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Deacon stops dead in his tracks and Viago walks right into his furry coat.
"Did you hear that?"
"Forget it, Deacon," Vladislav retorts almost immediately, walking past, leather boots echoing in the empty street and hands non-chalantly buried inside the pocket of his trousers.
Viago frowns and looks up to the cloudless sky, looks like it's turning pink from the edges. Quite a night they've had. "I didn't hear anything," he admits, lips forming a pout.
Deacon turns towards the line of trees and sniffs, eyelids closing as he eagerly tries to pinpoint the scent in the air.
Well.
He recognizes the scent alright. He just isn't sure which direction it's coming from.
"That is because you are drunk," Deacon answers, sending Viago a side glance and a sneer that means to be nothing but playful, "and sluggish."
"I am not drunk!"
"Of course you are! That guy couldn't even walk straight! And you have been mumbling in German for the past hour and tripping all over your feet," Deacon shakes his head, teasing, "such a lightweight."
Vladislav has already made it to the crosswalk in the corner. He isn't pleased to see, when he turns around with a groan, that neither one of his friends have moved from the spot.
"Come onnnn, it's late! Deacon, I am not going to babysit you again. It's a full moon. Leave your teasing for some other night."
But Deacon pays him no mind. As Deacon does.
"What is it, old man? Scared of a little dog?"
"It is quite late, I also think we should be going ho—"
But Viago's drowsy agreement gets cut short by Deacon striding over to the opposite sidewalk.
"The moon is about to be gone. They will be like scared little puppies then."
At last it seems Viago's senses catch up with him and he sends Vladislav a pleading look. There's some rolling of eyes and some tired sighing and then Vlad is materializing in front of Deacon and blocking his way. Taller and broader.
"I said no."
Deacon hisses.
"You are not the boss of me!"
And just when Vladislav is about to hiss back and stand his ground, another howl is heard. Much closer, this time. Much louder. A long and painful cry unlike the call of a wolf for its pack. Sudden and desperate and gut-wrenching, like a creature in distress.
It's such an unexpected sound it puts a dramatic end to the vampires' quarrel, Vladislav jerking around as if stunned by it, a half-animalistic half-human whine that pierced the quiet. Only a ten-minute walk from their current location, probably. A five-minute flight.
After it ends, it's eerie silent again.
The neighbourhood sleeps. Crickets halt chirping. A few dogs here and there bark out in response but go quiet all too soon, as if sensing threat themselves — but whatever got that poor sod surely isn't coming for them.
It isn't an easy task to catch a werewolf unaware.
Deacon stands up straight and clears his throat.
"Yeah... yeah, you're right, it's late."
But this time it's Vladislav not tearing his gaze from the woods, not even when Deacon walks his way back to Viago, who's still pinned to the sidewalk with a newfound expression of concern on his face.
Always the sympathetic one.
"Let's go," Deacon says, patting Viago in the arm and walking along.
"That didn't sound good. Maybe we should go have a look," Vladislav mumbles under his breath.
Deacon bares his teeth.
Well, fangs.
"Says the man who was bugging me to get home five seconds ago," he rolls his eyes in exasperation, "it's not our problem! Let them tear each other to shreds!"
"Deacon!" Viago tsks, disapproving, like a father calling his kid to attention.
"What?! One less filthy werewolf to put up with!"
"I will go have a look," Vladislav announces gingerly. And a moment after he disappears from sight in bat form.
Deacon can only stare at the air, raging.
"Oh, so I'm an idiot when I want to go but he can do whatever he likes because ohhhh, he's eight-hundred years old and thinks he's a knight of the crusades! Oh look at me, Vladislav the nosy!"
A nearby window suddenly lights up.
"Dickhead."
"Dion. Dion!"
The brunet shakes his head and turns his sight towards Anton and his bloody, swollen, red and crimson leg with– things poking out like– metal spikes and—
"Fuck. Hey," and Anton manages to grab a handful of his collar and yank him close, "get yourself together, mate. I'm—" hyperventilating. He's hyperventilating. He's still turning back. Reckons he's got about ten minutes of moonlight mojo left, enough that it'll heal just fine. If only he manages to get free of it before that time; that would be ideal.
"I don't know what to do," Dion blurts out all panicky, like one would expect from the youngest one. It's only his fifth full moon and he looks like he's trembling.
Anton wishes someone else would've found him.
"What do I do?"
But it's Dion, and he's here and he's going to have to do.
