bakerstreet | it's about time.

[ Things Petre doesn't at all care about but may discover in the course of looking for Santiago, according to his coworkers and other people who know him: he's never taken a sick day, ever! He's the nicest guy they know. No, he doesn't have any family that they know of, not around here. Friends? Well, there are all those weird religious people he hangs out with - more and more of whom seem to have abruptly left town. Oh, sometimes he goes camping?

The note in his apartment (all the mess scrupulously cleaned up) only says the date he'll be back, which is about three days longer than he said when Petre left.

He's out there, though. He can be traced to the forest and tracked, if Petre is angry enough to do that. Kill a man and drink a couple pints of his blood, he has some recharging to do, is all, which takes the form of a shallow grave carefully hidden by a layer of sod and grass covering a wooden pallet. He's sleeping on his side in there like a Disney princess vampire, moss growing on the ground near his nose and mouth where his breath passes over the dirt. Various small animals will flee the vicinity if the sleeping spot is uncovered.

If not, he'll be back when he says, looking refreshed and healthy, though in need of a shower. Hippie saints are the worst. ]

[It's not that Petre is desperate, really. You give someone the best meal of their life and they'll either want to repeat it every day or just count the days until they feel it's time to indulge for a special occasion. What's the occasion? Nothing. He just got a break from 'work' and decided to return to town to find his best friend around. Coworkers are just about the best he can do when sticking to conventional investigation, but he's got other tricks up his sleeve.

Like scent. Give a dog someone's blood and unless there's something to throw him off he'll just pick it up wherever it was left behind. It takes him a bit over a day, during which he wonders what the fuck he's doing this for other than wanting to smell that perfume again. Every now and then he remembers he's still pissed about being mind-controlled so easily, too, but an addict can hate the drug all he wants - it won't stop him from still wanting it.

Fuck, he does look like a princess. As the animals skitter off and Petre closes in, he lets his hands rest in his jacket's pockets and tilts his head to stare down at the still body. There it is, the perfume, stronger than ever. This is worth it already.]

That's so zen master. Did you meditate under a waterfall too?

[ One eye slits open, then Santiago makes the nearly universal sound of complaint associated with being awakened before he wishes to get up. Why is Petre making this a habit. Can't anyone sleep peacefully in the dirt. He rolls onto his back, hands coming up to rub his eyes as he heaves a sleepily resentful sigh. There's some moss growing where he was lying as well. ]

This is your fault. Don't make fun of me.

[ And there's that tone again, the one that assumes more familiarity than they have. Santiago doesn't even know his name yet and there is the implication of friendship and easiness in his voice, appealing warmth that nonetheless suggests framework. Boundaries. ]

You're sleeping on moss. Ew.

[Let alone sleeping in the wilderness. What the hell. Fucking weirdo serial killer.]

How is this my fault?

[ Super rude, Petre, he's not a serial killer. Would a serial killer smell this nice.

Santiago sits up, doing that thing where he completely fails to fix his hair. ]

You drank me dry. [ This is an overstatement, but to make up for that, he says it in a good-natured way. Which is not really less fucked up - as is typical with Santiago. ] I can only make blood so fast. Have to come out here to speed it up.

Moss is nice. Come sit on it. You'll ruin your clothes anyway.

So you just need to keep your fridge full of your own blood all the time.

[Creepy. But hey, if that means he gets to drink more, let me at 'em.]

Well gee, since you insist.

[He takes off his jacket, throws it down like a picnic towel to sit on. None for you, Santiago.]

You said I could come back in two days. And then you left. That makes you a liar.

[News at eleven.]

It's for emergencies.

[ Again with mild reproach. Lapses into raccoon-like gluttony do not constitute an emergency. Santiago neither moves away nor toward Petre when he sits, only shifting so he can stretch his legs out and lean back against the displaced pallet. ]

I was mistaken. Optimistic. And I told you when I'd be back.

Besides, you have to suspect it's better for you if you wait as long as you can.

[ Like with any drug. ]

Why is that?

[He tilts his head. He doubts Santiago feels regretful about all that enticing power he had over him.]

Seriously?

[ No, there's no regret about that, but the power is temporary and the more he gives Petre, the more Petre will demand. He doesn't frame it like that, though. Santiago reaches out and trails his fingers up Petre's neck, then cups the side of his face again. In the contact is a barely perceptible echo of sensation, of when Petre was full of Santiago's blood. ]

Can't think of any long term consequences?

[he tilts his head, feigning coyness, then because he just wants to lean into that hand. As contradictory as his love-hate towards Santiago is, he's still going to act like a pampered wild animal. Willing to accept the caress until he decides to bite.]

You slashed my throat right open and you think I have to be worried about consequences. Aren't you cute.

I don't answer to the devil.

[ It's a little disturbing, the feigned coyness and how Petre displays it. Disturbing in layers, really, that he looks like this - young - and is so carefree in his various transgressions. Santiago doesn't take his hand away, though. Consistency is key. Consistent boundaries. Petre may not really be an animal, but in some ways, his ... subhumanness echoes it. ]

You're the one who wants to eat with the enemy. I'm merely a gracious host.

No... I want to eat the enemy.

[Which he never gets to do, because they tend to burn right through his tongue like acid. Not fun or tasty at all, which makes Santiago dangerously special.]

She lets me do that all I want.

Oh, well. You've got everything figured out.

