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When Geoffrey McCullum woke, it was the weight on his chest that he noticed first, instead of the burning in his throat, though that was there, and getting more insistent by the second. Jonathan’s arm was slung across his chest, and the man himself was facedown in the pillows next to him. (He was lucky he didn’t need to breathe, as Geoffrey had reminded him on many occasions. Any living man would have smothered themselves by now.)
“Jon,” he croaked out. Reid, leech, traitor is what he meant to say, not the fond nickname that no one else but him could get away with saying. Jon was the name of the man he trusted, the man he loved, and that trust had been broken the second he could see the resolve in his lover’s eyes to turn him instead of letting him go. Jon should have been off the table, but the pathetic syllable was the first thing that sprung to his lips, in an even more pathetic mewl as the hunger grew teeth and shredded his insides, his throat. His mouth felt so dry, and rational thought was drowning under a tide of red.
Jonathan lifted his head, hair still mussed from sleep. The fog in his eyes was quickly replaced by a cocktail of fear, relief, and indisputable love. It was painful for Geoffrey to look at, so he didn’t, instead focusing on the slowly beating heart in the man’s chest, seeing how the arteries radiated out from it in a gorgeous red glow. Fuck, Geoffrey could hear the rush of blood in his veins, could feel the way his fangs extended at the sound. (And that was the problem on its own, the way he already craved so badly.) “Geoffrey?” His name was spoken with a wobbling sort of fragility, the hope contained in the address ready to shatter.
“Thirsty.” It was all he could get out, but understanding had already dawned on Reid’s face. He drew himself up and sat on his heels, knees sinking into the mattress they picked out, towering over Geoffrey. Then, before Geoffrey could get out any more of those pathetic fucking whimpers, Reid reached underneath his armpits to scoop him up, wrapping his arms around his back and pulling him close into some perverted version of the way they usually held each other. Jonathan was holding both of them up, weak as he was at the moment. The doctor ran his hand up his spine, up to the base of his skull, and gently guided Geoffrey’s head towards his exposed neck.
“It’s alright,” he said, rubbing soothing circles in his lover’s hair. He continued murmuring reassurances even as Geoffrey made a choked sound that could have been a gasp or a sob, and bit down.
There were no words. Not for the feeling of blood bursting onto his tongue and finally soothing that damn burning in the back of his throat. There was just a need for more. He drove his fangs in deeper, barely noticing Jonathan’s flinch or the way his fingers tightened in his hair. God, please, he never wanted it to end. He would burn entire cities for this sensation.
“Geoffrey, that’s enough.” He bit down more harshly in response.
The fingers in his hair were growing more insistent, and he growled at the distraction. His own hands tightened around Jonathan’s waist, pulling him closer, newly formed claws digging gashes into the skin. Then he was ripped away, Jonathan flinging him back down to the mattress by his hair. He snarled, ready to lunge and pick back up where he left off, but he was there, pinning his throat with his forearm, caging him in with his body.
“Yield.” His Maker growled.
He stilled.
Clarity filtered through in slow drips as he came back to himself. He stared at the man above him, feeling a swirl of emotions so intense and contradictory that he didn’t know how to begin sorting them out—all he could do was stare into Reid’s chilling grey eyes, the pupils constricted to pinpoints, as the man’s forearm dug into his windpipe. (The windpipe he no longer needed; breathing was optional.)
He remembered he was supposed to be angry. He definitely should be angry, but right now all he had the capacity to do was lick his lips free of Jonathan’s blood. The blood that had poisoned him, that made him like this. He shouldn’t be savoring it. He was exhausted, and he thought, eyeing his maker, so was Jonathan.
“You look like shit.” He said bluntly.
Reid stared at him in utter disbelief, still looming over him on the bed. And then he started laughing, just the barest exhalations of amusement as his forehead met Geoffrey’s chest. His whole body was shaking.
“You’ve been out for three days,” he said by way of explanation.
“I’ve been what,” he snarled. Ah, there was the anger. He was wondering where it went.
“I thought you might not wake up.” His blood boiled at the relief in Reid’s tone.
“I was dead,” he roared, “I shouldn’t be ‘awake’. I should be in the ground!”
“And I couldn’t let that happen,” Jonathan yelled back.
“It wasn’t your choice to make.” He charged his knee into Reid’s stomach, forgetting his new strength until he heard the telltale crack of ribs.
Jonathan rolled off him. “I’m not sorry for doing it. I won’t apologize for saving you.”
“You always think you know what’s best,” Geoffrey spat. “You didn’t save me, you just spread your poison further.”
That wording struck a nerve with Reid, evidently. His shoulders stiffened, his ribs already healing as he stared Geoffrey down.
We are a disease, Jonathan. A sickness that corrupts all it touches. His sister’s memory hissed, still poised over his entranced mother, ready to tear out her throat as Jonathan pleaded with her over her own grave. All we kiss, and all we kill.
“If the alternative was letting you die, then it was best,” he snarled back, louder than her ghost, “I can’t lose anyone else, Geoffrey.” His eyes were wild. First his sister, by his own hand. Edgar, by his folly and Jonathan’s inaction. Elisabeth to the flames and her guilt. His mother to old age and Avery following shortly after, just last spring. Those he cherished turned to dust as he kept on, unchanged through the ages. Geoffrey was the one bright spot left in his shadow of a life, and he was going to hold on to that light with all his strength.
“And who says you haven’t lost me already!” The accusation was punctuated with a punch to his gut, and Jonathan groaned as the not quite healed rib cracked again.
All the fight left Jonathan; whether it was from the words or the blow Geoffrey was unsure. His head rolled as he stared at Geoffrey from atop the bloodied bed. Laid out as he was, he was utterly vulnerable to any attack, any punishment the hunter might inflict. “It doesn’t matter if you hate me,” he murmured, “As long as you’re alive.” Jonathan didn’t blink, watching with a resigned surety that cut him to his now-corrupted soul.
Geoffrey stood. “I’m leaving,” he said stiffly. The vampire’s gaze didn’t leave his face, even as he failed to move from his position on the bed. “Don’t look for me.”
Jonathan finally closed his eyes, turning his face to the ceiling. “If you need me, you know how to find me.”
Geoffrey suddenly became very aware of the bond between the two of them, as if Reid was pulling on a steel hook that was connected directly to his sternum. “Stop that,” he demanded, more unsettled by this than even his need to drink blood. Was he bound to the vampire somehow? Was his will still his own? The sensation eased.
“It goes both ways,” Reid said, words seemingly directed at the ceiling, “If you need to feed, you can drink from me, it’s the least I can do.”
Geoffrey left without another word, leaping off Reid’s balcony in a swirl of shadow. Despite himself, the feeling was exhilarating.