#Cas: *begrudging curiosity*

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

I think that Laios Touden should be dropped into the Supernatural universe, just for a week or two, just to shatter the entire basis of 70% of the plot arcs.

Please can you imagine if "The Man Who Can Figure Out How To Safely Cook And Consume Any Monster" were in spn. most of the show's foundational facts/arcs will no longer function.

Laios breaks spn by existing

[risingsh0t]

hi alyssa i hope your well !! i was thinking L and Y for the oc initials asks if ur still taking these!!!! 🥀💌☺️

thank you leg!! <333

logan campbell: tlou. a mess of a person! he was married to his high school sweetheart, but after she was bitten he attempted to keep her around in hopes that a cure would be created. she managed to escape and (he thinks) killed someone. he's so ashamed of this that he literally tells no one and becomes a closed off soldier in the WLF. however, his mentorship of cyrus (my other oc) softens him Slightly, as he comes to see him as a lowkey son...and falling for olga (your girlie 💕) when he's given the job to protect her, softens him even more. he's still a difficult man to talk to and frankly, a pain in the ass. i have so much respect for the people that put up with him lmaoo, but they make him try harder <3

liana rahayu: dbd. a mortician from ferndale, ca. she worked at her family's funeral home before she was swept away to the realm. before the entity took her, liana had just been responsible for her father's body after he suddenly died (unfortunately they're the closest funeral home around), so that makes it even more difficult to say the least! it gets complicated in the realm bc she crosses paths with an alternate version of herself, one who packed up after her father's death and met danny johnson. but it's not all bad bc she also meets toby 💕 (@auricfog :3)

yaz scarlet: scarlet hollow. very adventurous and outgoing (maybe to a fault, considering the circumstances). she runs an online crochet business that she put on hold to visit her cousin in scarlet hollow. she's a big reader which has made her naturally curious and she can talk to animals! her curiosity and new friends have made it hard to leave, bc she's determined to get answers, but genuinely she'd just love to leave and be safe with kaneeka.

yvaine dibra: vtm. brujah embraced in albania in the mid-1800s. never knew her sire and it fueled her anger that she had to figure out her situation alone. she eventually meets aurelie (@auricfog again 🫶) and becomes her bodyguard (and gf hehe). this pretty much becomes her main priority. she associates with others only to the extent that's needed. through aurelie she does form a begrudging respect and bond with arthur (yours again 🫶), but that's about it. but she has developed an interest in studying biodiversity. she has a pet tortoise and toad.

[demonologist-in-denim]

Schrödinger's Midnight Drive

The empty stretch of road narrows ahead into the all-consuming, soothing darkness of the night. In this impenetrable void, the world is swallowed whole. There is only the spectral consolation of the Impala’s headlights drifting down the asphalt. The subdued rumble and occasional ping from the engine, the faint cast of light across the front seats. Dean stares out into the night, his hand steady on the wheel.

Crowley sits, unnerved, beside him.

Despite the disquiet of the demon, the drive is almost meditative, peaceful. It is a lull in a world of yet another catastrophe crashing into the prevailing chaos. Within this respite, countless potentialities arise out of the darkness and fade away again on this long, indefinite reverie of a highway.

The stretch of road behind them is rutted with old animosities and casual misjudgments, of wary recognition and begrudging acclimation. Small assertions of affinity, hard-hearted attempts at reconciliation. A summer spent escaping stifling guilt, burdensome responsibilities, and constraining self-perceptions. The destruction of a primordial weapon of empyrean power, the Lance of Michael, to save a friend and ontological counterpart. The easy acquiescence and even invaluable assistance dealing with the inceptive hellhound. An entire history of incrementally emerging humanity and reluctant comradery disappearing into the darkness behind them.

In the perpetual silence, Crowley shifts self-consciously. He is unaccustomed to being invited on midnight drives without destinations. Less so, this weighted and fraught silence where banter and reciprocity cloaked as derision often reside. As the road continues to unspool ahead and behind them, Dean can sense the demon’s wordless inquiry, his apprehension.

And still, Dean drives on.

