Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bright light and bright, sharp pain.

There's explosions behind his eyelids and he slams his eyes shut in a feeble, useless defense against the sun he hasn't seen in god knows how long.

It hurts, everything hurts, and he doesn't even think to try and understand the muffled words spoken by the figures he can barely make out in the bright, bright light. He can feel himself being pulled forward but he can't find the strength to resist.

The dull blow to his head that brings darkness is more than a relief.

He's woken again by a slap to the face, a cruel laugh and a warm body shoved into his. For a moment the animal part of him, the vampire part of him, takes over and all he can hear is the body's heart beating and the blood rushing through their veins.

Then the terrified intake of breath that follows brings him back to his sense and he pushes the body away, blinking back the red in his vision enough to focus on what seems to be a young man staggering away from him.

"Get away from me. Keep away!"

He winces at how dry his voice is, how scratchy and awful and downright terrifying his pathetic excuse for a voice is. Disgusting.

"Please d-don't hurt m-me, p-please d-d-don't hurt me!"

The young man's voice, however, is sweet, melodic, and absolutely terrified as it shamelessly begs.

He feels the familiar bite of disgust in his stomach- disgust at himself, the monster he is to make this poor kid beg like that- and the gnawing of hunger. He has
no idea how long it's been since he's eaten. Hell, he has no idea what day it is, what year it is, at this point. He has no way of telling how long he's slept for.

"P-please, I h-h-have people depending on me to g-get out of here, please d-don't kill me!"

Okay.

Think logically.

It doesn't matter that there are stars exploding behind his eyelids, and it doesn't matter that the pain in his head makes his legs weak.

This kid is his priority here.

He really needs to calm them down if they're going to be able to stop him from hurting them.

Because no matter how little he wants to hurt this kid, the hunger in his gut is not going to give up the warm, tasty source of blood that has been handed to him as... a gift? Not a gift, he thinks with a bitter laugh- whoever They are, They've woken him because They know who he is.

Or because They know who he used to be.

"I'm not going to hurt you, kid, I'm not going to hurt you, but you need to calm down, yeah? I need you to help me help you and to do that, you need to be calm."

He keeps his voice steady, low and level, and the gasping breaths that the kid is taking in gradually begin to slow. The youth stares back at him, baby blues still glassy with fear, but somewhat more alert now.

"My name is Pete, yeah? I really don't want to hurt you, I want you to know that, but I'm starving and I won't be able to control myself. You're going to have to help me, yeah?"

Nodding, the youth attempts a smile, but fails miserably. It's kind of sweet, still.

"I-I-I'm P-Patrick. What d-do I d-d-do?"

The kid, Patrick, has a terrified stutter that is adorable and for the briefest of moments, Pete is reminded of another blond youth who stutters when he's scared. But Mikey's gone now, he reminds himself with a sharp intake of breath- you can't think of him now, just like you couldn't save him then. You can only save this kid- save him from yourself, you disgusting, evil creature.

Pete's never been his own best friend, no, but the voices in his head screaming Monster! Monster! and his sick stomach full of disgust for himself have always been (two of) his worst enemies.

Surveying the cell, an abandoned pair of manacles chained to the wall catch Pete's eyes and he winces, knowing they're his best bet for restraining himself so he doesn't hurt this kid.

"You're going to have to help me out, yeah, kid?"

Making his way over to the wall, careful not to breathe in or listen too closely, because Patrick's pulse is going crazy and he just smells so fucking good and-

Pete shakes his head in an attempt to bring himself back to himself and when that fails, digs his nails into his palms. The pain distracts him long enough so he can shove the cuffs towards the youth, holding his breath as the kid's fingers brush against him as they close the cuffs.

So warm. Patrick's skin is so warm and so full of life and the second he can feel himself secure, Pete warns the kid. Then he lets go of himself.

"Get away from-"

The wordless moans and horrible, furious animal noises that begin to escape his throat as Patrick scrambles back repulse Pete and from inside the tiny prison that is his head, he hears himself scream in anger and watches his attempts at escape. The manacles hold, thankfully.

