Playing around with a possible plot. Also, I just like exploring the dynamic between Allie, Dark, and Sam.

852 words, of the unedited and unread kind.

thread

The apartment was locked. Sam tried the door once, twice, and then turned to give Dark a pointed look. Dark returned the look with a carefully blank expression that suggested the rolling of eyes without any actual physical movement.

Finally Sam said, "Well?" and Dark did not sigh as he moved forward.

He bent over slightly, and did something that resulted in a metallic, clicking sound. A moment later the door swung open. It would probably never close properly again, but that didn't stop Allie from trying to shut it after the three of them entered.

The first thing Sam said was, "Wow, it's hot."

He moved, without hesitation, through a door. Allie shot Dark a questioning look.

"There was a fire in the area two years ago," Dark explained.

"Ah," Allie said, and followed Sam.

Sam was moving through the bedroom in an unknown, but systematic pattern. His eyes weren't closed, but they gave the impression they should be. Whatever the brunet was seeing, it wasn't anything she would understand. Occasionally he would pick up objects and hold them in his hands, exploring every centimeter with his fingers. As he worked, his frown deepened.

"Well, someone died in here alright," he said.

"Vampire?"

"No," Sam answered her, in a tone that almost suggested disappointment. "Something else. Dark!"

The blond vampire was instantly there. Allie's gaze swept to the side; the corner of her lips turned down. It was the only sign of her surprise that she allowed.

"Okay. So, we have a vampire--tall, maybe eighty kilograms--going through the window." Sam pointed. "He lands, approaches the bed, and gets to our man Rob here. Rob doesn't wake up until the vampire has his mouth on his throat."

Sam kicked the foot of the bed, as if in demonstration.

"That's all pretty normal. What isn't normal is the next part. Rob doesn't die. No, don't ask me how," he said, before Allie could even think of interrupting, before her internal question had even fully solidified, "I don't know. Sometimes miracles happen. He runs through that door, probably bleeding all over his clothes, and out. Then the police find him on the street and, ka-ching, there's an article in the newspaper, people read it, some people get curious, we happen to be curious enough to break into the poor guy's house...."

Sam circled, eyes tracking from the window, to the bed, and then back to the window. It felt suddenly cold.

Sam's heartbeat increased, and he was almost panting. Allie and Dark stood very, very still, as Sam--

expanded.

Allie had never pretended to understand Sam's ability, and Dark's knowledge was based mostly on conjecture. Now, though, they could both feel it, a slight pressure on their skin that grew outwards until it was as if the whole room had filled with static.

Now, it was clear that Sam could--feel, touch, sense the entire room. Allie closed her eyes and shivered. It felt frighteningly intimate.

Sam's eyes landed on her. Then they went back to the bed. "So. Back to our vampire. He mortally wounds Rob, watches the guy go... and something else comes through the window.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't touch the sill, the walls, the floor, or the ceiling. Maybe it's floating. The vampire watches it come near, and it's moving way too fast for him to see it properly. It's just a blur. Then the vampire's too busy dying to care much about keeping his eyes open."

Sam... pushed, and Allie shivered again; so did Dark, this time, though his expression remained the same as always: blank.

"And then... well, I got nothing."

There was a sudden snap, and Sam's presence disappeared, confined to the boundaries of his body. "Wow," he said. "That was useless. We should head back."

Dark said, "How much information can you gather from a corpse?"

Sam looked at him. "A hell of a lot more than objects," he answered finally. "But less than from anything living."

"Then we should track down the vampire's carcass." Without waiting for Sam's agreement, he left the room. Allie followed him, moving quickly to fall into step by his side. She turned to study the older vampire properly. "Why are you so concerned?" she asked finally, tone almost light.

Dark didn't misunderstand. "Anything that can kill a vampire so easily is our concern," he murmured. "After all, we have someone to protect."

"Or you could just be pulling him into something dangerous," Allie retorted, but just as quietly.

Dark said, "Anything is better than the path he's currently chosen."

Allie stopped. "You... that's--if he heard you say that!"

She wasn't angry, but it was an emotion near enough that she felt justified in narrowing her eyes, clenching her fists.

Dark just said, "He is someone to protect." He turned suddenly, ignoring her completely, and said, "Sam, is there anything else to learn from here?"

The dismissal was clear.

Sam looked at them, and shrugged. "I'm gonna try feeling this place out for a bit," he said. "You guys wait outside."

This, at least, was an order Dark obeyed.

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

I'm going to get down on my knees and beg forgiveness for not using quotations with dialogue in this one. Except, well, not.

1692 is a reference to the Salem Witch Trials, which was a mess that resulted in a lot of innocents killed or imprisoned because of false accusations, or grudges, or paranoia.

So. This is... Sam adding another member to his harem coven. I have no idea who she is. 834 words, unedited and unbeta'd--I didn't even look through it lawl.

