Work Text:
It's not much of a life you're living
It's not just something you take, it's given
– “Stay” by Rhianna
Guy wakes to the sound of agitated whispers, hollow echoes emanating from the bathroom. Recognition is immediate: Jasper and Doris, trying to keep their voices low, presumably for the sake of not waking Guy though they could converse mentally if that were the case, so it piques Guy’s curiosity that they’re speaking out loud at all. Doris is the angry one — no, she sounds frustrated, aggrieved. Jasper just sounds tired, like he often is these days. Guy rolls out of bed, pads his way to the bathroom. The door’s ajar, and he pushes it open without a word, neither spoken nor thought.
The sight makes Guy freeze.
Doris is Doris, just as he saw her last before he went to sleep, black turtleneck dress over leggings, sleeves pushed up past her elbows. It’s Jasper who has stopped Guy short — leaning heavily against the sink counter, shirtless and bloodied, wounded in a manner that would’ve sent a mortal into severe shock. Guy stares, though it is not a fixed gaze, his eyes tracking the various injuries, darting between them as though the condition will change between each millisecond. Jasper was in a hell of a fight. There are what looks like slashes to Jasper’s right side with the most prominent wound being a gash, jagged and ugly, starting from the base of Jasper’s throat, bisecting the hollow and running down to the top of his left pectoral where it changes into a ghastly claw, five distinct gouges, nasty and deep.
It looks like someone tried to rip Jasper's heart out.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Jasper says, voice still kept low.
Guy looks over at Doris helplessly. She still looks dismayed, worried, and in the back of Guy’s mind, he still marvels at the dramatic shift in Doris’ attitude toward Jasper, from her fierce distrust and bitter reluctance to help free him, with ample consternation at Guy’s desire to break him out, to the point where she stands here with a red-stained washcloth, clearly having been trying to clean the blood off Jasper’s skin.
Guy remembers, yet again, the sight of Doris’ hand running through Jasper’s hair as he rested his head on her shoulder.
“He’s not healing.” Doris bites out the words, irked, but the irritated tone barely covers up the obvious unease on her face, in her eyes.
“Not not-healing, just slow, darling.” Jasper drawls the endearment, meant to annoy with both cadence and usage, a poke to distract. It doesn’t work though, Doris not letting up on her concern.
Guy interjects, “Can’t you—” He makes a vague wave with his hand, speaking to Doris but the gesture is aimed at Jasper, especially when the wave turns into a swipe of his thumb in the air.
They both know what he means — Jasper being the one to have done it; Doris having been shared that memory by Guy.
“He won’t let me.”
“She’s got no gas to spare.”
They answer at the same time, voices overlapping.
It takes a moment for Guy to parse what each of them said. Would take longer to sort the implications, which isn’t the priority at the moment.
“So, what do we do?” he asks, trying to be solution-oriented.
“We don’t do anything,” Jasper answers just a little too quickly, as if to keep Doris from speaking first. “I’ll be fine. It’ll just take a little bit of time.”
The knit of Doris’ brow belies her dubiousness but she doesn’t say anything, a sidelong glance from her to Guy already speaking more than her words could, especially when they’ve had this conversation before already. Jasper, by appearance, may be much older but he’s hardly a decade Doris’ senior in vampire years. Half a century is nothing in vampire terms, Doris explained. Eight months of starvation, and whatever else the Talamasca may have put Jasper through, would’ve — should’ve — wrecked most vampires of Jasper’s age. It’s only through the strength of Jasper’s maker — someone unknown to the Talamasca and therefore unknown to Doris but surely old and powerful — that he survived the ordeal.
Still, Jasper’s recovery has been glacial, hindered by limited feeding, exsanguinated victims being the easiest way to trace their path so the both of them having to get by with sips, barely a dribble compared to what’s truly needed, particularly in Jasper’s case.
The obvious elephant has been Guy, a literal walking bag of food traveling alongside them. Before they rescued Jasper, Guy had certainly served the need for Doris here and there, especially whenever the following distance between them and the Talamasca was too tight for comfort. It wasn’t just a logical course of action; it felt right, giving of himself this way to her. After rescuing Jasper though, with him tagging along, it felt more like a dick move to offer Doris that privilege and not Jasper even though Guy knows damn well he’s perfectly justified. He may have granted Jasper a measure of grace but he isn’t there yet, not to that degree of vulnerability.
The look Doris gives Guy now is not exactly a suggestion. She would never tell Guy to platter himself but all else aside, Doris is practical — she didn’t manage to evade the Talamasca for decades by being anything less than — and a carved up Jasper is a liability.
