlier, crossing his arms and determinedly ignoring the grumbling of his stomach and the scratchiness of his throat. "I'll stay right here. Doing nothing."

It's been five minutes since then. The thirst is easy to overlook, especially since he's not actively engaging in conversation with a dry throat; the hunger, though, is the opposite, and hasn't gotten any easier to ignore. Should he just—no. Absolutely not. Giving in now would be the same as letting The Baroness win, and he refuses to let that happen. Also, the stomach pangs are an interesting sensation. He knows that some of his irritability probably stems from the fact that his body hasn't been given any nourishment in the past day or so, but to think that the psychological effect could be this intense. Thirst and hunger aside, there's also a growing pressure between his lower back and abdomen; the urge to… urinate? Fascinating. He'll do it later, once he's done sulking about being unable to work—

Someone knocks on his door again, and he resists the urge to grumble because apparently, his private rooms aren't so private any more. He ignores whoever it is on the other side of the door, probably another employee sent up to—

"Doorman?"

He sits up immediately at the familiar voice of Paige, habit urging him to get up and get the door for her—but he resists, letting himself fall back down on the mattress, continuing his refusal to move from his bed.

"I don't think he's in," Victor says after Paige calls out a few more times.

"Or he might still be asleep. Doorman!" She knocks again, pausing to give him a chance to answer. "Okay, maybe you're right. Should we try—oh! Never mind."

The door swings open by itself, revealing his newfound companions on the other side, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Paige does anyway; Victor just looks as pitiably morose as ever.

"Doorman!" She waves at him, but doesn't cross the threshold. "Good morning! Or afternoon. How you feeling today?"

"Irritable," he answers. "My master has, apparently, decided to put me on indefinite leave. Since I'm forbidden from working, I've decided to show my displeasure with a—what is it you mortals call it?—a tempter tantrum."

Paige looks around the empty hall, before leaning in over the threshold, and asking, "By master, do you mean…?" she gestures to the room at large.

"Yes. Ah, and please, feel free to come in. No need to haunt the doorway."

They step inside, closing the door behind them.

"So why are you forbidden from working?" Victor asks.

"Health reasons," Doorman drawls. "I've caught a terminal illness, you see." At their expectant expressions, he gestures at himself grandly. "Humanity. Symptoms include being hungry and thirsty. And I think I'll need to relieve myself in the bathroom soon. You know, all the wonderful perks of being mortal."

"O-oh! Um… you don't need help with that last part, do you?" Paige asks, causing both men to stare at her incredulously. She flushes bright red. "What?! He didn't even know he was thirsty yesterday! It's not so far-fetched that he wouldn't know how to use the toilet!"

Doorman, for the first time since waking, feels his foul mood give way to amusement. He sits up straight. "You're not incorrect. I've never had to before." He turns to Victor. "I don't suppose you could teach me—"

"Fuck off."

Doorman laughs, only to be cut off by the sound of his stomach growling. Again. He grimaces. "Hunger is extremely unpleasant, isn't it?"

"You have no idea," Paige says, before brightening up. "Speaking of food, do you want to join us for brunch? We were on the way to the buffet, but then we kept getting turned around and the layout of the halls stopped making sense for a bit, then that thing happened again with the lights flickering and doors opening—and now we're here!" She smiles. "I'm guessing The Baroness wanted us to come pick you up. So what do you think?"

Doorman opens his mouth to refuse, only to pause when he realizes something. He's tried mortal food, of course, but none of it really did anything for it. He's able to tell flavors apart, but that's about it. He derives no satisfaction nor sustenance from it. But now? With his completely human psyche? If water felt as good as it did with a parched throat, what more when it comes to food and the actual hunger in his belly?

Mind made up, he stands. "Give me a few minutes to get ready. Feel free to sit on the bed while you wait," he says, walking back to the closet, muttering a dark curse underneath his breath when it finally decides to open up.

A couple of glassses of tap and a brisk shower improves his mood exponentially, and they head off to the dining area. On the way there, they come across a few employees who do a doubletake upon seeing Doorman up and about. Or maybe it's because they've never seen him in anything other than his standard uniform, and the sight of him dressed down in just his white button-up and slacks is novel to them.

"Hullo, sir," a kindly old janitor greets, mop in hand. "Thought you was sick?"

Doorman inclines his head in greeting. "Bartholomew. I'm afraid reports of my poor health are greatly exaggerated and are not to be believed. You wouldn't happen to have any incidents to report, would you?"

The man chuckles. "'Fraid not, sir. And even if I did, I wouldn't report them to you. We all got the notice about not giving you any work, see?"

Doorman smiles tightly. "Very well. Please continue with your work."

The janitor nods at them all, before busying himself with mopping the floors.

"You're a pretty good boss, aren't you?" Paige comments, once the janitor's out of earshot.

"Ah, but I'm not their boss."

"Really? They talk about you as if you are. Same with other employees. They've… actually never called you by name whenever they talk about you, now that I think about it. But they always seem to know who I'm talking about whenever I ask about you."

"Well, I do help in staffing and managing the hotel, but other than that, I am but a humble doorman," he says, before letting out a forlorn sigh. "At least I was. Now, I'm not even that. Just another unemployed mortal, wandering about aimlessly. Like you, Victor."

Said unemployed mortal rolls his eyes. "Are you always this dramatic or is this a side-effect of you being human now?"

"Oh, look," Doorman says, ignoring him, "we're here."

They arrive at the dining hall. Immediately, the smell of sizzling meats, fresh bread, and coffee fills his nostrils. Classic American Brunch is the theme for this week, if he remembers correctly, the menu ranging from Eggs Benedict and fluffy buttermilk pancakes to crispy bacon and savory sausages. His eyes wander the veritable spread of foods, his stomach rumbling uncontrollably—

Paige laughs, breaking him out of his reverie, and only then does he notice the copious amount of saliva his mouth is producing. "You look starving. Come on."

She tugs him forward by the wrist and he follows her lead, taking a plate and piling it with food as they go around the buffet. He tries to keep his plate modest, but oh, it is simply difficult with how much there is on offer; he should definitely give the kitchen staff a commendation. He ends up taking a bit from each item on offer before they go and sit down with Victor, already having found a table for them near the corner of the room. As Doorman settles in his seat across from the two of them, Victor glances at his plate, raising a brow.

"You sure you're gonna be able to finish all that?"

"Why, Victor, I'm so famished I could eat a horse." Doorman unfolds the napkin on the table and neatly lays it on his lap. He looks to Victor's plate. "What about you? Will that small serving be enough to fuel you?"

"I don't really need to eat much. My fuel mainly comes in the form of electricity," Victor says, taking a bite of his bacon and egg sandwich. "Don't ask me how that works."

"Oh, don't worry. I'm quite studied on the subject," he smiles, before surveying his own plate, trying to decide on his first bite.

"You are?" Paige turns to him, curious. And as mannerless as it is to talk with one's mouth full, she does look rather cute with her cheeks puffed up with pancakes. "Why?"

He glances about, making sure there's no one lingering nearby, before continuing, "This body is one I had to make from scratch. And dare I say, if I were any less accurate with it, then I would've probably died the moment my powers disappeared." He spears a piece of sausage with his fork, flesh giving way easily. He lifts it, inspecting it as he turns it this way and that. A nice sear on the exterior. "The human anatomy is fascinating in its intricacy. Flesh, bone, blood—why, it took me almost a century to get the nervous system just right."

She nearly chokes. "A century? How old—"

A delighted moan cuts her off, making her cheeks color and Victor mutter, "Jesus" under his breath.

Doorman doesn't notice either of this, too busy luxuriating in his first taste of human food as flavor bursts on his tongue. Savory and juicy, with just a hint of spice that makes him crave more. He scarfs down the whole thing within a few bites.

"Lovely," he murmurs, before moving to the next thing on his plate. A small pancake with maple syrup generously poured all over its surface. He cuts off a small piece, and—he groans, "Oh, yes." It melts in his mouth, sweet and airy and absolutely delightful. A wholly different experience, and he finishes it in a few quick bites as well. Bacon, waffles, hashbrowns— the more he eats, the more he realizes that what's better than the individual taste of each dish is the sheer rush of dopamine that accompanies each bite, pleasure centers firing as his brain rewards him for fulfilling his hunger.

"U-um, Doorman."

"Hm?" He hums, not pausing in his consumption of a particularly scrumptious cheese bagel.

"Can you tone down the, um, the… I understand it's your first time eating food, but the s-sounds you're making are, uh—"

"She's telling you to stop moaning with each bite," says Victor, blunt as ever. "It's uncomfortable."

He looks up at his companions. Paige avoids his gaze, cheeks and ears steaming red, and while Victor continues eating without seeming too bothered, he does look askance at him as he chews.

"Ah," Doorman dabs at his lips with the napkin, wiping off remnants of sugar and oil, before smiling at them. "My apologies. I shall endeavor to control myself better. Tell me, is the food to your liking?"

"Oh, yes! It's really good," Paige says, eagerly jumping on the change of topic. "Who plans the menu?"

"Executive Chef Murray is responsible for all of it. They're a very capable individual…"

They make small talk about food and different cuisines, and make it through the rest of the meal without any more indecent sounds leaving his throat. Well, he did let out one particularly lurid moan when he bit into a piece of chocolate cake, but who can blame him? Besides, the way Paige broke out into a blushing stutter at that was simply adorable.

He somehow manages to finish everything, and stops himself from getting a second plate at Victor's suggestion, because as much as he would like to experience the undoubtedly unpleasant feeling of 'being so full you end up vomitting into a toilet bowl', he doesn't wish for his precious first meal to end in such manner. And so, he settles for experiencing fullness in his belly, his pants the slightest bit tighter on the waistline.

"This was a most enlightening experience," he says after washing everything down with a cool glass of water. He turns to Paige. "Thank you for inviting me."

"It's nothing," she says. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"I certainly did," he smirks, holding back a laugh when it causes her cheeks to redden once more.

"What's your plan after this? With your indefinite leave and all that," Victor asks.

Doorman's smirk falls off, mood souring at the reminder.

"Oh," Paige exclaims, not noticing, turning hopeful eyes towards him. "Yesterday, or this morning, technically, but anyway—you mentioned something about the library?"

"Ah, yes," he nods. "Then if we're all finished here, I can lead the way—"

"Yes," she hurriedly wipes her mouth with her napkin as she stands up. "We're ready!"

He holds back another chuckle at her enthusiasm, before getting out of his seat himself. "Very well. Follow me."

"Oh. My. Goodness!" Paige lets out a quiet squeal, almost buzzing with excitement. She spins in place, taking in the numerous mahogany bookshelves filled with books of all kinds. "This place is huge! This is the biggest hotel library I've ever seen."

"There's no way this place fits in the building," Victor mutters, eyeing everything distrustfully.

Doorman smiles, deigning to ignore his ever dour companion. "The Baroness boasts the best and biggest hotel library in the country. And this here is Mrs. Bennet, its caretaker." He nods to the slightly see-through portly woman next to him—a specter, and one of the few employees of The Baroness who has an inkling of its true nature; afer all, they can't entrust the care and keeping of such literary treasures to just anyone. "Mrs. Bennet shall help you find whatever it is you're looking for."

"Hi! I'm Paige," she shakes her hand. "Pardon me, but I love your name. Are you a Jane Austen fan by any chance?"

The librarian lets out a soft laugh. "Of course I am, dear. My name is what made me look her up in the first place, and Pride and Prejudice started my love of books started there. Ah, but enough about me. What can I do for you?"

"Okay, so," Paige whips out her notebook, "I'm looking for books on the following: cases of non-humans losing their powers, research on the sources of powers of different species, folklore on fallen angels…"

"And we've lost her," Victor comments as Mrs. Bennet takes out a large stack of index cards from a nearby cabinet as Paige rattles off some more topics, and they watch as the two women start looking through it with unmatched enthusiasm and focus. He glances at Doorman beside him. "So what are your plans now?"

"Oh, I don't know," Doorman lets out another dramatic sigh. "Probably waste away in my room until this body begs for its basic needs once more."

"Why are you this pissy about not working?" Victor asks. "You like working here?"

"I do," Doorman sniffs. "It's quite rewarding."

"Catering to rich people is rewarding?"

"Observing humanity is," he corrects.

"Huh," Victor says. After a short moment, he adds, "Well, if you really want to work, we're still guests at this hotel. Me and Paige, that is."

Doorman turns to him, curious.

"Isn't that your whole thing? Helping guests?" Victor nods towards Paige's growing stack of index cards she wants to check out. "I mean, I'm not gonna say no to help dealing with that. And it's not like you've got anything else to do."

"Hmm." He thinks it over, before nodding. "You are correct. Very well. Paige," he calls for her attention, "I'd like to assist you in your research, if you'll have me."

She beams. "Of course! This is going to be so much fun!"

Paige, he finds, severely overestimated how fun this is.

He's spent the last twenty minutes running around the library with Victor, fetching her books from the shelves with the help of Mrs. Bennet. And during those twenty minutes, he has to begrudgingly admit to himself that perhaps The Baroness made the right call. He's clearly in no state to perform his usual duties, especially if walking to and fro with a stack of books has him nearly out of breath. Another strange feeling, one he doesn't appreciate. Is it his lungs? His stamina? Or is this simply another side-effect of his power loss?

Whatever it is, he tries not to let the exertion show on his face as he drops off another set of books on one of the tables Paige commandeered for their use. He most certainly fails, as she takes one look at him and her brow furrows.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "Here, sit down for a bit. Sorry for running you ragged."

"I'm fine," he reassures her, but takes the offered seat. "I'm pleased to be of help. How's the research going?"

She frowns, turning back to her open notebook and the multiple open books surrounding it. "It's going, I guess. There's not a lot of research about non-humans losing their innate abilities, and in most published cases, they lose their abilities at birth due to genetic defects or some other medical anomaly. I did find a potential study that theorizes how mystics can lose their ability to perform magic, but the author isn't a very good writer and—" she stops herself, taking a deep breath before looking at him apologetically. "Sorry for rambling again. I'm just—a bit frustrated, I guess. Usually, I'd have something by now, but this isn't really my area of study and I have almost zero clue what I'm doing," she chuckles awkwardly. "More of a reader than a researcher, as you know."

He stays quiet for a moment, contemplating her words. "Perhaps I can be of assistance," he offers, and at her hopeful glance, he adds, "I already told you that I'm quite studied. Not formally, but enough to know my way around scientific papers and such. And as the subject of this endeavor, I might pick up on bits of information you might miss or discard as irrelevant."

"Really? You'd do that?"

"Of course," he leans closer, smiles. "You're doing all this to help me. It's the least I could do."

She smiles back, shoulders losing some of their tension. "Thanks." Then she abruptly slaps her cheeks, takes a deep breath, and lets it all out in one big exhale. "Alright! Let's get to work then! Let me show you what I have so far."

Together, Doorman and Paige look through the materials she found. Research journals, bibliographies, biographies—she even managed to sniff out a personal diary from a sketchy academic that somehow made its way to the library. Doorman watches with fascination as she tries to make sense of multiple accounts; she does surprisingly well with the pieces she has, despite not nearing any actual answer for how he could regain his power.

"Oh, can you hand me that one? Mystics and Their Origins?"

He glances to what she's pointing at, a thick purple tome near the edge of their little impromptu research station. A good find. There's even a ritual inside that he could theoretically use to reconnect to the Outer Planes if not for the exhorbitant blood sacrifice needed for it to work.

He gets up to fetch the book—when his foot hits the corner of the table. He hisses at the sudden pain that shoots up his leg, hopping on one foot as he does.

"Doorman? You alright?"

"I'm fine. I just…" he trails off, blinking down at his foot, realizing what just happened. Pain. Actual pain. Well, he did feel it before when The Baroness nearly squished his brain like a grape, but that was different; all-encompassing and intense—so much so that his mind disconnected from himself in order to shield him from it, softening the blow. It's not like the mild pulse of a headache caused by dehydration or the stomach pangs of hunger either. A vivid surge instead of a constant ache.

"Fascinating," he murmurs, bringing up his foot. He braces himself on the table with both hands before trying to do it again, frowning when he's unable to put much force in the attempt. "Hmm."

"Doorman?"

"Ah. Apologies, Paige." He looks up at her and reassures her with a smile. How rude of him, to get distracted in the middle of a conversation. "I think I stubbed my toe."

"Oh." A pause. "Does it still hurt?"

"No, no. It's faded to almost nothing by now. I was just wondering why I couldn't recreate the event with as much force."

"Recreate—what?" She puts down her copy of The Fallen Celestials to boggle at him. "Are you trying to stub your toe on purpose?"

"To feel the pain again, yes," he nods, ignoring the way she looks at him with pure incredulity. "I can't seem to put as much force into it as I want to."

"Of course not! That's your brain telling you not to do it because it hurts!"

Doorman looks down at his shoe with interest. "Oh? So the survival instinct applies to even such minor things?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Is it possible to override this instinct?"

She hesitates. "I mean, if you really wanted to, yes? But please don't—oh my god!"

Doorman's hiss turns into pained laughter as he feels that same sensation shooting up his leg once more. "Ouch."

"Ouch—of course, ouch! What if you broke your toe? What if you broke multiple toes?!" She comes forward and leads him back to his chair before she starts fussing. "Sit down and take off your shoe! Is it still hurting?"

"This should be the last of it," Victor says as he comes back with a couple of heavy tomes, and finds them like that: Doorman sitting down with one foot bare while Paige frets over it. "What happened? Did you break your foot or something?"

"I stubbed my toe," Doorman shares cheerily.

"What."

"He stubbed his toe then went ahead and did it again," Paige grumbles as she stands back up. "Nothing looks broken. Only some redness. Still," she puts her hands on her hips, glaring down at him, "do not do that again."

He chuckles, before bending over and putting his sock and shoe back on. "Don't worry, I won't. Twice is enough to get the full experience, I think."

"The full experience," Victor repeats, expression unreadable. "The experience being pain."

"Yes," Doorman smiles, tilting his head when, for a split second, a shadow of anger passes over Victor's face. "Are you alright?"

Victor looks away, and now Doorman's curiosity is definitely piqued. "I'm fine," he grunts, before addressing Paige, "Any luck?"

She invites him to sit and starts rambling about everything they've found so far. He listens, nodding along as she gesticulates with her hands, and Doorman keeps an eye on Victor, pondering his reaction.

Victor catches him staring, and Doorman watches as his shoulders tense, before he breaks eye contact, jaw working. Interesting.

Before he could mull it over more, Paige calls for his attention, asking him to look over a section of a book she found on fallen angels to see if any of it applies to what he is, and he's thrown back into helping her research once more.

Chapter Text

They've been in the library for around five hours now, and Paige is no closer to finding an answer as to how to restore his powers than she was at the beginning; not that he ever expected her to find one, even with The Baroness's library open to her, but mortals have surprised him before. Still, her ability to pull together different pieces of information from different sources is commendable; she even found a ritual or two in her notebook that could work, if not for the blood sacrifices and impossibly rare components needed.

But even these finds do nothing but add to her frustration, the almost-answers weighing down on her. "I'm so sorry, Doorman," she says, hair more frazzled than usual. "I really thought I'd be able to have at least an inkling of an answer for you right now, but—"

Oh, and now Doorman just feels bad, letting her pursue an impossible task. Her disappointment at her perceived failure stirs something akin to pity inside his chest, and he feels the sudden need to cheer her up. Whether its borne out of a need for reciprocity or genuine care for her emotional well-being, he's not sure. But it's there, nonetheless.

"It's fine, Paige. Really." He puts a hand on her shoulder. He racks his head for anything that could lift her mood— "I've got it!" He claps his hands together, getting Paige and Victor's attention. "Paige, if you wish to help, I've got another issue that needs to be addressed." He spreads his arms outward. "Exploring my newfound humanity."

She gasps, that excited little glint in her eyes returning.

Doorman smiles. "You two have been of great assistance in this little journey of mine, and I would appreciate it if you were to continue helping me."

"Oh my gosh, yes—"

Victor holds up a hand, stopping her, eyes narrowed. "What's in it for us?"

Paige turns to him. "Victor!"

"What? You expect us to help you for free?"

"Of course not," Doorman answers. "How about a free week-long stay here at The Baroness? During that week, you two can help me acclimate to the mortal life." And perhaps by the end of it, The Baroness would see that he's still fit to do his job!

"Deal! Oh, but—you don't have to if you don't wanna, of course," she turns to Victor, who sighs.

"Fine. Whatever. It's not like I have other things to do," is what he says, but the distrust in his eyes tells a different story.

Paige lets out a little squeal, clapping her hands excitedly. "This is so exciting. I'm going to show you all of my favorite human things: amusement parks, cookies, books—oh my gosh, us three could form a mini book club! I have a list of reading material that would be a perfect place for you to start. It's back at the… bookstore…" She trails off with dawning realization, before shooting up to her feet with a gasp. "Oh my god, the bookstore! I didn't—I have to go."

Doorman watches as she frantically starts putting away the open books on the table—yet somehow still very careful with them despite her hurry. He glances at Victor, silently asking if he knows what's happening, and he shrugs.

"Oh, she's going to kill me," she bemoans, stacking the books neatly on the table, before giving them an apologetic look. "I'm so sorry, but could you guys put these back? I have to go before my mom files a missing persons report and dad organizes a search party—"

Ah. That's right. Paige's parents.

"We'll take care of cleaning up here," Doorman reassures her.

"Thank you so much, guys. I'll be back this evening and maybe we could start talking about what to do for this week!"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Then I'll see you guys later!"

Paige waves goodbye, going to Mrs. Bennet and thanking her for her time and help, before finally rushing out the door in a whirlwind of redhair and books, leaving him and Victor alone with a table's worth of books they have to return to the shelves. Something that he could've done in seconds if he still had the ability to open doorways, but alas. The human way it is.

"Well then. Shall we?" He turns to Victor, only to find him staring at him intently.

Victor stays quiet for a long moment, mismatched eyes staring at his face as if trying to ascertain something. Finally, without preamble, he says, "Last we talked, you were so sure you're the one who locked up your own powers. Why?"

"It seems like something I would do."

"Why? Why would you do something like that?"

Doorman hums, settling back into his chair, not at all surprised by this sudden line of questioning. Honestly, he'd been expecting Paige to bring it up first. "No particular reason, other than wanting to know."

Victor's jaw twitches, but he remains quiet, so Doorman keeps going.

"Tell me, Victor. What do you think of your fellow man?" he asks. "Interesting, aren't they? All these little idiosyncrasies. So varied and individualistic, yet completely the same on most of the ways that matter. It's fascinating, seeing what makes you mortals tick while you remain mostly unaware of how… small you are, compared to everything else in the universe."

Victor looks at him with that unreadable expression once more. "So those things you said about studying human anatomy and observing humanity—that's all because of this weird obsession you have with us."

Doorman clicks his tongue. "Obsession is such a strong word. Call it curiosity instead."

"Curiosity," Victor repeats and there it is again, that brief shadow of anger coloring his expression and tone. "Curiosity's why you're acting like this, is that it?"

"Hm?"

"Must be a dream come true for you. Getting a first-hand account of what makes us mortals tick. To feel thirst and hunger and pain."

And there's something there in his words, bubbling underneath the surface. But Doorman can't quite place it. So he asks outright, "This bothers you. Why?"

Victor's expression turns blank, and he looks away, grunts, "It doesn't."

"Clearly, it does."

"It doesn't," he repeats, a warning in his tone. "Now leave it."

"How could I possibly leave it when—"

Victor stands up abruptly—Doorman winces as the chair scrapes against the floor; hopefully it doesn't leave a scratch—and goes towards the door.

He calls out, "And where are you going?"

"Out," is Victor's terse reply. "I'll be back tonight."

"What about the—? Oh, he's gone." Doorman glances at the numerous books before him, still waiting to be put back on their proper shelves, and huffs. "Well, this is what I get for pushing, I suppose."

Thankfully, Mrs. Bennet doesn't abandon him the way Victor and Paige do, and together they manage to put back most of the books back in their proper homes. She shoos her away, however, when Doorman's stomach starts rumbling again.

"Go now, dearie. I can do the rest," she says. "Growing boys like you need to eat dinner on time."

Being referred to as a growing boy by a dead woman hundreds of years younger has him smiling, as does the prospect of eating more food. He thanks her, before taking off. What shall he have for dinner? Unfortunately, he's unsure what they have in the dining area as he's far more familiar with what they have on offer for room service—oh, now there's an idea. Shall he order room service for himself? Could be a nice little test for the staff.

He's passing by reception on the way back to his room when he notices a police officer being turned away by the receptionist. Curious, he approaches.

"Annabelle," he says, and the stately receptionist turns to him. "Is anything the matter?"

"Oh my," she looks him up and down. "Apologies, sir, but you look different out of uniform. Aren't you on sick leave?"

He forces a smile. "Yes, but I'm still well enough to take care of some matters. That police officer, what did she want?"

"Oh, that?" She waves it off. "Don't worry, sir. She was inquiring about the late Mr. Morrison's past comings and goings. I made it clear that the hotel has already fully cooperated with their investigation last month and that any information we have regarding it, they already have in their existing case files."

"I see," Doorman murmurs, looking out the door and watching the officer enter an unmarked parked vehicle. Curious. "Do let me know if they continue pursuing the matter."