He drives until nothing exists except for this palely illuminated patch of asphalt, eternally suspended in the pitch-black of the night, unending. Until the world is comprised of only the two dark, unresolved figures riding in the dim orbit of the Impala’s front seat. Keeping his eyes on the road, never once looking over at the passenger side. Dean drives until the words come to him.

He says, “There was only one thing that Colette asked of Cain.”

Beside him, Crowley stills.

Dean remembers that brief, consequential conversation only too well. The intensity of the Father of Murder, the centuries of restrained rage boiling up from that cursed brand. And the immense sadness, a stone around his heart. The death of a brother, well-loved and worthy of such a sacrifice. The love of Colette, taken cruelly from him. Cain had spoken of forgiveness with unabashed, disbelieving awe. And it’s requirement.

“And you knew. Without having to be told, you knew what that was.”

Crowley is silent in the seat beside him, tense. Whatever curiosity compelled him to accept Dean’s offer of a companionable ride has curdled into cautious unease.

“To stop,” Dean says, staring intently out into the maw of the night. “Stop killing. Stop the bloodshed, all of the horrible things he’d done. Stop bringing darkness down upon the world.” And then, because Dean knows, “Upon himself.”

Like a forlorn spirit rising out of the shadows that surround them, Dean feels the cold fingers of a memory wrap around him. The clutter of books, their brittle pages perfect tinder. The sound of uncompromising knuckles against yielding flesh, Castiel’s infuriating refusal to fight back. The merciless singing of the angel blade as Dean struck the near-fatal blow.

His grip on the wheel tightens.

“Cas,” he says, half-hoarse from the inescapable haunting of that bloodied, unforgivable recollection. “He asked me to stop. When it was the Mark, and not me, in control. Said, he didn’t want to watch me murder the world. And he was right. About what I would’ve become, what I would’ve done. Far worse than what I already am, that’s for damn sure.”

Dean bites back the sharp bitterness of self-condemnation. The only way to avoid drifting into the darkness, getting lost out here, is to stay on course. It’s not easy. This road is unfamiliar, rough. Dean is determined to continue down it, regardless. He coerces the words, emissaries of his empathy, across a ravaged no-man’s-land of repression and rigorous detachment.

“Thing was, even if I’d have wanted to stop? I wasn’t so sure I could. Or that it was even worth trying, that I was even worth saving.” Dean glances out the driver’s side window, watches the formless night fade by through the ghost of his reflection. “I’m still not sure.”

Dean drives on, letting his words settle into silence. The Impala rumbles softly as the road curves, continues on into the vastness of the night. Side roads and detours appear out of the gloom, road signs and guard rails resolve themselves out of the emptiness only to disappear again. Something small and bright-eyed stares, then skitters across, vanishes before it can take shape. The darkness consumes everything around them, opening up space in such absolute absence.

A quiet, deliberating intensity emanates from Crowley.

Though uncertain of what lies ahead, Dean glances away from the road. He looks to Crowley. And in the silhouette of the man next to him, Dean sees the grief and the exhaustion. The hard realities and emotional complexities being considered with trepidation and irreconcilable turmoil. He sees someone who is striving and yet falling short. And who is willing to strive harder, and who is afraid of failing entirely.

Dean says, “All that crap about self-love? Sometimes that isn’t enough. Sometimes it takes somebody caring about you. Somebody who cares enough to ask you to stop, to fight against that empty hollowness that threatens to swallow you whole. Who looks at all your faults and mistakes, and still thinks there’s enough good in you to be worth something. Someone who gives a damn.”

Crowley turns his head, hesitantly. Across the unreliable shadows, his eyes are round and unguarded, and irrevocably human. Something glimmers in the corners, a reflection of the dashboard’s soft gleam, perhaps. Or something emanating from within, restrained and yet resilient. Crowley swallows, hard. Dean feels his own jaw clench.

“So this is me – asking you.”

They stare at one another through the darkness.

Dean forces his eyes back on the road, surrendering to the cathartic reverberation of the steering wheel under his hand. A pale mist has risen up out of the night. The highway ahead curves again, disappearing into formless void at the edge of his headlights, and he lets it carry him wherever it’s going. Wherever the road goes, that’s where Dean is going. Regardless of how long or hard that road might be. It’s always been worth the drive, in the end.

Dean isn’t sure it will be worth it for Crowley.

“And yeah, you’d lose a hell of a lot. Don’t think I don’t know that. All that power and authority, that feeling of security, of being above it all. Lose all of that, and suddenly your actions have consequences. There’s fear and uncertainty, the messiness of caring about other people. And once you start caring about people, then it hurts when you lose them. Hurts like hell – worse, if you ask me.”

Despite his best efforts, Dean can’t imagine what life would look like if the demon in his passenger seat concedes. The road ahead is fogged over and dark, and Dean honestly doesn’t have a clue where it’s headed. He hopes it’s the way home. He hopes that he and Crowley are driving there together.

He glances over at Crowley, one last time.

“The way I figure it? We’ve still got a ways to go on this road, until we reach the end.”

The contemplative quiet of the night settles inside the Impala. Dean’s words dissipate into the softness of the shadows, the muted putter of the engine, the whisk of the unseen world outside the windows. The grey figure in the passenger seat no longer stirs, only stares out at the night and the road ahead. Pensive, and calculating, and heart-torn.  

Dean’s just going to keep driving, and Crowley can think on it.

He’s going to keep looking straight ahead, hand on the wheel, and leave all the rest behind him on this long, dark road. And when this road ends, or Dean’s done driving down it, he’s going to look over. If Crowley is still there, he won’t have to say a word. Dean will know. And if he’s not there? Well, that’s its own answer, isn’t it?

So Dean just keeps on driving, on into the night.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos on AO3 very much appreciated.  Visit my blog to get the link, as Tumblr is weird about external links.

[elioetoliver]

loving you is no chore, destiel fic, 2.4k

a childhood friends to lovers fic of sorts, partially inspired by  this twitter exchange, and in which dean learns the value of doing chores

Parents have the remarkable ability to make breaks feel like anything but, Dean Winchester learns, visiting home after his first semester away at college. From the moment he stepped foot back in Lawrence, fresh off the tail end of an excruciating week of finals, he was put to work doing chores.

Dean, pick up your brother from Kevin’s house. Dean, wrap these presents for Ms. Missouri down the road. Dean, be a dear and buy the groceries today. Dean, clean the house. Dean, drop this pie off at Bobby’s and Ellen’s (and don’t eat any on the way!).

One task after another, until finally, finally Christmas eve and Christmas day rolled around, and all Dean was expected to do was eat and drink and spend time with his family.

But then his mother opens his bedroom door early on December 26th, tossing a roll of packing tape on his bed with instruction to “clean out your closet before I get back from work,” and he thinks MIT engineering might be a walk in the park compared to being home. Sure, he might be juggling a 21 hour courseload, a part time job at a garage, and a healthy social life at school, but at least that’s all on his own terms.

But alas, he’s in Lawrence through til the new year, and as such, subject to his parents’ every whim. Which is why he’s staring down a closet filled with clothes and shoes and relics from his past at 8 am rather than sleeping in til noon, as God intended college students to do on breaks.

He finds it between his old middle school soccer bag and the Gamecube he got on his 8th birthday, tucked in the far right corner of his closet’s top shelf. An old disposable camera, never developed. Dean has been shoving shit he didn’t know what to do with on that shelf for years now, can’t possibly begin to narrow down where this camera came from or when he used it – if he even ever did. Maybe it was Sammy’s, or Mom’s or something, packed away on accident and forgotten, lost to the ages.

He puts it in the keep pile, and continues sorting through his closet…

…For all of five minutes. At which point curiosity gets the better of him.

He picks up the little plastic camera, turns it over in his hands again and again, inspecting every inch of it, as though careful scrutiny of its exterior will reveal something about the content within. What could it possibly be? Photos from a weekend fishing with Uncle Bobby? Snapshots of a mundane suburban childhood? Moments from a Christmas from years past?

He must know.

He throws on his dad’s old leather jacket (another discovery from the depths of his closet), and pockets the disposable camera.

“Headed to the drug store,” is all he tells Sammy on his way out the house, “be back soon.”

Any excuse to avoid actually doing chores, right?

He recognizes no one from the photographs.

When he went to collect the pictures from the drug store several days after dropping them off, Dean was on edge with nervous anticipation. His mind had conjured infinite possibilities of moments from his life this disposable would unlock, and having had to wait days to find out, he would not delay uncovering the truth any longer. The moment he sat in the impala, in the store’s lot, he rifled through the photos.

They’re from a family vacation – but not his family’s.

There are shots of sunsets, palm trees, and members of a family all dressed in matching blue floral Hawaiian shirts. All of it looks vaguely familiar – the shirts in particular resonate with him something fierce – but the faces strike up no memory. There’s a smiling couple wearing leis and drinking mai tais, a little boy with shaggy brown hair and a lollipop in his mouth in just about every picture he’s featured in, and a girl a little older than him with sharp eyes and flame-red hair.

Who are these people? How old are these photos? Why were they in Dean’s possession? All of it is completely lost on him.

Until he sees his own face staring back at him from the last photo in the stack.

He’s seven, hair sun-bleached and a sea of freckles across his sunburned face. This is from the dinner cruise his family went on in Hawaii over a decade ago, his mind supplies. There’s a framed picture of him looking just like this next to Sammy down in the living room.

But in this picture, Dean’s got a stupid big grin on his face, and his arm around a boy his age with dark messy hair, bright blue eyes and –bingo– another of the matching Hawaiian shirts.  

Dean remembers him vividly. His name eludes him now, all these years later, but he remembers that he had been sitting at the table next to the Winchesters, and between every course of the meal the two of them wandered around the deck and the dining room and disrupted the other passengers with their incessant, delighted throes of laughter. He remembers how the boy’s blue eyes would crinkle at the corners when Dean said something funny, and how he tilted his head in confusion when Dean made Star Wars references. Most of all, he remembers how the big gummy smile the boy wears in the photo, when Dean saw it in person, made his heart flutter and his knees go weak.

It wasn’t until Aaron Bass kissed Dean in the back of the bus when they were twelve that he felt that again, and was able to recognize that the mystery boy he’d known for one night in his youth was his very first crush. He thought about him still, on rare occasion, and though time had erased his features and the finer details of his personality, Dean never forgot that feeling.

And now, seeing his face again, Dean accepts two truths: 1, he has always had excellent taste; 2, he really wants to know where this kid is now. Part of him wonders, perhaps even hopes, that maybe he hasn’t completely forgotten him, either.

He snaps a picture of the photograph, and tweets it along with the caption: “Hey twitter, I met this guy on a dinner cruise in Hawaii in 2006. We were basically best friends for that night and I never saw him again. I wonder what he’s up to. I need y’all to help me find him so I can see how he’s doing now.”

He's not expecting much success, but he’s got no name or anything else to work with. Probably this is his best shot.

Dean woefully underestimated the power of Twitter.

Three days later, his plea to find the boy from the dinner cruise has been retweeted over 20,000 times, and has amassed several hundred replies from people wishing him luck and asking if he’s found him yet. He’s begrudging the fact that, no, he hasn’t, when he refreshes the page and a new reply appears.

It’s a photo of a man holding a framed picture of his family of 5 in matching Hawaiian shirts. The frame obscures part of his face, but his ethereal blue eyes and messy hair perfectly match those of the boy in the picture, and there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that it’s him.

Even with part of his face covered, it’s clear that time has been kind to him. He was cute as a kid, but he’s devastatingly handsome now.

“Heard you were looking for me ;)” the tweet says, and the name on the account reads “Cas.”

“Man, you have no idea,” Dean mutters. He retweets Cas’s reply, then scopes out his profile.

He’s barely finished reading Cas’s bio, which proclaims, “Berklee ’22. Apiarist. Star Wars Enthusiast. Expert Napper.” before he’s sliding into his DMs.

“Hey man!” Dean writes. “Glad I found you. Looks like we both go to school in Boston!”