One of Anton's hands cups the side of his neck and stays there. Bringing Dion closer, he forces a smile and tries to nod in reassurance.
"Just open it, okay? S'okay, gonna be fine. Crack it open and we're done, yeah? We'll go home and sleep the night off, like always."
Dion nods back, sweaty and panty and his pupils dilated like a pair of moons on a deep ocean sky. He's a mess.
Shit, Anton's not even sure he's got the strength to do that. He's back in human form too early, too fast. He's too new. He's too twitchy. He's still cluelessly crouching there.
"Just—" Anton swallows through a dry throat and blinks white stars away from his vision. He's got a deadly grip on Dion's collar and he's going to end up tearing that jacket up after it's managed to survive the night for once, "—just open it! It's fine, I can take it. But you have to do it now, mate, alright?"
Or else it's a whole month of me walking on fucking crutches, he tells himself internally.
Seconds tick by and the moon will be gone and the bones won't heal back properly and it will hurt like hell.
"But gimme somethin' to bite, first," he growls.
Dion nods.
And nods.
And nods and nods and looks at him all lost and twitchy like he doesn't understand English and Anton bursts, "now! Fucking get me something now!"
Dion springs to his feet.
"Yes! Yes! I'm on it!"
All fidgety, looking around and spinning in place on his bare feet.
Anton closes his eyes and the pain doubles when he doesn't have something to focus on. So he opens them and stares at the canopy of the trees above their heads, stops on the feeling of dirt underneath him and under his nails, sweat running down his neck and spine and sticking his jogging trousers to his skin and mixing with the blood starting to dry off around the punctures in his flesh. Bloody trap's got his leg properly hooked.
It could've been someone else.
It could've been Dion.
"Got it! Oh, no— no, this is– too thin, it's not gonna— your teeth are gonna bite straight through that. Wait, lemme just..."
Anton's glad it isn't one of the boys. God. He doesn't even want to think about it.
"Dion..." he pleads, takes a deep breath in to steady himself, "forget the stick. Forget it, get this thing off me, mate."
"Anton!"
Hearing Clifton's voice feels like being able to breathe again. He comes barging through that bush in front like a dog chased by the devil and almost trips on his haste to get closer. There's still hair over his palms, and his nails and ears and nose aren't fully human yet. His eyes resemble those of an animal in their strong ambar glint.
"Holy shit," he kneels and the ground rattles and his hands instantly pin Anton's leg down to prevent any further damage, to prevent it from moving like that, which Anton hadn't even realised was moving like that, shaking like he's hypothermic, like when one's in shock, but he can't be in shock. Moon's still there?
Still a chance.
Heal properly.
Moon, no hospital.
"Anton?"
"Anton!"
"Fuck! Hold him down!"
"What—"
"His leg, Dion! Not the—! Hold his leg, fuck's sake! I'm gonna get this thing off!"
There's a moment he feels himself just losing consciousness, but not quite. His eyes rolling back and his mouth hanging open almost deliriously, but not quite. Fire taking over his body, a fever, or just hot pain, or both.
It's the pull of the moon slowly disappearing from the air. He can feel himself more human and less wolf with every passing moment — and that stupid metallic jaw thing is still there and he thinks he's hazy from blood loss because he can't understand what they're saying.
"—notize him."
"Like hell! Get the fuck away!"
"He is not going to feel a thing," a low gruffly voice assures.
"I'm fucking serious! Back off!"
"Do you want him to feel the pain?"
Someone growls.
It's Dion. He's got a very distinctive growl.
And then a hiss.
"What in the ever-loving hell has happened here?"
It's the cocky tone that vaguely lifts the fog away, and Anton tries to peel his eyes open but can't find the strength in him.
Apologizing to filthy werewolves!
Over a century old, tell them!
"Oh. That looks... ugh."
"Dion. Dion, look at me. At three, okay, mate? Don't mind them, hey. Focus! One..."
"Aw, fuck man," Dion leans back, panting heavily like he's the one with a bear trap engulfing his lower leg, "maybe we should just get him to a hospital?"
"For goodness sake," Vladislav kicks the younger werewolf out of the way and plants his hands down firmly over Anton's leg and locks eyes with Clifton, pressed for time and goes: "One, two—"
"—three!" Clifton exclaims. The spikey ends of the trap graze his skin as he forces it open and slides it out of the way. Anton lets out a howl not disimilar from the one he let out before, but very much human.
