Chapter Text
Luxury penthouses existed in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
It felt oxymoronic. Pittsburgh wasn't exactly Dubai, New York, or Tokyo levels of fancy. It wasn't a world renowned city, and struggled to maintain any sort of relatively similar status in its own country. Sure, Pittsburgh was a notable city stateside- but it was not so important that Jack, a resident of nearly three decades, predicted the presence of the pricey penthouse he now stepped into. A great window overlooked the Steel City and filtered the sunlight through a tint, casting an amber light throughout the home that would have made it seem warm and welcoming, if not for the sheer emptiness of the place.
How long Jack waited after the dark-haired, strong-chinned man had greeted him and gone off to fetch the residents? He couldn't be sure. Some time after the last of the man's footsteps had faded into the vastness of the main hallway Jack began to shuffle from foot to foot, alternating to give his legs temporary respite from the many hills and curbs he'd spent the last hour peregrinating. Note to self, he scratched at the top of his yellow notepad- DO NOT WALK HERE AGAIN. DRIVE. EVEN IF PARKING IS ANNOYING.
The couch that sat before the great lookout finally tempted Jack beyond the manners he was trying to have in what he assumed was a home rife with tradition. He looked over each shoulder after he approached it, holding his pen and paper in one hand while the other traced the fine leather of the couch's backing. Jack walked all around it, glanced around once more and confirmed the room was empty, then sat. It was plusher than it looked- not one of those couches too fancy to actually sit on- and it nearly elicited a sigh of relief out of Jack.
"Nervous to sit?"
Along with his military experience, Jack had been expecting creepy- this meant that the sudden voice of a figure who had appeared out of nowhere, did not surprise him. Disgruntled, sure. Scared? Hardly. He set his duffel down by his left foot and braced his hands on either side, preparing to push himself off and stand to shake the hand of the woman who now stood by the window, but she stalled him with little more than a polite smile and shake of her head.
"No, no- please sit. Nice to see it getting some use. I apologize for leaving you waiting," The woman took eight precisely, controlled steps towards Jack, extending a flawlessly manicured hand after the echo of her high heel's last click fell silent. "Samira Mohan. I've eagerly awaited our meeting, Doctor James Abbot."
"Jack," He held out his right hand and looked anywhere except the blood-red makeup meticulously painted onto her shapely lips. "I'm, uh, honored, I guess."
"You guess?"
Jack sighed, meeting her eye with a sheepish half-smile. "Sorry. I feel like I should sound as fancy as you. Not really a guide out there on how to interact with a…"
"Vampiress?" Her polite smile shifted to a smirk. Samira was incredibly endeared by him already- so much so that Jack even caught on. "You haven't read the books? The movies?"
"I had a crush on the girl that played Buffy, but I never actually watched the show. She was kind of distracting. Hey, is the garlic thing real?"
Samira stood still. Her smirk widened and her teeth began to show- all strikingly white and even, without a fang to be seen- and all at once she was seated next to him, without so much as a blink of his mortal eye.
"Perhaps that can be your first test!"
"Woah," Jack bit back his own grin, shaking his head and reaching into his duffel bag. "Like we agreed- if I do this, I do it like you're any other patient. Which mean we start off with," He looped his stethoscope around his neck; Samira was glad he wasn't focused on her, lest he notice the way her cognac colored eyes widened as they took in the sight of him resting the tool against his jugular. Jack propped his yellow notepad on one of his thighs, clicking his ballpoint pen and scribbling on the top left corner until it began to draw, and asked her what he would ask any other patient in his emergency room.
"Alright- I'm Doctor Abbot, can I get your name and date of birth?"
"Samira Mohan. December 16th, 1939," She said. Normally, such an answer would prompt Jack to ask a nurse to page for a psych consult. But there was no nurse, just like there was no need for a psych consult.
"And what brings you," He looked around, considering his words, then corrected: "What brings me in today?"
Samira took in the curl of his cherry gray hair; the wrinkles and the muscles on his neck, head down-turned to focus on his writing. She wondered if the faint freckles had always been there, or if they were a result from too much time spent in the sun. Finally, she answered with a reverent whisper.
"We both wish to understand the vampiric body."
The only reason Jack didn't call himself an atheist was the almighty beauty of the human. It would be easy to believe God was fake if not for the utter perfection of the body. Scientists had tried for centuries to mimic the clarity of the human eyeball or the precision of the hand, and they had yet to come close to succeeding. Its mechanisms were flawless; the entirety of man's design still defied explanation; in short, the flesh was nothing short of divine.
This awe translated to the vampire. There were few differences when simply observing a vampire, with their fangs withdrawn and their bright, but not unbelievable, irises. Making vampires hideous, cloak-wearing, castle-dwelling garlic antis was an easy answer to an unsettling truth: you could pass by 1,000 vampires a day and think nothing of it.
One of Jack's simple pleasures was the sight of an outstretched arm; when the elbow turned and gave way to the arm's inside, with its tapestry of vessels and veins peeking through from just beyond the skin's surface. Samira extended her arm and offered it to him with the grace of a prima ballerina, watching him (as she had been) with rapt attention. She had been a medical student once, but it proved impossible to juggle the schooling with the need to avoid the sun. It was clear she shared Jack's artistic fixation on the body, asking little questions here and there about the name of this vein, or muscle, and it was just as clear when she stayed silent and watched (mouth slightly agape in her awestruck state) him wrap a pressure cuff around her bicep.
Jack operated with a sole focus on the science. He had done this a billion times before, and still performed each act with such intensity nearly brought a blush to her face. It intoxicated Samira to know that should it happen, he wouldn't even be looking at her to see.
"Is everything looking normal, Doctor? And are you always so quiet?"
"Bad habit," He said in place of an apology, "Some people are better at socializing with patients than others. I get so zeroed in on what I'm doing- it's ritualistic."
"It calms you?"
"Always."
"Even if they're bleeding out?"
They migrated some time ago to the kitchen so that she could perch herself neatly on the marble counter. He seemed to prefer standing than kneeling while she sat on the couch, and at her question, he glanced up at her and smirked. "A vampire asking about blood? You know, some might call that stereotypical."
"I wasn't," Samira began to defend herself out of habit, even though Jack had given her no reason as of yet to believe that she had to do such a thing. The cuff began to tighten around her arm, and she smiled in return. "Does it scare you?"
"I wouldn't have taken this on if it did," He said.
She remained silent as the cuff stopped tightening. Jack took a measurement, then the air came hissing out and he reached out with both hands to rip it off. When that was done he returned to her arm simply to observe it, with one hand absentmindedly resting under her hand and the other at her elbow.
"Beautiful veins," He muttered. It sounded like a compliment, save for the fact he clearly didn't care if Samira heard or not. Jack was compelled to say it to and for himself, and himself alone. She hadn't divulged that she could read his mind yet (only because he had not asked, she defended to herself) and she heard his admiration expand upon itself. His mind wove an unbelievable web; he was willing to speak aloud that he considered her veins beautiful, but that was nothing compared to what his brain made of them. One of her veins cast a line like fishing wire through his conscience- from it, Samira Mohan's circulatory system blossomed into glowing blue, red, and purple ivy vines. In his eyes they glittered, and the veins circled around themselves, spiraling together into an unmistakable helix, dancing around each other, both pumping on their own and slowly, slowly beginning to sync into one circulatory symphony. His observation was worship. Had she ever been regarded in such a way? Had any human? Had every human, who had come into contact with Jack Abbot?
(Jack would deduce much later on that vampires were dealt an extra dose of jealousy; a worthy explanation for the bitterness that filled Samira at the idea of him liking anyone else's veins as much as hers.)