Dean keeps folding his hands on the table in front of him, then unfolding them when, moments later, they go clammy. He keeps fidgeting. And checking the time. He should’ve ordered a calming tea or something, instead of coffee.

Really, he shouldn’t be this nervous. He’s been on lots of dates, and it was Cas who asked him out, having beat Dean to it. They’ve been talking nonstop since Dean messaged him, and he has no reason to expect this encounter will go poorly. Cas is handsome, funny, and easy to talk to. They’ve got loads of common interests, but enough varied ones to keep things interesting. On paper, Cas is perfect.

Dean is terrified he’s gonna blow it. This reunion of theirs feels impossibly significant to him. He has the chance to reconnect with his first childhood crush who, by some miracle, is also into guys and now lives in his city. It’s like the stars aligned to make this happen for him and there’s so much riding on this meeting and so much pressure for it to go well and Dean has never been so nervous in his life.

Cas interrupts Dean’s mounting panic by walking into the coffee shop. His coat collar is popped against the wind, though his cheeks are still flushed pink from the cold. He scans the crowd for Dean, eyes lighting up in recognition when he spots him. He smiles that same big, gummy smile that absolutely besotted Dean as a kid. It has the very same effect now. As he walks over to Dean’s table, he shrugs off his heavy winter coat, only to reveal –

“You’re kidding,” Dean blurts out when Cas reaches the table, which is not at all the fist thing he wanted to say.

Cas raises an eyebrow, and is evidently biting back a grin. He drapes his coat over the back of his chair. “That bad?”

He’s wearing the blue floral Hawaiian shirt. It’s dated and tacky, and it’s wholly ridiculous attire for winter in Boston. But somehow, unfairly, Cas looks good. The shirt is tucked into his skinny jeans, the sleeves are cuffed, and it is unbuttoned about halfway. Anyone else would look like some wasted indie front man wannabe, but Cas looks hot.

And Dean, despite all reason, thinks he might be in love. “No just,” he laughs, “I can’t believe you’re wearing the shirt.”

Cas shrugs, sliding into his chair. “I wanted you to be able to recognize me. Though to be fair this one’s my dad’s. Mine hasn’t fit in a good 10 years.”

“Wearing your dad’s duds to a first date? Real sexy, Cas.”

“Well, you know,” Cas presses his palms against the tabletop, leans forward ever so into Dean’s space, “how long it’s on me it is entirely up to you.” He then leans back into his chair, ever so coolly, like he didn’t just proposition Dean in a busy coffee shop at 11 am.

Dean’s throat goes dry. He wants so badly to divest Cas of the shirt right now, but instead he says: “Later. But first,” he reaches into his coat pocket, and from it produces the envelope of developed photos. He slides them across the table.

Cas picks up the envelope carefully, then flips through the photographs in quiet reverie.

Dean watches as he takes them in, delighted to see Cas beaming as he looks through them all.

“I was so upset,” Cas says, eventually. “I remember getting back to the hotel that night and realizing I didn’t have the camera anymore. I thought I left it on the boat. Thank you. I cannot believe I’m seeing these right now.” He tucks the photos back in the envelope, then, in turn, tucks it into his own coat pocket for safekeeping. He then fixes Dean a look heavy with intrigue and sincerity, “And I cannot believe I’m seeing you again.”

Dean blushes under the weight of his gaze. “Me neither. I’m just sorry it took so long. I didn’t even know I had the camera ‘til a few weeks ago.”

Cas shakes his head. “It’s ok. I’ve got them now. And anyway,” he winks, “I’d say it was well worth the wait.”

Eight months after cleaning out his closet at home, Dean Winchester is hanging up the articles of clothing that survived the purge next to Cas’s Hawaiian shirt in their shared closet in their new Boston apartment. He’s admiring his work when warm, gentle palms cover his eyes. “I want to show you something,” Cas says. He presses a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. With Cas’s guiding words and careful steps, Dean lets himself be taken into the living room, where he is eventually stopped. “You ready?”

“Born ready, sweetheart.” Dean says. But when Cas takes his hands off Dean’s eyes, reveals his surprise, Dean realizes he was not ready at all. The wall in front of them is covered with framed photos of their friends and family, and at the center of it all is the two of them, seven years old on the dinner cruise.