It takes a long time for him to get himself back under control- longer than he'd like. He used to be so good at this, god. How long was he gone?

How long was he sleeping?!

Breathing in deeply, Pete returns to himself and blinks a few times, focusing on the terrified youth crouched against the opposite wall. Patrick's head is buried in his hands and Pete feels horrifically guilty for scaring the kid so much.

"You okay over there?"

Wincing at the way the kid flinches, Pete's calmed by Patrick's slow nod.

"Y-yeah. A-are you..."

Patrick trails off and gestures uselessly for a few awkward moments before Pete feels bad for him and answers.

"I'm myself again. Just... don't get too close, yeah?"

Patrick nods silently and the cell is silent for a few moments before he raises his head again awkwardly, studying Pete from a distance. The weight of the kid's stare on him is curious and for a moment, Pete would honestly be happy just staring at those eyes. He's quite beautiful, the pale boy, a little chubby and a little scruffy and-

Reminding him very much of Mikey.

Great.

He doesn't want to think about Mikey right now, doesn't want to think about Gerard and Ray and Frank and Bob and home and home. Pete really, really doesn't want to think about home. Call it a post-coma-cure-whatever the fuck the shit Sapporta and Beckett did to him-hangover or whatever, but his head hurts every time he tries to think too much.

So he doesn't ask what day it is.

He definitely doesn't ask what year it is.

He's not sure what would be worse- waking up to a world far in future-

Or waking up to the same old world he left what seems like hours ago.

"W-who are you?"

Patrick's question surprises him and he takes a moment to contemplate that answer. Oh, god. He doesn't know who he is anymore. He thought he was a good person, a good monster fighting against the bad monsters, but what happens to you when everything you're fighting for crashes and burns and falls apart in a bleeding heap of heartbreak and bodies on the ground, bodies on the ground covered in blood and dirt and-

"My name is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third. I'm... I've been sleeping. I don't know how long for, but I've been sleeping and I don't know where I am or when I am."

It's silent again.

"I-I've heard of y-you. You w-were... you are... everyone thought y-you were killed along with the rest of the Killjoys. We learnt about you at school, and then Andy and Joe told me everything the teachers refused to teach us... that's why you, uh, don't want to hurt me? You don't want to hurt me, right?"

Pete cracks a bitter smile at the youth's question. Patrick's nervous stutter gets less as he talks more, he realizes, so he's going to focus on that. That cute little stutter, the sweet way the blond pushes his hair out of his eyes, the dorky way he licks his lips nervously every now and then.

He's not going to focus on the fact that people know who he is. Know who he was, know who the Killjoys were, probably know who Mikey and Gerard and Ray and Frank and Bob were.

"I don't want to hurt you, kid. Don't worry. And I didn't get killed, nah. Ha. I wish. No, I got something worse, I think. What... what year is it?"

He needs to know when he is. It's going to hurt, whatever it is, but Pete can't help but pray that the kid responds with something along the lines of, what, maybe sometime in the 1930s? He always heard great predictions about the 1930s from Hayley, the sweet redheaded psychic that sometimes did palm readings for the group before she was slaughtered personally by William when she refused to tell him and Gabriel where the Killjoys were hiding.

Hayley was funny, a bit of a dork, eccentric, brave, and loyal to the end. She was the first of them to die.

The last day he remembers was the 11th of September, 1856, the day after Mikeyway's birthday and the day after the best day of his life.

The 11th was the worst day of his life.

As of yet, of course. Things are surely going to get worse, that's just a given.

He can see Patrick open his mouth to respond but they're interrupted by the cell door opening and that bright, bright light hurting so bad-

"Oh, you didn't want the snack? I thought you'd be more than a little peckish, Wentz, after your little... nap."

Chapter Text

He doesn't know what's going on.

How could he?

He's sharing a cell with the legendary Pete Wentz, who was supposedly slaughtered two hundred years ago by the very two vampires standing and laughing in the door of the cell. Oh, why did Joe and Josh have to get themselves captured? And why was Patrick, of all people, chosen for the rescue party?

