The First Drop - Fright Night - Charley/Jerry
Title: The First Drop
Pairing: Charley/Jerry
Word Count: 5300
Rating: R
A/N: Written for the "food" square of my kink_bingo card, and a prompt from the Fright Night kink meme.
Summary: There is something different about Charley's fear: something dangerous and addictive. Unfortunately for them both, Jerry doesn't discover this until he's already started drinking.
It's like nothing he's ever tasted before.
Jerry has been around for four centuries. He has lived through the Restoration and he has watched the Industrial Revolution change the skyline. He's cut his way through two World Wars worth of blood, dozens of battlefields full of fear, and no one out there has ever tasted like this.
He takes his time, with one slow lick after another - it's wrong to rush a fine wine, after all. In his arms, Charley still struggles, but Jerry hardly notices. It's the squirming of a mouse against a lion. He feels warm all over with every single drop that he takes. It's like being alive again. He can remember what it feels like for his heart to beat; he can remember what it's like to feel something for humanity other than blind disgust.
God, he'd drink this all day if he could.
Around him, his children are waiting restlessly. The scent of Charley's fear is thick in the air, but it's nothing to compared to the taste. If they get a single drop, Jerry isn't sure if he'll be able to get them to stop. Even the command of a sire might not be enough.
"Jerry," one of them whines. "Please, Jerry."
He needs to share. It's supposed to be his role: a provider. He's a family man at heart.
Yet the man in his lap is something different, something new. He's waited four hundred years to earn this. These newbies have waited under a week.
He doesn't want to spoil them, that's all. He doesn't want them to get used to rich blood too early.
Reluctantly, he lifts his lips from the wound on Charley's neck. "Go hunt," he growls. It's about time they learned.
As a fleet of young vampires charge into the suburbs unsupervised, Jerry returns his attention to the prey he's been left with. Charley's skin is pale, but he hasn't lost too much blood; Jerry is an expert at making his meals last. He runs the back of his fingers over the wound - the blood is already slowing down. He'll have a scab and if Jerry is lucky it'll scar. It isn't fatal.
"What are you?" he murmurs, stroking his fingers back and forth over Charley's neck. Every brush makes the fear flowing from him spike - stronger, until the mere scent of it is enough to make Jerry moan. If the kid keeps this up, he's going to lose his mind. "You're not human. You can't be."
"Let me go," Charley growls between his clenched teeth.
Jerry chuckles. He looks over the young man's face: he looks human enough. Then again, the same can be said for Jerry when he doesn't have his fangs out.
"Your fear," he says, "I've never tasted anything like it."
Charley's face distorts into a disgusted expression, and he makes another useless attempt at wriggling free. This time, he nearly manages to jut his elbow into Jerry's gut - but only nearly. Close, but not enough.
"This will be easier for you if you just tell me the truth," Jerry reminds him. "With the way you're smelling right now, I'd be surprised if half the vampires in the US don't come looking for you. I can control my own fledglings. I can't control someone else's."
Charley's eyes widen and - god, there it is again, that low-level dread that makes Jerry's mouth water. "How many of you are there?"
Jerry doesn't even bother to shrug. "It's not like we have family reunions." Their numbers have been dwindling, he knows that much - they're not social creatures. Most live and die without creating any new vampires at all. He's going to change all that. "You still haven't answered my question."
"What question?" Charley asks irritably. Jerry smirks and repeats it. "I'm human, dumbass."
"You're not. You can't be." He has sampled the blood across continents and centuries. None of it is like this.
It's a mystery, and that makes Charley interesting - and that is the fine line between life and death.
He nudges Charley to his feet, but keeps a tight grip on his upper arm. With most humans, he wouldn't assume they'd manage to get far if they slipped away. Charley's different. The bastard has too much luck on his side.
He marches him upstairs, paying no attention to the way that Charley drags his feet and refuses to play along. Doesn't matter to him. Charley can waste all the energy he wants fighting and fussing if it makes him feel better. Either way, he's going into one of Jerry's nice white cells.
He tugs him through the closet and down into his line of cells, lifting him off his feet when he starts to fight too much. Legs thrashing and kicking, it's like wrestling with a tantruming toddler. He's shouting loud enough to hurt Jerry's ear-drums and the scent of his fear is fading: all that anger is drowning it out.
Throwing him into the cell at the end, Jerry watches Charley's body fall to the floor with a degree of satisfaction. "Shout all you like," he snarls. "No one's going to hear you in here."
He slams the door before Charley can get to his feet. He hears the dull pounding of Charley's fists against the door and leaves with a satisfied bounce in his step. Things are finally starting to get interesting around here.
*
Jerry holds back a growl as he hears another fight breaking out in the basement. Having Charley in the house, the scent of his blood in the air, is putting everyone on edge.
It's putting him on edge.
"Shut up down there!" he shouts, throwing a half-eaten apple in the direction of the basement door. It hits with a wet crunch and slides down to the ground. At least the fight stops. This time.
The sun is bright outside, so they're trapped in this house until darkness comes. Jerry ought to go and grab some rest, but he can't. His body is too filled with energy - he wants to fight, wants to hurt somebody.
And he's got to keep an eye on the stairs. Whether it's to stop Charley from creeping out, or to stop one of the kids from creeping up, he's got to be ready to defend his boundaries. There's going to be trouble.
The television mutters in the background when he hears a creak on the basement stairs. He tenses and sits forward, his eyes black and ready as he looks towards the door.
It's Amy that slips out and comes towards him, her bare feet quiet and gentle upon the ground. "Hi Jerry," she says, smiling at him in a way that is supposed to make him relax.
It doesn't.
"You should be sleeping," he tells her, even as she comes closer and seats herself on the arm of his chair.
"I can't," she says, running her fingertips along his forearm. "None of us can."
Her hand moves up, over his shoulder and then down onto his chest. It rests where his heart should be beating.
"Can't I have a little taste?" she pleads, while her fingers rub back and forth over the cotton of his t-shirt. "He should be mine, remember."
