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They remind him of a foal, newly birthed and fresh on its feet, ankles still wobbling with every step, voice a helpless bleat and ears perking up at every minor noise—that is what The Doorman sees in Pocket: a lost orphaned foal who wants nothing but to survive; who is raging with all the force of a hundred mortal men. He could see the way they were achingly determined in the way of reaching the Patrons, nearly to the point of desperation. It was endearing, in a strange, morbid way—he sorely wished to see how much it would take for them to break. Shatter like glass under his hands, or melt like sweet honey. Either one worked, so long as it was his doing.
So when Pocket came through the Baroness' elegantly framed doors and staight towards him behind the counter, he couldn't help but notice an emptiness in their eyes that The Doorman couldn't exactly place. Dissociation, lack of sleep—it could've been both or neither. It was nearly 4 A.M, anyhow. If The Doorman were a lesser man, he'd have tuned into bed by now.
"Welcome back to the Baroness," he says in a chipper tone. A smile comes easy, especially when it concerns this particular specimen. "Do you require any assistance tonight, Pocket?"
For a moment, they just stand there, a singular wrist on the counter as their hand clenches and unclenches in a hypnotizing motion. The Doorman cannot prevent the way his eyes watch the movement like an eagle's eye, noticing the twitch of their thumb, the subtle shaking of their pinky finger,
"I met your friend tonight," Pocket says at last, their eyes downcast towards the dark wood, eyes tracing over the lines engraved into them. "The vampire."
The Doorman raises a brow. He's quite familiar with Drifter. They've been playing a long game of cat and mouse dating far before he found his job at The Baroness, yet he'd never call Drifter a friend. Acquaintances, maybe, but even that is a stretch. Nonetheless, he lets Pocket continue.
"He's…" Pocket makes a vague gesture with their finger. "Weird. Unsettling. Did you know that he's been making home in the trash disposal outside?"
"The man is nothing if not weird and unsettling," The Doorman replies easily. "The trash disposal is another matter entirely. I will have him properly escorted away. The Baroness does not, and will never, tolerate his animalistic tendencies."
"Thank you. I have a favor…" Pocket trails off, their body language indicating more they wish to say, but their words pause in their wake. The Doorman cocks his head, leaning onto his elbows. He waits patiently for Pocket to regain their senses. He watches them bring their hand up towards the collar of their worn coat, pulling it back and revealing two distinct punctures between the space of their shoulder and neck. The blood has not fully coagulated, and The Doorman can still notice the erratic pumping beneath the surface of Pocket's skin, running down their clavicle in an (unfortunately) mesmerizing picture.
…
But then the pieces click into place, and The Doorman's brows furrow.
The Drifter laid his hands on his dearest guest. Sank his dirtied teeth in, even. He dared to mark the little Fairfax that The Doorman had his eyes on for the longest time.
In no time at all has The Doorman crossed from one side of the counter to the other, fussing over Pocket's condition. His hands grasp at the lapels of their coat, forcibly lifting them onto their toes and looking at them from every angle. When his left hand settles on the nape of Pocket's neck, they give a full-body shudder, shaking their head and disturbing their already mused hair.
"Dear gods, that looks like a gnarly wound. I'm so sorry about this, let us go to your room and patch you right up," is all he ends up saying. Though there's a small, hushed 'I will find that vampire myself' that he manages to grit through his teeth. If Pocket notices the way his voice slightly wavers and bounces off the walls of The Baroness, they don't mention it. They utter a simple 'thank you' as The Doorman ushers them quickly towards the elevator.
"You're so pale," The Doorman remarks when they get in the elevator. "That ravenous peasant… he did a number on you." He presses a button on the number pad blindly, right hand still coddling Pocket's neck.
Then, he looks Pocket in the eyes. The Doorman feels a sliver of his mortal shell breaking away, seeing Pocket in such an unruly state. It should've been him. He could've seen the scene unfold himself, were he not busy managing the front desk in his co-workers' absences; he could've been there to swoop in and stop it from happening entirely. Force Pocket to bear his own bloody mark.
"You will recount what happened back with the Drifter once we get you cleaned up, yes?"
Pocket grimaces at that. "It… he didn't do anything else."
"… Of course," The Doorman hums, noting Pocket's disdain. "My apologies if I am being overbearing—I was thinking about it less for my own personal gain and moreso for the continued prosperity of the Baroness. That vampire could do serious numbers on our service here, you see. He is a liability."
Pocket shrinks at that. "Sorry."
"No need."
A cat is the next thing that comes to his mind. He snickers to himself at the thought: rounded ears at the top of Pocket's head and a stubby tail.
Cats were cute. They were playful but knew when and how to keep their distance. The Doorman much preferred them over dogs who were loud and truly didn't understand the concept of personal space. The Baroness has many accommodations for pets, and he's always liked spoiling the cats dressed like princesses for a night.
