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After the Seth incident, if Circe never sees Abraxas again it’ll be too soon—is what the detective is thinking when she takes a left off a main road and bumps directly into a mountain. A mountain of wind-chilled black fabric and an infernal number of belts. Which turns a pale face toward her and ends up looking quite astonished which isn’t very mountain-like at all. “Miss Circe?”
She is reluctant to speak the name but when he’s already appeared the consequences feel moot. “Abraxas.”
Instead of dislike, the expression which crosses the larger vampire’s face is one Circe’s never seen him make before. “You shouldn’t—”
What comes next comes out of the darkness of the street’s peripheries and quickly at that. Upon looking back, Circe will only recall the flutter of shapes, the hissing smell of natural gas mixed with something else, and the tell-tale sound of a ballistic weapon being fired.
Her eyes fly wide, but the pain never comes. Instead, what changes is the light. In one moment she can see dark figures moving in the dimness, in the next, only black. The black wool of Abraxas’ turtleneck. Then a hand grabs hers and they’re running. Really? Flight? Flight was never on the table. Circe goes to wrench free and turn back, face their attackers head on, choke some answers out of them, retribution at the very least, but finds she cannot. For the long fingers squeezing around hers are iron strong, ice cold, and more than that, she realizes with astonishment he’s ever so minutely… afraid? Which cannot be right. Abraxas is among the most formidable of supernaturals in North Haven being captain of the SSF, and it’s not like she’s a pushover either. Perhaps it’s another bureaucracy thing. If the attackers were from some government agency it’d be discourteous to slaughter an entire branch, lots of paperwork. It’s upon deciding this explanation makes the most sense that Circe realizes he’s hurt.
Even the faintest glow of singed fabric is visible in the darkness to a hunter of the night. Tracing the hole punched out of the side of his jacket by the projectile blast he shielded her body from, Circe feels a second layer of anger seep beneath the other, slow, frigid, and glacially old. Well, she reasons, Abraxas won’t have to worry about red tape if the area is cordoned off with barricade yellow instead. Her hand’s slipped halfway out of his grasp, mind already turning to the number of opponents she’d counted, before he says “Miss Circe. I beg of you, reasonability for once.”
He’s begging. And she’s too mad to enjoy it.
Nevertheless, there’s a tightness in his voice, and she allows Abraxas to readjust his grip, lead them to a familiar alleyway. One of her favourite spots for putting down rogue vampires, it’s almost become a neutral zone for her and Abraxas over the years, in a morbid sense of the word.
The wound on Abraxas’ side isn’t bleeding anymore. But it’s not closing either. She curses under her breath as she scans the side street they ducked down, making sure they don’t have sentient company lurking among the shadows. The sounds of the city are distant. They could’ve stepped into a hidden pocket cut from the stream of time itself for how quiet it is all of a sudden. There are no gasping breaths, no pounding pulses after the flight for vampires have need of neither air nor heart. Abraxas almost feels warm regardless as she angrily pulls up the hem of his shirt and examines the damage. And it is angrily. “When was the last time you ate.” The question is spit out between gritted teeth.
Abraxas doesn’t bother with a reply. This is beneath him. Beneath both of them. To think for a brief moment, with their adrenaline high, she forgot she hated him.
The wound is deep, barely missing his ribs, and she can see his bloodless flesh smoking slightly where whatever weapon had been fired sheared off an entire section of his side. An acrid burning scent wafts from the site, smouldering books and cloth and leather. And silverflame, a sulfurous chemical weapon often packed into anti-werewolf rounds. And which has no effect on vampires apart from getting them mildly buzzed upon inhalation. Circe shakes the information out of her mind, furious enough at the moment without thinking about Lazarus. It’s not a fatal or even particularly dangerous injury, which makes the fact it hasn’t mostly healed back up already yet another source of vexation.
Although the properties of synthetic blood and their impact on the body in comparison to the organic stuff are different, it is an approved substitute for a reason. Nevertheless, as a vampire weaned on human blood, who’s never lacked for access on account of first her maker’s guidance and then her own skill in seduction, intimidation, persuasion, Circe cannot imagine subsisting off artificial blood entirely. Especially considering it didn’t exist when she was first turned. The dark concoction which tints Abraxas’ eyes and lips and fingertips blueish-purple is a new invention, only coming about in the last few decades, and expensive at that. If his body is short of the components needed to expedite regeneration now, it is not for want of either the funds or the means, nor due to a slip of the mind. Perhaps it’s that anger, not the seeping blue stuff, but a snappy crackling orange he in particular stokes so easily which distorts her frown into a sneer. “Does it sate you, Abraxas?” Tell me you’re satisfied.
“While your consideration is appreciated, I will survive.” He’s not looking at her because dishonesty makes him uncomfortable even if by omission. Or it could be because she’s really close now. The two of them practically sharing the same air as she studies his face with narrowed eyes, having to tilt her head up quite a bit to do so.
There’s a light sheen of sweat on his brow, the faint stiffness of discomfort in his posture, but he doesn’t look terrible per se. It’s hard to look terrible when you’re 195 cm of lean muscle upholstered in soft white skin and softer whiter hair. A looker in life, death has only made Abraxas more lovely. He doesn’t flinch under her examination, doesn’t attempt to intimidate her back either. And eventually his gaze meets hers, his lashes long and pale as moth antennae. Their eyes different hues but the same bottomless value, he reminds her of herself in a way. A maddening way.
She wonders if his late wife was the kind who would’ve fussed over him, tended to his wounds, bandaged him up. He seems the type to fall head over heels for someone sweet like that, good at heart. Circe doesn’t blame him, she thinks she could love that kind of person too. Because she’s nothing similar.
And then there’s the matter of the fleeing of course. It’s that more than the danger or the aftermath which annoys her. And she hates that he knows it. Hates the lack of surprise on his face when she snarls at him for turning her into someone who runs from a fight, hates the ever-calm lowness to his quite reasonable explanation about gang conflict de-escalation which she labels excuses regardless. Hates that he knows her.
While she has to parse even little details like the subtle flick of his eyes across the night behind her to realize he’s still on guard. To extrapolate it wasn’t himself or his career he held that minute spark of fear for as they ran.
“There’s nothing particularly dashing about a Prince Charming who gets themself killed.” Her voice is dry.
“While the territorial dispute is ongoing, it may be wise to notify your coworker as well.”
When she steps back so their chests are no longer nearly pressing together, giving up on the intimidation for the night, there’s a brief flicker of something, anger? disappointment? relief? across her nemesis’ features.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to keep arguing with Abraxas, in fact that was an unintentional low blow on his part, but the mention of her partner and oldest human friend clears her head. He’s right. There are more important things than her bruised ego—well, one thing, person. The conflict they stumbled into tonight is just one of many muddying up the streets around town recently. Thinking of her own mysterious case makes the space between her eyes feel pinched. She has enough on her plate without having to worry about Edgar’s safety after dark on top of that. It’s likely the SSF will be sent in on some level to investigate and squash potential exposure risks related to the turf war meaning Abraxas will soon have his hands full as well. If they were more mature they’d call a truce.
She can see Abraxas’ blackened skin beginning to crawl inward over the wound. It’s achingly slow going, and she realizes she must’ve been staring because he shifts to one side breaking her line of vision. Then she’s looking at his fingers where they’re laced together. They were so cold when he was dragging her across town, colder than her own hands, and big enough to hold a lot. Not everything though like he wishes he could. Circe can tell there’s something he wants to say because he’s rolling his wedding band, unconsciously of course. She doesn’t point it out because he’d be mortified enough to train himself to stop, and it’s cute. Likely a habit carried over from his human life. If there were any habits carried over from her own, they’re long gone by now. Her maker made sure of that, and she can no longer remember what she’s lost. Not that it matters, her life prior to arriving in North Haven seems so far away it could’ve been the story of a different person entirely.