Jerry's hand catches her wrist and holds it gently - he doesn't clamp down, doesn't break bone, but there's a flicker in her blackened eyes that says she knows he could. "I caught him," he reminds her. "And it's my damn house. You should remember your place."
She grins as if she isn't scared, but he doesn't believe her for a second. "I'm his girlfriend," she says. "Don't I get conjugals?"
"Get your ass back downstairs, Amy," Jerry complains. "Don't make me kick you down there."
She accepts it more gracefully than he had thought she would, getting to her feet once more after placing a light kiss against his forehead. Her blonde hair trails down her back. "Watch your back, Jerry," she warns. "The guys downstairs are getting restless."
She slips away from him once more and he is left with his soaps on television, while his fingers tap restlessly against his knee. Even locked up and subdued Charley is managing to cause trouble. Goddamn kid.
*
Before the sun sets, Jerry carries a tray of food and water to the cells. His head is starting to clear; the scent of Charley's fear is subdued. A glance through the peep-hole tells him why: the guy has finally fallen asleep, his own exhaustion wearing him down.
His knuckles are raw and his fingernails have been bleeding; the door shows signs of extensive attack, but it's sturdy. Jerry's been at this game for longer than Charley's been alive.
He places the tray down on the ground and watches Charley for a few moments, taking in the steady rise and fall of his chest. Peaceful and at rest, it's easier to be around him. Without the cocktail of fear running through his blood, the scent isn't as potent.
Crawling forward on his knees, Jerry closes the space between them. He knows that he needs to let Charley recover if he's to keep him alive for as long as he wants to. Usually, in these cells, humans last for a few days at most.
Charley, he's going to want to keep this one around for as long as possible.
He picks up Charley's arm, which is heavy and loose with sleep. Charley mumbles unhappily, but he doesn't wake up. Lifting the limb to his mouth after glancing at the door, Jerry's tongue laves over his damaged knuckles. The blood is crusted and old - it isn't the fresh perfection that comes straight from the vein. From any other human, he'd never lower himself to this. From Charley, he barely thinks twice about it.
He licks every hint of spilled blood from Charley's hands and then moves to his fingertips, sucking them into his mouth one by one and running his tongue along the nail. If his children could see him now, he thinks he would have to be ashamed - a great predator reduced to a scavenging rat. It isn't right, not for their kind.
When he glances back to Charley's face, he realises that there is something far worse than having the fledgings catch him.
Charley's eyes are open and wary, exhaustion still painted on his features. Jerry allows the last finger to slip from between his lips.
"You weren't lying," Charley says, after they've spent far too long staring at each other with awkward tension.
"About what?"
"My blood." Charley looks down at his hands, licked clean. "It makes you crazy."
"Makes me hungry," Jerry corrects. "It makes the others crazy, yeah. I'm older. I'm more in control."
"You were just licking my hand, man," Charley says. "How in control is that?"
Jerry badly wants to tell the little shit to shut up. He frowns instead and hopes that it doesn't look too hurt. "You still haven't told me what you are," he points out.
"I'm human." Charley hurries to push himself into sitting up. When Jerry passes him the bottle of water from the tray, he looks at it suspiciously but drinks after a hesitant pause. Must've decided that poisoning is the last thing on Jerry's mind. "That's all. Human."
Jerry doesn't think that even Charley believes that any more. "Your Mom smelled human. What about your dad?"
The way that Charley bristles tells him right away that he's onto something. He grins, while Charley shakes his head. "He wasn't anything special either."
"Tell me," Jerry insists. "I want to know everything."
Charley gives him the kind of glare designed to set a person on fire from thirty paces - it's a brand of hatred that only teenagers are able to get away with. "He was a jackass who walked out before I could even walk. I don't remember him."
Jerry can smell that rage and neglect on the air, all that buried pain, but it's not what he's after. "So he must be where it comes from. Whatever it is that's in your blood - it's because of him."
"Great," Charley mutters. "Yet another thing to thank him for."
If Jerry ever meets the man, he'll shake his hand and applaud him on a job well done - shortly before tearing his throat out and feasting on all that pure blood. If Charley's the half-breed, his old man must be amazing.
Charley drinks and greedily devours the food Jerry brought him, while Jerry watches him shamelessly. "Rest up," he advises when Charley is done. "You're gonna need your strength."
It's a fight to lock him up again - Charley might accept the hospitality of food and water, but apparently he's not so far gone that he won't fight against renewed captivity. It's over quickly and Jerry locks the door while Charley is still on the floor inside, nursing bruised ribs.
He hasn't fed from him tonight.
Jerry's counting that as a victory.
*
He's never liked the thought of being an addict.
There's something messy about it, something uncontrolled. Jerry has never thought of himself as out of control before.
Yet that damn kid's blood is pushing him to his limits.
His skin feels too tight and his thoughts are hardly his own, taken over by hunger instead. In four centuries, he's never felt anything like this - it's intense, far too intense. He can hardly rest at all.
He doesn't go far from the house to hunt. There are slim pickings in the neighbourhood these days, but he makes do with what he has. After one taste from Charley, all other blood is like ash in his mouth. It's barely worth the mild effort that it takes to catch them.
He drops the body of his latest victim, a middle-aged business man, to the ground and doesn't hide his delighted grin as he wipes his hand over his chin. It does nothing more than smear the blood and cover his fingers with it.
He's so lost in the buzz of the kill, if not exactly the taste itself, that he misses the light footsteps behind him. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything," asks a voice from behind him, amusement in every word.
Jerry's shoulders tense. He knows that voice. Knows it too well.
"I heard you were in Europe," Jerry says, turning around to face her.
Victoria looks exactly as he remembers her: sweet, small and psychotic. Together they had cut their way through the colonies in the nineteenth century. It doesn't reassure him to see her now.
"And I heard that you've found yourself the sweetest treat in the world," she says, moving closer to him. She looks down at the crumpled body at his feet. "Although if this is what you're feeding from these days, maybe the rumours are false."
"Must be," Jerry agrees.
No way in hell is he allowing her anywhere near Charley. He's seen what she does when she gets hungry - it isn't pretty, even by a vampire's standards.
