fic: darkcity, untitled

Untitled. Set in the Darkcity verse. I set off to write smut and ended up writing… this.

Unedited, unbeta'd. 1,172 words. m/m hints, but they're easily ignored, imo.

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Sam wakes up because of the rain. It's coming in through the open window, fine as mist and as uncaringly cold as ice. Even so, it takes a few long moments for him to properly wake up. The drizzle may be cold, but he's made himself a deliciously warm cocoon of blankets, which hold in caramel-colored heat.

Finally, though, the thin coating of pure wet on his cheek is enough to convince him to sit up. That's when he notices that he's alone. Dark is gone again.

Sam looks at the mess of pillows in the corner of the room, just to confirm his suspicions, and yes, Dark is gone. There are only pillows, and the blanket that the vampire never uses. Unfortunately, this means that Sam cannot close the window, not unless he wants Dark to break the lock open again trying to return. As a compromise, he pulls it mostly shut. It stops most of the rain, at least.

Sam's exactly the kind of person who can't go back to sleep so easily, so he trudges towards their kitchen. The fridge is almost completely empty, but there's a half-empty carton of milk and cocoa powder in one of the cupboards. Sam pulls out a pan to heat the milk in, and then wanders to the drying rack. He's in luck: there's a clean mug there.

As usual, he spares a few seconds to feel guilty about the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, but isn't actually guilty enough to start cleaning them.

The kitchen has a window, but the only view it offers is the flat, gray, planar surface of the opposite building. At night, the odd, yellow lights from the street cast strange patterns onto the wall. The only mildly interesting thing about the view are the tacky, floral curtains that frame it. Nevertheless, Sam finds himself staring out the window as he pours hot milk into the mug and adds cocoa powder.

He wonders where Dark is, if he's all right. Sam is never sure where the vampire goes at nights like this, if he disappears every night or just some nights. Sam sometimes wonders what he does, but forces himself not to think about it too much. Dark is a vampire, after all, and when Sam allows himself to fully contemplate this fact all he feels is an odd, clenching emotion in his stomach. It's not quite fear, but it's a close relation.

Dark skulks into the kitchen just as Sam is finishing up his drink. The vampire is completely wet, and darkened fabric sticks to his skin. His claws are retracted but there's an animalistic look about him, and he walks quiet as a hunting dog. His eyes are glowing, because Sam forgot to turn the lights on again.

"You better mop up after yourself," Sam says tiredly.

Dark doesn't reply. He does look at Sam, though, and suddenly he's right there, pressing his nose against Sam's neck, a possessive hand on Sam's arm. Sam forces himself to stay still.

Once he's reassured himself of-something, Sam's presence, maybe, who the hell knows-Dark steps back quickly. The lazy, predatory look is beginning to slide from his eyes and he's standing taller. He's looking less and less like a damp hunter coming home and more like a pathetic mess of wet, shivering man.

At Sam's sharp look, Dark heads towards the closet, where they keep the dusty cleaning supplies and spare bedding. Sam takes pity on him, though, and stands to take the mop from Dark's large hands. "Go take a shower," he grouses. "You'd just get water everywhere right now, anyway."

Dark doesn't reply. Sam doesn't know if it's because he's still not quite-returned-or if it's because of Dark's customary stoicism. It's not like he can ask.

While the soft mutter of the shower fills the apartment, Sam mops up the kitchen, then goes to their bedroom. He kicks the pillows in the corner in half-hearted vindication, then goes towards his own bed. The blanket is wet, and a pillow, but that's all, so Sam just dumps both onto the ground and carefully closes and locks the window.

He sits down on the bed but doesn't lie down, and waits.

Dark comes out of the shower completely naked. It's not that he's shameless, or some sort of voyeur; it's just that Dark has ripped throats out with bare teeth, torn people open with sharp claws, and therefore has the sense not to be ashamed of nakedness when, really, he's done so much worse.

"Where'd you go?" Sam says, suddenly, and Dark stills, distracted from the task of toweling his hair dry. His gaze shifts to Sam and in the darkness of the bedroom they are a glittering, dangerous green, like the dendraspis angusticeps, the green mamba, Sam thinks dizzily.

"The sewers," Dark says finally.

Sam hesitates. "What'd you do?"

"You don't normally ask," Dark says. It's a clear warning but Sam ignores it, tilting his chin up and glaring defiantly. It'd probably be more effective if his hands weren't kneading the mattress nervously but Dark concedes, anyway, as he normally does.

"I've been smelling rats near here," Dark replies.

Rats would be the misshapen, half-mad vampires that feed of the strays of the city. They're not quite berserkers-they're too weak for that, a healthy young man could best them in strength-but they're about as aggressive. Dark wouldn't normally register them as threats, except that near here means the rats were unfortunate enough to wander in what Sam supposes Dark thinks of as his territory.

As a general rule, vampires are very territorial.

Sam opens his mouth, gets as far as, "What did you do with-" but then that feeling rides up again, sharp and choking, and seals his words.

If he asked, Dark would answer.

He doesn't ask.

Instead, he forces himself to relax, stills his nervous fingers. He closes his eyes and thinks back to the murky memories of his childhood. An elementary teacher had tried to teach his class meditation techniques. She'd been young and hopeful and not quite successful. But, absurdly, Sam still remembers the general gist of the lesson, years and years later.

"Come here," he says, eyes still closed.

Dark obeys. Sam pulls him down, arranges him on the bed. He runs his hands over Dark's face, brings them down to the sharp, jutting line of his collarbone. A palm presses against Dark's chest.

There, Sam stills. Dark's heartbeat is slow, and irregular. His skin is cold.

Vampires can live for hours without their heart.

Sam puts his head on Dark's chest.

Outside, it's still raining. That, more than Dark's heartbeat, lulls him back into sleep. He's cold, despite the hot cocoa he just drank, but his blanket is wet and Dark's about as effective a heater as a corpse.

Dark says, murmurs, suddenly, "I didn't kill them," but all Sam does is grunt a reply. Later, he'll think the words were a dream.

Labels: _fiction, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity