Chapter Text
As Dennis holds the hand of an elderly patient, watching the way Pearl’s heart slows on the monitor, as the slowing beats fill his eardrums, as her blood starts to sour from deoxygenation, he is oddly reminded of the first time he died. Or, he supposes, the first and last time he died, considering he is dead and all that.
It was slow, like Pearl’s is, but infinitely more painful considering he wasn’t allowed pain medication. He also, unlike Pearl, didn’t know he was going to die.
The local priest at his church, approaching him after Mass. Warm brown eyes, large pupils, smile wide, asking if he wanted to help him with moving some bibles in his storehouse.
Dennis, because it was the twenties and the priest was a fucking priest, agreed.
Later, he would find and take a clipping from a newspaper, detailing how a local boy, like a few others, had gone missing in the town. Runaways, it said. Just a young man leaving for a better life. A description of his parents’ asking for information, begging for him to come home, saying how they went to church and prayed for him. Little did they all know, he was in the priest’s basement, chained to a wall, dead and turning into nothing more than a monster.
By the time he even got out of the basement, and had his own free will again, his parents were long dead, and buried, and his story was nothing more than that. A story. A random twenty-year-old lost to time in a town now stated to be haunted.
Dennis can’t help but wonder if that’s how his former hive are finding victims. If they’re using the so-called hauntings as a way to lure tourists in, only for them to end up missing, burnt down and scattered in the forest. Or maybe, like him, they turn some of them, use them as the lures. Both the bait and the fishermen.
Pearl’s heart slows to a stop. Dennis doesn’t stop holding her hand. A comfort. One he was never given. One he can’t help but feel every time. Maybe that’s why the hive didn’t want him: they could break him down but they could never dispose of his empathy.
While he holds Pearl’s limp hand, shouts start up outside the room and Dennis watches as a pregnant patient is rushed through the corridor, clearly about to give birth. He can hear McKay’s calming voice, her steady demeanour amidst the chaos.
Birth: a wonderous thing.
Rebirth: something also seen as wonderous, if his google searches are correct. If the books and movies and media were correct, maybe Dennis would be more likely to agree. He was supposed to be courted with the idea, introduced slowly and willingly. Then, when the rebirth took place, it would be somewhere where the hive could protect him and his sire. It would be slow, painless, over the course of many years, all while he would spend most of it in a trance-like coma. When he would wake, the bonds would be solidified through blood-sharing and he would stay at least another decade with them until the initial sire bond wore off.
Dennis never had that luxury. His was hunger and pain and his very DNA being broken down and rewritten while he was awake. A fire, scorching and never-ending, burning through his nerves, breaking and resetting his bones, tearing at muscle and sinew, turning his body to stone. He can’t believe Stephanie Meyer got that part right. It makes him annoyed.
He was told, years later, that a rebirth can take anywhere between a year and a decade. He had laughed in that poor person’s face at that idea. Afterall, Dennis’ occurred over a fortnight. A horrendous, torturous fortnight.
Dennis stands, turning the beeping monitor off. Pauses as he gives himself a minute’s silence, all while holding her hand.
Then he stands, sticks his head out to usher over Princess, and goes about his shift. Even as he can’t ignore the memories, the feeling of the bites on his neck - also a bad choice, according to the others - that have long been stitched over and remade with new and improved skin, and he knows he’s off his game. The ER is as chaotic as usual and he’s—
Well. He’s hungry.
He’s never pushed it this long, abstained so hard.
His gums ache and his fangs are trying to flex. He’s so hungry, its gnawing inside of him, a different type of beast. Every sense is heightened, everything is making him want to rip and tear and feel warm, metallic blood pour over his hands, into his mouth--
“Whitaker.”
The voice pulls him back to the present. The hand at his nape, pulling him, guiding him, settles him in his skin. He blinks, the harsh fluorescent lights of the ER snapping into focus. The smell hits him: antiseptic, sweat, blood. So much of it. All different, layering scents of blood types, diseases, ages. Souring of death, sharp and bright of new life. Something heady that does little to help his hunger.
In Dennis’ short life, he’s tasted his fair share, even if it was only a few mouthfuls before he was ripped away, and working in a hospital is not as desensitising as he would’ve thought. Not when he’s like this, practically ravenous.
Stephanie Meyer, finally wrong about something. Fuck you, Carlilse.
He swallows hard, forcing his expression into something neutral as Robby drops his hand. He is standing across from him, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in that way that means he’s been calling his name for longer than he liked.
“You with me?” Robby asks, voice dripping sarcasm.
Dennis nods once, rubs the back of his neck. Feels the heat from that hand linger before being eaten up by his natural, unfed chill. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… long shift. What can I do?”