She watches him, her eyes black and unknowable. "I won't be the only one to come looking," she says. "There will be others. They might not be as nice as me."
"Since when are you nice?" Jerry asks.
She smiles - he can already see the pin-pricks of her fangs. "I haven't torn your throat out yet, have I?"
She has a point.
Jerry feels a plastic grin on his face, never wavering. "Doesn't matter anyway," he says. "I don't have what you're looking for."
She smiles and backs off a step or two. "Of course you don't," she agrees insincerely. "So sorry to have troubled you. Maybe I'll pay you a house-call sometime soon?"
His upper lip curls and he feels a growl grate out of the centre of his chest. Doesn't mean to do it. Can't control it.
With a trickle of laughter Victoria leaves, tossing nothing more than an absent wave in Jerry's direction. He flinches all the same, and knows he has to rush home.
*
Before he even enters the house, he can tell that something is wrong. The place stinks of fear - that rich, sweet scent of Charley when he's terrified. It makes Jerry's mouth water, but there's more to think of than hunger.
Bursting through his own front door, he practically knocks it from its hinges. Doesn't stop for a second as he speeds up the stairs, images of the bloodshed he and Victoria caused together running through his mind. He remembers the blood and the gore, the tears and the screams; he remembers laughing against ripped jugulars and loving it. He'd still love it - but not this kid.
He kicks in the door Charley's cell, and it gives him a small fraction of relief that it isn't Victoria's small form that he finds in there.
Only a fraction.
It's Mark. It's one of his.
Mark has Charley pinned against the white wall, his hands clenching on Charley's upper arms. The scent of Charley's blood is so thick in the room that Jerry has to cling to the door-jam when it hits him. It travels straight to his cock, but that isn't what he's thinking about when his fangs spring forth and his true face extends.
Forward in a flash, he grabs Mark by the shoulder and throws him back across the room. As Charley slides down to the floor, Jerry prowls forward to his childe, towering over him like the boogyman himself. "I ought to snap your neck," he says, the words slurred around his fangs. "If you're still in my goddamn house when the sun comes up, I will kill you."
Mark bares his fangs at him, still crouched on the ground, but all it takes is one false-start towards him to make him get up and run. There's one thing to be said for cowards: they're smart.
When his hearing confirms that Mark has left the house, no longer an issue, Jerry turns back to Charley and kneels down beside him, turning his head to the side to look at the damage. Fledglings tend to be messy eaters - this is no different.
He places Charley's hand against the wound on his neck and orders him to stay where he is. There and back again within seconds, he collects the first aid kit from his bathroom - he's always wondered why he bothered keeping it around. Now he knows. Sometimes, just sometimes, there's a human that he wants to keep alive.
The wound looks worse than it is, thankfully. Charley winces every time that Jerry so much as brushes near it, but for all the mess and all the blood he'll be alright. "Drink plenty," Jerry instructs, crouched in front of him with a bottle of water in hand. Charley has a brilliantly white square of gauze taped to his neck, and his skin is paler than milk, but other than that he'll be fine. This time, anyway.
Jerry can hear the others downstairs, restless and antsy. This house is a live volcano, waiting to blow.
"We can't stay here," he admits reluctantly, thinking aloud. "Come tomorrow, they're going to follow Mark's example."
And that isn't even to mention Victoria. If it comes down to a straight fight between the pair of them, Jerry knows he'll win - but she's hardly known for playing fair.
"Just let me go," Charley says, clutching onto the water bottle like it's the only thing keeping him alive. "Please, Jerry. Let me go."
Jerry's jaw clenches. "You wouldn't last a minute," he says eventually.
Charley is human. Pathetically, weakly, perfectly human. Whatever taste his dad's blood brought him, it doesn't offer any protection. It's a wonder that his heart has kept beating as long as it has.
Charley gives a laugh that sounds as dry as sandpaper. "Are you protecting me?" he asks incredulously. "'cause I have to say you suck at it."
Jerry grins. "I didn't say I was protecting you," he says. "I'm keeping you. And I don't like sharing."
Just blood, that's all the kid is. Doesn't matter if Jerry's starting to like that sharp humour or idiotic bravery. Doesn't matter if he's starting to like more than just his taste. When it comes down to it, he's got to be food and little else.
They've got a few extra hours until sunlight. If they go now, they'll be able to get some distance behind them and he will still have time to find somewhere to hole up before the sun rose.
"Can you stand?" he asks.
Charley looks down at his legs with weary determination, as if the simple act of standing might be too much for him. "Yes," he says anyway.
Jerry stifles the urge to ruffle his hair or praise him. Charley isn't one of his fledglings, and right now Jerry is glad for that. "Then come on. We'll grab some clothes for you on the way out." They can't have Charley wandering around with blood-stained clothes. Forget the human attention it might draw: worse than that, the scent is like a siren's call.
Jerry helps Charley to get up and then guides him through his house, helping him to get into some of his over-sized clothes. Jerry's t-shirt seems to swamp Charley's torso, drowning him in material; he bites back a groan of satisfaction, as the sight confirms that Charley is his now. If he can keep hold of him, Charley's never going to get away.
He doesn't tell the kids in the basement that he's going; he can't even stop to say goodbye to Amy, as much as he's tempted to. Too much of a risk. He doesn't have time for an argument.
*
He aims for the horizon and drives until he can feel the first hints of the sun's arrival. That's when he pulls in at a motel and gets a room for the pair of them.
Thick curtains and a bolt on the door are fair enough protection, although with very little effort he tugs the wardrobe in front of the window and the chest of drawers in front of the door. With the sun starting to come up, he doesn't have to worry about other vampires getting in. That doesn't mean that he shouldn't worry about Charley getting out.
Charley watches every movement that he makes with sharp, careful eyes, but he doesn't rush at him. Doesn't try to fight. It looks like he's finally learning - and that's probably a bad thing. At least when he could rely on Charley to struggle he knew what to expect. If he's quiet and he's planning, Jerry doesn't know what he might get up to next.