He'd enjoy spoiling Pocket like that as well.
The Doorman is way out of his head when they finally reach the door to Pocket's room. He lets Pocket open the door and promptly takes out the first-aid kit sitting in the closet once he walks in. He opens the box to make sure it has all the essentials that should be in a first-aid kit: some gauze, rubbing alcohol, bandages with childish patterns, a delicate needle. There are even small vials of pure green-gold liquid in a separate tab, meant to be some sort of healing remedy for the supernatural.
When he turns towards the single bed, kit in hand and ready to dutifully serve his favorite patron, Pocket is… half-naked. Laying down on the bed, staring at The Doorman.
The Doorman stands there, momentarily stunned like he had just taken a smack to the face, and it might as well have been a smack to the face anyhow, with the way Pocket sits up with an odd newfound glint in their eyes. An oddball, this one. He watches them unwrap the old gauze around their chest and arms, revealing past wounds and bruises that have yet to fully heal.
"I'd like you to take a look at these too, if you could."
He nearly scoffs at that—despite their predicament, they were still a demanding young master on the inside. Though, for The Doorman in this moment, he lives to serve, and if serving Pocket grants him the opportunity to become closer to them, The Doorman will gladly take that chance. He finds that he loves servicing this guest in particular—something about Pocket's self-imposed isolation, how they itch for something that's barely, barely-not there. Starved for human interaction without the fear of being brought back into the pig pen which is Fairfax Industries. The Doorman could trap them inside the Baroness Hotel if he so wanted, but he likes the idea of watching Pocket fly, leaving behind their battered cage and old namesake.
He wants this bird to be free—it would be selfish of him to force Pocket back into a place they didn't want to be, and while The Doorman has no qualms being selfish for his own gain, Pocket was another variable. One he has never studied before.
The Doorman believes mortals call this feeling… admiration. Adoration?
He takes care of Pocket with tender hands and an even softer touch, disinfecting open wounds before wrapping them in fresh layers of gauze. He works dutifully and quietly, understanding that Pocket does not usually appreciate small talk (which is truly a shame). He ignores how soft the skin of their stomach feels underneath his fingertips (and oh, how he longs to puncture the plush skin and make them bleed blue); how easily he could wrap his hands around their hips; how their skin is slightly calloused around the edges from scrappy fights around Manhattan.
When The Doorman reaches the two puncture wounds on Pocket's neck, he pauses for a moment. The smile on his face dims and his hands move slower, skittering up to wipe away the blood. Some of it catches on the tip of his finger, and he resists the urge to lick it, just for now. He leans in closer, scrubbing the area with a cloth moist with disinfectant. He works thoroughly to make sure no mark of the vampire will be permanent on Pocket's skin. This close, The Doorman can hear the pulse of Pocket's heart. The sound is nearly pounding in his ear.
Can one really blame him, then, when in a moment of weakness, he gently presses down on Pocket's neck, just to feel that same heartbeat thrum under his fingertips?
The Doorman believes not.
Pocket's breath hitches. They shoot The Doorman a strange look, but he knows there's something behind it, and he believes they know just as well. He is taken aback, however, when their face suddenly softens and they take The Doorman's wrist and holds his palm up to their cheek. They lean into his touch, rubbing his palm like a polite kitten.
"Gods—you're very warm," Pocket says quietly, their voice a siren's call to The Doorman's ears. "You always came off as someone who's eternally cold to the touch."
Now it's The Doorman's turn to be stunned. He blinks, then stutters out a wrecked reply. "Th—thank the Baroness, Pocket. She supplies all of us with her warmth." Pocket sniffs at that, obviously soaking in amusement at The Doorman's rattled state.
He coughs. "Enough of that. I believe I still have a task to complete, and then you can laugh at my displeasure all you want once I have made myself scarce, yes?"
Pocket gives him an awful smirk that he finds endearing, then drops his wrist and lets The Doorman finish tending to their wounds. When he's done, he leans away, sitting politely on the edge of the bed. He stands and The Doorman is acutely aware of Pocket's gaze following his every move as he tosses the used wipes, folds his handkerchief, and tucks the vials back into the first-aid kit. He keeps the case closed on the bedside table, making a note to clean and stock it for the next guest.
The Doorman peers over his shoulder to see Pocket hauling a black t-shirt up and over their head.
"Do you require anything else?"
Pocket looks up at him. "No."
"Alright. I'll take my leave after I finish wringing these towels out."
The Doorman lingers for a bit despite finishing his task quickly: he fixes the curtains and triple checks the lock on balcony door. He can sense Pocket's movements from across the room, and it isn't until Pocket has him held up against the wall with a 7-barrel shotgun to his stomach that he pays his guest a mind.