It isn’t a lie. Not really. It has been long and he’s just so fucking hungry—
Robby doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been off all night,” Robby says, bluntly, lowering his voice slightly as a nurse passes by. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing, sorry,” he bullshits. “I’m fine.”
Another lie. Robby studies him for a moment longer, eyes narrowing just slightly. Dennis holds his gaze, steady. He’s stared down worse men, after all. Stared down monsters before. This is nothing compared to them.
Worse Robby can do is fire him.
“Right,” Robby says, eventually, though the word is full of disbelief. “Well. Try to stay with me, okay? We’ve got a trauma coming in and I need you on your game.”
Dennis nods again. “Got it.”
Robby turns away, dismissing him, already moving, already shifting into that focused, capable version of himself that Dennis—
Dennis doesn’t let himself finish that thought. Not when he knows…
Well. Robby is not the first suicidal person Dennis has fallen for. He knows, even with all his years playing human, that something is naturally off about him. Something that has humans evolutionarily wired to avoid, to subconsciously notice and want to be far away from. The voice in the back of their head screaming: threat, threat, threat, danger, danger, danger.
But there is a certain group of individuals, either pulled because of the threat, or because they’re simply immune to it, that approach him. Craving the danger. Wanting it. Wanting to court death, as close as they can possibly get to it.
Dennis rubs the back of his neck again, grits his teeth until his molars crunch together, and then he sets about continuing his shift. Instead of focusing on the continuous smell of warmth and sweetness - blood is blood, and there’s always a hint of metal there, but he’s tasted it enough to know it tastes sweet - he thinks of Robby, all while continuing his job. It’s one thing he’s enjoyed about his rebirth, fresh from the hive, is that his mind goes a mile a minute and he can keep up with it. Multitasking is now part of the norm.
Robby is—
Well. Robby is older, visually at least. With the grey in his beard and the wrinkles by his eyes. He’s interesting. What with the way he outwardly presents as grounded, as more experienced, as someone who knows their role in life and sticks to it. But he’s also a total and utter mess of a man. A mountain held up by a single stick. A single stick that is clearly fracturing under the pressure he’s under.
It’s not just that, though. Being interesting isn’t anything new. Dennis has found in his short immortal life that, what with his ever-changing thoughts as fast as Formula One cars, he jumps between fixations like nobody’s business. And that includes people. Pretty eyes, smart brain, cool tattoos: whatever it is, he finds himself latching on for a few weeks before moving on. Something about the predator inside growing bored of the faux chase.
But Robby is different.
And Dennis honestly doesn’t know why.
He knows better to give into the fixation, to try and entice a chase.
Nothing lights up the monster like someone running.
And he can make anyone run if he tries hard enough.
It probably doesn’t help that he hasn’t fed in days. After all, animal blood can only do so much, and he can’t take blood bags from blood banks, not when it’s so heavily monitored. Maybe he should’ve stayed out in the wilderness, surrounded himself in foliage and wildness. A trail far enough away from humans to be safe.
Maybe he should’ve gone with the nomadic hive that found him. At least he would’ve had people with him, a hive that could protect him. At least he wouldn’t be starving.
Feasting from a human is—
He misses it. The feeling of a body beneath his fangs, the steady heartbeat in his ears, the way the body sags as it gives in, the taste washing over his tongue—
He refuses to do that, though. Refuses to become what they had made him for. It isn’t that he’s purposefully denying himself, it’s that he’s never fed without another there, strong enough, durable enough, to pull him off a human. He knows he could hunt a rapist or killer, target them, knowing that stopping wouldn’t be a problem. But that’s inviting trouble, inviting possible ripper tendencies.
But this? This isn’t enough. There’s an itch under his skin, a constant thrum as his monster tunes into the bodies around him, the way his eyes can’t help but stray to Samira, and her healthy heart, and her strong blood. His gums ache and he can feel the way his pupils dilate when someone strays too close.
“Whitaker!”
He snaps back again. The trauma patient is already being wheeled in, the room erupting into motion, and for a moment, just a single, blissful moment, the hunger quietens. There is only work. One of the only things that make him feel human anymore.
The cases pass. Patients come and go. Trinity becomes more antsy as the shift passes and Dennis knows it’s because her and Garcia are off again - what with the constant pings from her phone - but he’s finding it more difficult to pay attention as the time passes, as the night draws in. Something settles in his bones as the sun begins to set. Something that has him perking up, his eyes brightening, his smile just slightly too wide when he speaks to patients. He can feel the others slowly drift further away from him, Mel being the worst with how far she is willing to dodge him, whilst Trinity and Robby drift closer.