"How're you feeling?" he asks. "Light-headed? Ill?"
"I'm okay." He looks better, anyway. Not so pale, not quite as dead. The colour is coming back to his skin, like a black-and-white picture coming to life. "Where are we going?"
"I've not thought of that yet," Jerry admits. Life as a vampire has to be nomadic: if he stays in one place for long, food starts to get scarce. Questions start to get asked. It's best to keep moving.
He takes a seat on the bed, kicking his shoes off and swinging his legs up onto the mattress. Charley stays on his feet and hangs awkwardly near the door. Jerry doesn't know what to do with him any more: it had been easier when they were simply fighting. That had been fun too.
"You think I could feed from you?" he asks. "I don't need much." He's already fed tonight. This isn't about need: this is about cravings and boredom and Charley's sweet fear.
Charley frowns. "You ask for permission now?"
Jerry doesn't want to answer. He has the horrible impression that Charley is taming him, civilising him - he's a vampire, he should take what he wants. Instead he's resting passively and asking for it. Any day now Charley will expect him to beg.
"I could come over there and force you," he reminds him - because he isn't a good guy. He isn't Charley's night in shining armour and he isn't his goddamn hero. "I'm giving you a choice." Not a choice in whether or not it happens, but how it happens, and how sore it has to be. Jerry considers that pretty damn charitable.
"Not much of one," Charley complains anyway. He starts walking slowly towards the bed anyway. "Do you have to take it from my neck?"
Charley already has a heavy dressing on his neck from Mark's attention earlier, along with healing wounds from the last time Jerry drank from him. By the time Jerry's done with him, he's going to be littered with scars: a thousand marks over his skin proving that he's Jerry's property. There's something about that thought that sends a hot arrow of delight throughout Jerry's body. It feels right.
"I don't want much," he says. He wants the taste, not the sustenance.
Charley lingers by the side of the bed, seemingly uncertain about what to do next. Jerry reaches out and guides him down onto the bed, taking him between his spread legs. Stiff as a board, Charley leans against him, his back against Jerry's chest as they lie together on the hotel bed.
Jerry can feel the heat of him all over, the life; it's over-powering. He takes hold of Charley's left hand and leads it over his right shoulder, crossing his arm over his chest. That mouth-watering fear is starting to exude from his skin again. Jerry's stomach growls in anticipation.
He spreads Charley's thumb and forefinger apart and sucks the web between them into his mouth. Charley's fingers rest gently on his face, the tips skimming against the stubble on his jaw. All it takes is one bite for the blood to rise forth and fill his mouth, a hot gush of flavour that makes him moan.
He teases the wound with his tongue and sucks away every drop of blood that beads from the shallow wounds. Against him, he feels Charley tense and release, flinching and relaxing in turns. He wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him tighter against him, holding on as he tastes him. Charley doesn't struggle this time.
Instead, Jerry hears Charley murmur his name. He's never heard that tone in Charley's voice before - tense and strained. It's almost like pain, but he has heard Charley's pain before. He has caused most of it. This is softer.
Curiously, he shifts his hand down from Charley's waist while he continues to lap at the wound on his hand. Down, he strokes his hand over Charley's crotch - and finds him hard and wanting. It makes him grin, his teeth red and blood-stained.
"Don't say anything," Charley grits between clenched teeth.
Jerry chuckles at the back of his throat and grinds the heel of his hand against Charley's groin. There's a different scent to him now, a different taste - it isn't fear, it's hotter than that, more dangerous and exciting. He licks greedily at what little blood is still beading from the bite-mark. Charley's breathing starts to labour, loud and heavy as he grinds up against Jerry's hand, doing most of the work himself.
Sweet blood in his mouth and an attractive human pressed up against him: Jerry has certainly had worse days.
*
He wakes up when the sun starts to go down to the sound of Charley in the shower next door. It's tempting to go and join him; he could slip in and nibble on that pale neck while he makes him moan and shudder like he had that morning.
They don't have time for distractions.
He wants to get as much distance behind them as possible.
After he hammers impatiently on the door, Charley comes out fully dressed with his hair still dripping. His borrowed clothes stick to him in damp patches, but maybe modesty is worth more than comfort. "I've been thinking," he says. That alone is enough to make Jerry's stomach sink. "I want some weapons."
Jerry hikes an eyebrow. "Don't be an idiot."
"It's not for you," Charley says. "Right now, you're one of the few things standing between me and whatever other vampires are after me. I could do with a body-guard. But if someone attacks us, I need to be able to defend myself."
It's a stupid argument. If they're attacked by another vampire and Jerry can't fight it off, Charley isn't going to have a damn chance. He's going to be drained and killed in seconds.
Yet he can't see much harm in it, exactly.
"I want something in return," Jerry says. A grin spreads its way onto his face. "If I give you a weapon, what do I get?"
Charley frowns and looks down at his bandaged hand. "You can feed from me," he says with a shrug.
"I can do that anyway."
"Yeah," Charley agrees. He looks up, a smug little smile on his face. "But you like it more when I want you to do it."
Jerry remembers last night, and the way that Charley had felt against him - warm and pliant, willing and giving. Desire had tasted even better than the fear had. It's dangerous that Charley knows that: Jerry feels like a dog on a leash, like he's being tamed bit by bit. It's getting hard to tell who exactly is the prisoner here.
"I want your mouth too," he states, because he wants more out of this deal - he wants to throw Charley off-balance. "I'll arm you, but when we make it to the next motel you get down on your knees and you suck my cock. We got a deal?"
He feels like he's standing on solid ground once more as he takes in the sight of Charley's wide, surprised eyes. The little bastard hadn't seen that coming. Yet he takes it in his stride, shrugging once more as he plasters over his surprise. "Deal," he says. "Let's go."
Jerry has to move the furniture from the door in order to let them out, while Charley stands back and watches him.
They walk out into the night side by side. Jerry no longer knows how this works: he doesn't know if Charley is stuck with him because of his fear, or if Jerry is stuck with Charley because of his addiction.
There's only one thing he knows: his future, dark and violent, drowns in the scent of Charley's blood.
