Archive of Our Own

Something down the end of the alley was injured, badly.

The smell of blood was thick enough to taste, and Drifter found his mouth salivating instinctively. The thing in the alley was in pain, whatever it was, the beat of its heart betraying its poor condition.

ba-dum ba-ba-dum

The Drifter started breathing heavily, he was excited tonight, he was too eager, too hungry. The dying being at the end of the alley seemed almost too easy to kill, it was an unrewarding thing, but the unmistakable bloody stench made Drifter’s head pound. Perhaps it could be an entree of some sort, yeah, he could have fun later, hunting his main course.

The Drifter took a heavy step towards the smell, following the invisible thread of the scent through the darkness. Bloody bile was building up around his chapped lips, it had been too long, he missed the romantic nature of hunting in the Cursed Apple.

Baaaaaaa-dum ba-duuuuuuum

Drifter should’ve noticed odd things about the heartbeat itself the closer he got to the end of the alley, but his own hunger blinded him to the inhumanness of the sound.

“The fuck…?” The Drifter mumbled as he finally got close to the injured thing, still swallowed by the darkness of the alley.

It was human shaped, mostly, but even with his vampiric night vision, Drifter struggled to make out what he was seeing. Shifting hues of blueish purple covered what appeared to be a regular man’s body, thin and pale on every inch of skin that wasn't busy melting into an incomprehensible mass of tendrils. The body rested in a deep pool of crimson blood, emanating a foul smell even to a rotten beast like the vampire.

Drifter was halfway to the body when it shifted again, this time reaching for something, human or not, the vampires desire to take a bite turned into an animalistic urge.

Finally, the Drifter kneeled in front of the body and was able to make out the shapes of the human face resting over the mess of gory goo that seemed to wriggle across the surface of the body.

Absent cyan eyes pierced the Drifter’s face through ginger curls, a smile stuck in a smug grin and familiar gun lifted in his direction like the best kinds of empty threats.

“No need to come closer, beast. You’ve seen enough.” The god spoke, still pointing his gun at the vampire's face.

“Well well, bellboy, what’s happenin’ to you? Meltin’?”

The Drifter's grins widened as he drank in the scene, with the new understanding that the melting pile of nonsense, happened to be his least favorite ginger in the whole Cursed Apple. The Doorman coughed weakly, a ridiculous attempt to look human, given the state of his vessel. What was he playing at? In all the decades he’s known the “man”, never once did he allow himself to look this undone.

“What’s all this?” Drifter kicked some of the tendrils coming down the side of the Doorman’s body. “That your stuffing?” he snickered.

All of his previous hunger had vanished once he realized the blood soaking the floor was not real, but the Doorman’s poor imitation of it. He once had the privilege of tasting the bellhop's blood, decades ago, in a tussle he’d much rather not remember, yet he still recalled how disappointing it had been, hardly food, definitely not real blood. Like vinegar to wine.

“Don’t salivate, I am simply undergoing reconstruction, as is the Baroness." The bellhop looked down at himself, still amused.

“Nah, I don’t believe that’s true” the Drifter could feel his breathing becoming heavier again.

“Fancy prick like you’d never reconstruct out here” He gestured to the filthy wet ground where the Doorman was laying. “You don’t even take off your shoes on your clean hotel carpet.”

“Supposedly clean carpets-” the ginger started.

“Aw, shutup. Be straight with me fore I lose patience. You know me bellboy.” The Drifter spat, red-black liquid hitting the ground with a thick splat.

The bellhop stayed silent for a beat, his grin tightening.

“Well, I might have gotten myself a bit… injured, but believe me, I remain more than capable of fulfilling my duties.”

The vampire stayed silent too, disbelief swallowing his usual murderous expression. Was this man really trying to convince him he wasn’t currently exposing his insides to the whole Cursed Apple? Still, no doubt clouded the Drifter’s mind as to how dangerous the man truly was, not man at all, but maybe this was an impromptu opportunity to finally see the thing squirm.

“I dislike this expression on you, it’s ugly.” The Doorman interrupted the vampire’s train of thought.

Apparently his face betrayed his enthusiasm, dammit.

“Now, beast, if you could restrain yourself long enough to help me up, that would be an unprecedented display of civility.” The Doorman raised his oozing arms, expectant.

The Drifter looked down at the body again, still open, still revealing those disgusting squirming tentacle-like organs he could barely look at before his ears started ringing.

The vampire got closer, hunger mixing with unbridled curiosity. Seeing those insides weren’t enough, as once again the Drifter needed to get a taste. He was halfway to a crouch when he noticed something.

Where had the heartbeat gone?

The irregular thing that led him to the Doorman in the first place, where was it? He spun, listening for it once more. Nothing, even worse, his ears started ringing, and when he looked back at the Doorman, the thing had the gall to look impatient.

“Ton coeur… I cant hear it, never could.” The Drifter suddenly felt uncomfortably close to the body that should’ve felt weak but didn’t.

The injured ginger sighed theatrically, he looked up at the vampire and only then did the Drifter realise they were so close he could clearly make out every single one of the meticulously placed freckles on the thing’s waxy white cheeks.

“No, I suppose you cant. But you could.”

The loud ringing in the Drifter’s ears suddenly stopped, and as clear as day he could hear it again, the unsteady injured beat from earlier. Loud, close, coming out of the Doorman’s impossible chest.

Ba-badum ba-dum

Every hair on the vampire’s body raised at once, and he realized while looking at the bellhop’s deepening grin that in his haste he might’ve forgotten he wasn’t the only thing that could hunt in the Cursed Apple.