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breathe, and it comes

They have tied her to a stake. It is a scene from 1692, except that she is not a witch, and they are not killing her based on any wild accusation. They know what she is; and she knows what they are. They are the people gathered around her in a fair number, though there isn't enough to call it a crowd. They are dressed in jeans, sweatpants--dark-colored clothes, so that the stains from previous hunts don't show.

They are annoyed. They want to go home. She is going to die tonight, and they are discussing what show they missed that evening, what they should buy for their kids' birthdays, when can we leave forfuck's sakes, it's past midnight.

Midnight.

She tilts her head up and imagines she can feel the moon, although she knows that, even if they were outside, it would be hidden from her. She would call it neglect, or abandonment, but. But.

But.

She is not trying to free herself from her bonds. As a predator, her foremost attributes are cunning and intelligence. If she attempts escape, the hunters around her will strike, and....

Well. Kill her, perhaps. Disable her. It is a fate that is near-certain; she would rather prevent her impatience from hastening it.

They are going to burn her alive. It is not so bad. She has suffered through worse--berserker rages in the sun, burning outside and inside. Childbirth, long and hard, only to find the child had long been dead inside her.

She is waiting for an opportunity, although it is increasingly likely that there isn't any opportunity to wait for.

Hurry up, one of them says.

Another one, this a bare two meters away, shakes a tired head. No, we're waiting for another one. It makes more sense to burn them together.

What? Another? --Really?

It was a good hunt tonight, comes the reply.

She does not move a single muscle, in the single, expressive way of someone trying very hard not to react. She wants to believe none of them notice, because they are tired.

Another one. They are bringing another one, another one like her. It is, if not a good opportunity, at least an opportunity. Her fingers are curling slightly. Her claws unsheathe themselves. Around her, tension coils thick in the air, waiting and expectant. They fall quiet. They are all waiting, together, she and them, prey and predator.

Then the other one arrives, only it is not the other she expects at all.

It is a human, not a vampire, who steps into the warehouse.

He is looking around. He is not scared. He has a knife, and the blade is dark. His gaze tilts up, and she is startled to find him staring at her. He is ignoring them, the hunters, but perhaps he can because he is human. Perhaps he is one of them.

No. He isn't. He is walking towards her, and although they are parting, creating a path through negative space, it is not a gesture of submission. They are drawing guns, the glint of metal dull in the vacant light of the warehouse. She can sense the tilt of their thoughts, although they are unvoiced: What the fuck is he doing here, and who is he, and is he a complete nutcase?

Sorry I came so late.

He is speaking to her. Or at least, he is looking at her, and his mouth moves while he looks, and words come out. There is intent directed at her. But the words die out, and make no sense.

She is curling her fingers again, slowly, and she realizes the true reason she has not acted: She is injured.

She does not feel injured. She feels no pain. But she is injured. The thought is unfolding itself in her mind, new and wondrous, and she thinks, ah.

Sorry I came so late. But I'm going to rescue you now.

Coupled with the extra sentence, his words are making more sense. But. She is still confused. And now, she is watching; the blade of the knife presses against her bonds, and then stops, because the human has a gun pointed at his skull, pressing into his hair.

I'm sure none of us want the mess of your brains blown out all over the floor, says one of them, and then, like an afterthought: Motherfucker.

And then, smooth like silk, a voice she knows, because it is the voice all of them have: I wouldn't touch him if I were you.

Her gaze is moving, from the human to the door, and standing there are two others.

And then the human says, Well, actually, I have a condition. As if there is no gun pressing itself against the back of his head, as if they are not surrounded by them, by hunters, all of them palming guns.

He is smiling.

She says, I accept, because she does not care to wait for an explanation. She was expecting an opportunity; this is an opportunity.

They are not going to burn her alive, because the human says, Okay, and his knife slides through her bonds, and then everything erupts into motion.

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

How Allie and Sam meet. 606 words.

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"And what will you be having?" the girl says, and she looks, sounds, so completely natural that Sam almost doubts himself. Almost.

She's good. He'll grant her that. Her hair is messy, and she looks ridiculous in the hat. But her smile isn't right, not for a girl working the fast-food track; there's a certain line to the way she moves, a tilt to her voice that is slightly too flat. She's too put-together, like a model posing in a magazine or an actress playing a role.

Still. She's good. Sam wonders what she is, if she's even anything he--or anyone--can shove into a neat, black-white label.

She isn't feral, and she isn't a ghoul. Socks was a ghoul, and the girl in front of him isn't exhibiting any of the signs. Sam wonders where she gets her blood from.

He glances around, making sure noone's near enough to hear. He doesn't bother being discreet. Then he leans forward, elbows on a counter slippery with who-knows-what, and says: "So what's a vampire doing busting her ass off in a place like this?"