Pairing: Charley/Jerry
Word Count: 5300
Rating: R
A/N: Written for the "food" square of my kink_bingo card, and a prompt from the Fright Night kink meme.
Summary: There is something different about Charley's fear: something dangerous and addictive. Unfortunately for them both, Jerry doesn't discover this until he's already started drinking.
It's like nothing he's ever tasted before.
Jerry has been around for four centuries. He has lived through the Restoration and he has watched the Industrial Revolution change the skyline. He's cut his way through two World Wars worth of blood, dozens of battlefields full of fear, and no one out there has ever tasted like this.
He takes his time, with one slow lick after another - it's wrong to rush a fine wine, after all. In his arms, Charley still struggles, but Jerry hardly notices. It's the squirming of a mouse against a lion. He feels warm all over with every single drop that he takes. It's like being alive again. He can remember what it feels like for his heart to beat; he can remember what it's like to feel something for humanity other than blind disgust.
God, he'd drink this all day if he could.
Around him, his children are waiting restlessly. The scent of Charley's fear is thick in the air, but it's nothing to compared to the taste. If they get a single drop, Jerry isn't sure if he'll be able to get them to stop. Even the command of a sire might not be enough.
"Jerry," one of them whines. "Please, Jerry."
He needs to share. It's supposed to be his role: a provider. He's a family man at heart.
Yet the man in his lap is something different, something new. He's waited four hundred years to earn this. These newbies have waited under a week.
He doesn't want to spoil them, that's all. He doesn't want them to get used to rich blood too early.
Reluctantly, he lifts his lips from the wound on Charley's neck. "Go hunt," he growls. It's about time they learned.
As a fleet of young vampires charge into the suburbs unsupervised, Jerry returns his attention to the prey he's been left with. Charley's skin is pale, but he hasn't lost too much blood; Jerry is an expert at making his meals last. He runs the back of his fingers over the wound - the blood is already slowing down. He'll have a scab and if Jerry is lucky it'll scar. It isn't fatal.
"What are you?" he murmurs, stroking his fingers back and forth over Charley's neck. Every brush makes the fear flowing from him spike - stronger, until the mere scent of it is enough to make Jerry moan. If the kid keeps this up, he's going to lose his mind. "You're not human. You can't be."
"Let me go," Charley growls between his clenched teeth.
Jerry chuckles. He looks over the young man's face: he looks human enough. Then again, the same can be said for Jerry when he doesn't have his fangs out.
"Your fear," he says, "I've never tasted anything like it."
Charley's face distorts into a disgusted expression, and he makes another useless attempt at wriggling free. This time, he nearly manages to jut his elbow into Jerry's gut - but only nearly. Close, but not enough.
"This will be easier for you if you just tell me the truth," Jerry reminds him. "With the way you're smelling right now, I'd be surprised if half the vampires in the US don't come looking for you. I can control my own fledglings. I can't control someone else's."
Charley's eyes widen and - god, there it is again, that low-level dread that makes Jerry's mouth water. "How many of you are there?"
Jerry doesn't even bother to shrug. "It's not like we have family reunions." Their numbers have been dwindling, he knows that much - they're not social creatures. Most live and die without creating any new vampires at all. He's going to change all that. "You still haven't answered my question."
"What question?" Charley asks irritably. Jerry smirks and repeats it. "I'm human, dumbass."
"You're not. You can't be." He has sampled the blood across continents and centuries. None of it is like this.
It's a mystery, and that makes Charley interesting - and that is the fine line between life and death.
He nudges Charley to his feet, but keeps a tight grip on his upper arm. With most humans, he wouldn't assume they'd manage to get far if they slipped away. Charley's different. The bastard has too much luck on his side.
He marches him upstairs, paying no attention to the way that Charley drags his feet and refuses to play along. Doesn't matter to him. Charley can waste all the energy he wants fighting and fussing if it makes him feel better. Either way, he's going into one of Jerry's nice white cells.
He tugs him through the closet and down into his line of cells, lifting him off his feet when he starts to fight too much. Legs thrashing and kicking, it's like wrestling with a tantruming toddler. He's shouting loud enough to hurt Jerry's ear-drums and the scent of his fear is fading: all that anger is drowning it out.
Throwing him into the cell at the end, Jerry watches Charley's body fall to the floor with a degree of satisfaction. "Shout all you like," he snarls. "No one's going to hear you in here."
He slams the door before Charley can get to his feet. He hears the dull pounding of Charley's fists against the door and leaves with a satisfied bounce in his step. Things are finally starting to get interesting around here.
*
Jerry holds back a growl as he hears another fight breaking out in the basement. Having Charley in the house, the scent of his blood in the air, is putting everyone on edge.
It's putting him on edge.
"Shut up down there!" he shouts, throwing a half-eaten apple in the direction of the basement door. It hits with a wet crunch and slides down to the ground. At least the fight stops. This time.
The sun is bright outside, so they're trapped in this house until darkness comes. Jerry ought to go and grab some rest, but he can't. His body is too filled with energy - he wants to fight, wants to hurt somebody.
And he's got to keep an eye on the stairs. Whether it's to stop Charley from creeping out, or to stop one of the kids from creeping up, he's got to be ready to defend his boundaries. There's going to be trouble.
The television mutters in the background when he hears a creak on the basement stairs. He tenses and sits forward, his eyes black and ready as he looks towards the door.
It's Amy that slips out and comes towards him, her bare feet quiet and gentle upon the ground. "Hi Jerry," she says, smiling at him in a way that is supposed to make him relax.
It doesn't.
"You should be sleeping," he tells her, even as she comes closer and seats herself on the arm of his chair.
"I can't," she says, running her fingertips along his forearm. "None of us can."
Her hand moves up, over his shoulder and then down onto his chest. It rests where his heart should be beating.
"Can't I have a little taste?" she pleads, while her fingers rub back and forth over the cotton of his t-shirt. "He should be mine, remember."