The typical bloodless pale of vampire fingertips are more noticeable on Abraxas partially due to his lack of melanin partially due to his synthetic diet. Beginning in the beds of his nails, a desaturated light blue seeps up into his fingers, the same hue touches his lips. If nothing else, Abraxas has always held himself with poise enough to pull off features Circe would find grotesque on another. A vein on the back of his hand seems to jump under her scrutiny, or maybe it’s just her lingering anger deciding any target is better than no target at all.
By the time Circe realizes he’s waiting for her to speak first, he’s already edging past her with a polite farewell having decided once again upon the certainty of himself over her wildcard tongue. It’s a familiar song and dance. She’s not feeling particularly nostalgic.
Circe cuts off his escape, pushing him back lightly by his hips. The little he does drink must go straight to his chest because she can feel the sharpness of pelvic bone beneath her hands. Digging her fingers into the crests, Circe uses the natural handholds of his body to keep him still against the alley wall.
Despite the surprised breath which escapes his mouth, Abraxas must’ve caught some glimpse beneath her facade just as she did his because he is momentarily silent, and for that she is grateful.
The pavestones beneath them seem to swell and contract performing a mockery of breathing. Whether it is the city showing out for them or something more innate, Circe pushes down the curiousity which makes her cruel and instead steadies herself, Abraxas’ solid body an anchor.
Then Circe lets go of his waist and walks backwards a few paces, stops facing him, and miniature wings unfold from her hair in the way of a cobra’s hood.
“Walk to me.” She says.
Whatever else was running across his face quickly reverts to Abraxas’ default annoyed neutral. And everything feels normal again. Normal enough her building headache eases. “I can get back just fine.” He frowns.
There’s enough lingering coolness under the dying embers she could put force behind her words if she wants. But one benefit of honing a skill over a century is its superiority over brute strength. “After tonight… I think I deserve a little reassurance.” Circe says, “Or, maybe we should call the office to send someone? Just to be safe.”
It’s not strong-arming, not really. Because she’s given him a choice, a choice between embarrassing himself in front of her or his coworker. And he’s smart enough to know she’s being gracious in not elaborating upon why exactly tonight might have her doubting his ability to pass a heel-to-toe test. Stiffly, Abraxas nods.
His jaw is clenched, but he does it. And when he reaches the end of the imaginary line without falling or even wobbling, Circe feels light again the way mischief always makes her feel. Because she’s pushed him to his limit of course, why else?
And she’s going to push him more.
Circe looks up at him (has to, to look at him at all). And he looks down at her, something swimming just below the surface of his eyes. If she waits long enough, she wonders if what emerges would be a black tipped dorsal fin. That alone is so promising she stretches up on her toes which is probably more than halfway, but she’s feeling generous tonight, possibly because he got shot. This close she can read the heaviness in the margins beneath his eyes. Irises so purple they’re black under a canopy of snowy lashes. The faint furrow of his brow. Abraxas may be an infuriating work of art, but let the first part not overshadow the latter. He’s beautiful even as he’s hesitant, conflicted.
Well, it’s not like she’s got a reputation for being particularly patient anyway.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” she brings a hand up to the side of her mouth, the universal indication of a secret, indication to bend down and listen.
Like a spell breaking, Abraxas steps back out of the curved hooks of her trap and the ambient sounds of the North Haven night begin to filter through the alley once more. Distantly an engine kicks into gear. Traffic lights change from yellow to green at an empty intersection. Beneath their feet, the cobblestones are still. “Nothing you can’t say from there.” He straightens his coat the best he can, obscuring the mostly healed section of his flank.
Which is funny in multiple ways. Mainly because he’s wrong.
“Suit yourself.” She grins, wiggling her fingers as cheery goodbye, her footsteps giving way to wingbeats as she rounds the corner into the night.
It is a while before a second figure leaves the alley having taken a few minutes more to compose himself.