And this one doesn't stop.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck—" Clifton's hands aren't quick enough to stop the blood from splurting out once there's no pressure to hold it in. Dion takes a staggering step backward at the sight, colliding against Deacon in his reverie.
"Viago, your cravat," Vladislav jerks his hand insistently and gets what he asks for immediately.
Anton tastes copper on his tongue. He was passing out just a second ago and now he's way too awake, way too aware of the warm liquid coating the fabric of his trousers and his skin and he tries to sit up to apply some pressure to the wound and qualm the seeding unbearable hot pain travelling upwards and taking over his brain — but he can't move. Or see.
He can only wail in pain and tear at his vocal chords.
"Okay, do it."
So Dion didn't get him that stick, then.
"Do it! Do the thing! I can't— fuck me. Just do it!"
"Viago."
Something cold sets over his forehead. Something soft brushes his wet hair away from his eyes. A gentle tone pries his eyes open and then... nothing.
No more pain.
None whatsoever.
It takes Anton a long time to realise he's somewhere he's never been before.
The smell should give it away immediately but.
Well. Sue him. He gets a pass today. He's drugged, right?
It feels like his thoughts are floating in a cloud of smoke impossible to catch.
Probably Nathan giving out the wrong dose of painkillers again. Something about their different body weights and blood types requiring more or less of it? Which makes sense, really, but the thing is, Nathan is shit at maths.
Anton isn't sure why they're still letting him do that part of the job. It's his wife who's got the medical degree, not him.
It's the familiar smells he picks up on first. Clifton's unrelenting candy corn perfume permeates the air around him. Twat.
The musky scent of wood and dirt from transformation night. These he knows. These are common scents he's grown used to over the years.
Even the taste of blood in his mouth isn't that uncommon.
The soft scent of vanilla... less so, but still not completely strange. Someone probably raiding his cupboard again, playing Bake Off and leaving without cleaning the dishes. Hmm. After a full moon? Unlikely.
So he can tell that's Clifton snoring at his feet even before he opens his eyes. But he can't tell where he is, and frankly, he doesn't think he would've guessed it any sooner if he hadn't been facing the door and seen two vampires at the threshold having a hushed conversation when he slowly peeled his eyes open.
In his mind, he startles. His heart skips a beat but his body is sluggish and drained and his limps unresponsive so he doesn't get to react as quickly. Or react at all when suddenly there's a gentle hand on his left shoulder and the rising smell of vanilla again.
"It's o-kay. You're safe here."
He turns to see Viago there.
And he doesn't understand anything.
He darts his eyes to Clifton on the carpeted floor by the sofa, sprawled out and drooling all over that dusty blanket draped over his shoulders, passed out but almost at hand-reach; and then to his own leg, a tourniquet firmly tied to his calf and a huge stain of blood surrounding it, still feeling warm.
He makes to sit to have a better look but Viago's hand doesn't let him.
"It's not fully healed yet, I don't think you should be getting up."
"How is the pain?"
Anton blinks and stares at the dark fabric of Vladislav's shirt for a couple of seconds before it grows into focus, and then he blinks at the vampire, no longer by the door but right next to him.
"I am still the better hypnotist, if you want me I can—"
"He's absolutely fine, Vlad," Viago interrupts gently, "give him a minute."
And Anton wants to nod yes, thank you, I do need a fucking minute. And he intends to voice that thought and opens his mouth and finds it dry and no sound comes out.
He feels dizzy trying to look into the tall figure of Vladislav standing next to him over their sofa, his head and cascading dark hair too close to that light bulb shining overhead, so painfully shiny... And he wants to wake Clifton up and ask if everyone's alright, if Dion's alright, if everyone made it home safely.
"Anton?"
He gets to ask nothing.
He passes out himself.
Again.
"—long is he going to stay? This is not a bloody hotel."
"Well, once he can walk..." Viago starts, with that voice so gentle and that accent so endearing and foreign and in his feverish state Anton doesn't realise he's smiling at the sound of it. Like it's coming from a dream.
"This is bullshit! It smells like dirt and wet dog in here!"
"Oi! Watch it, mate."
"Do not tell me to watch it, Neon!”
“It’s Dion.”
“—this is my house. You should be glad I still haven't kicked you out!"
"Yeah? I'd like to see you try, shorty."
“Guys, please...” Viago’s sweet voice tries. (And fails.)
And somewhere deep inside his mind Anton feels the need to say something. Any other day, that dull and distant voice echoing inside his brain would've been clear: stand up and... do something. Step up, they're still learning to control the urge to... uh... that thing. Prevent it from happening — whatever "it" is.