Jerry's hand catches her wrist and holds it gently - he doesn't clamp down, doesn't break bone, but there's a flicker in her blackened eyes that says she knows he could. "I caught him," he reminds her. "And it's my damn house. You should remember your place."
She grins as if she isn't scared, but he doesn't believe her for a second. "I'm his girlfriend," she says. "Don't I get conjugals?"
"Get your ass back downstairs, Amy," Jerry complains. "Don't make me kick you down there."
She accepts it more gracefully than he had thought she would, getting to her feet once more after placing a light kiss against his forehead. Her blonde hair trails down her back. "Watch your back, Jerry," she warns. "The guys downstairs are getting restless."
She slips away from him once more and he is left with his soaps on television, while his fingers tap restlessly against his knee. Even locked up and subdued Charley is managing to cause trouble. Goddamn kid.
*
Before the sun sets, Jerry carries a tray of food and water to the cells. His head is starting to clear; the scent of Charley's fear is subdued. A glance through the peep-hole tells him why: the guy has finally fallen asleep, his own exhaustion wearing him down.
His knuckles are raw and his fingernails have been bleeding; the door shows signs of extensive attack, but it's sturdy. Jerry's been at this game for longer than Charley's been alive.
He places the tray down on the ground and watches Charley for a few moments, taking in the steady rise and fall of his chest. Peaceful and at rest, it's easier to be around him. Without the cocktail of fear running through his blood, the scent isn't as potent.
Crawling forward on his knees, Jerry closes the space between them. He knows that he needs to let Charley recover if he's to keep him alive for as long as he wants to. Usually, in these cells, humans last for a few days at most.
Charley, he's going to want to keep this one around for as long as possible.
He picks up Charley's arm, which is heavy and loose with sleep. Charley mumbles unhappily, but he doesn't wake up. Lifting the limb to his mouth after glancing at the door, Jerry's tongue laves over his damaged knuckles. The blood is crusted and old - it isn't the fresh perfection that comes straight from the vein. From any other human, he'd never lower himself to this. From Charley, he barely thinks twice about it.
He licks every hint of spilled blood from Charley's hands and then moves to his fingertips, sucking them into his mouth one by one and running his tongue along the nail. If his children could see him now, he thinks he would have to be ashamed - a great predator reduced to a scavenging rat. It isn't right, not for their kind.
When he glances back to Charley's face, he realises that there is something far worse than having the fledgings catch him.
Charley's eyes are open and wary, exhaustion still painted on his features. Jerry allows the last finger to slip from between his lips.
"You weren't lying," Charley says, after they've spent far too long staring at each other with awkward tension.
"About what?"
"My blood." Charley looks down at his hands, licked clean. "It makes you crazy."
"Makes me hungry," Jerry corrects. "It makes the others crazy, yeah. I'm older. I'm more in control."
"You were just licking my hand, man," Charley says. "How in control is that?"
Jerry badly wants to tell the little shit to shut up. He frowns instead and hopes that it doesn't look too hurt. "You still haven't told me what you are," he points out.
"I'm human." Charley hurries to push himself into sitting up. When Jerry passes him the bottle of water from the tray, he looks at it suspiciously but drinks after a hesitant pause. Must've decided that poisoning is the last thing on Jerry's mind. "That's all. Human."
Jerry doesn't think that even Charley believes that any more. "Your Mom smelled human. What about your dad?"
The way that Charley bristles tells him right away that he's onto something. He grins, while Charley shakes his head. "He wasn't anything special either."
"Tell me," Jerry insists. "I want to know everything."
Charley gives him the kind of glare designed to set a person on fire from thirty paces - it's a brand of hatred that only teenagers are able to get away with. "He was a jackass who walked out before I could even walk. I don't remember him."
Jerry can smell that rage and neglect on the air, all that buried pain, but it's not what he's after. "So he must be where it comes from. Whatever it is that's in your blood - it's because of him."
"Great," Charley mutters. "Yet another thing to thank him for."
If Jerry ever meets the man, he'll shake his hand and applaud him on a job well done - shortly before tearing his throat out and feasting on all that pure blood. If Charley's the half-breed, his old man must be amazing.
Charley drinks and greedily devours the food Jerry brought him, while Jerry watches him shamelessly. "Rest up," he advises when Charley is done. "You're gonna need your strength."
It's a fight to lock him up again - Charley might accept the hospitality of food and water, but apparently he's not so far gone that he won't fight against renewed captivity. It's over quickly and Jerry locks the door while Charley is still on the floor inside, nursing bruised ribs.
He hasn't fed from him tonight.
Jerry's counting that as a victory.
*
He's never liked the thought of being an addict.
There's something messy about it, something uncontrolled. Jerry has never thought of himself as out of control before.
Yet that damn kid's blood is pushing him to his limits.
His skin feels too tight and his thoughts are hardly his own, taken over by hunger instead. In four centuries, he's never felt anything like this - it's intense, far too intense. He can hardly rest at all.
He doesn't go far from the house to hunt. There are slim pickings in the neighbourhood these days, but he makes do with what he has. After one taste from Charley, all other blood is like ash in his mouth. It's barely worth the mild effort that it takes to catch them.
He drops the body of his latest victim, a middle-aged business man, to the ground and doesn't hide his delighted grin as he wipes his hand over his chin. It does nothing more than smear the blood and cover his fingers with it.
He's so lost in the buzz of the kill, if not exactly the taste itself, that he misses the light footsteps behind him. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything," asks a voice from behind him, amusement in every word.
Jerry's shoulders tense. He knows that voice. Knows it too well.
"I heard you were in Europe," Jerry says, turning around to face her.
Victoria looks exactly as he remembers her: sweet, small and psychotic. Together they had cut their way through the colonies in the nineteenth century. It doesn't reassure him to see her now.
"And I heard that you've found yourself the sweetest treat in the world," she says, moving closer to him. She looks down at the crumpled body at his feet. "Although if this is what you're feeding from these days, maybe the rumours are false."
"Must be," Jerry agrees.
No way in hell is he allowing her anywhere near Charley. He's seen what she does when she gets hungry - it isn't pretty, even by a vampire's standards.