Patrick takes a moment for self-pity before shaking away his pessimism and paying attention again to the two tall men surveying the room with near-identical smirks on their faces.

"Well done, really. We do remember how you didn't like feeding off unwilling humans back in the day- it's nice to see you haven't changed."

"It's kind of sweet, really, how hard you try to not hurt people. He's cute, isn't he, Bilvy? Ha!"

The darker vampire bounces back on the balls of his feet as he lets out the mocking bark of a laugh. His voice is jubilant, arrogant, but Patrick can detect barely-controlled rage in his tone.

Uh oh.

(Patrick's not good at much, but he's good at reading people. Andy might be the leader of their group of hunters, but the clumsy blond youth is the one who's opinion is most listened to when it comes to accepting hunters and making allies. And, well, although these ancient vampires are very good at concealing there emotions, it's pretty clear how they're feeling.)

This is not going to end well.

Pete's face has contorted itself into a snarl as he glares up at the vampires. Patrick watches him silently, pressed as far away from his captors as possible- and away from Pete. Maybe he's a damned coward, maybe he's weak, but the fury on the starving, confusing vampire's face is terrifying. No matter what Pete has said about not hurting him (and what the descriptions of the vamp are in every story he's ever heard) he really doesn't want to give Wentz a reason to attack him.

"Let the kid go."

The paler of the two vampires, 'Bilvy' as the other addressed him playfully, turns to his companion with sarcastically wide eyes and lets out a satirical laugh.

"But you need to feed sometime, Wentz! It's been more than a little while since you last ate."

At the mention of time, Pete stiffens and raises his chin defensively. He's is too proud to ask, Patrick realizes with a surprised intake of breath, but
he's is confused. The pieces are starting to fall into place now as Patrick casts his mind back to his brief conversation with the vampire earlier- sleeping, I've been asleep, what year is it? Wentz has no idea where he is and no idea when he is.

In that moment, all of his fear of the starving vampire falls away and Patrick just feels sorry. So sorry. Because it's been a long time- such a long time since the Killjoys patrolled the streets and Pete fought among them.

"You must be so hungry, Wentz. You can sense him, can't you? Fragile human heart beating out a panic of fear and confusion?"

"Pretty little thing. Looks tasty. If you don't want him..."

The vampire who made the 'tasty' comment (oh god, holy smokes, they're going to hurt me, they're going to feed off of me, oh god) casually strolls forwards and leers in Patrick's direction, getting close enough to the blond teen that he can see the curve of his ivory fangs, the gleam in those dark eyes, the smear of blood marring the otherwise perfect, tanned skin-

"Get away from him!"

Patrick's lungs (thankfully) decide to start working again and he breathes deeply when the vampire barks out a laugh and steps backwards.

"Don't you dare touch him, Sapporta."

Shrugging, the vampire returns to the side of the other and smirks.

"Whatever you want, Wentz."

The glare of hatred Pete sends towards Sapporta could probably kill and Patrick is very, very glad it's not directed towards him. He makes a quick mental note- if they both get out of this, make sure not to piss of Wentz.

"What year is it, Patrick?"

It takes a moment for Patrick to register that Pete is indeed talking to him and he gulps a breath before opening his mouth to reply. The paler vampire interrupts before
Patrick can speak, however.

"First name basis already?"

"Shut up, Beckett."

Looking around nervously, the encouraging half-smile Wentz sends his way prompts Patrick to speak. Sapporta and Beckett's smug, self-satisfied expressions scare Patrick a bit and as he stutters the words- he doesn't want to think about what the reaction will be.

"I-it's 2004."

The room is silent and as he watches Pete go through several different expressions- shock, surprise, anger, sadness and... relief? Relief, that's it. That particular emotion confuses Patrick for a moment before it clicks- the Killjoys, and every other mortal Pete would've known- are dead.

And he's relieved.