He needed to go, he knew from experience he needed to go, he knew from his past encounters with the god that he needed to go, yet his body refused to yield to his mind. Every muscle in the vampire's body was coiled, ready to pounce or flee, but he simply couldn’t. That was the simple madness of it, the lunacy of truly falling face to face with the Baroness’ bellhop in a dark alley.

He couldn’t move.

The ginger seemed to revel in the Drifter’s twisted expression, putting on a nauseating grin as his insides appeared to simply close.

“Drifter, why did you stop moving? I still need your help up.” He said, yet his mouth stayed unmoving, the words resonating inside the Drifter’s mind like a bell who wouldn't stop ringing.

As if woken up suddenly, the vampire winced, finally able to leap back.

His empty lungs pulsated as though they were filling with air, his lips pursed in a disgusted hateful expression as he watched the bellhop get up by himself, sighing, and wiping his hands on his red dress pants as if it weren’t blue-red blood staining them but only annoying dust.

“What is this? Did you fuckin’ lure me here with a fake heartbeat?” the Drifter croaked.

The Doorman simply hummed as the purplish tendrils retreated inside his body and the blue flames subseated. In an instant, the creatures looked once again like any other shirtless man would, thin, pale, unremarkable. Handsome little shit, the Drifter noted despite himself.

“Maybe I missed you, beast. Maybe I got bored of my work. Is that so bad? Was I not appetizing enough for you?”

The vampire groaned loudly, dragging both bloodied hands down his face. This was exactly why he hated the bellhop, the fucker always seemed busy wasting valuable moonlight for his own entertainment while Drifter needed feeding. Enough. Drifter could feel his stomach climbing up his throat, his fang ached, and he had no plan of participating in whatever game the Doorman wanted to play if it wasn’t going to result in a satisfying hunt. Ignoring the man standing in front of him, he turned around and started to leave. His heavy footfall filled the otherwise silent alley.

Before he could make it too far, a few steps at most, Drifter felt a soft hand landing on his shoulders, and for one beat he saw red. He spun wildly and reached for the hand with both his claws and teeth. The hand tore off the arm willingly, blood and bone coming with it and staining Drifter's already filthy mouth. He spit the thing out as fast as he had bit it, the disgusting wrongness of the taste hitting him again. Not blood it said and his head started pounding.

When he turned fully around to face the bellhop, it was with a snarl.

The Doorman looked down at his missing hand, wearing a focused expression and a disappointed brow. Bone started knitting itself into more bones, flesh climbing up the new hand structure and skin finally wrapping the whole thing as the Doorman built himself a hand once more.

“I was expecting better from you, mutt. That was my mistake.” The Doorman sighed.

“You’ve become even more unbearably brutish in the decades we’ve been apart” The ginger began walking towards the Drifter again.

The Drifter's instincts flared up at the stiff motion of the Doorman walking towards him, and he wanted nothing more than to pounce like a rabid animal and tear through the man. It’d take a second, or two, but no more; he could feel it against his fangs, the imaginary soft tender white flesh of the god’s giving in under his bite, the rush of sweet blood over his tongue. The Drifter started salivating once again, his tongue twitched over his teeth. He growled.

The god pouted, actually pouted. The expression distorted his face so much it almost looked painful, undignified. Not professional, the Drifter thought, god he really was going crazy.

The vampire couldn’t stand being imobile any longer, and every muscle in his body finally let go.

He jumped.

Everything around them became dark, then darker.

The Doorman’s pout turned to a smug grin in a split second, and his hands raised as if ready to embrace the 200- something pounds of murderous vampire being launched at him. It would’ve disarmed him, had his mind been clearer. The Drifter felt his claws graze the ginger's cheek, hungry enough for his red eyes to focus on the small pearl of purple blood that ensued, conscious enough to understand with bone chilling certainty that the god never would’ve let him get so close if he hadn’t wanted him right there.

Before the vampire got close enough to finally clench his teeth around the bellhop's neck, he felt the world tip, somehow freezing midair, and the Drifter blinked.

When his eyes opened again, the vampire wasn’t in the alley still. Impossibly, he found himself standing beneath the toasted warm lights of the Baroness’ corridors, rows and rows of locked doors decorating the walls of the hotel.

“Merde.” Drifter mumbled. “Come out, bellboy, let’s talk about it like humans, huh?”

A ghostly chuckle echoed through the Drifter’s mind. Bastard, he thought.

"How crude, how revolting, how utterly human of you, mutt."

The Drifter snarled.

"Would you just come out already, rouqin?"

Silence, followed by laughter.

A chuckle that felt short of the Doormans usual airy, customer friendly tone, accompagnied by a polite smile and a tilt of his stupid ginger head. This laughter came from everywhere, it reverbated through the walls, the carpet, the damned decorative scones lining the corridor. It was a delighted sound that came from the back of the Drifter's own skull. The vampire bared his bloodied fangs.

He hated this place.

He hated the smell, polished wood and expensive perfume, the ancient rot hiding behind the decades of forgotten wallpaper. He hated the carpets, how they swallowed the sound of his boots. He hated the paintings that seemed to follow him with their gaze as he moved down the hallway. He hated the way the corridors seemed to bend just out of his vision when he wasn't looking hard enough.

The thing he hated most, though, was the prim bastard who had brought him here.

"You know," he growled, taking a heavy step foward, "I was havin' a perfectly nice evenin' before you decided to ruin it."

"Really? Fascinating."

The voice came from behind him. The Drifter spun.

