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Chapter Text

🧛‍ IAN 🧛‍ 

Ian had thought he was in love. He thought he and Rutger were going to run away together, leave the streets of Chicago for someplace like Paris, where men such as them can live more freely. But now Rutger is just a pile of ash, he is some undead thing, and all he has to show for their time together is some strange key.  

This might be the worst night of his entire life. Or is it the worst night of his death?  That is only the tip of the iceberg. He has no idea what he is or how he is supposed to live (unlive?) like this.  

He could throttle Rutger if he weren’t so emphatically dead even by undead creature standards. Ian had barely woken up transfigured into whatever he is supposed to be now when Rutger gave him an explanation half as long as a sonnet before he left Ian high and dry and utterly lost. 

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Ian wakes.   

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He remembers sitting down on a log with Rutger after building a roaring fire for them in a secluded grove in the woods of Sherman Park. Rutger leans in kissing his way down Ian’s neck as he manipulates Ian’s suspenders and the buttons of his shirt. Then Rutger is nibbling on his neck as Ian tells him not to leave any marks. The world starts to spin and he feels lightheaded. And then there is darkness.  

Now that he is awake, the world… it doesn’t seem brighter, but is seems sharper, more intense. Everything around him seems so vivid. He can espy each and every little dancing tendril of flame in the fire, which Rutger must have stoked to great heights while Ian was out, for it rises to almost twice Ian's height.   

Rutger is there. And despite the fact that it must be past midnight, Ian feels like he is looking at him in broad daylight for the first time. By the same token, he truly sees Rutger for the first time, more beautiful than Ian had before realized, but unmistakably something unnatural.  

“I’ve shared my dark gift with you, Ian.”  

“Your what?” asks Ian, disoriented.  

“You will need to feed soon. My blood will make you stronger than most once you get the hang of things.” He produces an ornate silver key.  

“Find my house. Everything that was mine is yours now.”   

He starts away. Ian means to follow, but he is far too dizzy to give chase.  

“Wait! Where are you going?”   

“Stay where you are.” Ian’s body locks up, frozen in place against his will. “I need to take this at a dash.”  

Ian is utterly confused, disoriented. The man who has been wooing him for the past several weeks suddenly seems so cold and remote.  

For a brief moment, Rutger looks unsure, but then he steels himself. “I have lived far too long.”  

Ian understands what is happening only a split second too late as Rutger launches himself headlong into the roaring flame. Ian rushes to the fire, horrified as a massive plume of smoke rises into the night sky. There is no sign of Rutger’s remains, as though he were a dry leaf instead of a man that had been flung into the fire.  

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He wanders the streets of Chicago, lost in a world in too sharp a focus to resemble the one he had known just a few hours ago. The incandescent gas lights that line the streets are too bright, they make Ian’s eyes hurt and causes his head to throb like he has been struck by a bolt of lightning from above. They glow each with their own aura pulsating around them like little earthbound stars. And up in the heavens, Ian can see billions more stars than his eyes had a few mere hours ago. The radiant orbs in the sky pulse and contract, almost like they are living, breathing things with their own heartbeats. And it isn’t just the sights; he can smell rancid byproduct lining pastures past the city limits, the perfumes of  the painted ladies who congregate at the wharf. He can hear the rattle of trains on the elevated rail coming from all directions. He didn’t ask for this, all the stimuli bombarding his senses.  

He feels so weak.  

And he feels a pressure inside him, urging him on. It almost  feels like the pressure is a voice reverberating in the next room over but that he can’t quite understand. He knows it is sending him some sort of message, but he just can’t make out what he’s being told. But somehow in his gut, he thinks he understands.  

"Feed." He has to feed. But what does that mean for him now? 

🧛‍  MICKEY️ 🧛‍ 

Mickey’s mansion was one of the earliest buildings built in the Gold Coast when it first became a home for the Chicago elite over three decades earlier. Modest by the standards of the opulent neighborhood, but beyond opulent compared to anywhere else he has existed in his nearly one thousand years on this earth.  

Normally, he would not opt for something so ostentatious, but Chicago has been his home base ever since he finally hazarded the journey to the States from the Old World almost a century earlier. He has watched the city evolve from a trading post for beaver pelts into a sprawling urban metropolis, which, whether history records it or not, has his finger prints in its infrastructure. Chicago is the most he has ever felt at home since he was a small farm boy in the Kievan Rus. When he is here, he wants to be ensured a certain amount of comfort and a great amount of privacy.  

A vampire of his age doesn’t need to feed as much as a fledgling. He almost doesn’t need to feed at all, perhaps once a year. Even then, he is a master of the little sip. A little taste from a great many people over the course of a week will sustain him for over a year at a time.  

So many of the new breed are never taught. And ever since that damned novel came out nearly near the end of the last century, would-be Van Helsings have been cropping up here and there. And they notice the sloppy ones. It makes Mickey appreciate not needing to leave the comforts of home if he really doesn’t need to. He doesn’t even remember liking people that greatly when he was alive, let alone once he became a thing out of folk tales.  

He has this entire estate to himself. He wanders the halls of his estate some nights, now fitted with Edison lamps. Tonight is one such night. He has done his best to build his personal history into the walls of his home. At 1,023 years of age, memories get fuzzy, images blur and cluster, and sometimes they simply disappear altogether. There is only so much one being, supernatural or otherwise, can retain. But building his history into the architecture helps, as does festooning it with bric-a-brac that hearkens back to memories dozens of lifetimes ago. 

Whole rooms are dedicated to a vast library. He has been documenting his personal thoughts since before he was turned in 889 Anno Domini. Although the first few centuries are a bit spotty, written in hindsight. His research library is almost as old but infinitely grander. He has both collected tomes as well as his own handwritten records on the various subjects that have been the subject of his studies over the years. Some topics have lasted weeks, others have engaged his interest for decades at a time, but eventually, he moves on and those books end up part of the collection, collecting dust. But he would never part with them. He doesn’t know if he could remember the scope of his personal history without them. He even has a second handwritten set of his diaries secured safely in a vault in the basement, in case something should happen to the originals. 

This is how he reckons with eternity.  

He is about to play some music on the Victrola to pass the rest of his time until dawn when it hits.  

Intense, scared, confused, overwhelmed. Feelings overriding his own senses. But these aren’t his own. His body reacts to them like both an invasion and a call for help. He staggers around until he can brace himself on the back of a settee.  

Mickey has no idea what is happening. He hasn’t felt anything quite like this since his own sire was around. But it isn’t quite the same. There is a psychic bond between a maker and his fledgling. However, the experience is different for each. The fledgling can hear his maker’s thoughts while a sire hears his child’s emotions. The way his maker Wulfric explained it to him, this was so that the sire can know when his fledgling is in danger and can guide them as best he can. He hasn’t thought about his maker in over four centuries, but almost as though he summoned a ghost, he can hear Wulfric’s sing-song East Anglian accent in his mind. 

But why is he hearing some fledgling’s inchoate panic in his mind? In over a millennium, he has never spawned a fledgling of his own; too much of a responsibility. And he would not ensnare someone, make them a thrall as he has been. He would not damn another soul and tether them to him against his will.  

Oh, but this poor lost idiot screaming into his head... it’s more than he can bear. Even after a thousand years, Mickey can scarce manage his own intense emotions, thus why he keeps so many people at a distance anymore even within such a growing metropolis as Chicago.  

Lost. Confused. Scared. And now a new sensation. He’s weak. Hollowed out. It’s almost as though... “Jesus Christ, did nobody teach you how to feed? Is this your first night? Where the fucking hell is your sire, kid?” 

A new vampire needs to feed regularly in the first decade or so. Six fluid ounces after sunset when he wakes up and then again before sunset. The light of the sun won’t kill a vampire as so many damn novelists would have the living believe, but it will rob them of their strength. Even at his great longevity, Mickey will find himself weak during the day, easier just to sleep through the day off unless he an appointment with a mortal associate. 
But for a newly made vampire, especially on his first night, he needs to get some blood in him before the sun comes up simply to sustain him through the long daylight hours while he is caught in the diurnal paralysis, when he will be most vulnerable.   

And on his first night, that first feeding could spell the difference between life and death.  

He. Mickey keeps using “he” in his head. Sight unseen, he knows somewhere deep inside him that this is a man, but he has no idea how he arrived at that conclusion.  

He doesn’t know what he is doing. He has never had a fledgling before. He doesn’t know how he is supposed to communicate with this poor abandoned schnook of a newborn vamp. But he cannot simply let these cries for help go unheeded. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the source of the feelings. Like a compass, he feels the pull, but rather than north, it points due south. He can almost sense what the boy is sensing, the fetid, rancid smell of the Union Stock Yards. No wonder he is overwhelmed. The newly enhanced senses of a freshly made vampire can barely deal with the scent of incense and freshly cleaned linens, let alone the foul stench of that stink hole of an abattoir. 

Get out of there, rookie. He thinks very hard, hoping the fledgling can hear his thoughts as clearly as Mickey senses the newcomer’s emotions. You need to feed. It is getting late and you need to feed before dawn. Find somewhere safe and rest until nightfall.  

He repeats the instructions over and over again in his mind, hoping he is doing this correctly. He has never in all the long centuries of his afterlife been on this end of the dynamic. He doesn’t know anyone who has, even if he does vaguely recall a similar strange account from long before his time. He has no idea whether the wayward boy is receiving anything from him.  

But then the whirling panoply of emotions narrows its focus down to a single sensation—confoundment. But that confoundment soon segues into something resembling resolve. Mickey hopes this is the fruit of his efforts.  

Despite his kneejerk instinct to leave this new vampire to his own devices, he thinks the better of it. For better or worse, this boy is somehow in his head, meaning his own maker is either gone or abandoned him to his fate. He has nobody else. Like Mickey, this boy is alone in the world. It’s irrational. This boy isn’t his responsibility. He didn’t sink his teeth into the boy and have him drink from him in return. He is someone else’s misbegotten creation. So why is he Mickey’s problem?  

Because an untrained vampire creates a target on all their backs. Like it or not, he needs to find this boy and make sure he isn’t drawing unwanted attention to himself or any of the other couple dozen vampires in the greater Chicago area. He must seek him out. But dawn approaches. It is getting too late in the night for him to venture out and find this boy tonight, but at least he has pointed him in the right direction.   

He retires to his bedroom and strips down to his undergarments, laying his nice suit out on his dressing table for the following night. As he climbs into his four-poster bed and draws the thick blackout curtains shut, he thinks of any parting words to tell the boy in his head before slumber overtakes him. What can he tell this boy to keep him from landing himself in a world of trouble that will no doubt impact them all.  

Then it occurs to him.  

Be careful. And remember to take little sips. Just what you need to survive.  

Chapter Text

🧛‍ IAN  🧛‍      

It’s dark in here even if Ian’s vampiric eyes perceive everything with mind-boggling clarity. Not a crack of light penetrates the small shack he finds himself in. But as the sun sets (despite not being able to see it, he can feel it recede), Ian feels his body relax, his muscles slacken. He was worried he would be trapped this way forever, frozen as still as though he were made of plaster of Paris or carved from marble and trapped clutching the body of the poor hapless victim whose only crime was crossing Ian’s path when the hunger overwhelmed him. The body is already putrefying, and rigor mortis has set in by the time he regains enough control of his limbs to cast aside the remains of the homeless man.  

Rigor Mortis , he thinks. It’s Latin for “stiffness of death.” So what just happened to me? Why was he petrified like a wasp caught in resin for the length of a day? Is there a term for that? Do vampires have their own medical terminology? He ponders to himself and almost has to bitterly laugh at the idea of a ghoul like him being invited to some lofty gathering of the American Medical Association to present a lecture on the impact of Rigor Im mortis on the Undead.  

Last night, he thought waking up an undead fiend and watching his lover throw himself into a fire would go down as the worst thing that could ever happen to him. After eleven hours ensnared in a corpselike paralysis with nothing to do but smell his victim’s stench and play a captive audience to his own spiraling thoughts, he knows that things can go from bad to worse. Easily.   

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He had been wandering the street of Chicago when he felt his body turn on him. And it would not be the only time. It came from the pit of his stomach and expanded out both directions. He barely had time to usher himself to an alley behind the Alibi Tavern.   

The call of nature, like most sensations as a vampire, was intense and not for the faint of heart. Who knew the undead still needed to relieve themselves? He wondered. His knees buckled and his whole body shook, the sensation of his stomach doing somersaults and tying itself in knots intensifying the longer it took him to strip himself bare. If he guesses right, he would rather not ruin his clothes, not that his threadbare paupers' clothes are the height of sophistication. But they are all he has. Just as he has stripped to nothing but his stocking feet, his body gives up the ghost. He collapses on the cobbles. His knees should have hurt from the fall. They didn’t. He should have trembled in the cool of a mid-March night. He didn’t . He wanted to cry. He couldn’t.  

His bladder and bowels gave out first, expelling all the waste of a living man’s excretory system. It was a violent sensation, he was doing more than relieving himself; his undead body was ridding itself of something that had no place there any longer. Then came a burning sensation as an acidic flush crescendos up his throat and his body rids itself of everything not yet digested.   

Humiliated, he staggered away from the piles of his body’s water, his sick, and his shit and collapses leaning on the side of the tavern. Consumed with the sensation of being understandably hollowed out, if he felt weak before, then now he feels utterly undone, befouled and desolate.   

 He wanted to curl in on himself and die. But he was already expired, only animated through some beautiful demon’s trickery. He had no choice to go on even if he truly did want to end it.   

But the hunger remained. If anything, it was stronger than before. He doesn’t know if it is because his body just squeezed everything out of him like water from a sponge or if he truly is that hungry, that desperate. What is he supposed to do? Kill someone and drink their blood? He isn’t a monster. He isn’t, right?  

The pressure behind his eyes was back, the muffled sensation of someone trying to call his name from several rooms away. Again, he felt like it was trying to tell him something, like instructions being delivered directly into his imagination. But this time in the muffled reverberations, all he heard was “shelter.”  

It had been near dawn when he crawled into a neglected shack behind an abandoned tenement. He was fortunate enough to reach it. By the time he had wandered the Southside of Chicago, streets that would have been as familiar as the back of his hand had it not been for his newly altered perception, he was weak and light-headed. He had felt weak, light-headed. He recalls seeing the word  “anemic” in his medical texts. He was almost tempted to give up and let the sun take him. But that pressure in his head telling him to feed seemed bound and determined to make sure Ian survives. So he persisted until he reached the shelter.  

It was only by dumb luck that he wasn’t the first person to clock the shed as a decent place to squat. Suddenly, preternatural instincts he did not even know he possessed kicked in. He heard the tantalizing, pulsing rhythm of the man’s heartbeat, the visible throb of the carotid artery. He hadn’t any time to register anything else about the poor man. All that clarity of his senses that had plagued him since he rose was replaced by hunger. Ravenous and ungovernable, he understood down to the core of his being what that distant voice in his head meant when it said “Feed.” He felt his canine teeth sharpen to a point. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was having another bout of mania as his arms seized the hapless squatter and his mouth latched upon the swollen vein.  

The sweet relief. As the heat of the filthy stranger’s plasma swelled into his gullet, Ian felt the firestorm that had been burning beneath his skull finally began to fade. The dirty hand of the man reaches for Ian, seeming to push him away, but instead the stranger holds on for dear life. Ian could feel himself being replenished, rejuvenated as the hot blood gushed past Ian’s eager lips. The more he consumed, the clearer his mind became. He was still mad with thirst, but suddenly he realized, too late, that he was not merely simply drinking in this man’s blood but was in reality siphoning away his life the more he drank.  

Just a day ago, he was studying to become a medical student. Prima non nocere. First do no harm. That the mantra he would have sworn to, would have live by. And now he has killed a man so that he may live. He was disgusted with himself, and yet could not bring the newly unleashed bestial aspect of his nature to heel.  

The man was already beyond saving, drained like an orange rind after the juicer when dawn came. The remains of the indigent were still warm in his clutch when suddenly he felt an icy sting in his chest. He would have thought an abhorrent undead parasite like him would be immune to pain, but as the deathly cold sensation spread across his body as quickly as ripples in a pond, he learned that just like his other senses, pain had exquisite new depth and dimension.   

🧛‍🧛‍🧛‍     

He rubs and scratches around the dried blood around his lips. It flakes off in crusty patches, but that foul, metallic scent lingers. Ian wonders why it tasted like as sweet and vital as ambrosia last night when he drained the poor man now rotting on the floor, but now dried on his lips it smells repellently foul. Does a vampire’s blood need to be fresh? He is disgusted with himself. He is foul, wretched, and yet last night in those last minutes before dawn, he felt so utterly at peace, sated as no experience in life had granted him.   

He looks down at the emaciated body on the floor. He had looked like a meal to him last night, but the minute the lights died in the man’s eyes, something shifted. Ian tried to remind himself that his victim was once a man— a man whose life was snuffed out to sate his hunger, no less. But on some fundamental level that shames him, the man may as well be Ian’s leavings like the bodily waste he expelled all over the alley of the Alibi Tavern last night.   

Whoever this man was, Ian knows he deserved better than that. Yet Ian feels the same hunger blooming in him again. And even though it means that someone else will end up just like the man rotting on the floor of the shed, he knows he can’t ignore the looming need.    

🧛‍  Mickey  🧛‍  

For the third evening in a row, Mickey rouses from his slumber feeling hardly refreshed. The mystery fledgling’s emotions keep waking him up during the day and drive him to distraction at night. Vampires don’t need to sleep as often as their human counterparts, in fact after being turned, sleep is a skill they have to relearn. And Mickey is fond of sleep. He is ancient enough that he doesn’t enter diurnal paralysis, but he would still rather rest during the sunlight hours. And the fact that he is trapped in a psychic link with a boy who is as alert and panicky as ever during his body’s torpor is starting to impede his ability to enjoy his rest.  

Mickey cannot help but wonder if he was this demanding of Wulfric. It has been so long since he was sired and he has convinced himself over and over again that he took to this life with aplomb, like a duck to water. But the truth is his ancient, yellowed journals tell a much different story.   

He can tell that the younger vampire is getting the hang of feeding. The sense of relief twice a night is very probably his favorite part of having the kid’s feelings banging around his head. But then afterward come waves of disgust and remorse. Between feedings, the boy is a swirling mess of contradictory emotions, but most resonant of all is self-loathing.   

He’s still trying to be hands off. He never sired a fledgling of his own for a reason. But this lad needs guidance. At the very least, it gives him an excuse to get out of the house.   

He closes his eyes and follows the feelings. The fledgling must be close, still in Chicago. The emotions banging around Mickey’s skull grow stronger the further south he walks. His vampiric speed picks up, making him appear like a blink of the eye to the mortals he laps.   

He shudders to himself as he spots a news stand and comes to a complete halt. There are four different newspapers with headlines about a rash of murders in the 11 th Ward. One of them even sells the story of a serial killer haunting the Stockyards, Chicago’s own answer to Jack the Ripper. He sighs absent-mindedly cracking his knuckles, his thumbs pressing against each faded rune.   

Mickey steels his resolve and tries not to beat himself up over his hesitancy to seek the fledgling out. He convinced himself emotional bombardment or not, the new vampire wasn’t of his making and therefore not his responsibility. He thought that he could guide as a distance, determined not to take the boy under his wing like his schoolteacher.    

But that was folly and now this is drawing undue attention. It won’t be long before some fool who fancies himself a vampire hunter puts one and one together. He should have sought the boy out sooner. Has he not listened to a single psychic message Mickey has sent him? Mickey made it clear to him from that first psychic message that he needs to take only what he needs to survive. What was this fool doing leaving corpses out for the living to find?   

He thinks he finds the fool standing outside a blue house with a large open plot next to it. From a mile away, he spots the boy. He’s young, but not too young, perhaps only a year or two younger than Mickey had been when he was turned. The closer he comes to his quarry, the more he takes in the sight. His clothes are dirty from five nights of wandering the city aimlessly hunting, but even then, they are firmly that of a working-class man trying to climb the social ranks. Mickey can imagine the dingy grey shirt clean and pressed with the sleeves rolled up past the elbow, the suspenders draw attention to his muscular back and broad shoulders. The high-waisted pants hug his long, well-formed legs. The young vampire’s head is crowned in tight red curls that shine even in the dark like a new penny.  

Mickey feels a thump in his chest despite not having fed in ages. Damn whoever turned this boy and left him rattling around in Mickey’s head. He can’t think clearly and it has nothing to do with the boy’s profound melancholy throbbing in   

He has climbed up the side of the building to look inside the window. Is this fool seriously hunting in a residential district? Please tell me you aren’t dumb or foolhardy enough to think you can drain a whole family. Fucking showboating new bloods. He’s going to have angry mobs chasing him down.   

The boy is still learning, wet behind the ears. And perhaps a little distracted by whoever he plans to sup upon in that house. He doesn’t even perceive Mickey presence yet about 200 yards away. Perhaps he should speak up. But just to be on the safe side, he ducks behind the side of a nearby building, providing himself with coverage while still able to track the fledgling’s actions.  

“You know that it’s a myth that we have to be invited, right?” he shouts in a tone dripping with sarcasm. “But you are more likely to be found out pulling a maneuver like that.”  

The redhead turns around, darting his head around trying to pinpoint the source of Mickey’s voice. After five nights and days of this man’s every stray emotion, Mickey finally sees the face of the man who unwitting has been driving him up the wall. And Mickey feels his world fall away from under his feet.  

“Who said that?”  

Pale skin dappled with constellations of brown freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Green eyes with flecks of gold.   

“Who’s there? I warn you, I’m dangerous!”  

Thin pale lips, slightly chapped, the mouth is slightly crooked. He has a distinguished dimple in his chin.   

“Stay the fuck away from this house! It’s protected!”    

Mickey is hardly a virgin. Dalliances between vampires are actually fairly common occurrences. But there were still Emperors in Constantinople the last time just looking at someone had the effect on Mickey that this redhead is having.  

Mickey starts a hasty retreat. Is he afraid of this boy? Hardly. But he doesn’t like confronting his fellow vampires without his head screwed on properly. And right now, his head is spinning off its axis.  

He looks back filled with sudden yearning like a foolish Orphic figure for one last glance at a Eurydice. He came here to set this boy straight before he brings hellfire down on the vampires of Chicago. But now Mickey is the one who thinks he is about to make one hell of a mistake.  

🧛‍  IAN  🧛‍  

He spent the day in paralysis in the basement of an abandoned Russian Orthodox Church. It’s holy ground and yet he went the entire day without any of the religious imagery in this building causing him to burst into flames. That marks yet another myth about his kind that Ian is able to lay to rest. The first myth was dispelled within minutes of his transformation when Rutger gave him that silver key. Neither of them should have been able to hold it, much less string a thin cord through it and wear it as a necklace as Ian now does. Then he confirmed his still has a reflection, even if he now looks slightly unreal to behold.   

And most annoyingly, he can’t turn into a wolf or a bat. Being a vampire has so far proven to be terrible and the one silver lining that could have at least made this experience somewhat tolerable turned out to be bunk. If he had Mr. Bram Stoker’s address, he would mail him a strongly worded letter.   

He wipes at his lips and a proud smile spreads across his face. He hasn’t had a reason to feel proud of a single thing about himself since he was turned into a vampire, and he is going to celebrate the wins where he finds them. Yesterday was the first time he has timed his last feed of the night so that he had enough time to put some good distance between him and his victim and clean off his face. Little victories.  

And this won’t be the last one. While he was frozen in place in his daily torpor, it occurred to him that the Stockyards are filled with cows and swine awaiting slaughter. Perhaps if he gluts himself on a nice juicy pig, he can prevent himself from losing control around mortals. And perhaps if that works, he can consider hazarding a visit to see his family without fear of what he might do if he loses control.  

Christ, they must be worried sick , Ian thinks. They probably think I’ve gone off my rocker again and landed myself in the sanitarium. He doesn’t know if the truth is better or worse.   

He skulks out of the abandoned church through the basement hatch into the inky blue-black night.   

🧛‍🧛‍🧛‍  

It occurs that even if he hadn’t grown up on these streets, he could find his way to the Union Stock Yards blindfolded. Coping with his enhanced senses is still a work in progress. He still gets sensory overload, but his senses of smell and hearing are coming along fairly well. His olfactory senses still get overwhelmed, and the noise of crowds can be too much for him, but he has a predator’s nose now. When he concentrates, closes his eyes and thinks upon only what he is seeking, he can filter out everything else until all that is left is the scent of his prey and the sound of its movement.  

And the beasts doomed for the slaughterhouse in the pens of the Stockyards are hardly a moving target. He scales the outer wall of the property. He was always athletically inclined, but the fact that he can now run halfway up a tall wall before gravity has time to object. He looks over the wall at the labyrinth of animal pens, a knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of what he is about to do. But unlike the humans whose lives he has cut short to satisfy his instinct to feed, at least he knows what he is about to do is no crueler than the fate that would await them in the morning.  

Initially, his plan is to go for a sow. But he doesn’t think he could be able to stomach the sound of its high-pitched squeals as he siphons away its lifeblood. He imagines it will be even harder to bear than the mortal men’s pleas.  

He opts for a cow instead. It doesn’t make such frantic noises even when it is spooked. And a cow has more blood in it than a swine. Or even a man. He zeroes in on the oldest one, figuring she had a fuller life than her sisters. And then he descends upon her.   

Who knows? Maybe I can manage to slake my thirst without draining it completely.   

As it so happens, he does manage to will himself off the poor creature before it dies. But he still underestimated how much he would consume once his vampire instincts took over. Bovine blood doesn’t taste anywhere near as delectable as that of a mortal. It is like comparing venison to a porterhouse steak. It’s bland at best, gamy at worst, but it does provide Ian with the sustenance he needs. The Gallagher household is one of feast and famine. He grew up quite accustomed to lamb one week and mulligan stew the next.   

He drinks until his belly is full of blood and manages to release himself before she dies. But she would have been better off if he had finished what he started. She is weak, drained beyond her capacity to recover. Leaving her like this would be cruel. She will die a slow painful death compared to what she would have had if he had if Ian has simply finished what he started or left her for the butcher’s knife.   

Somehow, this feels even more monstrous than if he had selected (or more likely, randomly pounced upon) another unsuspecting mortal man. It lacks the same excitement he experiences when he feeds on humans, the brief welcome sensation of pressing himself against another man before he takes what he wants that feels distinctly... carnal. And at least in the initial few seconds of feeding, the mortal seems to enjoy himself, too. But this? This is cruel and abominable letting the beast suffer.  

It is an act of contrition and compassion when he takes a shovel from a nearby tool shed and lays the wretched beast low.  

🧛‍🧛‍🧛‍  

Climbing up the side of his family house is a simple task. He and his brother Lip had practically made a game of knowing which bricks in the uneven side wall of the house to grab onto where to place their feet to climb in through the windows on the first floor. As children, they fancied themselves mountain climbers. He peers in through the window at the family room. Somehow, he wills himself to go unnoticed as he gazes at his step-father and siblings like some sort of voyeur. It is one thing that he needs to see them, know that they are okay. He needs that peace of mind. But it is another thing entirely to allow them to see him in his present state, transfigured into a murderous creature of the dark.  

He is relieved that they are all happy and whole. But then he remembers that they are happy without him and that stings.  

His step-father Frank seems sauced as usual and Ian hardly imagines the man would be one to organize a search party. As far as the ostensible family patriarch is concerned, Ian has always been an irritation.  

Fiona on the other hand is focused on his younger siblings Debbie and Carl, instructing them in the kitchen. For the past few years, Fiona’s default state towards Ian has been perpetual worry. And he has no doubts she is concerned that he has been missing for so many days now. But she is putting on a brave face for the rest of her family.  

And then there are his eldest and youngest brothers, Lip and Liam, the scholars of the family. They sit by the phonograph, the turntable spinning, as Lip instructs the youngest sibling’s studies. Both seem engaged in their discourse, but when there is a lull in the conversation, Ian catches the worry lines in both their countenances. He wishes he could allay their fears and tell them he is okay. But none of this is okay. Not a single iota. And just the sight of him will be enough for them to recoil with dread.  

“You know that it’s a myth that we have to be invited, right? But you are more likely to be found out pulling a maneuver like that.” comes a gravely yet charming voice. It sounds so much like those one-word messages he keeps getting that tell him to feed, to relax, to rest. But he knows the sound is coming from without this time. And for someone oft accused of madness, there is a bittersweet relief in knowing that you aren’t just hearing voices in your head.  

He looks around, but the voice comes from nowhere. There is not a single person anywhere near him. His hearing as a vampire is keen, but he isn’t a bat. He can’t pinpoint the source of the voice. But if he knows what Ian is, then Ian wants a level playing field.  

“Who said that? Who’s there? I warn you, I’m dangerous!” His initial instinct is to go on the defensive. But the voice said “we.” Meaning the stranger may be a creature like him. A suddenly warmth fills his chest and he feels momentarily unburdened by the notion that he might not be alone. But then the counterweight latches onto him like a snake bite. If he is a creature like Ian, an undead hemovore, and he is suggesting just letting themselves into Ian’s family home, then he needs to safeguard the lives of his family. “Stay the fuck away from this house! It’s protected!”  

He climbs down from the window ledge and starts striding down the street looking for the mystery man. And it doesn’t take long for him to spot the stranger making a run for it. He is a streak of porcelain white and inky black. Damn he’s fast . He vanishes from Ian’s near-telescopic range of vision within moments. But Ian is determined to find that man.  

For the first time in nearly a week, he doesn’t feel alone. The relief he feels is so profound, he wishes he could bottle that feeling and carry it in his pocket.  

Chapter Text

🧛‍ Mickey  🧛‍ 

Fucking Yerkes wasting everyone’s time. The subway extension project could have launched by now if he would just see which way the wind is blowing. He makes me understand why some vampires just tear out the throats , grumbles Mickey internally as he makes his way out of the office. The Chicago & South Side Elevated Rail’s Board of Directors had a meeting this afternoon and Mickey could have told a body well in advance that it was going to be an exercise in frustration. As one of the original architects, he is an emeritus member, though usually he is more than willing to skip these sessions. Bureaucracy has long been an annoyance in Mickey’s esteem, an irritant under the skin that he has to learn to live with in these modern times. He grows frustrated in this kind of situation when he has to pose as his own son or grandson, leading the old guard only think he is only there because of nepotism. 

The annoyance is really a hell of his own making. Mickey could be in bed right now, but he was tired of the restless sleep caused by the unpredictable emotions of the redheaded fledgling that keep getting funneled into his cranium. So rather than toss and turn in bed, he figured turning his attention to the El. Twenty years ago, it was his baby, his architectural and engineering accomplishment.  

He feels more a sense of ownership of the Elevated Rail than his various other achievements over the centuries. And his fingerprints are on quite some impressive ones. The compass, the rifle-mounted bayonet, the sextant, and the steam engine, among others. Perhaps it is because the rail is the first invention that changed the landscape. He remembers just how proud he was at the 1893 Exhibition when the rail made Chicago’s transportation system the envy of the world.  

But while as an ancient vampire, he can withstand the sun without experiencing diurnal paralysis, free to walk about as though he were mortal, it is not without its drawbacks. It is still a tiring and irritable experience at the best of times. He cannot risk using his vampiric speed or strength without risking exposure. And he has to be very mindful of his facial expressions. In broad daylight he needs to keep his expression neutral, lest mortals take in his supernatural nature.  

He walks headed in the direction of home when he notices the fledgling’s thoughts again. He has gotten adept at pushing the fledgling to the back of his mind, almost like background noise. But it becomes louder when Mickey isn’t provided with a suitable distraction. Loneliness. Despair. Mickey wishes there was something he could do to help, but he lost all reason the other night. How can he guide the fledgling when he can’t even think clearly around him? He acted like a lovesick mortal afraid to say hello to his crush. He has lived long enough to see whole empires rise and fall. How is he so overwrought with infatuation over a gent he has only seen the one time? 

“Did you see those markings on the neck?” Mickey overhears an animated voice at some distance. “Same as the others. Ain’t that right, Lip?” 

Usually, Mickey is keen to drown out all the stray conversations his superior hearing picks up on. But ever since he found out the wayward young blood is a sloppy eater who doesn’t clean up his own messes, he has been keeping his ears perked up for talk among the mortals.  

“Thirteen at last count,” a second person replies. The voice is steady and reserved. There is a mild undertone of a smoker’s rasp. “But that’s not counting my brother.” 

“You really think your brother’s dead?” 

“We checked the clink and the bin. Either he got itchy feet and ran off or this would-be Ripper got him.” 

“You seriously think it was a man?” 

“Or a woman,” Lip answers. “I don’t discriminate, Joaquin.” 

“No, I mean… look at the throats, buster. They’re all practically torn out. That’s…There are some of us who don’t think this is the work of a human.” 

“What? Like?” 

“Have you ever read Dracula? ” 

Mickey pricks up his ears at that, taking a seat at a street bench. He spots the source of the conversation a quarter mile away at a southbound Red Line platform. They are evidently students, though Mickey suspects they are scholarship students. If their worn-out shoes doesn’t give it away, the. The bouquet of salted pork and cabbage broth does.  

The more animated voice belongs to a taller man with a light brown complexion and slicked back dark brown hair. He certainly is a button bright of a man with a beaming grin that lights up his whole face. Mickey knows the type. Smiles too much, acts like he’s everybody’s friend. He has seen that face on hundreds of men over the centuries and he always regrets making its acquaintance. The owners always test his patience. 

The shorter man’s hair is fashioned into a wavy side part of sandy blond hair. A cigarette hangs from his mouth. “You’re joshing me, right? It’s just a book.” 

“Yeah? But I know some people who are gathering up; they’re setting to smoke out the little shit and find out if we got a man or a monster on our hands and take care of him. You want in?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” 

Mickey needs to find that fledgling and he needs to find him now. The boy has put himself in great danger. And by extension, all the vampires in the city are at risk. 

Standing up, he closes his eyes and allows himself to feel a wave of mild depression emanating from the new vampire. Christ, how does anybody sire a fledgling by choice? It’s like his feelings want to drag me down like an undertow.  

Once again, he divines the source like he is finding true north. And he is surprised to realize that the ginger-haired fledgling has made camp for the day much further north than his previous hunting grounds, in the direction of his own neighborhood. Mickey needs to find that idiot and set him straight before he starts devouring the nouveau riche and the police actually start bothering to investigate. 

🧛‍ Ian  🧛‍  

There are a few significant boons in today’s hidey hole. The first is that it is empty. These Northside fat cats have the means to leave the inhospitable cold of Chicago and spend their winters on sandy white beaches somewhere.  

Then there is the fact that he is laid out flat on an exquisite bed in a palatial mansion. It was one of only a few in the neighborhood that didn't smell quite as appetizing, which led Ian to suppose it had been abandoned. Though judging by the sheer amount of furniture under dust cloths, I thinks it's only temporary.

Thirdly Ian really appreciates is that for once it is clean. Say what you want about the well-to-do, even their servants’ quarters are pristine. Yes, he is still inert, his body soporific while his mind remains painfully alert, but for once there is no dust, no cobwebs coating the the floor and ceilings, no vermin skittering around him. The ceiling is stucco, not unvarnished slats of rotting pine.  

He doesn’t think he could get used to this, but it is nice to see how the other half lives. 

After more than a week cleaving close to his home soil in the Southside, last night he ventured towards the north of the city in the hopes that he can find that other vampire who spooked him the other night. He scarcely got a look at him, and only as a blurry streak in the distance, but he cannot get the man out of his head. Is it just because he doesn’t want to be alone? Why does he feel such a draw to him? Why does he still feel that foreign presence in his mind, in fact it feels a bit more intense the further up Lake Michigan’s coastline he gets, but the strangled distant messages are distinctly absent. 

It is getting late in the day. He doesn’t have it down to a science, but the makeshift sundial he set up by placing one of the owner’s tchotchkes on a windowsill indicates that it must only be an hour or two until he can will his limbs out of its daily atrophy.  

He gets so impatient after so many hours stuck like this, but he figures he should at least plan ahead a bit better. If he could move, he would laugh. He wonders how he ever thought things were going to pan out with him in medical school when he finds himself flying by the seat of his pants, looking before he leaps at all times. But considering the fact that he can’t seem to fall asleep when he is stuck like this, it gives him plenty of time to start planning out his nights. 

First thing he plans to do is search the rooms for clothes that might fit him. He has snuck into the bathhouses once or twice since his transformation, but there is little reward to bathing if he is just going to put on the ripe clothes he died in again.   

Then, he needs to think through the Stockyards again. Or perhaps he could catch rats or stray cats. As disturbed as he had been when he was forced to euthanize that heifer a few night ago, he has to commit to an alternative to feeding on men. Last night, he passed by a news stand and saw the faces of several of his victims staring dead eyed back at him in black and white news paper print. Not only does killing make him sick at heart, but it’s starting to feel like he is leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. 

He is in the process of figuring out how to spend his night after he sates his appetite when suddenly he is disturbed by the sound of footsteps coming from within the house. He curses himself for laying out in the open. It’s probably a robber invading the opulent estate and here Ian is helpless to defend himself and laying exposed over top of the bed spread. 

Dread fills him. Whoever it is, they are going to enter this room and see a lifeless, immobile wraith of a being. They’ll stuff his mouth full of garlic and sever his head from his shoulders and impale his heart with a stake and that will be the end of Ian Clayton Gallagher, bumbling vampire. 

He wishes he could at least close his eyes. What he would give in these final moment if he could clamp them shut and brace himself for the inevitable.  

Then a face comes into view. Inky black hair slicked back crowns a heart-shaped face with pallid, almost ivory-colored skin. His lips are lush and full, like Cupid’s bow and his lidded eyes are a deep shade of ocean blue.   

“I have to admit you have good taste, red.” He recognizes the voice. There is a gravel to the tone, but also a softer quality that Ian finds soothing. He heard this voice so many times sending one-word commands into his head the past week. Then the other day, it was him who spotted him outside his family’s home. Ian ventured away from the more familiar terrain of the the Southside in search of the owner of that voice and now he is here before him. “Did you have any idea whose place you’re squatting in? The Palmers own this estate. You’re pretty lucky Potter and his wife prefers New York society this time of year.” 

He is surprisingly thankful that he is paralyzed, unable to speak. Because Ian doesn’t have the first idea of what the first thing he would have to say. How many of us are there? How do you keep finding me? Can you show me the ropes because right now I feel like I’m making a total bungle of it.   

“I bet you’re wondering how I’m able to move around in the daytime.” No, the thought hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. Though, now he feels like a dolt. Again, another reason to be thankful he can’t speak for the moment. Better to be silent and thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.  

The stranger laughs as though Ian just shared a ribald joke and he sits next to Ian on the side of the opulent bedspread. “Look, don’t get so embarrassed. It comes with age. And I’m a very old blood sucker. In about forty or fifty years, you should be able to wiggle your fingers and blink. I think I was about a hundred, maybe a hundred-twenty before I could talk back to my maker during the day. I was six or seven hundred by the time I could actually go out into the sunlight. But honestly, it’s overrated.”  

Ian thinks he understands. He has only been a vampire for a week, but already he feels ill at ease around the living. They’re too loud, too abrasive. And they smell like food. People shouldn’t have the same effect on him as Fiona’s mashed potatoes.   

“It gets easier, man. But I think you need someone watching your back for a while. You wanna get out of here? Oh, right. Still can’t talk. Well, consider this me making an executive decision.”  

Ian feels electricity as the other vampire’s arms slide under his knees and shoulders and lifts him into a bridal carry. He smells of pipe tobacco with undertones of something spicy and woody. Ian could get lost in that scent.  

“You actually didn’t end up all that far from my home, stalker.” The stranger grins, teasingly. “It’s no Astor estate, but it’s just me in a home that could house a family of twelve. Plenty of room for a gangly-looking redhead.”   

🧛‍ Mickey  🧛‍ 

As confident as he is in his own ability to be respectful of the younger vampire’s petrified body, it takes every amount of willpower to keep his gaze on the redhead’s eyes. If Mickey thought he was beautiful before, then he is immaculate when rendered completely bare. The key strung around his neck looks awfully important. In fact, he could almost swear he has seen it before. But if he stares too long, the boy is going to take him for a lech, so he averts his gaze. He is thankful once he has the neophyte lowered into the bubbling water and the fledgling’s impressive endowment disappear below the suds.  

The boy isn’t quite as dirty as the grubbiness of his clothes suggested. He must have found time to sneak into the the public baths a few times, but never went home for a clean change of clothes. He takes a wet rag and rubs the soap into it and begins his ministrations.  

He is washing the man’s hair when suddenly he hears a low baritone murmur. “I’m Ian.” 

“Oh, hi.” Mickey responds surprised, he looks down to see that Ian’s body is his own again. “Good evening. Ian.” 

 “Do you got a name or am I supposed to call you ‘Master’ or ‘Sire’ or something?” 

“Even if I was you master or sire, no. That sounds fucking ridiculous.”  

 Ian takes the rag from Mickey’s hand and starts washing himself, but he doesn’t shrug away Mickey from massaging his nimble fingers along his scalp. The boy leans into the touch. “So, what am I supposed to call you?” 

“The name I use the most is ‘Mickey.’” 

“I’m sorry, you’re telling me you’re a grown adult who goes by ‘Mickey?’” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and uses a small brass bowl to scoop up water to rinse the suds out of Ian’s hair. “It’s the oldest name I remember having. When my father sold me to the Vikings, the called me ‘Mikkel.’” 

“I’m sorry did you say ‘Vikings?’ You are old enough to remember meeting people who worshipped Thor and Odin?” 

“I’ll be 1,046 in August.” 

Ian's eyes widen. “And you were a slave?” 

"A thrall," Mickey corrects. "Same difference, though. And you can pitch the judgmental tone. Your country had slaves less than a century ago.” 

“So, how did you go from Viking slave to living in a mansion on the Gold Coast” the redhead asks as Mickey dislodges the rubber stopper from the drain.” 

“That, it should go without saying, is a very long story,” explains Mickey as he hands a clean towel to Ian, who is now standing in the tub. 

“So, is that how you got those tattoos on your knuckles?” 

“What? You mean my runes?” He looks at the back of his hands. He had taken his gloves off before he lowered Ian into the bath. He usually covers them up with powders or creams when he can’t get away with wearing gloves. “They’re supposed to be for prosperity, good luck, that sort of thing.” 

“Do they work? Like magic or something?” 

“Eh. Didn’t prevent a vampire from turning me.” He bristles, as though shrugging off the half-formed remnant of a long forgotten memory. “C’mon, not that I don’t appreciate the view, but let’s find you some clothes.” 

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛 

“Remember—” 

“You don’t gotta remind me, I’m trying!” Ian snarls, voice cracking in frustration.  

“Eh, we’re on the same team here, Red. I’m trying to help.”  

“Well, you’re making me nervous. Just… give me a little room, okay?” Ian doesn’t think he is ever going to master this. Certainly not tonight and certainly not with Mickey hovering. He has trouble thinking straight in the man’s presence and he needs to focus if he is going to need a clear head. Ian wouldn’t call himself a quick study, but when he dedicates himself to learning something, he will keep trying until he has it committed to memory chapter and verse. 

But Mickey is staring at him, his demeanor much colder than he had been a couple hours ago when the man had scooped him up like a child and carried Ian into his home. He had been so kind, then. Perhaps Mickey was just making a good first impression. Or perhaps it is because Ian made such a poor one.  

After Mickey had outfitted Ian in a set of clothes that admittedly do not fit him well, he took Ian out for his early evening feeding, whisking Ian away (literally, carrying Ian at a speed Ian cannot match)  to a pasture north of the city limits. Though Mickey didn’t drink himself. He stood by only a foot or two away and observed Ian with this look of appraisal in those striking blue eyes. Doing his best to ignore the nerves brought on by his self-appointed proctor, Mickey crouched down to the nearest sow… and made an utter disaster of Mickey’s instructions. Ian simply could not manage to will himself to show restraint. The look in Mickey’s face wasn’t disgust. It’s second-hand embarrassment.  

As with every time Ian has ever tried to feed himself as a vampire, as soon as he bore his fangs, instincts took hold of him and the hunger pains that had made him feel weak before suddenly made him feel ravenous. When he feeds, no matter how many times he reminds himself he is a man and not a beast, something takes hold and there is only a monster. And as shameful as it is whenever he returns to his sense and sees what he has done, it fills him with an all-consuming woeful horror that makes him want to fall to his knees and openly weep for the life he has snuffed out. Mickey bearing witness to it only deepens the sense of shame. And unbidden it comes ringing in his ear, the specter of that baleful groan of a “moo” the cow had made the first time he fed from anything besides a human. It makes him shudder. 

“I have some pointers for next time,” Mickey had told him as he approached Ian’s face with a kerchief he produced from his inside breast pocket, dabbing his face clean as though Ian were a small child. And as much as it was infantilizing, Ian’s undead heart thrummed as Mickey’s braced his chin with one hand and  cleaned off the residual blood staining his mouth with the other.  

In the hours between Ian’s first and second feeding, there is a distinct quiescence  between them. And Ian reckons that is fair. They only met a few hours ago. And Mickey had made it clear that his goal here is to make sure that Ian knows how to feed himself without leaving a trail of corpses in his wake. Ian has to accept that the man isn’t exactly setting out to make a bosom buddy.  

Mickey lays out in a field, arms propping him up and one leg crossed over the other. He looks out into the distance with an expression of contemplation only someone who has a thousand years behind him can have. Ian wants to join him, even if he feels like he is interrupting something.  He stands at a distance from Mickey even if he cannot seem to break his gaze. The man is beautiful the way his pale skin glistens in the moonlight.  

“You want to sit down? You’re making me nervous standing there.”  

“Sorry, I didn’t want to intrude.”  

“Eh, I’m the one who dragged you out here. Consider yourself welcome to whatever stupid shit I do to pass the time."  

Ian kneels down beside Mickey. “I suppose immortality means there is no rush. All the time in the world to sit back and smell the daisies.” 

“I’m more about stargazer lilies and black beauties.” 

“Black beauties?” 

Mickey looks at him like he is explaining shapes to a child. “It’s a variety of gladiolus. Deep red wine-colored, like flowering burgundy.” 

“Oh,” responds Ian, who isn’t big on flowers, but doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that  he is clueless of what Mickey is describing. 

The silence overtakes them again. Mickey seems enraptured by the stars, looking through the panoply of distant gaseous celestial bodies like they are old friends.  

“You know we could have brought a blanket if stargazing is your thing, Mickey.” 

Mickey looks at Ian out of the corner of his eye and looks like he has something smarmy to say, but he makes no reply for some time. Then Mickey leans back completely, arms laying listlessly on his chest for a moment before he reaches into the breast pocket of his suit and pulls out a cigarette case and a trench lighter. 

“You smoke?” Ian asks. 

“Not like they’re gonna kill me,” shrugs Mickey derisively as he presses a cigarette between his lips and flicks his thumb across the flint of the lighter until a small flame bursts out. He inhales deep and puffs out three concentric smoke rings. It is downright artful. “I suppose you had a lot of time to practice?” 

“Something like that. I didn’t start smoking cigarettes until after I booked passage to the States about one hundred years ago. Before then, I was a whiz with a pipe.” 

“Takes a lot of lip and breath control, right?” 

Mickey doesn’t answer, but instead keeps his eyes to the heavens again. Absentmindedly, he hands the lit stick to  Ian who accepts it casually. Mickey extends his hand upward, using his index finger to guide his eye. “Aha!” he exclaims. 

“What?” 

“Algol. She’s my favorite star. Well, technically she’s two stars.” 

“You study astronomy?” 

“I’ve had a lot of time to study a great many things. But stars have been with me the longest. I always loved travel and exploration. I’ve been tethered to Chicago for quite some time now, but time was I could navigate the globe by the night sky. I should travel more.” 

“Nothing holding you here?” 

“Nothing that my lawyer can’t handle on my behalf.” 

“You have a lawyer?” 

“More like a glorified accountant. Not to brag, but I’ve become a man of means over the past millennium.”  

“Like, how rich are you?" 

Mickey shrugs. “I’ll ask the lawyer sometime." 

“You don’t know how much money you have?" 

“Well, it’s tricky when you have to fake your own death and will your estates to yourself every sixty years or so. And I have to switch lawyers, too. Maybe every twenty years or so before they realize I don’t age.” 

“So, how did you make your fortune?” 

Mickey turns and gives Ian a look. “You realize this is not exactly the sort of thing you ask someone you just met, right? Kind of gauche in most circles.” 

“Sorry, I’ve never talked to a vampire before. Well, I’ve never knowingly talked to a vampire before. I don’t know what’s appropriate.” 

Mickey turns back to look at the sky once again. “I’ve had a tin mine in England since the eleventh century. I have farmlands in Yorkshire, vineyards in France and Italy. And I’ve patented a few choice inventions over the centuries that keep me nice and cozy. Of course, I let other people take the credit as long as I got my share of the proceeds.” 

“An inventor, huh? Full of surprises, aren’t you? Anything I would have heard of?” asks Ian. 

Mickey’s mouth twitches. “Ever hear of the printing press?” 

“Yeah,” Ian’s jaw practically drops in surprise.  

“Not that one.” 

Ian gives Mickey a love tap. “You’re a dick, you know that?” 

Mickey snickers. He doesn’t tell Ian anything more about his past, which Ian accepts. He doesn’t owe Ian his personal history. Ian passes the cigarette back to Mickey and the fall back into their comfortable silence.  

The hours drift on by like that, but now here they are again for Ian’s second feeding of the night. And he wants a little more space. If for no other reason, he doesn’t want Mickey staring down at him like he is this wretched, loathsome thing to be the first thing Ian sees after he comes back to himself.   

He wants Mickey to haul his ass a minimum of fifteen paces away, and Ian to stare down the pen full of pigs and various domesticated fouls.  

But Mickey remains immobile.  

“Please?” 

 Mickey’s stern face twitches almost incalculably around the eyes, widening almost as though performing an act of compassion. “I need you to trust me.” 

“But I only just met you.” 

“Ian...” 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. But... I don’t want you to see me like that.”  Ian’s freckled cheeks blossom with splotchy red patches, flush with embarrassment. “I don’t understand how you can stand to live like this. The men I killed. I can still see their faces.” 

“Ian, that’s the whole point. Dumbass.” Mickey’s entire body language relaxes and his face softens into a wisp of a grin, a glint in his eye, and it is as though he has been transformed. The stern taskmaster is once again the kind and protective boy who brought him into his own home without knowing anything about Ian other than he was in need of help. Ian has to blink away something in his eye at the sight. “I don’t live like this. And you don’t have to either. I know you don’t like feeding. I know it makes you feel like hating yourself.” 

“How do you know the first thing thing about how I feel?” 

Mickey’s mouth twitches briefly, like he is deciding something in the moment. “Trust me when I say I know what kind of emotional roller coaster you’ve been through.” 

“Trust” comes that potent sensation of pressure in Ian’s mind that sounds an awful lot like Mickey. 

“I’m trying to teach you, fledgling. But how am I supposed to help if you don’t let me?” 

Something cracks in the protective armor Ian has build around himself ever since the first time he fed. By his very nature, Ian is not good at asking for help. But it is being offered. Freely. And if there is a chance that he can be less of a monster, he is open to suggestions. This should have been Rutger helping me , Ian think ruefully. He turned me into a monster and couldn’t be bothered to stick around. He spent the past ten days fumbling in the dark, murdering to live like a deranged beast in a storybook. And it didn’t have to be this way.  

All those poor men… He cannot help but think of his very first. A vagrant, yes. But he was a man and deserve more dignity than his death granted him. That poor first victim spent a full day ensnared in his petrified clutches. For almost twelve, hours, he couldn’t look away from the nameless soul, couldn’t even blink. He learned every wrinkle, every ingrown hair, the creases of his lips. Everything about that man is etched indelibly in Ian’s memory for what could possibly be a literal eternity. He deserved a decent burial. Instead, Ian left him to rot like a piece of refuse. 

But Mickey is here. Perhaps he is a little brusque with Ian, but he sought Ian out twice now and he is willing to put forth the time to mentor Ian like he is a clumsy schoolboy still in his short pants.  

“Okay, Ian. This time I’m going to stop you after seven seconds.” 

“How?” Ian clenches his jaw  nervously. “I lose all sense of who I am and what I’m doing when I—” 

Mickey claps a soft, yet firm hand on each of Ian’s biceps. “Look at me, Ian.” Despite being nearly a full head shorter than Ian, Mickey has a talent for making himself somehow loom larger. Ian almost feels enveloped in Mickey, like when the older vampire first picked him up and carried Ian to his own home, despite it being still daylight outside.   

“Trust,” echoes inside Ian’s head again. Mickey’s eyes make it easy to comply.  

“I’ll be here to help you. Pull you back from the brink. Every time if that’s what it takes until you can do it on your own. I’m not going to let you fail, Red.” 

“Trust.”  

Ian swallows back the lump in his throat, nodding. “Alright, Mikkel. I trust you.”  

The use of his real name seems to disarm Mickey. The apples of his cheeks redden and his eyes dilate. It is the first time since Ian first encountered him at a distance several nights ago that Mickey has appeared as anything less than supremely confident and in control of the situation. Ian would like very much to cause that expression to bloom across Mickey’s face in a different set of circumstances.  

But Mickey recovers quickly enough and steps out of the way, placing a hand to the small of Ian’s back and gently pushing him closer to the gate of the animals’ enclosure. “Then let’s get to it.”  

Ian is grateful that it is so early in the morning and that all these creatures are resting quietly. No doubt Ian’s bestial thirst spooked them to no end when he drained that poor squealing pig of its lifeblood while they all stood by helpless to get away. But now they are asleep and blissfully unaware that there is a wolf in the henhouse.  

He selects another pig. And crouches down. At this late hour in the night, hunger comes as soon as he eyes the pulse of a vein. Once more his canines extend out and he leans into his meal. And goddamn if he doesn’t lose himself again. All reason lost as soon as the porker’s blood touches his tongue. The part of himself that still can think clearly wishes he could apologize to Mickey for failing again.  

“Enough.”  

There is a hand on his chest. Mickey’s hand. It is pressed gently yet firmly to his sternum. And the touch has this soothing, corralling effect on him. He feels like a kite being held back from flying off into the vaulting firmament of the heavens by a firm hand reeling in his string.  

He feels himself release the poor sow in from his grip, gasping even as he licks at his lips.  

“Eleven seconds!” Mickey beams proudly as he pulls out another clean kerchief. And dabs at the corners of Ian’s mouth and then his chin. “Not bad. But we gotta get a lock on your table manners.” 

“But I was supposed to stop after seven seconds.” 

“We’ll get you there. Eventually, we’ll get you down to three or four.” 

“But that’s barely a sip!” 

“The Little Sip, Red. That’s the goal. Better to feed a little off several people and go unnoticed than glut yourself on one and get your fool ass caught. Or worse— kill your meal ticket. And look!” He points towards the pig Ian had been supping on. While it is a little dizzy and squealing unhappily, it’s alive, no signs of it needing to be put out of its misery.  

Ian’s eyes widen with delighted surprise. “She’s gonna live.” 

“Until Farmer John decides he wants bacon for breakfast, yes. You’re making progress. C’mon, it’ll be dawn soon. Let’s go home.” 

“Home?” 

“You got an address you want me to drop you off at?” 

Ian wants to spit out 2119 South Wallace Avenue. His home is with his brothers and sisters. Or it least it was when he was mortal. He wishes he had spent more time at home with them while he was a living, breathing man. He wishes he had put in the time instead of always drifting off and doing his own thing. He always took for granted that he would have more time with them. But then again Ian supposes he has all the time in the world now. But he won’t go home. He’ll watch them from the window, but he won’t let them see him like this. He would rather they think he’s dead than open himself up to their rejection.  

“No. No, I suppose I don’t.” 

“Okay, then it is settled. You’re coming home with me.” Mickey is already picking him up.  

Ian braces himself against the shorter but brawny man, arms wrapped around his neck. “You don’t have to do that. I can figure out my own—” 

“I have a literal mansion, Ian.” Mickey insists as the elder vampire breaks into a run and the landscape around them turns into a blur. “Four floors and eighteen unclaimed bedrooms. You won’t exactly be cramping my style.”  

Something warms in Ian’s chest. Maybe it’s that tingly feeling he keeps getting when Mickey touches him. And Mickey is holding him tight. Perhaps this is just vampiric hospitality. Or maybe Mickey wants to keep a tight leash on Ian until he is confident Ian knows what the hell he is doing. But Ian likes the idea of being around Mickey, even if the ache of Rutger is still too fresh in his memory. He wants to be around someone like him, who can understand what Ian is dealing with and help him make sense of it. And okay, so maybe sometimes Mickey lets his grumpy routine slip and the looks he gives him make Ian feel like his legs are made of gelatin. But it’s not like he plans to act on it. Other than one off-hand comment, Ian has no idea where Mickey's tastes lie.  It’s not as though Mickey approached him at a Towertown dance hall or the bar at the Palmer House. He could be barking up the wrong tree and there would go his only support in his new existence.    

But the way Mickey holds him feels so easy, so natural. Maybe it’s all just a flight of fancy, a man sweeping in to rescue him, fall in love with him. It’s a nice little fiction to conjure up. He doesn’t think Mickey feels the same way. In fact, he has a hard time reasoning how Mickey manages to talk to Ian like an adult. Ian must seem like an utter child for someone who is so old that he already had several centuries under his belt by the time of the Renaissance.  

God, the man probably thinks Ian is a blithering idiot. And Ian wouldn’t mind it if he could be Mickey’s idiot.  

Chapter Text

🧛🏻Mickey🧛🏻 

“I still can’t believe this is where you live,” admits Ian as Mickey sets him down once they are past the large wrought-iron gate of his estate. Mickey had barely given Ian a chance to take in the sight of Mickey’s home before, but in the wee hours of the night, he is blessed with more time to take it in. It is a stately, if admittedly a bit busy, four-story Queen Anne Revival built with warm brown stones and accented with a white trim. A terrace encircles three quarters of the estate. “And it’s just you here?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Sometimes my sister drops in.” 

Ian tears himself away from gawking at the estate and delivers a perplexed look in Mickey’s direction. “You have a family?” 

“Does that surprise you?” 

“A little.” 

Mickey scratches the back of his head nervously. He forms casual friendships with mortals easily enough, but with his own kind he can be very private even by vampire standards. It has been at least two or three centuries since he has had a meaningful conversation with another of their kind outside of only the closest members of his clan and the occasional assembly of the local Council. But the details of his life just seem to slip out as naturally as breathing when Ian asks. 

He shrugs as he leads Ian inside. “Yes and no. Remember how I grew up among the Vikings?” 

“That’s a cheery way to say you were a slave.”  

“Yeah. Well, originally I hail from Kyiv.” 

“Oh, so you’re Russian?” he asks.    

Mickey sneers, mildly offended. “Ukrainian, but whatever. I didn’t get back to Kyiv until over a century after I was turned. My whole family was dead and gone by then.” 

“Sorry,” mews Ian sheepishly, following after. 

 “Eh, fuck ‘em. I did tell you that it was my own papa that sold me to the Vikings, right? Too many mouths to feed and I was the runt of the litter. I was eight, maybe nine, so I don’t even remember much about them.”  

Ian nods with a sense of understanding Mickey hadn’t anticipated. “I could definitely imagine Frank selling me to the Vikings, too.” 

“Who is Frank?” Mickey asks in a tone that suggests he is taking notes, like he needs to catalog Ian’s many problems for future reference. 

“My father. Legally, anyway. Technically he’s my step-father. Or my uncle. Shit, we are such white trash.  

“I have no room to judge. There was always a certain amount of inbreeding when marriage options stayed mainly within the tribe.” 

“It doesn’t make a hill of difference. Frank isn’t even a good father to the others either. But he made me his whipping boy long before I knew I was someone else’s kid. He would have traded me for my weight in opium in a heartbeat.” 

“Count yourself lucky you’re a vampire, then. We get to choose our family—our clans. My sister and my brothers? Technically they’re my indirect descendants. Though she is the most closely related. She’s descended from my younger sister, only four generations removed when she was turned. Going by mortal relations, she’s my three greats grandniece.” 

“Did you turn her?” 

“I’ve never turned anyone,” Mickey bristles at the question. Ian’s query Ian is about on par with asking something inappropriately personal. There is an unmistakably sexual component to feeding on humans, even more so with transmuting them into vampires. The vampire drinks mortal blood and the mortal drinks the vampire’s. It’s incredibly intimate, or so Mickey has been told. But the notion that he would be the one to turn members of his own family line is  incestuously taboo.   

Of course, he can’t fault Ian for not knowing these things. He is practically a babe in the woods that Mickey needs to take in lest he be raised by wolves. Though, he really needs to supply Ian with on a handbook about being a Vampire. Or at least take a minute to jot down a crib sheet of Do’s and Don'ts. “When I parted ways with my Maker and made my first return pilgrimage to  my homeland, I came across a few others of my tribe who had been turned over the years. They’re the core of my clan.” 

“How did you end up finding each other? Or figuring out that you had that kind of connection?” 

It is difficult to explain the way a vampire’s blood harmonizes with another’s unless you feel it first hand. His and Wulfric’s always harmonized. A Sire and their Fledgling will always share that connection. They both have each other’s blood enmeshed with their own and pumping through their veins. But the connection with your mortal family is different. If the blood harmonization of vampires is a pull to one another, harmonizing with the vampires who share your mortal blood is like calling to one another, the blood coursing through you practically sings.  

“Your body just knows it, Red.”  

🧛🏻🧛🏻🧛🏻 

As dawn approaches, Mickey is still working out in his head how he is to proceed from here as far as Ian is concerned. He doesn’t trust easily. Even with the few vampires he treats as his clan, Mandy is the only one he would ever imagine allowing to remain in his domicile while he sleeps. And yet, he has invited this unbridled whelp of a vampire into his own home like a youth overly eager for a slumber party with a boy he fancies.  

He isn’t even clear with himself whether he is offering him shelter. He can tell himself this is pragmatic, that he simply wants to keep a close eye on this boy until he is certain Ian is in need to instruction. One could hardly be blamed for it. Without any guidance from his Maker, Ian spent the better part of the past two weeks on a murder spree, a clumsy one where he didn’t select his victims wisely and left their carcasses for the mortals to find. If Mickey ever finds the man who sired Ian, he will hoist the bastard up a flagpole by his ears.  

The boy is utterly lost and clueless about the world he has been haplessly been hurled into. He won’t last long on his own without drawing human attention, and by extension human fear and suspicion. He has already spurred at least one group of likeminded individuals into motion. The fools are probably poring over some cherry-picked passages from certain gothic novel while they ruin perfectly good leg chairs to make wooden stakes.  

But the truth is despite himself, having Ian around is an unexpectedly pleasant experience thus far. He’s unsure of himself as a vampire, yes. And he has done basically everything wrong up until the moment Mickey found him. But it could be worse. He could be one of those vampires who got off on the rush of killing, the kind that needs to either be driven out of town or brought before the Council. But Ian regrets each and every kill he has committed. And Mickey literally knows first-hand how Ian felt each and every time he fed. Brief relief drowned out by remorse and self-loathing. He knows despite what Ian has done since becoming a hematophagous being, at his core is a man who cares, a good man. Mickey in his thousand years of living has know fleetingly few.   

 “My apartments are on the second floor on the far end of the west wing,” Mickey explains as he leads Ian up the staircase. 

“Apartments? Plural?” 

Mickey left eyebrow rise, amused at his new associate’s bewilderment. “My suite of rooms. It’s a big house, man. Gotta do something with all that space.”  

Though perhaps Mickey has forgotten himself (which is easy, considering how many lifetimes he has lived) and it is interactions like these that bring him back to himself. Back when Wulfric sired him, Mickey had only just bought his own freedom several years prior and was still accustomed to sleeping on little more than a patch of straw on the floor of a longhouse. It may seem quaint to him now, but the fact that Wulf had his own cottage with a real bed seemed absolutely extravagant. Now here he is with a boy who makes it sound like he grew up in a shack and Mickey is going on about his four-story home that resembles a modest palace.  

“The master bedroom has its own study, its own sitting room, and bath.”  

“That sounds bigger than my entire house. Can I see it?” 

“No.”  He shoots down automatically. A private person by nature, it feels like a big enough concession that Ian will be residing for the time being in a house with shelves brimming full of Mickey’s memoranda, the keepsakes of his own personal history. But his own personal quarters are off limits. And yet, why does he feel like this is the wrong answer? Irrational obviously. He gave Ian the only correct answer. Why does that feeling in the pit of his stomach deepen when he sees Ian deflate? 

“Oh. Um. Okay. So, where do you want me to stay?” 

 Mickey looks towards the staircase that leads to the upper floors. Gesturing for Ian to follow, he starts upward. “I think it would be best to put you up in the fourth floor. There are fewer rooms up there, but the bedrooms are bigger. We won’t be getting in each other’s hair,” he explains. All the while a little voice in the back of his head keeps grumbling, wrong, wrong, wrong at him. “A-and I figure you’d appreciate having some space.”  

He hears the footsteps behind him stop, so he turns on his heels halfway up the stairs. The Fledgling, despite his height, seems small and sheepish, giving him the air of a child whose parents have broken a promise. He has one large hand clawed around the banister and something about his stocking feet are suddenly very interesting indeed. 

“Is something the matter, Red?” 

The younger vampire keeps his gaze averted and there is a hitch in his voice, like there is a request he would like to make. “It’s nothing, sir.” 

“Okay, add ‘sir’ to the pile of words I don’t want you calling me. If I wanted a noble honorific, I would have stayed in England.” 

Ian’s head finally pops up like a meerkat springing up from its burrow. “Wait, were you a prince or something?” 

“A lord. And don’t make it into a bigger deal than it was. It was only a couple generations, but that’s how I ended up my farmlands.” 

“Lord Mickey of…?” 

“Gregor, actually.” 

“You don’t look like a Gregor,” comments a skeptical Ian, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Well, I was. Gregor Lord Hexham.” 

“What’s wrong with ‘Mickey?’ You know, other than being childish?” 

Mickey flips him a rude hand gesture, but can’t help but smirk. “Never give the mortals your true name, Ian.” Mickey kind of hates how much he sounds like a schoolteacher giving Ian lessons. “A smart vampire can live for centuries. And you’ll cycle through a great many assumed names. But your true name is your own. You don’t want to lose sight of who you are with the passage of time. Now back to my question— what displeases you?” 

“I, um, I’m not used to having so much space to myself. At home, my brothers and I sleep, er slept, four to a room.” 

“I’m not eager for a roommate,” Mickey declares a bit too resolutely. This boy is impossibly beautiful, yes, but Mickey isn’t looking to become a nursemaid for an infant among vampires. “But if you want, I can put you up closer to my quarters.” 

Ian stands so stock still as Mickey heads back down the stairs that one would be excused for confusing the boy for statuary. Their shoulders brush against each other as Mickey passes him. Then finally, his feet seem to remember what they are there for and he follows Mickey down the westward corridor. “The only other claimed room on the second floor is Mandy’s.” 

“Mandy? Oh, right. Your sister.” 

“She is in the bedroom second-nearest to mine. There are three mor here on the West wing and another five in the East.” Mickey feels suddenly uncertain of himself. He could tell Ian where he will be staying, but it feels correct to let him choose. “The biggest room is the princess suite way at the other side of the East wing. But like you said, if you are used to living in close quarters—” 

“Is this one good?” Asks Ian as he reaches for the doorknob of the bedroom closest to the grand staircase. 

It’s fine. One room is like another. Mickey is resolved to offer Ian whichever room he chooses. It doesn’t matter to him where the guy stays.  

So why does Mickey suddenly feel like there was only one right answer and it wasn’t put on offer?  

🧛🏻Ian🧛🏻 

Ian wonders how it is that one of the more modest guest bedrooms of Mickey’s mansion still manages to be the half the size of a house. The ceiling is preposterously high, the furniture, once Mickey removes to dust sheets, is ornate and finely detailed, like something out of a French Palace. The bed is a four-poster canopy bed with the softest, fluffiest bedding Ian has ever seen. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He turns round to face Mickey, who is standing at the door, leaning on the trim of the door frame. His face is screwed into a mask of disdain. Ian is starting to figure that’s just what Mickey’s face defaults to when he isn’t going out of his way to be nice.  

“This is one of your smaller rooms?” He asks. “Now, I really want to see your room. Is it the size of a ballroom or something?” 

“No. If you want a point of comparison, the ballroom is right across the way. It runs nearly the full length of the wing.” 

The smirk comes unbidden and Ian is almost certain it reads as more insulting than he means for it to being. “ You have a ballroom?”  

“It doesn’t see a lot of use,” Mickey admits as a sly smile penetrates the crotchety illusion of his resting grump face. “Well, it’s almost sunrise.” 

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “I suppose I should get ready for bed.” He turns away from Mickey shyly and begins unbuttoning the fine clothes that Mickey lent him. “Y’know, it’s weird. To actually be getting ready for bed like I’m still human or something.” 

“I get ready for bed every morning, Irish.” 

“Well, that’s different. You don’t turn into a waxwork as soon as the sun comes up. I don’t even sleep. I’m just stuck with my thoughts. My racing mentally sick thoughts.” 

“I’m sure you’re thoughts are fine.” 

“I’m not exaggerating. I’m manic depressive. I’m stuck with a fucking eternity of high highs and low lows over and over again and now I don’t even get to sleep it off. And I haven’t had any treatment in two weeks.” 

“You aren’t mentally ill.” 

Ian hates having this conversation. It took him ages to accept his condition, even longer to embrace treatment: a steady cocktail of barbiturates with a weekly dose of shock treatments. And it pains him now on the rare occasions that he admits his manic depression to people outside his family or his neighboring surrogate godparents. It just brings him back to a time when he was seventeen and so eager to bury his head in the sand until he got himself into more trouble than he could handle. So, now he doubles down on accepting his diagnosis whenever jackasses try to act like they know his mind better. 

“Yes, I am. I’ve got manic depression.” 

“You did.” 

Ian’s eyes narrow, the question implicit. 

“You’re built for eternity, Ian.” The declaration has underpinnings of buck up to it. “The illnesses we suffered in our mortal lives don’t follow us into this life. It’s one of the few purely nice things about being a vampire, no double-edged sword.” 

“Then why do I feel so horrible when I’m stuck like that? During the day I mean?” 

Mickey sits on the bed and Ian definitely isn’t thinking about Mickey on the bed as he strips down and changes into borrowed night clothes that were probably Mickey’s at some point. 

“It’s probably got something to do with the fact that your Sire never taught you how to sleep.” 

“I can sleep?” He sighs, practically singing. “I haven’t gotten a wink in so long. I thought—” 

“You need to relearn how. It doesn’t come naturally to us. But it takes time.” 

“I need to learn  how to sleep?” Ian sounds exasperated as he steps into his thermals and begin to button up the front. 

“You need to learn to put yourself under autohypnosis.” Mickey explains. “It’s a mental muscle you need to build up.” 

“How long does it take to learn? I’m not exactly a quick study.” He asks  

Mickey scratches at his chin, a performance of reflection. “I think I can help. It takes a while though. You might need to stay here a few months until you have the technique down. My Sire used to hypnotize me every morning before the torpor set in.”   

“Could you…?” 

“Yes, obviously. That’s why I brought you here. Because your Maker didn’t bother to teach you jack about shit.” 

“He wasn’t around all that long after I woke up like this,” Ian admits ruefully. “I suppose he had buyer’s remorse after he turned me. Throwing himself headfirst into a fire pit was preferable to an eternity with me.” 

Mickey’s eyes widened. “If sharing the Gift with you was the last thing he did before he swan dived into an open flame, then you weren’t a factor in that decision.” 

“Then why?” 

“Eternity can be a lot sometimes. Some of us want release after a while.” Mickey speaks with a melancholy that makes Ian wonder if the centuries have ever brought Mickey down like they did Rutger. But the thought of Mickey ending it all like that makes Ian’s chest tighten and his throat go dry. "Though, some of us can be a little more dramatic about it than others. Your Sire must have wanted to pass on the Gift before he ended it all. Think of it like willing you his inheritance rather than being buried with it.” 

“Well that sure was swell of him,” Ian deadpans. 

“I know. And if he felt the need to do that, it means he was probably pretty old. Which means you inherited a lot of power without a clue of how to use it.” 

“I mean, I would have figured it out on my own eventually .” 

“I have every confidence in you,” the elder man smirks. “My goal here isn’t to hold you hostage or make you dependent on me. I’ll have you doing it on your own after a while.” 

“You can take your time. Like I said, I’m used to living close quarters. And over the past while, I realized that I really don’t like, er, I hate falling asleep... slone.” Ian wants to smack himself. Here Mickey is— a thousand years of wisdom, lifetimes of life experience, some sort of ageless Renaissance Man, and he is sitting there patiently as Ian practically tells him he needs a night light on at night. Mickey probably thinks he’s a child. A fucking infant. 

But much to Ian’s surprise, Mickey places his small graceful hand on top of the back of Ian’s own freckled oven mitt of a hand. “You won’t have to, Red. I’ll be right here as long as you need me to be. Now lay down.” 

He watches as Mickey takes a taper from atop the mantelpiece and lights it with his little brass trench lighter. 

“Keep your eyes on the flame,” Mickey instructs as he drops to one knee at the side of the bed. “Follow it like it is the only thing you can see. Listen to my voice like it's the only thing you can hear.” 

“Sleep,” comes the voice in Ian’s head that sounds like Mickey as he slips under the heavy bedspread. And Ian has never been more happy to comply, his eyelids drooping as he stares into ocean blue. The elder vampire whispers a litany into Ian’s ear as though he is incanting a spell.  Mickey’s words, though even and decidedly monotone, feel like a lullaby. Drowsiness sets in and Ian hopes to dream for the first time in ages as Mickey puts him under. 

Ian is sound asleep and dreaming for the first time as vampire before diurnal paralysis sets in. But Mickey stays by the boy’s side for a long while before he leaves Ian’s side. Then the senior vampire lingers even longer at the door, his line of sight still trained on the resting redhead for close to an hour before he finally retires to his own quarters. 

Chapter Text

🧛🏻Mickey🧛🏻 

“Are you certain that you don’t want us to call you a street taxi, Mr. Wattley?” asks the obsequious store clerk following Mickey out of Marshall Fields department store.   

Mickey rolls his eyes at the over-eager retail worker. The guy has done almost everything perfectly in providing high end customer service to a fat cat who can tip him handsomely at the end of his shopping excursion. The only thing he failed to do was to ask whether Mickey wanted the assistance in the first place. Unfortunately, Mickey’s, or more precisely Foster K Wattley Jr’s reputation precedes him.   

Mickey reminds himself to keep a much lower profile the next time he has to reinvent himself. True, in this day and age, having the capital isn’t enough, you have to be somebody in high society if you want to accomplish anything.  

He has tried to be polite, which doesn’t come easy for him. He was brought up among Northmen. Even a thousand years on, subtlety and graciousness take a concerted effort for him. But this store clerk is up his ass. He should know better having earned Mickey’s considerable ire the last time he visited the store in person. But either Brooks is angling for an impressive tip or a job offer as Mickey’s new personal assistant.  

He blames this on the Rockerfellers and Carnegies of the world. Do the nouveau-riche, at best only a generation removed from subsistence living, truly get off on having the poor and middle class bow and scrape like this? He has technically been a member of the nobility and aristocracy in a few of his false personas over the centuries, but he would never expect the level of commotion people make over these robber barons, like they need to make a show of their money to distinguish them from the rabble.  

Capitalism must be one hell of a drug when you only have one lifetime.  

“I should be fine, Brooks.” Mickey insists, getting impatient. “My estate is not that far away that I would bother.” 

“Are you sure, sir? Because you did purchase an awful lot. Usually men of your means just send someone to pick their things up for them or they bring assistants.” 

“I said I’m fine.” He didn’t buy that much, really, and he was tired of seeing how ill-fitting his clothes are on Ian. So, he took his new companion’s measurements and placed an order with Marshall Fields’ in-house bespoke tailor. Enoch does fine work. Mickey was only coming in to pick up his order when this dapper dandy make a bee line for him and insisted on showing him everything in the department store for everything and anything Brooks thought Mickey’s friend might enjoy. Most of it was a sheer waste of Mickey’s time. But he did end up adding a pair of boots, three sets of cuff links, and a dark green derby that Mickey thinks would bring out Ian’s eyes. All in all, his entire purchase fits neatly three large shopping bags and a hat box. It’s nothing Mickey cannot handle. 

“I’d actually be happy to walk with you. I’m done my shift in five minutes.” 
“That’s very generous—” 

“Maybe we could stop off somewhere , if you need to catch your breath.” 

“I’m not helpless, Brooks. Nor am I an invalid.” 

“I never said—that is I didn’t mean to imply that—” 

Mickey reaches into his breast pocket and pulls a ten dollar note out of his moleskin wallet. “I can either tip you now, Brooks. Or we can have a repeat of the Chiavari chairs debacle. What shall it be?” 

The boy takes the money.  

Mickey doesn’t know if offering such a handsome reward is what ultimately excised the boy’s lips from his ass or if it was the quite possibly the sensation of shell shock. Admittedly, he may have been short with the sales clerk that day. But to be quite fair, Brooks shat the bed and being up and about in the daytime tends to make Mickey a little testy to begin with.  

About two years ago, Mickey got it in his head to upgrade his dining room. Of all the rooms in his sprawling mansion that exist only to keep up the illusion that a mortal resides here, the dining room sees the least amount of attention. True, a vampire of his advanced years can stomach more than just plasma. Though unless he is entreating with mortals, he would rather stick with what works. A body could board up the room and Mickey could go decades without thinking about it. Out of sight, out of mind.  

But Mickey did notice it one night and really gave it a once over for the first time since the 1890s. Whether he had just been suffering a fit of bad taste or simply didn’t put forth the effort he gave the rest of the house, he couldn’t say. But he knew he hated it. When Mickey gets an idea in his head, he can truly become a dog with a bone. The project woke up his eye for design that he had honed in the 1400s studying the Italian Masters. He decided everything from the subject of the understated hand-painted murals to the complementary rosettes of the crown molding that evoke Corinthian columns.    

The last piece of the tableau Mickey had in his head were the chairs. Gold Chiavari chairs imported from Italy that would catch the light of the newly installed electric fixtures. And Brooks ordered him dull matte black ones. He paid for exactly one of them, which he pulverized before the store clerk’s eyes in a demonstration of his disappointment. It was all very dignified and restrained and not at all a tantrum.  

Upon reflection, perhaps the tip was so high as a way of making up for his behavior the last time he patronized the department store.  

As he is walking northward to his neighborhood blessedly free of mortal sales clerks, he makes certain to maintain a human speed even if he does have a bit of fun showing off just how easy it is for him to haul  the spoils of his shopping trip home.  

Chicago is alight with activity and it helps remind Mickey why young vampires really need to rely on the diurnal paralysis. There is simply too much sensory stimuli when the mortals are up and about. When their kind are reborn, their senses are powerful but untrained. The strain of taking in the whirl and the rush of humanity can take a toll on them. This has only increased in the past couple of centuries as industry and innovation has changed the landscape. The cranking gears and wheezing smoke stacks of the factories, the hum of the new electrics, the steady hum of the elevated railway system and the rattling of its trains. All of it can be a nightmare for a vampire who is still learning to drown out the sounds of the myriad human interactions their advanced hearing is privy to. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches two college-aged boys he recalls seeing the pair of them weeks ago handing out pamphlets. He doesn’t see what the papers say but they have illustrations of a wooden stake plunged through a heart. Joaquin and… Mouth? Were those their names? He remembers the rat-faced one had a a stupid name. 

They’re gathering a bit of a crowd now. Mickey’s instinct is to worry. He would have thought that these dumb-dumbs would have gone on with their lives now that it has been a couple weeks since he took Ian under his wing and the bodies stopped piling up.  

But then there is the hard realization that there are sixteen poor souls that are no longer walking the earth on account of Ian, with his unbridled thirst and lack of training in his new preternatural nature. Nose or whatever his name is deserves to know how his brother died. If this were a fair and just, fair world, he would suggest to Ian that they seek out the victims’ families and seek to make amends. But they are vampires and these idiots are inches away from arming themselves with stakes and holy water. Stupid, but it doesn’t mean they couldn’t possibly pose a threat. Even a broken clock is accurate twice a day.  

Not that these dipshits would know a legitimate vampire from their own brother.  

He pushes the thought from his mind. The sun is fast approaching the horizon and Mickey likes to be there to greet Ian when he rises from his daily paralysis. He quickens his pace.  

It is only as he is rounding the corner onto his own street that it dawns on Mickey that the boy in the department store was flirting with him. Shamelessly. He cackles to himself at the notion that Brooks basically invited himself home with Mickey. As if he would be reckless enough to sleep with a mortal. Their bodies aren’t up to the physical strain.  

He is a little surprised though that the boy knew him for an invert. He doesn’t exactly flounce about. He has centuries of practice training himself to move about the world without drawing attention to himself, making sure he blends in with humans during even their most backwards, suspicious, and superstitious times.  

Oh. But then he remembers just how much he kept mentioning that he was shopping for a friend. An adult-sized, man-shaped friend. That cuts a little too close. Ian doesn’t see him that way. Mickey literally knows he doesn’t. Ian does a good job hiding it, but Mickey feels what Ian feels. And he keeps picking apprehension, anxiety, and sometimes queasiness.  

But then again, there are those moments where Mickey can convince himself otherwise.  When Ian feeds and he needs Mickey to hold him back. Mickey can feel that need for contact. When dawn approaches, he can feel the thrill of expectation in Ian when it is time for Mickey to guide him into sleep. And after sunset, he feels Ian’s disappointment when Mickey isn’t there to greet him. 

🧛 Ian 🧛  

Knocking on his own front door is a strange sensation. It is not merely because it is his home or because nobody in this neighborhood ever bothers to knock. The doors are always unlocked because there is nothing worth stealing.  

“I did tell you the whole invitation thing is bullshit, right?” Asks Mickey from somewhere in the shifting darkness around him.  

Ian doesn’t reply, but feels his body stiffen as he hears movement behind the door. He looks around nervously, searching for Mickey, but he has made himself invisible like the night they met. He wishes Mickey were standing beside him. He feels more secure when Ian stands shoulder to shoulder with him.   

The doorknob turns and the door opens just enough to see the figure on the other side. And there is his elder sister Fiona, still dressed from a day at the mill, but with her hair let down for the evening. She is radiant and he smile beams. “Oh my god! Sweet Face we were worried sick about you!”  

“Sorry I was gone for so long, Fi.”  

“Is that Ian?” Comes the sound of his elder brother followed by the percussion of feet racing down the stairs. The door opens wider and his elder brother comes into view, still dressed in one of the natty outfits he wears when he attends his college classes. The relief is palpable in his eyes, Fiona’s too, a tear trickling down her cheek.    

Ian could just melt. They didn’t move on without him. They were worried. They cared. “Shit, man! I was looking for you all over! Tried every drunk tank, back alley, and nuthouse in town.”   

“I won’t need to see the inside of a sanitarium ever again.”  

“Or maybe you’re in one now and you don’t even know it.”  

“Fi?”  

His sister is smiling as though she hadn’t said anything amiss. They both are. Rictus, unnatural grins like a pair of ghoulish clowns in a carnival. A gnawing pit forms in the pit of his stomach.  

“Um, may I come in?”  

“Do you have to ask?” Singsongs his sister.  

“Yeah, do you have to ask?” comes Mickey’s voice from somewhere in the distance. His mortal siblings do not seem to hear it.  

“Come on in,” insists Lip as both siblings clear a path to allow their brother through. It’s uncharacteristically dark inside. That sensation in his stomach twists at him. And yet he strides forward.   

But he doesn’t arrive inside the family room of the Gallagher household. He’s outside once again, lit by kerosine lamplight that somehow gives the ground around it an eerie green glow. He stumbles over something, clumsily falling to the ground, limbs flailing.   

“What did I fall…?”  

He reaches for what snagged his foot when he finds a limb. The calf of an emaciated, shriveled, and putrid body drained of all it’s blood. He looks around and sees he is surrounded by bodies. Fifteen men, fifteen exsanguinated  men’s bodies in varying advanced states of decay. Passing familiarity with some of them and Ian prays it’s not why he thinks.  

And then he sees the fact that incontrovertibly proves his fear. He knows that face. Every line, every crease, every ingrown hair in his beard. His first victim, whom he was caught locked gazing upon, memorizing his lifeless visage for a full day. These all must be his victims. All of them as far as he was concerned nameless and unmourned, abandoned here in the open pit of a mass grave.   

“Welcome home, Ian.” It sounds distantly like his siblings, all five of them in chorus. But there is a sixth voice in there. But this one is closer, in his head.   

Mickey?  

“I’m here, Ian.”  

Ian thrashes about, attempting to free himself from the lifeless limbs entangling himself around him, pulling him down like weeds. No will in their decrepit fingers and yet they are clawing, clutching, grasping at him, weeds ensnaring him.   

“I need you to remain calm, Red.”  

They’re dragging him down and he knows he deserves this.   

“Stay with me.”  

“They’re dragging me down!”  

“Wake up.”  

“I’m trying!” 

Ian’s eyes opens wide as he shoots forward in bed, panting shallowly. Mickey is in his line of vision, a look of concern on his countenance, sitting along the side of the bed. Based on his apparel, Ian concludes that he must have gone out in the daylight. Vampires aren’t vulnerable to the cold, so he only dresses in his overcoat when he needs to pass among the living. “It was just a dream, Ian.” 

“It was a fucking nightmare.” Ian corrects, pressing long fingers to his temples.  

“You were thrashing.” 

“Well, I was freaking the fuck out.” 

Mickey takes his hand, squeezing it. “I know, it felt terrifying.” Mickey keeps doing that, talking like he knows what is going on in his head. It would feel patronizing if it weren’t for how spot on he is. It borders on obnoxious.  

 But Ian.. you were thrashing.” 

“If you had that dream, you would be, too.” 

“Ian… the sun only went down a minute ago. Your body was moving during the day time.”  

It takes a moment for his senses to catch up with him, but he realizes what Mickey is trying to tell him. “But I thought you said I shouldn’t be able to even blink in the day for years. Decades.” 

“Which is true. Normally.” Mickey seems to think for a moment. “What can you tell me about the guy who sired you?” 

“He was a little older, maybe late thirties.” 

“Somehow I think that’s way under par.” 

He thinks back. Five weeks ago, Ian thinks he could write whole odes about the man, but Gunter turned him into a monster. Ian trusted him implicitly and the man robbed him of his humanity and immediately left him to fumble about for over a week before Mickey managed to find him. Memories of his secret lover that were once rose-tinted are now painted with a distinctly different stroke of the brush.  

“He was a smooth talker, had a European accent, but fuck me if I could place it. German, maybe? Why?” 

“Remember how I told you older vampires are stronger? I think you might have been sired by an ancient.” 

“Gunter did say he had lived too long,” recalls Ian, the memory of the last thing his Maker said before immolating himself suddenly coming to mind. 

“Gunter?” The older vampire stands with an air of disbelief. 

“Stupid name, right?” 

“He told you his name was ‘Gunter?’” Mickey sounds flabbergasted. He runs his fingers through his hair and begins pacing back and forth. 

“What?” 

“Holy shit. I can’t believe he is still keeping that name in the rotation. Fucking dumbass.” 

“What’s going on?” 

“Did he have a scar on his chin like he had a remarkably bad shaving accident? A birthmark on the back of the neck?” 

Ian is stunned into silence. Mickey hasn’t asked him much about Gunter until now. He figured that it must be some taboo to ask one another about their makers. But now that Mickey is asking questions, Ian feels like Mickey has unraveled a riddle Ian didn’t even know was being asked.   

“Are you saying you knew Gunter?” 

“I can’t believe that stupid fuck… His name is Wulf. Gunter is just one of his cover names.” Mickey is almost cackling. “This explains so much.” 

“His name was Wolf?” 

“Wulf. Er, Wulfric. Fucking Wulfric. You’ve gotta be shitting me. What were you even doing here?”  

Ian climbs out of bed, for once not blushing at Mickey getting a full view him in just just his drawers. He takes hold of the older vampire, clapping a hand to each shoulder. 

“Mickey, I feel like you’re only having half a conversation with me. “Who was he and why is this suddenly such a big deal?”   

“You have thirteen-hundred year-old blood in you, Red. That’s probably why he came halfway across the country.” Mickey shrugs away from Ian’s hold on him and props himself against the wall. “He must have known this is where I am. He wanted me to be around to clean up his mess.” 

“I still feel like I’m missing something.” 

“Tell me, Ian. Did he spend weeks batting his eyes at you from across a crowded room? Would he have a special time and spot he used to pick out for some under-the-table indiscretions? Did he keep offering to take you away somewhere the two of you could have a little love nest together? Promising you castles in Spain, maybe?”  

“A flat in Paris.” 

Mickey looks on expectantly. “Shit, he never does change his playbook. He did this all to me, too.” 

Ian has already arrived at the point Mickey is trying to make, but he is a little distracted by Mickey all-but-admitting that he knows the love that dare not speak its name. “We have the same Maker?”  

Mickey nods. “I know you’re confused, Ian. And now I think I know why I know it. It’s how I know what you’re feeling. It’s why you hear my thoughts.” 

Ian’s jaw drops. “I wasn’t imagining that?” 

Mickey sits Ian down and explains the connection between a Maker and his Fledgling. For the first couple of centuries, Makers can feel their Fledglings’ emotions and physical feelings. It’s innate and involuntary, a biological adaptation meant for the Maker to know when his younger and weaker Fledgling is in danger. The Fledglings meanwhile can hear thoughts intentionally directed to them by their Makers as a way to receive guidance or keep in touch. But Mickey didn’t sire Ian and he has never heard of a Maker’s older Fledgling becoming linked with a neophyte the way they have become entangled.  

“So, you’ve been talking to me in your head?” 

“I haven’t been having whole conversations, especially since you can’t answer me back, but I’ve been giving you detailed instructions.” 

“All I’ve heard are one-word commands.” 

“I figured you weren’t hearing what I was trying to tell you when I saw how messed up you were over… you know.” Mickey admits consolingly. “And now that I’ve known you for a few weeks, I figured you weren’t just being a willful colt.”  

“But you’ve felt everything I’ve been feeling?”  

Mickey nods.  

Ian wants to ask how Mickey could feel everything in Ian’s head without either making a move or letting him down gently. Ian plops down on the side of his bed. “This is so weird.” 

“I know,” Mickey concurs.  

“Does this mean we’re related? Same Maker and all?” 

Mickey sits down beside Ian, their pinkies grazing against each other. Ian cannot tell if it is intentional or not. “No, man. I told you— vampires choose their family, it has nothing to do with whose blood is in our veins. Shit, if that’s how we reckoned things, most vampire relationships would be very incestuous.” 

“Well… good.” Mustering up some courage, Ian takes Mickey’s hand, fingers lacing together.  

Ian scans Mickey’s face for a reaction and for a long time, Ian is sure he is about to be summarily rejected. Mickey’s face was made for poker playing. But he never pulls his hand away. And then Ian feels Mickey squeeze his hand softly. Ian feels such a sense of relief as Mickey rests his head on Ian’s naked shoulder. Please choose me, Ian thinks. Be my family.  

Without warning, Mickey breaks the connection, practically leaping to his feet. “I almost forgot. Come downstairs with me. I have a surprise for you.” 

“Okay, let me get dressed.” 

“Don’t bother. C’mon.” 

“What could you possibly have to show me that would be appropriate in my altogether?” 

“Did nobody ever teach you the concept of a surprise?” 

Ian smiles crookedly as he gets to his feet. “Well, who am I to refuse an invitation to a second location from a man who insists I keep my clothes off?”  

Mickey grins. Not one of his wry, knowing smirks, but as big a grin as he has ever seen on the usually stern-faced vampire. “Just you wait and see.”  

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

He sits back and watches Ian work his way through the crowd. It’s been almost a week since they both felt confident enough in Ian’s ability to feed swiftly and with restraint. So now instead of traveling out to heartland farms well outside city limits so that Ian can practice on barnyard animals, they are putting on their finest for Ian to get into the swing of feeding of the night and they go among high society.  

And Ian has a real gift for this. He is naturally easy on the eyes; a face that has been kissed by the gods and the body of an athlete, and a shoulder to hip ratio that constantly puts Mickey at risk of making a fool of himself. Combined with his effervescent charm and self-effacing sense of humor, he easily works his way into peoples’ good graces. A bit of nip when he kisses the hand of an ingenue, a little sip when he lures the son of a newspaper magnate into the butler’s pantry for an illicit assignation, one by one Ian feeds enough to tide himself over until the wee hours of the night. 

It is getting close to midnight when Ian returns to Mickey, looking pleased with himself and sated. He looks more pink than pale now that he is supping on the mortals again, though not so crimson as when he was gorging himself like a ravenous glutton. Human blood is far more nourishing to vampires than that of animals. It’s what they are meant to be drinking in order to replenish their own bodies with that ineffable quality they lost when they became something more than human.  

“Having fun hobnobbing with the idle rich, huh?” 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Ian replies with feigned interest. “So much drama. Old Miss Haverford over there didn’t invite Clara Woldington-Smithe’s mother to the Suffragettes Charity Luncheon. So now Mr. Woldington-Smithe just happened to decide Haverford’s grandnephew isn’t suitable for the cushy copy editing job at the Tribune and instead will only hire the guy for the mail room.” 

“Is this going anywhere meaningful?” Asks Mickey, noting the roll of his companion’s eyes.  

“I don’t know how you’ve done this every night for an eternity. I’m bored out of my skull and it has only been three nights.  

“Okay. I know they seem like a bunch of vapid, self-involved wastes.” 

“And understatement.” 

“But,” Mickey presses, “These people are the power brokers of the city.” 

“La-de-da. So they’ve got the cash and the factories and the mansions full of servants. I still say that the blood of the well-to-do don’t taste any different than the working poor,” Ian whispers in Mickey’s ear. “Wouldn’t you rather be somewhere a little more dressed down like a tavern?” 

“We’ll get there, just like last night and the night before. You know that old expression, ‘wine before beer— ” 

“‘You’ll feel queer.’” Ian snickers, the petulant child. Of course, considering Mickey has literally let him get away with murder, what harm is there in ribbing your mentor?  

“That’s for mortals,” Mickey insists as they set out into the night air. “ For us, all you need to remember is ‘wine before beer, nothing to fear.’” 

“Seems kind of backwards to me.”  

“Believe it or not, vampires don’t drink all that much. But the wealthy aren’t drinking to get drunk. We have to last all night, Red. If you want to get a buzz, you’re better off feeding from the drunks later before we turn in for the morning.” 

“To sleep off the alcohol,” a smirking Ian nods in understanding.  

“There’s also the pragmatic fact that we need to know what life is like in the city. You always want to have your ears to the ground with mortals. We’re built to last an eternity, so it’s easy for us to lose sight of the daily ins and outs of the ephemeral masses. The upper classes aren’t haunting taverns and billiard halls late into the night, so we find out what we can from High Society first. The hoi poloi can wait until later in the night when either the drunks are stumbling home from the bar or the early morning labor force heading into the mills.” 

They walk the cobbled streets of the north of Chicago, Ian is still a bit in awe of the wealth on display even after staying in Mickey’s large estate for almost a month. But then, it is only in the past few days that they have really spent much time among the upper echelons of society. Mostly, Ian’s waking hours have mostly been spent outside the city or cloistered away in Mickey’s mansion, more than a little enthralled by Mickey’s personal library and the sheer volume and variety of Mickey’s collection of scientific texts. 

“Do you think any of these are Rutger’s?” Ian asks. “I mean Wulfric’s?” 

“I doubt it. I checked with the Council and nobody even knew he was in Chicago until you told me. If he had been living here for some time, he was keeping quiet about it, not staying in one of the grander estates. Why do you ask?” 

Ian sticks his hands in the hip pockets of his trousers, slightly spoiling the line of his evening coat. He kicks a loose cobble as they continue down the North Clark Street. “You know that silver key on my nightstand?” 

Mickey shrugs. “It’s the only thing of value you had on you when I found you. I’m surprised you had anything silver, considering how many stupid vampire myths you believed.” 

“Wulfric gave it to me before he jumped. He said his house was mine now.” 

Mickey stops in his tracks, thinking. “He gave you the Gift. It makes sense he’d give you everything else. But until I pieced together that he was your Maker, I thought he had been flitting through a few different homes along the East Coast since before the Revolution. Boston Philadelphia, Charleston. Though I doubt the Charleston house survived the Civil War.” He resumes walking and catches up to Ian who had stopped another ten paces ahead to listen to Mickey. “If Wulfric meant for you to inherit, we may need to do some traveling.” 

“We?” 

“You don’t think I’d let you go all that way alone, do you?” He pushes ahead, hoping Ian won’t notice the new flush of color in his cheeks. “I still have a lot to teach you.” 

“Oh, yeah,” the redhead agrees. “That’s practical. I guess.” 

They continue on, not in a rush to get back to the mansion, but taking in the relative quiet of the city at night. Dim streetlights light the city in a warm glow. A century ago, candles would have barely illuminated a far less developed cityscape. As proud as Mickey is of his contributions to the city and its growth, he does regret knowing how his efforts have resulted in a noisier city at night. As a man who spent centuries enjoying the sounds of nature and finding his way about by the stars, he misses the unspoiled beauty of the world before the rise of industry.  

“Fucking Christ!”    

Mickey snaps out of his thoughts to see Ian holding up a discarded newspaper that he found on a park bench. Rushing at an unnecessary exhibition of speed, he snatches the copy of the April 16th 1912 installment of the Chicago Tribune from Ian’s hand .   

Mickey reads about a British luxury liner that up until today had received a respectable amount of coverage. It has been touted as the largest vessel every made by man, the largest moving object in the world, in fact. The managing director of the White Star Line named her seemingly to drill its scale into the public’s collective imagination. Or possibly he went with Titanic to overcompensate for an unimpressive dick size.  

He continues reading. Including the crew, the ship’s compliment was 2,240 souls on board. The list of first class passengers on its maiden voyage acts as a who’s who of the British aristocracy and the American social elite. People he has drank from, some of whose company he genuinely enjoyed. One he once called family and still cannot help but think of him that way. And four nights ago the unsinkable ship of dreams sank somewhere in the middle of the North Atlantic. Less than a third survived. 

Mickey answers solemnly as he hands Ian the periodical, at a loss for how he should feel except hollowed out.   

“Shiiit,” Ian hums as he reads the article in more depth. Ian looks up from the paper and his face is a death mask. “It’s over a thousand people, Mick. In one night.”     

“Fifteen hundred at least. Christ… I had a friend on that ship,” he answers as he wipes the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand. “I was his godfather. Or Wattley Sr was.”    

“Over a thousand years old and it still hurts when you lose people?” 

“It never stops. You learn to distract yourself or you can learn to become detached. I've been a master of detachment over the years, but it doesn’t always work,” Mickey sniffs out an admission. Detachment also tends to leave Mickey in a self-perpetuating cycle of misery. He sits himself down on the bench and pulls a kerchief out of his breast pocket. Vampires weep blood. And if Mickey doesn’t stopper up his tears now, he is going to have a mess on his hands.  

“That’s going to be my family before long, right?” Asks Ian fretfully. “I’m going to have to watch them grow old and sick and die.”  

“You’ve only been a vampire for a few weeks, Red. Maybe now that you have a bit more control, you could pay them a visit. There is still plenty of time.” He restrains himself from admonishing Ian not to let the time slip through his fingers, but he doesn’t want both of them in a foul mood tonight. The time goes so quickly and it only worsens the longer you live. He is trying to reassure Ian, but the truth is he has lost too many mortals who have meant something to him by now. Being a vampire is a lonely enterprise, especially when you don’t relish spending time with your own kind. He doesn’t even know if Jack is among the fatalities, but he feels it, his body grieving even if the boy is gone or not.   

“Sorry,” Ian utters, sitting next to him. “You just lost somebody and I’m worrying about hypotheticals.” 

“It’s gonna be a long eternity, Ian. I’d advise you not to go stressing about this shit until you have to.” 

“What was his name?” Ian inquires. “ Her name?” 

The corner of Mickey’s house quirks up. “His, Ian. And it’s not what you think. You can get emotionally attached to mortals. They’re actually better company than other vampires. Most vampires, anyway. We can take it when they die even when it hurts. We’ll weather the storm. But when it comes to  sex? Did Wulfric ever take you to bed?” 

“I thought he was just being a gentleman.” 

“If by ‘being a gentleman,’ you mean ‘not trying to shatter your pelvis.’ Mortals aren’t built to withstand us, Red.” 

Silence overtakes them again as Mickey finds himself taking the paper from Ian’s hand again. Maybe he missed something. Maybe he needs to turn to further in the installment to find a comprehensive list of the victims. He hopes against hope as he leafs through the pages. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Jack. Astor. I spent a couple decades in New York. Ended up close with his father. I haven’t seen him since he was a boy.” He wishes he had some vampiric reason he is fighting the impulse to break down into tears. But the truth is he had lost so much long before Wulfric gave him The Gift. He taught himself to swallow the remorse over and over again. But then it would get to be too much.   

They sit there in companionable quiet for some time. Ian is the one who breaks the silence.  

“You know, it sucks that we can’t do alcohol.” He absentmindedly rubs his palms against his knees. “I mean, I know we can get a buzz off a someone who’s been drinking, but we can’t exactly grab a bottle of whiskey and go somewhere to feel sorry for ourselves like everyone else.” 

“I said we don’t drink that much,” Mickey corrects. “And when you’re older you can handle mortal food and drink. Why? You asking me out on a date or something?” 

Ian shrugs. “You seem like you could use a stiff drink. And I know somewhere we can go.” 

A choked, wet laugh escapes Mickey’s throat, “What? Figured out I’m a cheap date, Red?” 

🧛Ian🧛 

For someone who has been around Chicago since the city was founded, Mickey seems turned around the further south they venture. Ian offhandedly figures Mickey must have only been able to track him down the first time because of the rapport they share. Ian leads him to a row of neglected  warehouses and they climb to the roof with a bottle of vodka they acquire from the back of  a local tavern’s store room. 

Ian climbs up the fire escape on the back of the building at Mickey follows close behind. He  hasn’t been here since the days following is first stay in the sanitarium. He has put on a few inches and a lot of muscle since then, which would go a long way to explaining just why the cheap metal railing feels both smaller and more rickety than he remembers.  

“You sure we can’t fly?” he asks, suddenly suspicious at the once-trusty iron staircase. 

“And we can’t turn into bats. But we’re pretty decent jumpers,” Mickey explains not for the first time. Ian is thankful, though, that he doesn’t need to put his own jumping skills to the test before they get to the rooftop. 

They sit on the roof, their  backs propped against the tall brick and mortal chimney, and Ian watches the neck of the bottle intently as Mickey presses his lips to it. Ian licks his lips, not certain which he is longing for more— the vodka or Mickey’s lips. Both feel like they are too far out of his grasp. 

Ian had tried getting himself drunk a couple days after  being sired. He hated the hunger in him so much, hated killing. He just wanted to drown out the ache with liquor. But all it made him feel was physically ill until he expelled it. The worst part of the hangover without the virtue of getting him drunk.  

After Mickey has guzzled down a third of the bottle, he jumps to his feet and on unsteady feet, he strides toward the ledge of the roof and proceeds to bellow and swear into the distance. It is a litany of profanities that seem to pierce the heavens, like Mickey is attempting to ding dong ditch centuries of frustration at Saint Peter’s front gate. 

That’s right, Mickey. Let it all out, Ian thinks. Mickey has a set of pipes on him, his voice resonating and rebounding itself. Ian remembers when he was younger, maybe sixteen, and he lost his mother. Everyone handled it differently. Lip was angry more than anything, a trait that as his closest sibling Ian could detect more easily than the others. But Lip has a frustrating habit of misdirecting his anger at the wrong places. So, Ian opted to share his secret spot with his brother just as he is doing now with Mickey.  

Finally, after swearing up enough of a storm and cursing out the gods of various faiths, Mickey ambles back to Ian and collapses next to him, knees brushing against each other as he picks up the bottle and holds it up to the moonlight appraisingly. “Feel better after getting all that off your chest?” 

“You haven’t had a single drop of this shit,” observes Mickey en lieu of an answer.  

“Can’t. It made me ill the last time I tried.” 

 “Why did you invite me down to the slums for a drink if you can’t partake?” 

Ian shrugs. The truth is simply that he didn’t quite think the idea through. He just knew that this is where he goes when the world gets to be too much for him. He really wasn’t thinking too much about whether or not he could booze it up with Mickey when he came up with the idea.  

“I didn’t think that far ahead.” 

“Did you even like vodka when you were alive?” 

“I figured you would,” Ian fires back defensively. “Being Russian, I mean.” 

“Ukrainian,” Mickey corrects, shooting one eyebrow into a creasing forehead, as if to ask how many times he has to repeat. “And if we ever do this again, I prefer to a simple English stout, but I’m not picky.” 

“I’ll make a note of it in my memorandum,” simpers Ian. “Shame though. Kevin always used to talk up Belvedere’s.”  

“You want a taste?” 

“I told you, I can’t—oh.”  

He watches in surprise as Mickey pops out his cuff links and rolls back his stiff, starched sleeve up past his elbow. Ian has never seen Mickey anything but covered from the neck to the hem of his wrists. He is transfixed by the sight of Mickey’s well-shaped forearm. The preternaturally alabaster skin practically reflects in the moonlight. 

“It’s just like getting a buzz off a wino. Just don’t drink too much or I’ll end up needing to feed before the night’s out.” Mickey never seems to need to feed, an advantage of  vampiric longevity. To hear him tell it, he only needs to drink once or twice a year. 

“We can feed off of each other?” Ian asks tentatively. There is certainly something bordering on sexual about feeding off humans, a momentary erogenous thrill that flows through him just as his canines break the flesh, and it seems to cause the mortal some degree of pleasure as well. “Isn’t it a little intimate?” 

“You gonna get on me or what, tough guy?” 

He holds out his forearm in front of Ian, as though they were in the gymnasium and were trying to flaunt his progress. Ian’s long, freckled fingers wrap around Mickey’s elbow and wrist. He doesn’t know what has his mind so ensorcelled— his hands being given carte blanche to hold Mickey’s exposed flesh or the hypnotic, steady thump of the elder vampire’s radial vein.  

His upper canines lengthen as he leans in. At the same time, his manhood, too, grows to its full length as Ian’s fangs break the skin. It form an outline in the pant leg of the splendid suit Ian bought him and for a moment, he feels humiliated and exposed.  

But then Mickey wraps his free arm around Ian and presses them closer together. And while the turgid swelling in his slacks presses against Mickey’s lower abdomen, he feels a similar sensation as Mickey’s member grows engorged against Ian’s upper thigh. 

Yet another misconception about vampires that Ian has come to learn is that vampires are cold and lifeless. Quite the contrary, their hearts still beat, their lungs still breath. Their blood still runs hot. Vampires accept the term “undead” as a matter of course, but the truth is that vampires are far more alive than human sensation can comprehend.  

Ian has come to find that the blood of beasts is something he can stomach if he needs to. Meanwhile human blood tastes like fine dining. But Mickey? Mickey’s blood is exquisite. Sweet as honeyed wine, he tastes like the sort of home cooking Fiona can only afford to cook for them once a year, both comfort food as familiar as breathing but also something to be treasured. He’s hooked. Gone on Mickey, gone on the taste of him. He cannot fathom how he reached twenty-one years of age without knowing how Mickey tastes on his tongue. 

Ian feels a sudden rush as he feels his bow tie looses and the top buttons of his shirt pop off. His shoulder and neck exposed to the early April air. Soft, full lips press against his subclavian artery and the warm wetness of Mickey’s mouth presages the arrival of two pinpricks penetrating his flesh. Something rushes through his bloodstream and suddenly he realizes why even when his victims know what he is and what he is doing, they do not fight him. Mickey has unleashed something  both sedative and aphrodisiac into Ian’s body and Ian’s brain is on fire with unbridled want.   

“Enough,” Mickey murmurs even as his mouth is still pressed to the sinews of the redhead’s neck.  

Ian ignores it. He never wants this to stop.  

“We have to stop, Ian,” Mickey’s voice is a whimper, an entreaty, a moan of pleasure. 

“More,” is all Ian can say. It’s all he can think.  

“Enough!” Mickey’s voice commands from within Ian’s skull. And he is physically compelled to comply.  

🧛Mickey🧛 

Both men find themselves on the floor, their knees having given way from underneath them. Ian is panting shallowly, The ruby red of Mickey’s blood dribbling from the corner of Ian’s mouth. Here and Mickey thought he taught the boy some table manners.

Mickey has never tasted blood so sweet before, like a red wine or honeyed wine. He needed to pull away despite himself, lest he gorged himself on Ian. He cannot get enough of Ian. And letting himself get so addicted on the taste of another vampire is a recipe for trouble.   

It is almost comic the way Ian wipes at the blood with his forefinger then pops his finger into his mouth, drawing attention to his lips. It makes Mickey thinks of other, more prurient things that those lips could be doing.  Mickey wonders suddenly why he pushed Ian off him. Now all he wants is to have the larger man’s hands and his needful mouth roaming his body.   

He is exhausted from their moment of unexpected bliss, spent and boneless. It takes a surprising amount of willpower just to inch closer to his companion until they are once more elbow to elbow.  

“So…” Ian starts still huffing for air.  “Was that how vampires have… you know?”  

“More or less.” Except sex between vampires is supposed to be a casual affair. However, what Mickey is feeling right in this moment is anything but casual. “We can do the other stuff too, the mortal shit with the flesh slapping against each other and organs interlocking. But what we just did was purely vampire.” 

“Was I any good?” 

Mickey doesn’t know how to answer that question without giving away how done for he is. From the moment he first saw the boy stalking outside that pauper‘s house weeks ago, his senses took leave of him. Mickey hasn’t allowed himself to feel what Ian makes him feel since the likes of Saladin and the Lionheart still roamed the earth. And certainly, those old passing infatuations didn’t burn anywhere nearly as bright.   

He’s gotten off with other vampires in that time. Sometimes, sex is as good as a handshake between members of his kind. Yet, there was never any heart in it. He would just get off and move on without much fanfare.  

But what he just shared with Ian was a riotous rapture of the heart. He should find an excuse to send Ian away before Mickey gives in to his desires again. Vampires are eternal. History has taught him that the sensation that has been blooming in his chest since the night they met can only burn for so long before it is snuffed out like a waning candle. 

“I don’t want you to go and get a swelled head,” Mickey answers. As his thumb runs along the point of incision on Ian’s neck, already in the process of healing itself. 

He should send the boy away before one of them hurts the other. It will only be a matter of time before it happens. This key Ian has would be a as good an excuse as any. Ian could be good for a decade or two just roaming the country in search of Wulfric’s house like a needle in a haystack.   

“So, is this where you take all the boys you dally with?” 

But he won’t cast out this fledgling. He won’t send Ian out to search the world blindly on his own. Not just because Ian still has much to learn, nor even because Mickey feels like he owes it to himself to see what their Maker left behind for Ian. No, he won’t send Ian away because suddenly after centuries of independence, the thought of solitude suddenly causes Mickey to physically ache. 

“Hardly, Ian answers. “This used to be where I went to be alone for a bit. Crowded house and all. Then, I brought my brother here and it kinda became the place where me and Lip could go and shoot the shit.” 

“Lip?” Where has Mickey heard that name? 

“Yeah, though we hardly got to hang out the past few years,” Ian adds with a sense of melancholy. “He is studying to become an engineer at the Institute of Technology.” 

“But his name is ‘Lip?’” Mickey asks again, seeking to make sure his keen vampire ears didn’t suddenly fail him.  

“Oh. It’s just what we call my older brother. It’s ‘Phillip,’ but he’s got something of a mouth on him, so we all just call him ‘Lip.’”  

The boy with the idiotic Van Helsing brigade. That is Ian’s brother. Here and he all but advised Ian to go strolling into his family home with one of those rubes. It would practically be like putting the nut directly into the paws of the blind squirrel.  

Now he needs to get Ian out of Chicago. The both of them do. He needs to protect Ian. For someone who loves his family the way Ian does, the truth would break his heart.  

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛 

Mickey has shelves of books in nearly every room of his mansion. They cover  a multitude of topics in several languages. Physics, architecture, botany, chemistry, and philosophy just to name a few. Ian cannot help but wonder how many honorary degrees his mentor could have amassed over the years. Though, the way Mickey describes it, he has lived so long that he only has so much room in his head to actively recall it all. At one point, he mastered so many different subjects, but now if he wants to show off that expertise, he needs to grease the gears of his memory with a bit of “light” reading. 

However, Mickey doesn’t seem to be concerned with his extensive academic collection at the moment. Instead, In find him at work in what Mickey likes to call his Souvenir Hall, a library dedicated to Mickey’s personal writings and keepsakes he has managed to preserve over the centuries. Some of these items predate William the Conqueror, which is frankly mind boggling that they simply adorn Mickey’s wall instead of a display case in the Smithsonian.  

Whether he realizes it or not, Mickey is zipping to and fro around the chamber at full vampiric gallop. Ian can barely keep up as his companion works his way around the room, upending shelves, putting books into different sorting piles before ultimately putting them into one of several steamer trunks. To mortal eyes, he would only be a blur. Finally, Mickey slows down and finds himself a seat sitting upright on a plum-colored chaise, right leg crossed over his knee as he flips through a faded green  tome entitled “ 1791 Wien, Zweiter Teil ” in a very ornate calligraphy.   

“Do you think I’ll be able to do more of the sort of shit you can do by the time we leave?” Ian asks as Mickey pores over stacks of handwritten diaries that he plans to take along with them on their journey. 

“You mean in the next couple of weeks?” 

Ian shrugs. How is he to know? According to Mickey, he should have been stock still during the day time for decades, but as of a couple nights ago, he can sit up and talk when he ought to be suffering paralysis. “I just want to know wha5 I’m capable of.” 

Mickey looks up from the leather-bound volume, setting it down. “You mean like the speed and strength? The physical feats? If you were made by a younger vampire, I would tell you it takes time. Normally a vampire needs to build up the muscles over the course of several decades, the same way we aren’t born as mortals able to walk and talk and feed ourselves. It’s why the Maker/Fledgling relationship is the way it is. Because young vampires can turn from predator to easy prey on the turn of a dime.” Mickey seems to reflect, as though debating whether to bring something up. “Wulfric’s blood in you might make a difference. Time will tell.” 

“What about the other stuff?”  

“I already told you we can’t fly or turn into bats.” 

“What about wolves? Rats? Mist?” 

Mickey lets loose a beleaguered sigh and steeples his  rune-covered fingers. “No animal transformations. Or mist. Who came up with that one?” 

“Can I move objects with my mind? Or control minds?” 

“We don’t control people’s minds. But a skilled vampire has ways of exerting his influence within reason, a certain je ne sais quoi . Not in my bag of tricks though. I kind of have to smack people down with cold, concrete fact to get things to go my way.” 

“What about—?” 

“Ian, please. Let me shorthand this for you. You know about the heightened senses and enhanced strength. On top of that, you’re immune to illness and can heal from wounds. But you aren’t a fucking salamander, so try not to get your limbs sawn off. And if you live long enough, you’ll hopefully end up collecting a skill or two to make yourself useful.” 

“Make myself useful?” Ian asks, slightly offended at the suggestion that he’s a lump on a log.  

Mickey puts the text still in his hands away in one of the steamer trunks and leads Ian out of the Souvenir Hall. “I’m only speaking for myself, but I’d rather not think of myself as a parasite. Or a predator.” 

Ian doesn’t have to think long before he comes to an agreement. He utterly shudders at the thought that he could possibly live to be over one thousand years old and still be haunted by the faces of the men he killed during that tumultuous week or so after being sired. It hadn’t occurred to him until now to think of himself as a parasite, but it makes sense. Vampires need the blood of living mortals in order to sustain themselves, but humans don’t exactly get a benefit in return. It makes Ian feel like a mosquito or a leech.  

“So what do you do? You’re filthy rich, so you’re not exactly—” 

“Look, I can’t help it if I’ve had a millennium to diversify my portfolio. But I’ve given back to mortals in other ways. I’ve warded off murderers and rapists from my communities for centuries. At one point I preyed on them and didn’t think twice about draining them. I figured who’s gonna cry over that sort of trash? I’ve guarded the home front in times of war. There are women and children in this city who no longer have to live in fear of their abusive fathers and husbands because of me. And you wanna talk about what I’ve done? The sextant, the compass, the steam-powered engine, the bayonet—” 

“What, seriously?” Ian’s head tilts, suddenly very amused. “Something doesn’t fit the pattern.” 

“Alright, yes it’s a little outside my wheelhouse now , and war has never really been my thing. Most wars would be better off sorted out by making world leaders duke it out between them in the ring rather than make their disputes over borders and religion everyone else’s problem. But weapons are just... they’re neat.”  

Ian doesn’t want to mention it now that Mickey has gotten up on his soapbox about war, but before he went round the bend, he wanted to be an officer in the army like one of President Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. That said, he probably would have an affinity for rifles regardless. His eldest sister worked her fingers to the bone at the wool mill to support the family. Meanwhile, his elder brother studied for school in the hopes of someday improving the family’s fortunes. So, it was left to Ian to help support the family both by bringing home expired vegetables from the green grocers where he worked as well as taking his grandfather’s Winchester ‘73 to Sherman Park and coming home with wild game. And he prided himself on being a pretty good shot. He could shoot a fly off the back of a deer at 200 paces.  

“But you gotta admit, the bayonet isn’t exactly the same level of innovative as fucking trains.” 

“It was revolutionary at the time, shithead!” 

“Oh, please! You glued a knife onto the barrel of a guy and called it a day.”  

“It wasn’t glued on, jackass. And nothing’s wrong with simple but effective,” Mickey must realize he’s getting overly-worked up over Ian’s gentle ribbing because he fixes his posture and throws his shoulders back with an air of authority. “Now if you want to talk about flops, lemme tell you about the Aerial Screw.” 

“A what?” 

“You know what? Forget I mentioned it. I’ll never live that piece of shit down. Leo can take full credit on that one.” 

“Leo?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey’s cheeks turn pink and he scratches at the back of his neck. “I may have spent the back half of the fourteen hundreds bumming around Florence, Italy.” 

““What? You mean...? Oh, fuck off. No you didn’t!” Mickey is a model of false humility as he bobs his shoulders up and down. He pushes out his very full and kissable lower lip, taunting Ian like he knows the effect it has on Ian. Though now Mickey doesn’t need a mental connection to know what Ian wants, even if they haven’t spoken of it since that night. Looking cute is a cheap ploy and Ian will not be distracted. “You are full of it, Mick. Next thing you’ll tell me you wrote plays for Shakespeare.” 

“Do you think I would talk like this if I did?” Scoffs Mickey.  

“Foul mouthed?” 

“More that I’m hardly clever about being foul mouthed. Look, my point being that’s my way of giving back to the people who keep me alive every night. And it doesn’t have to be your way.”  

“Okay, what do you suppose could be my thing?” Asks Ian, suddenly realizing he is following Mickey towards his bedroom door.  

“Fuck if I know. What were you good at before your siring?”  

Ian shrugs. He really wouldn’t say he is particularly good at anything. Perhaps that’s why it was always so easy for him to fade into the background despite his very eye-catching coppery-red hair. Fiona was always the formidable one, holding the family together through sheer force of will. Lip and Liam the family was blessed with two geniuses in one generation. Debbie has this indomitable will when she sets her mind to something. And Carl… okay, Carl is a threat to civil order just waiting to happen, but even then, that is a superlative personality. Ian was always just the nice one. Then he became the mentally diseased one. Not much to recommend himself.  

They stand outside the door to Mickey’s suite of rooms, Mickey leaning along the wall. “Okay,” he hums. “What would you like to be good at? You have an eternity, Red. That’s plenty of time to find a vocation.” 

“Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be a soldier.” Mickey blows a raspberry, which Ian takes to be a sign of his disapproval. “But I was studying to go to become a doctor before everything, well, changed.”  

Mickey’s expression twists, brow furrowed and mouth crooked. “What kind of doctor?” 

“Medicine,” Ian answers, upended by the question. “A surgeon.”  

Mickey inhales sharply through his teeth. Ian understands. He honestly anticipated a reaction like this. Ian has enough self-control now not to gorge himself on the unwitting mortals he drinks from. Mickey has taught him well. But to be a surgeon, around so much human blood day in, day out? A doctor swears to do no harm. As a vampire, particularly one as young and green as Ian is, he cannot swear with any modicum of confidence that he could uphold that oath. 

“It’s okay, E. We’ll come up with something. Don’t worry,” he opens the door and starts to disappear into the room. But then his head pops back out. “You coming?”  

Ian’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Since when am I allowed in your bedroom?” 

“Relax, man. I’m not inviting you into my boudoir. You’re just going to mill about the sitting room and keep me company while I get changed.” 

“Changed? But my late feeding isn’t for hours. Do you have somewhere you need to be?” 

“I’d ask you along, but attendance is invite-only,” Mickey sighs as he leads Ian inside. “Gotta meet with the Council.” 

“The Council? There really is a council of vampires?” 

“Every city has one. Kind of a pain, honestly. I need to give them notice before we leave so they can fill my seat.” 

 Ian looks around and it occurs to him that he didn’t know what to expect of the inside of Mickey’s quarters. But he hadn’t pictured this. When Mickey referred to the master bedroom as a suite with his palatial mansion, he expected elegant grandeur like something out of pictures of the Hotel Savoy. Or perhaps something rustically salt of the earth as befits the son of a farmer who was raised among Norsemen. 

What he doesn’t expect is a hodgepodge of furniture that looks like the furniture was found item by item at thrift stores and swap meets. He sits in an old sofa that needs to be upholstered (is there a cat up here? Why are there scratches all over the the sides? Did it come like that? The sitting room table is a repurposed crate.  

“Take a seat, I’m just going to be in the next room,” Mickey insists.  

“This is some setup you’ve got here, Mick.”  

Ian sits down and spies another couple of Mickey’s diaries. One looks much older than the volume Mickey had been reading earlier, bound by hand in a leather cover that looks like it might be falling apart. The writing on the cover long-since faded, though Ian can see where the text once was “ Mercie 886 – Londres 1103 .” The paper is yellowed and water damaged. Leafing through the book, Ian cannot understand it.  

The other is a new one, store-bought. “ Chicago 1912. ” And despite it only being late April, the journal is nearly full.  

 🧛 Mickey 🧛  

“Mind if I ask a personal question?” Ian asks from the other room. 

“Ask all you like, but I don’t always answer,” Mickey answers as he selects an ensemble suitable for telling the council they’re on their own for what Mickey assumes will be a good long while.  

“Why do some of these journals fill up faster than others?” 

A clenching choke swells in his throat. He had left this year’s diary out on the table. He doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of. It has been a few centuries since he has done anything remotely incriminating. But he has spoken the unvarnished truth about his opinions on Ian in there, both positive and negative. And he would rather not  

Mickey pops his head out the door in a mild panic, expecting to find his ward  perusing the tomes of his collected memories that he had left out the previous night. But instead, he finds Ian sprawled out on the careworn old sofa like Mickey invited him to take a nap. Cocky little blood sucker , Mickey muses to himself. Leave him alone in my apartments for a minute and now he's got his feet up on the furniture like he owns the place.  

 In one hand, he has a copy of one of Mickey’s oldest diaries open in front of him, but Ian’s expression gives away that he was never taught Medieval French. His eyes scan the page, pupils dilating in an effort to understand the text in front of him. Even if Ian could read it though, Mickey wouldn't fret over Ian reading it. That far back in Mickey’s personal history tends to feel pretty removed, like Ian is reading about someone else entirely.  

“Why so curious? You snooping around on me, Watson?” 

“I think you mean ‘Sherlock.’” 

“You think you’re the Sherlock out of the two of us?” 

Ian clutches at his left breast as though struck by an arrow, making a parody of a baleful guttural groan. “You wound me, sir.” 

“If you must know, I’m a lot more detailed now because I can be. I only started keeping a diary when I realized how, well, fuzzy, my past was getting.” 

“So what?” Ian asks sitting up and placing the book on the table. “You’ve been alive so long you forget shit?” 

“’Forget’ isn’t quite the right word, but it serves. Everything is up here,” Mickey insists, tapping his temple with two fingers. “But I need a little help.” Mickey bites his lower lip trying to think of how to describe his process. “Think of your memories like they are a creek you’re trying to cross without getting wet. You can leap to get to the more recent events. But the creek widens the further back the memories are. So you need stepping stones. Souvenirs that will get you to your memory. Could be a keepsake or a meaningful place, or a chat with someone you knew during a meaningful time in your life.” Mickey takes a seat on the beaten-up old couch beside Ian. “Like, ‘hey, what do you think of this hat?’ ‘Oh, right. Didn’t you always used to always used to wear it when your Aunt Millicent visited?’ ‘Oh, Aunt Millicent— there’s a name I haven’t thought of in ages. That reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time she kicked President Grant right in his plums?’ That sort of thing.” 

“And for memories as far back as you’ve lived…?” Asks Ian, seeming to catch on. 

“There aren’t any stepping stones. But the time I realized those old memories were dimming, the world was unrecognizable from the one I was born into. The last remnant of those days just threw himself into the fire.” 

“Wulfric.” Supplies Ian ruefully.  

“Right,” Mickey presses on. “But my diaries are bridges across memory. When I read them, it jars my memory like a jailor with a key. The more detail I put in, the better. These days, I sit down every few days. But I already had three hundred years of memories clogging up the works upstairs before I sat down to start writing down my history. That journal there is less of a bridge to my memories and more like a sequence of circus trapezes. A lot gets leapt over in favor of the major events.”  

“Do you ever miss him?” 

It takes a moment for Mickey to get wise and realize Ian is still stuck on the specter of Wulfric. He hates that tone in his voice, like Wulf is a mutual former lover, that they need to walk on eggshells around one another whenever his name is invoked. Literally, that is what Wulfric is to both of them, but he withstood the man’s capricious temperament and manipulative tactics for over 150 years. Those are the memories that burned brightest in the years before he traveled east and found his clan. If Ian could translate the old hand-written diary in his hands, it would read more like a litany of Wulf’s many flaws and transgressions. There is always a nagging urge to kick himself for letting Wulfric play him for a fool at the cost of his soul and how long it took him to realize it. Mickey knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that despite his days of confusion following his metamorphosis, in the long run Ian is the more fortunate of the two of them. 

“No,” Mickey answers. “I’m surprised I stood by him as long as I did.”   

“You never thought about seeking him out and at least taking him out for coffee, talk about old times? You could have refreshed those memories, like you said.” 

“He’s in enough of the ones I’ve got written down in there. The memories of that time I’d like back from that time are beyond my reach. I just learned to accept it.” 

“Was he that bad?” 

“Let me put it this way— I had nearly eight and a half centuries to second-guess myself. But I was better off without him. And so are you.” He pushes himself to stand and reaches out to take Ian’s hand. “C’mon, Red. I got places to be.” 

🧛 Ian 🧛 

He has stopped by the house sometimes twice a night, night after night. The same familiar blue house with the the red door that was a staple of every day of his mortal life. Several weeks ago, it seemed like Mickey was pushing him towards making contact with them and letting them know he’s okay, even if it means omitting a lot about his new circumstances. But then the decision to go abroad seemed to upend Mickey’s opinion. It would hurt to much for both him and his family for him to see them and then disappear again.  

So night after night, after he has fed and Mickey vanishes, no doubt to sexily brood somewhere in the mansion, Ian has checked in with his family even if they didn’t know it. Now that he has adapted to his enhanced senses, he can hold his nightly vigil from a distance.  

The relatively narrow windows of the Gallagher house almost reminds him of gazing into a coin-operated kinetoscope. He has worked his way up to the top of a neighboring tree and watched the little ones sleep. He has watched his older siblings, weary-eyed, stay up late into the night debating household finances.  

The realization that this is the last time for quite some time that he will be at his own front door is a sobering realization. But tonight, he isn’t coming empty-handed. He climbs the steps of his porch with a small oaken chest clutched tightly in his arms. He clutches it as though it is precious. It is precious. Mickey has ensured him that this is hardly the last they will see of Chicago. But Ian has never been outside of Cook County, let alone far away on the other side of the continent. Somehow, Ian cannot help but feel like he is closing a chapter.  

He doesn’t want to leave them empty-handed. And Mickey agreed even though Ian had no idea what he could give them. Keenly aware that other than a single silver key there is nothing to his name now that Mickey hasn’t given him, he was at wit’s end trying to figure out what he can leave them. But then he woke up this evening and instead of Mickey there to greet him as he has done every night since Mickey brought him into his home, there was this chest awaiting him with thirty-thousand dollars cash inside. This could change his family’s life.    

He sets down the chest in front of the heavy red door and tucks an envelope under the lid. Maybe his goodbye will be less painful in paper and ink. Less painful on him, at least. But they’ll know he isn’t dead. Hope floats. He balls his hand into a fist and holds it up to the door, but then stops. He looks back at Mickey standing patiently on the pavement and whispers, “Ready.” 

Knock. Knock. Knock.  

A mere split second later, he finds himself being lifted and rushed away at inhuman speeds until they are half a mile until they aren’t even a dot in the inky blue-black distance. Still, they are well within range for Ian to look back and see as the door opens and a mane of rich brown hair appears.  

Fiona steps out in a large blue terry cloth housecoat and looks around. She calls out, asking “who’s there?” before her shin bumps into the chest. She looks around, now a bit confounded as she squats down to pick it up. The chest opens and she gasps, taking the envelope and slamming the box shut as though a vandal is about to pop out in the middle of the night to rob her.  

She leans against the wall side of the porch as she reads Ian’s note. Tears well up in her eyes. “Christ, Ian…” she whispers to herself. 

“Love you, Fi,” mumbles to himself. He thought this would be a relief. He is leaving his family with a small fortune and assurance that he isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere. But he isn’t back there, accepting tender hugs from Fiona, Lip, and all the others. He is muttering his farewells from a distance and praying for the best.  

A warm, if rough, hand suddenly slips into his own, squeezing it firmly. “Couldn’t help yourself with the note, huh?” Mickey asks. 

“I’m never going to see them again.” 

“Yes, you will,” Mickey insists. 

“I didn’t tell them everything.” 

“Good.” 

“But now they know I’m safe. And I love them.” 

They turn around and start heading towards the platform for the nearest Red Line. Mickey is smirking warmly as he relinquishes Ian’s hand and stretches his arm behind Ian’s back. “I think they already knew you love them, Red.”  

“I was always the lost Gallagher, the one who strayed a little bit further from the flock. Did my own thing.” 

“Is that your full name? Ian Gallagher?” 

“Have I seriously never mentioned it?” Asks Ian a bit baffled. How has he managed to go two months without mentioning his family name to the man he has been living with? Before being turned, “Gallagher” would have been the adjective he used most often to describe himself. His family was his identity. Has that changed? Is he Ian Gallagher or Ian the Vampire? He would have thought he is both, but then why has it been so easy to just be “Ian” around Mickey for so long?  

“I didn’t really ask. I don’t set much store by family names. My birth family sold me to the Vikings, remember?” Mickey pats his shoulder.  

Ian looks back before they turn the corner. One last look at the Gallagher house. This time tomorrow night, they will be on a sleeper train headed eastward. “Being a Gallagher means something to me though. Family’s important to me.” 

“Well, then it’s important to me, too." Mickey squeezes his shoulder. "And 'Gallagher' has got a nice ring to it.”  

Chapter Text

Interlude  

Fiona and Lip,  

I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately. I miss you, but I’m going to be away for a while longer. I’m leaving for the East Coast and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. But I don’t want you guys to worry, I’m not in any trouble. At least you’ll have one less mouth to feed, a little more breathing room. I wish I could explain what is going on and why, but all I can say for now is that I’m hale and hearty and with someone I trust.   

 Fi, thank you for being my first protector. Don’t take on more than you can handle. Lip, I miss you like I’d miss my right arm. I couldn’t have asked for a better big brother. Give the little ones all my love. Tell Debbie I think she’ll be a great mother some day and tell Liam I how much hope I have for his future. And try to keep Carl out of trouble.  

I love you all so much,  

Ian  

PS, Hide the cash before Frank gets home from wherever he ran off to this time. Preferably somewhere that locks. Or better yet, a bank vault.  

“This is bullshit,” hisses Lip as he pushes the unfolded letter back across the table to his sister. “Ian wouldn’t just up and leave us like this.”  

Fiona lifts the letter to the light and looks as closely as she can. “It’s Ian’s handwriting, though.”  

“Do you seriously think Ian would show up after all this time just to skulk around in the dead of night and just drop more money than the two of us combined could earn in a decade on our doorstep?”  

“Well, it would hardly be the first time one of us got our hands on money illegally,” the elder Gallagher opines.    

“Not Ian,” Lip insists heatedly. “He’s always been the best of us.”  

“He’s mentally ill, Lip,” Fiona declares firmly. “One of these days you have to accept it. He has.”  

“You think I don’t know?” Lip grips the kitchen table as though he is holding on for dear life. “You don't know Ian, Fi. Not the way I do. I’ve seen Ian’s mania more up-close than anyone. And this?” he grabs Ian’s letter for emphasis. “This is not what Ian sounds like when he’s off his rocker!”  

“Then what’s the problem?”  

She doesn’t get why Lip is so bent out of shape over this and that makes him turn white hot. He practically erupts shouting, “Because he wouldn’t do this! He wouldn’t leave like this.”  

Fiona seems to reflect for a moment, pursing her lips quirked to one side.  “Actually, he would.”  

“No.”  

“He was always disappearing to who know where with god knows who—”  

“I knew. He never kept anything from me. That’s how I know that letter can’t be from Ian. It just can’t he wouldn’t shack up with someone for weeks without touching base with me. And he sure as  hell  wouldn’t ride off into the sunset without telling me himself.”  

“I think... I think Ian might have been keeping a lot from us.”  

Lip could argue again, throw it in his sister’s face that there were never any secrets between him and Ian. He knew everything his brother made sure to keep hidden from the rest of the family, his unnatural predilections, his sordid affairs. And Lip loved Ian all the same. He kept his peace as though it were a sacred trust between the two brothers.    

And that’s how he knows that this letter that sounds so much like his brother could not possibly be the genuine article. Ian wouldn’t do this. Not to him. But then what sort of ghoul would be posing as their brother and toy with the hopes of a family that has only just started to allow themselves to grieve the loss?  

A ghoul. Or perhaps a monster. He’s been chumming with Joaquin and the other garlic heads for weeks and weeks now, more amused than taking it seriously. But something truly unnatural is afoot and the memory of his brother is being summoned from beyond whatever unmarked grave he ended up in as a result. Fiona won’t believe him. The authorities are like to throw him in a padded cell if he brings this to the nearest police precinct.  

Perhaps he’ll just have to swallow his pride and go to the fucking Van Helsing Society for help.  

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

“What do you think?” Asks Mickey now that they finally have a moment’s privacy secured away in their cabin. They have a lot of space in the sleeper car itself, like a luxury apartment in miniature. The actual chamber where they are meant to sleep is snug by Mickey’s standards, but it is still serviceable. Two full-size bunks, overhead storage and hooks on the wall, their own private head. Considering they are meant to be spending their waking hours in the drawing room or in one of the other cars, this is what Mickey had expected. But this is Ian’s first time traveling by train. And Mickey wants to know that his adoptive fledgling is comfortable.      

Ian looks about, blinking behind his dark tinted spectacles. “I’ve lived in tighter spaces. Like a broom closet,” he deadpans, understandably grumpy. It is Ian’s first attempt at traveling in the daytime since he was turned. And to this day, Mickey doesn’t exactly relish daytime excursions, even if he is better acclimated now.  

Thanks to being sired by an ancient, Ian has developed a remarkable amount of mobility for such a young fledgling during the daylight hours. By all rights, he should practically be statuary, but Ian can now sit up in bed and speak during the day. It was took Mickey the better part of a century to be physically independent of Wulfric, but he can foresee Ian fully able to function on his own in a fraction of the time. He should be proud of his charge, but it makes his heart sink at the thought of a time coming when Ian won’t need him any longer.  

Still, Ian is hardly ready to leave the nest. Until the sun goes down, he is going to have the mobility and constitution of an invalid. And until Mickey gets Ian out of the sunlight streaming in through the window, he will have to put up with Ian’s bellyaching a bit longer. Vampires, regardless of age, are pained by the light of the sun. It feels like pin pricks on every square inch of their bodies. Ian was warned how much more intense it will feel as a younger fledgling, but a warning is hardly preparation for that first sojourn in the daylight.  

“This coming from the guy who thought we slept in coffins when I first found you?” Mickey scoffs as he pulls the blinds shut, then covers them with an opaque sheet, pinning it around the frame of the window to ensure a solar-proofed cabin. “I think you can handle a sleeper cabin built for two. Top or bottom?”   

“Huh?”  

“Bunks, Ian,” Mickey clarifies as he lifts Ian up from the wheelchair he has been confined to since they left the mansion. Ian may be as weak as a kitten, but his arms involuntarily wrap themselves around Mickey’s neck with all his might as he flounders to make a decision. His eyes bound back and forth between Mickey and the beds like sleeping arrangements are a foreign concept to him. Maybe Ian thought they would have separate cabins like at the mansion.  

“Um… top?”  

“Alright,” concedes Mickey, hoisting the younger vampire up to the upper bunk, straightening Ian’s lip body until he is laying flat. “We still gotta burn some daylight and then we can explore some.”  

Mickey climbs up the ladder to Ian’s bunk, kneeling beside him. As much independence as Ian has achieved of late, he has yet to master self hypnosis. If Ian wants to actually sleep   for the next couple hours until dusk, he still needs Mickey to put him under. Tense as he may be from the unpleasant exposure to the sun, Ian seems to visibly relax just seeing Mickey sidle alongside him.   

“Ready?”  

Ian purses his lips like he is in the process of formulating an answer. But then his expression goes neutral. “Thanks for turning down the blinds.”  

“Feeling better, huh?” Asks Mickey.  

Ian hums as he nods. “You weren’t kidding about the sun. That was fucking torture.”  

Seeing Ian so pained causes Mickey to recall the first time he hazarded travel during the day time. He was much older than Ian is now. It had been 175 years since he’d been turned. He had made his way to the continent once he had broken ties with Wulfric and made his first pilgrimage to the Kievan Rus, his newfound liberty from anyone’s yolk quite agreeing with him.   

 But by 1066, he had made his way west again, staying in Normandy, which had been settled by Northmen. He figured he would blend in. Perhaps he blended in too well. Or perhaps he was an idiot who didn’t quite know just yet how to outmaneuver himself from mortal affairs. He found himself pressed into service on the eve of a naval invasion led by William the Bastard. He was dragged from the barn he was resting in like a common thief and practically shackled to an oar. The whole trip across the English Channel had been excruciating agony, suffering the sun’s barrage against him while also being physically pushes to his limits at the oar. It wasn’t until they made landfall once again back on the shores of England that he could dodge his captors.   

“The first time is always the worst, but you did good.”  

The churning, wheezing sound of the engine comes to life as the floor shifts beneath them. The train slowly comes to life as it leaves the station. Mickey loves the telltale sensation of forward motion. Literal wind in his sails has a way of proverbially putting the wind in his sails. By tomorrow night, they will be disembarking in Washington, DC, where, assuming everything goes to plan, they will find safe harbor with a member of his clan whose current place of residence is on Connecticut Avenue.   

Although, staying with Mandy does have its drawbacks. She insinuates herself into his business unfailingly and throws her weight around when she thinks she knows better than him, which is often.  

He hadn’t been joking when he told Ian that he sees Mandy as a sister. They squabble and tease each other constantly whenever they see one another, but there is a lot of affection behind it. And woe be the poor fool who attempts to wrong her because in Mickey she has a protector with a nasty temper and an eternity to plan some good old fashioned retribution.   

Though, visiting with Mandy is more than likely a net positive. It has been a decade or so longer than usually goes without seeing her. He can go long stretches without seeing most of his clan, but his bond with Mandy has always been stronger. And despite there being a dozen other vampires in Chicago, he never felt comfortable bringing Ian to the Council for a formal introduction into the community. Too many wolves in that hen house. Mandy on the other hand, he cannot help but feel they will click easily. Even if he suspects their hunt for Wulfric’s will take them further up the coast, seeing his sister will go a long way towards bolstering their spirits.   

But as much as Mickey looks forward to their adventure across the continent, the relief that had been on Ian’s face seems to evaporate. What is more, thanks to their link, Mickey can sense as the low-grade ambient crankiness Ian had been radiating ever since they left the mansion has been replaced by a sudden despair, like something is lost and Ian is never going to get it back again.   

“You okay, Gallagher?”  

The redhead shrugs. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”  

Mickey scoots further towards the headboard of Ian’s bunk, leaning over his companion. “Aren’t you forgetting something? We’re in each other’s heads. I know for a fact that you got something troubling you.”   

Ian scoots towards the wall of the cabin until he has freed enough space beside him to give Mickey more space. Mickey for his part is still kneeling in expectation of putting Ian under hypnosis so he can get at least some sleep before nightfall. But when Ian pats the freshly opened up space beside him, beckoning for Mickey to lay beside him.   

And Mickey complies, laying beside the younger man shoulder to shoulder. He keeps his hands steepled on his chest, making sure to keep both where he can see them lest they wander and give in to temptation. But sharing the one pillow, their foreheads graze against each other, especially once Ian cranes his head to face Mickey.  

“I’ve never been out of the county before, Mick. I’ve hardly ever been out of the city. Every mile this train travels suddenly becomes the furthest I’ve ever been from home.”   

Home doesn’t just mean the South Side, or even little house he visits every night. Home are the five siblings he is leaving behind. It is where Mickey first found Ian, who declared “this house is protected.” Despite being a weak and untrained fledgling, had Mickey been a predator in the night, he is certain that the redhead would have fought tooth and nail. And his family is the last thought he had on their final night in Chicago yesterday. Gifting Ian’s family enough money to change their fortunes seemed like the least Mickey could do considering he is running off with their brother who is worth all that and more.  

“I know you miss them, Red.” He takes Ian’s hand and squeezes, thumb skimming the pad of his palm. Ian’s breathing hitches at the touch. He wants to looks at Ian so much. Looking at Ian, with his bright, coppery orange hair, his brilliant smile, the way the gold flecks in his green eyes twinkle, it reminds him of the way looking at the sun felt when he was mortal. Invigorating and life-affirming. But he doesn’t think he could cope if he has to watch Ian shrug off the words bubbling to the surface.   

They haven’t spoken about the night Ian took him to his special hideaway on the rooftops of the Southside, but it has been just over a month since he let Ian drink from him. And he drank back, his mouth buried in the sinews of the younger vampire’s neck. The heat of their blood flowing between one another, their life essences intermingling, coursing through one another’s bodies. Sex between vampires is beyond casual. It’s practically a handshake. But it felt different with Ian even if he did manage to peel the two of them apart before their unplanned assignation. He cannot quite put into words what Ian makes him feel. But he knows it is anything but casual.   

“I know it’s not exactly a consolation prize, but you got me.” Something swells in his throat. He can’t help but feel silly that even after one thousand years, he still feels prickles of self-doubt creeping up his spine. But finally, in a small voice, he chokes out, “if you want me, I mean.”  

A long moment passes.   

But then, “ I do. Want you.” And Mickey feels Ian squeeze his hand back. That fluttering excitement Mickey is feeling from Ian mixed in among needfulness and the nervous anxiety. Mickey is hardly a wilting violet. He was in and out of love several times when he was a young vampire. How did he not recognize the feeling that has been coming off Ian like heat nearly as long as they’ve known each other for what it was?   

Feeling emboldened, Mickey  turns to look at Ian again and is met with a soft, crooked smile. That radiant face staring back at him feels like gift. He wants to lean in and kiss him, like a mortal would. But Ian is still weak from their time out in the sun.   

“Do you want me to put you under? Let you get some rest?”  

He shakes his head. “Just… could you just stay up here? Lay with me for a while?” Ian limply tugs Mickey closer.  

“Yeah,” he sighs and leans into Ian’s pull. “Yeah, I can stay.”  

Mickey rolls onto his side and presses against him. Without even realizing it, his hand is caresses the length of Ian’s jawline. Ian breathes in deep as they stay like that, their bodies pressed together as the train carries them further east.   

🧛 Ian 🧛    

As novel as travel by rail is for Ian, the trip itself is uneventful. Though, surprisingly it is easy for a vampire to feed on a train. Space is at a premium and in the common areas of the train like the dinner car, the observation car, the parlor, they all provide Ian and Mickey dozens of reasons to jostle up against the strangers they are traveling with long enough to feed without detection. Even without the vampiric speed that Mickey has mastered, it is so easy to take an ounce or two at time when Ian leans in to whisper or share a joke with a stranger or when he nibbles on the lips of an unsuspecting mortal entranced by Ian’s preternatural beauty. And because Ian has to maintain the illusion that he is infirm, as he was brought in on a wheelchair, people are only too willing to lean in to talk to him.   

How do vampires that haven’t mastered the little sip manage to travel like this? Ian wonders. It would look like something out of Edgar Allan Poe if Ian and Mickey were running around tearing out throats in a confined space like this. Ian can’t help but find it absurd now that there are vampires who drain people dry and leave the empty husks of their victims laying in the streets. How did he not get chased down by an angry torch-wielding mob nightly in those harrowing days before Mickey found him?  

But as much as Ian is coming to really enjoy the way he is starting to hit his stride, he cannot help but feel a thrill of excitement when it is finally time for them to “go to bed for the night.” Really, they are simply just retiring to their cabin until the early hours when it is time to feed before the morning, but at Mickey’s advising, it is best they don’t raise the train staff’s suspicions by wandering around at all hours of the night.   

Or perhaps Mickey is insisting that they return to the privacy of their cabin because they haven’t been able to keep their eyes off each other all night. Ian can only speak for himself when he admits to himself just how tempted he is to expose himself for a sodomite and pull Mickey into his arms a hundred times over from the moment the sun sets until the very second the cabin door closes behind them when they turn in for the night.    

The door shuts behind them and Mickey is still latching their cabin door shut when the last of his reserve of Ian’s self-restraint finally gives out, clutching two fistfuls of Mickey’s shirtfront, he pulls the elder man up to the tips of his toes and their mouths crush against each other. He breathes in Mickey deep. He could get drunk on the taste of him and downright blitzed on his scent. Mickey is startled for a moment, dropping the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, arms flailing like he hasn’t the foggiest idea where they go. Christ , Ian wonders, how long has it been since this gorgeous man has been kissed? Far too long. But Mickey regains his bearings soon enough and both hands cup either side of Ian’s face as the kiss deepens. Their mouths caress one another and Ian could scream now that he knows that, yes, Mickey’s lips are just as soft as Ian imagined.   

Ian explores with the tip of his tongue and Mickey seems to remember the dance steps now, parting his lips to accept him, his own tongue ready to meet his. Meanwhile Ian’s cheeks miss the contact when Mickey’s  hands turn to the pragmatic task of disrobing him. But Ian won’t let Mickey have all the fun. After all, it is supremely unfair that  Mickey has seen him naked and the most Ian has seen of Mickey is when he rolled up his sleeve weeks ago.  

Both of them have far too many knots and buttons and straps.   

But Ian is rewarded with the sight of Mickey’s compact form, milky white flesh like a piece of Greek statuary, and despite Mickey’s smaller frame, just as well formed. His hands find their way to his smooth hips. Mickey giggles as Mickey lifts him off the floor, burying his face in the crook of Ian’s neck, teeth nipping at freckles, but to Ian’s surprise, not breaking the skin. He wants it the way mortals do, Ian realizes. Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s neck, taking what he wants from Ian’s lips wants again as he hitches up his legs around Ian’s waist as the redhead spins him around and lowers him both onto the lower bunk.  

🧛🧛🧛  

“So, that’s what the mortals do, huh?” Sighs Mickey, passing the cigarette to Ian.   

“You never had sex before you were turned?” Asks Ian, surprised as he takes a drag and lets out a puff of smoke. “You sure didn’t seem like you needed instructions.”  

“Pfft. I banged back in the day, but you know what I told you about my memories from back in the day. Though it was usually quick and dirty. And that thing you did with your tongue…”  

“You’ve been around as long as you have and never gotten eaten out.”  

“It’s not typically how vampires do it,” shrugs Mickey as he accepts the cigarette back from Ian.  

“So when vampires get together the mutual biting thing?” Mickey shrugs. “Christ, it’s like you’ve only done Missionary for a thousand years.”  

“It’s not as bleak as all that,” retorts Mickey, chomping the stub of the cigarette. “You’ve felt it that first time. Blood sharing is intense.”  

“But it didn’t feel like what we just did, huh?”  

Mickey rolls onto his side, head propped on his hand, his uncircumcised manhood starting to twitch back to life. “Honestly, no. I don’t think anyone has ever put so much effort into making me feel good before.”  

Ian feels a tickle of pride run up his spine. Mickey has gone well out of his way to help Ian ever since they met. Housed him, clothed, him, trained him. Mickey gave Ian’s family a fortune just for his sake. And now Mickey is taking him across the country to find the legacy of their mutual Maker, whom Mickey doesn’t seem to have parted with on good terms.   

What does Ian have to offer Mickey? He was squatting in a different place every night with only the clothes on his back the night Rutger, er, Wulfric sired him to his name. There is nothing Ian has now that Mickey hasn’t provided. The least he can do for Mickey is make him feel good.   

But still, Ian cannot help himself. “Well,” he croons as he throws his hands behind his head, “I’ve never received any complaints.”  

“Cocky little fucker,” hisses Mickey without any heat behind it as he playfully backhands Ian’s flank.  

“Wanna go again?”  

“What do you think?” Mickey smirks.  

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

Mickey turns to Ian, attempting to be nonchalant. But he feels anything but nonchalant about looking at his ginger. “Now, I think I ought to warn you,” advises Mickey as he wheels four steamer trunks on a trolley through Washington Union Station, “My sister can be a little melodramatic.” 

“Are we talking ‘show up at the train station dressed like a black widow’ kind of melodramatic?” 

Mickey cannot help but think that’s an oddly specific question. “Maybe. Why?” 

“Up ahead,” Ian insists.  

Mickey turns away from the redhead and his eyebrows quirk upwards. “Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?” Thirty yards off stands a slender woman slightly taller than Mickey with his same inky black hair and alabaster complexion. Her piercing eyes are an icy sky blue in contrast to the  ocean depths of Mickey’s. She is dressed in a rich shade of black with pops of white lace at the hems, her bodice and bustle making for an exaggerated hourglass silhouette. Her jacket blooms into puffs at her shoulders, creating the illusion of broader shoulders. Her hair is pinned up and crowned with a wide brimmed black hat, bedizened with ostrich plumes and white lilies. She carries a red parasol trimmed with lace  in her gloved hand.  

“This your idea of inconspicuous?” Mickey asks once they are close enough to Mandy. Up close, Mickey is reminded just why it is so easy to think of her as his sister instead of his several greats grandniece despite the generations between them. Shape of the nose aside, she is a dead ringer for one of the women Mickey remembers from his early youth, though the memory is too faded for him to remember who. 

“I’m a member of Washington high society, Mikhailo. I don’t do inconspicuous.” She has finally shaken the Ukrainian accent. Mickey doesn’t know how she has been on this continent since the 1680s without losing it much earlier.  

“Mikhailo?” 

“That’s not my name,” Mickey huffs. “But Mandy insists I need a Ukrainian name.” 

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t forgotten your real one…” 

“Well, blame my father. So, what’s up with the funereal garb?” 

Mandy is about to answer when she sniffs pointedly and Mickey feels his cheeks clench as she looks between the two of them several times. He knows she knows. It’s a talent of hers, a sense of smell much more finely tuned than your average vampire.  

“Oh… okay, that explains it. I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced,” she extends a gloved hand to Ian. “Manya Anastasiya Milkovich,” but just call me ‘Mandy.’”  

“Ian Gallagher,” he replies in kind as he takes her hand. “So, is that your ‘name’ name or…?” 

“We give each other our real names. Or most of us do.”  

“Mikkel is my real name.”  

“So did you boys run into any trouble getting out of Chicago?” She asks as she gestures towards a pair of attendants Mickey hadn’t even noticed before, who proceed to take Mickey’s trolley of steamer trunks and Ian’s valises from them. 

“You have hired help?” Asks Mickey, appalled. Vampires as rule of thumb tend to be self-sufficient. 

“It would draw attention if I didn’t, honestly.” His sister answers as she hooks an arm around both men’s arms and leads them towards the exit.  

“It was Ian’s first time traveling in the sun,” Mickey answers. “Ancient blood or not, it’s still pretty rough that first time. But otherwise fine.” 

“Well, that’s a relief. With that story from Chicago that came in on the wire—” 

“What story?” Ian asks. 

“You didn’t hear about the vampire hunters? It started yesterday, make the evening papers.” Mandy asks. 

Mickey feels a lead weight drop in his gut. He has kept quiet about the assortment of clowns back in Chicago with delusions of Van Helsing. They had started in the wake of that first week or so after Ian had been sired and Wulfric, the fucking jackass, abandoned him to the fire without any guidance at all. Mickey should have sought him out sooner. This all could have been avoided if he had tracked Ian down the first time he heard those intense, overwhelmed, and despairing feelings swirling in his head.  

But he didn’t. And fifteen or sixteen men lost their because Ian was  out of control, a slave to his own unbridled thirst.  

At first, it was to keep Ian from worrying. Or, worse, blame himself for what was truly beyond his control.  

They had just been handing out pamphlets and talking about vampires in the abstract, mainly just talking about silly vampires like Dracula, Carmilla, or Ruthven. They seemed like a threat to absolutely nobody. He figured they wouldn’t be a credible danger until well past the time Ian would be trained well enough to avoid notice. And he had. Ian may claim he isn’t a quick study, but Mickey is very proud of how quickly Ian picks things up. 

But then Mickey figured out that Ian’s own brother was among them. And he simply couldn’t bring himself to tell Ian the truth. If there is one thing he has known to be incontrovertibly true about Ian from the moment they met, it was just how much he cares about his family. Mickey still remembers seeing him at a distance, watching his family through the sitting room window of his home. “This house is protected,” he had sworn, completely ignorant of who he might be facing.   

“There are reports of houses being set on fire across the south of Chicago.” Mandy continues on as they step out into the crisp early evening air.  

“What?” Ian practically shrills. 

“Ian’s family is in Canaryville,” Mickey explains.   

Mandy screws her eyebrows up, thinking. “It’s not one of the neighborhoods they listed.”  

“Thank Christ,” gasps Ian on an exhale.  

“It makes sense,” thinks Mickey aloud. “They’re probably hitting all the areas where Ian ended up feeding. And that’s how we missed out on the excitement. We’re far too uptown to have noticed.” 

“This is my fault,” Ian whispers. It’s a statement, a declaration of guilt. Mickey can feel the confidence and excitement, the afterglow of their nightlong dalliance crumble. As much as the younger vampire’s peaks of excitement feels like a thrumming high that courses through Mickey’s mind, Ian’s capacity for remorse and self-loathing can be overwhelming.  

Mickey places a hand to Ian’s shoulder, squeezing it supportively. He wishes he can tell Ian that he is blameless. He wasn’t in control of himself, he had no idea what he was doing, and he spent nights and nights driven by an overwhelming thirst with no guidance of what to do. Mickey can diminish how much Ian is at fault. But Ian still ended those men’s lives and he isn’t going to patronize or infantilize him by trying to tell Ian otherwise.   

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Mandy asks as they watch her hired help load Ian and Mickey’s belongings into the back of a truck.  

“It’s where I was staying when you visited me back in 1862.” 

“Wait, you’re Southside?” Asks Ian as they watch one of Mandy’s servants drive off in the truck. He sounds infinitely more impressed than when he found out Mickey had a hand in the development of the modern train.  

“Not in a long time, but there’s a reason it services the Southside and it’s not because Chicago’s city planners were concerned about making sure the boys from the Stockyards got on the Red Line, I’ll tell you that much.” 

“Alright, gentlemen. All aboard for Connecticut Avenue.”  Mandy declares as her second assistant appears where the truck had just been in red Ford Model T with a black roof.  

🧛🧛🧛 

It is a short drive to Mandy’s house, a three-story brownstone, modest compared to the large estate Mickey resides in. Though, still a pleasant exterior with well-manicured grass and window boxes full of flowers. It’s almost amusing to see how inviting her home appears, considering she showed up at the train station dressed like something out of a Penny dreadful.   

“I hope you don’t think I have space for all this crap.” She kicks at her brother’s footlockers presently stacked in the foyer.  

“They’re my diaries, Mands. They’re kind of important if we want to—” 

“You’re tracking down your Maker’s place, right? Why not just hold onto the relevant texts. The early days and the past couple hundred years. Then have the others shipped to your place up in Philly.” 

“Do you realize how much mortals are going to charge to deliver all this?” 

 “As if you can’t afford it,” Mandy scoffs. “And besides, maybe if you’d travel light…” 

“They’re my memories, shithead!”  

“And I’m just so sure they are all so vitally important,” she deadpans.  

“So not all vampires have a problem with their memories over time?” Ian asks. 

“More like not all vampires make the memory loss a problem the way Mick does.” Mickey curls his fingers and makes a show of checking his nail beds, pretending he doesn’t feel a bite of insult. “I personally think there is a reason vampires’ memories fade over time. Mickey may want to know what he was drinking the night he got nice and cozy with Edward II, but I don’t.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Could you stop it, Mandy? He’s gullible enough as it is. No, I didn’t fool around with Neddy Deuce.”  

“But did you ever get with royalty?” Mickey can’t tell if Ian is asking out of genuine curiosity, morbid jealousy, or simply wanting to be distracted by the news of what has been going on in Chicago. 

“Remember when I told you humans don’t have the constitution to go at it with us? She’s fucking with you, man.” 

“But he did make out with Richard the Lionheart,” Mandy whispers in Ian’s ear. 

“It was the Crusades, fucker! It doesn’t count!” 

🧛 Ian 🧛 

Ian cannot help but feel like staying with Mickey has spoiled him more than he realized. Mandy’s brownstone is beautiful, but it is a profoundly tighter space than the mansion. It is still far grander than his modest home, but in such close quarters, he doesn’t know how he is going to get by without constantly being distracted by Mickey’s scent.  

Mickey’s very distinct bouquet practically had him rigid and eager to mount him like a feral tomcat the entire train ride. He practically forgot to feed before sunrise yesterday because Mickey had been such an indefatigable pupil as Ian gave him a detailed refresher course on mortal sexual acts, which are far more carnal and athletic than the vampiric method.  

In the past, Ian always struggled to clandestinely find a partner at all, much less one who could take him without a struggle. But once Ian had Mickey loose and opened up enough to take him, it was as though Mickey was the key that fits the lock, taking Ian down to the hilt effortlessly. More importantly, Ian hit Mickey’s pleasure spot like a master archer. It was fireworks, complete bliss. Ian has never quite felt that way with another living being. Their bodies fit so well together like they were always meant to find one another, despite being born five thousand miles and over one thousand years apart.  

He pities the poor B&O housekeeper who has to change those sheets.  

But now they are guests in his sister’s home. And Ian has no intention of bringing shame to Fiona’s name or embarrass Mickey by acting like a lovestruck teenager or some overzealous wolf. He is going to prove he was raised right, tamp down those venal urges, and be a respectable houseguest.  

But ye gods does the scent of pipe tobacco, well-worn leather, and cardamom drive him to distraction. He had a better handle on it before, when the lines were clearer. Mentor. Student. He felt a sense of guidelines implicit in their roles that prevented him from trying to muddy the waters. But admitting that he wants Mickey, and Mickey making a similar confession blew all that clearcut clarity out of the water.  

Mandy leads the two of them up to the third floor, where Ian and Mickey have some amount of privacy, not just from her but from one another. She has set them up in different rooms, though Ian isn’t sure how he feels about that. He quiets the horny monster that lives somewhere between his brain and his dick and tries to think clearly. It’s probably good that they have their own space, right? He doesn’t want to make Mickey feel compelled to share a bed with him again just because Mickey spent the better part of last night driving Ian over the moon and back. It would be unfair of Ian to think that it is even what Mickey wants. Impassioned words whispered in the dark don’t necessarily equate to promises in the light.  

He looks about his quarters while Mandy shows Mickey to his own room opposite Ian’s. His guest room reminds him of Mickey’s warren of rooms all compacted into one, sitting room, study, and bedroom all rolled into one. Compared to his room at Mickey’s grand house, the room in Mandy’s brownstone is minuscule, but in truth it is about the size of the his room at the Gallagher house. Albeit, instead of beds for three other occupants, the room was furnished with a large desk with a tall wingback chair as well as a coffee table and a couch that looks like it was acquired to be a showpiece more than practical furniture, like at his neighbor Batty Sheila’s house. Instead of a chest of drawers, there is a tall wardrobe with a floor length mirror framed in gold laurel branches set into the door.  

There are two tall, yet thin bookshelves placed on either end of the desk. But whereas the shelves in Mickey’s house are loaded with books on the sciences, philosophy, architecture, and the kind of mathematics that makes Ian’s head spin, Mandy seems more prone to literature. A smattering of Greek tragedies, French farces, gothic romances, children’s fantasy, the speculative fiction of Jules Verne and HG Wells. Shakespeare, Austin, and Dickens, are all represented.  

“Settling in okay?”  

He turns around to see Mandy leaning her arm on the door frame. She is smirking knowingly, like she is in on a prank against him and Ian has to sweat it out until he ends up with pie in his face. Without the ostentatious hat and jacket, her appearance is far more subdued than it appeared at first glance. She has also taken out her hair pin, letting her long, straight hair lay limp on her shoulders. 

“I haven’t even opened my suitcase.” he shrugs. “Mickey said we’re probably going to be here a month or two, right?"  

“At most,” she nods. “I’m shipping Mickey’s books up to his house in Point Breeze. I doubt he’d want to be separated from his precious diaries all that long.” 

“Point Breeze?” 

“In Philadelphia. He bought a property when he first made the crossing. Though I don’t know how much time he spends there. Honestly, when he came over, we expected him to flit about more than he did.”  

Ian shrugs. “It sounds like he has a case of itchy feet.” 

“Had,” she corrects. “None of us expected him to fall in love with the Midwest the way he did.” She comes in and sits on Ian’s bed, which feels like it ought to be some breech in etiquette among the upper crust. Though, he supposes technically, she owns it. “So, tell me a little about yourself, Ian Gallagher. Mikhailo insists on keeping me in the dark.” 

“Well, I’m Irish.” 

“No shit, you’re Irish. You look like you were plucked right out of... Where do your people hail from? Ulster? Monaghan?”  

Ian doesn’t have the foggiest clue. In school, he only ever pointed to Ireland. The only other thing he knows about the family origins is that one of his mother’s grandparents was from Erie. 

“How about something that isn’t as plain as the nose on your face, huh?” 

Ian thinks for a moment. What can he say that would sound halfway interesting? “Um... I guess Wulfric makes three different fathers who want nothing to do with me. Like, after I was turned he decided jumping headfirst into a bonfire was preferable than spending any more time with me.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. And my birth father refuses to even see me, which is rough because he’s my uncle and I'm the only one of my siblings that doesn’t get invited to big family gatherings.” 

“Let me rephrase,” sighs Mandy, mildly irritated. “Really? You’re not going to tell me about the wild primate sex you had with my brother sometime within the last...” she sniffs the air, “Twenty hours?” 

Ian goes slack jawed and he is pretty sure his eyes briefly popped out of their sockets. “You can tell?” 

She taps one nostril with a slender index finger. “The nose always knows, Ian Gallagher. So, mortal sex, huh? With the panting, and the thrusting and nipple pinching, and all that good, good, dirty penetrative stuff? Which one of you is the top and which one takes it? Is Mickey a screamer? Did it take a while to open him up after a millennium?” 

“Shhhh!” Comes the single word command in his head. Mickey doesn’t use this trick often. Ian figures Mickey has some opinions about stripping others of their free will. But now that they have figured out that Mickey can only send Ian simple commands (unlike his sire who could have mentally monologued at Ian to his heart’s delight), Mickey has learned to get straight to the point.  

Ian immediately clams up and looks around to see Mickey at the door with his arms crossed over his chest, his face is a death stare. 

“I swear to fucking god, if you answer any single one of those questions, I will burn this house down with all of us in it.” 

Ian is in full agreement. Considering the sodomy laws, he wasn’t even in the habit of talking about his exploits with his nearest and dearest when he was mortal. And even now that he is amongst immortals, blabbing to the wrong person probably means someone being able to blackmail him for centuries. So, Ian doesn’t say a single word. Instead, he mimes locking his lips shut and throwing away the key. 

Mandy only laughs as she gets to her feet. “Your beau is kind of adorable, Mick.” She is still snickering as she flattens her shirtfront.  

“He’s not my fucking beau!” Mickey snaps heatedly. Maybe too emphatically for Ian’s liking. 

“You tell yourself that, Mickey,” teases Mandy on her way out the door. 

That answers Ian’s question. This was only ever just casual sex as far as Mickey is concerned. Ian wonders how long he will have to practice before he becomes numb to the vampiric casual attitude toward sex.  

He purses his lips, forcing himself into a neutral expression as he wills his mind to conjure up a happy memory. Mickey is in Ian’s head whether either of them like it or not. And he refuses to let Mickey think Ian is hurt just because last night didn’t mean anything.  

The memory comes to him. The first time his brother Lip snuck him in to watch the moving pictures at the Nickelodeon. Then afterwards, they smoked some together behind the billiard hall on North Halstead. That was a good day.   

“Sorry about my sister, man.” Mickey apologizes in that softer, comforting tone. But Ian isn’t in the mood for it. “You wanna lay down together for a bit before you need to feed?” 

He wants to lay down and more with Mickey so much. But he deserves better than to get jerked around like this. “If it’s alright with you, I’d rather be alone for a bit.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, I have barely had a moment to myself since we left Chicago. And, well—” 

“No, I get it. You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Red.”  

Mickey gets up to leave, but before he goes, he caresses Ian’s jaw with his thumb. It takes every ounce of strength to neither lean into it or flinch. 

And then the door closes. And he is alone, trying to wrap up his misery in a layer of forced relief. 

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey  🧛    

Mickey explores his sister’s brownstone. Her sense of interior design aesthetics tends to be more experimental than Mickey’s. He prefers to find understated signature pieces that will stand the test of time or can easily be dressed up or down as the occasion calls for. Mandy tends to have her fingers more on the pulse of public taste, always following the modern tastes. However, modern sensibilities are always shifting and Mandy cannot always bring herself to part with certain pieces of furniture once she grows attached to them. The result is a farrago of design sensibilities in her homes over the years. It’s utterly theatrical in its confusion but it is perfectly Mandy.    

The room he is currently exploring is on the first floor, opposite the drawing room. The walls are a mishmash of paintings, no real rhyme or reason behind their arrangement. There are three rows of seats arranged facing a raised dais just large enough for a four or five performers at most, a lectern is located off to the side. Along the far wall, there is a table of props and a rack of theatrical costumes. No doubt, she uses this space to host private readings for some of her novelists, and poets, and playwrights. That’s typically how Mandy likes to occupy her immortal life, as a taste maker and a patroness of artists and wordsmiths.   

Mandy wouldn’t say she is a great talent, though Mickey thinks she is just being modest. If the decade or two that they spent in Florence is any indication, then she has a natural talent for mimicking painters’ techniques. And last time he visited the coast, she was more than a little fixated on capturing the essence of the Impressionists. Nonetheless, she tends to be very dismissive of her own abilities. However, she’ll very readily tell you that she has a sixth sense for sniffing out talent.   

“He seems nice.”  

Mickey turns around to find his sister at the door, now in a housecoat and shift. She is a cup of tea away from looking perfectly cozy. “Look at you, looking like you’re ready to turn in for the night.”  

“I think I’ve reached a level of success where I’m allowed to dress for comfort in my own home.” She shrugs as she sits on the stage. “I would have figured you would be out showing Ian all the sites of our nation’s capitol.”  

“Not really my nation,” rebuffs Mickey. He has been in the States for just a hair short of a century now, but while he does think of himself as a Chicagoan, he really doesn’t think of himself as an American. In many ways, he does tend to think of himself as a man without a country. Prior to Chicago, the part of the world he thought of his home most often would probably be the north of England, where he had been sired. His clan aside, he has little connection for the land of his mortal birth. Despite Mandy’s best efforts, he cannot help but think of the Rus as the land that sold him into bondage.  

Mandy on the other hand, has lived up and down the Eastern Coast and briefly in Louisiana since the Seventeenth Century. She has served as a nurse in at least two wars, and passed herself off as a male soldier to fight in a third. A farmhouse she once had in Maryland served as a safe house in the underground railroad. She very much feels like an American.   

“Try not to dodge the question. Why are you skulking around the gallery instead of showing Ian Gallagher the sites? You can show him the Washington Monument. It’s unintentionally phallic. You guys like that sort of shit, right?”  

Mickey flips her off.  

“So, what? Is he like you? A homebody vampire who only goes out to feed?”  

Mickey shrugs. “I would’ve thought he’d be champing at the bit to go out. He isn’t used to being cooped up. His brain goes into a five alarm panic if he goes into diurnal paralysis without me putting him to sleep first. I can barely get any sleep myself the way his thoughts race.”  

“You can hear his thoughts?”  

“Feelings, you know what I mean.”  

Mandy stands back up, hands on her hips. “No, I really don’t I thought you told me you didn’t sire him.”  

“I didn’t. I’ve never sired anybody.”   

“Still a siring virgin after all this time,” she says, clucking her tongue.  

He clenches his teeth as he presents her with a crude gesture. “Sure, fine. I’m a virgin. Whatever. But for some reason, I got stuck with the bond. I figured it was because I have Wulf’s blood in me and we were only about ten miles apart when  he jumped into the flames. I just figured the universe just tethered Ian to the nearest next best thing.”  

“That’s not how that works, Mikhailo.”  

“Quit it with the Mikhailo shit.” Nothing more needs to be said. The two have argued it for centuries now. “Mikhailo” is no more his birth name than “Mikkel” is, but Mandy insists on calling him the former because she thinks he needs some tether to their homeland. Which is fair. Part of her way of coping with immortality has been by keeping tabs on their family line throughout the centuries. She tends to believe their ties to their Ukrainian descendants is what grounds her.  

But Mickey would be keen to disagree. The core of his clan, Mandy, Iggy, and Colin, are all of his human bloodline, even if there are generations between them and quite possibly a few generations of the family tree failing to fork in Iggy’s case. But they were never cast out of the Rus. Mickey may have been born there but he grew up among the Danes. And he bears the somewhat ironic name they gave him.  

She rolls her eyes at him. “Fledglings don’t just latch onto the next of kin like that, Mikkel .”   

“Yeah, that you know of.”   

“Whatever.” she shrills at him. “I’m just saying fun as it is to bash our Makers, I don’t think it’s Wulfric’s fault this time.”  

“Does it matter? The point is his feelings are in my head. But it’s confusing. And it’s a lot. And I can’t share my thoughts with him the way a Maker can. Wulfric used to go on for whole nights about... god, he used to go out of his way to make me feel like a piece of shit.”  

“And you can’t make him feel like shit?” she asks. “With your mind , I mean?”  

“What are you getting at?” Mickey feels his chest tighten. “I’ve done nothing but do right by him ever since we met.”  

“Right. He should be lucky to have you,” Mandy deadpans, rolling her eyes.   

And suddenly Mickey is beset with a memory that has been lost somewhere in his mind for centuries. “ You should be lucky to have me .” He can still hear the way the singsong of Wulfric’s voice would turn icy and cold when he would say this sort of Mickey thing to him. “You’re weak, Mikkel, even for a fledgling. I should have guessed you would be, but there I go again giving leave of my senses when I catch sight of a pretty young thing. But you should count yourself lucky to have someone like me as your Maker, my little barbarian. You wouldn’t last three days without me.”    

The words are crystal clear in his memory even if the memory around them are as fuzzy as cotton. He imagines it must have been one of the innumerable times he tried to assert himself over their 150-odd years of dysfunction. Wulf’s strategy whenever they fought was to always make Mickey feel small.   

“You okay?”   

Mickey comes out of his thoughts, the sound of Wulfric’s voice rattling around his memory making him feel like he needs a long, scalding hot bath. Mandy has closed the distance between the two of them, her hand clutches his forearm as he examines his face like she is trying to solve the riddle of the sphinx.   

“I’m fine,” he practically squawks as he shrugs away his sister’s touch. “I was just reminded of something that Wulf used to say to me.”   

Mandy’s look of concern shifts into something more akin to frustration. Sometimes Mickey forgets that even though he has avoided Wulfric like the plague since 1041 AD, Mandy has crossed paths with him quite a few times over the years. And unlike Mickey, she never fell prey to his snake oil salesman approach to courtship. Even after he unshackled himself from his Maker’s control, it took another century or two before he learned to safeguard his heart for good. It became easier when he suddenly found himself an elder among vampires. It was simply too hard for him to form a connection with second millennium vampires. They didn’t have anything near the same life experience as him. He could never relate to them. Until Ian, anyway. Ian, whose feelings flow into Mickey like a river pours into the ocean.   

“And what memorable turn of phrase did that fathead say that it comes to mind eight centuries later?”  

“Fuck off. Like you’ve never been with a dud before.”   

“Well, you’re making up for it now, huh?” Mandy pats his shoulder as they close the gallery door shut behind them and settle into the sitting room. “I know you didn’t plan for Ian, but you lucked out. He seems like he could be good for you.”  

“It’s still very new,” Mickey admits. “We only shared our blood for the first time a month ago, and last night…”  

“ Last night , you did it mortal style,” Mandy finishes for him, enthused. He doesn’t think he has ever heard her this excited to discuss his private life before. “What was that like?”   

Mickey doesn’t know how else to phrase it except, “Intimate.” With the question posed, he feels a swirl of emotions that he knows for once are all his own and not Ian’s. “Like, when we drink from each other, it’s all about the blood connection. But when we were together last night, when he was physically… When we were face to face and I was getting lost in him… fuck, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”  

“You know, this letting yourself be happy thing is a cute look on you,” Mandy beams at him. “You do realize you were practically glowing when I picked you boys up, right?”   

Mickey can only blush. He grabs a wine glass from Mandy’s liquor cabinet and himself a glass of Pinot. He is nervous from being put on the spot and needs him to do something with his hands, if nothing else.   

“And you also realize he was offended before right?”  

“What?”  

“When you said you weren’t his beau?”   

The giddiness of bonding with Mandy suddenly comes crashing down.   

“You said it right in front of the guy you’re with,” she emphasizes.  

“Shit.” No. Mickey doesn’t want to be like Wulfric. He doesn’t want to make Ian feel small just to make himself feel superior. “But I didn’t feel him get upset. I would have…”   

“Christ, how are you so smart but so fucking stupid? Did you notice his face? You don’t have to be able to smell the pheromones to know he was feeling sore.”  

“I didn’t feel it. I always feel something.”  

“Maybe he’s a quick study and figured out how to shield his feelings.”  

It took Mickey a century and a half to figure out how to get Wulfric out of his head. And Ian is starting to piece it together after only a couple months. It never occurred to Mickey how much he appreciates having Ian there.   

“I should go talk to him.”  

“You think?”  

He takes the stairs two at a time, not certain exactly how he is going to put into words why he was such a bonehead. Over a thousand years old of wisdom and maturity, and yet he’s still stuck at twenty-three when it comes to parsing through his own feelings.   

But it seems as he arrives at Ian’s room at the top of the stair that he still has time to figure out what he is going to tell the fledgling. Because Ian is gone.  

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛  

It still confounds Ian that it could be decades, maybe even upwards of a century before his vampire physiology can manage to digest conventional food and drink. And yet smoking is still perfectly fine. He suspects it is because the nicotine doesn’t need to pass through the digestive track. The lungs are a much simpler organ, really just a bellows when you get down to brass tacks.  

He wanders lazily through Mandy’s neighborhood, not really having any destination in mind. He simply couldn’t let himself continue to stew in his guest room, curled in on himself, hugging his knees. He needed to clear his head and stretch his legs.  

He knows Mickey doesn’t like it when Ian goes out on his own. Mickey has told him over and over again that Fledglings do not yet have the strength to protect themselves if something should go wrong. And yet, he is still stronger than the average mortal. What could Mickey be so worried about Ian facing? Is he worried about other vampires?  Mickey really doesn’t speak fondly of other vampires, but it always seems more along the lines of mild irritation than something Ian should be safeguarding himself again. At best, Mickey tends to have some uncharitable opinions about the younger generations of vampires, and at worst he complains about frustrating Council bureaucracy. 

Are there monsters out there more threatening than they are? It stands to reason if his existence is proof that vampires are real, then there is a possibility that they aren’t the only beasts out of myth and legend running around under the cover of night. Sasquatch? Manticores? Selkies? Witches? Wolf-Men? He suspects that Mickey probably has a book on the subject somewhere. Then again, maybe he doesn’t. Mickey’s interests tend to be more grounded in fact and logic. 

Looking around as he strolls down the cobbled streets, Ian cannot help but notice fine details earlier in the evening when he was too overwhelmed by all the stimuli of a new city to really think about his immediate surroundings. Mandy’s house, he realizes, is a row home. But he has always associated row houses with disrepair, dilapidation, and the abject poverty he was born into. But these houses command respect. They may not be opulent showpieces like the grand estates in Mickey’s posh neighborhood back home. But rather, they feel stately. 

The pavements are lined with cherry blossom trees that look so perfectly groomed that Mickey imagines the city tends to them on a regular basis. Ian would have expected that level of detail closer to the landmarks like the White House, the museums of the Smithsonian, or the National Mall. But Mandy’s residence is a few miles away from the sights of the capitol up in DuPont Circle, where the District of Columbia’s well-to-do reside. So of course, it is treated with as much pomp as the seats of government.  

Ian would have thought he’d be used to that nervous feeling he has as a man of limited means among all these garish displays of wealth. After all, he’s been living with Mickey for two months now in a neighborhood full of mansions that puts these splendid homes to shame. 

He needs to stop thinking of himself as “living with Mickey,” as though it were his home, or as though Mickey means for him to stay. He said so just earlier tonight that they aren’t together. Ian isn’t his boyfriend. What they did together was just a heated dalliance as far as Mickey is concerned. And he is just Mickey’s student, his guest until Mickey decides that Ian isn’t going to get himself killed or bring down a cadre of vampire hunters on their community. At least with the latter, it is safe to say Ian has a ways to go before Mickey can confidently cut him loose. And then where will Ian be? 

He always does this. He always takes a few scraps of affection, those kernels of fondness from another man, and he imagines it to be a ten-course meal. When will he ever learn? At least now, he has an eternity to figure it out. Then again, what if he is like this for centuries? Emotionally locked at twenty-one, complete with the adolescent yearning to be wanted no matter how many red flags are raised?  

Maybe he wouldn’t have been caught unawares by Wulfric’s true intentions if he had listened to the little voice in the back of his head who kept telling him that something was off. But it was so easy for him to simply convince himself that the reason Wulfric, well, Rutger as far as he knew, only ever met him at night, never invited him home, never even wanted fornicate with him in an alley somewhere was because like all the other men who have ever taken a fancy to Ian, he must have had a wife and kids at home.  

He almost has to kick himself. Occam’s Razor, being Rutger’s mistress seems more plausible than assuming that he was being groomed by a 1500-year-old vampire to inherit his bloodline. William of Ockham, clearly led a sheltered existence. 

He finds his way to a large and ornate fountain. Three figures that look like they had been plucked out of Greek myth adorn the central column of the fountain. If Ian were in a better mood, he cannot help but think he would be better able to appreciate the well-formed musculature of the singular male figure. And that only makes him think of Mickey, the way his alabaster smooth skin practically glowed last night with only the moonlight coming in through their cabin windows to illuminate him. 

Ian’s eye starts to twitch. Just dust in his eye, he is certain. Still, he finds a spot and seats himself along the rim of the cement pool of the fountain and finds himself clenching his fists on the rim of the pool, struggling to prevent himself from letting his eyes water. He doesn’t cry over men. Not when they treat him like a mistress and abandon him like toilet paper at the bottom of the latrine. Not when they try to downplay what is pounding in his chest as simply “men helping each other out.” And not when they pretend they’re just friends in front of their family.  

So why is he feeling like he might crumble to pieces over Mickey? 

What am I going to do? He wonders. Mickey probably already thinks I’m practically a child on account of being so much older and more experienced. And he has told Ian time and again that he loathes younger vampires specifically because of unbridled behavior like that. He’d probably never let me live it down if I make a fuss and make some grand declaration of love. But I can’t just bottle up what I’m feeling, can I? Mickey says it might be decades before I’ve learned everything I need to know from him. Do I seriously think I can go that long pretending not to be undone by him whenever those feelings bubble up? The fuck did I do in another life to get stuck in love with someone who has a direct line to every dot and dash being telegraphed from Ian’s heart?  

How can Mickey know what’s in Ian heart and yet toy with him like this?  

How can Mickey be this cruel? 

🧛 Mickey 🧛 

He races out the front door at vampiric speed without his jacket or his hat. What does he care? Even if it wasn’t nearly four in the morning, social propriety is something Mickey is very much willing to forego right now. Some things are more important. 

“Ian?” He calls out into the cool mid-May night air. No reply. He closes his eye and tries to filter out his own feelings and isolate Ian’s. It’s how he keeps finding him, by listening to the emotions, following Ian’s heart. All Mickey can feel is relief and for a moment, he fears that Ian is already feeling a sense of respite simply by getting away from him. But then he can almost feel Ian’s muscles relax the way they do when they share a cigarette.  

He hears Ian’s frustration, his confusion, and self loathing. Ian’s emotions tend to feel like a song even when he is down in the dumps like he is now. He tracks the emotions like a beacon. He doesn’t know if Ian wants to see him, but he doesn’t care. Ian can be baleful or even hate Mickey all he wants, but he won’t let the fledgling down. He may not be Ian’s Maker, but he is undoubtedly Ian’s Protector. And he needs to be there to comfort Ian even if he’s the one who hurt him in the first place.  

He follows the feeling down the street. He has no idea when Ian left. And wherever he is in the distance, he isn’t in Mickey’s direct line of sight. Just by chance or is Ian learning how to hide? That beautiful coppery red hair ought to shine in the dark like a lighthouse. He could be miles away by now. But that isn’t going to deter him. Luckily something tells him that Ian hasn’t gone too far. It could be wishful thinking, Ian has a right to his feelings and he deserves the space to be mad at him. But the emotions feel so immediate, even closer to Mickey now than when he was trying to track his companion down in Chicago. What is more, Mickey wants to believe that Ian would be smart enough not to run off half-cocked when he knows nothing of the terrain around him. 

As he wanders down the avenue, he wants to put the blame on Mandy so much. What the fuck was she doing putting them on the spot like this? Isn’t she supposed to be the emotionally intelligent one in the clan?  

Mickey feels the melancholy and slows down to mortal speed. He isn’t going to rush in with a display of supernatural strength that Ian cannot yet access. He wants Ian to come home with him where he belongs, but that recently resurfaced memory of Wulfric feels too fresh in his mind. He won’t be like his Maker and press every advantage. He won’t make Ian feel small and helpless just because he wants Ian to stay with him. Whatever he feels for Ian, he knows  he cares too deeply to hurt the Fledgling the way he has once been hurt. And using a show of power to get what you want is like trying to hold onto a pocketful of sand by clutching your fist. The grains will only slip through your fingers. 

And there Mickey finally locates him sitting pressed against the DuPont Circle Fountain, streaks of red trickling down the backs of his hands and staining his sleeves. He’s been crying, Mickey realizes, which seems obvious to him now. Ian made a point of hiding his feelings back at the Brownstone, but he’s been following a trail of woeful breadcrumbs ever since he made it out of the front door.  

He knows Ian is a proud man, someone who prides himself on his stoicism. Even when he had wandered the streets of the Southside night after night, rendered into a monster on account of his lack of guidance, without family, friend, or any other form of succor… Even then, Mickey knows that Ian is too stubborn to let other people see him weep. 

🧛 Ian 🧛 

Ian lets the tears flow. He figures he can get it out of his system. Then he will dry up and make a retreat back to the brownstone and with any luck, Mickey will have been too busy catching up with his sister, poring over his diaries, or whatever it is he does to occupy himself when Ian isn’t looking. He figures there is no need for Mickey to know he’s been crying like a fucking pussy.  

As if on cue, a pale, manicured hand with runes emblazoned on its knuckles pops into his line of vision proffering a white handkerchief. Turning to face him, Ian sees that Mickey’s expression is practiced composure, but the tension behind the eyes betrays him. He is too surprised by the fact that Mickey followed him to say so, but Ian cannot help but take some satisfaction in knowing that Mickey was worried. 

 “You’ll want to start carrying one of your own, man. We cry blood. And it’s a fucking pain in the ass to get out of your clothes. So try and remember the difference between your handkerchief and your sleeve.” 

“Right,” agrees Ian more sullenly than he intended as he reaches to accept the cloth from Mickey. But Mickey pulls it away and dabs it in the fountain before he reaches Ian’s face and sets to work staunching his tears, cupping the back of Ian’s head with his free hand to steady him.  

“It’s not like you to go off like that,” Mickey observed. 

“Do you think I just sit around the mansion when you’re studying your books or tinkering with something back home?” Ian sniffles. 

“You tell me whenever you check in on your brothers and sisters,” counters Mickey as he staunches the bloody tear tracks. It isn’t until Mickey pulls his hand away to inspect Ian’s progress with Ian’s face that  he sees just how red Mickey’s once red handkerchief has turned. His insides twist themselves in knots knowing that Mickey has to see him like that.  

“At least I know where you're going. I need to... shit.” Mickey seems to be waffling on what he is trying to say. But Ian is patient with him, even as he pretends like he only tolerates the feel of Mickey’s hand on the back of his neck. "Gallagher, how am I supposed to keep you safe if I don’t know where you are?” 

“Keep me safe from what, though?” 

“Well... vampire hunters for one.” 

Ian snorts. “I doubt they followed us by train.” 

“Then there are the Fae. They fucking suck,” Mickey dips the cloth in the water again and turns his attention to the back of Ian’s large freckled hands. “Vampires have had a nasty habit of picking fights with skin changers, too.” 

“Skin changers?” 

“Shapeshifters,” Mickey clarifies. “Not all of ‘em, though. Like, werewolves are pretty chill twenty-eight days out of every thirty. Not their fault they are what they are the other two days. That’s not a hard and fast rule. I’m sure some can be real bags of dicks if they want to be. And the High Council has some sort of treaty with most factions now anyway.” 

“What about other vampires?” asks Ian as Mickey rinses the handkerchief and starts to wring it dry.   

“Define ‘vampires.’” Mickey shrugs. “Some strains of hematophage are more violent than others. And some are most certainly not our friends. I would need a chart to explain everything to you. And we’re creeping up on daylight. Have you fed yet?” 

🧛🧛🧛  

They barely make it back to Mandy’s brownstone before sunlight is caressing the rooftops of the capitol. Ian would have either gotten caught in the sun or gone to bed hungry if it weren’t for Mickey because he hadn’t really taken into account that they are in a different time zone. What is more, Ian needed to drink more than usual considering how much blood had been wept out of his system.  

Fortunately, DC’s working class pack themselves onto the street cars with barely any room to breathe. And these aren’t even the clerks, secretaries, and stenogs that keep the cogs of government turning. They are the custodians who keep this showpiece of a city looking pristine. They are the men and women who own and operate the bakeries, the coffee houses, the kosher delis that make sure the workers are fed, not to mention the in-house kitchen staff for the White House and Capitol Hill. They are the doctors and nurses who treat heads of state. Ian sups in secret from the men and women who make it possible for the most important men in the country to do their jobs. And the Little Sip does less to drain them of their lifeforce than being part of the government machine, even with Ian drinking nearly twice as much as he normally would. 

Once inside, they are only halfway up the first flight of stairs when the sun rises. Even through the frosted, tinted glass of Mandy’s foyer, Ian still feels the diurnal paralysis, even though it is not as traumatically harrowing as it had been when he was first turned. His body still betrays him, though. No longer going into full-body rigor, but rather it starts with him feeling faint and then his body goes limp, as weak as a newborn kitten.  

But Mickey is there to catch him when Ian stumbles, his arm cradling the small of his back. Ian hates how much this makes him feel like a small child the way Mickey is forced to carry him like this. Even still, he lives for the touch. He used to think he was so self-sufficient, able to take whatever it is that life threw at him. And now, he is almost embarrassed by how readily he accepts Mickey’s tender ministrations. He acts like he is this gruff little misanthrope with a mouth like a sailor. And yet he consistently shows Ian kindness and patience.  

“You really don’t have to carry me all the way upstairs,” Ian slurs through his early morning torpor. “Coulda just helped me to the drawing room.”  

“Ever think maybe I like getting the chance to carry you?” Mickey smirks. “Besides, Mandy has housekeepers in three days a week.” 

On the second floor landing, they pass by Mandy’s room on the way around the corner to the second flight of stairs. Her door is still open when they pass it and Mandy appears right before Mickey mounts the stairs. She wears just in a plain white shift that stops just short of her knees, her hair is braided into one long plait that she drapes over one shoulder. “Looks like you found your guy, then?” 

“Safe as houses,” Mickey assures her as his thumb absent-mindedly caresses Ian’s bicep. 

“Did my brother have to do a lot of groveling?”  

Ian doesn’t quite get her meaning and when he looks out of the corner of his eye at Mickey for some sort of clue, he just nods almost imperceptibly. “Oh. Oh, yeah, Mick had to eat some serious crow.” 

“Good, good. Try and be patient with him. Mikhailo may be an idiot about this sort of thing, but he means well.” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Mickey deadpans. “Now if you don’t mind, I want to get Ian settled in for the night.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you want to get him nice and cozy.” 

"Got enough strength to flip her the bird, Gallagher? My hands are kind of full.” 

Ian just smirks. “I’m sure your sister can take it as read.” 

A minute later, Mickey has Ian seated upright at the side of the bed and he is helping Ian out of his clothes. Despite feeling like an invalid, there is a certain titillation to letting Mickey take him apart layer by layer, dispensing with the fine clothes Mickey himself gave him until he is left in just breech shorts. They had ripped each other’s clothes off last night, but it was so frantic, all lust and passion. The way Mickey goes to great pains to be gentle with him, take care of him, it is a balm to all the crippling doubts that afflicted him this evening.  

The only other time Mickey has done this for him was when he first brought Ian into his home. Ian had been so lost after days and days living on the streets, squatting in alleys and root cellars, feeding without control when the need overwhelmed him, no better than an animal. He may no longer suffer from bipolar now that he is a vampire, but that truly was the lowest and most pathetic he had ever been. But then Mickey appeared to him like an angel or a white knight. He took Ian into his own home. Bathed him, sheltered, taught him how to live. Mickey has seen to every need Ian could have and asks for nothing in return. Even now, they are at the start of a blind search for a legacy left behind by a man Mickey despises. And it’s all for Ian’s sake.  

“About earlier,” Mickey starts as he turns down the covers.  “It’s been a long time since I’ve let someone in. A few dozen lifetimes.” 

Ian nods as Mickey sits on the side of the bed, taking Ian’s hand. He is determined to remain patient and open to whatever Mickey might want to explain. “I know.” 

“And it’s been even longer since I wanted to put a name to what I have with someone. And I lived to regret it. One hundred and fifty-two years of regret. I wanted to call him ‘lover’ and he expected me to call him ‘master.’ I may as well have been a thrall again." Mickey sounds pained as he adjusts Ian to lay down in the bed. “So when Mandy asked, it was a kneejerk reaction sort of thing.” 

If he is hearing the elder vampire correctly, Mickey doesn’t want to put a word to whatever it is they are? Ian doesn’t know how to feel about that. Because it’s tantamount to calling them nothing at all. “So what are you going to say if Mandy asks again?” 

“Fucking tell her to mind her goddamn business is what I’ll tell her,” Mickey harrumphs, causing Ian to break out into a weak giggle. “But if you still want me, I still want you.” The words are tentative, Ian realizes, as he tucks Ian under the covers. He’s over a thousand years old, a Renaissance man both literally and figuratively. He’s created tools that have reshaped the course of human history. And yet he’s still shy about talking about his feelings. It’s kind of endearing.  

“Are you ready for me to put you under?” Asks Mickey, relinquishing Ian’s hand as he pulls a stub of candle from the night table and reaches for his trench lighter.  

“Could you not? Just yet?” 

Mickey’s eyebrows knit together for a moment, then he pushes himself off the side of the bed. “Okay. Just give me a holler—” 

“Stay!” He blurts it out like a burst of energy he has been holding at bay for far too long.  

Mickey stops, looking quizzically at him. “You know I’m just down the hall, right? And I’ll be here waiting for you when the sun sets.”   

“So, cut out the middle man and stay with me,” Ian reaches for Mickey’s hand again, eyes pleading, and he kisses the runes of Mickey’s digits. 

Mickey seems to consider his options for a moment. And then he grins warmly, shaking his head at Ian as he starts to unbutton his shirt. “Hope you don’t think I’m going to let you get your way every time you bat your eyes at me, Gallagher.”  

Chapter Text

🧛Mickey🧛

🧛1791🧛

“You look ridiculous.”

“You’re just saying that because they don’t have this sort of finery in the Americas,” deadpans Mickey. Although he does agree. The fashions á la mode in Europe these days aren’t necessarily his cup of tea. The “gentleman farmer” aesthetic is preposterous. As a man who has owned and oversaw the operations of more than his fair share of farmland over the centuries, he can confirm that the absolute last place he would want to wear satin frock coats and all the frills and furbelows would be plowing fields and mucking out stables.

“No, the clothes are fine, dumbass. It’s the wig that makes you look like a fucking clown.”

He hears the coachman laugh as they step down from the carriage. No doubt he assumes that Freiherr Von Mikkelsberg’s cousin from the Americas is uncouth because the former colonies may as well be a backwater compared to the splendor of Vienna. The truth of the matter, though, is that Mandy is uncouth because she is 770 years old and outgrew the need to conform with contemporary propriety earlier than your average vampire.

“Honestly, considering some other dubious trends I’ve lived through—”

“What? Like the codpiece?”

Mickey blushes through the layer of Blanc painted on his face. “Hey, the codpiece made a statement.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you appreciated that statement,” she cackles behind her fan.

Mickey can’t refute the statement, but only smirk and take her arm as he leads her to the Freihaus Theater. Mickey isn’t even a fan of opera. He is always of the opinion that opera is the terrible malformed love child of theater and music and it should have been exposed at birth. But this composer has been a big deal all over the continent for years, a child prodigy. Though, admittedly, the guy writes a good symphony by all accounts and Mandy always loves singing and opera, so he’ll knuckle down and sit through a night of fat tenors and obnoxious coloraturas. The things he’ll do for his sister can sometimes be prolific. But other times, they’re just a stupid endurance trial.

“What did you say the title of this one is?” Asks Mandy as they find their seats in their box in the mezzanine gallery.   

 “Something about a magic flute or something.” Mickey tries to recall. “There was a brief synopsis in the paper, but honestly I don’t get it.”

“The fine arts have never been your thing.”

“I studied under DaVinci and—”

“Sure you ‘studied’ under him. Right. How did he taste?”

“Inspiring. Maybe O negative, but it’s been a while.”

The atmosphere of the Freihaus Theatre auf der Wieden is certainly a departure from the royal courts and prestigious national concert halls that Mozart’s works infamously tend to premiere in. Though, taking in his environs, the relatively young performance space is hardly the fall from grace that the gossip in Vienna would suggest. It’s an upstart theater to be sure and dedicated to new and innovative talent. Just like back home in England, there is always some transactional sex being negotiated in the cheap seats, but it’s hardly a low burlesque house.

As the first act plays, despite the fact that Mickey resents Opera on principle, he does find himself enthralled by the music. The melodies are so nuanced and sublime that he has a hard time believing it was composed by someone without centuries of life experience. It makes him wonder why he really never gave appreciated Mozart’s work before. Though he supposes that “Wolfgang” sounds too similar to “Wulric.” He can imagine his Maker being so uncreative as to choose it for a cover identity. He can picture Wulf being so utterly unhinged that he would seek out fame and prestige across the continent. But he cannot imagine having the sort of talent that could produce masterpieces like this.

But as the events of the narrative unspool before them, Mickey cannot help but find himself snickering like a schoolboy in his lessons. Maybe contemplating that Mozart might actually be a cover for his Maker is making wild jumps to conclusions. But Mozart is just as bold and reckless as Wulfric ever was.  

“What’s so funny?” Snipes Mandy, clearly annoyed to be distracted from the proceedings.

“I’ll tell you later,” whispers Mickey as he tries to tamp down his laughter.

🧛1912🧛

“You’re not coming with us, Mands. We’re gonna be all over the place.”

“I don’t see why not,” shrugs Ian as they watch Mandy start emptying out her closet. “It might make us less conspicuous.”

Mickey looks at the two of them, In the two months since they arrived, Ian and Mandy have become fast friends. You would hardly tell that the two of them have a 870-year age gap, the way his sister and his companion click together. Mandy seems young around him in a way he hasn’t observed in years. And seeing Ian bonding with his sister helps paint a picture of what Ian must have been like with his siblings. He is protective of her, but also unguarded and playful with her.

Unfortunately, the two seem to have some sort of rapport that rivals Ian and Mickey’s link. And when the pair of them share their hive mind, it tends to result in bemusement and mild frustration for Mickey.

“Okay, I’m listening,” he chaffs. “How is the woman wearing a hat adorned with a stuffed peacock going to make us less conspicuous?”

“I can be your beard.” She explains as she starts haphazardly stuffing her dresses into a large suitcase.

Mickey doesn’t quite follow, but Ian is keen to add a little more context. “Mandy can pose as my lady friend so that folks don’t give us sideways glances.”

It catches Mickey off guard. He thought Ian was figuring out ways of passing among the mortals. He hadn’t given a second thought about people figuring out that he and Ian are close companions. The proverbial gap between “us” and “them” that Mickey has been bridging for centuries has long been between mortals and vampires. Until recently, he had put matters of desire and carnality on the shelf for so long that he forgets how fearful he was of castration or being burned at the stake as he was as a mortal and well-into his first hundred years as a vampire.

Though now he finds memories bubbling to the surface he suspects that he not just forgot, but willfully blocked out. Flash from when he was a thrall, he would live in fear of what may happen if his master’s friends exposed him after they were through with him. Then later, the trepidation he would experience in the few mortal years of freedom that fate afforded him, whenever he would find himself unsure whether or not a man glancing at him across the tavern wanted what he did.

His eyes narrow as he sets about taking Mandy’s suitcase and folding up her garments properly. “Just how dedicated are you to pretending I’m the third wheel here? Are you two going to stroll through the city avenues arm in arm while I walk three steps behind?”

“Now, why would my protective, conservative chaperone let my gentleman caller even touch me?” Mandy smirks at her own cleverness. “Besides, you boys need someone like me with you. I swear…”

“She’s a creative thinker, Mick.”

“We aren’t exactly dunces, Gallagher.” Mickey counters.

“Well… you aren’t,” shrugs Ian, thumbing at his suspenders uncomfortably.

Mickey bristles but doesn’t respond to Ian’s off handed comment. Sure, Ian is still finding his way, feeling lost considering the bloodlust of a neophyte vampire precludes the surgical career path Ian had in mind. And yes, he acknowledges that comparatively, he and Mandy seem like they must be geniuses by comparison. But the truth is that Mickey has had over a millennium and Mandy nearly nine hundred years to cultivate their respective interests.

He wishes he could help Ian understand just how much better off than either of them were when they were turned. Ian has an education behind him and a natural charm that helps him navigate the mortal world. What advantages did Mickey have going for him before he was turned? He was an illiterate ex-thrall who traded on manual labor, physical violence, and a piece of ass for the occasional Jarl with a wandering eye.  

“Why do we need a talent broker? This is all about pounding the pavement up and down the coast until we find the lock that matches Wulf’s key. And I can do that at vampiric speed.”

“You don’t need to go up and down the coast, shitwit.”   

“Oh yeah?”

“Ian’s key, genius. Ever take a good look at it? Ian?”

“Yeah, be right back.” Ian assures as he disappears up the stairs to the third floor two stairs at a time.

“What’s so special about the key?” Mickey asks. “Other than the fact that it’s silver, it’s just like any skeleton key you’d find in any house across the country. If it’s weren’t for the fact that Wulf never really ventured further than the Atlantic coast before he ended up in Chicago, we’d be going completely blind.”

“Got it!” Exclaims Ian rushing back down the staircase with the little silver key in hand.

“Remember that opera you took me to that one time?”

Mickey nods. “September 30th, 1791. Outside Vienna. The Magic Flute.”

“You can remember a play you saw that far back?”

“He probably has it jotted down in one of his diaries,” demurs Mandy, unimpressed by her brother’s recall.

“I don’t like operas on principle. Either sing or act. Pick one, folks. And it’s like composers take the most frivolous part of a story that at best should occupy fifteen-minutes stage time and they sing about it for three hours. And another thing—”

“Back to the point, Mikhailo,” monotones an impatient Mandy.   

“Okay, but I just want to go on record that the The Ring Cycle is bullshit and Wagner can fuck all the way off.”

“Yeah, yeah. Viking inaccuracies. Your point?”

“The only time we ever went to the opera together was when you were visiting me in Austria. And it’s pretty memorable when the composer drops down dead two months later. Morbid, but that’s the sort of thing that sticks out.”

“Yeah, well, halfway through the first act you broke out into a fit of giggles. Remember that?”

Mickey racks his brain, but he can’t quite seem to recall. “There was an idiot dressed like a bird or something, right?”

“Yeah, but you were laughing at something very specific and you didn’t tell me until intermission. The show is full of weird shit like high priests and temples, and things in threes, and this whole light versus dark motif. It all went over my head at the time, but you thought it was a riot.”

“Oh, right. The Freemasons.”

“What are the Freemasons?” Asks Ian.

“They’re a self-important boys club that think they’re a cult. I was accidentally a member for all of a minute back in 1723.”

“Yeah, well, I had no idea what you’re talking about back then, but I ended up looking shit up. And when you guys were sitting around the table the other night and I noticed that Ian was fiddling with his little key, I saw the ribbon and the key bit and noticed they’re pretty distinct. But I couldn’t quite place it right away. But look!” She accepts the key and hands it to Mickey.

She practically shoves it in Mickey’s face and he has to take it from her hand because she is vibrating with excitement. He’s never looked at it closely. At first it was because it was Ian’s and he was doing his best not to pry. And then he actively made a point of not looking at it when he found out it was Wulfric’s. He knows he has a claim to whatever Wulfric left behind as much as Ian does, probably more so after what the bastard put him through. But he resolved that he would have nothing to do with the man ever since he broke free of his yoke and untethered himself from their psychic link way back in 1041.

But now that he is looking, he notices that the ribbon is adorned with the masonic Compass. And the teeth of the key is the Square. The key is much larger and heavier than the average skeleton key made in the past century. And the details are ornate like something Mickey recognizes from 11th Century France. There are scorch marks here and there that look like they’ve been resistant to scrubbing.

“I’m surprised you never noticed it.”

“Ian’s key,” Mickey demurs noncommittally. “It was never my place to pry. So, what’s your point? Most major cities have a Masonic lodge.”

“It’s Philly.”

“What’s so special about Philly?”

“Midwesterners,” she susurrates under her breath, rolling her eyes. “It’s got the biggest Masonic Temple in the country and the most elaborate. The most money. It’s like a medieval stronghold right across the street from city hall.”

“That does sound like the sort of vanity project the shithead would invest in.”

“Like he built it? Is he the one that got you into architecture?” Ian asks.

“Certainly fucking not.”

“Wulf has always been more about bankrolling projects.” Mandy explains. “The more prestigious, the better.”

“The ego on that douchebag, I swear…” grumbles Mickey. “Westminster Abbey, Versailles, the Duomo. A handful of cathedrals across the Holy Roman Empire.”

“Yeah, and I hear he put up a lot of money to restore Notre Dame de Paris last century,” adds Mandy as she desperately tries to fit a few more things into her suitcase.

“So, are you guys thinking we should bypass Charleston and Baltimore and proceed directly to Philly, then?” Asks Ian.

Mickey is utterly revolted to realize that the very first property he ever acquired on this continent is only a couple miles from something that man had his thumbprint on. But at least it is a comfort to know that he never stayed there long enough to cross paths. Even for a vampire, Wulfric was incredibly restless and never stayed in one city for particularly long, rotating through properties up and down the coast as well as in London, Amsterdam, and LeHavre back in Europe.  

“At least I can get my diaries back. For all I know, your people left my steamer trunks out to get stolen,” bemoans Mickey.

“You mean left out on the veranda of the two acre gated property I’ve been keeping tabs on for you?” Sneers Mandy. “No, I made sure my hired help got your things delivered directly to the household library, just the way you like it.”

"At least someone's keeping up the old place. I kind of wanted it fall into disrepair so people will think it's haunted. Keep out the riff raff."

"Yeah, about that," Ian simpers at him, hands behind this back and rocking on his feet. "As someone who was thirteen years old way more recently than you, I can pretty much guarantee you that a haunted house would attract the riff raff."

"Kids are fucking stupid."

 Ian shrugs. "Me and Lip liked to explore."

"Well, I'm sure Mandy can show us all the actual haunted sights in the city of Brotherly Love. Revolutionary soldiers and founding fathers and all that shit." 

“Forget the fucking ghosts!” Mandy practically groans as she sits on her suitcase, trying to close it, but with little luck. She might need a second one. “I don’t think John Wanamaker’s was around the last time you were in town.”

“John Wanamaker’s?”

“Brace yourself, Ian. She wants to take us shopping.”

Chapter Text

🧛  Ian 🧛 

From Thirtieth St Station, they take a Yellow Cab to Mickey’s house in the south of the city. It is a large, yet simple brick house, that looks like someone is sent over maybe every couple of months to manage the upkeep. It isn’t a magnificent showpiece like Mickey’s mansion or austere like Mandy’s brownstone, but it is sturdy and solid, built to weather storms and ward off big, bad wolves. The iron-wrought fence hems in a yard that yields perhaps three square feet of green space around it, barely room for some garden beds, assuming Mickey were to ever stick around here long enough to cultivate them.  

“Home sweet home,” Mickey singsongs facetiously into the hazy late-June air while they wait for the driver to unload their suitcases, spinning a ring of brass keys around his gloved fingers. 

“You’ve lived in worse, Mick,” Mandy insists. “Remember that time you decided to live in that glorified sewer for a thirty years?” 

“Glorified sewer?” 

“Mandy isn’t the biggest fan of Venice,” Mickey explains as he fishes through the ring of keys for the correct one to unlock the front door.  

“What’s wrong with Venice?” Ian doesn’t claim to be the best student of world geography, but even he paid enough attention in class to believe that Venice is supposed to be one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.   

“They know what they did.” 

“Pfft. No they don’t. Everyone you got into it with during your one visit has been worm food for centuries.” 

“Are you guys seriously not going to tell me what happened?”  

Mickey finds the right key and the heavy oak door with peeling green pain creaks open. Ian has to cough, though Mickey and Mandy seem prepared for it. They’ve disturbed the dust that has been settled for a long time and the air inside the house is stale.  

If the foyer is any indication, then the interior of the house has been better maintained than the unadorned exterior would suggest. Hardwood floors, a high stucco ceiling, and suspended from above is a chandelier. 

“Is that Tiffany glass?” Mickey asks as his sister nods. It suddenly occurs to Ian that Mandy has probably had a not insignificant amount of influence on the house’s interior design in Mickey’s absence. Although peering in either direction through the glass paneled French doors, it is hard to get a sense of the dining room or sitting room, all the furniture being draped with heavy white dust cloths. 

“For a house I’ve only checked in on once or twice in the past ninety years?” 

“I may have entertained here more than once or twice. Dibs on the third floor, by the way.” 

“Seriously? You’re throwing parties at my place while I’m outta town?” 

“Like you’ve been to the coast since the Hayes administration?” Mandy sasses as she goes around removing the shroud-like drop cloths from the furniture to reveal modest furnishings that look like they were collected piecemeal from second hand shops.  

“So, you weren’t exactly hosting members of the Philadelphia Charity Ball, huh? 

“More like folks from the Walnut.” 

“The Walnut?” 

“Theatricals. Of course.” scoffs Mickey. Actors, he means, which makes sense to Ian. During their stay at Mandy’s brownstone, he became very well acquainted with Mandy’s circle, which seemed to range from the crème de la crème of society, who mainly visited her in the afternoons, and the actors, musicians, roustabouts, and writers who called upon her at all hours of the night. Granted, Ian enjoyed the fact that Mandy had their blood supply coming to them. It made a change of pace from the hunt. But at the same time, Ian didn’t realize they would be residing at a stop on the Orpheum Circuit while they were in town.  

When do these mortals find time to sleep? He recalls wondering more than once. It wasn’t until sometime later that it occurred to him that it was the first time he has ever truly thought of himself as something other than human. It was a sobering thought. He may not be mortal, but he’s still human , isn’t he? He still has that sense of what it means to be part of the world around him. Ian doesn’t want to lose that. Even if it means not lashing out at Mandy’s late night revelers when their antics leave Mickey in a foul mood— and by extension frustrate Ian’s attempts to get him to open up. 

But then, the raucous revels of Mandy’s friends reminded him of home. Fiona and the younger siblings’ surrogate godmother Vee would love to mark little victories with the occasional family dance party. The girls would dance while Vee’s husband Kev would tap out a rhythm on his drum while Ian and Lip joined in on the fiddle and clarinet. He wishes he would have thought to teach the fiddle to Liam. Ian was the only one their mother taught before she passed. 

“So, I take it my wine cellar is empty?” Asks Mickey, who seems to be making a show of annoyance rather than actually being bothered. 

“You never drink wine, asshat.” 

“Yeah, well… I don’t want to see my beer vanishing if I stock the icebox.” Mickey grouses. “Anyway, like you said, you’re welcome to the third floor, Mands. I don’t wanna live in the belfry of my own house anyway.” 

“It was ,” she shrills as she hikes up her several layers of dress and bounds up the stairs at vampiric speed. 

“Does that bother you?” Ian asks as they gather up their luggage and walk at a much more leisurely pace us the staircase. “I didn’t think you were attached to this place.” 

“I’m not,” Mickey insists. “But you’ve got siblings. You know what it’s like when they borrow your shit without asking.” 

Ian can’t help but grin. Mickey’s actual relation to Mandy ought to be that of a doddering old man and his several greats grandniece. But that’s not the dynamic at all. In all the ways that really matter, they truly do seem like a brother and sister.  

“I think I’m on the other side of that equation. Younger brother, remember? I was always getting Lip’s cast-offs.”  

“Not anymore.” Mickey grins crookedly at him as he squeezes the back of Ian’s neck gingerly.  

“Thanks to you,” shrugs Ian trying to give credit where it is due.  

In some ways Ian himself feels like a castoff himself. Mickey’s castoff left for him by Wulfric. But Mickey never makes him feel like one. It’s strange trying to pinpoint what exactly is the nature of their dynamic. Lovers but also something else deeper than that. Ian doesn’t think he has a word for it. But at the same time there is this other aspect, distant and contemplative.  

A thousand years of and scores of lives lived have shaped a sort of aura around him that Ian doesn’t feel he can match. Mickey has the collected wisdom of several doctorates. He has experienced more than Ian can fathom, and Mickey has buried literally more friends than He can remember. Mickey is always keen to share the anecdotes of his personal history, but other than when his godson went down with the Titanic, Mickey has kept the deeper, more meaningful aspects of his past to himself. Ian wishes he could see more of that side of Mickey, understand it better. He wants to understand him better and not merely because they’re psychically joined at the hip. Yet while Mickey is always forthright with facts, talking about feelings tends to be a bridge too far for him.  

Sometimes it is downright maddening that Mickey knows everything Ian feels, but Ian has the hard task of eking out what Mickey is feeling through his words. 

They are at the top of the stairs. Mickey is poking around the end of the hallway, seemingly impressed by the bathroom, muttering about the indoor plumbing. Meanwhile, Ian takes a gander at the bedrooms. One side of the second floor hall plays host to a small bedroom and a study. Mickey’s steamer trunks full of books are piled up in the middle of the latter. On the other side of the corridor, the master bedroom takes up the full other half of the floor.  

“You, uh, you want the same arrangements as before, or…? 

“Arrangements?” 

“Yeah, I mean I could keep finding reasons to sleep in your room or we could…we could share the master bedroom.” Mickey’s eyebrows wiggle.   

“I thought you needed your space,” Ian shrugs. From the very first day Mickey brought Ian to live with him, it has been a line in the sand. Mickey has invited Mickey to keep him company in the sitting room of his suite back in the Chicago mansion, but Ian has never seen the inside of Mickey’s bedroom either in Chicago or DC.  

“I thought you needed your space.” 

“Well, maybe I don’t.” 

Ian doesn't answer. Instead, he takes his two suitcases and struts into the master bedroom, letting Mickey watch him as he claims the side of the bed closer to the window. "You coming?"

🧛 Mickey 🧛 

“You’re sure?” Mickey asks, trying to tamp down the enthusiasm in his tone as they set their luggage down on the large queen-sized bed of the master bedroom, the dust cloth still draped over it. This has to be Ian’s choice as much as Mickey wants it for himself. As the elder of the two, Mickey doesn’t want to cloud Ian’s decision making process.  

“Sure, I’m sure. You end up in my bed most nights anyway,” Ian shrugs as they fold up all the drop cloths from the furniture. “And I’m getting tired of the pretense that we intend to sleep in separate rooms.”  

“Aw, would you just listen to the two of you,” coos Mandy at the two of them from the threshold of the master bedroom. “I would say this is taking the next step, but it’s more like you’re acknowledging the obvious.” 

“Don’t you have some tea to throw in the harbor or something?” 

“That’s Boston, Mikhailo.”  

“How’s the third floor?” Ian asks. 

“Just how I left it. Plus some new mice friends. I think I’ll need a cage.” 

And just as quickly, she is gone. Mickey suppresses a grin. She will be 892 years old in November, but she still is as exuberant a traveler as he has ever known her. It’s not even novelty. She has bounced around Europe, Asia Minor, and the Atlantic Coast for centuries. And yet she manages to have a zest for the change of scenery, seeing old places, seeing what has changed. And apparently seeing if there are mice in her room. It all makes her giddy as though she were still under a century and seeing Constantinople for the first time. 

Mickey and the Fledgling unpack their suitcases in relative silence, amiable, but nervous. Mickey is thankful for his pipeline to Ian’s emotions because it is such a balm to his soul knowing he isn’t alone in feeling this queasy mixture of trepidation and anticipation. 

“So, first night in a new city, huh?” Ian asks, avoiding eye contact, but Mickey can spot the tentative grin out of the corner of his eye.    

“It’s not new to me. We still have a few hours before dawn if you wanna visit Old City. It’s not my thing, but I figure when in Rome…” 

“Really?” responds Ian incredulously. “Like the Declaration of Independence? Betsy Ross’ flag? That sort of thing? You officially ask me to cohabitate and your next move is ‘wanna look at the educational shit?’” 

“I was just thinking—” 

But before Mickey can finish that thought, Ian pounces. 

Mickey has to say he’s impressed with the way Ian sweeps him off his feet, sending him flat across the bed. Ian isn’t all the way there yet, but his strength is improving. He could still overpower the redhead if he wanted, but right now he wants to do nothing more than give in. As vampires, Ian naturally defers to Mickey as a student would he teacher. But as lovers, Mickey can’t get enough of the way Ian’s assertive side rises to the top when he takes control. With the younger man straddling his narrow hips, his cheeks cannot help but turn flush with anticipation and the length of manhood trapped in his slacks swells, pressing against Ian’s inner thigh. Large spindly fingers cuff Mickey’s wrists, pinning them to the mattress above his head. 

“Gallagher?” he giggles in surprise, breathing in deep as Ian leans in, the tip of his nose hovering just above his own. Ian’s mossy green pools fixed on his own eyes, boring into Mickey’s soul.  

“Less thinking, Mick.” Ian nips at Mickey’s neck. “Feel. Act. What do you want to do?” 

Before he can formulate an answer, feeling and action take over. Ian’s scent this close never fails to make it hard for Mickey to think straight. The way Ian’s gravelly Chicago accent smooths out into something silvery and lush in his ear practically makes him melt, it makes his vision turn fuzzy before his eyes roll back in his head. He is practically feral, canines elongated and snarling as he leans up and devours Ian’s lips. 

“You didn’t. Say. What. You want.” Ian groans between smacks of their lips. 

You, Ian. Just you, Mickey thinks as pushes Ian off him and climbs onto all fours, his hands manipulating the front of Ian’s trousers now with weeks of practice. And he takes Ian’s prize into his mouth. 

Freckled digits card through Mickey’s soft black hair as he guzzles down the length of Ian’s manhood, drooling like a rabid animal and trying not to choke. He cannot help but remember when he was first teaching Ian the art of the Little Sip, the way he gently teased Ian’s table manners. But in two months of sucking on Ian’s cock, there seems to be no improvement in sight  for Mickey’s etiquette. Not that Ian seems to mind. He grades on a much different metric and can’t get enough of Mickey's mouth, the way he plays him like a piccolo.  

“Good boy...” Ian groans, pulling at Mickey’s hair. And Mickey can never hear that enough.  

It’s ridiculous and he knows it. He’s older than his lover by a frankly preposterous difference. He hasn’t been a boy in a very long time. But the way Ian dominates him, taking control while also singing his praises does something that just clicks in the most primal part of his brain and Mickey cannot get enough of it. 

“Fuck yeah! I’m your good boy,” he slurs through a gullet full of nine glorious inches, undressing himself all the while.  

Wrapped up in the sway of desire, he pulls out of Ian and he can’t resist the impulse to plunge his fanged canine teeth into Ian’s inner thigh, sipping deep at the fount of Ian’s sweet-tasting blood. It always reminds him of honeyed mead.  

“Couldn’t help yourself?” Ian asks when Mickey comes back up for air. 

“You asked what I want. I want the taste of you on my mouth,” he thrills as he rolls onto his back, spreading his legs and pulling them to his chest, his breath hitched in anticipation. 

“You have more control when you ride—” 

“What. I. Want.” He wants Ian to take control. He needs Ian to dominate him. And it is kind of insane, really. After a youth as a thrall among the Danes, then 152 years under Wulfric’s thumb, he told himself he would never relinquish control of his life ever again. He would be the master of his fate. And he has been. But when it’s just him and this impossibly handsome fledgling, who has Mickey undeniably wrapped around his finger, all Mickey wants is to be enthralled by Ian Gallagher. 

Ian grins as he guides his lover’s calves over his shoulders and lines himself up to plunge into the older man’s inner recesses. Mickey whimpers needfully as Ian guides himself gingerly into him. Ian always starts out gently before he lets loose and services Mickey the way he likes it. But Mickey is getting impatient for what he needs. “C’mon, give it to me rough, dom top daddy!” 

“So needy…” 

“Fuck yeah, I am!” 

Ian grins wickedly as he adjusts his bearings to meet Mickey’s demands. Mickey can never get enough of the way Ian is always ever so eager to please. 

🧛  Ian 🧛 

There doesn’t seem to be any rush on Mickey’s part to investigate the Masonic Temple and Ian is inclined to agree. It means confronting the ghost of Wulfric and neither men seem inclined to face that spectre. Ian for is part is still mourning his humanity taken from him without his choice in the matter, the severed connection from his family. And whatever Wulfric did to Mickey must have been horrendous if Mickey can still loathe the man so much all these years later. 

So, rather than seek their target a mere two miles from their current residence, the pair explore the city together night after night, content to take a leisurely pace. Sometimes, they want to explore the various neighborhoods in the city. It’s all new to Ian and so different to Mickey that it may as well be new. Each time they go out, they find not the best but the most interesting and lively taverns and dance halls and billiard parlors. One night, Ian humored Mickey who spent the whole night riding the city’s elevated rail and comparing it to what he helped design back home in Chicago. Ian honestly thinks Mickey is adorable when he gets into the crunchy gearhead specifics, even if he doesn’t understand most of what Mickey says and ends up doing a lot of smiling and nodding.  

And as Mandy insisted from the minute she invited herself along, they’ve had to make a couple visits to Wanamaker’s. First it was to update the furnishings of Mickey’s house. But also they both agree that they need pick up some essentials that Ian and Mickey have been doing without since Chicago like spare buttons, a Singer sewing machine, or stain removers. And then, they find themselves giving up the ghost and replacing things that simply could not be salvaged after being torn off one another behind closed doors. 

Ian feels the most comfortable in Philadelphia in the area immediately around Mickey’s estate. He amuses himself wondering what is it about the south of a city and the lower echelons of society. Southside back home, Washington DC’s Southeast and Southwest neighborhoods, and now South Philly. Truth be told, this might be the first living arrangement since he woke up with fangs that he feels at home. Top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. Men and women who toil all the day long in the factories and the sweat shops only to come home to a bowl of mulligan stew and stale bread. This is a language Ian speaks more fluently than Mickey with his captains of industry or Mandy’s literary circles. 

Philadelphia reminds Ian of Chicago much more than Washington DC ever could. It’s loud and chaotic, and its citizens are direct and confrontational. There is a thrum to its rhythms and a bustle to its business. It has a similar contrast between the lush and moneyed areas of the city and its poorer and working class neighborhoods just like back home.  

The ethnic makeup is more or less a match to his hometown as well, albeit with less of a Scandinavian and Ukrainian presence. Ian absentmindedly wonders if that may subconsciously be why Mickey made tracks west not long after he bought his starter home here. The echoes of his mortal life weren’t resonant here they way they are in Chicago.  

Ian, on the other hand, feels Ireland very well-represented in South Philly. Every fifth person in the communities that have sprung up immediately around Mickey’s estate is either Irish, Jewish, or Italian. Or quite often some combination of the three. It’s like someone out there decided that Catholic guilt and Jewish shame are two great tastes that taste great together. 

Tonight though, they are leisurely strolling by the Delaware River. “That’s a lot of factories.” The Chicago River back home itself plays host to its fair share of labor mills and factories, but on both the Pennsylvanian and New Jerseyan sides of the body of water, the telltale signs of capitalism at work seem to stretch out well beyond what Ian’s vampiric vision will allow. 

“Yeah,” consoles Mickey, bumping his shoulder against Ian as they stroll. “It was already getting to be like this when the boat dropped me off here way back when.” Mickey seems to reflect. “A lot more coal and oil burning now though. Dirty energy. Shame, really.” Mickey chews absentmindedly at his lower lip. Ian knows that Mickey helped invent (which Ian is interpreting as “let someone else take the credit for) the steam engine. He no doubt feels entitled to be a bit judgmental about other advancements that have outstripped it. 

“I thought the Chicago was gross, but the Delaware River?” 

Mickey shrugs. “That’s just how industry evolves. Progress. Can’t make an omelet without breaking—” But then Mickey stops dead in his tracks, his eyebrows rise and his eyes look so alert that Ian, too, freezes.

“Yaooowhaaaaaaaallll!”