[ It's the same tone of voice he used to invite Petre to kill him. Always keeping things back, always thinking sideways to survive the current encounter with as much of him intact as possible. Santiago lets his hand drop finally, casually rolling up his sleeve like this is routine. ]

[He doesn't move; it's only his gaze that shifts between Santiago's features and the movement of his hand upon his arm.]

Who did you give that blood to before?

Lots of people. Mostly my followers.

[ "My" followers like "my friends," maybe, but the possessive connotations are there too; it was a bit of a slip, one he doesn't think much of because it's how he thinks of them all the time.

The inside of his forearm and smooth and pale, no sign of scarring. Santiago pats absently at his clothes, trying to find the penknife. ]

To heal them. No one else seems to - enjoy it like you do.

They don't know what they're missing, then.

[And they probably don't just feed on humans in general to survive, so what do they know. Santiago's blood is like giving sugar to a child for the first time.]

It heals you too.

Yeah. I guess I could Elizabeth Bathory it up in an emergency. Or I could have.

[ If someone hadn't drunk it all. He could do that with other people's blood too, but in his opinion, the same grossness rules apply, i.e. relaxing in a bathtub of blood isn't gross if it's his blood. The fact that he'd probably have to drain like sixty people of blood is a secondary objection. Just one of the many special ways Santiago sees the world.

When he locates the knife, he doesn't open it right away. ]

You know what will happen if you don't stop when I say so?

[He's so distracted by the promise of what's to come that he misses the reference completely, then looks up with his brows arched like he didn't even hear the question.]

Hm?

[ God, it's like he needs one of those dog training clickers. He reaches out, touching lightly beneath Petre's chin to keep his eyes on Santiago's face. ]

If you drain me, I won't come back for longer and longer. If you eat me, maybe I won't come back at all. And everything else will taste like ashes, and you won't be able to forget. You'll be hungry forever.

[ Soft words spoken like a curse from olden times - he has that way about him - but framed as an affectionate warning instead of a threat. Someone stumbling across the scene might take it quite differently, seeing as Santiago has finally pushed the knife out; it almost looks and sounds more like Petre's the one about to be sacrificed, out in some ridiculously lush woodland grove. ]

Okay?

Yeah. I'm not going to eat you.

[... not yet. He makes no promises about that in the future, because even he knows how volatile he is. He just doesn't care. Still his eyes are right on Santiago's like he's full of earnestness, expert liar that he's always been.

He places his hand underneath his arm, lifts it slightly. Hungry forever? He'll laugh about that later.]

[ The promise is good enough for here and now, which is how Santiago still has to take things until he has time to build up his stock of blood again. Wordlessly, he eases the knife into the flesh of his arm at the inside of his elbow, and pulls it down. Like before, but deeper, so that the blood that comes at first in a weak spurt dribbles all over; whatever makes it to the ground is sucked up eagerly by the moss. ]

[He's not nearly as desperate as he was the first time. Eager, yes, but his movements are gentle when he nudges the arm up and lowers his mouth to meet the blood in the middle. It starts with a kiss, then lips part to suck and lick at any blood he can collect. It's on his hand, too, the one holding up the arm, but he doesn't get to it. Not yet.

Soon as he's had the first taste, he murmurs in delight. Lids relaxed, bobbing his head only slightly, looking more devoted than famished in his ways.]

[ It's not totally a surprise, since Petre has given no signs of being anywhere near as ravenous as he was before, but the kiss is ... an unnerving note, one that he might have found unpleasant if not for what follows.

Maybe the fact no one else enjoys Santiago's blood this way influences his reaction. Maybe it's the semblance of devotion, even though he's sure Petre's devotion lies in vastly different directions. Like the appreciation is what makes this closer to sacrament than his blood's proper use, which is for healing people and growing things. Santiago's eyes shut in spite of himself. He should watch, he should be mindful of how much Petre drinks, but instead he breathes shallow and slow, relaxed. ]

[It's because he knows what's coming that he takes it slowly this time. He knows what will happen if he does lose control and drain this man again; not just his death, but Petre will be right under his influence the whole way. That might not appeal to Satan any more than it does to him, and who knows what kind of stupid things a human (?) will get a demon to do when he's in control. They are not to be trusted any more than he is with his own powers.

Finally, Petre comes up with his mouth parted, teeth and lips red, breathing like he just surfaced from the bottom of the sea. There's clear ecstasy in his features, a little more subdued than it had been before, appreciating what he has so far rather than thirsting for more.

It's just like feeding on a corpse, though, and when he does, other sensations surface. Adrenaline, overconfidence, and a rush of - arousal. Not that he's hard, but he could come very close to that if there was any other kind of stimulation to boot.]

Fuck...

[ It's not so different for Santiago; perhaps not unlike the reason St. Teresa always looks like she's having one hell of a time, other than Renaissance artists' limited outlet for salacious statuary. He's not given to indulging himself, however, and to do that with Petre would be even more unthinkable.

Still. It's nice, when he opens his eyes, to see that look on Petre's face. Santiago doesn't take his arm away yet. Resting out here has replenished him and he can afford to be generous for a little longer, especially if he goes right back to sleep after Petre is done. ]

What a nightmare you are.

[ He makes it sound like a fond compliment, in a voice hazy with pleasure. It occurs to him they're stuck in a sort of feedback loop: Petre drinks his blood and becomes like a drunkard, Santiago reinforces it with the bolstered influence of his power, and using his power to elicit that reaction also feels good to him ... it's an amusing mess. ]

Edited 2015-06-21 18:06 (UTC)

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