His heart swells at the sight of it, and he’s overwhelmed, as he often is, by how much he adores this man. He turns around, pulls Cas to him in a desperate, bruising kiss.

Cas pulls away infinitesimally, rests his forehead against Dean’s. “I take it you like it?”

“I love it.” Dean confirms. He kisses Cas’s cheek. “And love you.” His jaw. “So fucking much.” His neck. “Gonna prove it to you, baby.” He palms his boyfriend’s dick through his jeans.

“Later,” Cas says through a moan, and pulls Dean’s hand away. “Later,” he repeats, a bit more sobered and with far more conviction, “I’ll hold you to that. But first we have to unpack the kitchen stuff.” He kisses Dean once more, then saunters off to the kitchen.

There was a time in Dean’s life not long ago when he would have contested that assertion. He’s on break, after all, and only for a few days more. His second year of college starts up Monday. He should be relaxing, for the most part, and only exerting himself to have very noisy, enthusiastic sex with his boyfriend in their new apartment.

But really, he knows he’ll never lament having to do chores again.

In fact, he owes the very best part of his life to them.

[giftofthegodess]

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[unicornmagic]

Vampire shoujo Mischa

@minimoonstar replied to your post:  Aw i’d’ve liked to see vamp Mischa XD;

Oh, well, just for you!   A very belated birthday present?  XD; 

With the disclaimer that the fic as a whole will almost certainly die a WIP due to lost momentum, here's a fragment of the shoujo manga sequel to “Terroir.”   

They met, at Mischa's suggestion, by the piano at Nordstrom.  Will nearly turned and fled before making it through the double doors.  Between work, hiding at home, and dinners with Hannibal, he'd nearly managed to insulate himself from the oncoming holiday, but in a department store there was no escape.  He had to dodge a relentless stream of shoppers--some of whom looked as haggard as he felt--and circumnavigate a display of stylized reindeer clad in garlands and Burberry scarves.  

At the central lounge a white-haired man in jacket and tie was playing "Baby, It's Cold Outside" from memory on the baby grand.  Mischa stood near the piano, flanked by Chiyoh.  At the sight of Will she hopped forward and waved.

"Thank you for agreeing to come," she said.  "Are you feeling better?"

"Still kicking,” said Will.  He didn't add that his condition would improve upon exiting the store.

"I love a good suburban mall,” Mischa said, beaming.  “They feel so authentically American.  Hannibal hates them--I can never persuade him to come."

"So are you here for shopping, or just...tourism?"

"Both," she said.  "This way."

She steered them to the men's coats as if she'd charted the route in advance by GPS.  When she delved into the racks she seemed to know exactly what she was hunting for.  

The coat was grey, neither light nor dark, softly intermediate.  Will touched the material, a blend of cashmere and wool.  It felt good under his fingers.  He could picture Hannibal's fingers on it, Hannibal being the one to slide his hands over the shoulders, down the sleeves.

The label under the collar read "BOSS."  Will tried to imagine being the kind of person who wanted or needed to wear a coat that declared itself "BOSS" in all caps.  He glanced at the price tag and managed not to curl his lip, if only just.  He shed his old jacket and shrugged the coat on.

Mischa's eyes lit, and she clapped her hands together under her chin.

He tried on a few others, mainly at her insistence--a navy peacoat and a topcoat in a darker grey--but in the end they returned to the BOSS.

"It suits you," Mischa said, in a tone that sounded uncannily familiar.  "The fit's not bad for prêt-à-porter.  Do you like it?"

"It's fine," he said.  "It's nice."

She plucked it from his hands and made a beeline for the nearest uncrowded register.

Will lurched after her, taken aback by her speed.  He'd forgotten just how fast her kind could move, even when they were trying not to be obvious.  He reached to grab hold of the coat hanger where it dangled from her arm.

"No, no, hold up.  You can't pay for that."

She paused.  "Can't I?"

"I don't care how old you actually are. I'm not letting a kid in pigtails buy me a six-hundred-dollar coat."

Mischa turned to face him, her expression unfazed and bright.  "I'll tell you a secret, Mr. Graham.  This isn't really a present, and it isn't really for you.  It's gift wrap."

It took him a second to follow.  "You think I'm looking to get unwrapped?"

"I don't know.  Are you?"

Will felt a flush spread over his neck.  "He wasn't kidding when he said you were naughty."

"Honestly, I'm not.  I only want my brother to be happy."

Her eyes shone up at him, clear and brown and earnest.  My weakness, thought Will, how did you know.

"Give me that," he said.  He pulled the coat from her grasp.  She let him drape it over his arm with no further fuss.  For a minute they stood in silence together, waiting in line for the register.  Will spread his hand over the front of the coat.  

Eventually he said, "I haven't gotten him anything."  If he'd thought about it, he wouldn't have assumed he and Hannibal were at the present-giving stage.  Or that he'd be able to suss out anything worth giving to someone who could afford everything.  Trying to choose a bottle of wine to bring when Hannibal made him dinner was enough of an exercise in futility.  Coals to Newcastle.  "I'm not very good at presents."

"Oh, it's easy.  If you want to give my brother something--besides yourself in a handsome coat--ask him for something."

He gave her a sideways look.  "Isn't that backwards?"

"Trust me, Mr. Graham.  I've been his baby sister longer than you've been alive.  He likes to be indulgent.  It's one of his favorite things."

"You should probably be calling me Will," he said. Then, after a pause,  "Not sure how good I am at being indulged.  Not a lot of experience."

"So, why not try it and see?"

Why not, thought Will.

Mischa wandered away, attracted by the herd of Burberry deer.  By the time Will had paid for the coat, she'd disappeared entirely.  It was Chiyoh who came to re-collect him as he strayed among the racks.  

She glanced at the shopping bag on his arm.  "You got what you wanted?"

"She did," said Will.  Chiyoh said nothing, but some of the coolness in her expression seemed to thaw.

Without another word she led him to the entrance of the store and just beyond it, to a kiosk standing in the middle of the mall.  Mischa was there, bent over the kiosk's display case with an expression of abject woe.  She looked so tremulous--comically so--that it was on Will's lips to ask what was wrong, but then she caught sight of him and Chiyoh, and brightened.

"Look what I found!  Will, do you like macarons?"

Approaching the kiosk, he glanced at the rows of colored cookies under the glass.  To his eye they looked like little pastel hamburgers.  He shrugged.

"Never tried one."

It was as if he'd backhanded her across the face.  Even Chiyoh looked at him askance.  Mischa clutched her handbag to her chest.  

"Oh! I'd have brought a box from Ladurée if I'd known.  But you'll try one now, won't you?  Since you wouldn't let me get you the coat.  Chiyoh, erabu no tetsudatte?"

"They won't be any good," said Chiyoh, but she stepped up to survey the flavors as Mischa tugged at her sleeve.

"You don't know that."

Will drew back a pace to give them room, and then another.  It felt like a greater distance.  He watched them standing side by side, near enough to one another that their shoulders bumped: the girl in her pale coat, the woman in the dark one.  How far back would you have to peel those black sleeves, he wondered, before a set of twin fang marks would show? Or the high, stiff collar--how far would that have to bend to expose the bite wound on the neck?

Mischa turned.  She was speaking; he heard the sound of words as if from behind a thick pane of glass or underwater.  She held out her arm.  

There was something in her hand.  It wasn't hers, he knew: she was only the messenger, delivering.  He mirrored the gesture, and she laid the thing in his palm.  He stared down, startled by its starkness, by the deep purplish red against his skin.  The color of contusion.  It weighed almost nothing, and that startled him, too: he'd thought it would be heavier, full as it was.  The insides would be viscous and thick.  

As he stared the thing began to ooze, slowly at first and then with increasing urgency, like a bud unfolding in time-lapse at sickening speed.  The dark red welled and coated his hands--there was no way to contain it--and then the thing pulsed, once, then again, and with a lurch Will realized he'd been wrong to think it dead.  It was alive, all this time, still beating, still alive--

"Will?"