"Of course, sir. Once you've returned from your leave."

He smiles blandly at the reminder. "Is there anything else that has happened lately?" he asks. Better to be kept informed at least. In a place like The Baroness, problems could breed like rabbits if kept unchecked.

"Well, we did receive a call earlier from someone who wanted to do a rush reservation for a whole floor of the hotel. Something about a convention happening and their previous accomodation plans for the attendants falling through. Ah, but nothing you should concern yourself with, sir. Please focus on your swift recovery." She gives him a pointed look, then puts on a perfect customer-service smile, gesturing for the guest behind him to approach. "Good evening, sir. How may I help you?"

Doorman holds back a huff. Outplayed by a mere mortal, knowing full well that prioritizing the guest would leave him no choice but to drop the matter. He leaves her to do her job, and makes his way to the service elevator, and back to his room.

He's bored. He's so horrendously bored and it's only been a few hours.

He'd already had dinner brought up, ordered through room service—the attendant's face upon seeing him on the other side of the door was quite delightful; Atlantic salmon with lemon butter sauce, served with steamed vegetables and wild rice. A beautiful medley of flavors. He reminds himself to commend the kitchen staff once more for their work. He savored the dish, taking small bites and chewing slowly, but with his hunger now sated, he's left with nothing to do.

"Ugh," he groans, flopping backwards onto his bed and looking around his room for something to do. A book lies on his nightstand, a translated copy of  Le Morte d'Arthur that Paige pointed out in the library, gushing about it and its impact on Arthurian literature.

He started it… only to realize that reading isn't for him. He had finished the first two hundred pages or so, slogging through tournaments and battles and jousts—why are there so many jousts? What does this do for the plot?— before giving up. The words remained just that: words on paper. No sudden spark of imagination, no immersive escape. Paige will surely be disappointed… or actually, she might take it as a challenge. Find a story to entertain a fledgling god. He'll be sure to mention it to her later.

His gaze moves to the rest of his room, only to find it as empty as it always was. He has personal effects, but they're all hidden behind a door he can no longer access, locked away by his powerlessness. A shame. He has some trinkets there that he'd love to test out on himself—

Just then, his bladder makes itself known. He stands with a sigh, heading towards his ensuite bathroom, grumbling once again about how high maintenance the human body is. He relieves himself in short order, and as he's drying his hands, his attention is drawn to his reflection on mirror.

For a long moment, he just stares. It's still so strange, seeing dull mortal eyes looking back at him. His eyes and the keyhole on his chest are the two things that remained consistent in his forms throughout his entire time on Earth, and now that the former has lost its ethereal glow, its almost like he's looking at a stranger instead.

He tilts his head this way and that, remembering Paige's comment about his skin looking dry the day before, but he doesn't see it. He does notice other things. There's more… elasticity to his face. An expressiveness that wasn't there before. When he smiles, one corner of his mouth moves higher than the other. When he frowns, there are more wrinkles in between his brows than before.

Though there is one expression that remains unchanged. Then he straightens his back, putting one arm behind him at an angle, the other straight down his side, and smiles, close-lipped and genteel. A perfect customer-service smile. The very same that makes Victor want to 'sock him in the mouth'.

Speaking of, he leans forward, hands resting on the sink to inspect the inside of his mouth. He moves his tongue over the surfaces of his teeth—and feels grit. He frowns. Does it again.

Oh.

Ew.

That does not feel nice at all. Something to rectify. Thankfully, he has the tools to do so.

He takes a step back and opens up the cabinet hidden behind the mirror, reaching for one of the unused glasses and an unopened dental kit. He hums as he goes through the mundane motions of brushing one's teeth: fill the glass with water, squirt what looks like a reasonable amount of toothpaste onto the toothbrush, and then… just go for it, he supposes.

A slight tingling flavor fills his mouth. Sweet, minty and oddly chemical. He doesn't dislike it. He moves the brush in up and down scrubbing motions, trying to find the best rhythm and pressure without damaging his gums. Unless mortals brush their gums as well? And do they brush their tongue? The inside of their cheeks? Ah, well. He'll ask Paige tomorrow. For now, he'll just cover everything.

It takes him five minutes before he finally spits out the foam and rinses out his mouth. He runs his tongue over his teeth again. Squeaky clean. Perfect.

As he's putting away the toothbrush, he spots a straight razor inside the cabinet. He takes it out before closing the cabinet, tilting it this way and that, before glancing at the mirror, feeling out his chin. "I won't have to learn how to shave, do I?" When he created this body, body hair was a bit of a last-minute addition, so he's actually unsure if he could grow a beard. Or any hair for that matter, should some misfortune befall his ginger locks.

He glances at the razor again, unfolding the blade. This one's an older model, the wood handle darker and without The Baroness's logo. Unbidden, a memory comes. One from a few years ago, before they commissioned the new razors for the luxury suites. A woman, one who wasn't particularly rich, but was happy and excited to stay at one of their luxury suites. Saved up just for that one-night stay, or so she says. And the next day, a housekeeper found her in the bathtub, a dark-handled straight razor in her cold dead hand.

She's not the first to have killed themselves or had attempted such within The Baroness's walls. He doesn't begrudge them of the fact, even though the subsequent cleanup and legal complications make his job somewhat harder; after all, why die outside when one can die in lavish luxury? What struck him at that moment, however, was her expression.

The smile on her face. Why was she smiling?

He puts the flat of the razor against the thin skin of his wrists, the cool metal slowly warmed by his body heat as he contemplates, barely noticing the way the bathroom light above him starts flickering frantically. He thinks of that moment in the library, the vivid surge of emotion when he hurt himself.

Was it due to knowing she'd finally be free from the responsibilities that she once held in this mortal life? Or was her reason for smiling simpler, more base?

Perhaps the pain simply felt that good.

He turns the blade to its side, sharp edge dangerously close to the pulsing of his veins, and tries to picture it in his mind. Red, welling up and spilling out. It has to feel different from the sensation of blunt force trauma, right? Veins and arteries cut open instead of crushed. Would the wound sting or throb? Would it ache or tingle or burn? Humans have so many words to describe pain, and now he's curious to see which ones would apply to—

A discolored hand closes around his forearm and yanks him around so fast that he loses his grip on the razor. The blade clatters on the tiled floor.

"What are you doing?!"

Doorman blinks up at the stormy expression looming over him. "Victor. You're back."

"What," Victor repeats, voice dangerously low, "are you doing?"

What a surprisingly strong reaction. "I was simply wondering—"

"Wondering what? How it'd feel to cut yourself open? To bleed?" Victor snarls, and Doorman is taken aback by the vitriol in his voice.

"I—"

Victor steps closer, crowding him against the sink—and oh, he's so much taller, bigger— "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Really, I am. But have you ever considered the fact that pain isn't something that should be taken lightly? That with one wrong move, you're dead?"

"Of course I know." Doorman resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Victor."

"No," he sneers. "You just haven't felt pain before."

And Doorman pauses, the building annoyance inside his chest falling away because there it is again, that tone. He can place it better now. Something more than just simple anger, bitter and potent. Resentment? Envy?

His thoughts must show in his face, because Victor's own shutters into an unreadable mask. "Shit," he mutters as he turns away.

"Victor, what—"

"Forget I said anything."

"No," Doorman grabs him by the bicep, stopping him from leaving. "You've, unfortunately, made me very curious. And I'm sure we've both come to realize how stubborn I can be when it comes to things I'm curious about."

"You wouldn't understand—"

"Then help me understand it. You're stuck with me for a week, remember? You agreed to that. And yet it's barely been a day into our agreement and this… hangup of yours is already causing issues. It's best we resolve this now." He watches the conflict in those mismatched eyes of his, before taking a page from, well, Paige. He looks up at him with wide eyes, and injects as much sincerity into his voice as he could. "I want to help. Please, Victor?"

Victor gapes at the sight for a split-second, before his face scrunches with visceral disgust. "Ugh. Fine. As long as you don't do that again."

Immediately, Doorman lets go of his bicep to put a hand over his heart. "I swear it. Now, please tell me. What troubles you, Victor?"

Victor leans back against the tiles with his arms crossed, chewing on his lip as he thinks. "I… don't know how to say it."

"Take your time," Doorman says, making himself as comfortable as he can be with the cold porcelain of the sink jutting against his lower back. "As long as you need."

And so Victor does, staying silent for a long, long moment, before letting out another sigh. "I'm a shambling mass of dead bodies, barely put together. And I can't—there isn't a single waking moment where I don't feel pain," he says haltingly, hands clenched as if to stop them from fidgeting, before chuckling self-deprecatingly. "Even talking hurts. There's stitches on my mouth, for fuck's sake. It's something I have to live with for the rest of my life, but you—it's a novelty for you. Stub your toe, slit your wrist—hell, you could probably have your arm broken in five different places and you'd still call it fascinating because to you, it's temporary. Something you can try on and take off like a fucking hat and that's—" he stops himself, exhaling sharply as he looks away, and silence fills the space between them once more.

And Doorman… to be honest, he doesn't quite understand. For all his obsess—curiosity, he's never really wanted to be human. It is only through pure happenstance that he's become one. Though… what if this happened to The Baroness instead? He imagines it in his mind's eye: watching his newly mortal playmate bumbling about the hotel, utterly fascinated with the world around it as it goes through the joys and pains of humanity. And despite the situation being a mere hypothetical, his fingers twitch, as if he could reach out and steal such experience for himself—

Oh. There it is. That burning discontent in his chest. Envy.

Is this what Victor feels now, towards him? If so, he understands better now. But at the same time, the fact that he even has the capacity to feel envy only means that he doesn't want to give this up. That there's nothing Victor can do to stop him. What a pair they make. A monster-turned-man who once never experienced pain, and a man-made monstrosity who's known nothing but. What's that quaint little saying again, about grass being greener?

"I do not mean to make light of your pain, Victor. And I understand your resentment. However," Doorman looks him in the eye, "similar to how you believe that you won't ever be able to be free of your pain, this is something I will never get to experience ever again."

"Bullshit."

He shrugs. "It's the truth. Beings like me… physical pain is a foreign concept."

"So what, you're telling me fighting a fellow patron wouldn't hurt you in any way?"

Doorman startles at his words, the way he lays out the truth so plainly. "I don't think I've mentioned being anything of the sort."

Victor rolls his eyes. "I'm not stupid, alright? I bet Paige has it figured out, too. Only reason she hasn't said anything is because she believes everyone's entitled to their secrets."

Doorman purses his lips, puts a hand on his chin. The fact that two people figured out what he is—was?—is a bit concerning. Or is it really? It's not like Paige and Victor are the type to let something like this slip. Well, no matter. There's nothing he can do about them knowing. He glances up at Victor.

"I'll trust in your discretion on that matter."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever. But you haven't answered my question. Why not just duke it out with another patron? Or someone close to it."

Doorman laughs. "There is no one 'close to it', as you put it. Tell me, do you know of the Drifter?"

Victor tenses at the name. "I'm familiar," he answers, but doesn't elaborate, and that hint of history between them intrigues Doorman, but now is not the time to indulge his curiosity. Not when Victor's been so forthcoming with him.

"Then you know of his prowess as a hunter. The danger he presents."

Victor nods.

He holds up two fingers. "Twice."

"Twice?"

"I have a standing arrangement for him to hunt me down whenever he pleases—"

A curse. "You crazy bastard. Why the hell would you do that?"

Doorman continues, paying it no mind. "And yet the mighty Drifter, with all his bloodlust and cunning and experience, has only ever been able to succeed twice amongst countless attempts. And even as he tore my form apart and drained it dry, it wasn't painful. More of an inconvenience than anything. The consequence of a brief spot of fun."

Victor boggles at him, before letting out a low disbelieving laugh. "You're insane."

"Perhaps. And as for fighting another patron," he shrugs. "One does not simply pick a fight with another being. It's disrespectful, and disrespect is one of the greatest infractions one can commit when it comes to our kind."

Victor chews on the inside of his cheek, absorbing the information he was just given. After a moment, he says, "It's not necessarily disrespectful to ask for a spar."

"A spar," Doorman scoffs, shaking his head. "The problem with that is when beings such as myself—when patrons clash, there is no sparring. You either win, or you get absorbed."

"Absorbed?

"Swallowed whole, no chewing. Winner takes all and the winner is decided within the moment of contact. If you lose, well. One moment you are, then you're not. There is no option for turning back or surrender either, for such fate is permanent, insomuch as true permanence exists."

"Huh…" Victor's perpetual frown turns pensive, jaw working as he contemplates. "Sounds like something like that would still hurt in some capacity."

Doorman inclines his head in agreement. "Perhaps, but I wouldn't like to know quite yet, not while I am still very much in my youth."

"… how old are you?"

He smiles.

Victor sighs. "Okay. Fine. I get it… somewhat. The only time someone like you would experience actual pain comes with the threat of death, so you wanna play around with it now while you could experience it non-lethally."

"Say rather, the threat of nonexistence. Death isn't truly permanent, as I'm sure you know," Doorman says, giving his stitches a pointed look.

"Yeah, whatever. Point still stands. But you don't know your limits."

"Well, I wouldn't say that. I've plenty of experience testing the human body's physical limits." On others, goes unsaid.

Victor gives him a sharp look. "Your experience includes letting a crazed vampire hunt you down for fun. And I just caught you trying to slit your wrist. You could've bled out in minutes and nobody would've known. Do you even know what happens if you die like this?"

That is a fair question, and one he has considered. There are two distinct possibilities. Etiher this bit of detached consciousness returns to his true form in the Outer Planes, or it does not and is sucked into the ever-hungry leylines of Earth. In the first scenario, he gets to keep his new experiences. In the second, he doesn't.

Of course, this is only his hypothesis. He doesn't really have a sure answer. So he puts on that closed lip smile Victor hates so much, and shrugs.

"One of these days, I will punch you in the mouth."

Feeling the urge to tease him further, he tilts his head down, looks up at Victor through his lashes, and croons, "Promise?"

As expected, Victor swears and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, talking with you is—" he cuts himself off, taking yet another deep breath. "Look. You want to experiment with pain, fine. But don't… don't do it alone. Call for me, and I'll make sure you don't accidentally kill yourself."

Doorman arches a brow, more than surprised at the offer. He cocks his head to the side. "Are you perhaps concerned for my well-being?"

"Hell no," Victor scoffs, immediate and blunt. "And I'm not gonna do this out of the goodness of my heart. You said earlier that you wanted to help me, so let's talk about how you're going to do that."

Ah. Of course. "Very well. Name your price."

Victor crosses his arms, drumming his fingers against his own forearms. "You're more powerful than you let on."

A statement, not a question. Doorman inclines his head nonetheless. "Perhaps."

"I want answers. Straight answers. No riddles or vague hints or shit like that."

"Answers about?" he asks, even though he already knows.

"Who made me and why. If not that, then the people who owned these parts." He looks down at his arm, clenching his hand into a fist. "The people I'm made out of."

Doorman follows his downward gaze and wonders what his true senses would reveal if he were to look at this shambling mass of dead bodies before him. If he were to stare between the stitches, would he see the lives of multiple people, overlapping until the moment the pieces of them find their way to a metal slab? Or will he only see Victor, as he is right now? He looks back up, and meets Victor's mismatched eyes once more.

"Can you do that? Can you give me answers once your powers come back?"

"Yes." Doorman licks his lips. "I can't guarantee anything, but there is something I can do to try and find these answers for you."

Victor leans back with a quiet exhale, his shoulders loosening. Something faint glimmers in his eyes. A wary hope. "Then we have a deal."

"I believe we do." Doorman smiles, extending a hand. "Normally, my powers would bind us to our words, but for now, let's just shake on it. The mortal way."

That manages to pull an amused huff out of Victor, and he takes his hand, gripping it firmly. "Alright."

"Good." Doorman looks down at the razor blade on the floor, then back up at Victor. "Can we start now?"

Victor grimaces, before letting out a weary sigh. "Fine. But we're not dragging Paige into this, got it?"

"What are you two DOING?!"

Victor flinches and backs away, hiding the razor behind his back. "I can explain—"

"I sure hope you can! Because I just saw you cutting his whole hand open?!"

"It wasn't his whole hand. And he asked for it!"

"Victor!"

The Doorman doesn't pay them any mind, too busy inspecting the small incision on the meat of his palm by the base of his thumb. A couple inches long, and shallow enough that he has to clench his fist and squeeze to get blood flowing out of the wound. It stings, very unlike the throbbing ache of a stubbed toe.

There are a few other little pains on his body, ones Paige wasn't there to witness. On the inside of his elbow is a patch of bruised skin from a hard pinch. Higher up on his bicep is a tender ache from where he asked Victor to punch him; he wanted it on his face at first, but Victor rose a brow before outright saying 'no'. A shame.

"Oh my god, please don't do that," Paige says when she notices him playing with the cut, taking his hand to both stop him from continuing to do so and to inspect it herself. "Okay, so you two weren't being completely irresponsible—"

"Hey," Victor pipes up.

"—but I'm still going to disinfect the wound. And then, we're going to plan some normal human experiences for tomorrow. Got it?"

"Is pain not a normal human experience?"

"Not if it's self-inflicted! Ugh, talking with you is—" she stops herself, taking a deep breath. "Is that why you asked Victor to cut your hand?"

Doorman glances at Victor, who grimaces and nods. "Yes. He's volunteered to help me explore pain."

"Victor! Why would you—"

"He caught me in the bathroom before I could slit my wrist." The rest of her words die in her throat, face growing pale. "That's why he decided that monitoring me would be best course of action as it would help me satisfy my curiosity while simultaneously keeping me out of harm's way."

Despite the explanation, he still feels her shaking, her grip around his hand tightening subconsciously. "But you're not—you didn't want to—?"

And the fear in her voice stirs him, awakening that same urge he felt towards her earlier at the library, to cheer her up and pull that expression off her face.

"No," he places his free hand on top of one of hers. She jerks a bit, fingers loosening as if just now remembering herself. "Rest assured, I had and have no intention to kill myself. Besides," he smiles, trying to lighten the mood, "there are too many normal human experiences I have yet to go through. Like, what was it you mentioned earlier today? Amusement parks and cookies and books."

She searches his face for something, a lie perhaps, then turns to Victor to do the same. After a moment, she slumps, shoulders losing their tension. "Okay," she says, and she lets out a little awkward laugh. "Sorry for being so high-strung. And maybe overreacting. It's just—my parents really weren't happy I spent the night at a hotel with two men—" she pauses, cheeks turning red near instanteneously as she processes what just came out of her mouth, "I, I mean—!"

Doorman can't help the giggle that escapes his throat. "You truly have an unfortunate way of wording these things, don't you?"

"Shut up," she grumbles, lightly slapping his hand, gaze lingering on his wrist, before looking him in the eye. "But seriously. You're not going to do it again?"

He puts his other hand on his heart. "I won't. Not without Victor's go-ahead and supervision, at least. And he probably knows a great deal more about pain than the two of us combined."

With that, the last of her worries fade. "Alright. Let's disinfect this for now. Victor, can you go get the first-aid kit from the bathroom?"

Victor nods. "Sure thing."

"Thanks. So for tomorrow, is there anything you—is that a copy of Le Morte d'Arthur?!"

"Ah. Yes, though I'm afraid I didn't find it to my taste. Perhaps you could recommend something else?"

"Of course!" She perks up, her earlier mood forgotten. "And I understand not liking this one. It's a bit of a slog in the first half and it's not really what I'd call a beginner book. How far did you read through? Is there anything you did like? Or what specifically did you not like? So I know what books to recommend."

"Well…"

With that, they spend the rest of the evening talking and planning for the upcoming week. That is until Victor forcibly ends things by pointing out the late hour, suggesting they turn in for the night.

"Unless you want to spend the night in a man's room," he jokes, a ghost of a smirk on his face.

"R-Right," Paige coughs and hurriedly stands. "Well. See you in the morning, Doorman. Bright and early."

"Bright and early," he nods, and bids them good night. And as he lies down in his darkened room, he feels a sense of camaraderie blooming in his chest that stays even as he succumbs to sleep.

Chapter Text

"Good morning!" Paige, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as always, shows up at his door at seven o' clock in the morning. She has a headscarf tied around the base of her ponytail today, and she's clad in a light green floral sundress instead of her usual turtleneck sweater and overall dress. She also has, of course, an comically large book bag slung on one shoulder.

"Good morning, Paige," he greets back, raising a brow at the way she tries to inconscpicuously peek at his wrists. "You can just ask, you know." he rolls up his sleeves to his forearm, showing unblemished skin.

She huffs, crossing her arms, looking only the slightest bit mortified at being caught. "You can't blame me for worrying, Mr. 'I've only been human for two days and thought slitting my wrist would be a great experience to have'."

He laughs, "I suppose not. Now, where is your broody shadow?" He steps out into the hallway and sure enough, there's Victor, leaning against the wall. He's dressed up a bit too, a black bomber jacket replacing the thick corduroy one he wore yesterday and the day before. "Ah, there he is. Good morning, Victor."

"Doorman." Like Paige, Victor's eyes flit to his wrist, then to the bandaid on the base of his thumb, before going back up to meet his gaze. "Nice to see you haven't killed yourself yet."

"Why, you almost sound disappointed."

He snorts. "You're not getting out of our deal that easily."

The three of them start walking down the hall and toward the elevator. They only have to wait for a few seconds before it dings open, and they step in, nodding to the man and woman inside.

"Ground floor?" The man, blond and altogether nondescript, asks them as he's closest to the elevator panel.

"Yes. Thank you," Paige says, smiling at him. "Say, you look familiar. Have we met before or…?"

"No problem, miss. And yes, you have." He clears his throat. "It's well to be upon one's guard, I mean. Since all day long we meet the unforeseen."

Paige gasps. "The Knight's Tale! You've been to my reading."

"It was most enjoyable, miss… ah, apologies, but it seems I was too caught up in the way you made the stories come to life that your name escapes me."

She giggles, extending her hand for a shake. "You're too kind. I'm Paige. And you are?"

"Stephen," he shakes her hand, and his female companion clears her throat pointedly. He looks at her, before shaking his head. "Apologies for my wife. She's a bit serious." He glances up, his eyes seemingly lingering on Doorman for a touch too long, before turning back to Paige. "Looks like your companions are the same."

The elevator slows to a stop, the doors opening before Paige could reply, and the woman briskly walks out.

"Ah, we've reached our floor." Stephen steps out, winks at Paige. "We're checking out the pool today, you see. Exploring everything this hotel has to offer. It was nice meeting you, miss."

"You too! Bye!"

The doors close, and the elevator starts moving again.

"What a nice man."

"Sure was." Victor turns to Doorman, asks, "You let your guests walk around armed or are they special?"

"What?!" Paige's head swivels so fast he's surprised she doesn't get whiplash. "Those two were—"

"Yes," Doorman nods, having caught the telltale bulge of a concealed weapon by the man's hip and the faint outline of knife strapped to the woman's thigh. "But as you know, The Baroness caters to all sorts of clientele, some of them with livelihoods that require they, what was it he said, be upon one's guard." He glances at Paige, notices remnants of her visible distress as she clutches her book bag closer to her chest. "Paige, you're a bibliomancer who carries multiple books around on the daily. You're probably more well-armed than they are. Besides," they arrive at the ground floor, and the doors open up, "it's probably nothing."

"R-right," she says, following him out the elevator. "You're right." She squares her shoulders. "Right!"

"Right!" Doorman beams, patting her shoulder.

"… right." Victor says, looking between the two of them. "Anyway, what's the plan for today?"

"Oh! Right. The plan. First, breakfast! There's this cute little café near Central Park with really good chocolate muffins." She takes the lead, nodding at Doorman's temporary replacement—oh, it's Ash; good for him—who opens the doors for them with a smile. "Then after that, shopping! We could check out the department store first, then a few boutiques…"

The rest of her words fade as Doorman takes in the outside world, as if seeing it for the first time. A flock of pigeons to his right, their clucking and cooing adding to the cacophony that is the Cursed Apple. One of them hops closer, pecking at a piece of trash on the ground near him, uncaring of his presence. Curious, he nudges it with his foot, and the creature flaps its wings and alights. He follows it with his eyes as it soars, before stopping in place, gaze caught by the vast blue that fills the world past the jutting stone spires and brick roofs. A blue so bright and open and clear, and in its center, the sun—

He'd always wondered if the mortals knew how small their lives are compared to the vastness of the universe. If they realized they're mere specks of dust compared to the behemoths that walk the Outer Planes. Giants as big as the ball of flame that lights up their sky.

Seeing it now though, he suddenly understands why they might not know or even care. That, for them, that same sun is merely a bright dot. They feel its warmth and bathe in its light, but the physical body of it is so distant that it doesn't matter if it's bigger than them or holds enough energy to completely destroy their world. It's simply there. A brilliant piece of the backdrop that is the wide open sky.

A hand tugs his, and he blinks out of his reverie to turn to Paige.

"Are you okay?" she asks, a worried little furrow on her brow. "You kinda just stopped moving out of nowhere."

He blinks again, only then noticing the mild stinging sensation in his eyeballs and the phantom starburst that's been imprinted on his retinas. "My eyes feel watery."

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you directly stare at the sun," Victor comments dryly. "Which you should stop doing, by the way, unless you want to go through the rest of your mortal life blind. Now, come on. We're blocking the street."

