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By now, he’s already established that the DuMort is at its prime creepiest during the day. Everyone’s asleep except the sentry or two on patrol and the hallways are completely empty in their eerie fluorescence, with just Simon’s own shadow trailing along causing him to flinch and double back every other minute.
"Forever young . . . ”
He’s humming along to calm himself down, because he’s more than a little freaked out, but too paranoid to block his hearing out with headphones. Simon hates this corridor, in particular, because it’s one of the two main ones which lead to the foyer which leads to the re-vamped lobby – hah! – which was incidentally where Camille killed him that night, which Raphael personally and vocally finds ridiculous because “En serio? It’s the main lobby, Simon, you can’t avoid it forever,” which, one – challenge accepted, and two – insensitive, much?
And then he sees the study. A bit traditional-looking, but its design is somehow . . . warmer than the rest of the hotel. Raphael’s sometimes at the mahogany desk with a stack of bills and a laptop in front of him, sorting out Camille’s expenses and crafting veiled threats to select Clave members. Either that, or he’s on the phone repairing alliances with the Chapter Presidents of who-knows-where.
And then, there are the books. Books all over the walls, meticulously ordered by genre and century and author’s name. Some gilded and untouched, some with worn bindings, some in foreign languages and scripts, and some which Simon suspects are copies of only a few limited editions ever printed.
He draws himself forward to the section on religion, and his eyes fall on the one thing he didn’t even realize he came here for.
The Tanakh is right there at eye-level, bound in black leather with thick gold letters of Hebrew and English text decorating the cover.
“I wanna be . . . ”
Hesitantly, he lifts his hand to it, and hovers over the spine –
" . . . forever young . . . "
Only to curse and snap his hand back in pain. He might as well have taken a lighter to his finger.
"Somehow, I highly doubt that."
Simon flinches and wheels around at the sound of the wry comment. Raphael is leaning against the doorway with a rocks glass in his hand and a thoroughly unimpressed tilt to his eyebrows.
“G – ugh, you always do that!”
It only earns him one eyebrow quirking up another half-inch.
For the sake of avoiding criticism about not working on his heighted senses, Simon gestures to the drink in the clan leader’s hand.
“Long day?”
Raphael lifts himself off the doorway and makes his way over to the desk, setting the crystal glass down on a coaster. The contents are darker than blood, but seem a bit cloudy as if the red is mixed into the whiskey. “Mmm," he hums. "You were there. You should know.”
Simon’s about to interject until he sees that, looking closer, Raphael seems more worn than he’s ever seen him – up to this point, at least. He’s missing his blazer and the sleeves of his burgundy dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing the protruding veins and faint black hairs on his forearms. A curl is falling over his forehead as if he ran a tired hand through it after a long day's work, loosening the gel.
The change may be subtle in anyone else’s eyes, but Simon’s seen the man every day for over a week straight after just moving into the DuMort, so to him, it’s almost like a rare crack in the meticulous façade Raphael keeps up every day.
Small victories.
And then the older vampire breaks up his thoughts by asking with a smirk, “Was that an original?”
It’s enough to make Simon heat up. Because, no, but even if it were, what does Raphael expect from him? A funeral march?
"Well, I didn't write it,” he claims, straightening up and squaring his shoulders defensively. "Alphaville, Nineteen eighty-four. I'll have you know you'd be hard pressed to find a relevant song as a vampire. To be honest, you could mock all kinds of music."
Raphael waves a hand dismissively. "My own mother was a painter. Demeaning art isn't really my style.” And then, Raphael’s eyes widen nearly imperceptibly, as if he’s surprised he gave that much away about himself.
And Simon doesn’t blame him, because it is surprising. He doesn’t even know what century Raphael is from. One minute the older vamp is strutting around all trendy in leather like a model off a GQ cover and the next he’s leaning back and speaking with a weight so much like Vito Corleone’s that the only thing missing would be a sinister fluffy cat on his lap.
"Really?” he asks, “What did she paint?"
"Paintings."
And that is why. That is why they will not be friends. Ever. Because who on Earth needs to be that difficult?
So Simon musters every ounce of derision into his tone as he can, and mutters "Oops. You've said too much."
“Funny,” Raphael drones, taking a drink from the glass. “That was almost funny.” He sets it down with more care than necessary, and takes his time adjusting the coaster as Simon stares on expectantly. Until finally, he points at Simon’s hand, down at the burned finger. “The Tanakh is part of your faith. If you want to touch it, you'll either have to get used to the pain or stop believing for good."
Stop believing for good. Easier said than done, he figures. "It doesn't just . . . go away?"
Raphael pauses and shoots him another one of his looks through heavy-lidded eyes. Except this time, Simon doesn’t see any scorn or exasperation behind it. It is thoughtful. Deliberative.