"I heard that if I shoot you here, you wouldn't die," Pocket says, a statement as hard as stone. They lean up on their toes to look at The Doorman properly (and dear, he nearly coos at the sight). "You're not afraid, so why don't you tell me what you want instead of beating around a dead bush?"
There's a threat laid bare between those words, whispered by the most gorgeous, most pitiful siren The Doorman has ever heard and had the pleasure of seeing. Pocket looks him in the eyes and his knees nearly fall weak. He finds himself struggling to hold their gaze, fixated on the black of their pupils.
"No, I'm not," The Doorman replies matter-of-factly despite his inner turmoil. "Do you want the truth?"
He feels ripples in the air where he stands, and he leans down, bringing Pocket with him. "I believe I'm… enamored by you, Pocket—or should I call you Arin, now that formalities have escaped out of the window?" His voice moves with the space in the room, echoing and surely ringing in Pocket's ears. Cued by the harsh drop of a gun onto the wooden flooring, The Doorman starts to feel his stomach contorting and his vision blurring as his chest opens up in the shape of a keyhole, revealing not any vital organs of a human, but a hollow deep-blue interior that ripples and squelches in sync with his breathing, visceral and grotesque in its entirety. The sound of his skin splitting into something supernatural fills his ears, and The Doorman's own unnatural heart fills with relieved glee.
And from the void in his chest springs a bouquet of roses, untrimmed thorns and all.
"Oh dear, please accept my most sincere apologies. It seems it was eager to meet you."
From his distorted vision, The Doorman can faintly see Pocket's expression and smiles—in those eyes, he recognizes a little bit of everything: fear, curiosity, excitement, hope—the sight gives him a sense of accomplishment, despite releasing his true nature out onto the mortal plane. Vulnerability. He's allowing himself to be vulnerable in front of a human.
Pocket reaches forward as though they mean to grasp at his torn lapels, but their hand falters. They utter a small holy shit under their breath.
"Ah-ah, it may have teeth, but it doesn't bite. Come closer, Arin."
Pocket moves like a puppet, slowly and calculating, towards The Doorman. With verbal consent, they reach their hands out, caressing the soft inhuman flesh that opened from his chest, then those hands scale upwards to pluck the bouquet from the gaping hole, mindful of the thorns. They bring a rose to their face, giving it a brief sniff. Pocket scrunches their nose at the smell.
"Tell me then.. what are you?"
"What am I?" The Doorman parrots. "I am a god who has never once been so infatuated with a mortal. So then, I wonder, why is it that you intrigue me so? To make me shed my shell…" The Doorman leans down closer, closer, even closer, until he can feel Pocket's exhales on his melting face; until their lips were mere centimeters away from touching his own. "I… I nearly wish to trap you in here, forever—" His words start up with a sense of urgency, almost like he was running out of time. "—where no one can harm you. The Archmother protects Her children, and under Her guidance can I give you what you deserve, Arin." The Doorman's hands come up to cradle Pocket's face, his thumbs rubbing the soft skin.
"I…" Pocket chokes on their own breath. "You can't be serious."
The Doorman scoffs. "Werewolves, vampires, the patrons. Yet you can't even handle an entity such as myself?" He clicks his tongue, the sound unnaturally loud in the space between them. "Dear Arin… I expected much more from you."
"No, that's not what I meant—I can handle you." Pocket says, absolutely resolute. Their words puncture The Doorman like a sforzando note: so quiet, then suddenly loud again, as if they've finally found their voice in the harmony.
The Doorman smiles to his ears. "I thought so."
Pocket looks away. "I meant… I never thought you'd show this to me." They meet his eyes again. "I knew it."
Pocket takes a step back to place the bouquet on the bed, then immediately inserts themselves back into their reserved spot between The Doorman's arms. Their hands grow even more curious, sliding up to The Doorman's nape, curling into the hairs and tugging him impossibly closer. This close, The Doorman can feel how their heart pulses with renewed energy.
"I knew it from the moment I came to this damned hotel. The spirits told me everything, I just had to wait for you to show me." Pocket says—nearly purrs in his ear. They lean their head against his clavicle, watching his hollowed insides ripple like a tidal wave. The Doorman decidedly ignores the rattling of a suitcase in the background; the spirits are agitated.
The Doorman furrows his brows then, because suddenly there are more pieces of the puzzle that begin to create a picture in his head. "The Drifter… was it a ploy? Did you conspire with that vampire against me?"
Pocket says nothing, just gives a barely-there smile that tells The Doorman everything he needs to know. "He said he'd do anything to get back at you for what you did to him in Pennsylvania, or something."
The Doorman scowls. "How cute. Even more reason for me to rip his throat out after this."
No, really, The Doorman should be thanking him instead. However, he would never give the vampire that pleasure.