She watches him, her eyes black and unknowable. "I won't be the only one to come looking," she says. "There will be others. They might not be as nice as me."
"Since when are you nice?" Jerry asks.
She smiles - he can already see the pin-pricks of her fangs. "I haven't torn your throat out yet, have I?"
She has a point.
Jerry feels a plastic grin on his face, never wavering. "Doesn't matter anyway," he says. "I don't have what you're looking for."
She smiles and backs off a step or two. "Of course you don't," she agrees insincerely. "So sorry to have troubled you. Maybe I'll pay you a house-call sometime soon?"
His upper lip curls and he feels a growl grate out of the centre of his chest. Doesn't mean to do it. Can't control it.
With a trickle of laughter Victoria leaves, tossing nothing more than an absent wave in Jerry's direction. He flinches all the same, and knows he has to rush home.
*
Before he even enters the house, he can tell that something is wrong. The place stinks of fear - that rich, sweet scent of Charley when he's terrified. It makes Jerry's mouth water, but there's more to think of than hunger.
Bursting through his own front door, he practically knocks it from its hinges. Doesn't stop for a second as he speeds up the stairs, images of the bloodshed he and Victoria caused together running through his mind. He remembers the blood and the gore, the tears and the screams; he remembers laughing against ripped jugulars and loving it. He'd still love it - but not this kid.
He kicks in the door Charley's cell, and it gives him a small fraction of relief that it isn't Victoria's small form that he finds in there.
Only a fraction.
It's Mark. It's one of his.
Mark has Charley pinned against the white wall, his hands clenching on Charley's upper arms. The scent of Charley's blood is so thick in the room that Jerry has to cling to the door-jam when it hits him. It travels straight to his cock, but that isn't what he's thinking about when his fangs spring forth and his true face extends.
Forward in a flash, he grabs Mark by the shoulder and throws him back across the room. As Charley slides down to the floor, Jerry prowls forward to his childe, towering over him like the boogyman himself. "I ought to snap your neck," he says, the words slurred around his fangs. "If you're still in my goddamn house when the sun comes up, I will kill you."
Mark bares his fangs at him, still crouched on the ground, but all it takes is one false-start towards him to make him get up and run. There's one thing to be said for cowards: they're smart.
When his hearing confirms that Mark has left the house, no longer an issue, Jerry turns back to Charley and kneels down beside him, turning his head to the side to look at the damage. Fledglings tend to be messy eaters - this is no different.
He places Charley's hand against the wound on his neck and orders him to stay where he is. There and back again within seconds, he collects the first aid kit from his bathroom - he's always wondered why he bothered keeping it around. Now he knows. Sometimes, just sometimes, there's a human that he wants to keep alive.
The wound looks worse than it is, thankfully. Charley winces every time that Jerry so much as brushes near it, but for all the mess and all the blood he'll be alright. "Drink plenty," Jerry instructs, crouched in front of him with a bottle of water in hand. Charley has a brilliantly white square of gauze taped to his neck, and his skin is paler than milk, but other than that he'll be fine. This time, anyway.
Jerry can hear the others downstairs, restless and antsy. This house is a live volcano, waiting to blow.
"We can't stay here," he admits reluctantly, thinking aloud. "Come tomorrow, they're going to follow Mark's example."
And that isn't even to mention Victoria. If it comes down to a straight fight between the pair of them, Jerry knows he'll win - but she's hardly known for playing fair.
"Just let me go," Charley says, clutching onto the water bottle like it's the only thing keeping him alive. "Please, Jerry. Let me go."
Jerry's jaw clenches. "You wouldn't last a minute," he says eventually.
Charley is human. Pathetically, weakly, perfectly human. Whatever taste his dad's blood brought him, it doesn't offer any protection. It's a wonder that his heart has kept beating as long as it has.
Charley gives a laugh that sounds as dry as sandpaper. "Are you protecting me?" he asks incredulously. "'cause I have to say you suck at it."
Jerry grins. "I didn't say I was protecting you," he says. "I'm keeping you. And I don't like sharing."
Just blood, that's all the kid is. Doesn't matter if Jerry's starting to like that sharp humour or idiotic bravery. Doesn't matter if he's starting to like more than just his taste. When it comes down to it, he's got to be food and little else.
They've got a few extra hours until sunlight. If they go now, they'll be able to get some distance behind them and he will still have time to find somewhere to hole up before the sun rose.
"Can you stand?" he asks.
Charley looks down at his legs with weary determination, as if the simple act of standing might be too much for him. "Yes," he says anyway.
Jerry stifles the urge to ruffle his hair or praise him. Charley isn't one of his fledglings, and right now Jerry is glad for that. "Then come on. We'll grab some clothes for you on the way out." They can't have Charley wandering around with blood-stained clothes. Forget the human attention it might draw: worse than that, the scent is like a siren's call.
Jerry helps Charley to get up and then guides him through his house, helping him to get into some of his over-sized clothes. Jerry's t-shirt seems to swamp Charley's torso, drowning him in material; he bites back a groan of satisfaction, as the sight confirms that Charley is his now. If he can keep hold of him, Charley's never going to get away.
He doesn't tell the kids in the basement that he's going; he can't even stop to say goodbye to Amy, as much as he's tempted to. Too much of a risk. He doesn't have time for an argument.
*
He aims for the horizon and drives until he can feel the first hints of the sun's arrival. That's when he pulls in at a motel and gets a room for the pair of them.
Thick curtains and a bolt on the door are fair enough protection, although with very little effort he tugs the wardrobe in front of the window and the chest of drawers in front of the door. With the sun starting to come up, he doesn't have to worry about other vampires getting in. That doesn't mean that he shouldn't worry about Charley getting out.
Charley watches every movement that he makes with sharp, careful eyes, but he doesn't rush at him. Doesn't try to fight. It looks like he's finally learning - and that's probably a bad thing. At least when he could rely on Charley to struggle he knew what to expect. If he's quiet and he's planning, Jerry doesn't know what he might get up to next.
"How're you feeling?" he asks. "Light-headed? Ill?"