Nothing.

"Please, do tell me about your perfectly nice evening. Was it the part where you attempted to consume a poor dying stranger, or afterwards, when you assaulted an innocent but competent hotel employee?"

The vampire's red eye twitched, god he hated this man.

"Innocent? you?"

"Quite."

"You set a fuckin' trap!" He barked, disbelief painting his anger.

"And you walked right into it with the enthuisiasm of a particularly stupid animal. Proud?"

The Drifter lunged at the nearest door.

His claws tore through the frame, ripping away chunks of the expensive polished wood. He didn't particularly care whether the ginger was behind it, the destruction itself was therapeutic enough.

Ding

A bell rang. The Drifter froze. From somewhere down the twisted corridor, the Doorman sighed.

"Oh, must you?"

"Show yourself, coward!"

"Oh, but you've seen quite enough of it for tonight."

The bell again.

Ding

Drifter spun towards the noise once again. At the far end of the corridor, where there hadn't been anything moments ago but an empty hall, stood a reception desk. Behind it…

"Aw, for fuck's sake."

The Doorman stood there, immaculately in uniform once again. His little hat sat perfectly on top of his red curls, and the pale skin of his face bore no trace of the wound Drifter had inflicted only minutes ago. The only evidence that anything had happened was a small purple stain on his neat white glove. He was polishing a brass bell. With the same hand the Drifter had personally torn off, his mouth still remembered the taste.

"Good evening, sir," the Doorman said, perfectly pleasant. "Welcome to the Baroness. Do you have a reservation?"

Drifter stared, unamused. The god smiled.

"Perhaps you are here to inquire about our pet policy?"

"Son of a-"

"Because I must warn you, we have strict rules concerning animals on the premises." A deathly serious look from the Doorman, followed by a subtly judmental grin.

The Drifter started walking with a defiant gait. His boots sank into the too-plush carpet, his shoulder rolled beneath the battered fabric of his coat. The Doorman watched with obvious interest. Bastard, the Drifter thought again.

"Now now, no need to be so ugly, I have been a perfectly civil servant to you tonight. Generous, even."

"Generous?" The Drifter snarled.

"Indeed. Most creatures would consider being allowed to tear off one of my limbs a tremendous privilege, a once in a lifetime opportunity."

"I ain't most creatures."

"A fact of which i am acutely aware."

The Drifter finally reached the desk as the Doorman looked up at him. Those piercing blue horrors looking right through him, his eyes creasing in what certainly was meant to appear as a companionable smile.

"Now," the Doorman continued, folding his gloved hands over the counter, "will you be checking in, sir?"

The Drifter leaned forward, his great claws sinking into the polished wood of the desk.

"Open. The. Door."

The Doorman blinked, perfectly innocent.

"Which one do you mean?"

"The way out!" He yelled.

"Oh," thoughtful pause, "Certainly."

The god reached beneath the desk, still holding the Drifter's gaze. The Drifter narrowed his eyes.

Click

Right behind the vampire, a door swung open by itself. Cold night air rushed into the corridor, carrying the unmistakable filthy stink of the Cursed Apple at night, mixed with the distant sweetness of living, beating blood. For one moment, Drifter almost relaxed, an idiotic mistake. He looked over his shoulder to find the door revealing the alley he had just come from. Exactly the same as it'd been left, the puddle of false blood was still there, glistening beneath the flickering light of a distant streetlamp. He looked back toward the Doorman, and the ginger smiled.

"Here we are, sir."

Drifter studied him for a beat. "That it?"

"Yes," the Doorman gestured to the alley. "this is it."

"This ain't one of your tricks? You lettin' me leave?"

"Of course. What sort of establishment would we be if we held out guests against their will?" That quiet devastating chuckle again.

"Kind ran by a fuckin' creature like you."

The Doorman gave it an offended little gasp.

"Really, Drifter. Such violent language to use against a poor, diligent, employee."

The vampire had already turned. He walked calmly to the exit, his anger quieted, refusing to look back, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the small voice in the back of his head. This isn't right, it said.

He eventually reached the threshold. One boot made it to the other side.

Then a second.

And-

Ding

The Drifter blinked, and in an instant he was standing in front of the reception desk once again. The Doorman looked positively delighted.

"Good evening, sir! Welcome to the Baroness. Do you have a reservation?"

For the longest second, neither man spoke. The Drifter slowly looked down at his bloodied hands, his claws were trembling. He inhaled, useless, exhaled, still useless. Finally, he smiled. It was a horrifying, ugly expression.

"Aw, I see."

"Do you now?"

"Yeah…"

"Wonderful."

"You gon' make me kill you."

The Doorman rested his chin on one gloved hand, the purple stain had disappeared, the Drifter noticed.

"Oh, please, you have been trying for decades."

After the fourth attempt, the Difter had surmised it was completely impossible to leave the hotel. The front doors led to the reception desk. The windows revealed a perfectly convincing view of the street, right up until one tried to climb out of it and discovered the glass wasn't even really glass. He had passed through it somehow, only to find himself stepping out of another window right above the lobby. He had then tried the elevator. Another mistake. It had descended for at least ten minutes before opening to reveal the Doorman himself waiting patiently with a silver tray.

On it sat something red that smelled delicious.

"Refreshment, sir? You have been running around for a while."

The Drifter had thrown the glass in his smug face. And the Doorman had simply laughed. Then the elevator door had closed again, and when they reopened, the Drifter found himself stepping out in the same damned corridor.