They pull him along, and Doorman makes more of an effort to pay attention to their conversation. Still, he finds himself looking up from time to time, unable to get enough of that vast shining blue.

They make it to the café—a cozy little establishment, just across Central Park like she said. Paige enthusiastically greets Bobby—the man behind the counter with a parrot on his shoulder—before pushing them towards a window seat. The chocolate muffins are as delectable as she promised, and Doorman may or may not have shown his appreciation via a few noises that may or may not be unfit for polite company.

As they eat, he finds his attention straying every now and then, drawn to the greenery outside the window. He's never actually been to the park, now that he thinks about it. His dealings in New York have mostly been limited to The Baroness and its needs. And now he finds himself curious, wanting to explore this small pocket of nature that managed to thrive amidst the sprawl of the city.

"Alright," Paige says, bringing him out of his thoughts, "that's breakfast. We ready to go shopping?"

"Can't wait," Victor drawls.

"That's the spirit! Doorman?"

He glances outside again, to the park across the street. "Perhaps we can walk around first? Take in the sights?"

They follow his gaze out the window.

"Through Central Park?" Victor asks.

Paige nods, looking thoughtful. "Sure, why not? I mean, we don't have to follow the plan word-for-word since this entire week is about you and—oh my gosh, I just had an idea! Be right back!"

She goes to counter and briefly talks to the man there, gesturing towards his pet parrot. He laughs and nods, going to the back and coming back a short while after with a small paper bag, handing it to her with a smile.

"Thank you!" she says as she hurries back to their table. She grins, showing off the contents. "Seed mix! So we can feed the birds!"

"The birds?"

"Come on!" She shepherds them both out of their seats, yelling one last, "Thanks again, Bobby!" before they're out the door.

"Don't people usually just do bread?" asks Victor as they walk.

"But that's not healthy for the birds!"

The park is… nice. It's quiet in a way the city almost never is, the air crisper and fresher and filled with the blended sounds of nature and city life. Paige teaches him how to scatter the seed mix in a way that doesn't scare the birds off, and she laughs when a pigeon's excrement nearly lands on him.

Doorman's mouth twists, and he looks away from the pile of disgusting goop and accidentally locks eyes with a distant predator's crimson gaze, breath caught in his throat—

"Doorman?"

He jolts, turning back to Paige, who stares back with worry. "You okay?"

He turns around and looks for that gaze again, heart racing in his chest. There's more people around now: families with picnic lunches, couples on dates, tourists walking about. But there's no one there, in that shaded area across the way. He shakes his head. "It's nothing. I thought I saw… someone."

She tilts her head, glancing in the same direction, before nodding. "Alright. Anyway as I was saying, after this we should—Victor? Are you okay?"

Victor doesn't startle out of his reverie like Doorman did. He simply turns, shaking his head.

"I… it's nothing."

"Well, it's obviously not nothing," Doorman says. He'd been strangely silent ever since they left the café, even more so than usual. Didn't even smile at Doorman's earlier misfortune with the pigeon. "What's the matter?"

The question makes Victor grimace, and then they hear a small 'eek!' to the side.

A trio of children, no older than eight and not-so-successfully hiding behind a tree and pointing fingers at them. They all start running and giggling as they're caught, one of them yelling, "Run! The monster's friends caught us!"

For some odd reason, irritation flares in Doorman's chest, and he pauses, about to take a moment to inspect the source of the feeling when—

"Hey!" He jumps as Paige yells, the loudest he's ever heard her. "Get back here, you—you brats! That's no way to refer to people!" The children pay her no mind, and she huffs. "Honestly, kids these days—"

"Forget it, Paige," Victor mutters, shifting in discomfort as eyes are drawn to their group, curious what the fuss is about. "They're just kids. Let it go."

"But—" Paige looks like she wants to argue, but then she sees the look on his face, and she stops. "Alright." She starts chattering away again as they walk—the subject this time is a short collection of stories she found about the squirrels in Central Park.

Doorman follows along, observing his companions. He's unaware of the exact nature of their relationship with each other; the day The Baroness led them to him was the first time he ever saw them together. But there's an ease to each interaction. Victor speaking up when she's too flustered to do so, Paige shouting at those children…

He watches as Victor tenses, when they near a grassy area filled with families and couples on a picnic, and Paige easily steers them away without pause in conversation. Eventually though, they reach a point where there's no getting away from the crowd no matter where they go. It is, after all, the height of summer and a nice day out, and a large pale man wearing a thick jacket is bound to catch most people's attention.

"What's wrong with his lips, mama?" A little girl ask her mom.

"I don't know, sweetie, but it's impolite to stare."

A harmless exchange, but it's not the first they've overheard and it makes Victor tense all the same.

Paige notices, and it looks like she's about to redouble her efforts to fill the air with chatter when—

"I think I'll head back first," Victor sighs.

She turns to him, lips pressed into a thin line. "But—"

"Sometimes it's just not worth it, kid," he says, sounding tired. "'Sides, I need to charge up, so to speak. Feeling a bit low."

Doorman suspects he means that in more than one way. "Why don't we meet up for lunch then?" he suggests, only for Victor to shake his head.

"I'll… be taking my time. How about I meet you guys back at the hotel after for dinner instead? Maybe try out that spa you keep talking up if you guys aren't there yet."

Paige visibly deflates. "Alright. If you're sure."

"Don't worry. You guys just have fun." He pats her shoulder, before turning to Doorman. "Keep her company, yeah?"

Keep her safe, remains unsaid.

"I will," Doorman says, answering both.

And with that, Victor leaves, his tall stature easy to pick apart from the crowd and making heads turn as he passes. Doorman notes the expressions on those turning heads. Mostly passing interest and curiosity, with a side of apprehension. But the strongest reaction is one of fear; a mother visibly gasping and pulls her children to the side and away while the father looks at him with undisguised hostility. But Victor's steps don't falter, and soon he disappears around a corner.

"Some people…" Paige mutters, catching his attention. When he turns to her, her eyes are burning with a protective sort of frustration, having witnessed the same. But then she composes herself with a deep breath. She turns to Doorman with a determined glint in her eye. "Alright. Victor told us to have fun and that's what we're going to do. Now, come on!"

Paige leads him around the park, pointing out mundane things that previously would've never caught his eye. Most interesting out of all of them: the ice cream vendor with his paper hat, handing out a paper cone to a small child, and the woman with a mystic camera, using her magic to take pictures for tourists. The first, Paige buys two cones from, keeping the strawberry cone for herself and handing the chocolate one to Doorman, while the second, she asks to take their picture.

"Are you two a couple?" the woman asks as she hands over the square plastic sheet that now holds their photo.

"Just friends," Doorman says as he gives her their payment, saving Paige from having to answer; no doubt she'd end up on a rambling denial.

"I see," the woman glancing between them, before winking at him, and he has to refrain from raising a brow. Mortals and their assumptions. He doesn't understand their need to impose a romantic lens over relationships when they haven't even the foggiest idea on what's going on beneath the surface. "Pleasure doing business!"

"Ah, wait! We haven't paid—"

"Don't worry. I already paid for her services." He inspects the picture. There, in a quality that could only be captured using mystical means, is an image of him and Paige smiling against the backdrop of the park's greenery. Charming.

"You have money?"

Doorman shoots her a look. "Paige, I'm employed."

"Well, I don't know the terms of your employment!"

He laughs, handing her the photo. "The terms of my employment are similar to that of a regular hotel worker." Mostly. There may be a few paragraphs on him providing The Baroness access to his domain, as well as a clause on The Baroness protecting him from harm with all its power should anything happen; the latter, it insisted on, as a fair exchange for the first.

He tilts his head in thought. That… actually explains why The Baroness is so set on not letting him work. Hmm. Inconvenient. He really should find a way to prove to it that he's still able to do his job. But he supposes he can use a small break to explore his humanity.

He tunes back in to Paige mid-ramble.

"—didn't have to. You're already letting us stay at the hotel for free—"

"Not for free," he interrupts. "We have a deal, remember?"

She pouts. "Still…"

His stomach decides to growl at that exact moment, and he frowns. He literally just ate fifteen minutes ago. "Ice cream is food, is it not?"

Paige laughs. "Yeah, but it's not really food food."

"Explain."

"It's more of a sweet treat. Doesn't sate your hunger. And it's about lunchtime, anyway, so of course you're hungry."

"Hm. What if we eat a large amount of ice cream? Will that not sate my hunger?"

"Maybe, but it'll also give you a tummy ache so I definitely do not recommend that."

"A tummy ache? Interesting."

She gives him a look.

"Something for next time then," he says, smiling when she lets out an exasperated sigh. "Where shall we go for lunch then?"

Paige perks up. "I have just the place in mind. And it's gonna be my treat this time."

"You already paid for breakfast."

"Shush."

She takes him to a family restaurant, deciding that today is the day to introduce him to the wonders of 'fast-food'. And while he finds he prefers the decadent flavors of the meals served at The Baroness, he also finds he has no qualms with the greasy burgers and salty fries of this establishment. He does, however, dislike the sad little salad that comes with it—nothing but a haphazard arrangement of wilted lettuce and half a tomato. Tragic. Hopefully their drinks make up for it.

"And here you go. Two ice cream sodas." The waitress drops off two large glasses filled to to the brim with a dark fizzy beverage and topped with vanilla ice cream and syrup. A fun striped little straw completes the drink and a dessert spoon. "Let me know if you two need anythin' else."

"Thank you, miss," he smiles at her, eyebrow raising at the way she starts giggling and blushing before she leaves. Hm. Not very professional. Or perhaps his standards are merely too high due to his experience at The Baroness.

"You're just a regular Prince Charming, aren't you?" Paige comments, sipping from her straw.

"Am I now?" He takes a sip of his own drink and—ooh, tingly. Paired with the vanilla ice cream, it results in a sweet bite that has him coming back for more. He likes it. He likes it a lot.

"I mean, fancy hair, fancy job, fancy clothes—speaking of, we really should get you something else to wear."

"That's the goal of this shopping trip, isn't it?"

"Yup. Department store first, then I have a list of boutiques we can check after. Unless we find everything in the department store. Wait, do you have any other clothes aside from your uniform?"

"No, I do not."

"Not even pajamas?"

Doorman thinks for a moment. "That is sleep attire, correct? I don't have any, no."

"How about, um," she leans in closer, whispering, "underwear?"

He smirks and leans in, purrs, "What do you think?"

Paige flusters as predicted. "Ugh. You're impossible," she mutters, before clearing her throat. "Okay. So casual clothes and pajamas. And maybe shoes? So you could have a pair specifically for when you're not working. And I actually have to pick out a tie for dad's birthday, and— ooh, we should definitely get Victor something from the store. What do you think?"

"We could," he says, "though if you're thinking of buying him clothes, I imagine he'd be a hard one to shop for, considering his whole… aesthetic."

"Yeah," She lets out a chuckle, but it fades into something more forlorn by the end. She swirls her straw around her glass aimlessly. "I wish he stayed. It'd be more fun if he was here too."

Doorman glances up at her, assessing. He's not unaware that Paige finds Victor attractive, but the mutual respect they hold for each other, the familiarity with which they interact, and now her despondence at his absence speaks to something more than mere puppy love.

"What is Victor to you?"

"I—what?" Paige startles at the question, cheeks going pink. "He's—a friend. Just a friend. Honest."

"Friend," Doorman repeats, mulling over the word. "Is that why he follows you around like a brooding shadow?"

"Follow me around?"

"He said he was at The Baroness to support you during your storytelling session."

"Oh, that," she smiles shyly at the reminder. "I've been inviting him to my readings for a while now, but that's the first one he attended. Actually, he's the reason I wanted access to the hotel library in the first place. I'm helping him find answers to his whole… you know, and I thought maybe there might be something there that could help him find answers, but then we found you instead and… here we are."

"I apologize, then, for sidetracking you."

"Oh, no no. You don't have to," she says, waving off his apology. "Victor and I talked about it and we agreed that your situation seems more pressing. At least he knows basic human stuff."

Doorman hums, tapping his fingers against the tabletop—and he immediately stops when his fingertips stick a little to the surface, having landed on what must be a spot of dried soda. Ew. He surreptitiously wipes his hand with a paper napkin as he asks, "Why did he approach you for help?"

"Victor, asking for help?" Paige chuckles at the thought. "He didn't. I was the one who offered."

"Why?"

"Hm?"

"Why did you offer?"

"He just… I don't know. When we first met, he looked so sad—" and Doorman has to bite down a smile at the way she says that, "and I know I could maybe help him, so why not?"

He raises a brow. "Do you make a habit of offering your help to every sad soul you meet?"

"Of course not," she says, sounding almost offended. "I don't have some kind of—of savior complex or anything."

"No?" He raises his brow higher. "Are you sure?"

"You don't count! We found you passed out and bleeding on the ground!"

"Yes, but you didn't have to search the library for answers on how I could regain my power," he points out. "I never asked for any of that. You chose to do that. And you didn't have to agree to help me out either, but you were very quick to do so. Am I wrong?"

"That's… true." She looks down at her plate, fidgeting with her spoon. "I guess you're right. It is a habit, in a way. But I can't just stand to the side and watch when I could potentially do something to help."

Doorman tilts his head at the admission. "A dangerous habit to cultivate, given how the world works."

"I'm not a child," she huffs. "I know that the world is—that the world isn't always good. That there are people out there who would take advantage of my kindness. There are people who have. But at the same time, I don't think that's an excuse to not be who I am, you know?" She looks out the window, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance as she watches the world go by. "I stop being kind, and then what? That just means there's one less person that cares. One less person that would help, and one more person who won't. And what if that discourages the people who do care, who do want to help? Then that's even less people who care and… I don't want that." She turns back to him, a glimmer in her green eyes and a determined set to her jaw. "I don't help people because I want something in return. I do it because it's the right thing to do. To make the world better."

Doorman looks back, speechless in the face of her conviction, pure and strong.

The waitress comes by to drop off their water, and the moment is gone. Paige thanks her, and starts finishing the rest of her drink, rambling about some other topic that strayed into her mind.

But he's still looking back on that one shining moment, contemplating it. He's been on Earth for centuries. And as the nature of survival changed with each passing era, so too did the shape of morality. It has grown into its own beast, convoluted and muddied even further by the constant evolution of law, religion and culture. But despite all the complexities of morality, he's found that most things humanity deems as "good" can be boiled down to a single concept.

Altruism. The act of helping another without expectation.

And here, before him, is one of the truest altruists he's met in a long while. He leans forward, resting his chin on one hand, and finds himself wishing he had his true senses, if only for a moment. To see the inevitable clash between her ideals and reality, a fight that could only end in either ignoble fall or glorious rise.

Intelligent and kind. A heroine in the making, and she doesn't even know it. Though whether her tale ends in tragedy or victory is something he cannot predict.

"Fascinating."

"Hm? You say something?"

"Nothing," he wipes at the corners of his mouth with a napkin, glancing at her empty glass and plate. "All finished?"

"Yup. I'll ask for our bill and then," she grins and claps her hands excitedly, and in a sing-song voice, "it's shopping time!"

Chapter Text

"So what's your favorite color?"

"A favorite color? What a peculiar thing to have," Doorman murmurs as he surveys the multitude of casual shirts on display. They're at the department store's men's section, and while a saleslady hovers nearby, she has yet to approach, seemingly content to let them explore their options. "How does one even decide on a favorite?"

"You could decide based on plenty of things! Maybe it reminds you of something, maybe you think it's comforting, or you could just like the way it looks on you. My favorite is green, by the way. If it wasn't already obvious," she laughs. "And Victor said his is orange, but I think he just picked a random one because I wouldn't stop pestering him about it. How about you?"

He takes one off the rack to better inspect it. A knit polo shirt in a rich burgundy, with yellow cloth buttons that have a faint sheen reminiscent of gold. "Something like this perhaps."

"Ooh! That looks nice. The colors are—wait. Did you… choose this because it looks kinda like your uniform?"

He smiles. Nods.

Paige pouts. "We're supposed to be finding out what you like outside of work!"

"But I like this one."

"Doorman…"

He harrumphs. "Oh, fine." He looks through the rack again, pulling out an absolutely garish bright orange checkered polo. "What about this?"

She scrunches her face, before unsuccessfully trying to smooth it over. "Um, the color is… something; but your hair would—I mean, if you really like it—"

He bursts into giggles, unable to hold it in for long, and he keeps going despite the surprisingly hard smack she lands on his upper arm.

"Ugh, you're so annoying," she huffs.

He lets out one last chuckle, before putting back the orange polo; he takes the burgundy one instead, as well as a pink and red knit ringer tee that caught his eye. "Shall I go try these on for size?"

"Yeah. And try this one, too." She hands him another shirt. A sleek black long-sleeve button-down. "I think this one would look great on you."

They head to the dressing room, picking out two pairs of casual slacks—dark brown and faded blue—on the way there.

"Let me know if you need anything in another size." She sits down on one of the cushions set up outside the fitting room, already reaching into her book bag for something to read while she waits.

"Alright. I'll be just a moment."

He tries on the ringer tee first, pairing it with the blue slacks, and appraises himself in the mirror and—oh. He shifts his weight, letting his shoulders and hips slant, foregoing his usual upright posture and… wow.

He built this form with a certain purpose; pleasant to look out, but ultimately meant to blend in with the formality of The Baroness. Now, however, there is a distinct casual air about him now that wasn't there before, turning him into a whole other person. Well, the change isn't that drastic, but it is noticeable.

And he likes it. He likes it a lot.

He's about to go out and show Paige when he catches his reflection in the mirror one more time, and gets an idea.

He steps out of the changing room in a different set of clothes, and sees Paige engrossed in one of her many books. He clears his throat expectantly, and she looks up.

"Are you… oh," Paige's eyes go wide and her mouth drops open, and Doorman grins.

"What do you think?" he purrs out, eyes half-lidded, knowing full well the effect he'll have. Artfully mussed wavy hair, the sleeves of his black button-down rolled up to his elbows, the dark brown high-waisted trousers—all of it gives him a more dangerous allure.

She clicks her jaw shut. "I, um—oh, wow."

He never fully understood the concept of vanity, and while he would never achieve the heights of it that Jacob Lash has managed to reach, the way eyes are drawn to his form with only a change in bearing and fabric is strangely addicting.

"I take it you approve."

"Yes. One hundred percent," she nods without hesitation, and he breaks out into laughter at how immediate her response is. "Definitely. Also you should definitely try jeans while we're at it."

"Jeans?"

She turns to a nearby stunned-looking saleslady. "Excuse me. Do you have any denim jeans in his size?"

"O-oh. Yes, of course! I-I'll bring back a few for you to try!"

"Thank you," Doorman smiles at her, watching as she flusters before scurrying off. He turns back to Paige, about to ask her a question when he notices the title on her lap.

A General History of the Pyrates. An unreliable book that details the lives of contemporary pirates to a fantastical degree. An odd choice of reading material for someone like her.

"Doesn't really fall under your usual taste in books, does it?"

"Oh, this?" she laughs. "Yeah, it's no Brontë, that's for sure. But I was going through the books I packed for this week and, I don't know, it felt like a good day for it." She smiles, and there's something bittersweet about it that he can't place. "It's my brother's favorite book."

But before Doorman could comment further, the saleslady comes back with a rolling rack of jeans in different shades and styles, and he's distracted once more.

Shopping, unlike reading, is fun. There's so many combinations of colors, patterns, and fabrics that Doorman finds himself wanting to try all of them. By the time they decide to call it a day, he has acquired the following: twelve tops, eight pairs of pants, seven sets of silk pajamas, three jackets, two vests, a pair of suspenders, three belts, two new pairs of shoes and five pairs of socks.

Oh, and a wifebeater for Victor, because while the jacket is an improvement from his normal state of shirtlessness, the protruding hex bolts on his back prevent it from being able to button or zip up the front, leaving a sliver of his chest exposed.

"You sure that's enough?" Paige asks as they head to the register, tone teasing. "I don't think that's enough."

"What about you? Shall we shop for some dresses to fill out your wardrobe? Let me guess," he taps a finger on his chin in pseudo-thought. "Green and plaid?"

Paige harrumphs. "I'm never taking you shopping again."

"You two sure are sweet," the lady behind the till giggles as she starts ringing up their purchases. "I do miss being a youngin'."

Paige startles, eyes going wide. "Oh, we're not—" she gestures between the two of them and shakes her head, laughing, "I mean, we're not. Nooo."

The cashier giggles. "Don't you worry, sweetheart. I didn't think you were a couple. I just think it's great that siblings your age can still be so close. Why, my brother and I used to be just like that…"

She keeps on talking, not noticing the way Paige's smile and shoulders stiffen. The way her hands ball into fists. But Doorman does.

"…but he's supposed to be a 'grown man who doesn't need his older sis', whatever that means. Damn near broke my heart first time I heard it." She sighs fondly, before turning to him. "You don't do that to your sister now, you hear?"

Doorman smiles. "Wouldn't dream of it, miss."

"Well, aren't you a charmer," she giggles. "But I'm a missus, sweetheart. Is this all you'll be buying? Nothing for your sister?"

"Yes—"

"I'll wait for you outside," Paige says, face oddly blank. Without waiting for an answer, she turns around, heading for the exit.

"Oh, dear," the cashier puts a hand on her cheek. "Was it something I said?"

"Please excuse her. She's probably just tired from walking around all day," Doorman reassures, customer service instincts kicking in even as worry starts niggling at the back of his mind. "If you could bag up the rest, please. Thank you."

She's standing outside the store and staring blankly at the ground, one of her books clutched to her chest. When she notices him exit, she tries for a smile. "Hey. Got everything?"

"Yes. Are we going to a boutique for your father's tie? You haven't—"

"I'll—I'll do that next time. Let's just head back for now. Victor's probably waiting for us."

She starts walking without waiting for an answer, and he has to jog a bit to catch up. As he does, he glances at his companion once more. Gone is her usual energy, replaced by a quiet despondence that makes her shoulders droop and her eyes downcast. A new emotion makes its way to the forefront of his mind—or perhaps its's not so new. He felt this earlier today, while he was watching Victor walk away.

"Are you alright?" he asks, keeping his voice soft.

She smiles again. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm—fine."

Doorman doesn't believe her, and if she were Victor, he would push and needle, knowing the other man wouldn't give him anything otherwise. But she's no Victor. She's kind for one, and has been nothing but considerate and patient with Doorman; he's not about to sour that just to sate his own curiosity. So he lets the matter rest for now, trusting that she'll open up whenever it suits her.

They walk back to the hotel in silence, passing by Central Park again. There's not as much people around at this hour. Gone are the picnicking families and playing children, most likely back inside their homes as the day winds down, lending a serene atmosphere to the space.

"Shall we go sit down for a bit? My stamina isn't what it used to be, now that I'm terminally human and all that," he jokes, expecting a laugh. All he gets is a forced smile and a nod.

They sit down on a bench overlooking a pond, multiple shopping bags placed by his feet, and they watch the world go by in quiet. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting it out in one slow exhale, and—oh. There's an ache in his feet and legs he's just now noticing, and he realizes he's been walking today, relief flitting up his spine as the muscles untense. He'd mostly been looking for an excuse to enjoy the quiet of the park, but it looks like his body actually appreciates this small break.

"Earlier," she breaks the silence, and Doorman stills. He glances at Paige, but her eyes remain focused on the book on her lap. "You asked me why I'm so nice. Why I'm kind despite the world being anything but."

Doorman doesn't say anything. He just sits in silence, waiting.

She takes a deep breath. "I was telling you the truth. I do think that being kind is the right thing to do in order to make the world better, but… there's another reason." She traces the title on the cover with her fingertips. A General History of the Pyrates. "Did I ever tell you about my younger brother?"

"You mentioned him," he answers, keeping his voice as soft as hers. It feels important, somehow, to keep the bubble of peace enveloping them in this moment. He glances down at her lap, at the book. "That's his favorite book, yes?"

"Yeah. It was." She licks her lips "I was never… I never fit in. At school. I was so, so awkward back then. Still am," she smiles wryly. "But I was brilliant. Book smart. Not really a good combination, since it meant that the other students bullied me, while the teachers put me on an academic pedestal."

She pauses, taking a deep breath. Doorman waits for her to continue, unsure where she's going with this.

"And I think that when my brother started going to the same school, with his older sister's reputation being like that—it probably didn't help." She smiles again, bittersweet. "He hated being compared to me. Everyone did it, especially since we looked so alike, except for our eyes. He had mom's blue while I got dad's green. And our parents—I love them, I do. But I don't think they knew what they were doing to him every time they said, 'Why he can't be more like your sister?'"

She falls silent after, so clearly lost in memories of her family. And Doorman thinks back on her words. Was, hated, had—past tense, all in regards to her brother.

"What happened to him, if I may ask?"

It takes a long, long moment, but eventually—

"One day, he just… disappeared." She glances at a nearby family, at the two young kids playing tag. "I don't know what happened or where he went. I just—I got home and my parents were crying and he was gone, and I don't—they won't tell me anything." Her hands clench into fists on top of the book. "I love them. I really, really do. But maybe—maybe if they didn't treat him like they did, if they were kinder—if the world was kinder, then maybe he wouldn't have left. I don't even know if he's still alive. And you wanna know something stupid?" She turns to him, a wry smile on her face. "When I first saw you standing outside the hotel, I got hopeful. Because for a second I thought… I thought you were Bryce."

