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 otherwordly 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.