Late, 27th September, 1892 — An alleyway, London

Ishmael always knew what he was doing. That was who he was. He wasn’t a sloppy eater, and he was certainly not in the habit of making mistakes.

But – now that he was slumped against a wall in a darkened alley, with blood staining his mouth and his fingertips and the full weight of a corpse on his lap – Ishmael was having trouble framing this in any other way.

He was having some difficulty forming any coherent thoughts or plans at all, actually, because there had been a lot of heroin in that man’s bloodstream. It had tasted disorientingly good a few minutes ago, and the euphoria of the blood-drinking hadn’t faded as fast as it usually did. In fact, Ishmael was almost perfectly content just to stay here, a dead man on top of him, and maybe have a nap.

No, he considered slowly, maybe that was a bad idea. His hand went back to the wound at the man’s throat where he’d been drained dry, touching it ponderously; lightly, he brushed a loose strand of hair out of the corpse’s face. (It had been so long since he’d killed anyone – so long he wasn’t even sure how he felt about killing any more.)

The hand he’d just lifted was the one with the ring. The one he’d worn for years, inlaid with that sun design, and with its magical link to Monty. Ishmael smiled fondly at it and twisted it on his finger to signal him, and then lolled his head back against the wall again to wait.

(If he weren’t this high, he would have thought better of making Monty come. He would have cleaned up his bloody mess himself.)

---

There he was. Another rush of pleasure; another smile dawning. Ishmael wanted to greet him properly, but he felt too strangely weak in the knees to get up. He was gratified, then, that Monty moved down to his level, and more gratified still when Monty spared less care for the dead body than for him. He licked his lips, unconscious of how messy his mouth might be right now.

“No,” Ishmael said, shaking his head at the question – or, he thought he was shaking his head. He might have been nodding, he wasn’t sure. He was nonchalantly inclining his head in some direction, at least. Monty would understand.

His hand had been resting casually on the corpse’s forehead, but Ishmael raised it now to take up Monty’s hand and pull him in closer. He placed Monty’s hand on his own cheek – sure that he was unusually flushed, unusually alive – and gazed at him, his pupils dangerously blown. “I feel warm,” he pronounced instead, half in pride and half in wonder. He always felt a little like this after a night with a bloodbank, but he didn’t often gorge himself so well, and as the stranger’s skin had fallen clammy and cold, his hand had seemed almost hot against it. “Am I warm to you?”

Could killing people be worth it after all, if it made him feel so good?

---

Ishmael gave a slow grin at that first remark. Monty’s hand felt hot on him, so he could scarcely tell anymore, but he was pleased if it was true. A laugh bubbled up in him when Monty leant in to wipe up his mouth. If Ishmael had been in his right mind, he would have been mortified – but now all he could think was this is nice, Monty looking after him. No one had needed to look after Ishmael in a very long time.

“I got a little carried away,” he admitted, the words heavily slurred but entirely shameless. Monty could see that already, obviously: so it made no sense to be sorry about it, because then Ishmael would have to admit to something more serious, that he’d lost control more badly than he’d ever meant to let himself, he hadn’t been able to stop like usual. But if he just hadn’t wanted to... well, there was nothing wrong with drinking with a little excess enthusiasm once in a while, as a treat. Ishmael licked some blood off his thumb and grinned at Monty again, innocent; elated; so completely sated of bloodlust that he felt almost perfectly human again, able to just bask in the neverending revelation that was loving him.

“Here, come here,” he said, insistent, tugging Monty greedily by the sleeve. The corpse had been shifted off him, so Ishmael’s lap was free, he wanted Monty in his arms instead... and never mind that they were in an alley somewhere and could be discovered at any moment with the incriminating remains of his meal right there – Ishmael felt so at ease and so overwhelmingly lazy that snuggling was absolutely his top priority here.

---

He curled his arms tight around Monty, inhaling the scent of him and resisting the strange urges to laugh or bury his face into his shoulder or fall asleep right here. He half-nodded at the suggestion, let his head loll backwards to ready himself, but then jerked his chin abruptly to the corpse.

“We can’t leave him here,” Ishmael said – and he might be slurring, but even heroin couldn’t make him entirely stupid. That man had been drained of blood, and whoever it was, better he go missing than be found as drunk by a vampire in the morning. He wasn’t used to disposing bodies any more, but he’d done it enough times and Monty had too. Only this time he felt too full and exhausted to do as much as reach over and grasp the dead man by the arm, so that was up to Monty. Ishmael just let his eyes flicker shut. He wished he could sleep. He’d never imagined how much he could miss sleep.

---

See, it was fine, Monty had everything under control. It was nice to know – or nice to remember; he’d known before – that he could trust Monty with anything. Everything. He couldn’t say that about anybody else.

Monty had asked a question, but Ishmael was too disoriented by the two of them (three of them) disapparating that it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. They were back in the house, a haphazard arrangement on the floor downstairs. By degrees, Ishmael’s head stopped the worst of its spinning. That achieved, he shoved the dead man carelessly off Monty, and rolled him roughly onto his front – so he wouldn’t keep staring – by hooking a foot under the corpse’s legs and flipping him.

That left him free to snuggle up against Monty again. “No,” Ishmael agreed, hazily, “but I feel like I could, if you’re here with me.” His eyes kept almost dropping shut at the idea of sleep, though he knew his body didn’t need it, that this was all some illusion of the intoxication; but he moved his hand to Monty’s chest and tucked his head in on his shoulder, comfortably hypnotised by the steady thread of Monty’s pulse. “You sleep, you know,” Ishmael told him seriously, like this was news. “It’s very annoying. And I always wonder what you dream about,” he said, wishing that being cradled like this would bring back that unconscious ability, at least. “If I could dream,” he added, muffled into Monty’s clothes, “I’d dream of you.”

---

“I’m always a good dream though, right?” Ishmael murmur-slurred, vaguely, distantly worried that maybe he was a burden on Monty, and that Monty didn’t love him, and that he was a monster and a nightmare.

He was too tired to be really worried, though. Tired and maybe so full he was starting to feel sick to his stomach? He groaned slightly, but was too comfortable here, pressed against Monty, on the living room floor. He should probably let the human go up to bed to actually sleep, he supposed faintly, but some instinctive, deep-seated part of him refused, for even a second, to actually let go. “I missed you tonight,” he whispered.

(Maybe he should get into a mess more often, if it ended up like this.)

---

Ishmael wasn’t usually seduced quite as easily as this; but then he wasn’t in the right state to be doing any of the seducing himself, and in no mood to argue either. Instead, he just mmmed at Monty’s comment and arched his neck back at Monty’s mouth there and eyed the staircase blankly, because for a moment they seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.

But he had had such a good meal tonight, felt so warm and different and alive, that he did want to make the most of it. And they still had a few hours before sunlight – which meant a few hours more to bathe in Monty’s presence uninterrupted, if nothing else.

And maybe some movement would be good for him. Slowly – for him, or so he thought; but he was still a vampire – he staggered to his feet and pulled Monty easily up with him, hardly conscious of his own strength and not about to let Monty out of his grasp for the rest of the night. “I’d rather you assure me,” he said coyly – and wondered faintly whether he felt unduly feral or strangely domesticated tonight. Hm.

---