Now, after what felt like hours of pointless wandering around those dark red and gold hallways, the Drifter stood beneath a gigantic painting of a woman with too many eyes, at least three too many, contemplating whether spending the rest of his eternal life ripping apart the entire hotel might actually be worth the effort. His stomach hurt, not only from the hunger even though there was more than enough of that. No, there was a disgusting, sickening sensation that settled in his gut sometimes after his second escape attempt. It came and went in waves, accompanied by that persistent ringing in his ears he'd heard back in the alley.

Now he knew what it was, and he remembered feeling it decades ago. The memory made his lips peel back from his teeth instinctively.

"Bellboy."

Nothing.

"Cmon, you prick."

Nothing.

Drifter looked back up at the painting, the woman with the many eyes looked back.

"Tell your little bitch to come out."

The painting blinked, blinked, and then it began to laugh. Drifter struck it, the canvas tore under the sharpness of his claws. Revealing behind it another painting. It depicted the Doorman, adorned with a little brass plate; Employee of the month, it said. The bastard was smiling. The vampire roared as he ripped the entire thing from the wall, he threw the frame down the corridor. It struck a visibly expensive vase that broke with a satisfying crack.

For a while, the sound of breaking fine porcelain provided much-needed relief.

Then the Doorman spoke.

"That was a gift."

Drifter spun. The ginger was standing a few paces away, inspecting the shattered pieces of the vase with a great disappointment.

"From a very distinguished guest, might I add."

"I don't care. Tell 'em I hated it."

The Doorman sighed. "Unfortunately, he has been dead for ninety years."

"Tell his ghost then." The Drifter mumbled.

The Drifter took a step towards him, and the Doorman did not retreat. He still seemed heartbroken about the vase, though the Drifter doubted the vase or the guest had been real. He never really understood how real the Baronness had been, every time he'd try and think about it, his head would start to spin.

The vampire had known this creature for a long time. Long enough to comfortably recognize most of his tricks, most of them. But the Drifter saw something different in the Doorman's stillness. He was pleased. The bastard was pleased.

"Whatchu want?"

The Doorman tilted his head innocently. "Pardon?"

"Don't be stupid with me."

"Difficult request, I simply adapt to the company."

Drifter growled, and the ginger smiled even wider.

"Careful, don't frighten the guests."

"There aint no guests here."

"Well, no. Not on this floor."

"Then why am I here."

"You insisted on coming along."

"You brought me here!"

"Well, technically, you threw yourself at me. I simply inferred your intentions."

The Drifter jumped in place, turned around, growled, took a second to breathe, realized he did not need to, turned back and tried to smooth his murderous expression.

"Why, bastard, why?"

"Must there always be a reason?"

"There's always one with you."

The ginger's expression truly shifted for the first time in the evening. It was a small, almost invisible change; behind the smile, behind those impossibly bright cyan eyes something very small glimmered.

"Perhaps," he said soflty, "I simply wished to see if you remembered."

The Drifter's stomach dropped. He knew immediately what the bellhop was referring to. That encounter, decades ago. The blood, the horrible taste. The thing he'd spent an astonishing amount of effort trying not to think about ever since.

Something must've changed in his expression because the Doorman's own smile became almost, almost, tender.

"You do remember."

"Shut your mouth." Drifter took another step.

"Tell me, beast. Do you still dream about it?"

Finally, the vampire lunged, and this time the Doorman allowed himself to be caught. The Drifter's hand closed around his throat hard enough that a human windpipe would've been crushed. He slammed the smaller man against a wall, cracking the neat plaster beneath his shoulders. The ginger made a little sound of surprise. It wasn't pain, it was never pain.

"Oh!"

Drifter leaned down until their faces were inches apart, his breath smelled like blood and rot and something horribly sour. He had had enough, he wished nothing more than for the ginger to stop talking.

"Stop talkin' about it."

"About?" The Doorman blinked innocently.

"That night."

The ginger took a breath to consider it, and his grin widened.

"Which part?

The Drifter tightened his grip.

"The part where you screamed?"

The vampire stopped, he went completely still. The Doorman watched him with a wickedly satisfied expression.

"Well, I, remember it very clearly." The Doorman almost snickered.

"You don't know what your talkin' about."

"I don't?"

The wallpaper began to peel. Not literally, it just changed, blooming dark stains started to spread across the elegant cream-red colours of the walls. The corridor then grew colder, the lights dimmed. And for one nauseating second, the Drifter smelled something he hadn't encountered in decades.

Old incense.

Rotting wood.

Most importantly, his own blood.

No

"Oh yes." The Doorman smiled and the corridor dissolved.

The Drifter hated to admit it, he never did, but deep down in his undead, unbeating heart; some things did frighten him.

Fear was beneath him. Fear was for prey, it was the delicious seasoning that made the whole hunt worthwhile. The little tremors in a victim's pulse, the final widening of their eyes when they realized that this was it, there was no escape. He was the thing that caused that fear, it shouldn't have gone the other way around.

Yet, standing in that familiar room once again, surrounded by the smell of ancient books and burning incense, the old vampire felt something terrifying crawl up his spine.

That room he remembered. It didn't exist anymore. It shouldn't have been possible. The floor was black marble, the ceiling disappeared into darkness; the room somehow appeared finite and endless simultaneously.

The figure in the center of the room looked exactly as he had several decades ago, same monstrous bulk, same torn clothing, same filthy bloodstained hands. But there was something wrong. The vampire was on his knees, his hands pressed against the sides of his head, mouth hung in a silent scream. Drifter had never forgotten that evening, Lord knows he tried.