"He makes for pleasant company if he doesn't feel like eating you, really. Gave me advice on how to approach you—I… I liked you. In your human persona, anyway. You cared enough to give me an entire room, sought me out for the ritual—if it weren't for your kindness, I would still be in hiding. So, I guess I'm forever indebted to you."
He snickers at that—truthfully, The Doorman only treated Pocket as such because he couldn't bear the sight of Pocket's dirty coat and shoes leaving trails on the Baroness' pristine floors when they first stepped foot into the grand hotel. Now, however, he's been made to believe it's different from before. In fact, he would probably seal the dirt into the Baroness' floors to serve as a reminder of their presence.
Pocket stares at The Doorman with a contemplative look. "I'll need more time to decide whether I like this form more." They remove a hand from The Doorman's hair, inching down towards the teeth and small tendrils framing the hollow portrait of his chest.
The Doorman follows their gaze, watching as they chew on their bottom lip and inner cheeks, thinking. Imagining.
"Can I touch… in there?"
The Doorman blinks slowly.
"Yes…" He drags the syllable. "But, if you're truly curious, that must happen some other time."
"Has anyone else seen you like this?"
"Once before, mayhaps. A milennia ago. Why do you ask?"
"… a shame."
"You sound genuinely disappointed."
"I am not. I'm just… imagining it'd feel like cold gel, which would be more unpleasant than anything."
"Of course. Whatever you say." The Doorman feigns ignorance, promptly ignoring the spark that beats deep in his throat.
Only once Pocket has had their fill of touching The Doorman all over does he finally allow his body to close in on itself, the warped blues and purples changing hues until they resemble the red of human flesh and skin; the gaping mouth in his chest sewing itself back together; his claws retracting back into delicately trimmed fingernails, until he resembles a proper young bellhop once more.
"Wait—" Pocket starts, "before you go…"
The Doorman turns to them, humming. "Yes?"
"Please tell me more about the ritual—what do I need to expect? I know I'm killing people, but in the middle of New York? I—I'm lost, really."
And, with those pleading eyes, how could The Doorman ever say no? He's a bit of an outlier when it comes to the ritual, so he has preferred to keep information confidential (he's always liked surprises—and he doubts the Archmother would let him off easily, divvying out information like it was candy), but Pocket is simply different—so honest about their feelings when they wanted to be, wielding retractable claws with how they bite and skitter away. It's adorable.
So he stays with Pocket even longer than he intends. He dives into the intricate series of the ritual, details specific to this year's Maelstrom, even entertains the idea of them losing (which, in his mind, would never happen in a million years—he'd make sure of that).
He stamps those thoughts down low in a place where they can't bother him and continues their rather one-sided conversation: Pocket asks a question, then The Doorman answers without skipping any beats. Despite that, he finds that he enjoys this sort of domesticity.
Occasionally, he sees Pocket's eyes flick to his lips, scouring his face, all the way down to the hands politely folded in his lap. The attention is addicting, and he's nearly embarrassed at the absurdity of it all.
But eventually—since all good things must come to an end—after who-knows-how-long, The Doorman stands up, dusting off invisible lint from the front of his pants and coat. His keys jingle in time with his moves. Pocket perks up at him with big eyes, more aware than he's ever seen them.
"Well! Would you look at the time—" He looks down at his watchless wrist. "If there are no further questions, I shall be going now."
"Right, sorry—I haven't indulged like that in a long time." Pocket nods quickly, suddenly quite aware of themselves. The Doorman watches them shrink back onto their bed, feeling a pang in his inhuman heart. He leans forward and gently holds Pocket's hand, lifting them back up to tenderly kiss and caress their knuckles. "Do not fret. We both have secrets to keep. Until the ritual, you are safe here."
"Thank you," Pocket says with a smile. Genuine, this time. The Doorman finds that he revels in it.
"If you need my assistance, I'll be downstairs—oh, and do not forget about the meeting at Jezebel's tomorrow. I will be looking forward to seeing you there."
And then he's gone, out the door and back down into the lobby, though not by elevator. The Doorman looks around, taking note of the dark orange sky outside the Baroness' walls. Graciously, Jaques has already clocked in for the morning (oh dear, it was 8 A.M already), working diligently behind the counter. His co-worker is speaking to a former regular, immediately recognizable upon first glance by the leech in her arm.
"Lady Geist, Oathkeeper," The Doorman greets as he walks up. "How fascinating it is to see you here."
The woman doesn't turn around to respond but instead acknowledges his words with a dismissive wave of her hand. Only when she grabs the keys Jaques slides to her over the counter does she flip on her heel, meeting The Doorman's customer service smile with a scorned expression.
"It is only this once, bell boy. Teach me about your Archmother and this ritual."
… Ah. Of course that's how it is.
Now that he thinks about it, there are only two more nights before the ritual. He hopes the mere visual of Arin bloodied and fighting in the ritual in his mind is enough to sustain him through the next two days.