Blood pounded in his ears.  He blinked.  

Bright brown eyes peered up at him.  "Are you all right?  Do you not like raspberry?  We got lots of flavors, if you want to try something else."

The noise in his head receded abruptly, water down a drain.  In its place came the tinny strains of muzak from the nearest store:  the Carol of the Bells.  His collar felt tight around his neck, constricting. His ears and throat were hot.  He passed a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew.  He'd forgotten he was wearing them, his flimsy extra shield against crowds, noise, invasive stares.  

"Sorry," he said.  

Mischa hovered in front of him.  "You don't look well.  Would you like to sit down?  There's a bench just this way, here--"

He let himself be herded.  The front of the bench collided with the backs of his knees.  Once he was seated, Mischa handed off the box of macarons to Chiyoh.

"I'll run and get you both something to drink.  Back in a tic."

In a flash she was gone.  She'd used her true speed, blinking in and out of visibility, like a skipping stone across the surface of a pond.  A few heads turned, but it wouldn't be the first time residents of suburban Baltimore had seen a vampire at the mall, in a rush like any other last-minute shopper.

Will leaned over his knees, waiting for a sense of solidity to return to him.  Chiyoh sat down beside him, placing the box of macarons between them on the bench.  

He licked his lips.  "What was I..."

"You were staring," said Chiyoh, "unresponsive.  As if in a trance."

"For how long?"

"Long enough to seem strange."

He drew a breath and released it slowly.  "Sorry," he said again.  "I'm a little off my feed."

Her eyebrows inclined only slightly, as if to say that any bizarre behaviors he might exhibit were hardly worth troubling herself or anyone else.  

"Hannibal has always had a taste for curiosities," she said.

"Curiosities," echoed Will.  "And what about your taste?"  He jerked his chin at the box of macarons.  "Do you even like those things?"

"They're extremely sweet," she said.

"So let me guess.  You eat the cookie, then cookie monster eats you?"

The stare she leveled at him was a flat, dark wall.

"What I haven't figured out is whether this is standard vampire behavior," Will said, "or Lecter family tradition.  The vicarious consumption."

"Wouldn't you be the expert on vampire behavior?  Considering your work."  Before he could open his mouth again, Chiyoh continued.  "Hannibal had many years to experience life as a human.  Mischa, not so many.  I don't begrudge her anything.  The family takes care of its own."

"But they haven't 'given you the gift.'"

"Not yet."

Mischa returned with a bottle of Perrier and hot tea in a disposable cup.  She passed the tea to Chiyoh and the water to Will, leaning nearer to take an unobtrusive sniff.  She frowned.

"My nose isn't as good as Hannibal's, but I do think you smell feverish.  I'm so sorry, I never should have dragged you out when you're still unwell."

"I'll be okay," said Will.  "Thanks for the water."  He raised the bottle to her in a feeble toast, then unscrewed the cap and drank.  

"It's the least I could do.  You should go and see my brother.  Have him give you a bit more of his blood.  That'll set you right, whatever it is."  She laid her hand on his sleeve with a gentle pat.

Will went still.  

Confusion caught him only for a moment.  The denial, the what do you mean by more died unspoken in his mind.  His eye fixed on the paper cup in Chiyoh's hand.  He remembered Hannibal in the kitchen, the motion of pouring tea obscured by his broad back, by Will's inattention in the moment.  The taste of earth and mineral, subterranean dark.  

His throat closed.  He gripped the neck of the green bottle in his fist.

"Will?"

He couldn't look at her.  He pushed his glasses up on his nose and arranged his mouth into a smile.

"Good idea," he said.

The cold clench of his insides helped to steady him.  When he stood up from the bench he didn't waver on his feet.  Chiyoh stood with him, and Mischa protested:  did he feel well enough to drive?  He hadn't even tried his macaron, he must take it with him.  

Looking down, he found the red thing again in his hand.  He could see now that it wasn't a heart.  He brought it to his mouth.  When he bit into it, the shell crumbled.  The taste was cloying, the texture like sugared ash.

*