Doris abandons the washcloth in the sink. She washes her hands and dries them. It’s a flat stare that she gives Jasper but it is not entirely unkind.
Out loud, she tells Jasper, “Just ask him, you bloody idiot.” In thought, she tells Guy, I’m going out for a little while. Which is really just code for giving them some privacy.
Is that what they were arguing about?
Guy can feel his cheeks heating, a strange sort of mortification at the thought of being talked about this way, and definitely not sure how to feel about the idea that Doris advocated his blood nor that Jasper apparently was resistant. Doris was once wary as fuck on the matter of Guy being anywhere near Jasper. Meanwhile, Jasper wants to drink from him; Guy knows that much for sure. He’s felt it, the palpable desire, but Jasper’s never asked, just a quiet, simmering want that he can’t quite suppress entirely.
Once Doris has left, Guy walks further into the bathroom toward Jasper. He picks up where Doris left off, rinsing and wringing the washcloth in order to get more of the mess off Jasper’s chest though Doris has already done most of the work. True to Jasper’s word, the wounds are healing though in infinitesimal increments, faint signs of the wounds knitting themselves, but Guy has no idea how quickly Jasper should be healing. Doris told him more about vampires than the abysmally lacking education that the Talamasca had given Guy but there’s still so much he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, variables that make sense to Doris but Guy has no concept of, a part of him still thinking of himself as being outside of this world that he’s entrapped in.
Guy is gentle as he cleans. “Does it hurt?” Then he winces at himself; what a stupid fucking question.
Jasper scoffs half a laugh. “Yeah, yeah it does.”
They haven’t gone much further since that night. Kisses, sometimes soft, sometimes heated, when they’re alone. Cold hands on warm flesh, never lower than the belt. Jasper holds him sometimes as Guy sleeps, an arm curled around his middle, solid presence against Guy’s back, a breathless nuzzle to the nape of his neck. First time Guy gets to see Jasper with his shirt off, and it’s like this, a result of violence and blood. Seems on par for the course in a way, and Guy can’t help the mirthless little giggle that comes out of him, maybe a touch hysterical.
God, he is not okay seeing Jasper like this.
It reminds him of Archie, blood gushing from the brutal wound in his throat, which in turn reminds him of Keves, ashen grey and hanging.
Guy drops the bloodied washcloth and reels away, breathing hard through his mouth, one big gulp of air then two, and then he forces himself to turn back around, to face Jasper, to see his wretched state.
“Guy,” Jasper starts to say, and he looks— Jesus, he looks worried. What an expression on that face, worn by time yet still so fucking handsome, filled with so much arrogance once upon a time. Guy remembers it distorted with rage, with fury, with disdain and condescension. He thinks it’s burned into his memory, a forever overlay, except he can’t conjure up any of it right now. He doesn’t want to forget; he shouldn’t forget. But that’s just who he is, isn’t it, always seeing the best in people even when he ought not to, even when he’s been given evidence otherwise.
Guy steps into Jasper’s space, cuts into it like a hot knife through butter, his hand folding over the back of Jasper’s neck and pulling him in even as he bends his own, head tilting back to bare — to present — his throat.
Jasper’s hands clasp his hips, and Jasper’s actually resisting the tug even as Guy feels that desire once more, pumping forward like a gasoline spill, and Guy is sure as anything that he’s only sensing a crumb of what Jasper is actually feeling, his semi-tattered shields folding over the enormity of his want.
Guy straightens momentarily, stares into Jasper’s pale eyes, trying to fathom the reason for Jasper holding back. He doesn’t probe, doesn’t step onto ground he hasn’t been invited to. He thinks of the rare few times Jasper’s lips have touched his throat. Soft each time, every single time. Not beseeching but just… quietly appreciative, grateful to be granted even that much.
Without realizing it, Guy’s fingers have curled into Jasper’s hair, gripping, his breath seizing in his lungs as understanding hits him. Jasper wants to, oh so desperately wants to, but not like this, for the sake of a necessity.
“Jasper.” Guy lets the name fall from his lips before he tucks in ever closer, mindful of Jasper’s wounds but needing to narrow further whatever little distance there is between them. Jasper, he calls again with his mind, as gently as he can, and he feels the faintest shudder travel through Jasper’s body in response. Guy rests his forehead to Jasper’s, nails scraping over Jasper’s scalp near the nape of his neck as he shows him: no, not about necessity, not like that, as though liability needed correcting, as Doris tried to present it, but necessary like air is to Guy. A bite borne from desire is what Jasper wishes for but somehow it feels more suiting like this, for Guy to give Jasper what he needs.