She ends on a whisper, like the name is so fragile it could break in the open air, and Doorman—

Doorman finds himself at a loss. What does he even do? What should he say, if anything? Should he apologize? Explain that any resemblance his vessel bears to her missing brother is coincidental? Make empty platitudes about how her brother is probably still somewhere out there?

He knows he would've chosen the last option, if she had opened up to him before. Would've given her inane encouragements he didn't mean. But that was the Doorman of the past, one who hasn't realized the warmth of her compassion. One whose heart hasn't felt the ache of empathy as it does now.

But before he could do anything, she hangs her head and lets out a hollow laugh.

"I—sorry," she sniffs, trying and failing to subtly wipe off the dampness in the corner of her eyes. "I don't know what's gotten into me. I'll just—you go ahead and meet up with Victor. I'm just gonna—I have to go to the bathroom or, or something."

He watches as she busies herself with putting her book away. "Paige—"

"I'll meet you back at the hotel, okay?"

She gives him a forced smile, before hurrying off with her head down, leaving him sitting alone on a bench. He watches her back as she goes, unaware of the crimson gaze fixed on his own.

He doesn't stay at long after Paige leaves, carrying his numerous shopping bags as he continues the trek back to the hotel. The sun is close to setting at this point, and with the darkening sky comes a shift in the city. There are less families about and more couples and office workers headed home. Streetlights are being lit, bringing about a different charm to the Cursed Apple.

He's a block away from The Baroness when he hears a trash can rattling down an alleyway. He stops and turns, finding—a cat. He watches as it makes its way through stacked empty boxes with unmatched grace. It stops about ten feet into the alleyway, and he gets a chance to fully take it in. A calico, with a large spot of orange around one ear and a ring of black around the other. It stares up at him, green eyes adorably wide.

It's… cute. And fluffy. And instinct urges him to pet the cute fluffy thing despite the dirt staining its fur.

So in the spirit of exploring his humanity, he steps forward and into the alleyway, and emulates the sound he's heard humans make when confronted with a cat. "Ps pss pss pss." He pauses when the creature meows, ears pulling back, wary of his presence. He lowers himself and softens his voice, "Come here, kitty. Come here."

Another meow, and he holds back a gasp as it pads closer, nearing his outstretched hand—then the cat bristles, ears pulled back and hissing before it darts away and further into the darkness of the alley, out of sight.

Doorman frowns, immensely disappointed. Then pauses. Immensely disappointed? Due to being rejected by a mere creature? A cute fluffy creature, yes, but this emotion feels disproportionate to the event that caused it. No wonder humans always feel slighted by the smallest of things—

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."

He whirls around with a gasp, bags dropping to the ground and muscles tensing as his brain screams at him danger, heart beating in double-time when he sees the man leaning against the wall opposite to him, arms crossed.

The Drifter, in all his glory. And what glory it is. The stench of death emanates from his entire being. The sight of those razor sharp teeth send chills up his spine. And those eyes…

"You're getting sloppy, cher. Letting li'l ol' me sneak up on you like this."

He shudders—is it out of excitement or fear?—when the vampire pushes himself off the wall and stalks ever closer, blood-soaked hands inciting more than the usual disdain. He imagines those hands holding him still as fangs rip into his throat—

He gulps, breathing harder when crimson eyes track the bob of his neck. "Drifter."

Drifter stops in his tracks, confusion crossing his face in a split-second—before his eyes narrow. "You… what is this?"

Doorman has to bite down a whine at that predatory sound, primal terror taking over his entire body, overwhelming in its intensity. He trembles before the creature—the monster in front of him, unable to move no matter how much his mind urges him to flee. His breath starts coming up in stutters, barely able to hear Drifter's words over the blood rushing in his ears.

"What kinda game you playin' this time, tataille?" The vampire's voice rumbles as he steps closer, crushing one of the dropped bags underfoot. Doorman takes an unconscious step back, pressing himself against the brick wall, but the other doesn't stop until arms are braced on either side of him, boxing him in—and oh, he's so much taller, bigger. Drifter could do whatever he wants with him and there's nothing he could do to stop it. The thought is followed by a rush of adrenaline, one that makes him think he might be able to push the vampire back long enough for him to run—

The thought is dashed away when Drifter leans down and presses his nose below Doorman's ear, nostrils flaring as he inhales, bringing those fangs unbearably close to his throat. The action allows Doorman to finally unstick his mouth, eyes prickling.

"Don't—"

"You smell like… fear?" Drifter mumbles, his usual menace gone and replaced with pure confusion. Doorman wants to laugh, but the only sound that manages to escape is a hitched sob as something warm starts dripping down the sides of his face. Drifter jerks back, jaw dropping as crimson eyes go wide. "What in the hells—"

The urge to check lets him overcome his paralysis, and he lifts a shaky hand to feel the wetness on his cheeks. He closes his eyes and starts giggling hysterically. "Y-you made me cry," he manages between fits of sobbing laughter. "I can't—this is—"

Drifter snaps out of his shock and growls. The sound reverberates across Doorman's entire being, a shockwave of terror that makes his knees buckle, losing strength in the face of overwhelming power. He doesn't collapse though, because Drifter leans back in and wraps a hand around his throat, pressing him against the wall with supernatural strength. "Who are you?" he snarls, "and what did you do to him?"

Doorman gurgles, hands flying up to try and wrench Drifter's unyielding hand off his throat, but he can't—he's too weak like this. As the air leaves his body, he's struck with the sudden thought that he really, truly might die.

What happens then? Will this fragment find its way back to the Outer Planes and rejoin the rest of his being? Or will this lesser part of him just vanish, taking with it the memories of his humanity?

Strangely, he thinks of Paige and Victor, and feels a pang of regret. He never got to thank them properly. Nor The Baroness. He hopes he doesn't forget. He doesn't want to. But he doesn't wish for this to stop either. The burning spasm of his lungs, the rapid beating of his heart—the struggle to live.

So despite it all, he smiles. The grip around his neck loosens, but it's too late, the black spots in his vision expanding as his mind shuts down. Cold broad hands catch him as he falls, and that's the last thing he feels before everything goes black.

His eyes flutter open later—how much later, he's unsure—and he finds himself on a bed. His bed. He sits up and takes stock of himself: lightheaded, nauseous, and still cut off from his powers. Also, not dead. Surprising.

He lifts a shaky hand to feel the sides of his neck. Also surprising, the lack of a bite. He doesn't know what that particular pain feels like, but he's untouched, save for what feels like a ring of bruises and dried flecks of blood in the vague shape of a handprint—remnants of the vampire's last meal no doubt.

Doorman lets out a shuddering breath that turns into manic giggling, because he nearly died, didn't he? His own fingers wrap around his throat as he recalls that desperation—that pressure bearing down on his windpipe and starving his brain of oxygen. He feels his pulse start to race, making him laugh again.

Then the door slams open with a bang, and Doorman jumps.

"Bastard, you better not be—" Victor comes barreling in, stance ready. He skids to a stop when he notices him sitting on his bed, staring at Victor with wide eyes. Then he glares up at the ceiling. "What'd you bring me here for? He looks fine."

Doorman blinks. "Are you talking to The Baroness?"

"Yeah. Your stupid haunted hotel wouldn't leave me alone," Victor grunts. "The lights suddenly started going crazy and the windows wouldn't stop shaking, like yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"Before I went to your room and found you with the razor, yeah."

Doorman looks at him, stunned. The Baroness has been snitching on him? To Victor?

This time, it's him who glares up at the ceiling. Oh, they were going to have words later.

"Your neck," Victor says, finally noticing, striding towards the bed to better inspect it. "Who did this?"

"I'm fine," Doorman insists, batting away his hands. "It's just some light bruising."

Victor, of course, doesn't relent. "What happened?"

"I was walking back from the store when—" he gasps, realizing he left something important in that alley. "The shopping bags!"

Victor looks around, noticing the absence of something else. "Where's Paige?"

The door slams open again, and this time, Paige runs in in a state of panic.

"Doorman, are you—?! Oh, thank god you're okay," she sags in relief against the doorway. "When I found your bags in the alleyway, I thought someone had mugged y—your neck," she gasps, running over. "Who did this?"

"I'm fine. Paige, the clothes—"

"That's what you're worried about?!" she screeches. "You have a bloody handprint on your throat! Who attacked you?!"

"Was it the Drifter?"

Paige eyes widen at Victor's words, clearly recognizing the name. "What?! Why would he—?"

Victor doesn't answer her, focused instead on Doorman. "It was, wasn't it? As part of your 'standing arrangement'."

Doorman sighs. This man is entirely too sharp for his own good. "Yes—" Victor curses and Paige inhale sharply at the confirmation— "I'll tell you everything that happened, but first, the clothes…"

"Your priorities are extremely messed up," Paige says, her upset clear in her voice, but at Doorman's pleading gaze, she sighs. "I told one of the bellhops. They should be bringing up the bags in a bit."

A knock sounds on the door, and Doorman relaxes. He's about to get up when he's pushed back down against the bed, Paige glaring down at him.

"You are not going anywhere until you tell us what happened. Victor, check who's at the door."

Doorman rolls his eyes—he's not an invalid—but acquiesces, knowing better than to argue.

"Boss—oh!" Ash's familiar voice comes through the other side of the door. "Um, good evening, sir. I believe t-these belong to the boss?"

"I've got it."

"Ah, the cart—"

"We'll give it back once we're done here. Thanks," Victor dismisses him, and without waiting for a response, pushes a luggage cart laden with shopping bags into the room and shuts the door.

Paige turns to Doorman. "Alright. Now—"

A rumble cuts her off, one that Doorman's become quite familiar with ever since becoming human. He smiles apologetically at Paige and Victor's incredulous stares, feeling strangely sheepish.

She sighs. "We'll order room service. And then you're telling us everything that happened. Alright?"

As they wait, Paige insists on checking his throat. She cleans off the dried blood, applying a soothing cream over the bruising, and tells Victor to call room service and ask for some honey water.

The honey water and dinner—oven-baked buttermilk chicken served with golden roasted potatoes—is swiftly sent up to Doorman's room and summarily consumed, and though delectable, his companions' tense demeanors lessens his enjoyment of the meal.

As soon as they finish eating and putting everything away, they turn to him expectantly. Doorman sighs, before telling them everything that happened after he was left alone at the park on the way back—Victor throws a guilty-looking Paige a sideways glance after hearing that—and tells Paige about his standing arrangement with Drifter.

She chews on her lip, before asking, "You passed out in the alleyway, right? So who brought you here?"

"That's… huh. I actually don't know," Doorman looks down in thought. "I suppose I could ask the staff."

"And why didn't he kill you?" Victor says. "If he was here to hunt you down, why leave you alive?"

"I..."

His brow furrows. Why did Drifter leave him alive? As far as he knows, the vampire has never let any of his victims go without maiming them at the very least. And Doorman was right there, helpless against his superior strength. So why? What stayed his hand?

"I don't know," he looks up. "I truly cannot fathom why he would leave me unscathed, without even a bite."

Victor's lips press into a grim line. "Then we know jack shit."

"Well— he's strong but he's still a vampire, right? So he can't come inside without permission," Paige turns to him. "So you're safe, right? As long as you stay here in The Baroness?"

Doorman stills, remembering the last time he met Drifter, before this day. The way the air shivered at his words—an open invitation for a vampire to come and go as he pleases. He opens his mouth, but then he catches the way Paige looks up at him with anxious eyes—

"The Baroness should be safe, yes," the lie slips through his teeth. "I'll inform the staff to turn him away at the door, should he try."

The anxiety in her eyes lessens, and so does the invisible weight on Victor's shoulders.

"Good," Victor says. "That's one less thing to worry about at least."

And something cold and hard and ashamed forms in his throat, and he has to look away and swallow it down.

"Should… should we even go through with our plans to visit Coney Island tomorrow?" asks Paige. "If he's out there, targeting Doorman—"

Doorman straightens up in alarm. "What? No! We should still go."

"Doorman," she says, "this is a matter of safety. Your safety."

"But I am safe," he argues, not about to let Drifter take this from him. "He didn't even hurt me, not really."

Paige splutters, "Didn't hurt—"

"And he only attacked me when I was alone, yes? Then surely as long as we stick together, he won't do it again."

Paige and Victor share a look, and one that, to Doorman's horror, look less like agreement and more like they're trying to find a way to let him down gently.

"Paige." He grabs one of her hands and squeezes, making her squeak. "You are a powerful bibliomancer, and you never go anywhere without your books. And Victor," he turns to him, ignoring the knowing deadpan look the other man sends his way. "You are strong. And you literally cannot die." He looks them both in the eye, one after the other. "I trust you both to keep me safe. And this might be the only time I'll ever get to go to an amusement park. So please?"

Victor remains absolutely unconvinced, but Paige—her lips wobble, and Doorman knows she's very, very close to breaking, so he turns to her, subtly jutting his lips out—

"I mean…"

His lips twitch into a victorious smirk.

Victor groans. "Paige, you can't seriously be falling for this."

"But look at him!" She gestures towards him, and as if on cue, Doorman pouts again. "He looks so sad!"

"Paige—"

"And… and we promised to show him the human experience. And isn't this part of that? Going out and enjoying life in spite of fear?" She looks up at Victor. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it."

Doorman blinks, before a genuine smile blooms on his face. "Is that a quote from one of your books?"

"Hemingway," she mumbles, sounding a bit embarrassed, "but you get it."

Victor lets out a long-suffering sigh. He looks up at the ceiling, saying nothing for a long time, before— "We're all staying together this time. Nobody's going off on their own. Especially you," he turns to Doorman, "got it?"

"Understood," he says, putting his hand over his heart and repressing the urge to point out that it was them who left him alone today in the first place. "I'll be on my best behavior. No running—" his mouth opens into a yawn, "no running off. Oh. Apologies, that was terribly rude."

"Not rude," Paige says, standing up. "You're just tired. It's been an eventful day and we should probably all go to sleep. We have another long day ahead of us. Hopefully, this one's free of vampires and other problems."

Victor snorts. "You just jinxed it."

"Hey!"

Doorman chuckles, watching with tired eyes. Paige heads out first, Victor trailing close behind as he's wont to do, when Doorman remembers something.

"Victor," Doorman calls out, stopping him in the doorway. "Before I got attacked, Paige and I were talking about…" he clears his throat. "Could you talk to her? Make sure she's alright?"

Victor turns around fully, an odd glint in his mismatched eyes. Half surprised, half reassessing. After a moment, he nods. "Alright. I'll talk to her."

"Thank you."

And with that, Victor goes, leaving him to prepare for bed alone.

Chapter Text

Coney Island is a riot of sounds, colors and other stimulus. The energy here is almost electrifying, the excitement of the crowd infectious as what must be thousands of people flooding in. Children walk ahead of their parents and guardians, giggling and pointing as they go. Couples hold hands, heading towards game booths to win a prize for their paramour. Teenagers cluster around each other, laughing and joking around as they head for the rides.

"Hurry, hurry! Step this way!" A man shouts into a megaphone, a chain of tickets coiled around his fist. "Freaks from the four corners of the world! We've got the show if you've got the dime!" Plastered on the building behind him is a series of posters showcasing said 'freaks'.

"Look, Victor," Doorman says, looking at one advertising the so-called Headless Girl from London, Marian. It's an illustration of a headless woman, metal protruding from where her neck should start, connecting to a lightbulb and several tendrils of wires, some of which lead to a telephone-like device operated by another girl to the side. "You should get in there and compare notes on what it's like."

Victor shifts in place, clearly uncomfortable and feeling out of place amidst the sea of sun hats and strollers. He's still wearing that black leather jacket, but this time, he also has the white wifebeater Paige and Doorman got for him yesterday underneath, covering the Y-shaped scar in the middle of his chest. "Maybe we should've stayed at the hotel."

"What? Absolutely not," Doorman, in a pink-and-red ringer tee and a pair of loose white trousers held up with a brown leather belt, glares at him. "You promised to take me out to Coney Island."

Victor groans.

"We did promise, Victor," Paige says, not looking up from the map of the island she procured from one of the hawkers near the gates. She's wearing a plain white tee underneath a pair of shortalls today, the blue-green seafoam shade of it suitable for the summer season. "Besides, no one's going to be paying attention to you when there's all these other stuff they could focus on instead. All we gotta do is make sure we stick together and don't get lost. Speaking of," she looks up at Doorman. "We should come up with a name for you. How aboouut… Brian?"

Doorman turns his glare on her. "No. And I don't need a name. Why would I need a name?"

"Look at this place. It's huge! What if you get lost? How are we supposed to call out for you?"

"Using my current moniker. Doorman."

"But they'll start thinking we're calling out for staff or something."

Victor hums. "She's got a point, Brian."

Doorman scowls.

"Anyway, you said you wanted to focus on the rides, right?" she says, paying him no mind. "It's a bit early, but if we want to beat the crowds, we should line up for the Cyclone first. Then we can make our way to—" Paige suddenly yelps, grabbing onto his arm with a death grip.

He looks down at her. "Everything alright?"

"N-nothing." She laughs awkwardly, letting go. "Sorry. Just—just thought I saw… you know."

Doorman and Victor immediately look around, landing on red eyes—an Ixian dressed in a clown suit, handing out balloons to children. Makes sense that they would hire an Ixian—the heat would be unbearable with all those layers and makeup. The man notices them staring, and waves. They turn back to Paige.

She flushes under their combined scrutiny. "Don't look at me like that! Sure, I might be a bit paranoid, but that's completely valid considering what happened yesterday!"

Victor sighs. "Look, I'm not one to talk about paranoia, but I doubt he's here. Even if he was, it's too public and crowded to attempt anything, especially in broad daylight."

Doorman nods. "Don't forget, you've got your books as well, Paige, and your bibliomancy is not to be underestimated. Also, worst case scenario, we can just have Victor keep him busy while we run. Since he can't die and all that."

"Hey."

"What? Are you saying you're not willing to sacrifice yourself to stop a centuries-old vampire from maiming your dear friends?"

"For Paige, sure. For you?"

Doorman doesn't have to fake the minor offense that flits over his face, but it's soothed when Paige laughs, her countenance cheerier than it had been seconds prior.

"Right. You're right," she takes a deep breath. When she's done, there's a familiar determined glint in her eye. "We're not going to let some stupid vampire ruin this for us. We're going to enjoy this day, and if anyone tries to stop us, they're going to have to deal with my books!"

"That's the spirit!" Doorman beams at her, then glances down at her bulging bookbag. "What books do you have on you, if I may ask?"

"Okay, let’s see. Got my King Arthur, got my Midsummer Night’s Dream, got my Wuthering Heights... I mean, that one’s probably less useful, but you never know when you’ll need a Byronic hero for something romantic yet dangerous!"

He chuckles, throwing a deliberate glance at Victor. "I'm sure one such hero will come to our rescue if we ever need him."

Some time later, as Doorman's bent over a trashcan, Victor comes to his rescue with a bottle of water. He takes it gratefully, rinsing out the vile rancid aftertaste of vomit from his mouth.

"You okay, Brian?" Victor asks, and the amusement in his voice makes Doorman want to—how did he put it?—sock him in the mouth. "Looking a little green around the gills there."

"Ha ha," Doorman says as he fights the nausea down. The Cyclone, it seems, is aptly named, its twists and turns twisting and turning his insides so much that upon getting off, he immediately had to head for the nearest trash receptacle. As he suspected a few days ago, the experience of emptying out one's stomach is very much unpleasant. Thank gods they only had sandwiches from some corner store for breakfast this morning. "Is this… typical for humans? After riding a rollercoaster?"

"Some of us," Paige rubs his back, looking sympathetic.

"Why'd you think they put the trash cans so close?" Victor adds.

"But don't worry! I'm sure there's less intense rides that your stomach can handle!"

"Right," Doorman nods slowly, unsure how much he actually believes in her words. But still, he says, "This is just the first ride. I'm sure there's plenty more to enjoy."

"You've got it! Now, come on. There's this new ride called the Hurricane that they added last year and I haven't gotten to try it yet! And there's also the Thunderbolt after that, and then the Tornado…"

Doorman wrinkles his nose at the name. "Are all the rides named after such violent weather phenomenon?"

"What's wrong, Brian?" Victor smirks. "Scared?"

"How childish," Doorman harrumphs, even as he straightens up and turns to Paige, eager to prove him wrong. "Let's go. The Hurricane, is it?"

The Hurricane and four other rides later, he sits defeated on a bench, head in his hands and eyes closed as he tries to hold back from throwing up for a third time. "Why are all the rides just some variation of violent spinning?"

To the side, Victor laughs, and Doorman hates that it's actually the most joyful he's heard him.

"I hope you pop a stitch," he mutters darkly. "We'll see if you're still laughing while one of your parts flies off in the middle of a ride."

"Do—Brian!" Paige admonishes.

He sneers. "Is that my new fake name? Dobrian?"

Paige startles at the hostility of his tone, and Doorman immediately feels guilty for snapping at her.

"Huh. You're actually pissed, aren't you?" Victor observes, brow raised.

"I—no. Yes. Ugh, I don't know," he groans, leaning back against the chair and staring up at the clear blue sky. "None of this," he waves a dismissive hand at their surroundings, "is as fun as I hoped it'd be. It's not fun at all. It's all just… motion. Extreme movement. Where's the exhilaration? The thrill?"

Victor raises a brow. "Usually, the thrill comes from all that extreme movement."

Doorman scowls. "Well, all I'm getting is vertigo."

Sitting beside him, Paige remains in deep thought, brow furrowed and hand on her chin, before her eyes widen in realization and she gasps. "I think I know why."

"Please, enlighten me. Maybe I could fix the issue once I get my powers back. Do something about my stamina, too."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about the vertigo—anyways," she turns to him. "As Victor said, the thrill of most amusement park rides comes from the extreme movement. The intense physicality of it. Like you're supposed to feel like you're about to fly off your seat because of how fast everything's going, or that you're free-falling. It's supposed to evoke fight or flight response. Adrenaline caused by fear."

"Fear?" Doorman laughs at the thought. "If they wanted all that, then they should remove the safety belts."

"There!" She points, startling him. "That right there is what I'm talking about! You're disappointed in these rides because for you, they're not extreme enough. Because you can't feel the thrill without the actual risk."

Doorman opens his mouth, then closes it shut with a click, contemplating her words. "Hm. So when Drifter attacked me yesterday… you're saying I need something as extreme as that?"

"I mean," she hesitates, "being in a situation like that—the adrenaline must have been something else. So maybe?"

Hm. That's a shame. But… if one can manufacture the thrills of free-falling, then perhaps there's something he can do to recreate that near-death experience as well. Maybe—

"Whatever it is you're thinking, no," Victor says, cutting off his train of thought.

Doorman turns to him with a placid smile. "And what am I thinking, Victor?"

Victor frowns, eyes narrowed as he searches Doorman's face for something—

"Well, even without the rides, there's still lots we can do!" Paige brings out the map, the sound of her voice and paper crinkling breaking the brief moment of tension. "There's lots of food here that you haven't tried yet, like corndogs and popcorn. We could watch one of the shows here or, or play some carnival games! And there's a fireworks show later tonight! That sounds fun, doesn't it?"

"It does," he says, and Paige beams, and he focuses on her rambling words, nodding and humming as needed, ignoring Victor's burning stare on his back.

The carnival games are fun, and Doorman finds that although he lost his stamina alongside his powers, he hasn't lost his aim nor arm strength.

The last tower of cans comes crashing down, and he hands his newly won teddy bear to Victor, who's already carrying two others from the ring toss and the balloon pop booths. Paige cheers at his success.

"One for each of us!" she says, before Doorman's rumbling stomach once again makes itself known. She laughs, before pointing down the road. "Well, it's about time for lunch. Anything you guys wanna eat?"

Victor shrugs. "I'm fine with anything."

Doorman's about to say the same, when a delicious scent wafts by. He glances to the side and sees a man walking by with a corn on the cob. "Can we get some of that instead?"

Paige looks to where he's pointing, and gasps. "Ooh! That's perfect! Instead of a sit-down restaurant, let's go around and try the different food stands! Come on!"

They approach the nearest stand first: one selling hotdogs. And as they, or rather Doorman specifically, savors the chew of processed meat covered in ketchup and mustard, they line up for bagels. Corn on the cob, lemonade, waffles, fries—though the portion sizes aren't that big, the sheer variety of foods available could easily fill up their bellies for lunch.

Though the day doesn't pass without incident.

A man comes up to them as they're in line for frozen custard, glaring furiously at Victor before whisper-yelling to him that the "hired freaks" aren't allowed to eat outside with the guests. Paige takes offense, and so does Doorman, feeling that same flare of irritation he felt at the park yesterday. And together, they manage to so thoroughly berate the man that he runs away with his tail tucked between his legs.

Victor, looking equal parts embarrassed and moved by the public display, immediately pulls them both away once they've purchased their food. "You two didn't have to do that," he grunts.

"Nonsense," Doorman says, taking a bite of his strawberry-flavored treat. Ooh. Delicious. Not unlike ice cream. "Even if you were an employee here who broke a rule, he should've pulled you aside and berated you in private instead of causing a scene."

"His face when you asked for the name of his superior," Paige giggles. "Did you learn that while working at the hotel?"

He smirks. "Where else?"