(Patrick can't blame him for that- he can't even begin to imagine how horrifying it would be, as per the stories, to have every single on of your friends slaughtered in front of you.)

"What the fuck did you do to me that made me sleep for two hundred fucking years?!"

The two vampires exchange a look before bursting out laughing, faces alight with near-identical expressions of glee. They're enjoying this, Patrick thinks to himself, the sick feeling in his stomach slowly growing as he watches Sapporta and Beckett grinning at each other.

What the hell did Pete do to them that made them so celebratory over his pain and confusion?

Was killing his best friends and his soulmate not enough?

Soulmate.

Soulmate?

Patrick's own choice of words in his head surprises him and he closes his eyes, trying to dredge up the image of Michael 'Mikey' Way, the little brother of the famous Gerard Way's and Pete's mate. An image flicks through Patrick's mind- the painting of the Killjoys Josh had found and demanded be hung in the kitchen, pride of place deserved by the heroes the older hunters swapped stories of and the younger hunters idolized.

He examines it in his mind, thinking over every face in the portrait.

Gerard Way, the valiant leader with messy black hair and hazel eyes that seem to stare out of the painting.

Bob Bryar to his left, piercing blue eyes narrowed in suspicion and blond hair pushed back.

Ray Toro, Patrick's personal hero (because epic hair, medic duties and famously big heart, duh) stands to Gerard's right.

Pete is seated, whisky eyes that seemed to dance in the dodgy fluorescent lighting. And then Mikey Way next to him, all carefully blank stares and messy hair and graceful posture.

Beckett's words snap Patrick out of his thoughts.

"Your little nap was orchestrated by a... friend of ours. He's very clever, I can't wait for you to meet him."

Their other captor snickers at the words of who Patrick is pretty sure is his mate.

"We'll leave you alone for a little while now. Seeya, Pete!"

The cell is silent again as the two vampires stalk out, slamming the door behind them. Patrick's not sure where to look or what to say- so he says nothing. Instead, he stands and carefully makes his way over to the window, sure to keep his distance from where Pete is shackled. The dark haired vampire doesn't even react to his movements, instead staring blankly ahead.

It's not a bad view, Patrick thinks absently, as he peers out of the window and surveys his surroundings. They're a storey off the ground and about a hundred metres of gravel and dirt away from the massive, chain link fence. Good. This should make everything a little easier.

Patrick had told them the plan would stuff up, and guess what- it did! He almost suspects that they brought him along just for the plan to stuff up and him get captured so they could work from there- Andy had blabbed something about 'needing a medic' and 'honestly Patrick you're not that bad a fighter really', but whatever.

The bars are too close together Patrick to look too far out but he can just see the windows of the two cells either side of them- and one of them has the signal.

(They've always got a backup plan if someone gets captured, including complicated signals and strategies.)

Josh and Joe are right next door to him, thank goodness. That makes this infinitely easier.

Stepping away from the window and fiddling in his pockets, the blond youth extracts his radio from the hidden pocket in his hoodie (thanks, Ariel!) and whispers a few words into it.

"What are you doing?"

Pete's voice surprises Patrick and he jumps a little before inwardly sighing at how bleak the vampire's voice is.

"What are you doing?!"

"W-we're getting o-o-out of here."

The single eyebrow raised by the vampire doesn't exactly give Patrick all that much confidence, bur whatever. He totally has this down. Sure, he's never actually used this plan before, but it should work.

Hopefully.

Patrick's hoodie has two hidden pockets- one for the radio and one for the backup plan.

Which is basically a fuckload of explosives, courtesy of the pyromaniacs Jack and Alex from the Hustlers (the Youngbloods, as Joe has dubbed their gang of hunters, have some really good relationships with a whole bunch of other groups. Thank goodness. The Hustlers, led by Kellin Quinn and the werewolf Vic Fuentes, are some of their closest friends.

"C-can you g-get out of those cuffs?"

"I think so. Why?"

Smiling slightly at the confused vampire, Patrick shrugs.

"I told you. We're getting out."