She smiles at him. "So, a medium Coke and a cheeseburger?" she says.

"Sprite, actually," Sam says. Her smile widens, and shows teeth.

Sam says, "Thanks," and opens his wallet. She gives him his food.

Thirty minutes later she's sitting across from him. She's taken the hat off, which is bad, or maybe good, because it makes her look slightly less ridiculous and it reminds Sam of what she is. She's a blonde, and attractive. She has a pink bracelet on.

Sam has already finished his meal, and gone for a refill four times, and went to the bathroom twice. He's probably going to feel off tonight, from drinking so much soda.

"I don't see many of you guys around here," Sam says. He puts his cup between them, like a shield, as if plastic and paper could ever stop a vampire.

"No," the vampire says. She's still playing the teenaged girl, and slouching like a pro.

Sam tells her his address. "Come any time," he says. "But make sure I'm there. Dark's kind of territorial, and he's probably older than you."

"... Why?" the girl says.

Sam grins at her. "I'm... gathering a coven. Sort of."

"You're a human," she says. "Humans can't rule."

"Yeah, I'm a bit young, huh?" Sam says, as if the issue is age. "That's why I said sort of."

"You're scared," she returns. "Your heart is beating faster than normal. And you're sweating. Your breathing is too controlled. And the skin below your eyes is twitching."

"Uh," Sam says, "I knew I was scared already. No need to give me a report. Seriously, though," he adds. "Come any time."

The girl straightens. She's forgotten herself. When Sam stands up, he finds himself looking down at a predator. He forces himself to smile. "See you," he says.

He leaves.

He's entirely, entirely unsurprised to find Dark waiting for him outside, because the guy is an obsessive, paranoid freak. He's smoking. Dark will never admit that he smokes when stressed.

"She'll come," Sam says in reply to Dark's unspoken question. Dark walks with him, and, side-by-side, they make their way to Sam's car.

"That makes three," Dark says. "It's hardly a coven."

Sam laughs. "It's enough, for now. Minimum of three, am I right?" He reaches into his pocket, curls his fingers around the receipt he feels there. He touches the flimsy paper and feels traces of the girl still lingering. Vampires feel different from humans, the taste and color of their thoughts different--cooler, and less chaotic. They burn less.

Sam smiles. "She'll come," he says, again.

Dark nods, and follows his lead.

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

It's a throw-away life

It's a Friday. Sam is grading papers, making clicking sounds every time a student makes a mistake. Sometimes he'll read out the more notable mistakes: "Hey, this kid spelled chlamydia with a k! I should give him points for the reference. I hope it was a reference." Mostly, though, he's quiet, even if Sam does 'quiet' differently than everybody else. Occasionally, his chair squeaks across the tile whenever he shifts. Sam is never comfortable when he's grading.

Dark sits on the other side of the table, and he isn't drawing, although he's holding a pencil. The paper in front of him is 11.7 by 16.5 inches of blank space.

Allie has her cosmetics in front of her; she has to leave for work soon. With the right kind of make-up, she can pass for human. Maybe it's her clothes, too: people don't think killers come in bright pink. She has her compact open, a single finger on a curved lip of plastic, but she's still.

Dark knows what she's listening to, because he is as well: The beat of Sam's heart. It's steady, steady, steady, and if he moves his hand, pushes it across the table, he could press his fingers against Sam's neck, wrist, heart, and feel that heartbeat under his skin--

There's the snap of the compact. Allie ties her hair back; she's barely remembering to throw in lots of extra movement, so that the action looks natural and clumsily human. She smacks her lips together, exaggerated. "Okay, I'm going," she says.

Sam looks up, focuses his expression on her. Dark grips his pencil; it bends.

"Don't do anything stupid," he says, and then, absurdly: "Stay safe."

Allie smiles at him. She leans forward. This is all vampire--smooth, graceful motion, her torso tilted at an angle no human could hope to suspend without extensive training. She presses her lip against Sam's cheek. It's a split-second touch, because Dark is present, and leaves a smear of pink.

"Sure," Allie says. She straightens, and suddenly she's a teenage girl, off to stand all night in the ordering booth of a 24-hour fast-food restaurant.

Dark waits until they're alone. Then he puts down the pencil and gives Sam a long, measured look, but the man is back to his papers, and his students. "You should be more careful around her," he says.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Train isn't spelled T-R-A-N-E, is it?" he says, and red ink flashes across the page. With his other hand, he reaches into his jacket. He pulls put a knife--the knife, the one Dark gifted him with. It lies between them, fenced in by blank sketching paper and student essays.

"I'm always careful," Sam says, and then: "Shit, you know what, I'm just going to take fifty points off these dumb unnamed papers."

Dark says, "I see." He picks his pencil up again, and begins to sketch.

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

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