Paige laughs, and Victor shakes his head, grumbling under his breath, but there is a twitch in the corner of his mouth that makes Doorman think he appreciates their interference more than he lets on.

"You sir!" a man calls out, mystic camera in hand. "May I interest you in some photos? You and your sister! Would be good for the family album!"

Paige stiffens beside him, and once again, Doorman feels that protective flare in his chest. He steps forward.

"What a wonderful idea. Come, Victor," he pulls him closer by the elbow, positioning the two of them in a way that keeps Paige away from the camera, before smiling at the photographer. "Take our photo, please."

He expects some form of protest from Victor, but he stays quiet, leading him to believe that he's aware of what Doorman's trying to do.

The man looks confused, but raises his camera anyway, snapping a picture of the two of them, handing them the photo.

"Thank you," Doorman says, and is about to place a quarter on the man's palm, before he pulls it back, holding onto his wrist with his other hand. "Though a word of advice? Don't be so quick to assume the relations of your potential clientele. You never know who you might offend."

The man blinks, before blanching at whatever face he's making. "A-ah, I'm sorry, sir! I meant nothing by it!"

Doorman smooths his mouth into a placid smile, dropping the quarter into the man's palm and watching as he scurries away.

This time, it's Paige who demurs. "You didn't have to—"

"Nonsense," he repeats, glancing down at the picture. Him, smiling brightly with a cup of frozen custard in one hand and his other looped around Victor's arm, who looks dour as ever. Fun. He hands it to Victor. "I gave him solid advice, did I not?"

Victor glances at the picture, and grimaces. "You could've done that without having to pay for the picture."

"Well, Paige and I already have a photo together. Only makes sense that I get one with you as well, no? Now come. We've still a lot of games and treats to try."

A few hours go by without incident, and Doorman enjoys himself despite his initial disappointment with the rides. Even Victor starts relaxing after that earlier confrontation, a bit of a competitive spirit showing as they try out more game booths.

They're waiting their turn to play another version of the milk bottle knockdown game but with tin cans and a slingshot this time, when Victor catches him by the elbow. Then he reaches forward, doing the same to Paige with his other hand, before leaning down. "We're being followed."

"By who?" asks Paige, shoulders tensing at the warning.

"Drifter."

And just the brief utterance of his name makes the bruises on his neck throb. His muscles twitch, and he's not sure whether he wants to run away or towards the danger, but Victor squeezes his arm, the weight of his hand strangely reassuring and keeping him from doing anything stupid.

"Why is he here? How is he here?" Paige hisses at them.

"He's a centuries-old vampire," Doorman says, glancing around to see if he could catch a glimpse of that crimson gaze amongst the crowd. "He's still beholden to the limitations of their kind, such as needing invitations to cross thresholds and burning under the direct sun, but he's powerful. Fast enough to move from shade to shade without notice, and strong enough to endure the sunlight in the few seconds he's exposed to it."

"He could have bought something from the Mystic Shop too," Victor adds. "There's probably something there for vampires who want to move under the sun, right?"

Doorman thinks for a moment. "There are such items, yes. A couple of them lessens the duration of, or even outright purges, the body of any harmful effects. There's also one that lets you enter a void state, letting you travel in impenetrable darkness for a short distance. All worth a fortune."

"Money's probably not a problem for someone who's had centuries to accumulate it," Paige mutters. "But what should we do now? Should we go back? Does he know we know he's here? Oh my gosh, vampires have superior hearing, don't they? Has he been listening to us the whole time—?"

Victor shakes his head. "I don't think so. There's way too many people here for him to be able to pick out our voices from the crowd. But yeah, we should head back to the hotel."

"But the fireworks," Doorman protests, but Victor quells him with a single look.

"We're heading back. Now."

"Brian?"

Doorman resists the urge to sigh, still put out from having the day cut short. They're currently on the subway train leaving Coney Island, and he turns away from the Wonder Wheel's shrinking skyline silhoutte. "Yes, Paige?"

"Did you ever find out how you got from the alleyway to the hotel?"

"No," he says. "None of the staff saw anything, save for Ash. He's one of our newer staff, and fills in wherever he's needed. He was cleaning the windows when he thought he saw someone carrying me down one of The Baroness's many hallways."

"He thought he saw?"

"He can't say for certain. He blinked, then no one was there. Thought it might've been a figment of his imagination."

"Is it possible—this is gonna sound stupid, but," Paige wrings her fingers together, "is it possible that Drifter was the one who brought you to the hotel?"

Doorman stops. That's… possible. Had it been a hotel staff member or The Baroness itself who found him, then they simply would've told him. If it was some random passerby, then he would've awoken back in the alley instead. But if it was Drifter, with his speed and unbridled access to the hotel—

"He can't have," Victor says. "He can't get in the hotel, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry—" and there is that tickling guilt again, forming in his throat, but neither of them notice, and she keeps on talking, "it's just… he didn't attack us immediately. He was just… stalking. And yesterday, he didn't hurt Doorman—"

"Didn't hurt him?" Victor raises a brow. "He choked him until he passed out."

Doorman's bruises throb once more at the reminder.

"—didn't continue hurting him then, after that. He could've easily killed him. And you said it yourself," she turns to him. "That he seemed more confused than anything! What if he's following us because—because he's trying to figure out what happened to you or something. I mean, wouldn't you be curious if your… your, uh—"

"Adversary?" he offers.

"Right. Wouldn't you be curious if your adversary suddenly lost his powers?"

Hm. She has a point. Drifter, despite appearances and the unhinged bloodlust, isn't some simple base creature. The vampire possesses a sharp intellect that's allowed him to evade capture for centuries. He recalls the baffled suprise, followed by immediate suspicion. No, Drifter isn't the type to take things at face value, so he definitely suspects something's afoot.

"Whatever his reasons, it doesn't matter," Victor says, pulling him out of his musing. "He's dangerous, and there's no telling what he'd do once he figures out that D—Brian here is mortal now." He glances at the bruises on his neck once more. "He might come and try to finish the job."

An image comes to him: waking up in the middle of the night, crimson eyes staring down at him, teeth bared—

Doorman looks away, holding back a shudder, but he feels Victor's eyes boring into the side of his head. But the other man doesn't press, letting the conversation die naturally.

The train jolts and the speakers overhead come to life, announcing the next station as it slows to a stop.

But as the day goes on, a small part of Doorman lingers on his last encounter with Drifter, and he comes to the conclusion that for all of Coney Island's manufactured thrills, none of them can compare to the feeling of his life being choked out of him.

They get back to the hotel in time for dinner, but Doorman finds his thoughts still lingering. So as Paige heads to her own room, ready to pass out from the day's excitement, he stops Victor before he could do the same, saying he needs to speak with him privately and leading him to his room, before asking him to—

"You want me to what?"

"I want you to choke me," he repeats.

"Why would you want—" Victor stops himself and raises hand. "Actually, no. Don't answer that. I already know why." He sighs. "This has to do with what Paige said earlier, doesn't it? You had a strange look on your face then."

Doorman smiles. "Why, to think that you've gotten to know me so well."

"Unfortunately." Victor grumbles, before crossing his arms, tapping his fingers against his own skin. "But why the repeat? I was actually half-expecting you to ask me to bite you instead. I don't think me choking you out will give you anything new."

"It probably will." At Victor's raised brow, he explains some more. "Tell me. In any of the times I asked you to inflict pain on me, did you ever mean to do actual harm?"

"Of course not," he says, almost sounding offended. "I'm just doing what you asked me to."

"Exactly. You have no qualms about hurting me, but you don't actually want to harm me. Drifter, on the other hand, has no such compunctions. So when he cornered me in that alleyway, I actually felt…" he falters, suddenly conscious of admitting something so vulnerable, before clearing his throat. He's not about to let something so insignificant as insecurity get in his way. "I felt fear."

Victor stops, head slowly tilting up to look him in the eye.

"I felt fear, Victor. He absolutely frightened me. And it was thrilling," he shivers at the memory of teeth, so close to his jugular, "but at the same time, overwhelming. Too overwhelming. That terror just took over and I could scarcely make sense of anything else." He thinks of that moment with Victor in the bathroom, when he caged him in against the sink. There was no fear then, only shock and confusion. "You don't scare me, Victor. Even when you held a blade so close to my wrists, I never feared for my life."

Victor boggles at him, speechless for a long, long moment, before, "So you… just want to experience the choking. And you went to me because I don't scare you."

Doorman smiles. "Precisely. I want —how did Paige put it?—all the thrill without the actual risk. See if it could compare."

"So I just, what, choke you until you pass out?"

"No, not until I pass out. I want to feel my lungs burn, but I want to be present for it, if that makes sense. Without fear or unconsciousness clouding my mind."

Victor looks up at the ceiling, as if contemplating the choices that lead to this moment, before taking a deep breath. "You know what? Fine. Fuck it. Won't be the most insane thing I've done."

"This is insane," Victor mutters as he gets on the bed, knees on either side of Doorman's hips. He braces one hand on the headboard, then places the other on Doorman's neck, adjusting it so that the crook of his thumb fits snugly under his jaw. He keeps his weight on his knees, so obviously conscious of their current position—which is funny since he's the one who insisted they do it like this; something about being able to control the situation better if he's not worried about holding Doorman's weight up by the neck. Victor takes a deep breath as if to steel himself, "You ready?"

"At you leisure."

"Remember. Three taps to stop."

Doorman rolls his eyes impatiently. "Victor, if you're not up for this, we can table this for another—!" He gasps, cut off as the hand around his throat tightens without warning.

There's no pain, surprisingly, save for the way Victor's fingers press against the tender bruises Drifter left on his skin. Which doesn't bode well for this experiment. After all, if it doesn't hurt, then how could it compare to the real thing?

Disappointed, he's about to call it off—then he feels the pressure, and it narrows his airways until nothing can pass through. He tries to take a deep breath, and when he realizes he can't, his hands instinctively come up to grab Victor's wrist. But he doesn't push his hand away. He just holds it, trying to ground himself. His eyes threaten to lose focus, and he really shouldn't let his guard down, but—he makes eye contact with Victor, who is looking down at him attentively, and even though it is his hand wrapped around his throat, Doorman feels inexplicably safe under that gaze.

"Still good?"

His lips twitch upward. Ever a gentleman. He nods, before closing his eyes and letting himself really feel. His head is light from the lack of oxygen, and a thrill makes its way up his spine as his lungs spasm and clench ineffectively. He doesn't know how long he stays in that state, but he doesn't tap out, savoring the burn. That does mean, however, that Victor is the one who decides when to let go, and when he does—

Oxygen rushes back into his lungs as he gasps, vision bleary. There's a rush, a head-spinning exhilaration as that same oxygen pushes through to his brain. It feels… good. Floaty, but not in the disconnected way he felt when The Baroness nearly broke his mind; something softer, fuzzier. He likes it.

"Hey," two fingers tap against his cheek, guiding him back to reality. "You okay?"

He lolls his head to look up at Victor, who eyes him warily. He sighs, smiling and nuzzling into the hand on his cheek. "I feel amazing. Thank you, Victor."

Victor makes a strangled noise as he jerks his hand back, as if burned. "Jesus. Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I just gave you an orgasm."

Oh, now that is an aspect of the human experience he hasn't explored yet. Perhaps Victor would be amenable—hm, no, he wouldn't be. But perhaps Doorman should ask anyway?

"Nope." The mattress dips as Victor gets up and off the bed, sounding scandalized. "No no no. We're not doing that."

Doorman sits up, hides the way his lips twitch with a put-on pout. "I haven't even said anything."

"Your face said everything it needed to. And no, no thanks. Choking you out was already weird enough, but that's—I'm not gonna fuck you."

Doorman can't help the snicker that escapes him as Victor's shoulders rise to his ears, looking equal parts mortified and annoyed. "Apologies, but you're so fun to tease."

Victor crosses his arms, grumbling inaudibly to himself, before asking, "That it? That all you wanted?"

"Yes," he smiles. "Thank you. Again."

"Great… okay."

Awkward silence hangs in the air for a long moment, and he watches with no small amount of amusement as Victor shifts his weight from one foot to another, before simply going, "Okay. I'm just… gonna go now."

Doorman chuckles. "Good night, Victor."

"… good night, you weirdo. See you tomorrow."

He gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth before changing into one of his new silk pajama sets: a dark blue drawstring pants and a button-down long-sleeved shirt in the same color. It whispers against his skin, soft and cool to the touch. He leaves the bathroom, highly satisfied with how his new clothes feel against his skin, and turns off the lights—

"Quite the show," a smooth accented feminine voice says, and Doorman whips around, just in time to see a figure cloaked in darkness. "For a moment there, I thought I'd have to come back tomorrow night to get you alone."

The figure vanishes, and Doorman feels his body go on alert as he whirls around, heart beating in double-time—

He stills, something cold and metallic brushes against the small of his back. In the mirror, he sees feline eyes hovering above his shoulder, blinking slow. Then the shadows unravel, revealing a woman—intimidating in stature and familiar in visage.

"Calico," he manages, resisting the urge to nervously lick his lips. "What a surprise."

"Indeed."

The blade on his back retreats as Calico takes a step back. Slowly, he turns around, facing the assassin that's made her way into his room, completely unnoticed. Which shouldn't be possible… unless The Baroness for some reason let her—

"My, you look different than usual," she says, twirling her knife across her fingers; it glints like a claw. "I bet you're wondering why I'm here."

He tries for a charming smile. "Not to kill me I hope."

"Kill you?" She laughs darkly, and Ava starts purring up a storm, as if laughing along with her. "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't waste my time talking to you. You'd simply already be dead."

It chafes at him and his pride, but he can't deny the truth of her statement. He hadn't even the faintest inkling of her presence. She could've very easily stabbed him in the back or slit his neck, and he wouldn't have known until he was already bleeding on the ground—

He shudders at the thought, a mix of excitement and fear running up his spine, before he clears his head. He has to focus. He can't let himself get swept away like what happened with Drifter.

"Why are you here, Calico?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I'm here," she leans closer, "to warn you."

"Warn me," he repeats, raising a skeptical brow. "Of what, pray tell?"

"Of the bounty on your head."

And that's—that's not what he expected at all. Not that he's been expecting anything.

Yes, people have attempted to kill him before, but mostly as a response to him turning down any bribes to let certain people in or go through certain areas of the hotel undetected. The way each attempt failed became a warning of its own. A warning to not involve The Baroness and its staff in any of their petty conflicts. The shame of being blacklisted from one of the most prominent hotels also helped prevent further incidents.

But still, a bounty? On his head specifically?

"I don't recall doing anything that would make anyone angry enough to want to assassinate me. Recently, anyway."

"Oh, you did nothing wrong, I'm sure." She scratches Ava on the chin, lips twitching when she purrs. "But a friend of yours crossed some very powerful people."

His brow furrows. A friend? Who? A hotel employee? Or perhaps Paige or Victor? He'd count them as friends, insofar as he has any, but neither of them seem the type.

Calico hums at his apparent confusion. "Shall I describe him for you? Filthy, homeless-looking, bloodthirsty—do tell me if any of this rings a bell."

Only one person comes to mind, but the thought of them being friends is so absurd it makes him laugh out loud.

"Are you referring to the Drifter?" He chuckles. "We're not friends."

She inclines her head. "I thought not. But that's not what they think. And not what their evidence shows."

"What evidence?"

"The words of a diviner. I know, I know," she says, noticing the disbelief on his face. "Divination is such a finicky thing. But there is one specific instance where it works consistently enough, and that is when all you need is to see someone's final moments. And unluckily for you," she smirks, "those last moments include the Drifter."

Irritation flares in his chest, because— "In that case, they should put a bounty on him instead."

"And add to the already growing prize on his head?" Calico shakes her head. "They know the futility of hunting the Drifter down—much more powerful men than them have tried. So they're settling for the next best target."

"Me," He deadpans.

He's not unfamiliar with the concept, having used it as a means of torture before he became the Doorman. It's a different kind of torment, knowing your loved ones are suffering or dead because of you. Keyword: loved ones. And the thought of Drifter considering him as such is so utterly baffling. Because why? What could possibly make anyone believe that?

Unless…

"Was I even mentioned in his victim's final moments? Because I still fail to understand how Drifter's actions caused a bounty to land on my head."

Calico's lips curl, clearly amused by his indignation. "Perhaps this shall explain it then." She reaches into her inner coat pocket and flicks a polaroid at him.

He jumps, barely managing to catch it between two fingers, slowly lowering it before inspecting the photo. There, in a quality that could only be captured using mystical means, is an image of him in Drifter's arms. Him, unconscious and Drifter, looking utterly confused and… concerned? It's a bit charming, in all honesty, if not for the completely false image it paints of their relationship.

"Don't you two look all cozy and adorable?" Calico coos into his ear, placing a metal hand on his shoulder. He flinches away—he hadn't even noticed her moving—and she laughs. "Were you always such a jumpy little thing?"

He scowls, trying to hide the way his heart thuds against his ribcage. "I don't appreciate your games, Calico."

"Oh my. Well, I know when I've worn out my welcome, and I've done what I've set out to do," she says, walking past him and pushing open the balcony doors. "I should take my leave before you charge me for an overnight stay," she chuckles, smooth and low like a purr. "Good luck, doorman."

"Wait."

She stops mid-step, turning her head the slightest bit.

"Why warn me? And why should I even trust your warning?"

She hums contemplatively, before answering, "Let's just say that amongst my current clientele, more than half would rather you stay alive. Anyway, you don't have to take my word for it." She strides forward and with a graceful jump, alights on the balcony railing. "It's like I told my son, you are free to make all the horrible decisions you'd like. So," she turns on her heel, round lenses glinting under the moonlight as she throws him one last smirk. "I'll see you around, doorman. Or not."

With that she lets herself fall backwards into the night.

He doesn't bother stepping forward to see where she goes, knowing full well that an assassin of her caliber would've disappeared completely from his now-human senses by the time he does. Instead, he turns to address the room at large, "You could've warned me, you know?"

The balcony doors swing with an apologetic creak, making Doorman sigh.

"You're right. I'm sure you let her in knowing she didn't mean to harm me. And I do appreciate her warning."

Well, that and the new flavor of fear she brought out of him. Not the primal fear of being hunted down and eaten, consumed until even marrow is sucked dry, but similar. Colder, less frenzied. A fear of lurking eyes and daggers in the dark.

He shivers at the memory of a knife pressing against the small of his back, before dispelling it. He takes another look at the polaroid, realizing that Drifter was indeed the one who brought him to his room after he fainted. A strange thought, coupled with the fact that he didn't attack them at all today. Despite his reassurances to Paige and Victor, he's not under any illusion that they'd be able to subdue Drifter. Strong enough to run away, perhaps, but not enough to kill him.

But who exactly did he anger? And how the hell is he going to deal with this target on his back?

Chapter Text

The dilemma of what to do with Calico's warning continues to the next day. He still isn't any closer to a solution. They're inside The Baroness's ten-lane bowling alley—yet another piece of "nonsensical architecture" for Victor to grumble about—and currently, Paige is handily trouncing them both.

"I've had practice throwing my dragons around," she laughed earlier when asked.

Amusing as it is to watch her hit strike after strike while he and Victor fall behind despite doing their best, he finds his mind wandering.

Now that there is an unknown third party involved, the threat of Drifter has grown much bigger than if it was simply him hunting Doorman down. Big enough that Victor and Paige might get dragged into it. He agreed to staying inside The Baroness for now, hence their current choice of activity, though they don't know the true reason he agreed is due to Calico's warning.

Strange, these past five days; a time period that should be almost nothing to beings like him, yet somehow enough to cultivate a friendship with depth. Enough depth that Victor and Paige worry for him, and now, he worries for them in turn.

And this guilt he keeps feeling for a simple lie—very unpleasant. Perhaps he should tell them the truth about Drifter's his actual capacity to come and go inside the hotel as he pleases, alongside this bounty on his head. But that would only worry them further, no? He doesn't want that, but nor does he want to deal with the consequences of his lying.

To think he's come so far in his quest to understand humanity. Unwilling to upset them with his dishonesty, yet unwillling to hurt them with the truth! Ah, what a conundrum. Perhaps this can all be solved once he figures out who it is Drifter offended.

His mood quickly sours.

Drifter, who has offended so many powerful people that he'd probably have an easier time listing those who haven't been offended by him.

"Doorman? Are you okay?"

He banishes further thoughts of the vampire before it could further befoul his mood, and gives Paige a smile. "It's nothing. Just thinking about an annoyance an acquaintance caused."

Before she could ask more about it, Victor comes back to the bench. "You're up."

As Paige gets up to take her turn, he sits down and mutters, "I think we're being watched."

Doorman surreptitiously looks around. There are a few people here: the staff running the bowling alley and a couple other groups a few lanes away. He catches the eye of one such group—a trio of young women, barely in their twenties, casting shy glances at them. And over the past few days, Doorman's come to realize that he and his companions are attractive. Maybe not conventionally so, but still. Paige has a lovely and sweet charm about her, and Victor, despite the stitches and the scars and the whole walking-corpse thing, has a somber allure that draws the eye; Doorman, of course, made this form to specifically be aesthetically pleasing.

He smiles, and watches as they look away, blushing and tittering. He turns back to Victor, "I'm not sure who you think is watching us, but if it's that group of ladies, I'm pretty sure they're staring for a different reason."

Victor glance in their direction, starting another round of giggling. One of the women even waves at him, a coy flutter of fingers that makes Victor look away almost immediately.

Paige whoops as she walks back to the bench. "Yeah! That's another strike for—you two weren't paying attention, were you?"

Doorman smiles slyly. "Victor was busy mistaking those young ladies flirting with him for someone watching us."

"Oho?" Paige glances at said ladies, before nudging Victor in the side. "Why don't you go over and talk to them? Make sure they're not planning anything nefarious."

Victor sighs. "Fine, I get it. I'm being paranoid, but can you blame me after what happened yesterday?" The reminder makes the smile slip from Paige's face. "Besides, I don't think they're flirting. They probably just think I look weird."

Doorman shakes his head at his diffidence, but plays along. "Your jacket does bulge weirdly because of the industrial hex bolts sticking out of your back."

Victor raises a brow. "Really? Damn. If only I thought of that before sticking them in."

"You could visit our house tailor," he suggests, looking over Victor's clothes with a critical eye. "I imagine they'd be able to make it so that your clothes sit better on your form."

"What, like cut out holes for my bolts?"

"That could work. It'll make you seem less of a hunchback, at the very least. Oh, that's just your posture. Apologies."

"Doorman," Paige interrupts before Victor could respond. "There's something I've been wondering about, ever since you got attacked."

He turns to her, noting the nervous tinge in her voice.

"What happens if you… if you don't ever get your powers back? If you stay human?"

Stay human? What an odd thought. He looks down at his ungloved hands, at the thin white scar at the base of his thumb. These past few days, he'd been so caught up with learning how to be human that he never really contemplated what he'd do should his current circumstances prove to be permanent. Well, permanent in the mortal sense; even if he were to live out an average human lifespan, sixty years is nothing for a being that could live for eons.

So Doorman shrugs. "I suppose I'll continue working here at The Baroness, and we'll see how well this form holds up against the test of time."

"You're not worried at all?"

"Not really. By the way, is it my turn now?"

"But what if you die?" Paige continues, ignoring his question. "What happens then?"

"Either this bit of detached consciousness returns to rest of me in the Outer Planes, or it does not and is sucked into the ever-hungry leylines of Earth."

"The rest of you?" Victor repeats, wariness creeping into his voice. "So you're only part of you? This isn't your true personality?"

"No, no. I am very much entirely me. Imagine it more as… how do I put this? I am merely a fragment of me, holding the same memories and experiences as the whole, but not the full capabilities. A branch trimmed from a tree, or smaller than that even. A fruit that's fallen to the ground."

"Knowing the fruit doesn't mean we know the tree."

Doorman's lips lift into a small smile, amused by this unexpected line of questioning. "Physically? No, but I very much don't recommend knowing what the tree looks like. Not good for one's sanity. But individualistically? Yes. I am very much still who I am."

Victor relaxes at that, and he wonders what was more worrying for the other man: the possibility of not knowing Doorman in full, or not knowing Doorman in truth.

Paige bites at her lip. "What if we tried searching the library again? Maybe there's something we missed there—or, or maybe check other libraries. Ask other people! People like Professor Dynamo!"

Doorman cocks his head. "I'm confused. You wish to renew efforts in finding answers as to what can be done to return my powers?"

"Of course!"

"But why?"

"I—I mean, don't you want to get your powers back? Besides, we should've made this our priority instead of, of going to amusement parks and bowling."

"Why?" he repeats. "Where is this sudden urgency coming from? Why are you so adamant on finding a way for me to regain my powers once more?"

"Because you're vulnerable like this! And there's this thing with Drifter and I know I said you can't live your life in fear but—I'm worried," she looks down at her lap, wringing her fingers. "I don't want you to have to stay here in the hotel forever, but at the same time, I don't want you getting hurt."

A warmth blooms in his chest. Fond sentiment, followed by the urge to comfort.

He places a hand on top of hers. "You need not worry," he says, keeping his voice soft. "This body, if it ends up perishing... a fallen fruit dying doesn't kill the tree."

"But that still leaves this part of you dead," she argues, looking him in the eye. "You said you either return to the whole or get sucked into the Earth. Can you guarantee that you'll come back from that?"