"Sick fuckin'-"

"Language, beast." The Doorman appeared beside him. Not emerging from any of his wicked doors, in a moment he was simply there, his hands folded behind his back. "I have always been fond of this memory." The bellhop cooed.

"Get us out."

"Why, this is only the beginning."

"Bellboy." The Drifter growled.

The Doorman sighed. "Oh, please don't be so dramatic. It's merely a memory."

The figure in the middle of the room began to audibly scream, making the Drifter flinch. He couldn't have helped it, he remembered this sound, he remembered how it had torn from his throat against his will. It was a horrible, animalistic noise that had sounded nothing like his own voice. He also remembered the pain, though it had not been physical. It had been the sensation of his mind being pulled apart, his thoughts turned inside out, his memories became strange and hazy, he had been unable to recognize them at all.

The Doorman had done that, he had done it with a smile.

"You promised," The Drifter said weakly.

The words had escaped him before he could stop them. Beside him, the ginger's expression changed once again.

He hummed. "Did I?"

The Drifter's eyes burned , his throat was tight.

"You promised you wouldn't do this again."

For a moment, the room was silent, safe from the awful, distant screaming. Then the Doorman hummed.

"Well," he looked towards the kneeling figure. "that is true."

The figure vanished at once, and the room became still. Drifter stood there rigidly, every single one of his muscles trembling with barely repressed fury.

He had forgotten how much he loathed this. The pure helplessness, the knowledge that no amount of strength, of speed, of unbridled violence could protect him from something that simply didn't obey the rules everything else did. The Doorman simply wouldn't fit. Drifter could rip his head off, tear his body limb from limb or sink his fangs into that pretty pale throat until there was nothing left to bite: it simply wouldn't matter. The bastard would laugh.

The Doorman was silently watching him, curious. Clearly thoughtful.

"You know," he said at last, "I had no intention of revisiting that particular day."

The Drifter laughed humorlesly, it was a harsh and ugly sound.

"Sure you didn't."

"I truly didn't."

"Why'd you bring me here then?"

"Becaused you seemed so very determined to remind me of it."

Difter stared at him flatly. The Doorman sighed, a fake sheepish thing.

"Must everything be so terribly literal with you?"

The vampire took a stunned step back.

"You know what? Fuck you."

"Intriguing proposition indeed."

"Shut up!"

The words echoed through the empty pitch dark room. For once, the Doorman obeyed as the Drifter stepped closer, his expression twisted with disgust.

"You wanna play games? Fine. You wanna drag me around your stupid hotel? Sure, make me chase doors, make me look like a fuckin' idiot? Fine. But you don't get to dig around my head again, you don't read my fuckin' thoughts again."

Something flickered behind the ginger's expression. Not guild, never that. But perhaps brief, genuine consideration, like he hadn't said completely idiotic or ridiculous for once. The Doorman studied him for several seconds, then he raised one hand, and the illusion of the room shattered. The black marble disappeared beneath their feet, replaced once again by that plush red carpet. The warm lights of the hotel flickered overhead.

"There, happy?"

Drifter simply stared, unamused. The ginger smiled, warm and practiced.

"Now, shall we continue?"

Silence followed. The Drifter was expecting another trick, maybe another door; certainly the bellhop was going to start laughing again the second he would take a step forward. But the Doorman simply stood there, waiting stiffly. The vampire's gaze narrowed, suspicious.

"Continue what?"

"Our evening."

A beat of silence, the Drifter blinked. Then blinked again.

"Our what?"

The Doorman made a vaguely impatient gesture. "Our evening, beast. Do try to keep up."

Drifter simply started, what else was a monster supposed to do when his eldritch enemy started using words like our evening to describe what had been very clearly intended to be a night spent tormenting him.

"You dragged me into this place, trapped me for god knows how long, made me relive the worst goddamn night of my life, and now your talkin' about our evening?"

"Well, when you speak like that, you make me sound positively dreadful."

Drifter groaned. "You are dreadful!"

The Doorman smiled, smug, cat-like smirk.

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

Drifter threw his hands into the air, he was already feeling himself lose his mind again. In a much simpler way than the Doorman usually favored; no, this time, the little bastard was going to drive him into a state of complete, irreversible madness by being annoying. He'd probably offer him a complimentary mint afterwards.

"What. Do. You. Want."

"I told you."

"You told me shit."

"I missed you."

Drifter went completely silent. Those ridiculous words hung between them. Absurd words. They had no business coming out of the mouth of something like the Doorman. The vampire stared and the ginger simply stared back. Was this another trap, a joke? Surely the vampire was being set up again… but something in the bellhops' tone landed just right to the Drifter's ear and he couldn't help but simply… laugh.

He barked it out.

"HA!"

The Doorman's brow twitched. "Oh, do not be vulgar now."

"Aw, that's rich!"

"Mutt."

"You missed me?"

"Are we playing some sort of repetition game?"

Finally the vampire doubled over, and his laughter echoed through the corridor. It was loud and genuinely delighted, for the first time all evening.

"Aw, that's good! That is so good!"

The Doorman's expression soured. "I failed to see what is so amusing."

"You missed me!"

"Yes, we have already established-"

"Little god bellboy got lonely!"

The Doorman's smile returned, dangerous.

"Careful, beast."

Drifter straightened, as much as he ever did, grinning. His enormous fangs visible beneath his scarred, chapped lips.

"What, gonna cry about it?"

The Doorman folded his gloved hands. "No."

"You want a hug?"

"Absolutely not."

"Want me to hold your pretty little hands?"