"I'm okay." He looks better, anyway. Not so pale, not quite as dead. The colour is coming back to his skin, like a black-and-white picture coming to life. "Where are we going?"
"I've not thought of that yet," Jerry admits. Life as a vampire has to be nomadic: if he stays in one place for long, food starts to get scarce. Questions start to get asked. It's best to keep moving.
He takes a seat on the bed, kicking his shoes off and swinging his legs up onto the mattress. Charley stays on his feet and hangs awkwardly near the door. Jerry doesn't know what to do with him any more: it had been easier when they were simply fighting. That had been fun too.
"You think I could feed from you?" he asks. "I don't need much." He's already fed tonight. This isn't about need: this is about cravings and boredom and Charley's sweet fear.
Charley frowns. "You ask for permission now?"
Jerry doesn't want to answer. He has the horrible impression that Charley is taming him, civilising him - he's a vampire, he should take what he wants. Instead he's resting passively and asking for it. Any day now Charley will expect him to beg.
"I could come over there and force you," he reminds him - because he isn't a good guy. He isn't Charley's night in shining armour and he isn't his goddamn hero. "I'm giving you a choice." Not a choice in whether or not it happens, but how it happens, and how sore it has to be. Jerry considers that pretty damn charitable.
"Not much of one," Charley complains anyway. He starts walking slowly towards the bed anyway. "Do you have to take it from my neck?"
Charley already has a heavy dressing on his neck from Mark's attention earlier, along with healing wounds from the last time Jerry drank from him. By the time Jerry's done with him, he's going to be littered with scars: a thousand marks over his skin proving that he's Jerry's property. There's something about that thought that sends a hot arrow of delight throughout Jerry's body. It feels right.
"I don't want much," he says. He wants the taste, not the sustenance.
Charley lingers by the side of the bed, seemingly uncertain about what to do next. Jerry reaches out and guides him down onto the bed, taking him between his spread legs. Stiff as a board, Charley leans against him, his back against Jerry's chest as they lie together on the hotel bed.
Jerry can feel the heat of him all over, the life; it's over-powering. He takes hold of Charley's left hand and leads it over his right shoulder, crossing his arm over his chest. That mouth-watering fear is starting to exude from his skin again. Jerry's stomach growls in anticipation.
He spreads Charley's thumb and forefinger apart and sucks the web between them into his mouth. Charley's fingers rest gently on his face, the tips skimming against the stubble on his jaw. All it takes is one bite for the blood to rise forth and fill his mouth, a hot gush of flavour that makes him moan.
He teases the wound with his tongue and sucks away every drop of blood that beads from the shallow wounds. Against him, he feels Charley tense and release, flinching and relaxing in turns. He wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him tighter against him, holding on as he tastes him. Charley doesn't struggle this time.
Instead, Jerry hears Charley murmur his name. He's never heard that tone in Charley's voice before - tense and strained. It's almost like pain, but he has heard Charley's pain before. He has caused most of it. This is softer.
Curiously, he shifts his hand down from Charley's waist while he continues to lap at the wound on his hand. Down, he strokes his hand over Charley's crotch - and finds him hard and wanting. It makes him grin, his teeth red and blood-stained.
"Don't say anything," Charley grits between clenched teeth.
Jerry chuckles at the back of his throat and grinds the heel of his hand against Charley's groin. There's a different scent to him now, a different taste - it isn't fear, it's hotter than that, more dangerous and exciting. He licks greedily at what little blood is still beading from the bite-mark. Charley's breathing starts to labour, loud and heavy as he grinds up against Jerry's hand, doing most of the work himself.
Sweet blood in his mouth and an attractive human pressed up against him: Jerry has certainly had worse days.
*
He wakes up when the sun starts to go down to the sound of Charley in the shower next door. It's tempting to go and join him; he could slip in and nibble on that pale neck while he makes him moan and shudder like he had that morning.
They don't have time for distractions.
He wants to get as much distance behind them as possible.
After he hammers impatiently on the door, Charley comes out fully dressed with his hair still dripping. His borrowed clothes stick to him in damp patches, but maybe modesty is worth more than comfort. "I've been thinking," he says. That alone is enough to make Jerry's stomach sink. "I want some weapons."
Jerry hikes an eyebrow. "Don't be an idiot."
"It's not for you," Charley says. "Right now, you're one of the few things standing between me and whatever other vampires are after me. I could do with a body-guard. But if someone attacks us, I need to be able to defend myself."
It's a stupid argument. If they're attacked by another vampire and Jerry can't fight it off, Charley isn't going to have a damn chance. He's going to be drained and killed in seconds.
Yet he can't see much harm in it, exactly.
"I want something in return," Jerry says. A grin spreads its way onto his face. "If I give you a weapon, what do I get?"
Charley frowns and looks down at his bandaged hand. "You can feed from me," he says with a shrug.
"I can do that anyway."
"Yeah," Charley agrees. He looks up, a smug little smile on his face. "But you like it more when I want you to do it."
Jerry remembers last night, and the way that Charley had felt against him - warm and pliant, willing and giving. Desire had tasted even better than the fear had. It's dangerous that Charley knows that: Jerry feels like a dog on a leash, like he's being tamed bit by bit. It's getting hard to tell who exactly is the prisoner here.
"I want your mouth too," he states, because he wants more out of this deal - he wants to throw Charley off-balance. "I'll arm you, but when we make it to the next motel you get down on your knees and you suck my cock. We got a deal?"
He feels like he's standing on solid ground once more as he takes in the sight of Charley's wide, surprised eyes. The little bastard hadn't seen that coming. Yet he takes it in his stride, shrugging once more as he plasters over his surprise. "Deal," he says. "Let's go."
Jerry has to move the furniture from the door in order to let them out, while Charley stands back and watches him.
They walk out into the night side by side. Jerry no longer knows how this works: he doesn't know if Charley is stuck with him because of his fear, or if Jerry is stuck with Charley because of his addiction.
There's only one thing he knows: his future, dark and violent, drowns in the scent of Charley's blood.