"Certainly—"

"That if you do, you'll be the same person we know now? Will you even remember?"

His fingers twitch. "I…" he tries for a comforting lie, but finds his tongue pinned down by Paige's glittering sincerity. He places his hands on his lap, looking down at them as he gathers his thoughts.

He's lucky, isn't he? To have been found by Paige and Victor. To have formed this friendship with them.

But what if he were to forget this friendship? Or even if he didn't, what if he were to somehow feel differently once he regains his powers? There is a reason beings like him find mortals fascinating—they simply feel on a different level. Not that patrons are stoic; it simply takes something monumental to evoke anything deeper than the initial thin layer of reactive emotion, but humans? Everything and anything can stir them into feeling, can evoke emotions so strong that they're moved to action. And here he is, having felt those emotions! Will that matter once he becomes whole? Will the changes brought about by this small taste of humanity be enough to affect him?

To all these questions, there is only one answer he can give.

"I don't know," he says after a long moment. Slowly, he looks up, meeting Victor and Paige's gaze. "I can't promise you that. I don't know what the future holds for me. I don't know if my powers will gradually return, or if I will have to live out the rest of my days as a mortal. I don't know if I will even remember most of these things, or if my opinion will change once I return to what I was.

"But honestly… I don't care. Being human has been amazing. If I forget, then that's a monumental loss. If I remember? Then certainly, I will return to you and pay back my debts at least. Either way, there's nothing I could do about it. And I don't know how much time I even have like this, but however much I have, I don't want to waste it running around to find an answer that may or may not exist. I'd rather spend my time doing something fun," he smiles. "Like shopping and trying new foods. With you two."

"Yeah?" Paige smiles back, though there's still a hint of worry marring the edges of it.

He puts a hand on top of hers once more. "These past few days, I've learned so much about being human. Things I thought I'd never get to experience. Things I never considered worth experiencing. So even if I were to die today, then I'd still consider meeting you and getting the chance to be your friend to be worth it."

He watches as her smile turns wobbly, a touch of moisture forming at the corners of her eyes. Doorman glances at Victor, making sure he knows that that speech was for him, just as much as it was for her, and the other man turns away, looking uncomfortable and almost abashed.

"I'm glad to be your friend too," she says. "But you'll come back, right? If you die. At least to visit?"

He squeezes her hand and smiles. "There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature."

"Northanger Abbey." Paige chuckles wetly. "I thought you didn't like reading. Or is that only as a human?"

He smirks. "The physical body wasn't the only thing I studied. Your cultures fascinated me just as much, and so consuming famous literary works became part of my research into humanity and your many idiosyncrasies. Most of the books in The Baroness's esteemed library come from me, you know?"

"Then you should know that," she sniffs as she discreetly wipes at her eyes, "that the antagonist was the one who said that quote, so Jane Austen herself probably didn't really believe it when she wrote that."

"Nonetheless, it perfectly describes how I feel about you two."

Paige lets out a laugh that sounds almost like a squeal, delighted and fond.

"Well, you definitely don't half-ass things, that's for sure," mutters Victor, still embarrassed by Doorman's proclamations of friendship no doubt. Before he clears his throat. "You're really not that worried about the Drifter killing you?"

I'm more worried about the assassins killing me, Doorman thinks, but doesn't say. He hasn't told them about the bounty on his head, but he will. Eventually. But not now. At least that's what he tells himself to ease the pang of guilt that comes with lying by omission.

Instead he shrugs. "I can't exactly stop him now, can I? But," he claps his hands together and stands. "Enough about that. I believe it's my turn, yes?"

They play a few more rounds but, predictably, Paige wins each one, and the game soon loses its charm. So they decide to move on to the next item on their itinerary: the spa.

As they leave the bowling alley, Paige stops them. "Just a second. Bathroom break. Can you hold my books for me? Thanks!"

Victor takes her bookbag and they watch as she scurries off to the nearby ladies' room. They go off to the side and wait in silence for a few moments, before—

"So what about our deal?" asks Victor.

"What about it?"

"What if you die and forget? Or what if you never get your powers back?" Victor clarifies. "Don't tell me I choked you out for nothing."

Doorman glances at the man beside him. "You don't seem too worried about it."

Victor shrugs. "I'm used to disappointment."

"What a sad statement," he observes, only getting another shrug in return. "Well, how about we have The Baroness serve as our witness?" At Victor's raised brow, he elaborates. "Should I forget, it shall remind me of our deal. Should I not get my powers back, it shall use its ability in my stead. Though in that case, communicating whatever answers it finds may prove to be a small challenge, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there." He glances up at the ceiling. "That is if you're agreeable?"

The windows glisten, letting in more sun than usual, brightening the hall.

Victor squints against the light. "I take it that's a yes?"

"Resounding."

"Huh," he taps his fingers against his forearm, before shrugging. "Sure. That works for me."

Their little stretch of corridor returns to its normal lighting, but not before the windows seemingly wink.

Doorman raises a brow, before shaking his head and turning back to Victor. "I still don't understand why The Baroness likes you."

"Must be my winning personality," Victor drawls just as Paige reappears. "All good?"

"Yup. Now let's head to the spa! This is going to be so much fun!"

The spa is on a lower floor, alongside all the other wellness-related amenities the hotel offers, so they head to the elevators, Paige and Doorman filling the silence with small talk and banter.

As they exit the elevator, they come across a common scene in the hospitality sector: guests harassing a staff member. In this case, the staff member in question is Ash, cornered by a three men in suits, the tall one in the middle poking Ash in the sternum as he snarls something, leaving the Ixian pale-faced.

Doorman immediately strides forward to defuse the situation when one of the men look up and spots him and nudges the man in the middle, who glances at him, gaze hard and unreadable, before inexplicably pulling away and going down the other end of the hallway without another word.

Paige approaches Ash. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

"Y-yes, miss. I'm fine," he forces a smile. "Sorry you had to see that display, but let it be known that here at The Baroness, that falls out of the standard we set—"

"No need for the spiel, Ash. These two are friends of The Baroness."

"B-Boss!"

"Who was that?" Victor asks, glancing down the hall the three men disappeared to. "They were armed to the teeth."

"Just some unruly guests, sir. And they were, um, they were asking questions. About someone who used to visit the hotel frequently."

"Who?"

"S-someone named James, sir?"

And then it clicks, the pieces coming together. Calico's warning, this 'James', Drifter… He knows exactly why there's a bounty on his head now.

"But not to w-worry, sir," Ash says, voice going high as he waves his hands in front of him. "I made sure not to tell them anything!"

"You know something," Victor says, looking straight at Doorman. "Who were they?"

"Thank you, Ash," Doorman smiles, mentally going over the incidents from the past few weeks and realizing something worrying. If his hunch is right, then the assassins have infiltrated The Baroness long before they even knew their specific target. And now that they know… "Please keep this to yourself; I have to confirm a few things. Go about your duties for now."

"Y-yes, boss!"

"Doorman, what's going on?" Paige asks as Ash scurries off. "You're worrying us."

"Not here." He has no choice now. He has to tell them everything, if only to make sure they don't get caught in the crossfire. "Let's go up to my room," he says, casting a furtive glance to their surroundings. "This is a matter best discussed in private."

They get to Doorman's room without further incident. Immediately, Doorman locks the door behind him and heads for the telephone. "I need to talk to reception."

"Doorman, what's going on?" Paige asks. "Who were those people?"

"I'll explain everything. But first, I need to make sure those guests are kicked out, or at the very least, kept under close watch."

"But who were they?"

He doesn't answer her immediately, focused on dialing the correct number—

"Come on, cher. Answer the poor girl."

He freezes, the handset dangling on its cord as it drops from his hand, the sound of his companions turning and gasping not reaching his ears as he gets lost in the memory of the last time he heard that voice. A dark alleyway, a clawed hand around his throat—

There, in the other end of the room, stands the Drifter.

Doorman's first instinct is to flinch back and cower, especially when he sees the thunderous expression on the other's face. But upon closer inspection, he doesn't look angry, but aggravated. He's staring at Doorman with frustration. Like he's a riddle he can't solve.

"Answer her question, Doorman, and tell us what's going on here," the vampire growls. He stalks closer, only pausing when Victor gets in his way refuses to move. "Step aside, cadaver man. This got nothin' to do with you."

Victor brings himself to his full height, taller than even the Drifter. "No."

"No?" Blood-stained hands flex. "You sure 'bout that?"

"If you wanted to attack us, you would've done it by now," Victor says tersely. "You want to talk, then we'll talk. But we do it civilly, and you keep your distance."

Drifter lets out a low rumble, gaze traveling from Victor to Doorman, who feels his heart beating faster and faster, body readying itself for either fight or flight—

"Tsch."

Drifter pulls back, and the tension dissipates. He takes a few steps backwards and leans against the far wall, arms crossed.

"This far enough for you?"

Victor steps to the side in lieu of answering. Enough for Drifter to be able to directly address Doorman, but still close enough for him to interpose himself between the vampire and the rest of the room if needed.

"How'd you get in?" asks Paige, putting on a brave voice, her knuckles white over the spine of King Arthur. "I swear, if you hurt anyone—"

"Didn't have to. I've a standin' invitation." Drifter smiles, all teeth. "Ain't that right, Doorman?"

She turns to him. "What is he talking about?"

And there is that lump in his throat again. He swallows it down, purses his lips. "I may not have been entirely truthful about the relative safety of The Baroness when it comes to Drifter."

"What," Victor's jaw grinds together, "do you mean by that?"

"It is part of our arrangement. A month ago, I," he swallows, "I gave him permission to come and go inside The Baroness whenever he wishes to."

"… what?"

He barely holds back a flinch, for that one word from her contains so much. Shock and disappointment and the beginnings of anger. He turns to Victor, and finds the same written on his face in different quantities.

"I didn't mean to—"

"Were you ever planning on telling us?"

The guilt comes back in full force.

"I…"

"Enough with the dramatics," Drifter cuts in with a growl. "You never answered the question. The scent, the lack of powers—you've taken this charade too far, Doorman, and I wanna know why."

"You shut up!" Paige turns to him with a vicious glare, seemingly over her initial fear of him. "Why are you even here? Why are you following us around?"

"I'm here for answers."

"Answers?" Anger surges from within Doorman, born from an unsavory mix of frustration and a need to push away the heavy weight of guilt in his chest; it also has the fortunate side-effect of dispelling his fear. "No," he pushes past Victor, who pulls him back before he could get too close to the vampire. "You don't get to demand anything from me! Not with the massive mess you've dragged me into, putting a fucking bounty on my head!"

Paige turns back to Doorman, eyes going wide. "A what?!" Then to Drifter again. "You put a bounty on his head?!"

The vampire wipes the confusion from his face to glare at her. "I didn't do shit."

"This bounty," Victor interrupts. "Who posted it?"

"If my suspicions are correct, one Senator Jonathan Morrison."

"Why the hell would a senator want you dead?"

"Wait… Morrison…" Paige looks up, eyes widening in realization. "His son—he was on the paper a month ago, wasn't he? He died in an accident here in New York. What was his name? John… no, Jack—"

"James Morrison," Victor answers. "I'm guessing he didn't die in an accident."

"No, he didn't," Doorman sniffs, glaring at the vampire.

"Careful there, cher," Drifter tilts his chin up. "Remember, you're human now. Won't take much for me to claw off that insolent mouth."

Doorman twitches, gritting his teeth, but says nothing else.

Victor looks at him askance, but otherwise pays the vampire no mind. "Then those people earlier… assassins? They're already inside the hotel?"

"I suspect so."

"Wait," Paige cuts in. "Hold on. There are assassins inside the hotel right now, and they're after you? Why do you even have a bounty on your head if he," she points at Drifter, "was the one who killed someone?"

"It's because they think we're somehow involved with each other."

"Well, are you?" asks Victor.

"I—What? Of course not!" Doorman says, bristling at the undertone of distrust.

"Sorry," he replies, crossing his arms. "Had to double-check. In case you were hiding anything else from us."

Doorman flinches, before looking away and turning to Drifter, eager to change the topic. "When you killed James Morrison a month ago, did you leave anything behind? Any evidence that could be traced back to you?"

"What, like my blood?" Drifter clicks his tongue. "That boy couldn't even fight back. Of course I left nothing."

"Then did you say something before killing him?"

"I like playin' with my food, cher. You know this better than most."

"Did you mention The Baroness?"

Silence.

"Drifter!" Doorman barks, voice edged with frustration.

Drifter lets out an agitated growl. "So fuckin' what if I did?! Why does that shit matter?"

Doorman closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "It matters because divination can be used to scry on a person's final moments. Including the last conversation they had."

"You're thinking that's what's led to you being targeted," Victor says, quick to catch on as usual.

"But just mentioning the hotel shouldn't be enough to put a target on your back," Paige argues. "How do they know Drifter wasn't referring to some other employee, or even a guest—"

"They knew it was someone workin' here," Drifter says, still glowering at Doorman, but the snarl in his voice has lessened. "He was beggin' for his life, sayin' that the people at the hotel would notice him gone. And I told him no one there would care, not with how he offended the only person there who could've protected him from me."

Doorman rolls his eyes. "How chivalrous of you."

The vampire smiles, though it looks more like a sneer. "We both know I would've killed him either way."

"But that's still not enough for them to target Doorman specifically!" argues Paige.

"No, it isn't." Doorman goes to his nightstand, opening the drawer carelessly and taking out a picture. One that was handed to him the night before. "But this is." He tosses the photo to the bed, right in everyone's line of sight.

Any other time, he'd relish in the way Drifter's eyes bug out of their sockets, but he's too worked up in the moment, almost filled to the brim with guilt and anger and frustration and a few other less powerful feelings that conflict with each other. Like a pot about to boil over.

He does, however, hastily grab the photo when he sees Drifter's bafflement turning into anger, claws twitching as if he wants to rip the tiny square apart.

"Do not!" He glares at Drifter. "I deserve some compensation for the grief this photo has caused me, even if that compensation merely comes in the form of owning said photo."

Paige takes the picture from him, inspecting it front and back. "This was captured using a mystic camera. And the background… this is inside The Baroness. Who tooks this?"

"Where'd you even get this?" Victor asks.

"I don't know who took it, but I assume it's one of the assassins who've infiltrated The Baroness. And I got it from the same person who warned me of the target on my back."

"You were warned? When? How long have you known?" Paige asks, tone hard. "Were you planning on telling us that at least?"

"I only learned of the bounty yesterday," Doorman rushes to reassure her. "I swear, I'm telling you the truth."

A disbelieving bark of laughter cuts through the room, and everyone turns to the source.

"I can't fucking believe this shit." Drifter shakes his head, and when he looks at Doorman, there is no more of that thunderous confusion, replaced by something far more cavalier. "This is serious. You're bein' serious."

Paige glares at him. "Shut up. This has nothing to—"

The rest of her words die in her throat as a thick miasma washes over the room. Shadows elongate unnaturally, casting the area in false night.

"You," Drifter growls, pure contempt dripping from his voice. "Once upon a time, I thought you were like the Troubador. Like me. All those years I spent huntin' you down, followin' the trail of corpses in your wake." He lets out a shuddering laugh, as if savoring the memory. "You were glorious then. A merciless god of death and destruction. But now," his lips curl. "Now you're nothing. Soft. Weak. Human."

Doorman stills.

"You're nothin' now but a shell of your former self. And for what? Shoppin' bags and amusement parks?" He glances at Victor and Paige, sneers. "Friends?" He takes a step forward, clawed fingers curling menacingly. "What if I kill them now? Soak the carpets of your precious hotel with the blood of your new friends? Would that bring you back?"

"… how dare you?"

Drifter pauses, brow furrowing.

Doorman looks up, anger boiling over into words that leave his tongue without his say-so. "How dare you speak of being human as if it is something reprehensible?"

As if humanity isn't what gave birth to Paige's kindness and Victor's resilience? As if Drifter, with all his voraciousness, is somehow above it?

"You want answers? I'll give you them." He stalks closer to Drifter, batting away Victor's attempts at holding him back. He steps forward until he's eye to eye with the vampire, blue meeting red, faces inches away. "You think you're above all this, but I see you, Drifter. I've seen through you since the day we first met in that forest. You traipse through these lands, clinging to the title of monster, but deep down, you are still that wretched slave with broken chains, savoring the taste of freedom. You fear the powerlessness that once lead to those chains, and you swore to never again be tied down by anything. Not by society, not by weakness, and not by your own humanity.

"You may think you've gotten rid of everything that makes you human, but guess what? You haven't—or more simply, you can't. You may shed your name and your morals and the trappings of society, but you will never be able to shed the hunger. The thirst. The pains and joys of living. That is what makes you human. You were born human, and you will die human. And no amount of power or blood will ever change that fact!"

For a long moment, silence reigns.

Drifter stays still as a statue, eyes unblinking and unreadable. And inwardly, Doorman balks, realizing that he'd just castigated a centuries-old vampire. One who's killed him twice before.

He holds back the urge to swallow and turn away. If he's going to die, then he's going to die looking him in the eye. With any luck, Victor could drag Paige away before—

A brisk knock echoes in the room, breaking the tension and he instinctively looks to the door. Only then does he notice that the darkness has receded back into its usual corners.

Another set of knocks.

Doorman glances at Drifter, who only keeps looking at him with that unreadable gaze, before stepping away and towards the door to see who it is. "Ash." He greets the Ixian by the door, the young man's pale and nervous expression putting him on alert. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"Sir," Ash straightens, one arm behind his back, and the other straight down his side. Perfect posture, if not a little stiff; he makes a note to commend him on it later. If he lives past this day anyway. "T-there's an urgent matter that I need to speak with you about. About those g-guests earlier."

"Speak."

Ash opens his mouth, only to clamp it shut when he glances over Doorman's shoulder. "Can we talk in private, sir? Out in the h-hallway?"

An odd request, but he did drill into his employees the importance of secrecy, especially when it come to sensitive matters that could affect the hotel's reputation. "Alright. One moment." He looks over his shoulder and sees Paige still glaring at the vampire, and turns to Victor instead. "I'll be stepping out for a few minutes. Can you—?"

"Go," Victor grunts. "But you better be quick. Not sure how long you've got before we kill him."

Drifter chuckles, low and menacing, no doubt finding the thought funny, but otherwise doesn't rise to the bait.

Doorman purses his lips, but nods; he quickly steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He looks around, and sees Ash a few steps down the corridor, still holding one arm stiffly behind his back. He approaches.

"Ash," he says, pausing when the other seems to tense. "What happened?"

"I-I'm sorry, boss."

Doorman frowns. "What? Ash, what's wrong?"

Ash steps into his space, and he instinctively takes a step back as—

Heat. A searing heat, like someone took a shard of the sun and shoved it into his side. But when he looks down, he sees only a knife, the blade and handle inscribed with runes. He watches with disbelief as red starts dripping out of the wound, staining the fabric.

He looks back up at Ash, who seems to be just as frozen. When their eyes meet, Ash jerks back with a whimper, muttering, "I'm sorry, I'm—they m-made me do it! I—I didn't—"

Nonsensical apologies fall from his lips, but Doorman doesn't hear much of it. Doesn't notice the sound of a door banging open, the footsteps and frantic voices and the sudden blast of mystic energy in the area.

He's preoccupied with the way the heat gets replaced with pain, one that gradually grows more intense until he's falling to his knees. His world has narrowed down into one of blood and agony, and yet as excruciating as it is…

He can't help but enjoy it.

A giggle escapes his throat, and he shivers, a sick thrill racing through his veins. Or perhaps that's just the sudden cold wracking his frame as his blood continues to drip, drip, drip—

Someone calls his name. He turns.

"V-Victor," he greets, smiling through the effort it takes to form words. "I think I'm dying."

Chapter Text

Victor's crossed paths with the Drifter only once, and it isn't an experience he wishes to relive. The vampire had heard about him, knew him as an 'undying man' and took the moniker as a challenge. It was his most painful death yet, so painful that Victor thought it might actually stick. But it didn't. And now here he is, standing in front of the sadistic bastard once more. He supposes this is what he gets for involving himself with people like Doorman.

"Been some time, cadaver man," the vampire smiles, all teeth. "I'd say I enjoyed our last meeting, but it ain't no fun when you're just puttin' someone outta their misery."

"You don't scare me, Drifter," he shoots back, fighting to keep his voice even. He finds it easier than he expected; must be because he witnessed the other's nonreaction to Doorman's little monologue, making Victor more than sure that the vampire really isn't here to kill them. At least, not yet.

"No, but I worry you. Make you tense. I can smell it." A chuckle. "But what's there to worry 'bout? It's not like you can die, right? Not like you, little missy," red eyes find their way to Paige, and Victor sees her flinch in his periphery. "You're just as mortal as they come, aint'cha?"

"You don't scare me either," she answers, and as much as he admires her foolhardy courage, he has to grit his teeth to hold back a sigh because there's a time and place and in front of a serial killer isn't it.

Drifter chuckles again, about to let loose another taunting remark—before he freezes. He raises his nose to the air, before his neck jerks towards the door just as it bursts open, as if someone kicked it, except there's nobody on the other side.

Paige startles. "Wha—"

"Blood," the vampire growls, and then he's rushing out into the hallway.

Blood?

The cold heavy weight of dread makes itself known in his gut, and Victor runs after him. He steps out of the hallway, and he sees Drifter lunging towards—Ash, was it?—only to meet air as the Ixian disappears in a flash of magic. A short distance from them is Doorman, head bowed and on his knees. The dread grows heavier.

"Doorman!" Victor runs to him, and the god-turned-man slowly turns, and his breath stops when he spots the knife embedded in his gut.

"V-Victor," he smiles, his face pale and lips trembling. "I think I'm dying."

Fuck.

Then he wobbles, falling over.

Victor catches him. "Paige!" he calls out as he lays him on the ground as gently as he could. "Healing rite!"

"H-Healing rite?" Doorman raises a brow as Paige runs over, books clutched to her chest. She sets them down before pulling out a small green candle. "Why… on earth do you have—?"

"Stop talking," Victor grunts as he applies pressure around the blade. Blood squelches as he does, thick and red. "And we got it because you're a reckless adrenaline junkie."

"When?"

"We paid one of the staff to buy it for us after yesterday. Now shut."

Trepidation builds low in his gut as the flame gutters into nothing the moment she finishes the rite. His hands continue getting soaked with blood.

"I-It's not working," Paige says, tone edged with faint panic. "Why isn't it working?!"

"The knife."

Victor tenses, glancing up at Drifter, who stares at them impassively, nose flaring as the metallic scent of blood fills the air.

"The knife," the vampire repeats. "There's powerful magic on it. I can smell it."

He looks down, sees the runes etched on the handle. He's about to ask Paige about it when he notices the way her green eyes grow wide with alarm.

"Healbane and tracking spell," she breathes out, and Victor feels that dread solidify into ice, cold and heavy. "We need to get rid of that knife and take him to a, a hospital or—"

Drifter scoffs. "You yank that out, he'll bleed to death before you even get him anywhere."

She stands, swivels around in anger. "Would you rather the assassins find him then?! Assassins, by the way, who are only after him because of you."

And while Victor silently agrees with her, this really isn't the time to start an argument. "We have to get him out of here—"

"Careful with your words, girl," Drifter growls, "'cause it sounds like you're pickin' a fight."

"Doorman is dying right now because of you!" Paige yells.

"Guys—" Victor tries, but then he's cut off.

"I'm not the one who stabbed him."

"You—you're such an asshole!"

He grits his teeth as a headache starts forming from all the stress and arguing, and the constant flickering lights sure as fuck isn't helping—

Lights?

Victor jerks his gaze upward, watching as the ceiling lights flicker in a pattern that leads down one end of the hallway.

The Baroness.

But why that way?

He feels a rush of wind, and he turns towards a nearby vent, watching as the outer metal frame swings open. Then faint voices.

"… tracking magic active…squads en route…"

"…gather everyone…make sure target is dead…"

"…kill on sight…"

Fuck.

"Everyone shut up!" he snaps at the arguing duo. "Paige, keep it together and focus. We have to take him somewhere safe before company arrives." He takes off his jacket before ripping off his tanktop, taking the cloth and stuffs it around the blade, ignoring the resulting pained whimper. He takes Doorman's shaking hands, presses them against the now bloodied cloth, instructs him, "Keep applying pressure. And hold on. We've got company."

"Company? What do you—"

She's cut off by the sound of footsteps. Numerous and unfriendly-sounding footsteps.

He picks up his discarded jacket, more than familiar with the creeping cold that comes with blood loss, and tosses it over Doorman, placing one arm behind his knees and the other behind his back and lifting. It earns him a weak groan, the knife jostled by the sudden movement, before Doorman falls quiet once more, eyes unfocused.

Victor looks at Paige over his shoulder. "Follow me," is all he says, before he starts running down the hall, away from the noise of incoming footsteps and towards the flickering lights.

"Do you even… know where you're going?" Doorman wheezes.

"Shut it and keep applying pressure," Victor grunts, trying to keep his steps steady as to not jostle him too much, before raising his voice, "And I'm trusting your stupid haunted hotel to lead us somewhere safe."

They reach a crossroads. A call bell rings in the distance, to their left. Victor turns down that corner without pause, trusting Paige to follow behind.