The older vampire runs a tongue over his fangs contemplatively, over the spiked blood he drank, and something in Simon’s stomach clenches. "After a while it does, physically” he decides, “but it lingers in your head for much longer. Religion is not easy to hold onto after a handful of centuries. Crucifixes and Stars of David naturally lose their effect after one reaches his breaking point.”
He’s never heard Raphael say this much before in a conversation. And thoughtlessly, stupidly, Simon makes the mistake of asking:
"Have you reached yours?"
“Sorry,” he apologizes without missing a beat, dropping his gaze to the tiles under his feet before he can see Raphael’s reaction. The shame brings on a warmth around his neck. Can he still blush? He wonders if he’s blushing right now. Maybe it’s all in his head.
But Raphael hasn’t moved, so he continues. “Sorry. I just thought . . . I was just wondering, about the . . . ” he points to his own collar, where Raphael’s small gold crucifix likely always hangs.
“ . . . about the, you know . . .”
And it’s true. He has wondered about it. He’s wondered about it since the first time he saw the thing slip out from the undershirt Raphael once wore to training.
There’s heat behind the older vampires dark brown eyes, and he just stands there, until –
Until he draws one hand up and deftly begins undoing the buttons of his shirt, still staring straight forward, practically smoldering and Simon’s brain is going haywire, synapses are firing that have no business being fired and – oh. He only unbuttoned the top three to his chest, to pull out the necklace, and then –
– OH.
There is a scar burned into Raphael’s sternum in the exact same shape of the cross.
"Okay" he breathes, and it comes out softer than he intends it to. He clears his throat and jerks his head to the shelf where the Tanakh sits. "Okay. Teach me."
Raphael slips the cross back and pulls a button over it. "Ask nicely."
Of course. Just as they were having a moment.
Simon huffs. "Oh, He Who's Mother Was a Painter. President of the New York Vampire Clan –"
“First off . . .”
Something dark and balled up nearly smacks Simon in the face, and surprisingly, his hand catches it before it hits him.
It’s a pair of leather gloves. " . . . you'll be needing those."
Simon jumps, and turns them over in his hands. "How did you - what the - where?"
"Just put them on and take out the book."
Simon slips the gloves on hurriedly and goes to the shelf to gingerly withdraw the book. It isn’t nearly as heavy as he remembers it. After he’s set it down on the table, Raphael reaches over and flips through several sections until he gets to the beginning of the Pentateuch.
The Book of Bereishit, it says.
Genesis.
A chair is pulled out and Raphael pushes Simon into it, the weight of his hand digging in for a brief second before he lets go.
"Now, read." he states simply.
Simon’s eyes skim over the page, and he’s drawn to the verse along where Raphael had dragged his knuckle previously. "In – ” he starts off with a quaver, and he clears his throat.
"In the sweat – "
" – Pero silently, volantón, silently. How do you expect to get through it out loud if every other word in there is God?"
Simon sighs.
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken;
And then suddenly something strange dawns on him. Something incredibly random that maybe Simon should be embarrassed about.
The very first thing Simon can remember after turning was Raphael's laugh. He heard it way before he noticed that the dirt beneath his fingers was caked into claws. He heard it before his eyes could even focus.
Soft as velvet, and low enough to be mistaken for the wind.
"Very hungry," the Voice concluded from Above.
And he ached and he ached and he ached.
And something cool and thick and tepid was rushing down his throat and streaming over his chin and he got on his knees to tilt up his head towards the liquid, towards life, towards the Voice.
It was all gone too soon, and he was blindly clawing for more.
"Drink up," He said again. And Simon obeyed, lifting his head from the ground up, up, to get as much as he can.
– for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
He looks up from the book.
The room is empty.
As he knelt there gasping on the ground, it hit him that breathing wasn't hard, at all. He wasn't struggling, even after drinking and drinking, his lungs weren't crying for air.
A glow caught the corner of his eye.
The moon was full that night.
He fell back down again, steadying himself against the hard earth. A pair of men's leather shoes was only a few feet away from him and his eyes traveled up –
Why was He here?
Simon turned his head around frantically, where . . . ?
– there wasn't –
– there had to be –
" – Clary."
For the first time, his mouth had fumbled over the word – that pretty, sweet word more familiar than his own name – and for once, it felt like his teeth and lips weren't made to spit it out.
Something was very, very wrong.
"Wha - "
The taste of dirt was left behind in his mouth, accompanying the cool fluid he forced down his throat moments ago. He spit out the grit.
"What's happening?" he croaked.
“You, um . . . ” It was like she could barely stand to look at him. "You died."
"I . . . what?" No. No, that didn’t make sense. He looked down. He was dreaming.
Something plastic brushed against his knee, and he reached to –
"THAT’S BLOOD!"
If only he could say his heart was pounding. But it wasn’t.