Once more Guy presents, head tilting, throat baring, and Guy exhales the softest sigh at the barest brush of Jasper’s lips to his pulse point, a sigh that turns into an arched noise at the piercing pain, twin punctures through his skin, into his flesh. It hurts but for a moment before the sensation transforms, a throbbing pulse not unlike the rush of blood southward when he’s aroused, a headiness that has Guy locking his fingers into the hair at the back of Jasper’s head, both for the need to grip onto something and for holding Jasper to him, as if he can’t have Jasper getting away from him now, not when they’ve circled around this for days and days near weeks now. Guy may not have been ready for it but he’s certainly thought about it, wondered and pondered, a certain sense of empowerment this whole time in knowing that this would happen on his terms, the when and the where dictated by him and only him. Jasper would’ve taken this from him once, to subdue him, to terrorize him, or simply just to enjoy him, Guy’s own thoughts on the matter irrelevant. It’s potent to the point of overwhelming now to give this to Jasper, neither deigning nor allowing, not about Jasper earning it but simply because Jasper needs this, not unlike Guy breaking into the Amsterdam motherhouse to free Jasper because it has to be done, the right thing to do.
Guy doesn’t think he has ever felt more like himself than this very moment.
Connection blooms, an inadvertent click, and Guy gasps, a rush coursing through him that has his knees buckling and only Jasper’s very firm grip on his hips keeps him upright, but Jasper jolts, too, both of them swaying, Jasper’s back coming to an abrupt stop against the edge of the sink, momentum causing Guy to press into Jasper, his chest bumping into Jasper’s wounded one, a grumble of pain rumbling Jasper’s throat that vibrates into Guy’s neck.
Guy makes another noise, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. Then he gasps again, eyes flying wide open. He didn’t go digging and Jasper didn’t exactly share, but he sees — he sees.
The vampire Jasper sought, neither a friend nor an ally, but at least someone who hates the Talamasca as much as he does, someone who could potentially be helpful. Except.
Except except except.
Jasper retracts, draws away, stricken by Guy having seen, one more blow dealt when he’s hardly gotten up from the last.
To come begging to me for a Talamasca boy. You sure have sunk to a new low.
For that, she ripped into Jasper. She really did try to tear his heart out. Jasper barely escaped.
Stunned but not entirely off kilter, Guy firms his hand that has remained on the back of Jasper’s head, not letting Jasper pull any further away. Jasper, even weakened, is still far stronger than Guy, a mere human, yet he is stayed, gaze fallen to his hands on Guy’s hips. Guy searches Jasper’s face, seeing nothing but rue. It’s not just the humiliation of getting his ass kicked, though there’s certainly wounded pride; and not just Guy’s inadvertent knowledge of it now either, but there’s definitely that as well. Being weak, appearing weak — Jasper’s not the biggest fan of either.
There’s something else. It’s… it’s disappointment? Reproach?
There’s a bead of his blood clinging to Jasper’s bottom lip and Guy reaches with his free hand to swipe it away with the pad of his thumb. A little tug at Jasper’s hair, and Jasper is lifting his eyeline once more, meeting Guy’s gaze.
Rather than a tap at Jasper’s mind, Guy uses his words. “You can tell me, you know.”
Guy’s wearing only sleep pants; he feels keenly the hard dig of Jasper’s thumbs into his hipbones, borderline uncomfortable but Guy doesn’t even squirm.
Jasper can’t tell him. But he’ll show him.
Blood has trickled from the twin wounds in Guy’s neck, a slip trail to the top of his collarbone. Jasper laps the line of it, following the path all the way to the source, and then his fangs sink into Guy once more. Guy arches into it, eyes slipping shut, his fingers once more gripping Jasper’s hair as Jasper’s hands slide to the small of his back, pulling him in closer. Guy barely manages to think he must be hurting Jasper, Jasper hurting himself, pressing them together like this, and then—
Despair. Vast, unending despair. He’ll die here. Or go mad, a far worse fate. Hunger beyond starvation, a gaping void that yawns wider with each passing day. Rescue is for those worthy of being saved, and he has not been worthy since the day his family was slaughtered, and he certainly hasn’t worked toward being worthy either. He does not lie but he will do literally anything else. Has done everything else.
The boy saves him. The boy whom he terrorized and manipulated, whom he coveted yet did little to gain his favour, expecting it rather than earning it. The boy saves him regardless.
And the boy tells him that he can stay.
— you can stay, my child, you can stay as long as you like —
Right on the cusp of lightheadedness is when Jasper stops. Guy teeters nonetheless, breaths coming short and quick, his head dipping of its own accord. He’s notched against Jasper, one thigh slotted between Jasper’s, one arm circled around the back of Jasper’s shoulders, forehead to Jasper’s cheek.