Doorman chuckles, the sound faint and worryingly weak. "The Baroness always did seem… to favor you…"

"I said shut it. Save your strength."

The Baroness leads them deeper and deeper into the hotel, lights flickering and bells ringing like a guide. Behind them, the sound of footsteps grows louder. Then voices, gunshots and—

He sucks a breath through his teeth as he feels pain explode across his back, the familiar pain of high-speed bullets embedding themselves inside muscle. He slows to a stumble, but he doesn't let himself fall. He can't, not here.

"Victor!" Paige yells.

"I'm fine!" he calls back, already feeling flesh stitching itself back together, pain receptors flooding his nerves with electrical signals that get rerouted into the coil around his left arm. He chances a backwards glance, and sees Drifter—the fucker's following them for some reason—lunging at their assailants, cutting them down one by one. At least the bastard's good for something. "Keep running!"

He picks up the pace once more. He can't fight back, not while carrying Doorman and keeping an eye out for the path The Baroness is setting. The only thing he can do is keep running, and trust in his companions to keep them safe.

The assassins seem to come in endless waves, but at least they're coming in manageable numbers. Or maybe that's because they're being helped by The Baroness. She can hear it amidst their frantic running, the sound of doors opening and closing behind them—

In front of her, Victor gasps as his back explodes with blood and gore as he's shot once more, nearly stumbling.

"Victor!" She holds out her hand, bestowing a green shield upon him and Doorman, her magic absorbing the impact of the rest of the incoming bullets. She looks over her shoulder to glare at the man who shot at them, and conjures one of her dragons, shouting, "Leave us alone!"

The small dragon roars as it comes into existence, loud despite its size; it flies towards their attackers, spewing green fire as it does, leaving a treacherous burning path in its wake. She grins as it stops them in their tracks, but her triumph abruptly turns to a horrified gasp when a crimson blur appears behind them and cuts them down, blood splattering against the walls. A maniacal laugh fills the hall, and she shudders.

Paige has never liked violence. Not like Bryce, whose eyes always seemed to glitter at the thought of it, enraptured by stories of war and crime and death, even as a child. So it's a lot disconcerting to see Drifter thrive in it.

"Oh, what have I gotten myself into?" she asks herself as she runs, knuckles going white over the edges of her books.

They turn down another hall, and as they do, she spots two people coming up behind Drifter, and she hurriedly thumbs to one of her favorite chapters. Hand reaching into the pages of King Arthur for an unseen sword, she invokes her magic. "I call on the Lady of the Lake!"

Green energy ripples in the air as her words translate fiction into reality, a giant sword appearing above Drifter's would-be ambushers before it sinks down and roots them in stone. The vampire turns around and snarls, lunging forward and slashing through both of their necks in a single brutal motion.

The corpses fall, and Paige's eyes widen as she recognizes one of them. The man in the elevator. Stephen, the one who attended her reading, who said something about exploring the hotel.

A woman, the one Stephen introduced as his wife, appears in her periphery; in her hand is a stilletto knife, aimed for Paige's throat—

A blur falls upon the assassin as Drifter tears her arm off before crushing her neck. He glares at Paige. "Move, fool girl!"

She flinches into action, feet moving before her mind can catch up. Behind her, she hears the heavy bootfalls of the vampire, racing until he's right beside Victor.

"Where the hell are we even goin'?!" asks Drifter.

"Somewhere safe," is all Victor says, turning left without hesitation when they hit another intersection, and Paige knows that it doesn't make sense, that The Baroness's floors couldn't possibly be wide enough to contain hallways this long. And the temperature's been rising the further they run, enough that her bangs are plastered against her forehead.

They make another turn. The walls are different now. No more windows or wainscoting. The further down they run this long, long hallway, the less it makes sense. Paint fades into old brick, fluorescent lights flickering into gas lamps. She looks up. A large metal door swings open. When did they get here—?

Footsteps behind them. No time to think.

She follows Victor and Drifter into the unknown, and the door shut behind them with a loud and final bang.

And then it's just quiet, save for the sounds of their heavy echoing breaths.

"Haa," she closes her eyes and lets herself slide down against the door, uncomfortably sweaty. "That was too close."

"We're not in the clear yet," Victor grunts. "C'mon."

She takes one more deep breath, before getting back on her feet. She looks around, and sees they're in some sort of corridor. It's dark in here, wherever they are. And uncomfortably warm.

Victor marches on, and she follows suit, inspecting the walls as she does. It's brick, barely visible underneath plastered floorplans and blueprints of what must be the hotel.

She finds one labeled as 'Ground Floor', but the more she looks at it, the more her head aches. Lines overlap at places that don't make sense, with hallways that lead nowhere and rooms that couldn't possibly exist. Eyes throbbing, she turns away, and looks at the stone floor. Except those same lines are there, etched into the ground and overlain over other nonsensical designs, no longer limited to the confines of paper. Her gaze follows one of the winding labyrinthine paths drawn on the floor and her mind swims and swims and liquid trickles out of her nose—

"Ah," she looks away, focusing on her companions instead; she pinches her nose to stop the bleeding. She can't afford this. Not with a vampire so close by— "oof!"

She bumps into the back of said vampire, and she quickly takes a few steps back. But Drifter doesn't seem to notice, his eyes fixed on something else. She follows his gaze, breath stopping.

There, in the middle of the open chamber their little corridor leads into, is a massive boiler, a soft red-hot glow spilling from the grates and seams of the machine.

Drifter snarls lowly, staring at it distrustfully. "What is this place?"

"The heart," someone murmurs, so softly that it's almost inaudible.

Paige turns to Doorman, still in Victor's arms.

"It's… the heart."

She slowly turns back to the machine. It's big. Around fifteen feet tall, and clearly an old model, made out of wrought iron instead of steel, but the surfaces of it are smooth and free of rust. She looks up at the top of it and sees numerous pipes connecting to it, twisting and turning every which way—having learned her lesson from the walls and the floor, she doesn't try to follow their paths—before leading up to the darkness of the ceiling. She looks back down at the monstrous machine, and watches as the insides of it pulsates, the glow of it rising and receding in a mesmerizing rhythm. Like a heartbeat.

As the three of them near, it steadily gets brighter, hotter, a whirring sound filling the chamber. Then, despite the lack of any round openings or grates, it casts an unnatural circle of light on the floor before it.

"Do we…" Paige looks around at her companions, then at Doorman, his eyes now closed and breathing heavy, "do we put him down?"

The glow pulses once.

"I suppose that's a yes," Victor steps forward. He gets down on one knee, gently setting Doorman down in the circle. Despite the sweltering heat, he shivers from the blood loss, freckles standing out against the paleness of his skin. Victor steps back, taking the jacket off of Doorman and revealing the stab wound.

Paige inhales sharply at the worryingly wet red stain surrounding it, but then—

The grate opens, sending a wave of bright heat that makes them all take a few steps back and look away. Drifter in particular cringes at the sudden flare.

She forces her eyes open in a squint, and she sees something coalescing, a soft gold and red energy, in the space around the knife's handle, pulling it out and dropping it to the side. She watches as that same energy spreads over his wound, gasping as Doorman stops writhing, his face slack with relief and no longer lined with pain.

"It's working!" She cheers. "It's… what the—"

The knife lifts into the air, wobbling and sparking. Then a burst of teleportation magic, and Ash is standing before them once more. He looks around, confused and scared and pale, before he sees Doorman on the ground. He freezes.

"H-how—" then he looks down at the knife in his hand, and his face hardens.

"No," Paige breathes out, watching as the Ixian steps closer towards him. "No, don't—ah!" She reaches out, but pulls back as the skin of her hand scalded pink by the intense heat.

"I-I'm sorry, boss," he says, raising the blade. "I have to. Or else they'll—I'm sorry."

"No!" Frantic, she sends out a green shield flying towards Doorman to defend him from the strike, but still the knife goes down, slicing through her magic like butter, and—

Paige screams.

Drifter doesn't register the girl screaming. Doesn't register the wave of electricity the walking cadaver sends forth. Doesn't even register the sensation of his skin boiling and bubbling.

He's already lunging forward, claws outstretched, focused on one thing and one thing only.

The kill.

Drifter tackles his prey to the ground, ignoring the scorching heat that surrounds him this close to the boiler. He snarls, and terror weaves itself into the smells of his own burning flesh and the Ixian's natural sooty scent. And normally, he'd be savoring this moment, but the girl's scream lingers in his mind, as does the smell of blood as the knife sinks into the Doorman—

"Let's see what your insides look like."

The man underneath him screams as claws sink into flesh, and Drifter opens his mouth wide, fangs revealed and moving to rip his throat—only for his jaws to snap around nothing.

That same burst of green mystic energy, and his prey vanishes, teleporting somewhere out of his reach, and Drifter's first instinct is to bellow and rage—slow, too slow; if it weren't for this fucking heat—but he holds back. Instead, he closes his eyes, taking a couple of steps back and a deep breath; He empties his mind, focusing as he searches for a pull within, the magic tethering him to his prey and—there.

His mark, left behind by clawed intent. He feels it across the city somewhere, steadily gaining distance. "Run all you want, boy," he murmurs, "but once I set my eyes on someone, there's no shakin' me."

His eyes slit open as he licks the back of one finger. It tastes smoky, like singed meat; he doesn't know how much of it is the Ixian and how much of it is his own seared flesh.

He back away from the boiler even more, and continues licking the blood off his claws, burns regenerating slightly quicker with each drag of his tongue. But if he really wants to hasten the process, there is a better source of blood available…

His eyes drag over towards the Doorman, writhing and gasping on the floor, and watches as the walking corpse goes over to him, ignoring the heat melting his skin off; he goes down on his knees and immediately pulls out the knife, throwing it further away this time, before putting pressure on the wound. "Come on, Baroness," he rasps, sounding pathetic and desperate. "We need you."

The building answers—and Drifter always knew that there's more to this place, that the Doorman wouldn't chain himself to something so mundane—in the form of an ancient creaking groan, and the boiler starts whirring and chirring, but even it, whatever it is, has its limits. The boiler starts cooling down, spent. The Baroness has done all it could, but it's not enough.

The fool girl runs to them, the heat no longer an issue for her tender flesh. She takes something out of her pockets—a small green candle—and lights it, muttering the words to the healing rite. The bleeding slows, but it doesn't stop. All she's done is delay the inevitable.

Drifter stalks closer, half-expecting for either of them to yell at him, tell him to go away, but they're both focused on one thing and one thing only. The cadaver man's hands are stained red with fresh blood. This close, the scent of it fills Drifter's nostrils even without him having to breathe deep, rich and metallic and undeniably human.

His eyes get drawn to the Doorman's face, and he pauses. Remembering the first time he ever succeeded in hunting Doorman down. It was back in the 1700s, as the other had clearly not expected the vampire to leave the Americas and follow him all the way to Moldavia. Even with the element of surprise, it was a brutal fight that left him dying by inches. But he had won. The being laid still on the ground in tattered bloody priest's robes, limbs torn clean off. He looked different then—blond and gaunt and pale—except for those strange glowing eyes.

"The bleeding… Paige, we need another—"

"I know, Victor! I know!"

Well done, he said, sounding almost tickled. Have your prize. And so Drifter feasted. The consistency of his skin felt off, almost rubbery when chewed. Bone lacked marrow, and the blood was acid sweet, but still he consumed. And as he did, power surged into him, knitting flesh and bone until he was completely whole once more. Not just whole. Healthier, stronger. Better.

"P-Paige… Victor—"

"Shut. Up." Victor hisses through grit teeth. "We need to get you to a hospital—"

Drifter ate and ate until there was nothing left but the Doorman's head. And he remembers looking down at it. Gaze drawn to his bloodied mouth.

The Doorman of present coughs up blood, staining those pearly white teeth as he looks around as if dazed. Then those eyes—cornflower blue; no longer lightning bright—peer down at himself.

"Oh dear. That doesn't look good, now d-does it?" he says.

Laughing.

Smiling.

Just like the first time he died.

And when they first met him, Drifter was a whelp. A starving whelp. Hungry for blood and flesh and violence. And then he was chained and kneeling before the most powerful being he's ever met, and found himself hungry for freedom and power. For more. Found himself wanting to tear down this god lightning-eyed god.

And here that god is, underground and bleeding from a mere stab wound, surrounded by nobodies.

Dying an inglorious death, yet smiling as he does.

"I'm s-sorry," Doorman says, "for not being entirely truthful—"

"We get it. You're sorry." Victor interrupts, voice gruff. "Now stop talking, for god's sake. Paige, the healing rite! Hurry—"

"It's useless, Victor," Doorman smiles. "We both know… it's too late."

Victor inhales sharply, gaze unreadable, before his shoulders sag, long black hair curtaining his face from Drifter's view as his head hangs in defeat. "You piece of shit."

"I-Indeed," he laughs, before turning to Paige, the girl's eyes watery with unshed tears. "Oh, Paige. Why the tears?"

"Why the—I'm angry," she snaps. "You lied to us! And you keep on telling us not to worry and then you drag us into trouble and now, now after everything you're just gonna leave just like Bry—" she cuts herself off with a shaky breath. "Fuck you, Doorman. Fuck you." A moment of silence, before, "… no, that's not—I don't really mean that— god, that was so crass—"

Doorman bursts into wheezing laughter, that abruptly ends with a pained gasp.

"Drifter…"

The girl flinches, having completely forgotten about his presence, before turning to glare at him, but he ignores her for now. He keeps his face impassive when he stares back at the Doorman, not expecting to be addressed.

"When I get back… let me know," Doorman mutters, voice even weaker now, "if I taste d-different like this."

Victor and Paige tense.

"What? No!" She says. "We're not going to let him eat you—"

She gets a faint chuckle in reply, a hand grasping hers. "Consider it my final wish. I put s-so much effort… into this form. I want to know h-how I did in all," he coughs again, a wet rattling that makes him groan, "in all aspects. And don't worry," he says, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. "I'll be back… with an even… better…"

He slumps on the ground, heart stopped. Victor looks away, and the girl starts sobbing once more as the being known as the Doorman dies.

.

.

.

Somewhere out in the Outer Planes is a being of lock and key. Most of it, anyway. There is a small part of it on Earth, molded into a near-perfect imitation of the male human body and all its tiny flaws, if not for the subtle otherworldly glow of its pupils and the keyhole on its sternum. Dying, as much as a mere construct could be.

The being observes as the construct draws its final breath, cyan essence seeping into the ever-hungry leylines of the Earth—and then it turns away. An interesting experience, watching a fragment of itself run around and play to The Baroness's whims and schemes. But now, the time has come to make a new form—

A pulse. A shudder.

Oh?

It casts its many-eyed gaze towards the fragment of itself once more, watching as it fights against being dispersed, against the natural order of the world. Straining, struggling.

Like it wants to live.

Intrigued, the being collects the tiny fragment, scrutinizing it, before a massive maw creaks open. It consumes it, absorbing it as it falls down the endless passage of its throat. Doing so reveals to it memories. Only a moment's worth compared to the eons of its natural lifespan, but there's something distinctly human about them. Memories of pain and joy, wonder and confusion, disappointment empathy irritationvanityfearagonyfriendshipacceptance—

And at the end of it all, death.

The being laughs out loud, the sound of jingling keys echoing through the surrounding void. It turns back to the empty shell, and makes a decision.

Reaching out to the keyhole in its chest—it turns the lock.

Chapter Text

The first thing it notices upon waking inside a corpse is the weight of fatigue in its soul. Rare. The last time it ever felt soul-tired was a couple centuries back, when in its curiosity, it allowed the Earth to suck up more of its magick that it should've.

The second thing it notices is a looming presence. Nowhere, and everywhere. Familiar and strange and amused. Labyrinthine. A friend, welcoming it back.

The third thing it notices is the sound of a certain bibliomancer's voice, filled with raging despair.

"—this is all your fault!"

"Ain't none of this my fault, fool girl," says a second familiar voice, all rough edges and snarls. "None o' this would've happened if he didn't try playin' mortal."

"None of this would've happened if you didn't kill—kill that one guy!"

"Calm down, kid. He said it himself. He'll come back, remember?" Victor murmurs, holding her back before she could get too close to the vampire. "Paige, he'll be—"

"That doesn't—that doesn't matter! What if he comes back without remembering? What if he comes back wrong?!" She yells, struggling in his grasp, angry tears streaming down her cheeks. She glares at Drifter. "This is your fault! If you just—stopped to think about the consequences of your actions, all this could've been avoided! But now he's dead! He's dead and—" she chokes on a sob.

A tense silence takes over, broken only by the sounds of her shuddering breaths, and—

Its heart twinges.

This won't do. This won't do at all.

It calls upon its power.

"What the—"

"Victor, what's… Doorman? Doorman?!"

Skin and bone squirm and stretch into a thin plane, reshaped into something easy and familiar.

"Is that—"

"…a door?"

It is. A simple door, with a single keyhole right in the center.

"Sh-should we… knock?"

A dark chuckle. "On the flesh door that just formed out of your friend's corpse?"

"Oh. Well, sorry for not being centuries-old with any experience on weird shit like this."

"Paige…"

"What if he's waiting for us on the other side? What if he's stuck there?"

"Then by all means. Ladies first."

"You're not helping!"

"Paige, calm down."

As amusing as their banter is, it really should show itself now before they do anything rash, such as step through a cosmic door leading to the Outer Planes. But when it goes to do so, it… it stops. Hesitates.

It feels pressure once more. The last time The Baroness spoke to it, its power nearly shattered its puny human mind with single word. Now, its amused inquiry comes across crystal clear.

What are you waiting for?

It is… unsure whether it would be welcomed back. Especially as it is now.

The Baroness laughs, as much as a being manifested as a building can do so.

What a strangely human concern.

And that, of all things, is all it takes to give it the needed push. After all, if it is human enough to feel that, then surely it is human enough to be accepted back.

The form it walks out in is the same one it first made, all those centuries ago. Four limbs and a head, yes, but made out of rumbling cyan instead of flesh and bone. And large. Far larger than the broken vessel it stepped out of and the mortals in front of it.

It revels in their wide-eyed stares, that long-familiar shock and awe.

"Be not afraid," it says, before it begins to dismantle itself, unweaving and unwinding just enough that it is now the same size as them. And then it starts knitting skin. And a face. And hair.

Red-orange hair coiffed to perfection, prominent cheekbones dusted with freckles, and blue eyes curved by a customer-service smile. Near-human, if not for the subtle otherwordly glow of his pupils and the keyhole on his sternum. Divinity cannot be hidden away so easily, after all.

But at the same time, he is no longer a mere construct. There, hidden away near his connection to the Outer Planes, is a bundle of memories and feelings. A spark of humanity.

Then he looks down. "Oh! That's not very proper." He snaps his fingers, and a door opens up, and out drops a soft burgundy bathrobe from one of The Baroness's many linen closets. He puts it on and ties it up, straightening the neckline and adjusting the sleeves. "There, much better—oof!"

He steadies himself as Paige tackles him into a hug, sobbing into his robe. He smiles, patting her back, then looks back up, sees Victor giving him a slow onceover.

"So you're really back?"

"Yes. And before you ask, I remember everything, and I am very much still who I am."

"I figured." Victor steps forward, clasps his shoulder, smirking when Doorman scrunches his nose at the drying blood on his hand. "Good to have you back."

Doorman wrestles down his disgust—after all, it's his blood—and peers back up at the taller man; his throat tightens when he sees a glimmer of doubt in those mismatched eyes, like Victor's waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he feels his chest tighten—

"Doorman."

Paige tenses, as does Victor, but Doorman pats her back reassuringly, and gives the latter a pointed look of let me handle this, before turning to the last person in the room.

Drifter takes a deep breath, and for a moment he does nothing, before his lips slowly pull back into a menacing smile underlined with a hint of hunger.

"Drifter." He greets back, already ready for what will happen. "How do I smell?"

"Empty," he grins, teeth bared and gleaming. That's all the warning he gives, before he lunges.

Paige yelps, and Victor moves, gathering both of them in his arms, turning to shield them with his body—

"No need."

Doorman snaps his fingers, and a portal opens in front of the vampire, shuttling him off to some random alleyway in a far away borough before his claws could even touch them. He pictures Drifter landing in a dumpster, and snorts.

The sound makes Victor untense, and he lets go. Paige also relaxes, sighing in relief and straightening her glasses out before—

"My books!" She gasps, hurriedly picking them up off the ground. Victor shakes his head, before squatting down to help.

Doorman moves to do the same, but then he stops, remembering the caution in Victor's eyes. The remnant of distrust. Then he thinks of Paige, and her propensity to get carried away by emotion, and remembers her last words to him. What will happen once her relief at seeing him whole fades, leaving behind her anger at being deceived? Then there's also their earlier fear when he stepped out—

He spots a little green candle on the floor. He picks it up, and smiles sadly, putting it away with a small door. A small keepsake, despite whatever happens next.

"Where'd the corpse door go?" Victor asks once they've gathered all of Paige's books. At Doorman's questioning look, he clarifies, "The one made out of your dead body."

"Vanished into the ether once I stepped through, most likely." He looks around, and tries for a light joking tone when he says, "A bit stuffy in here, isn't it?" Neither of them react much, and he thins his lips. "Here," he snaps his fingers again, this time summoning a door to his personal quarters. They step through without hesitation, and he follows only after a beat of hesitation.

"Doorman—" Paige starts as soon as the door closes, but he cuts her off with a raised hand.

"Please, let me speak first." He clears his throat, tries not to glance too obviously at Victor. "I know you two still have your questions, and that me withholding information has broken some of your trust. I… I apologize for that, and I understand if you still have any misgivings about my identity because of it. But I really am me and if there's anything you want me to do to—"

"Hey," she cuts him off, grabbing his hand. "None of that. You just got back from the dead. Are you sure you're okay?"

And the question is so disarmingly sincere that he finds his tongue tied. "I…"

Is she no longer angry? Surely not. Surely, this is just her altruistic nature at work—

"Just answer the question," Victor says, drawing him out of his thoughts. He's looking him up and down with that small hint of distrust once more and— "We're just glad you're back, but are you really okay? You came back fine?"

Oh. It wasn't distrust. It was concern.

And Doorman feels a knot in his chest unwind, and only after the fact does he realize how big that knot was, breathing easy now that it's gone. "Yes. Yes, I'm perfectly fine." He smiles at his friends, small and genuine. "And I'm glad to be back."

A week later…

Somewhere in Indiana, an affluent politician dies in the night. On an unrelated note, Calico wakes up in her rarely used Indianapolis apartment a hundred thousand dollars richer.

"Eat up, darling," she places Ava's bowl on the ground, filled with fresh high-quality chicken that she makes sure to keep stocked in all her safehouses. After all, Ava deserves nothing but the best.

She goes about preparing her own breakfast, pulling out a pan and readying ingredients. She's placing the cutting board on the counter—and stills, realizing there's something there that shouldn't be.

A plain white envelope.

She reaches out through her psychic connection with Ava, who immediately alights on her shoulder, on alert. She slinks into the shadows, going over the few entrances to her safehouse and looking for any signs of a break-in. She finds none. The expensive mystic wards she put up against teleportation show no signs of activation, and no footprints or foreign scents that Ava could pick up with her keen nose.

Almost like this envelope dropped out of thin air.

She tsks. How vexing.

She glances at the counter and considers the item, before picking it up and inspecting it against the light. The only silhoutte she sees is that of a folded piece of paper. "If whoever sent this wanted to kill me, they wouldn't waste time writing a letter, would they, Ava?" She'd simply already be dead, given this person's ability to get in and out without detection. "Might as well figure out what it is they want."

She opens the flap, taking out the letter and—

I see you, Calico. Your heart is cold, but it is not dead. There is a part of you that has not buried the past. It’s not too late to rethink your choices. Stay a while. The Baroness has a way of calming the tempest of the mind.

—she flings the letter away from her with a gasp as soon as she can move, blood rushing in her ears and heart thumping against her ribs. For the first time in a while, she feels herself shuddering with fear. Not the primal fear of being hunted down and eaten, but similar. Colder, less frenzied. A fear of the unknown waiting behind a closed door, and the building dread as something unseen slowly pushes it ajar.

"Shit." Anger quickly rises to the forefront, as she puts a hand to her head, fingers twitching as she holds back the urge to rip out her own hair. "Shit!"

Ava meows, licking her cheek.

"I'm fine, girl. Just…" She takes a deep breath. Waits for the voice to come back, for that presence to re-emerge and press against her conscious. It doesn't, but the dread lingers. "I'm fine."

She looks at the discarded letter, stalking towards it with the full intent to burn it—

Except the text is entirely different now.

Her anger leaves in a confused rush, and she boggles down at the mundane piece of paper.

Dear Calico,

I am writing this in humble appreciation of your contribution in keeping the safety and security of The Baroness and its employees. Your warning was timely and proved to be invaluable.

As a sign of gratitude, we are giving you an all-expense paid week-long stay at one of The Baroness's executive suites. You may avail of our gift at any time by simply presenting this letter to the front desk. Or if you'd prefer, you may ask for me instead. Rest assured, Ava is also welcome and will be treated like the queen she is by our staff.

Best regards,

The Doorman

Her fingers twitch as she reads the signature, noting the strange capitalization; she always knew that man was dangerous, but this… it's as though she's gotten the attention of a monster far above her paygrade. That voice inside her head, that terror—

Ava licks her cheek once more, sensing her discomfort, and she sighs. No use holding on to her agitation, not with the grapevine being full of rumors of a whole order of assassins suddenly disappearing inside the halls of that blasted hotel.