“Do you hear that?” 

He doesn’t. But he doesn’t speak or move to respond, trying to listen for whatever it is that has Mickey on full alert. Nothing, but then his ears aren’t as finely tuned as Mickey’s are. Mickey can single out conversations several miles away in perfect clarity. Ian still has to block out much of the sounds he hears still just to keep his own sanity in tact.  

But then he sees it in the distance. But not distant enough. It’s on the Delair Bridge, but nobody should be up there unless they plan to get mowed down by the trains. A shift in the light. And then another. And a third. Shades with rubies dripping from their lips, unnatural in their movements, but certainly human in shape. Uncertain of making sudden movements, Ian tilts his head in the direction Mickey needs to look. Slowly, his companion turns.  

Suddenly, he’s practically flying through the streets of Philadelphia, held tight in Mickey’s strong arms as the cityscape blurs around them.  

“Mickey?” He attempts to call out, but the buzzing ripple of wind around him swallows the sound. 

As fast as Ian knows Mickey is barreling through the cobbled street, he knows that Mickey is going too fast to be perceived by the mortals around them. 

Finally the world stops flying about him. Now it’s lazily spinning as Mickey is lowering Ian to the ground and Ian grasps onto Mickey to steady himself. He shakes off the sense of vertigo and the world steadies. The foyer of the Mickey’s house comes into focus around him.  

Mickey is bolting at mortal speed up the stairs calling for Mandy. Ian chases after, confused.  

“Mandy? Mands?”  

“Mickey, what’s going on?” Asks A panicked Ian pursuing after. 

“Mandy!” Mickey bellows from the second floor landing. It has been an unspoken rule in the couple weeks since they arrived that the third floor is her domain. 

“Mickey, could you please explain? What were those things?” 

Mickey hisses out a tentative wheeze of a sigh. “Remember when I told you that vampires aren’t the only undead bloodsuckers out there?” 

“Quit saying we’re undead. Total misnomer,” bemoans Mandy, ascending the stairs. “What’s the big deal? I could hear you shouting all the way from Society Hill.” 

Mickey takes a deep breath. “We’ve got Drekava.” 

“Shit, seriously? Where?” 

“Along the waterfront.” 

“Is anybody going to explain what the fuck it is we saw?” Asks Ian, bewildered and growing scared seeing how tied up in knots the Milkovich siblings are becoming. “What the fuck is a Drekava?” 

“Serious trouble.”

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

🧛 1044 AD 🧛  

The lake is so small that it doesn’t even have a name. It’s more of a pond, really. He isn’t  even certain if this is the same body of water he remembers visiting as a child. If it is, then the pond has dried up over the decades. Though, he isn’t certain. He isn’t even certain he is even staying in the village he remembers. All he can really recall of life before the Danes is his family's farm, and that’s long gone. Mikkel sits hugging his knees by the water’s edge a little after dusk,  shoes and stockings off, curling his toes in the loamy soil.

He feels her approaching. And he would know it is her even if her steps weren’t so clumsy, which is common of a vampire so young. The shared lineage in their blood practically singing out to him.

“You don’t need to say it. I’ll get the hang of that running thing eventually.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you up to speed. Besides, it’s your lack of stealth that really gives you away, mourning dove.”

“Doesn’t seem to get me into trouble with the mortals. I haven’t been caught yet.”

“Well, of course you don’t,” grins Mikkel turning to face her, “not when you pose as a tavern slut and drink your fill when the blood is all rushing towards the cock to begin with.” It is an art she has perfected with alacrity and without any instruction from her Maker. She collects her coin up front and she drains her Johns perhaps more than she needs to, yes, but enough to make them pass out. And the men are too proud once they wake up to admit that a harlot’s talents were too much for them.

“You could, too, if you were bolder,” she suggests, sitting side saddle on a nearby log.

“Hard pass.” Manya may have deduced that Mikkel’s preference is of the male persuasion unnervingly quickly, but he has been scant on the details of his past. She doesn’t know what happened to him when he was passed around like a plaything among his mortal master’s companions. Or how Wulfric delighted in using the Maker/Fledgling bond to suppress Mikkel’s free will.

“Well, I’ve already fed for the evening.”

“Tramp,” he snickers.

“You’re just jealous.”

Manya is an early riser. She tends to feed as quickly as she can and get on with her nights. Her Maker, Kazimir, has a very “learn at your own pace” approach to his fledgling’s tutelage. He isn’t even concerned whether or not Manya kills her prey or not as long as she does so far away enough from his domicile further south in the Uplands. Fortunately for all parties concerned, she didn’t develop a taste for killing.

 Mikkel has only been in the Rus for six months at moons, but Manya has learned more from him than Kazimir was willing to in two years. Mickey would have strong words about his great grand-niece’s lack of strong guidance from her Maker, but considering the abuses Wulfric put him through, perhaps she is better off with a hands off approach.

“What about you? Peckish?”

“I could eat,” he replies noncommittally, pulling his stockings and shoes back on.

“What say we head down to the waterfront and find you a nice brawny fisherman?”

“I’m not going home with a fucking mortal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Snob.”

Mikkel pushes himself to his feet. “I’m not being a snob. Humans are great. If I don’t like ‘em, at least I can take comfort in knowing they’ll eventually die.”

“Such a sunny disposition you got there,” she deadpans as they leisurely amble their way down towards the Dnieper River.

“My point being,” he continues. “Even if I wanted to carry on with a mortal, it gets difficult after your strength builds up. If I’m not careful, could crush a man’s pelvis. Easily.”

They continue on until the river is in sight. The docks and the fishermen’s sheds and lean-tos come into sight as well as the smoke from dinner fires. Mikkel is trying to remember which fishermen’s blood he prefers this early in the evening and who is next on his rotation when suddenly, Manya stops, grabbing at Mikkel’s arm. “Hold it,” she whispers intently, sniffing at the air. “Something doesn’t smell right.”

“That nose of yours…”

“Something is  wrong, Mikk. Can’t you feel it?”

Mikkel clears his head and trains his eyes in the distance, really honing in his vampire vision on the winding river in front of him. It takes a moment, but the first thing he clues into is the sound, and the dearth of any noise you’d expect of mortal activity that you would typically find this early in the evening. No voices, no movement, no furtive, venal sounds coming from the fishermen’s tents. No singing or storytelling around the fire. No fish being turned on a spit above the flame. If not for the crackle of the fire, his ears would leave him to think the spot had been abandoned.

“I’m moving in closer,” he murmurs. “Stay here.”

She doesn’t protest as he stealthily makes his way another fifteen yards closer. The steppes provide little coverage. The terrain is flat and even mortals can gaze on for miles. Trees are sparse compared to the forests of Scandinavia and England, and what few trees do grow aren’t exactly mighty oaks. Still, he manages to obscure himself from view behind a neglected wagon of straw no doubt meant to be bartered downstream come the morning.  

“Jesus Christ,” he thinks as approaches his hiding place, the finer details of the fishermen’s encampment by the docks coming clearly into view. The bodies of poor, helpless mortals torn and shredded and left to rot in tomorrow’s sun, the blood practically sparkling in the moonlight.

But not all of them have been abandoned. Mikkel’s eyes go wide at the sight of some unsettling shape scurrying around in a squat, roving around from body to body, slurping at the bloodied, dismembered  corpses like it is scrounging for scraps. It is not quite a man but like no beast Mikkel has ever witnessed in his travels. Skin so pale it makes Mikkel and Manya look like they’ve been tanning in the son. Despite the wan flesh, it practically vanishes when it passes through shadows. Its arms are out of proportion compared to mortals or vampryrs, as long and muscled as their legs. Its fingers are talons as long and as sharp as daggers made of Damascus steel. Its ears are bat-like. The creature’s eyes are large and a cloudy, sickly green. Its mouth, stretching wide enough that Mikkel can picture it swallowing its victims heads whole, is packed with several rows of long, shark-like fangs.  

  “We need to go, Mikk.”

Startled, Mikkel almost jumps out of his skin, but manages to restrain himself. He specifically told her to stay put. But he doesn’t have the time or the room in his brain to deal with lecturing the younger vampyr. Instead he steels himself and furtively hisses, “What the fuck is that thing?”

“A drekavac,” she answers, tugging at his arm. “C’mon, before it sees us.”

“Drekava aren’t real! They’re just stories.”

She swats him across the back of the head. “You mean like vampyrs aren’t real? Fucking dumb—”

But before Manya can finish her insult, the creature lets out a threateningly sickly sweet moan that resonates across the plain and it rises to its full, terrifyingly tall, height. Its eyes, even through the misty fog, clearly are fixed on them.

“Yaooowhaaaaaaaallll!”

“It’s really time to go, Mikk.” Trills Manya, no longer bothering to whisper as the creature begins bounding forward. “Mikk!”

Manya doesn’t have the speed yet. Mikkel is slowed down with a passenger, but he wouldn’t dare think of leaving her behind. She’s family, both in blood and spirit. Keeping her safe is paramount. He snatches her around the hips and throws her over his shoulder as he runs as near to his full speed as he can.

He runs. And he runs. And he swears he can hear that snarling thing breathing down his neck. He hurries, pushing himself more than he ever thought he could and doesn’t stop until he’s brought the two of them far beyond Manya’s village in the Kievan Rus and hidden in the forested Carpathian mountains.

🧛 1912 🧛

“They’re one of the feral strains of hematophage,” Mickey explains. Practically animals. And apex predators at that.”

“Just one of those creatures did all that?” Asks Ian as he looks at the image that Mickey is drafting out in one of his blank diaries for Ian’s benefit.

“Yeah. And you guys spotted three of them?” Mandy trembles fretfully. “Shit, they were right. Nothing good ever comes out of Camden.”

“So, what does this mean for us?” Asks Ian sounding like this is something he can fix. If he wasn’t fearful for their safety, Mickey might be charmed by now. Ian is approaching this with a cooler head than Mickey could possibly muster right now. He would have made a great surgeon with that temperament under pressure.

“There’s not much we can do.” Mandy explains, attempting to sound as confident as her nearly 900 years of lived experience ought to make her. But her voice is shaky. “We can avoid them until they’re gone or we can move somewhere safer. We may as well hunker down and wait it out. They’re migratory, never stay in a hunting ground long.”

“Just long enough to draw the attention of the mortals,” grumbles Mickey. “More boys playing out their dreams of Van Helsing. That's just what we need.”

“What like that club from Chicago they keep writing about in the papers?” Mandy asks. “They’re already here.”

Mickey could scream, running his fingers running through his hair. “The fuck are they doing here? Those bozos should be rotting in Cook County Jail by now.”

“I swear, take the vampire out of Chicago and he just stops keeping up to date with current events.” Mandy moans as she disappears up the stairs.

“Th— these are the same guys that were setting fire to the Southside when we were heading out of town, right?” Asks Ian, nervously.

Mickey doesn’t answer. He knows his face is locked in a grimacing scowl, his eyebrows raised, he eyes bulging. His stomach is tying itself in knots. A crowd of vampire hunters showing up in town would probably not even faze him. But this troop of idiots assembled as a direct result of Ian’s disastrous first week or so as an untrained and ravenously unrestrained neophyte blood drinker. Ian is guilt-ridden enough for those lives he took in those early days. Even now, four months after bringing Ian home to live with him, Ian still wakes up in fits of terror over the nightmares he relives in his sleep. He punishes himself enough and no doubt will do so for centuries. He doesn’t need these boys playing at being heroes pursuing him like Kindly Ones tormenting Orestes.   

“So, yeah,” Mandy returns from her room with a copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer in hand, pushing onward as though there had been no break in the conversation. “After the fires in Chicago, the original leaders got themselves thrown in jail. No great loss there, right? But the new leadership? Oh, he’s a firebrand. He’s got a lot to say by all accounts.” She hands the periodical to Ian, who freezes in shock.

Oh, no. Please, no. Please don’t let Ian find out like this.  

“He’s been going from city to city like he’s on a goddamn good will tour for weeks now and giving speeches about the ‘dangers posed by the undead.’” She holds up her hands and produces a very large and theatrical pair quotation fingers. “Apparently one of your local vamps back in Chi-Town killed his brother and the guy’s got an axe to grind.”

“Nobody killed his brother,” mutters a rueful Ian as he slaps the paper down on the sitting room coffee table. On the front page is a large photograph of a man in his early 20s. His wavy, dirty blonde hair is lacquered down into a center part.   holding up a sandwich board sign reading, “Protect Our Families, Stake ‘em!”

“Oh? Well, good. Maybe someone should tell him at the rally their little Van Helsing club is holding in Schuylkill Park tomorrow.”

Ian looks up at Mickey, his normally life-affirming verdant green eyes now icy, his lip curled into a snarl. He carries a lot of physical tension in his chin and his hands are balled into fists at his side. “You knew?”

Mickey wants to explain. He didn’t want Ian to find out like this. In fact he hoped the situation back home would have blown over or resolved itself before their journey was at an end. An apology tries to formulate on his tongue but it cannot quite come together. Christ, but he never realized how intense Ian’s gaze can be, practically entrancing, bordering on hypnotic.

Even without their psychic connection, Mickey would likely still be able to feel the waves of fury and betrayal practically radiating off Ian. The anger is so intently trained on Mickey that it threatens to swallow him whole.

It takes all Mickey’s willpower, but against his better judgment, he breaks eye contact, his vision trained on the dirt on the white toes of his wingtips. “I couldn’t… Ian, I—”

But Mickey is spared from his stilted, stuttering, half-formed excuse for an apology when Ian pushes past him, stomping up the stairs.

“I take it Ian is the dead brother?” Asks Mandy, grinning and no doubt hoping she is cutting through the tension.

He looks at his sister like he could bite her head off. And he could. He really could. As if he didn’t have enough stress with the blood curdling terror of feral Drekava roaming the city unchecked. He turns about, meaning to follow Ian up the stairs. But Mandy’s hand on his shoulder is enough to make him accept her intent: give Ian his space.

Chapter Text

🧛Ian🧛  

🧛1910🧛  

“I’m not trying to get a rise out of you,” Lip insists as he leans on the side of the house while Ian runs his ink-stained hands under the faucet. “All I’m trying to say is that you could be doing a lot more with your life than spooling typewriter ribbons.”   

Ian grits his teeth and prepares for his older brother’s tried and true talking points. He takes the soapy rag and drags the scratchy wet cloth across his palms.   

The last thing he wants to do after ten hours sweating his balls off in the assembly line is get yet another lecture about his career from Lip. Two years ago, Lip was ready to end up working a dead end job at the meat packing plant, but now he talks to Ian as though all of the Gallaghers have the same silver platter waiting for them that was put in front of him.   

“Remember when we were kids and we’d talk about what we wanted to be?” Lip asks. “You’re the one who always knew—you always wanted to be a doctor. I’m the one who didn’t have a fucking clue.” That much is true. Ian used to love studying about the body, which organs did what for the body, what surgical tools were needed for a given procedure. Medicine always fascinated him. Lip was always the smarter of the two of them, but until a scholarship practically fell in his lap, his low bar dream of the future was to not end up like their father Frank. “And you got your diploma, too. Decent grades. You deserve more than to slave away in a factory day in and day out.”  

It’s true. He may not be a genius like Lip, but he was a dedicated student. What he didn’t naturally pick up, he would slowly master through patience and perseverance. Everything came quickly and easily for his brother, but Ian was always resigned to push past early academic failures and rode the longer, slow and steady path to knowledge.  

He really wishes he could take his brother’s words to heart. Because he knows he does have it in him to become a good surgeon if he had an opportunity to study. The problem is that Lip was born first. And the opportunity came to him, not Ian. An overzealous teacher who recognized Lip’s intellectual prowess applied to schools on his behalf such as Virginia Tech, Rose Hulman, and Lip’s grades even got him into MIT. But his brother opted for the Illinois Institute of Technology, right here in Chicago, where he was granted a full scholarship.  

The problem is that a full academic load meant little time for work. And in the process of rubbing shoulders with the sons of idle wealthy, providing for the family took a back seat to fitting in, making connections he claims could make or break his future once he has his diploma in hand.   

That’s Lip for you—always looking at the bigger picture, planning for the future. He always shines a bit brighter and thinks a bit further. And even if he weren’t a wunderkind, he’s the elder brother—the favored son will always reach the finish line first. And the shadow he casts stretches far behind him.  

But a family of seven needs to eat in the present. And one less Gallagher working means everyone else has to work that much harder to make ends meet. Ian worked even more shifts at the green grocers and on Sunday mornings, he would hunt for small game like rabbits and wild turkeys. But the Summer after he graduated from high school, his dalliance with Mr. Karib came to be too much for Ian. He sought employment elsewhere, manning the assembly line at Annell Typewriter Company for almost a year now.   

Ian chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’m fine where I am, Lip.”  

“You hate it there.”  

True , Ian thinks to himself.  

“Yeah, but Frank’s a waste and they only pay the girls so much at the mill. We need to eat, Lip.”  

“It doesn’t mean—”   

“Yeah, it does. I’m not you, Lip. You’ve got this golden opportunity.”  

“I could go part time.”  

Ian wrings out the towel over the sink. His fingers are still stained black and purple. “You don’t need to do that, bro. I think your scholarship requires you to go full-time, doesn’t it?”  

Lip doesn’t have an answer. A rare occurrence. He presses his mouth into a line and Ian can see the gears turning in his brother’s head even though Lip simply must know that Ian is spot on about this. Much as he wants to best for Ian, Lip isn’t going to give up what little traction he has gained in society. Ian is certain that Lip isn’t the type of guy to fall on his sword, not even for Ian’s sake, even though Lip will convince himself otherwise.    

“Look, you’re halfway through a four-year degree, right? Finish up and get one of those swanky high paying jobs they keep promising you. And then I’ll try my hand at med school in a couple years.”  

A pregnant, awkward pause follows before Lip nods. “You know there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do for you, brother.”  

“I know,” Ian nods curtly. “But not that.”  

🧛1912🧛  

Ian holes himself up in the empty spare room across from his and Mickey’s room. He doesn’t know how he understood in the core of his being that Mickey has shielded Ian from the truth about Lip’s involvement. How is Mickey in his goddamn head and not understand that this is the sort of thing Ian would want to know? Maybe he could have reached out to his brother and explained.  

But could he? “Hey, Lip. You don’t need to worry about all those gruesome vampire attacks all over the South Side. I’m perfectly fine. I wasn’t even in any danger. And everyone is safe now that I know how not to rip people’s throats out now that I know what the fuck I’m doing?” Yeah. Ian is certain that will go over real well.  

So, what is Mickey’s angle here? Ian wonders. Does he think I would just fall apart if I knew the truth? Or does he think I’d do something stupid?   

An annoyingly reasonable voice in Ian’s head tries to tell him that Mickey was just trying to protect him, but Ian is too angry to listen to reason. Ian is more than willing to let Mickey guard him against a great many things. In fact, that protective streak of his is pretty charming. But for better or worse, family is family and how dare Mickey think it would be okay to shield him from knowing the truth about Lip?   

It has been a few hours and Mickey has been considerate enough to give him his space. Though maybe it would be better if he had chased after Ian. He needs to yell. At someone. He wants to demand to know what could have possibly made Mickey think dragging him across the country on a wild goose chase could possibly be what Ian would want while his brother is flying off the handle without Ian there to reel him back.    

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

He sits up from where he has been laying flat on top of the dust cover on the bed. He is half-tempted to ignore the knocking. Mickey is the kind of guy who will respect it if Ian wants some privacy. If Mickey is trying to apologize, he can table the sentiment until Ian is ready. Ian needs a little bit longer to be mad before he forgives him. But he’ll get there eventually. But then, he wants Mickey to see him as an equal. And refusing to face Mickey because he’s too busy having a temper tantrum is hardly is hardly the behavior of an twenty-one-year-old adult, let alone the companion of a millennium-old vampire.    

 He strides to the door and opens it only to find nobody expecting him on the other side. He sticks his head out and looks around. The air isn’t even disturbed.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

He spins on his heels. The tapping is coming from inside the room. In the window, he spots her. Mandy is crouching along the outside ledge of the window, rolled onto her side like a cat on the back of an armchair. She’s grinning like a teenager getting away with sin. He twists open the lock and pushes open the window so she can climb inside.   

“About damn time, Ian!” she complains as she throws her legs over the window sill. “Do you know how hard it is to keep my balance out there?”  

“I knew it! We can fly! I knew he was full of shit!”  

“Relax, you spastic weirdo,” she snickers. “I gave myself a running start. If you come at the wall with enough momentum, you can get ahead of gravity for a few seconds.”  

“Why didn’t you just use the door?”  

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I wasn’t sure you would answer the door. You stormed off is a bit of a hissy.” She stands and crosses to the bed, reclining where Ian had been moments ago.  

“He lied to me, Mandy!” He catches himself screaming and pulls back. “About my family. Lip was going around pulling stupid shit. And I could have talked him off a ledge if I knew. I think I’m allowed to be mad.”  

“You and Lip were close, then? Who names their kid Lip?”  

“It’s just a nickname. Yeah. I’m close with all my siblings, but especially him. We’re only fourteen months apart. Irish twins.”  

“ Irish Irish twins,” she twinkles at him.   

 He laughs thickly and reaches for the handkerchief in his back pocket. He can feel a tear starting to form and he dabs at the corner of his eye before he ends up looking like something out of a gothic novel.   

“He must’ve known I’d want to know about something like this.”   

“You’re the younger brother, aren’t you? You’ve got little brother energy.”  

“More like the middle sibling.” He rattles off the names and ages of all his siblings, describing each one with the loving care of a man who didn’t know what he had until he lost them. Fiona, the lynchpin of the family who held them together through some of their worst moments. Lip, his constant companion and the family’s great hope. Debbie, hearth and home and full of ideals. Carl, who makes everyone laugh. And Liam, wise beyond his years.    

“They sound great. And you’ve told Mikhailo all about them, right?”  

“I’m pretty sure I was driving him crazy those first few weeks. I missed them so much.” He corrects himself. “Still miss them.”  

“Here’s the tricky thing about being immortality is that the memories that don’t matter fade.”  

“Yeah, it’s why Mickey does all his journaling.”  

 “Yeah, well… Mikhailo has the mindset of an archivist. He thinks everything is important. I’ve never had to write down a note about my little sisters or my aunt who raised us because they had such a deep impact on me. Remember how I told you the memories that matter tend to shine brighter? He may not have had a great run of things during his mortal years, but it sounds like he knows you did. He didn’t want your memories of your brother to be tarnished.”  

“Yeah, but—”  

“You’ve got forever, Ian.” Mandy declares sharply, her voice laced with an air of authority that renders Ian mute. “Do you want to spend centuries— centuries, Ian— remembering that Tongue—”  

“Lip.”  

“Whatever— do you want to spend eternity thinking he hated our kind?”  

He purses his lips together and tenses his muscles to quell the ache he feels, the tightening in his chest. The sense of loss always threatening to bubble when he thinks about his family for too long. “Well, too late now.”  

“Pfft. No it isn’t.”  

“But he’s going around the country waving signs and making speeches—”   

“Do you hear yourself?” She practically leaps into sitting position, mischief in her eyes. “All those verbs are in the present tense. And you both happen to be in the same city. In the present tense.”  

Ian opens his mouth to speak, but his train of thought screeches to a halt. Lip is here. Of all the cities he could go to, they ended up right in the path of his brother’s anti-vampire campaign tour. God, he could kill Lip. He must have just graduated from the Institute of Technology by now. He should be working some cushy job in a chemist’s lab or something by now, supporting the family like always promised he would after he graduated. Instead he’s doing… this. Fucking idiot …   

But then he figures Lip isn’t exactly blameless. Ian was the one who littered the South Side with corpses. A messy eater, just as Mickey once scolded him for being. So many “ifs” have led him here. If only he knew how to feed properly. If only Wulfric hadn’t thrown himself into the fire. If only Wulfric hadn’t sired him. If only Ian hadn’t fallen for the older man’s charms. If only Ian hadn’t been desperate for a lover’s touch. Ultimately, this comes back to him. It is Ian’s fault that his brother has gone off the rails like this.   

“No, Mandy. I can’t face him. Or any of them.”  

“Why not? We all have a few years where our family won’t notice that we aren’t aging. Why waste it?    

He exhales a long sigh, “Probably the same reason nobody in my family knew I’m a bugger. Except Lip, I mean.”  

“Did Lip care?”  

“Took him a minute, but he got over it.” And in truth, Lip was more upset that Ian kept it from him than anything else. Though perhaps Lip did take issue with the fact that he used to let Mr. Karib take his advantage with him in exchange for letting him bring home a bushel or two of lightly expired vegetables every week. “No, he was always… why? What are you suggesting?”  

She steeples her hands and smiles, a plan in her eyes.   

🧛Mickey🧛  

He sits up in the bed he is supposed to be sharing with Ian, looking over to where his sort-of fledgling, his lover ought to be. But Ian just had an awful shock and needs his space. Ian’s emotions felt so explosively angry and yet so bitterly cold earlier that night when he shoved past Mickey and made a beeline for the spare bedroom. Perhaps Mickey needs space to process his feelings as well. He doesn’t know if the feeling of unrest is because Ian is upset or on account of remorse.   

He has tried so hard to do right by Ian, he has done right by Ian. Mickey’s memories of his own youth are fuzzy and shift like a kaleidoscope, but he can still remember what it felt like to be unloved, to have a father who sold him in exchange for timber and furs, to have a mother who didn’t love him enough to protect him from being sold by the old sot. Ian deserves better, especially knowing he came from such a loving home. Ian cares so much. And Mickey knows first hand what a loving and kind heart he has. Ian deserves to preserve that head of good memories he has.   

Mickey sets down the book he has been reading for the past few hours in an attempt to manage his stress after the Drekava sighting and the emotional fallout of Ian discovering what his brother has been up to. He had purchased this book in one of the Smithsonian gift shops but he has been spending so much time with Ian that this is his first time being able to read it. Paleontology is a relatively new science, maybe only a century old.   

Having lived through so much history, he enjoys the perspective reading about dinosaurs gives him. Creatures that lived and died millions of years before he was born is a bit of a comfort. Especially when he is trying to focus on something other than the torrent of unfocused rage and frustration Ian is feeling.   

But Ian’s frustrations have receded like an ocean tide and Mickey can feel a sense of relief wash over his whole body. His relief, not Ian’s. Perhaps Ian is ready to talk to him. They can go out for Ian’s pre-dawn feeding and Mickey can apologize for keeping his secret as long as he did.   

He finds himself in the corridor that separates their bedroom from the spare that Ian has been stewing in all evening. He has knocked a few times without an answer. He even babbles like an idiot for a minutes or two, hoping that a cogent thought comes to him in the process. How is he over one thousand years old, but so bad at feelings?  

He almost turns around and retreats to his room. What is it about Gallagher that makes me brave enough to protect him but a total coward when I have to face him? But then he stops himself. He would accept it if Ian is just giving him the cold shoulder, but the air is too still. He opens the door.   

Empty. If it weren’t for the tarp-like dust cloth balled up in the corner and the curtains dancing in the breeze of the open window, Mickey would think nobody had even been in the room.   

And one more thing— a note on the side table, stuffed under the electric lamp at one corner. He takes it. Even without reading, he can tell it is Mandy’s penmanship. The lettering is written in nearly effortless calligraphy.  

Mickey,  

We went out for a late-night snack. Your boy is wound so tight that he’s going to snap if he isn’t careful. I thought he could benefit from an outing just the two of us. Don’t wait up.  

~Mandy  

He crumbles the piece of stationary in his hand. “What is that dumb bitch playing at?”  

Chapter Text

🧛Ian🧛  

“I thought you said your family is as poor as church mice,” wonders, gobsmacked Mandy as she holds Ian up. “How the fuck did your brother afford a room at the Rittenhouse?”  

Ian tries to answer, but the sun has been up for a few hours and he’s still adjusting to being out in the daytime; it takes a lot of strength to keep himself from passing out. At least he is more mobile than he had been the last time he was about in the daytime when he and Mickey had travelled east.  

They had exhausted all the cheaper low-end motels that Ian would have thought his brother would have been able to afford. But thinking back, he remembered what Mickey had said of the first time he met Mandy. He tried to imagine how it must have worked. Mandy watched him, biting her lip to keep from laughing, before she explained all he really had to do was close his eyes and listen. Rittenhouse Square is ultimately where the singing led him. Mickey was right. Ian’s blood practically sang in his veins the closer they came to the five story Rittenhouse Hotel. A choir making his entire body feel alight the closer they came. He could practically taste one of his brother’s Lucky Strikes on his lips.   

“I… can’t see him, Mands. We gotta go back.”  

She locks eyes with him as though personally offended. “We just got here!”  

“I’m too weak.”  

Hands on her hips, she volleys back, “What? Are you going to challenge him to a round of bare knuckle boxing or something?”  

“Lip can strong arm a conversation like you wouldn’t believe.” Which is a legitimate concern. How is he expect to explain what path his life has taken without Lip flying off the handle when he barely has the strength to string three sentences together without strain? But at least he can stand up in the daytime now. Progress, right?    

“Look, I know you’re nervous—”  

“We can come back tonight. After his speech.”  

“Or we can attend. It starts at sundown,” she offers, tapping her index finger to her chin. “The paper said the Helsings like to show they aren’t afraid of what lurks in the dark.”  

His pulse quickens. The harmonizing vibrations of his blood going wild. He’s close. They need to go. He can’t handle seeing his brother when he can barely hold himself up like this. “We need to go. Now.”  

“Alright, fine. I think the streetcar should stop—”  

Feebly, he paws at Mandy’s shoulder, his eyes wide and threatening crimson tears. “No, I mean now, Mands. He’s coming.”  

“But it’s daytime. Someone might—”  

“Please!”   

She stalls momentarily, but then she holds up a finger reproachfully. “It’s on you if someone sees, got it?” She takes him around the middle pulling him close like they are about to compete in a three-legged race.   

“Ian?”  

Ian turns his head around to see his older brother, nattily arrayed and staring at him like he just saw a ghost. But in the twinkling of an instant, he is gone and Rittenhouse Square along with him. The sounds of the bustling metropolis are swallowed up as Mandy hurls them headlong into her self-made swirling vortex of color and light, but she draws to a sudden stop when they are still far from  Mickey’s house in South Philly.   

“Why did we stop?”   

Mandy steadies Ian as the world rights itself around him. Looking around, he sees that they are in an alleyway maybe halfway between Rittenhouse Square and their current residence. Ian is confused. It is only a couple miles distance between the Rittenhouse Hotel and the house. Mickey and Mandy can both run at full vampiric velocity for three times that distance before they begin to tire, even with Ian along as a passenger.   

“The goal was to put some distance between us and your brother, right? Mission accomplished. I don’t want to risk exposing ourselves in broad daylight more than I have to.” She rests him against a wall and pokes her head out onto the street.   

“Where are you going?”  

“Don’t worry about it. Stay right here.” Ian has no choice but to comply. He can’t go very far unassisted in the sun. He pulls out his kerchief and dabs as the sanguine discharge already drying in the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks. Minutes later, she returns pushing a wicker straight-backed wheelchair in front of her. “Ta-da!”  

“Where did you find this?” he asks as she helps him to sit.   

“I stopped here for a reason. We’re right next door to a hospice. They always have wheelchairs laying about. Lucky for us, this one was by the service entrance. One of the smaller wheels is a little janky, but I think I can fix it real quick.” She takes her handbag from her shoulder and pulls out a small adjustable crescent wrench.”  

“You just happen to carry a wrench around with you?”  

“You wouldn’t be asking that question if you ever worked backstage in a theatre.” she retorts as she squats down to tighten one of the smaller back wheels.  

🧛Mickey🧛  

It is nearly ten in the morning and Mickey has been practically burning a hole in the floor of the of the sitting room as he waits for Mandy and Ian to return. He was half-tempted to chase after them hours ago when he first discovered that they had gone out together. But he second-guessed that impulse. He figured Ian still needed some space. And even though young vampires have been known to be young and reckless, especially in the past few centuries, he had Mandy with him. Mandy is more than capable of keeping him safe for a few hours. Now, he is regretting that decision.  

When the sun rose and there was still no sign of either of them in the house, he was half tempted to mentally command Ian home. He hates himself for even thinking it. That link is there for him to better protect and guide Ian. He could use that power he has over Ian to order him to come back into his open arms, compel the redhead to forgive him. But that would make Mickey no better than the monsters who still make appearances in his nightmares even now a millennium later; Wulfric, now a pile of soot somewhere in Sherman Park back in Chicago, or his Norse slave masters, long since decayed, consumed by the worms, and forgotten to time.   

He won’t abuse this power he has over Ian unless it is a matter of life and death.   

And so he waits. And worries. And catastrophizes. In the past twelve hours, he has discovered that the city has infestations of both vampire hunters as well as the monsters they really ought to be frightened of. If not for the steady hum of Ian’s emotions rattling around in the back of his head, he would be in an outright panic for his companion’s safety. But what he has felt since sunrise hasn’t filled him with reassurance either.   

There is the physical pain. That is just part and parcel of a young vampire enduring the sunlight. Even with Wulfric’s ancient blood empowering him to endure the sun far beyond the capacities of the average fledgling his age, the sun is still a source of agony. Ian once compared it to a story he read to his siblings about a mermaid who gave up her fins in exchange for a pair of legs. Every step she took felt like she was walking on sharpened knives.   

On top of the pain though, is melancholy, which tends to be one of Ian’s more intense emotions. Ian has told Mickey some of what his mortal life was like with his manic depression. While he oft-times couldn’t recognize the mania for the problem it is until too late, the bouts of depression always felt like an undertow threatening to drag Ian down.   

His muscles tense and he cracks his tattooed knuckles just to distract himself from the sense of trepidation coursing inside him. He would almost rather Ian be in danger than feel such misery. At least if he were in trouble, Mickey could rush out like an avenging angel, fight whatever is threatening Ian or at the very least whisk him back to safety.   

Finally, though, the front door bursts open, letting in a warm, but not yet humid, early August breeze. Mickey hears the squeak of a wheel in need of a touch of oil and his sister’s caustic alto coming from the foyer.   

He rushes to meet them and, while momentarily taken aback by the presence of a pilfered wheelchair, he nods in approval at his sister’s resourcefulness. “Where the fuck have you been?”  

“Saw my brother,” answers Ian, wincing as he rises to his feet. On instinct, Mickey finds himself by Ian’s side, propping him up.   

“You didn’t do anything stupid did you?”  

“Chickened out.”  

“There’s nothing wrong with reaching out to family when you’re first turned. He could probably go a good five or ten years without—”  

“It’s a different story when they want to kill us, Mands. You know that.”  

“He saw me.” Ian admits, his face downcast. “We were about to leave ‘cause I didn’t want to… I’m too weak. I don’t think I could… but he spotted us before Mandy could get us out of there.”  

“Hey,” Mickey whispers, taking Ian’s face by the chin and lifting it so that their eyes meet. Are you okay?”  

“I will be once I’ve slept,” the ginger nods as Mickey helps him up the stairs. “Just need to regain my strength.”   

“Alright, but Ian, you know I can feel it.”  

“Then why did you ask?”  

“Because he wants you to tell him, genius.” Mandy interjects as she slinks past them to the second floor landing.   

“I’ve got this from here, sis.” Mickey flairs his nostrils and eyebrows at her, silently screaming to give them some alone time.  

“I… I wish I had found the stones to tell you about your brother, Ian.” Mickey admits once Mandy retires to the third floor. He can’t quite look Ian in the eye, too fearful of that icy glare Ian had shot his way earlier. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles. “If you want to lay down in the other room for the day, I’ll understand.”  

“That’s okay. Our bed’s fine.” Ian answers neutrally.   

“You mad a me?” He inquires falteringly as he pushes their door open.  

“Not as much as I was,” Ian concedes as he barely holds himself up. Mickey helps him undress for bed down to a  pair of plain grey drawers. “And I was just as pissed at Lip for being such and fucking idiot. But at least I got a plan now.”  

“A plan?” Mickey echoes as he strips down to a thigh-length red union suit and climbing under the covers.  

“Lip’s in charge of the stake and holy water brigade, right?” Ian joins him under the comforter. “His rally is after sunset tonight. Maybe if I—”    

“I’m coming with you.”  

“Huh? You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”  

“You want to try and see him again before his speech, right?” He asks, nuzzling his forehead against Ian’s, murmuring softly. “I know he’s your brother, but if he has an inkling of what you are, then I wanna be there to—”  

“Protect me?” A twinge of accusation in his voice.  

“Support you,” Mickey counters. “You know your family better than me. If you think Phillip can handle the truth, I will back you. And if he doesn’t, I want you to have someone in your corner.”  

Ian is still for a moment. “I’m still a little mad. You remember me saying that part, right?”   

“If I backed off every time I pissed off a member of my clan who needed help—”  

“I’m part of your clan?” Asks Ian, his lilt shooting up an octave.   

Mickey’s hand slips into place, thumb caressing Ian’s jawline while his digits card their way through thick strands of coppery red hair. His lips plant a gentle kiss on the hurting younger vampire’s forehead just below the hairline. Ian feels even deeper than clan, even closer than Mandy, who is one step closer. But Mickey doesn’t have a word for it, not a word he is comfortable using yet.   

“Of course you are, man. You’re family.”  

🧛🧛🧛  

MYSTERY MAULINGS CONTINUE  

Mickey spies the headline of the Philadelphia Tribune Evening Edition. A businessman sitting on a bench reserved for the infirm and infirm is reading the paper, his body shifting from side to side as the T rattles along. He averts his eye to keep from staring. Instead, he watches his companion’s downright vaudevillian routine.   