Call of the void as the monster wakes up, no longer tired with the sunlight.
He knows he’s pushing himself, going against his nature like this, but anything to keep it locked tight.
When his shift finally ends, he finds himself alone in the locker room. Usually, he’d make his way home with Trinity but considering her and Garcia managed to work things out in the last hour, he’s going to give them privacy. At least for about an hour.
He swaps his clothes. Goes to the bathroom and stares at his reflection. Pale. Always too pale now. Eyes a little too focused, too bright in a way that didn’t belong, pupils dilating to slits before expanding again. Veins more prominent, cheeks gaunt, lips too red and teeth too sharp. When he smiles at himself, it looks like a threat.
He looks like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
He looks wrong.
He always looks wrong, now.
“You’re going to get caught like that.”
Dennis freezes, squashes the urge to hiss, bare his teeth, and rip apart flesh. Realises he can’t hear the heartbeat with him and spins to find Shen giving him a long, hard look, hand gripping a half-filled cup of coffee. He stares and Shen rolls his eyes, leans back against the door.
“When did you last feed?” He asks, casually, sipping his coffee. “‘Cause let me tell you now, man, you don’t look good.”
Dennis blinks at him. Swallows the pool of venom in his mouth, twitches his jaw so his teeth retract. “How— I— What?”
Shen’s lips twitch. “You’re not a fledgling, and you’re clearly old enough to be away from your hive, so I won’t push but— Don’t be stupid, Whitaker. You keep fighting it and you’re going to be a massive fucking threat. To all of us. Come find me before that happens, yeah? Or go hunting.”
Shen is—
Well, fuck.
That sure explains how chill the man is, how nothing phases him. And the coffee addiction. And the whole working night shift thing. Huh.
But it opens a whole plethora of questions, even as some of them are answered. Shen has to be old, and with an established hive, for him to leave Dennis alone for so long. Most of what he’s learnt is that the younger they are, the more territorial they are over their hive and their territory.
Shen is like him but it begs the question: are there others?
Robby, Trinity, Victoria, Abbot - they all bleed, they all have heartbeats he’s memorised. The others, he hasn’t spent much time focusing on, and the constant blood in the ER makes it difficult to differentiate at times.
Even then, what Shen implied…
He knows he has maybe three more days before he turns feral, as his body begins to shut down and mummify.
Well, fuck.
“You gonna ask?” Shen questions, tilting his head.
Dennis shakes his head. Then pauses and hestantiely offers, “You’d answer?”
Shen snorts. “If it means you’ll finally fed and stop looking like a literal walking corpse, then yeah, man. Go ahead.”
The most important question first. “Do the others know?”
Shen sips his coffee. “No. At least I’m not aware of it if they do. Jack knows, I’m pretty sure. Made a bunch of references to the shit he saw on his tours but he’s never pushed and I’ve never confirmed. Safer that way.” He gives Dennis a pointed look, “You told anyone?”
Dennis furtively shakes his head. “Didn’t think I could.”
They have laws, in this jungle, and a governing body with enforcers that ensure compliance. Not that it seemed to matter when Dennis was in the priest’s basement, but by that point, he had already been claimed by a hive. The law no longer applied to human Dennis because human Dennis was dead.
But telling others? That’s when everyone gets their hackles up.
Whatever stops them being humans gives them certain leeway’s that add with hiding who and what they are. Telling a human point blank is somewhat of a no-no. Of course, people do. And then certain people go on to write it down and publish it. But it is still a no-no.
Shen shrugs. “You can tell who you like.” Then he sighs and says, “I’m going to be blunt here: where the hell is your hive?”
Dennis shurgs right back. Can’t meet his gaze. “Don’t have one.”
Shen is staring. That much is obvious from the senseion prickling across his skin. Dennis doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch.
And then Shen starts laughing. “Oh, man, you are inviting trouble! Are you—”
“Shen?” A voice – Abbot’s – shouts. “Anyone seen Shen?”
Taking that as the out it is, Dennis gathers the courage to make a tactical retreat, ignoring Shen’s pointed stare at his back, and he changes directions and heads towards the park instead of home as his mind swims with questions and fears and possibilities.
First priority: feed. Then… Well, that’s up for debate at a later date.
He doesn’t want to leave Pittsburgh. Not now that he’s got somewhat stable roots and a solid career blooming but if Shen turns out to not want him – a clear danger – in his territory, Dennis won’t put up a fight. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s not wanted.
The park comes into focus and Dennis breathes out a sigh of relief.
Bird is better than nothing after all; and he’s lived off rat before.