The thing about to happen if he doesn't keep his boys in check.
Happening, probably.
What's that sound?
A hiss. A chair being knocked over.
"Deacon!"
The fog lifts too quickly. Like someone slapping him awake. He opens his eyes and cries out in pain and his hands immediately grab hold of his injured leg and he feels the heat and the sweat and the smells so strongly and the light too bright and his heart hammers against his ribcage in a frenzy like he's back in the park with that thing still buried deep inside his skin.
What the fuck?!
"Ohhhh. Look what you did," the vampire says, the one with the perfect hair and eighteenth-century clothing that dragged him off the bus yesterday, Viago. "My hypnosis wore off."
"Your hyp...?" Anton starts, but finds himself so agitated he can't even complete the sentence.
Clifton is pinned against the opposite wall looking down at him.
Looking down at him.
Clifton is in the air.
"What do you think you're doing?!" Anton blurts out, staring daggers at him and conveying his how-many-times-have-I-told-you-to-keep-your-cool face despite his lack of eloquence.
Clifton lowers his arms from Deacon's shoulders — who simply drops him to the floor unceremoniously and gains himself another doggy growl.
"He started it!"
"So what?" Deacon crosses his arms, landing softly on the wooden planks with a shit-eating grin as Clifton flattens out his clothes.
"Why are we in your—" Anton starts, trails off looking at Viago suddenly kneeling down on the carpeted floor and leaning towards his leg with clear intentions.
"Ah. Well you stepped on a trap in the park, quite a nasty one actually. Blood everywhere, very gory. You were in so much pain, Clifton here gave me permission to hypnotise you so we could help you out of that predicament. And here we are! I say it's healed quite well and you have slept right through it."
Hypnosis.
Hypnosis?!
Vampire hypnosis?!
"I uh..." Clifton shifts awkwardly on his feet. Looks ready to bolt right out of the room, much to Deacon's delight. "You were so out of it, Anton, mate..."
If looks could kill...
You let them hypnotise me?!
Except. Anton knows he wouldn't have let it happen if it hadn't been absolutely necessary. He trusts his pack with his life and even now, with his leg seemingly back in place and no bones feeling crushed, it hurts a proper amount — meaning it was probably absolutely necessary.
Viago looks up, "it is completely harmful, don't worry about a thing."
Anton looks back to him. He's patiently and carefully rolling up the sleeves of his shirt in the manner of a professional surgeon about to lead a procedure. But then he leans over to have a better look at his battered leg and makes a face.
"Like this," Viago says, and turns to hover a hand in the air in front of Anton's face. "You will stop feeling any pain."
What Anton feels first is himself plopping back down on the sofa with a blissful sigh, muscles he hadn't even noticed he'd been tensing simply feeling light as feathers. No ache on his left calf. No looming headache. Still hot but not feverish and uncomfortable about it.
Viago observes him with a pleased smile and Anton is transfixed there only for a few moments.
"Is it working?" Clifton asks impatiently, taking a step closer. "Hello? Can you hear me?"
Deacon snorts.
"Of course he can hear you!"
Clifton sends him a stinky look.
"Yeah, it's..." Anton wets his lips and feels immensely tented to just close his eyes again and drift off, "s'working, mate. That's... actually pretty nice."
Well it won't hurt to just rest his eyesight for a second, will it?
"Wonderful! Let's have a look..." Viago mumbles, leans back over his tourniquet with outstretched fingers.
"Why is he—? Anton? Why is he sleeping again? Did you just hypnotise him to go to sleep?" Clifton takes another step closer, nervously eyeing Deacon still there just witnessing the whole exchange and looking absolutely pleased to be having the upper hand in the situation, "did you make him sleep? Hey."
"Not really," Viago answers, and he almost sounds sad, "my guess is he's just very tired."
"Anton," Clifton tries, and when he gets no response he whispers it a bit louder. "Hey, Anton."
And when he gets no response to that he jerks his shoulder, only a little bit.
But the man is out.
Well.
You don't need to be the sharpest tool in the shed to tell Anton's fucking knackered 24/7, he thinks. And then he feels guilty about it. And then he feels relieved and he looks at Viago untying his cravat in an unsalvageable state, very gently so he can assess the damage. Thinks that saying thank you is probably in place right now.
Except.
Ugh.
Centuries-old rivalries and all that.
Yeah...
Maybe some other day.