"Drifter."

"Want me to tuck you in? Scared of monsters?"

The lights overhead flickered. Drifter's grin widened. Finally, a reaction, he had gotten one. The bastard could get irritated after all.

"Aw, c'mon cher, don't be like that."

The Doorman's eyes narrowed at the nickname. The vampire stepped closer, and for the first time since arriving at the cursed hotel, he felt something resembling control. It wasn't real control, of course. He wasn't stupid enough to pretend that, but he had found a little something, a beautiful crack in the Doorman's polished veneer. The Drifter intended to stick his claws into it as much as possible.

"So," he drawled, leaning down until he was face level with the bellhop's, hot breath brushing his ginger curls, "how long you been thinkin' about me?"

The Doorman looked up at him, piercing cyan eyes scanning the Drifter's face. His smile became perfectly polite once again.

"Not long enough to remember why I should stop, evidently."

"Aw, cmon, don't be like that."

"I assure you, Drifter, that I can be considerably worse."

"I know you can."

Their eyes finally met, cyan and crimson. For a moment that felt infinite, neither moved. At last, the Doorman laughed, it was soft, almost fond.

"You are impossible."

Something in the bellhops tone stopped the Drifter's sneering, his grin faltered. Why did that reponse feel so wrong? It was altogether too familiar, too comfortable, it was friendly. As though the Doorman wasn't being mocked at all, as if this was exactly what he had wanted. The vampire straightened defensively.

"your a sick freak, I would know."

"Well thank you."

"Wasn't a compliment."

"I chose to interpret it as one."

Drifter rubbed his face, smearing some of the dried flaking blood from his hands around his mouth. His hunger had returned once again, running around the hotel for hours had helped him develop quite an appetite, and he already had been starving.

He was tired, and he was hungry. He was also beginning to suspect that the only way out of the hotel was to humor the little bastard. What an unpleasant realization.

"What do you want me to do?"

The Doorman brightened.

"Oh! Delightful."

The Drifter immediately regretted his words.

"Well since you are offering, I was thinking we might have a drink."

Silence again through the hotel.

"A drink?"

"Again with the repetitions."

"With you."

The Doorman looked around with exaggerated enthusiasm, bastard. "Have you brought someone else?"

Drifter closed his eyes, counted to three. It didn't help.

"Sure."

The Doorman blinked, perfectly innocent. He seemed genuinely surprised by the answer. Drifter opened one cautious eye.

"Quit starin', you wanna drink, let's drink."

The Doorman extended one gloved hand. "Marvelous, shall we?"

Drifter looked down at the hand.

"Wanna hold hands Cher?"

"Don't flatter yourself ,beast, I simply wanted to show you the way."

"Yeah? Well lead with your feet."

A dramatic sigh came from the Doorman as he slowly withdrew his hand.

"Brute."

"Prick."

"Animal."

"Ginger."

The Doorman gasped.

"Well, that was completely unnecessary."

The Drifter followed, every instinct his beastly body possessed quieted as the Doorman led him down the corridor.

The hotel bar was completely empty. Drifter wasn't surprised, he had started to suspect the entire establishment had been emptied prehemptively to facilitate his own humiliation.

The room was elegant, obviously, all polished dark woods and rich red velvet, those warm lights drowning the counter in a beautiful golden glow. Bottles of undoubtedly expensive liquor lined the shelves behind it, though some of the liquids moved in ways no liquids ever should.

The Doorman, too, stood behind the bar. He gestured towards a stool. Drifter eyed it, it looked delicate, too delicate to survive him.

"your makin' fun?"

"Not at all, I assure you the Baroness has survived worse men."

"Doubt it's seen many o' those." The Drifter mumbled before sitting.

The stool held, somewhat disappointedly for the vampire. The bellhop removed his gloves, folding them carefully beside the register as the Drifter watched. The Doorman's hands were pale and thin, somewhat feminine next to the Drifters clawed, bloodied claws. The hand the vampire had bitten off was reconstructed completely, perfectly, down to the details of the fingernails. Perfect and unblemished.

The Drifter was overcome by the urge to bite it off again, but he suspected his ambition might only be rewarded with more torment within the hotel.

"You know," Drifter remarked, "I coulda swallowed that hand."

The Doorman reached for a bottle.

"I imagine you could have, yes."

"Woulda been a pain in the ass for you."

"Hardly."

"What, would've grown inside me?" Drifter chuckled at his own joke.

The Doorman paused, thoughtful. He then looked over his shoulder before speaking.

"Now, that is an interesting idea."

The vampires smile dropped immediately.

"…What?"

"I hadn't considered that possibility yet."

"Bellboy."

"Perhaps a little experimenting is in order."

"Don't."

The bellboy laughed.

" You are no fun at all."

He poured himself a glass of something clear and odourless. Then another glass, this one filled with something red and thick that smelled unmistakably like blood. Drifters nostrils flared reflectively, followed by his mouth watering.

"Ah," the Doorman said pleasantly, sliding the glass over towards him, "I knew you'd like it."

"Whose?"

"Does it matter? How morally virtuous of you."

"It don't." The Drifter said through gritted teeth.

"Well, if it might appease your conscience, it is human," a pause, "and it has felt fear." The Doorman's smiles turned wicked.

The Drifter paused too.

"Don't got one," he mumbled, "a conscience, don't got one." He repeated.

"How fortunate for you." The Doorman answered, seemingly honest.

The vampire finally picked up the glass, sniffed it cautiously. Blood, real blood, no doubt about it. Warm, rich, beautiful blood. He almost groaned from the smell itself. Instead, he downed the entire thing in one swallow.

The effect was immediate, the ache in his fangs subsided, his shoulder eased, and the horrible twisting in his stomach was instantly replaced with a warmth that climbed to his head and spread through his chest. He set the glass down with a finally steady hand. The Drifter wiped his bloodied mouth with and equally bloodied hand.

"Need more."

"Naturally, I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

The bellhop refilled his glass. The vampire drank, then again, and once more. By the fifth glass, he felt almost civilized. Meanwhile, the Doorman hadn't touched his own drink at all. He actually seemed more interested in watching the Drifter consume his own.

"Whatcha lookin' at?"

"You."

A snort, "No shit."

"As eloquent as ever."

Drifter bared his teeth for a second, to the bellboy's great amusement.

"So, you missed me."

The Doorman rolled his eyes. "Must we always return to that?"

"Why? Why'd you miss me?" The Difter insisted.

The ginger traced one finger along the rim of his glass, he let out a thoughtful hum.

"Because you amuse me."

"Lots of things amuse you. Matter of fact, I don't think you've ever done something if it wasn't to amuse you. So why me?"

The Doorman looked up, expression unreadable. For a long while, he said nothing, and the Drifter felt himself grow uneasy under that blue gaze. Not scared, not now; but uncertain.

"Because you never learn," a chuckle, "most creatures, when confronted with something they don't," A pause, "something they can't understand, make a sensible decision. They flee, or they hide, or they lose their minds."

He tilted his head, piercing gaze unwavering.

"You, however, have spent decades attempting to kill me."

The Drifter snorted in surprise.

"Not everyday."

"No, of course not, you're a busy man. You occasionnally find time for other hobbies."

"Like?"

"Murder, mostly."

"Good hobby."

The Doorman finally took a sip of his drink. "Indeed."

"And yet, despite your considerable experience, despite knowing precisely what I am capable of, you insist on treating me as something you might eventually overpower."

"Maybe I will."

The Doorman smiled, point proven apparently.

"That delightful, ridiculous certainty, oh I did miss it"

A pause.

"You callin' me stupid?"

"Among other things."

The vampire bared his teeth in response. For an instant, the Doorman's gaze dropped to them, and something in his expression shifted. A momentary fascination, nothing more. Yet the Drifter noticed.

"What'sa matter? Like my teeth?"

The Doorman's eyes came up to meet the Drifter's gaze once again. He smiled, surprisingly, in response to the teasing.

"Your dental hygiene leaves much to be desired."

"Aw, fuck you."

"Again with the suggestion."

The vampire scowled, but the Doorman was watching his mouth once again with great interest this time. The seriousness of it made the Drifter's skin itch.

"Quit lookin' at me like that."

"Like what?"

Like a prey, the vampire wanted to say, like meat, he thought again. But it would've been wrong, that was not quite what the god was doing. No, the Doorman had been looking at him like a specimen, like an incredibly entertaining animal in a cage. That was the thing. But now, while the bellhop was still staring, the Drifter noticed something else, a thing he wasn't quite sure how to identify. The Doorman smiled, was he in his head again?

"Stop reading my thoughts."

"You're simply thinking particularly loudly."

"Get outta my head." He groaned.

"I haven't entered it, you're simply very easy to read."

Drifter growled, yet he realized in that moment that he had stopped being angry a while ago. Annoyed, certainly. Suspicious, always. But angry he was not. The all consuming murderous rage that had overcome him in the alley was truly gone. How?

He was sitting in a bar with the one creature in the Cursed Apple he probably hated the most, drinking blood, having a conversation. Like a pair of very civilized acquaintances.

It felt grotesque.

"You know," Drifter said slowly, "this is the weirdest fuckin' thing you've ever made me do."

The Doorman looked absolutely delighted. "I sincerly doubt that."

A pause. "Yeah. Maybe not."

A comfortable silence overtook the hotel bar and against his better judgment, the Drifter leaned back. He stared at the empty glass, turning it idly between his claws. After a short while, he looked up.

"Did you fake bein' hurt?"

The Doorman hummed.

"Not entirely."

"What?"

The ginger examined his fingernails.

"I was, in fact, injured."

The vampire stared. The Doorman then spoke again.

"I said I was undergoing reconstruction. Which was true."

"You also said you were bored."

"Well, yes, I was."

The Drifter slowly set down his glass.

"So what actually happened."

"You wouldn't understand."

"This aint some drama, I can-"

"No, this is literal, you cannot understand it, despite your best efforts Drifter, you are still human."

"Let me take a crack at it," he growled, "who hurt you?"

The question escaped before the Drifter could properly consider it. He wanted to drive a stake through his damn heart himself, idiot, he thought. The Doorman became still, even more than usual. He took a long look at the Drifter, and he smiled: sharp and wicked.

"Oh?"

Drifter regretted every decision that led him to this conversation in the first place at once.

"No."

"Oh, are you concerned Drifter?"

"Fuck no."

"Im touched."

"Don't start." he groaned, letting his head fall into his hands.

"Why, Drifter, I had no idea you cared."

The vampire slammed his glass onto the counter at once, it shattered in a million sharp pieces.

"I dont!"

"Of course."

"I just wanna know who managed ta make you bleed, you smug little shit!"

The ginger leaned forward.

"Jealous?"

The Drifter wanted to spit. Jealous? What could he even be jealous of? Of someone successfully injuring the Doorman? Of someone, something, managing what Drifter had spent decades, if not centuries, attempting?

