Original -- Space in the Cellar
Title: Space in the Cellar
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 541
Warnings: brief language, brief violence
Prompt: crackling at pulped_fictions
Summary: He should have known better than to make friends.
Author's Note: Just in case there's anyone who's meeting Vincent for the first time, he's everybody's favorite snarky French vampire who seems to get angsty drabbles during the Winterval season.
SPACE IN THE CELLAR
In the first few decades, most vampires have no concept of mortality, presumably because they have ceased to be mortal in the traditional sense. Vincent should have known-should have realized that life is far too heinous for the afterlife to lack a mean streak almost as long as her mother’s.
He should have known better than to make friends.
Then again, Gustave is the kind of “friend” who makes one want to add a question mark to the spelling of the word, certainly after the third time within a month that he’s come banging on the door half an hour before dawn, reeking of liquor and asking if there’s space in the cellar. Sometimes he brings Disreputable Women who cling to his arm and sway on their feet, although it’s difficult to tell whether that’s because they’ve been matching him at the alehouses or because he’s also been sipping from their powdered white necks.
Vincent bites his tongue-gently; he learned that lesson the hard way-and lets the bastard in, because Boston is a huge and teeming city, and he’s still too accustomed to community to know how to be alone.
But the second time a Disreputable Woman staggers out in the middle of the day and leaves all of his windows and doors open to the already-suspicious public, Vincent puts his foot down.
Literally.
On Gustave’s chest.
“Fuck off; I’m sleeping,” Gustave says.
Vincent pushes the heel of his shoe into the soft space just under Gustave’s ribcage.
“Go to hell,” Gustave says, squinting up at him. “I’m awake, all right? That hurts like the Devil, Duval.”
“Know what hurts like the Devil?” Vincent asks, stepping down, partly because he doesn’t want spilt beer seeping through the sole of his shoe. “Being staked by denizens of Boston. For then we meet the Devil, no? No more jolly times with his lady friends; we acquaint with him personally.”
Gustave’s eyes are gray-that is, bloodshot, but with black ichor-and narrowed. “If you don’t want me around, you could say as much.”
Vincent sighs feelingly. “That is not what-”
“No, I know what you meant,” Gustave says, standing with surprising dexterity for one in his state. “And that’s quite all right. I’ll go.”
“Gustave, wai-”
But he’s already at the cellar door, and Vincent is scrambling.
“For once in your life, shut your damned mouth,” Gustave says over his shoulder, wrenching the door open and starting up the stairs.
“Mais c’est-no, I mean-Gustave, stop, listen-”
Gustave shoulders his way through the door at the top of the staircase. “You should have listened a moment ago when I said I was leaving.”
Vincent shrinks back, holding tight to the railing on instinct. “Gustave, please, it’s-”
The door gives way, and the unmitigated light of noon silhouettes the only other vampire in Boston starkly for a moment.
Then he goes up in flames.
There are blisters on Vincent’s exposed skin from the proximity. They start to heal over a little when he retreats to the cellar, but not fast enough for him to bury his face in his hands.
Perhaps he had been the foolish one, for thinking that his humanity was the last thing he would lose.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 541
Warnings: brief language, brief violence
Prompt: crackling at pulped_fictions
Summary: He should have known better than to make friends.
Author's Note: Just in case there's anyone who's meeting Vincent for the first time, he's everybody's favorite snarky French vampire who seems to get angsty drabbles during the Winterval season.
SPACE IN THE CELLAR
In the first few decades, most vampires have no concept of mortality, presumably because they have ceased to be mortal in the traditional sense. Vincent should have known-should have realized that life is far too heinous for the afterlife to lack a mean streak almost as long as her mother’s.
He should have known better than to make friends.
Then again, Gustave is the kind of “friend” who makes one want to add a question mark to the spelling of the word, certainly after the third time within a month that he’s come banging on the door half an hour before dawn, reeking of liquor and asking if there’s space in the cellar. Sometimes he brings Disreputable Women who cling to his arm and sway on their feet, although it’s difficult to tell whether that’s because they’ve been matching him at the alehouses or because he’s also been sipping from their powdered white necks.
Vincent bites his tongue-gently; he learned that lesson the hard way-and lets the bastard in, because Boston is a huge and teeming city, and he’s still too accustomed to community to know how to be alone.
But the second time a Disreputable Woman staggers out in the middle of the day and leaves all of his windows and doors open to the already-suspicious public, Vincent puts his foot down.
Literally.
On Gustave’s chest.
“Fuck off; I’m sleeping,” Gustave says.
Vincent pushes the heel of his shoe into the soft space just under Gustave’s ribcage.
“Go to hell,” Gustave says, squinting up at him. “I’m awake, all right? That hurts like the Devil, Duval.”
“Know what hurts like the Devil?” Vincent asks, stepping down, partly because he doesn’t want spilt beer seeping through the sole of his shoe. “Being staked by denizens of Boston. For then we meet the Devil, no? No more jolly times with his lady friends; we acquaint with him personally.”
Gustave’s eyes are gray-that is, bloodshot, but with black ichor-and narrowed. “If you don’t want me around, you could say as much.”
Vincent sighs feelingly. “That is not what-”
“No, I know what you meant,” Gustave says, standing with surprising dexterity for one in his state. “And that’s quite all right. I’ll go.”
“Gustave, wai-”
But he’s already at the cellar door, and Vincent is scrambling.
“For once in your life, shut your damned mouth,” Gustave says over his shoulder, wrenching the door open and starting up the stairs.
“Mais c’est-no, I mean-Gustave, stop, listen-”
Gustave shoulders his way through the door at the top of the staircase. “You should have listened a moment ago when I said I was leaving.”
Vincent shrinks back, holding tight to the railing on instinct. “Gustave, please, it’s-”
The door gives way, and the unmitigated light of noon silhouettes the only other vampire in Boston starkly for a moment.
Then he goes up in flames.
There are blisters on Vincent’s exposed skin from the proximity. They start to heal over a little when he retreats to the cellar, but not fast enough for him to bury his face in his hands.
Perhaps he had been the foolish one, for thinking that his humanity was the last thing he would lose.