"What a troublesome monster," Calico murmurs, folding the letter and placing it back inside the envelope. She scratches Ava on the chin, relaxing when her precious girl starts purring up a storm. "We were right to earn his favor. Though cleaning up that mess must not have been easy. I wonder how he dealt with that Ixian traitor…"

Doorman steps into an apartment in the middle of New York. He hums as he walks through the dark living room, not minding the trash littering the floor. He stops in front of a locked door, and looks down at the trail of dried blood leading to the inside. On the other side, he hears pained whimpers and cursing.

He knocks. "Hello? Housekeeping."

The voice stops on a gasp.

With a single thought, the door swings open, and he steps inside, watching as the figure on the bed freezes. A familiar young man, Ixian in appearance, eyes wide with terror.

"Hello, Ash."

"N-No," he whimpers, scrambling backwards into the headboard. The blankets slip as he does, revealing a torso marked with a set of bloody wounds. Like a clawed hand raked through his flesh.

Doorman coos, "You poor thing. You look like you're on death's door." Then he chuckles. "I do so love that little idiom. It originated from me, you know? Though just a bit more literally."

"This can't be—I'm, I'm hallucinating. You're not r-real."

"Oh, but I am." He takes a single step forward, letting out a low and menacing chuckle when it pulls a terrified cry from his prey. "I forgot how wonderful it can feel to be feared."

"Get away!" Ash holds a hand out to shoot fire at him, but he only manages a few weak sputtering embers, the scars on his chest pulsing violently at the attempt.

Doorman clicks his tongue, snaps his fingers. A door opens beneath Ash, and he follows after into a world of latches and bolts and seals. The door shuts, and he watches as Ash looks around with wild-eyed fear.

"I really should start taking into account employment history before I hire people," he says, keeping his tone conversational as he inspects his glove. "It completely slipped my mind that you were once employed by Senator Morrison's mother. Though to think that family still had you on a leash, given her ghastly treatment of you."

"N-no, no!" Ash struggles as chains string him up so he's spread-eagled against an empty door frame. "What—what are you—?"

He puts a hand on his chin, humming thoughtfully as he looks his captive up and down. "You'd make a rather fetching door, wouldn't you?"

"W-what?"

He takes a step back, putting his hands out to frame Ash against his fingers, imagining it. "Yes. Yes, you would. Your bones the frame, your skin the rails, organs the paneling… though forgive me if it takes a while. I'm severely out of practice. Haven't done this in… I'd say a century or so?"

The scent of urine and terror permeates the air, his captive redoubling in his efforts to escape. "Please! I'm—a-anything, I'll do anything—!"

"None of that," he scolds. The chains tighten, stretching limbs to an uncomfortable degree, and finally, Ash quiets down after a final pained whimper, shaking in his restraints. "Good. Now, before we begin, I must ask. Why'd you do it?"

Ash shakily raises his head, mouth flapping open and close, before he finally manages, "Wh-wha'?"

"Why'd you do it, Ash?" repeats Doorman. He expects the usual: money, power, or some other banality. What he doesn't expect is for Ash to burst into tears. He raises a brow.

"M-my mom," Ash blubbers through the snot. "They're gonna—my mom is—oh gods, I've, I've k-killed her—you're still alive and n-now she's gonna—" he breaks off into a incomprehensible sobbing fit.

And Doorman's initial reaction is that of indifference—a threatened loved one? Banal indeed—but then something else follows it. Pity, but softer. Could it be empathy? No. That can't be.

But the more he looks at Ash's pathetic shaking figure, the more his heart softens, and an there's an insistent voice in the back of his mind, telling him that Ash has suffered enough. That he should stop now.

Is he… growing morals?

…

Ugh. Paige would be proud, but Drifter should never hear of this.

With a sigh, he teleports them back to that dingy apartment bedroom. His former employee yelps as he lands on his bed, before turning on his side and dry heaving. No doubt experiencing whiplash from both the travel and the fact that he was a moment away from unspeakable torture.

"Ash Fitzgerald," Doorman announces, looking down at him blandly. "Your employment with The Baroness is hereby terminated due to your continued absence from work. And also due to the misconduct that caused said absence. Thank you for your service, and good luck in your future endeavors." He turns on his heel and is about to walk away, when he stops. "Oh. I almost forgot." He opens a small doorway into The Baroness's mailroom and takes out a letter and an envelope filled with cash, before dropping it carelessly on the bed. "Your severance pay, and your official letter of termination. Best of luck finding new employment. I recommend taking yourself and your mother back to Ixia before a certain vampire hunts you down."

And with that, he opens up the bedroom door, and steps out into one of The Baroness's many halls. He closes the door behind him, before letting out another sigh, shoulders sagging. This whole compassion business is quite annoying.

"Sir! Message for you!"

He straightens up, and sees one of the staff, who hands him a missive before going about their business. He quickly reads through it, and grins. He opens a door, stepping out into a laboratory. None of the bustling scientists inside even notice, all of them immersed in their work. He spots the head of their team, and approaches.

"Sir!"

"Good evening, Dr. Cori. I got your message. The research is going well, I take it?"

"Yes! The goo boy—ah, apologies—Viscous has been very cooperative. We've observed how the mice fared inside the Cube and compared it with our own recreation. The analgesic properties are there and on a similar level, but the consistency is off—more gel-like compared to his ectoplasm. But with all that said, we are now ready to move on to the next phase: human testing!"

"Well done," Doorman smiles, inspecting the green gelatinous substance in the various test tubes and beakers littering the lab.

Truly, hiring the correct people is the most important aspect of any successful business. These scientists didn't even think to question why a hotel would have a dedicated biochemical laboratory or why the hotel spa would want to provide such a medically advanced treatment for its guests; they simply went to work. And as for Viscous? Well, a simple promise to support his endeavors in stopping the Adversary is all the fellow needed.

"When shall we commence with the next phase, sir? I recall you saying you have a candidate in mind?"

"I do," Doorman says. "The most perfect willing candidate."

"You want me to what?"

"Strip and get in the bathtub, Victor."

Victor looks down at the large clawfoot bathtub filled three-fourths of the way with green goo, then up at Doorman. "Yeah, no." He crosses his arms. "I'm not doing that."

Doorman rolls his eyes. "I promise this will be good for you."

"You saying that just makes it more suspicious, so no."

After a few more minutes of tiresom banter and arguing, Doorman resorts to opening a trapdoor underneath the other's feet and dumping him into the porcelain tub, boots and all. He crosses his arms behind his back, watching the goo slosh around as Victor's hands scrabble for the edges.

"That," Victor says once he's managed to pull himself into a sitting position, pushing now-slimy hair out of his eyes to glare at Doorman, "was uncalled for. And stop with the creepy smile. What are you even… smiling… about…"

Doorman's smile widens even more.

"What is…" Victor slowly lifts a hand, cupping a palmful of the green substance. He gazes down at it with wonder, before bringing it up and smearing it on the stitches on his neck—he lets out a drawn out groan of relief. "Fuuck, that's—"

Doorman raises a brow. Did his eyes just roll back? Scandalous! Now he's regretting not inviting Paige to see this. Or. Hm. Perhaps it's best she's not here to witness this, lest she spontaneously combust.

"Holy shit," Victor's eyes flutter close as he lets himself sink into the substance even further. "What is this?"

"A new in-house treatment we've been working on for guests with chronic pain," Doorman explains.

A snort. "Yeah? Been working on this for long?"

"Only for a couple of weeks," comes Doorman's bright answer, and his smile grows even wider at the way Victor's jaw goes slack with shock. "Though now, that I have you here, I believe it's time I fulfill my end of our bargain."

That makes Victor straighten up. "By bargain, you mean…"

"Yes."

Victor falls silent, glancing down at the massive Y-shaped scar on his chest. Doorman waits quietly, standing to the side, leaving him to gather his thoughts.

After a while, he speaks, "You know, when I made that deal with you, I never really stopped to consider how you would get answers."

Doorman's lips twitch. "Knowing you as I do now, I assume that deal was a spur of the moment decision to hide the fact that you were actually concerned for my well-being."

"You wish," Victor scoffs good-naturedly, but doesn't outright deny the claim. "So? Is there anything your patronly powers can do?"

"Yes, actually, and I think this shall be the most expedient way of getting you the answers you seek."

And Doorman explains, as best he can, the way his kind can perceive the world. True seeing. The shifting leylines and the double-, triple-, infinite-image of overlapping possibilities both realized and not. Victor keeps quiet throughout and a long while after, jaw working as he contemplates.

"And you can… you'd be able to see who I was?"

"That's the hope."

Victor looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers.

"Nervous?"

He lets out a wry chuckle. "You know, when I think about who made me, I picture some awkward scientist wishing for a son. Knowing my luck, I'm probably a serial killer's walking trophy collection." His laughter tapers off, and he inhales, before letting it all out in a single whoosh. "Alright. Let's do it then. Do I have to…?"

"You need not do anything. This should only take a moment. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Doorman smiles, before opening his true senses and sees—a tired man in desperate need of answers and a steadfast friend who won't hesitate to throw himself into danger and a shambling mass of dead bodies coming to life on a metal slab—then he is simply looking at Victor once more, wary hope in those mismatched eyes of his.

"I'm sorry," is all he could say, and that hope dims, shuttered away.

"I… no, it's fine," Victor shakes his head. "Thanks for trying anyway. 'Sides, I already told you. I'm used to disappointment."

"Still a sad statement."

He shrugs, before closing his eyes and settling back into his goo bath.

"At least you can rest a bit easy knowing you are fully you."

Victor snorts. "Spare me the pity."

Doorman blinks, brow furrowing. "Pity?"

One brown eye peels open, casting him an annoyed glare. "I'm a shambling mass of dead bodies, Doorman. There is no me because I'm literally made out of multiple people. So yeah, no need for the empty platitudes, alright?" Then he closes his eyes and relaxes back into his goo bath.

That pulls his lips down into a frown, eyes narrowing.

"I mean, this bath more than makes up for it, I guess. By the way, I hope you don't plan on making me pay—fuck!" Victor jerks, green liquid sloshing out the sides of the tub as Doorman pulls on a handful of his hair. His eyes slit open into a glare. "The hell is wrong with—"

"I don't think you understand," Doorman interrupts, returning his glare with an immovable look that startles Victor into silence. "You asked me if I could see who you were. And while your physical form is indeed made up of different people, I need you to listen to me when I tell you this. Are you listening?"

Victor stares up at him for a long moment, before nodding.

"Good," Doorman lets go of his hair, supporting his weight against the sides of the tub. He leans down, spine bending improbably until they're properly face to face. "You are you, and you alone. From the moment you woke up on that table until now. Your life began then and there, and while the the circumstances of your birth may be strange and full of mystery, it does not exclude you from being worthy of everything that life has to offer. Do you understand now?"

For what feels like minutes, Victor remains silent, jaw clenched and no doubt holding back weak protests and diffident deflections. His pupils shake like he wants to look away, but cyan eyes keep him pinned in place until, eventually, he responds with a jerky nod.

Only then does Doorman back off, straightening up. He smiles when Victor immediately turns away, grumbling underneath his breath. Doorman claps his hands together. "Nice to see we've made some progress on the whole self-image issue. I believe we should inform Paige!"

A resigned sigh. "Do whatever you want."

"Oh my gosh, you just dumped him in the tub?"

"Well, I wouldn't have had to if he just got in on his own accord."

Paige's soft laughter carries through the hotel library, and Doorman smiles. It's been some time since they've last been able to talk. Her parents were extremely worried when she came back with blood splatters on her clothes, and she had to spend a few days reassuring the overprotective pair of her safety.

"That was nice of you, though. Preparing all that for him."

Doorman takes the compliment with grace. "I figured it would be a good consolation prize on the off chance my ability revealed nothing. That, and an offer to provide resources that could help him in his pursuit for answers. Though I suppose I ended up giving him all of it," he laughs.

"Resources?"

"Money and connections. Favors I'm owed."

"Must have a whole lot of those, huh? Especially since you've been around for centuries," she muses, tone leading.

He smirks. "Fishing for my age, are you? How impolite."

She giggles, and they fall into a comfortable silence. And Doorman is reminded of that day in the library, where he mistook her questions to be a means of sating academic curiosity, not realizing that it was simply her altruistic nature at work. Then the urge to comfort her as her frustration grew into resignation, leading to him proposing a deal. His chest warms at the memor, and he watches her fondly as she looks down at one of the many books on the table, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the title. Le Morte d’Arthur.

"Doorman," she waits for him to meet her eyes, lips curved, sweet and sincere. "Thank you. Not just for giving me unlimited access to all this," she gestures at the surrounding shelves, "though I really really appreciate that too. This thank you is more for the friendship." Her smile grows fonder. "I'm lucky to have gotten to know you. You're a good friend."

Touched, he returns her smile with one of his own, taking her hand. "Paige, you helped me to the best of your ability without being asked to, without expecting anything in return. One of the kindest people in the world. I am the lucky one, for I'm able to call you friend."

"Aww. Doorman, that's—"

"And I want to thank you by offering the same thing I offered Victor."

She blinks. "What do you—"

He squeezes her hand, shifting closer. "Paige, do you want my help in searching for answers? In searching for Bryce?" He observes carefully as she stills, eyes widening just the slightest bit. He continues, keeping his tone neutral, "Unlike in Victor's case, I do not have any abilities that could potentially provide immediate answers. But the money, the connections—all that is on offer. You need only say the word."

Paige swallows, mind spinning. "I…"

Doorman waits, giving her time to gather her thoughts.

Some time passes, before she looks back up. "I appreciate it but—I, I think I'm okay. Right now, I…" she takes a deep breath, smiles. "This is something I need to do on my own. For now, at least. Besides," she chuckles wryly, "I get the feeling your connections aren't the most savory people to be around."

"You're not wrong," he smiles back, only a little regretful of that fact. "But remember," he squeezes her hand one more time, "if you ever change your mind, you need only ask."

She smiles, squeezing back. "Thank you... Brian."

His eye twitches.

She giggles.

He shakes his head. "You and Victor. Too alike. He turned down my offer too, you know? Or rather, asked me to hold on to it for now."

"Really?" she asks, shocked. "Doesn't sound like him. Did he say why?"

"Something about rethinking his priorities. Focusing on other things. Other aspects of life."

Her shock fades, relaxing into another smile. "That's good. Good for him. He deserves it after... everything, I guess."

"Indeed. I hope this brings him closer to some form of closure."

"Yeah, I hope so too. Oh, speaking of closure! I wanted to ask. What happened with, um—" she casts a cautious glance to where Mrs. Bennet is sitting in her desk, way out of earshot, before leaning in, "with Ash? Do you know why he did it? He just seemed so scared and—I don't know. It seemed like he didn't want to do any of it."

"His mother was being threatened."

She gasps. "Poor guy. I mean, don't get me wrong! I'm still mad he stabbed you with a magic knife twice, but…" she bites at her lip, "to think his mom was being threatened."

Suddenly, Doorman's grateful he decided to spare Ash. "I understand." He smiles. "But don't worry. He seemed to be very regretful of his actions when I went to deliver his severance pay."

"But what about Drifter? What if he tries hunting him down?"

"Well, if he's smart, he'd have taken my advice and moved back to Ixia. But if you wish, it'd be a quick thing for me to check on him, given that I know his address."

And so Doorman finds his way back into his former employee's apartment. The living room looks much worse than it did last time, abandoned and in complete disarray. Looks like the Ixian took his advice and left. Good.

He stops in the middle of the darkened room, before glancing around. "You can stop lurking now."

Silence. He raises a brow.

"Holding your tongue? How very unlike you."

More silence.

Well, if that is how his quarry wants to play…

He walks to the window and flings the curtains wide open, letting late sunlight into the room—

A hiss, and he turns back around to find the source. There, Drifter stands, just a few inches away from the now-sunlit wall, having dropped the shadows cloaking his presence.

"Drifter." he smiles. "So? How was the taste? I like to think that my updated anatomical knowledge fixed all of your former complaints, but it's better to get critique straight from the source. Though I understand if you don't quite remember how I tasted before. It's been, what, half a century since you last successfully hunted me down?"

Drifter stares at him for a long moment, his face as unreadable as it was the day Doorman berated him in what felt like righteous anger at the time, and the longer the silence goes on, the more Doorman gets… not unsettled, but something similar.

"Did you lose your tongue or something?"

The vampire abruptly turns around and leaves the room.

Alright. Now Doorman's properly confused. He follows him into Ash's former bedroom, watching as Drifter gets on the bed and leans back against the headboard, crossing his legs and interlacing his fingers behind his head, hat tipped down to cover his eyes, and Doorman boggles at him because is he—

"Are you going to sleep?"

"…"

Doorman blinks, very much baffled by this turn of events. He glances out the thin sliver of space between the curtains of a nearby window. "There's an hour or so before sunset, and I'm sure you've slept for most of the day. Why are you sleeping now?"

"…"

"You know your quarry's doesn't live here anymore, right? If you're waiting for Ash to appear, you're wasting your time."

Drifter snorts, breaking his stillness. "I'm well aware. Don' feel his mark, and the blood here's stale."

Doorman cocks his head to the side. "So why are you here?"

"…"

His eye twitches at the maddening nonreaction. Is this how Drifter felt in that alleyway the first time he saw him as the Doorman? Had he been caught this flat-footed by the fact that his adversary had decided to suddenly live a life of servitude towards creatures so obviously below him? If so, he doesn't blame him for instigating a fight then, just as Doorman's about to do now.

He walks forward until he's next to the bed, leaning over Drifter's lounging form. "If you're squatting," he makes sure to drawl out the word, injecting condenscension into his tone, "then I'm happy to say that we have plenty of room at The Baroness—"

In a blur of motion, Doorman finds himself pinned to the bare mattress, a hand on his throat. Unlike last time, however, he could very easily overpower the growling vampire atop him, a fact known to both of them. But he doesn't, and that seems to incense Drifter even more.

"Why are you here, Doorman?" he growls. "This another ruse? Another game? Well, guess what, mon ami," he leans in, and Doorman lip curls at the scent that wafts from his mouth—blood and flesh and death— "I'm no longer interested. Find someone else to play with."

Drifter lets go of him, pushing off and leaving Doorman absolutely confused because why is he acting like this?

Determined to get to the bottom of things, he opens his true senses, and sees—an immortal vampire who shed his own name and a dangerous beast who kills without remorse and a lonely man grappling with his humanity—

He blinks out of it, astounded, not having realized that his little monologue about Drifter's humanity had hit harder than he intended. Is that it? Is that why? Then he recalls Drifter's words in the hotel room, before the attack; perhaps he can still salvage this.

Before Drifter can fully leave the room, Doorman clears his throat, and in the most earnest tone he can muster—"I'm sorry."

"…what the fuck?"

Drifter jerks in place, twisting around to look at him, features twisted in shocked disgust. Doorman would laugh, but that ruin his attempts at sincerety.

"Why the hell are you—?"

"I brought up your past in front of Paige and Victor, which is not something I should've done. And for so suddenly kicking you out of the hotel after you so graciously helped us out. That was also uncalled for."

"What the fuck."

Doorman sighs, getting back on his feet. "Look, Drifter. Despite everything, I do value our relationship, unconventional as it is. And so I'm offering an olive branch. You want answers? I'll give them to you. Proper answers this time."

The vampire stares at him for another long moment, before crossing his arms. "Get talkin' then."

Doorman nods, hiding his surprise at the relatively quick acquiescence. He clears his throat, and gets to talking. He succinctly explains the entire affair from start to finish, emphasizing the whys and the hows, knowing that is the part Drifter is most curious about. He ends it by describing the way he got back, memories intact, and he watches as the vampire mulls over his words.

"Why?" asks Drifter after a few seconds of thought. "Why save that dyin' fragment? Why would you give yourself humanity?"

Doorman's lips twitch at the question, the underlying frustration and bewilderment in it. Instead of answering directly, he poses one of his own. "Why do you hunt me down? You've known from the beginning that you stand little to no chance against me, so why do it? Why persist for centuries?"

Drifter says nothing, but that's fine. Doorman knows the answer.

"Because it makes you feel alive. And that thrill—there is precious little that could make me feel that." He spreads his arms, as if to gesture at the world at large. "You mortals are fascinating simply because you feel on a different level. Everything and anything can stir you into feeling, can evoke emotions so strong that you're moved to action. Servitude allowed me to study those emotions on a closer level, but now that I've felt those same emotions?" He chuckles. "Only a fool would let go of that."

Drifter's eyes are unreadable once more as he stares at Doorman, before he chuckles, crossing his arms. "Then I s'pose you don't need me anymore."

"On the contrary," Doorman smiles, clapping his hands together. "I'd like to renew our deal. In fact, I have something that'll make it better for you…"

Doorman walks out of the shower, humming. He brushes his teeth, dries and styles his hair, before making his way to the closet, putting on a freshly pressed uniform.

He straightens his hat, and looks at the mirror to assess himself one final time. Red-orange hair coiffed to perfection, prominent cheekbones dusted with freckles, and blue eyes curved by a customer-service smile. He runs a hand down the front of his freshly pressed uniform, the keyhole design placed perfectly above the one in his chest. Then he straightens his back, putting one arm behind him at an angle, the other straight down his side.

Perfect. Except…

He pats at his belt loop, frowning to himself. "Hmm. Where did I put them?"

He goes to his bedside drawer. Inside the drawer are three photos, featuring himself with three different people: one taken at Central Park, the other at Coney Island, and the last one within The Baroness itself. Beside them, a golden ring of keys.

"Aha." He grabs the keys and shuts the drawer, before returning to the mirror. In a practiced motion, he does the final part of his new morning routine.

He takes one of the keys and lines it up with his sternum, metal sinking into the void—and turns the lock.

But not all the way, no. He keeps some of his powers. Enough to keep a handful of doors open and this body at peak physical health. Enough to keep things interesting.

With only a thought, he manifests a tiny door and drops the keyring into that pocket plane. He's not too concerned about losing them. After all, he's made sure to have a backup or three in case ever needs to unleash his full powers…

"Take this," he says, handing Victor a key. Gold and unassuming, except for the fact that it shimmers a faint cyan under the light. "A token of thanks for everything you've done."

Victor, taken out of his relaxation, looks down at it, stunned. "Hold on. Don't tell me this is—"

—

"—a key to your, your—you know," Paige gestures at his sternum. When he nods, her eyes go wide. "I can't possibly accept this! It's basically a key to your heart!"

Doorman smiles. "I trust that you—"

—

"—will use this gift wisely."

Drifter stares at the key on the ground, like a mangy mutt staring distrustingly at a plate of free food. He licks his lips, considering. "This'll make huntin' you easier, mon tataille. You know that, right?"

"Of course." Doorman lets his smile grow just a touch too wide. "I want it to. I assume you accept then?"

Drifter's answering grin tells him all he needs to know.

"Perfect! Now, good luck with the hunt, Drifter. I do so hope for your success."

A door opens behind him, and Drifter immediately moves, lunging forward, claws outstretched—

But with a single step back into the doorway behind him, Doorman's gone. Though this time, there's a small rip in his uniform where a claw barely reached him. He laughs, delighted. Their game is going to be so much more fun, now that they're on more even ground.

A familiar presence makes him pause.

"Greetings, master. It's been a moment since we last spoke."

The curtains billow softly, and he laughs.

"Surely you're aware we can communicate directly now?"

That presence brushes against his mind, sending him a series of memories. His human form, Victor, and Paige. Drifter. Letting the assassins in; at first to feast on them as they get lost scoping out its halls, then to use them as actors for its little game once Calico revealed their true target. Quietly letting Drifter in, to see how Doorman would react. Giving the trio just enough warning to make things interesting.

Underneath all these memories is amusement, and the challenge of working against one's own self-imposed constraints. Then it ends with the satisfaction of solving a difficult puzzle. Or having orchestrated a compelling drama.

Doorman's lips twitch into a smile. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Though did you really have to let me get stabbed? I recall your protection being one of the stipulations of our contract."

From outside threats, the floorboards creak flippantly, and if he were fully mortal, he'd suspect he'd be more offended at being treated like a mere source of amusement. A game piece subjected to the whims of a higher power. But that would be hypocritical, knowing he likely would've done the same in its place.

"You and your taste for the melodramatic," he shakes his head, before heading out the door to start his day. On the way, he passes by a familiar face.

"Hullo, sir!" A kindly old janitor smiles.

Doorman inclines his head in greeting. "Bartholomew. And yes. I'm officially returning to my duties now."

"Glad to see you up and about! Place hasn't been the same without you, but are you sure you ain't sick no more? Even though you're young, you can't underestimate these diseases. I'm sure if you needed a bit more time off—"

"No need to worry. Why," he smiles, "this body practically feels brand new."

Doorman continues on his way. Down the elevator, to the ground floor, then through the lobby. Finally he reaches his post: right outside the main doors of the hotel. He looks up at the sky, taking in the bright vast blue.

A guest's car pulls into the front. A valet quickly scurries close and offers their assistance as a man and a woman step out with their bags.

He smiles, holding open the door.

"Good morning, dear guests. Welcome to The Baroness."