Aw shit, he was jealous.

The Doorman's grin widened.

"You are."

"Shuttup."

"Adorable" The ginger laughed, truly laughed, deep and amused and horrible. Drifter, in a fit of renued rage, reached across the counter. He grabbed the Doorman by the front of his perfect uniform. He pulled and the smaller man came easily. Easily enough for it to be clear the bellboy let it. One moment he had been standing behind the bar, and the next his upper body was dragged across the polished counter, face inches from the vampire's.

Drifter snarled.

"Listen here, you little-"

The Doorman kissed him.

It was brief, offensively so. Nothing but a small, cool press of lips against the Drifter's own. It wasn't enough to be intimate, not enough to be anything more than a successful attempt at stopping the Drifter's words from leaving his throat. Drifter completely stopped, yet his grip remained locked around the ginger's uniform. The Doorman drew back, smiling that smug smile of his. The bastard looked positively radiant.

"Goodness," he murmured, "that worked remarkably well."

Drifter simply stared. What else could he do? His brain, which had managed to survive centuries of undeath, countless supernatural horrors, and direct exposure to the Baroness' most competent bellhop, finally surrendered.

"…What?"

"Was I unclear? I apologize if so."

Drifter tried to speak, he did, his brain just found itself unable to produce anything of substance. Finally, the vampire released him.

The Doorman straightened, smoothing down his uniform with practiced fluidity. Very slowly, Drifter raised a hand to his mouth, still caked in dried blood, both the Doorman's fake and that of unidentified strangers. The ginger just watched, absolutely delighted.

"Well?"

"WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT?"

The Doorman hummed yet again, then he shrugged.

"Curiosity."

"…WHAT?"

"You're very loud, you see. I was simply wondering whether anything might persuade you to stop talking." the ginger tilted his head. "Apparently, yes."

The vampire stood so abruptly that the reinforced stool toppled behind him. His mind reeled too fast for any coherent thought to emerge yet.

"You-" he turned, then stopped, "You-"stopped again.

The Doorman waited patiently, straight as an arrow once again. Drifter pointed at him, claws trembling. He knew whatever he would say next, his voice would waver, and he'd hate himself for it.

"your a sick freak!"

"Yes, that has been established."

The Doorman's smile turned downright poisonous as the Drifter made a noise that no human throat could have produced. Then he grabbed the fallen stool and threw it across the bar. It struck the opposite wall with enough force to shatter into several pieces. The Doorman only sighed.

"Honestly, i dont know what it is with you and the furniture."

"FUCK your FURNITURE!"

"I'd rather you didn't."

Drifter turned toward him at once. The ginger looked delighted with himself. And there, beneath the fury, the hunger, the humiliation, was something the vampire found deeply disturbing. His face felt hot, his stupid face dared to feel hot. Somehow, maybe only to deepen the vampire's humiliation, the Doorman noticed.

"Well, well."

"Don't."

The Doorman rested his chin on his hand.

"How fascinating."

"Bellboy."

"Are you blushing?"

Drifter's whole body went rigid. It wasn't physically possible, yet his face did feel unreasonably warm. He wanted to kill the Doorman once again, just launch and maul him until his frail pale body was completely unrecognizable.

The Doorman laughed, and this time it wasn't a polite chuckle nor the dissembodied eerie amusement that would echo through the hotel's wall, this was a proper, human laugh. Head tilted back, cursed eyes half closed, shoulders shaking with genuine delight. This was worse than a fake amusement would've been, it was true. The Drifter wanted to tear him apart, more than he ever had before. He wanted his fangs to sink so deep into the Doorman's neck they'd never let go, he wanted to shake him until the whole hotel crumbled around them both.

This time though, something else accompanied the embarrassment and the rage. A voice in the back of his mind who started to ask whether the Doorman would do it again. The thought hit him like a gunshot.

For a moment the two men only looked at each other.

"Oh dear."

Drifter's stomach twisted, he had almost forgotten the bastard could hear his thoughts.

"I believe I have made a terrible mistake."

"…Why?" the Drifter rasped, barely audible.

"I believe," his cyan eyes glittered, "that I have given you something new to hunt."

The words felt like a trap closing around the Drifter's throat, horror settled, then gave way to a sick and twisted sort of excitement. The vampire looked at the Doorman's mouth, then at the faint scattering of freckles across the ginger's face.

For the first time all evening, Drifter smiled without showing any of his teeth. It was an ugly expression.

"Yeah?"

The Doorman's brow lifted in interest. Drifter slammed both his hands down on the bar's counter.

"Then you'd better start running, Cher."

For one brief, delightful moment, the Doorman looked surprised. His face softened, before his smile returned, as bright as ever.

"Oh, Drifter." he said before raising his now gloved hands to snap his fingers.

The lights went out, the bar disappeared. The vampire stumbled foward, his hands clawing at nothing for purchase aas a hundred doors slammed shut around him.

"Do try to make it interesting this time." Echoed through the Drifter's mind.

For a strangely peaceful second there was nothing, and the Drifter wondered if this was it. Until-

Ding

The hotel lobby appeared around the Drifter once again, but this time he was alone. He smiled, oddly, and took a wide long look around. Before him stood a single dark wooden door, on the doorknob hung a sign.

Do not disturb, it read.

A short laugh escaped the Drifter's throat, then turned into a full, delighted unpleasant sound. His claws flexed once, his shoulder rolled.

"Aw, bellboy", he grinned once again, "you really shouldn't have done that."

Behind the door, something giggled.

Drifter kicked it open.

And the hunt began.