Guy swallows hard, eyes stinging.
The rue is self-reproach. Jasper went looking, not for himself but for Guy, for Guy’s mother, but came up short, returning not just empty-handed but wounded to boot, even more useless than before he went out.
Guy clasps both hands to Jasper’s face and kisses him, tasting his own blood, coppery tang filling his mouth. “You tried,” he whispers against Jasper’s mouth before kissing him again, parting only when he needs to catch his breath.
“Pretty fucking weak sauce if you ask me,” Jasper replies, a semblance of gruff.
Guy lightly shakes his head, emanates what he cannot put into words. Just as Jasper never anticipates a helping hand, neither does Guy for anyone to try on his behalf without any expectation in return. Even if nothing comes of it, the effort means a whole hell of a lot.
“You’re too easy to impress, kid.”
Guy faintly snorts. “You’re one to talk.”
Bracing himself, Guy looks at Jasper’s injuries, wanting to spy if his blood did anything to help. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the improvement.
“You should let Doris help, too, you know.”
“She’s helped enough,” Jasper says decisively though not dismissively.
The question is on Guy’s lips — what’s the deal between them — but he holds it back. Another time maybe. And besides, he thinks he knows the answer even if it’s an uncomfortable one.
Suffering isn’t really penance except when it is.
There’s a degree of difficulty in facing the knowledge that this version of Jasper is infinitely preferable to the one in London, but it is the product of an eight-month stay with the Talamasca.
Torture, Guy tells himself, not wanting to shy away from the word, the concept, the reality. Jasper was tortured — starved, claws ripped, and Guy is certain there was more to it than just that, though he’s not sure he’ll find out any time soon. Jasper’s reticent on the topic, reticent on a lot of things really, not withholding but cautious, careful, just as Guy has been cautious and careful as well. It’s been slow, building the bridge between them one tension cable at a time. Two more lines pulled taut tonight, one for the intimacy of giving Jasper the blood he needs, the other in learning that Jasper sought information for Guy’s sake.
Guy really, really doesn’t enjoy the gruesome sight of these wounds but he also can’t say a part of him isn’t gratified to know that Jasper was so affected by Guy’s rescue of him that he was willing to go out on a limb for him with no benefit to himself, cost him plenty in fact, a deed that would’ve been unfathomable — impossible — eight months ago.
“Enjoy it while you can, sweetheart. I don’t plan to make a habit of it.”
Guy makes a face, mostly for the sake of still being lousy at leaking his thoughts when he’s feeling too much but also a little annoyed by Jasper’s sarcasm. It’s good when Jasper doesn’t sound so worn down but Jasper sounding more like himself is a trying prospect as well. Guy is placated by a kiss, one then two, hands once more on his hips, Jasper’s thumbs brushing just below the waistband of his sleep pants at the belly, teasing and nothing more. Guy is perhaps too easily assuaged, but he cradles Jasper’s face, returns each kiss, one then two, until they’re just kissing, a meet of lips again and again, closeness and touch, a fervent nearness that Guy revels in.
Eventually they part though not apart, hanging onto each other still.
“You’ll have to wait for Doris to heal those.” Jasper nods at the puncture marks in Guy’s throat, half apologetic but half something else. Something like reluctance, Guy thinks. There is an interested light in Jasper’s eyes: Jasper likes seeing the marks on him.
“It’s fine.” Guy pauses for a moment, then confesses, “I kinda like it.”
The admission is a spark; Guy can feel Jasper’s jolt at his words. A part of him expects to be pulled into another kiss, something heated, something sizzling; instead, Jasper softly lays a kiss to each mark and Guy feels a lightheadedness that has little to do with the blood loss.
“You should go back to bed.”
Guy has no idea what time it is but he knows it must still be very late, or very early. Doris hasn’t returned yet, and Guy has a tendency to worry when either of them is out of his line of sight. It’s only when he’s been convinced to lie back down, Jasper a reassuring presence next to him, sitting up at the headboard with his hand laid gently upon Guy’s head, that Guy realizes it, what’s been happening for awhile now.
No matter what eclectic schedule is kept, one of them remains awake with Guy, never letting him be alone. He didn’t ask for the constant company — he wouldn’t know to ask for it, how to ask for it, would be too embarrassed to express it, yet he’s been given it just the same.
Need — like air, like blood.
Go to sleep, baby. We’ll be here.
Guy closes his eyes. He thinks — he is sure — that when he wakes, Doris will be wrapped around him, his cheek will rest upon Jasper’s thigh, and Jasper’s hand will be in his hair, stroking.