It wasn’t.
His gums ached, and he reached up to feel long, hard, real canines.
Fangs.
"Oh my g – Oh my –”
He couldn’t even scream properly.
"WHY CAN'T I SAY G- G-"
And then –
"God," said the Voice above him. Simon stared up at him through wide eyes and took in the sight of the young man who’s raven hair was framed by the glow of the moon.
A picture of angelic serenity in the middle of a hellish nightmare.
Simon wanted to kill him.
"It'll take time to regain the ability. There's a lot you'll need to learn."
"Oh my – DAMNIT!" he screeched, and Clary started to cry.
He looked at her, the Love of his Life, the One that made his heart ache, only to find himself getting angry at her tears.
"Am I - am I a vampire?"
And all she could do was stare. He begged her. He begged her on his hands and knees.
"Clary, tell me this isn't real! Tell me this is not really happening!"
Tearful I'm-so-sorrys. That’s all she had for him. She wouldn’t even go near him, not when she had fucking Jace Wayland there right beside her, holding her, protecting her with his lip curled back into a grimace.
And he was right to. Simon was a – oh God, what had he become?
"I'm - I'M REPULSIVE!" he screamed, only to have Clary call out his name again.
"You're still the same, Simon.”
He found he hated his name.
“You're the same Simon I have known my whole life!"
It made him sick the more she said it.
Sci-Fi. Nicholas Cage. One pale bare foot draped over his arm as he trudged down the Brooklyn Bridge.
"NO! CLARY, I'M NOT!"
He was nothing more than a monster.
"Simon – " And he couldn’t take it anymore. He ran, and he ran, until he hit something dark and solid and there were hands tightly gripping him by the shoulders.
“Where do you think you're going?”
He didn’t know.
He turned back and caught His reflection in glass. He lifted a finger to it briefly until he chose to focus on his own.
But it was no use.
“You have a lot to learn."
This couldn’t be happening.
“Listen - ”
His hand brushed against him again, but no. NO!
“You did this to me.”
“No. I didn't.”
“YOU’RE A MONSTER!”
But then he saw those eyes. Brown, almost like his, but cold and tired and weary and looking at Simon like, like he was a rabid animal that had to be caught. Like he was expecting Simon to explode, to go crazy, to kill –
“I'm the monster.”
His tone could have seemed placating. “Look, you gotta get this under control. You are what you are now. We'll get you back to the Hotel DuMort. Get you fed. Show you around your new home.”
Home. Home was with his mother, with his sister, hell, let “home” be a coffin six feet under with his Tallit round his neck.
But not this. Just please, God, not this.
“That place will never be my home.” Simon roared and he attacked, throwing Him out of his face.
And he ran again. He kept running and didn’t dare stop.
Home.
He closes the book tiredly and rubs his eyes, only to feel leather pressing into his lids.
Right. The gloves.
Raphael’s glass is gone, too. Maybe . . .
Simon slides the book back carefully into its rightful place on the shelf and peels off the gloves. His gaze hovers over the drawer under the mahogany desk. He bites his lip and twists the leather in the palms of his hands, fidgeting, until he finds it in him to go through with his decision.
There’s a slight shuffle and running water coming from the North wing, where the kitchen and dining hall are. Strangely enough, Simon feels one corner of his mouth pull up, and the other quickly catching up to meet it.
Raphael’s at the kitchen island with his broad back turned, standing in front of an open cabinet door with the now-dried crystal glass tucked in safely behind it. Simon waits patiently, resting his eyes on the thick tendons reaching up and stretching under the blouse.
It almost seems like he’s busying himself unnecessarily, painstakingly aligning the rest of the matching set into the neatest, tidiest rows, perfectly straight and not a millimeter out of place.
The dim overhead lamplight makes them sparkle.
When the vampire no-doubt realizes he can’t ignore Simon’s presence anymore, he folds his arms and exhales heavily in one long-suffering sigh. “Yes?”
"I . . . ” Simon starts, and falters.
Then he clears his throat and holds out the gloves. “Thank you."
Raphael turns around and snaps his eyes onto Simon’s, almost as if he is searching for something.
Simon holds his gaze this time, and the longer he looks, the more the realizes that if he didn’t know any better, he’d say for a moment something almost uncertain shadows the young man’s features.
He keeps his hand outstretched, but Raphael remains unmoving, strong jaw set and forearms folded.
“You know, you could have just left them on the desk.”
“I know,” he answers, shocking himself a little.
Raphael looks on a while longer, then reaches out and takes the gloves.
"Se hace tarde. Go to bed, you have training in eight hours.
That morning, instead of keeping himself awake for fear of bloody nightmares, Simon welcomes sleep, and drifts off with two words echoing softly through his mind.
"Welcome home."
And the LORD God said: 'Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil; and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever.
(Genesis 3:22)