“I can’t believe we all overslept,” kvetches Ian as he accidentally bumps into another person on the trolley.   

“We were up pretty late, Gallagher,” Mickey counters.  

“Oops. Sorry, sir. I’m all out of sorts today.” He ambles away, feigning fatigue as the middle aged man can’t help but reach for his neck. No doubt, the gentleman thinks it was just a mosquito bite this late in the Summer season.   

“Got your fill?” Mickey asks, amused by Ian’s charade.   

“Might need a snack in the crowd, but I’ll manage. We missed our window to catch him.”  

“Catch him before the show, yeah. But we’ll still get there in time for his big speech,” assuages Mickey. “Hair as bright as yours, he’ll spot you in the audience. This is our stop coming up.”  

They disembark the trolley and hoof it the remaining half, Mickey holding onto Ian tight as he sprints them until they are about two thirty strides from their destination, where a crowd is beginning to swell in Schuylkill Park. It might cause a scene if it looks like they suddenly appeared anywhere closer, especially if this crowd is leery of creatures beyond their normal understanding of the world.  

“Yaooowhaaaaaaaallll!” Comes a guttural howl piercing the air from not nearly as far away as Mickey would like. Two more howls follow in quick succession. No. These creatures stick close to the shorelines and riverbanks. What are they doing this far inland? Why the fuck are they here? They’re supposed to be New Jersey’s problem!  

“Is that what I think it is?” Asks Ian. Mickey feels the panicked dread forming in Ian’s chest.  

Mickey looks at the growing crowd ahead of him. Then he looks past the park, vampiric vision telescoping outward. The Schuylkill River. The park is right along the riverfront.   

“Yeah. It’s exactly what you think it is. Fuck!”  

Chapter Text

Once again, Lip wakes up in a strange bed, as he has done every few nights for weeks. Springfield. Indianapolis. Cincinnati. Wheeling. Pittsburgh. Buffalo. And this week Philadelphia. Next week they head to New York, and Boston after that. “World traveler” might be a bit of an exaggeration, but he has seen more of the country in the past nine weeks than the entirety of his family has seen in their entire lives. He has yet to see a single vampire but no matter where they end up, there are unsolved deaths. Any or all of them could be the genuine article. And folks need to be vigilant unless they want to lose the people that matter most to them. Or worse— become the victims themselves.

That’s why he’s doing this— it’s all for Ian’s sake. Whatever creature tried to impersonate his brother and bribe the Gallaghers into silence didn’t know what he was doing when he left thirty grand just waiting on their doorstep. Lip used his share of the cash and used it to bankroll his tour across the nation. And fundraising has kept the trip from draining his funds completely.

He looks over at the twin bed beside his where his youngest brother sleeps restlessly, his body twitching. Unusual. As long as they have been traveling together, Liam has taken to new bed easily. He sleeps as soundly as he can considering the ten-year-old has been uprooted from his home and hasn’t lived in the same city for a full week in over two months. This morning, though, the boy sleeps on his side, one leg curled up to his chest as the other kicks at the bedding. He clutches, practically squeezing the stuffing out of, the well-loved stuffed rabbit that Ian once won for him at a carnival sharpshooter booth.

They all have claimed a keepsake of their brother.  Fiona can’t part with a flannel shirt their brother never wanted to part with even though it hugged him too tightly after he filled out. Debbie has taken up tending to the potted  tomato, mint, and thyme plants that sit on the back steps of the house. Carl claimed Ian’s Winchester ‘73, much to everyone’s terror, and Lip actually claimed two keepsakes. A fiddle in desperate need of tuning and a pocket knife Ian used to whittle with. The knife never leaves his person.

 In his sleep, Liam murmurs, muttering something about monsters. Lip shudders, realizing he needs to do a better job of shielding the youngest Gallagher from the nature of his personal mandate.

Sometimes Lip finds himself second-guessing his decision to take Liam with him, taking him away from the only home he has ever known, away from Fiona who has been really the only sort of mother he can remember. But with Ian dead and Lip galvanized into action with the Van Helsing Society, if he had left his youngest brother with Fiona, there is little doubt in his mind that his sisters would have insisted he find work at the cost of his studies. Even with all that money at her disposal now, she believes in all of them pulling their weight. And Liam shines too brightly to let that sweet young give up his education for the meat packing plant.

Fiona may have good intentions, but she is too much of a bottom line kind of person. And he knows she was probably fuming when she found out he had taken their baby brother with him. She might still be mad even now.  Though, more likely, she’ll calm down once she realizes how much further their budget will spread further with two fewer mouths to feed.

Perhaps it is the weight of knowing that he has taken Liam away from everything that he has ever known that causes Lip to take such care to keep the youngest Gallagher safe. He could have easily rented out rooms in cheap taverns or motels at every stop on their trip. But the nicer luxury hotels are far more safe and secure. And as much an extravagance as staying in these grand edifices in each city may be, he still doesn’t spring for a suite or separate rooms. In fact, he rarely lets the boy out of his sight. Just leaving Liam in the hands of one of the VH Society members for his rallies is enough to cause his heart to palpitate and his palms to sweat. Every morning, no matter where they wake up, he takes relief in knowing that Liam is safe in the next bed over.

Rising to his feet, Lip reaches for his clothes for the day which are folded neatly across the top of an ornate Revival-style writing desk. As he sits in a tall wingback chair, he slips on his garters just below the knee and starts rolling his stockings until he can hitch them into place. He casts his eyes towards his kid brother as Lip jolts upright in bed.

Normally, squinting his eyes tight and crinkling his nose would be Liam’s telltale sign that he is in the process of waking up, but trying to hold onto the dream a bit longer. He likes to commit as much of a dream as possible to memory, so that he can write down write down what he saw after he wakes up. It is a tendency that only cropped up since they have been on the road. Lip supposes that it is a habit borne out of the need for some semblance of order in their lives.

This morning, though, he practically jumped off the bed, gasping for air as though he has been chased.

“You up?”

“That was a good one,” Liam lets the terror in his expression soften to delight, like he just saw a flicker at the nickelodeon.  “It was just getting exciting.”

“C’mon, little bud,” exhorts the elder Gallagher as he steps into his slacks and wriggles them up to above his hips.  “Write down what you saw and then we can head out for some breakfast.”

Once dressed, he looks at himself in the mirror, still adjusting to the fact that he needs to dress like he just popped out of the Sears & Roebuck catalog. Part of him certainly enjoys the way people look at him now. He isn’t wearing anything that looks homespun or a church donation. People take what he has to say more seriously now that he can dress the part of a man of society instead of a Canaryville gutter rat.

Realizing how silly it must look to Liam to see him preening in the mirror, Lip turns his attention to his brother, who is still hunched over the little memorandum book he always writes in. Though, it looks more like his is doodling, his expression serious and concentrated, tongue sticking out one corner.

“Hurry up, buddy,” Lip urges, while still trying desperately not to sound like he is parenting his sibling. “The dandy lion at the front desk wouldn’t shut up about this bakery on Spruce I want to try.

“Just a sec,” the youngest Gallagher stalls as he finishes what he is doing before he slips the little leather-bound book into his satchel and starts pulling on knickerbockers and suspenders on over a cream-colored henley.

They ride a brass elevator down from their floor, the elevator operator giving them shifty glances. Back home in their Southside neighborhood, everyone knew better than to give the youngest Gallagher brother a hard time because of the color of his skin or they would have five older Gallaghers ready to put a stomp on them. Now, Lip has supporters and bad publicity to consider. So, as long as doesn’t go past nasty looks, Lip stoppers the urge to wallop the elevator operator.

It still rubs Lip nerves raw though, but Liam doesn’t take the hint. His younger brother approaches the man and woman behind the front desk and launches into all manner of questions about the city. He does this everywhere they go, but the odious glare of the man on the elevator has him anxious to get out of the hospital and on with their morning sightseeing. Liam is still chattering on about the city’s parks and gardens, when he feels his fingers slip inside his suit’s pocket and grip around a silver cigarette case.

Without even thinking through what he’s doing, he is pulling out the case and telling Liam he is only stepping out for a moment. I’m overdue for a hit of nicotine, anyway, he convinces himself, frustrated yet again for not paying the up-charge he could have paid for the right to smoke in the goddamn room he paid for. What is the world fucking coming to?

The Lucky cigarette is already dangling loosely and he is digging through his pockets for his book of matches as he pushes his way through the heavy brass revolving door.

And then the cigarette falls out of his mouth, completely forgotten. Standing in front him is a beautiful young society woman with skin like ivory contrasted by raven hair done up like a Gibson girl. But at gorgeous as she is, she isn’t what has Lip transfixed to the spot as though struck by lightning.

Her arm is wrapped around the midsection of a tall, broad shouldered man. His copper hair and pale complexion aglow in the sunlight. Lip feels his stomach tie itself in knots and the earth fall out from beneath him. It can’t be.

“Ian?”

The ginger responds to the name, their eyes lock. It’s him. It’s really him. In a fraction of an instant, Ian’s jaw drops, a mirror to Lip’s own expression. But then he and the woman vanish, not a trace of them as though they had never been there to begin with.

His imagination has conjured up his brother so many times since he went missing, presumed dead. And despite evaporating into thin air right in front of him, he thinks for once that he isn’t just chasing a chimera. Okay, he was hugging one beaut of a dame, not exactly Ian’s milieu. But otherwise, that was Ian down to the very last freckle.

In broad daylight. Maybe he needs to reconsider the vampire theory.

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛

There are several hundreds of people in the park congregating around a pavilion lined with tiki torches and furnished with an aluminum microphone on a stand. And more people are streaming in. The atmosphere feels less like the people of the city are here to hear Lip and his dire warnings of the supernatural and more like they are here for a raucous night at a midway sideshow. Ian cannot help but feel sorry for Lip. If there is one thing that will get under his brother’s skin and rile him up, it is people not taking him deathly seriously.

There are no doubt folks who have come to see Lip and his anti-vampire coalition in earnest. The superstitious, the open-minded free thinkers, the people who have read one too many dime novels. But there is a downright carnival atmosphere among the people want to come look at the freaks. He is surprised he doesn’t smell all that much rotten fruit. Don’t these people have anywhere better to be on a Saturday night?

Ian wonders if he would have been one of the unwashed masses at a gathering like this had the recent course of his life had befallen someone else. He probably would. He believed so much nonsense about his kind when he was first given The Gift. Not only that, but he would have followed Lip blindly into the gates of hell once upon a time.

“We need to get to the stage and convince the organizers to send everyone home.” Mickey strategizes as they push through the crowds of rowdy Philadelphians.

“Can’t you just speed through?”

“Not without space to run. Shit, they just keep coming! Don't these mortals have anywhere better to be?" grumbles Mickey, as he wades through the sea of bystanders. "It’s going to be a bloodbath if we don’t hurry.”

"Like lambs to the slaughter," nods Ian, agreeing.

There is a trio of three Van Helsing clowns on the pavilion handing off a microphone between the three of them as they use Dracula to denounce the dangers of carnal pleasures as a precursor to vampire attacks. As warm up acts go, it would be hilarious if this was supposed to be a comedy routine. It’s another moment when Ian can feel that gap between himself and mortals growing a little wilder. Because only a mortal drunk on group-think could be this dumb.

“Yaaoooow! Yaooowhaaaaaaaallll!” Ululates the Drekava, the sound quickly drawing closer than before.

“We have to hurry,” Mickey urges.

“I know. Push and shove if you have—”

“Ian!”

It doesn’t happen at anywhere near vampiric speed, but Ian is still nonetheless caught unawares when a small body practically leaps to ensnare him around the waist, practically squeezing the air out of him.

“Everyone said you were dead! I knew it couldn’t be true! Ian, everyone back home is so worried! And Fiona doesn’t ever wanna talk about it, but I know she cried a lot. Her makeup is so awful anymore, always runny like permanent raccoon eyes! Oh! And Carl has your old hunting rifle, which is scary, right? Carl shouldn’t have access to—”

“Calm down, little man! You’re going a mile a minute,” Ian pleads, hugging his brother back. He knows he has something important to do, but this is the first time he has held family in months. “What are you doing here?”

“I gave my babysitter the slip.”

“No, I mean what are you doing in Philadelphia?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” the kid fires back, playfully cuffing his elder sibling’s bicep.

“Touché.”

“Lip’s been taking me around.”

“Of course he has,” Ian sighs. “And Fiona was okay with this?”

“I’m not completely sure he asked.”

“So, he kidnapped you?” Asks Ian leaning down to approach his eye level, hands on his knees.

“More like he was going off the rails,” Liam shrugs, hands in the pockets of his knickerbockers. “And somebody had to keep an eye on ‘em.”

“Christ, she's probably worried out of her mind.”

“Why are we focusing on me and not the fact that everyone thinks your dead?”

“I take it this is Liam?” Asks Mickey, visibly pushing back the amusement on his face.

“What gave it away?” Asks Liam, unintimidated by the presence of a stranger. Liam uses to be so timid with his and Lip’s friends. Ian supposes it comes with being well-traveled at such a young age.

“You’re tiny.”

Liam looks between the two men, understanding blooming in his countenance. “So, how do you know my brother?”

“Yaoooowaaaaahl! Yaoow! Yawooooo!”

“Shit! They’re too fucking close.” He looks down at his baby brother. Then at Mickey. “Mick, we’ve gotta get him out of here.”

“What about Chin?”

“You mean Lip?” Chuckles Liam, oblivious to why the adults are panicked.

“Leave Lip to me.”

“You’re not as fast—”

“What if I don’t want to go?” Liam crosses his arms over his chest indignantly.

“You’ll live,” Ian insists. “And I can manage, just get him somewhere safe.”

“I’m not just going to leave you—”

He’s scared I’ll get hurt or worse if he’s not by my side. But I can’t let anything happen to Liam either. What if the roles were reversed? No way he would leave Mandy in harm’s way if she couldn’t protect herself. Without even thinking, he grabs Mickey by his necktie and pulls him close. Lips meet, champagne corks pop, and wires short circuit. “I can handle my own. He can’t.”

Mickey’s face scrunches into a knot trying to formulate one last argument, but ultimately, he gives in. “Fine. I’ll be your little brother’s keeper.”

“Thank you,” Ian mouths soundlessly.

Turning his focus to the diminutive Gallagher brother, the centuries-old vampire scoops the pre-teen up. “Okay, what’s say we get you back to my digs.”

Liam just stares, smiling slyly at Mickey. “So you guys are close, huh?”

“Shut up, kid.”

Mickey turns about, and the two of them practically appear to be in multiple places at once as Mickey picks up speed. And then they’re gone. It is the first time he has been left in the wake of a vampire run. The air where they had just been smells like atomized ozone, like a bolt of lightning just smote the earth in front of him.

He returns to the task at hand, pushing his way through the crowd, the assemblage growing more dense the closer he gets to the pavilion. A slender devastatingly beautiful woman is on the pavilion now, apparently the last speaker before Lip. She has a venomously icy tone to her voice that causes Ian to imagine she likes to torture small animals just to get off on their squeals. Christ, it would just be typical if it turns out Lip is shacking up with her. He’s a sucker for a girl next door who would utterly wreck him.

Then finally, she takes her bow and introduces the introduces the leader of the Van Helsing Society, which as titles go sounds stupider each and every town the bozos drop it into their speeches. She introduces him as “Phillip Gallagher.” That catches Ian by surprise. Never since they were five and six years old, respectively, has his brother wanted to be addressed by his given Christian name.

Lip appears on the stage waving to the crowd as the thick swaths of humanity closer to the pavilion cheer him on. Adding a bowler to his ensemble, he is dressed much as he was when they crossed paths this morning. He gives the appearance of a man of the world who can navigate middle class garden parties, like he belongs in the box seats instead of the gallery. His blue eyes twinkling in the shifting light of the torches lining the sides of the pavilion and his smile shining a thousand watts onto the audience. The smile feels so unnatural, like a mask he is wearing for the public.

“Lip!” He hollers at the top of his lungs. He isn’t sure his brother can hear him across the din, but a flash of uncertainty ghosts across his face. It is so fleeting that someone who doesn’t have a studied understanding of his brother’s facial tics would miss it completely.

“Ladies, gentlemen… people of Philadelphia. I’m sure by now you know that we aren’t exactly the Temperance movement. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you think we are downright crazy. It’s what I certainly thought when they first approached me. My city— my neighborhood was being plagued by a rash of unexplained murders. Lacerations of the neck, throats practically torn out. And bodies drained of their blood. The corpses looked like salted jerky. It confounded the police forensics team and morgue staff. The bodies of men who were just seen alive the night before were suddenly emaciated as though they had been dead for years. It simply made no sense. But they are the lucky ones. They were returned to their families and given proper burials. Some bodies were never found at all.”

“Lip! Tell them all to go home!”

“Down in front, you big orange ox!” A stranger behind him snarls, shoving Ian into the spectators in front of him. Undeterred, he uses that forward momentum to elbow his way further into the mob.

“Let me tell you about my brother,” Lip continues into the mic.

“Lip, stop! Send them home!” Ian shouts. And he can see Lip scanning the crowd trying to locate him. So much for Mickey’s theory that Ian’s red hair practically glows in the dark.

“My brother Ian was only twenty-one, a hard worker. He wanted to be a surgeon. He went missing the same night the murders on the Southside of Chicago started. Probably the first victim.”

Finally, the inevitable happens. A chorus of shrieks ring out, guttural, wounded, and thunderstruck with terror. Even if Ian can’t see through the densely packed crowd, he can hear the snarling of the feral Drekava coming from all around them. The air is serenaded by the sounds the rending of flesh, the splattering of blood.

Everything turns on a dime in devastating chaos. The unwashed masses are fleeing in all directions and Ian sees the creature with a baker’s dozen of lifeless bodies around it. Ian himself has to take a step back in fright. He had only seen them in silhouette before but the the sight of the terrible beasts in their bestial, sickly pale glory causes Ian to resist his natural fight or flight response. Neither choices are options here. Not when his older brother is standing agape on the pavilion, frozen like a waxwork, gripping the microphone like a shield, and gibbering in horror.

Limbs fly. The mortals don’t hesitate to trammel over one another if it means saving their own skins. But another of the creatures makes its presence known, seeming to glory in the convenience of the mortals barreling in its direction for fear of the first Drekava

Enough of the crowd has fled. Finally Ian can make a beeline for the pavilion. But before he gets anywhere near enough, the third creature appears on the steps to the raised dais of the structure, ready to pounce. He’s too late. By the time he closes the distance, Lip will be another stain on the burnt summer grass.

But that doesn’t deter Ian. He pushes himself harder. He just got his brother back. It can’t end like this. He runs and he runs, pushing himself as he never has before until suddenly the world slows around him. It is like he has forced himself into a slipstream of sped up time and the world around him is ambling through quicksand. But he doesn’t slow down, not when he plows into his elder brother, shoulder first and scooping him into a fireman’s carry.

He doesn’t let up for an instant as he rushes so fast that he practically causes sparks on the ground below him. His heart feels like it might explode in his chest, but that can wait. He gets them all the way down to the front door of Mickey’s brick monstrosity of a house in South Philly.

He drops Lip on his ass on the front stoop and he doubles over to catch his breath. Lip is dizzy and he has to lean over the railing of the steps to expurgate this evening’s dinner in the bushes. Ian is still huffing and wheezing as Lip wipes the sick from his mouth.

“Ian? Is that really you? I’m not going off my rocker, am I?”

Still panting, he replies, “How have you spent weeks and weeks warning folks about what goes bump in the night and then not know what the fuck to do when they actually show up?”

“Seriously?” Lip ekes out a stifled chuckle as he climbs unsteadily to his feet. “All these months and that’s the first thing you got to say to me?”

“It is when you’re doing fucking stupid shit!” Ian seizes his brother by the shoulders. “You could have died! Liam could have been murdered by those things.”

“He’s fine,” comes a voice behind them. Both Gallagher brothers turn to see Mickey at the door. “Mandy’s fixing him pasta. She feels fucking vindicated for stocking the pantry. I’ll never hear the end of it. You coming in or just going to sit at the door like a couple of winos at four in the morning?”

Like a dam bursting, Ian feels a gasp of relief. They’re fine. They’re both fine. He has his brothers back, hale and hearty here in Mickey’s house. He breathes deep for what feels like the first time in days.

“What about the others back at the Park?” Asks Lip.

“Do you want to go back and face those fucking things?”

“And how did you do that? One minute I was about to die and then the next—”

“You sprinted?” Mickey sounds like a proud teacher whose student just aced the final exam.

Ian croaks out a thick laugh. “Yeah. They were going after Lip. I couldn’t let ‘em.”

“Sorry, but who are you?”

“The name’s—”

“What were those things?” Lip keeps asking, working himself into a frenetic panic. “How did you run like that? Why the fuck are you crying blood?”

“I, uh, I’ve got a lot to explain, Lip.” Ian murmurs as he reaches for his handkerchief and dabs at his cheeks.

“That’s not natur— Ian, what are you?”

“Can we please not have this discussion on my front stoop?”

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Phillip Gallagher pinches the bridge of his nose. “That old geezer you were seeing was a vampire?”  

It takes a lot of inner strength at this point not to roll his eyes at Ian’s elder brother. He and Mandy had spent a seemingly interminable amount of time going through all the mortal Gallagher brothers’ questions. The boys lobbed questions about old European vampire lore at them that Mickey hadn’t even heard of before. Throwing grain in front of a vampire because they have to stop and count ever granule sounds patently ridiculous.  

And the very notion that they can’t cross bodies of running water? Okay. Granted, these two haven’t the foggiest clue just how much time Mickey has piloted his own merchant ships from over the centuries. Hell, it would blow their little mortal minds if they knew that certain tales surrounding one of his less legal seaworthy enterprises might have been baked into the plot of Captain Blood . They don’t have a lot of Mickey’s context that would dispel such idiotic rumors. 

Still, that sounds especially gullible. 

Fortunately, though, they have shifted their line of questioning to current events; Ian’s recent history. And as long as they do not inquire about Ian’s lost days immediately following his rebirth as a vampire, Mickey thinks he can relax and let Ian take pointe. 

“He wasn’t that old,” demurs Ian, who sounds like the age of the men he courted in his mortal life is more of a sticking point with his brother than the buggery.  

Mickey flares a single eyebrow. “He was already a vampire before the Fall of Rome, Red. That’s pretty old.” 

“Well, he looked maybe 50-ish.” 

“Which is old,” interjects Liam, as he looks up from sketching on the drafting papers that Mickey provided him. The adults all turn to look at the ten-year-old. Mandy struggles to hide her grin. She seems to find the little one entertaining. And Mickey isn’t exactly comfortable with the glances she keeps casting towards the eldest Gallagher. “Well, it is.” 

“So, Rutger turned you—” 

“Wulfric,” Mickey corrects. “Rutger is just one of the cover names he used to cycle through.” 

“Well that isn’t confusing at all,” Phillip deadpans.  

“It’s just what we do. Mortals don’t get to know our true names, just the ones that we adopt for a lifetime or so. He was going by ‘Ulfric’ when he turned me. He was a fucking font of creativity, that guy.” 

“He was going by ‘Lloyd Lishman’ when I first crossed paths with him in Amsterdam,” adds Mandy.  

“So does that mean you aren’t really Foster K Wattley Jr?” 

“Oh, I’m really him alright. It’s just not my true name.”  

“What is it then?” 

Mickey furrows his brow. “Not for a vampire hunter to know.” 

“Vamps typically don’t share their true names with mortals,” clarifies Ian, shoving himself into his brother’s line of sight, attempting to pull Phillip’s focus from Mickey.  

But the little shit keeps staring down the vampire territorially. Lip knows now that they have been living together almost as long as Ian has been missing. It doesn’t take the family genius to figure they have been making the beast with two backs for a while now. The Cyrano-looking jackass looks like he wants to challenge Mickey to a duel to protect his brother’s virtue. Mickey wonders if it would change his mind to know that Ian does the majority of the deflowering in the bedroom. 

“You don’t like me, do you?”  

“He doesn’t like most people right away,” comments Mandy sounding bored now that the new shiny thing isn’t paying her any attention. 

“Whether I like you or not means jack all, Phillip. I don’t know if I can trust you. But I’m trying. For Ian’s sake.” 

“And everyone else? You just left them to die?” 

“Lip...” Ian sighs in a long-suffering tone.  

Mickey doesn’t get it. Ian has been singing his older brother’s praises to him for months, but the man sitting across the table from him is a dick-headed bully.  

“You saw what those things could do, right? The first time my sister and I ever saw one of those things, it took out an entire fishing village single-handedly.” 

“Eh...” Mandy shrugs, still batting her eye at the mortal. “It was more of a settlement than a village.” 

“This is what you choose to split hairs over?” he grumbles at his sister before redirecting his focus towards Phillip. “My point being, I literally couldn’t have made it back in time. And even if I did, I can lift three metric tons, but I only have so many arms to carry. You would have been a bloodstain on the grass if Ian flourish under pressure the way he did, hunter,” Mickey continues undeterred, icily laying down the truth. “We’re fast, but we’re not that fast. I wasn’t going to make it back in time before the Drekava reached the crowd. So, when given the choice of saving you and saving you or saving Liam, he chose the kid.” 

“That true?” the mortal asks, looking at Ian, who sucks on the inside of his cheeks, hollowing them out and accentuating his cheek bones. The redhead nods apprehensively, as though admitting guilt.  

“Yeah?” Phillip sounds wounded. “I guess I would have, too. Gallaghers, right?” 

“Gallaghers,” Ian affirms, nodding. He reaches across the table to his brother, who reaches out in turn, clasping one another so that the curve of their hands are cupped just below their elbows. Their eyes reflect one another luminously in the light of the tiffany glass. It seems like a gesture of practiced solidarity between the two.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks a confused Mandy.  

Mickey sighs, feeling the tension ease up. “They’re as much a clan as we are, Mands. You know what it’s like.” Mickey sits back in his chair, nodding pensively. “We take care of our own. The stronger protect the weaker.”  

🧛 Ian🧛 

It is such a relief when the tension finally breaks between Mickey and Lip. His neck was getting quite the workout as the conversation ping-ponged between his brother and lover as Lip kept asking questions that only presented more questions, which in turn resulted in his typical brand of snark when he doesn’t feel in control of the situation. Meanwhile Mickey met all his questions while still holding back just enough for comfort.  

Honestly, Ian can’t exactly blame Mickey for being a little evasive with his answers. Literally, less than two hours ago, his brother was a self-described vampire hunter and the mouthpiece of a mob of like-minded idiots armed with stakes, holy water, and garlands of garlic. 

When they transition to the sitting room, Mickey brings up a few bottles of Old Style from the icebox in the basement for Lip, who is impressed that Mickey would bother to pay for it to be shipped all the way from the Midwest. It lightens the mood even if Ian cannot partake. He has hit a few vampiric developmental milestones phenomenally early, but anything but blood still turns his stomach.  

As both Lip and Mickey loosen up, the flow of the questions suddenly reverses as both Mickey and Mandy find themselves with not one but two members of the Gallagher household who can help paint a more vivid illustration of what Ian’s formative years were like.   

Mickey tries to get a more rounded mental image of what shaped Ian into the man he is today. Whereas Mandy is curious to find out about the kinds of mischief Ian and Lip used to get into when they were younger. For a normal person, childhood hijinks and embarrassing anecdotes about his awkward years would be a treacherous obstacle course to navigate. But for Ian, this is the soft and fuzzy part of his past. Lip and Mickey both seem to have mutually agreed to avoid any question or response that may lead to a discussion of his bipolar. And for that, Ian is eternally grateful. 

But eventually, Liam can’t keep his eyes open. He is only ten, after all. He ends up curled up alongside Ian on the sofa, legs tucked to his chest like a human jack knife and his head lolling on Ian’s lap. 

“I’ll take him up to the spare room,” offers Mickey, gently lifting the boy up.  

“You sure?” Asks Lip. “We have a hotel room.” 

“We have the space, Lip.” Ian insists as he gathers up Liam’s drawings. 

“If you think those monsters have passed…” 

Mandy shakes his head. “Doubt it. Drekava migrate, but it will be a while yet. I wouldn’t risk it.”  

“And we are certainly not asking Ian’s brothers to put their lives at risk.” Adds Mickey. 

“Just everyone else’s,” slurs Lip as they follow Mickey up to the guest room. 

“Don’t get all bent out of shape, Lip,” Mandy says, assuaging him as she turns down the covers of the guest bed. “I’ll send out a telegram to my point of contact with the Philadelphian Council. One or two of us are practically fodder against one of those. But they have resources at their command. And in greater numbers, they can ward them off.” 

“So, the solution to monsters that I watched murder dozens of people in a matter of moments is bureaucracy?” Asks Lip irritably. “Fucking hell.” 

“Better than going on a cross-country speaking tour,” jibes Ian, unable to help himself. “Or setting the Southside on fire.” 

“Hey, that one wasn’t my idea!”  

“Shh! You’ll wake the kid,” Mickey hisses, tucking Liam into the left side of the queen-size spare bed. 

Ian sets Liam’s drawings down on the dresser. And that’s when he really notices what he has drawn. Over and over again. “Hey, you guys wanna take a look at this?” 

The two vampires and his brother gather around to look at what Ian has to show them. Drekava. Drawing after drawing of them. Rendered with the crude finesse of a pre-teen’s artistic skill, of course, but still unnervingly accurate. 

“But I got him out of there before they showed their ugly faces.” 

Lip blanches in cold dread, bristling like a chill just ran down his spine. “Shit… where’s that satchel of his? I could have sworn.” 

“Cloakroom.” Mickey utters as he clamors down the stairs. 

“You guys have a cloakroom?” Asks Lip as they follow after. 

“He means the closet in the foyer,” Mandy rolls her eyes. 

At the bottom of the stairs, Mickey pulls out Liam’s small brown leather bag and hands it over to Lip, who pulls out a small journal and flips open to the most recent page. Holding it up to the three vampires, they behold yet another child’s drawing of a Drekavac. 

“He drew this right after he woke up this morning. Those Drekavas.” 

“Drekava is the plural,” corrects Ian only to get a sharp, rebuking glance from his brother. 

“What the fuck ever! He saw those things in his dreams.”  

“ Spámaðr ,” Mickey gasps.  

“You’re the only one who speaks Norse, jackass.” Snipes Mandy with her arms across her chest. 

“I think your brother has the Sight.” 

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛

Mickey sits in lotus position on the dresser of the spare room. It’s a little undignified, yes, but something tells him that neither of the Gallagher brothers are going to call him out on it should they wake up and see him. Ian had taken it upon himself to watch over his brothers as they slept with all the solemnity of a knight holding a holy vigil. It is quite a reversal of expectations, Mickey realizes. Before, Ian was fearful that his family would reject him and treat him like some sort of monster. And Lip seemed like he would live up to Ian’s worst fears.

But the danger that even now still lurks in the shadows of the city galvanized Ian into action, pushing past his fears. He was bound and determined to protect his brothers even though he hasn’t come into his full vampiric strength yet. Passing through this crucible, his actions tell Mickey what type of person Ian is every bit as much as pipeline to the redhead’s emotions. As much as Ian’s all-consuming dread had given Mickey pause about leaving him to secure Liam’s safety. But his young lover powered through and saved his older brother through sheer force of will.

He was the boy who dreamt of being a soldier as a child and had ambitions of becoming a doctor as an adult. Even when Mickey first laid eyes on Ian, nascent vampire was watching over his family, ready to come to blows if someone or something wanted to prey upon the household. Ian was born to save lives; a courageous man, he is every bit as much a protector as he is one who needs to be protected. And Mickey can’t help but feel hot under the collar at the realization that this redheaded mensch is his.

Ian had scarcely moved a muscle since the moment, Phillip’s head hit the pillow on the bed beside Liam. He sat so stock still beside them Mickey almost thought he was in torpor.

But eventually the night waned and Mickey had to convince Ian to leave his brothers’ bedside by promising to watch over them while the younger vampire goes out to drink his fill. Mickey has always been fond of mortals.  Their existence is defined by growth and change. It makes them interesting to keep tabs on over time.

But it has been over a century since the last time he was close enough to feel honor-bound to watch over them while they sleep, let alone take them into his home. The last was an orphaned indirect descendant, not even two years old when cholera took his mother. He brought the Russian-born child to live with him in the north of England and fostered the boy, Yevgeny, until he was five. He wanted him settled with a family before he was old enough to recognize that he doesn’t age.

It was a hard parting. Growing attached is a torment for an immortal when they come to love such ephemeral creatures. And he loved that child. For a few brief years, he was able to experience fatherhood. And it hurt so much to part with him that he put an ocean between him and his surrogate son. He hasn’t been to England for more than a few days at a time since. But for decades his brother Colin would send him updates on Yevgeny. It has been over thirty years since Yevgeny came up in one of his brother’s letters. Though Colin never told him when or how Yevgeny passed. Mickey can only hope that it was in bed surrounded by grandchildren and great grandchildren.

But Ian still has plenty of time before he is forced to watch his family wither, their souls snuffed out like candles. He has Lip and Liam back in his life and Mickey will do what I takes to allow Ian to spend as much time with them as possible, especially since their secret is out and they won’t have to make a charade of not aging. And in the fullness of time when they do shuffle off their mortal existence, Mickey hopes he will be a fixture in Ian’s life to help him through it.

“There’s a perfectly good chair,” bandies a hushed voice from the bed. Mickey looks up to see that Phillip is stirring, raking his hands across his stubble.

“My house. I’ll sit where I want. You sleep alright?”

“Not sure if I’ll ever sleep through the night again. Where’s Ian?”

“He’s out. Feeding.”

“Drinking people’s blood, you mean?”

He nods. Proceed with caution, Mikkel. They managed to get through last night’s marathon of vampire-related questions without much inquiry into their method of nourishment. It’s distasteful thing to talk about with a mortal in general because it essentially means acknowledging them as a food source. And considering Phillip has up until recently been using his time and industry to go around the nation denouncing the assumed evils of vampires, this is treading on shaky ground.

“Eight to ten fluid ounces twice a night,” he explains, shifting his weight so that his legs are slung over the side of the dresser. “He’ll need less over time. After a couple centuries—”

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the mortal murmurs low. He too turns to sit along the side of the bed frame. “You guys really are immortal, aren’t you?”

“Really puts a damper on the whole ‘fearless vampire killers’ routine you’ve been preaching, huh?”

Ian’s elder brother clenches his jaw. “I was going with the information available to me.”

“So, you got in bed with idiots who took a deranged Irishman’s work of fiction for fact,” summarizes the vampire dryly.

“Well, I’m the son of a deranged Irishman, so I suppose I must have been an easy mark. Eight ounces? That’s all?”

“That’s all a vampire needs. Typically. Especially if we want to avoid detection.” Mickey avoids eye contact, finding the dust bunnies by Phillip’s discarded socks very interesting. “And the way I’ve taught your brother is safer on the mortals. We feed two or three ounces from several humans. An preferably, we vary who we feed from so they don’t end up anemic.”

“We’ll be safe in the basement,” mumbles Liam in his sleep.

“Has he always had these dreams,” asks Mickey.

Lip shrugs. “He’s a smart kid. On a first name basis with the staff at our local library. Me and Ian, we used to take turns taking him to the big library over in the Loop every couple 9f weeks. But this dream stuff is new. Only started happening a month or so after Ian went missing. He would talk about Ian at fancy parties and living in mansions.” He laughs to himself. “We thought they were just flights of fancy. But he wanted to start a diary anyway.”

Phillip looks over his shoulder at his baby brother, worry radiating off him in waves. Mickey tries to put himself in the mortal man’s place. In the span of one night, he witnessed countless people being slaughtered, quite possibly everyone he was traveling with. He discovered that Ian, the brother he wished to avenge was not only alive but, by his reckoning, a monster. And Liam, the brother he was bound and determined to protect, has been a prognosticator under his nose all along. For a mortal, that must be a lot to take in for a lifetime, much less a day.

“You probably shouldn’t tell him just yet.”

Phillip turns back to face him. “What? You asking me to lie to him?”

“Let him be a fucking kid.” Mickey pushes off the dresser to his feet. “Trust me, he may be smart, but he’s still ten. Let him hold onto that childhood innocence a little longer. You don’t know how long he’s going to have to live without it.”

“Live without what?” Asks Ian from the door.

“Without knowing he’s a regular Nostradamus,” answers Mickey, who looks out the window, seeing faint shades of orange in the horizon. “Cutting it close, aren’t you?” Mickey steps out into the corridor meaning to retire for the day now that Ian is home.

“Slim pickings out there. Almost as though there was a city-wide panic last night or something,” Ian shrugs when the comment doesn’t incite laughter. “I had to wait for the markets and news stands to open.”

“So, you do have to get home before the sun?” Asks Phillip, sounding confused as he follows them out the door in just his long johns. But yesterday… I saw you and Adelaide in broad daylight.”

“Who?”

Mickey cannot help but snicker. “My sister.”

“Oh, right. Fake names,” Ian yawns.

“Yes, fake names. No real names around the mortals. We’ve been over this.”

”Even my brothers?”

”Maybe I would be more open to the idea if he wasn’t spouting some pretty offensive anti-vampire rhetoric less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Fucking idiotic… Yes, Lip. The sun is a problem, Lip. The reason I got Mandy—”

Mickey clears his throat pointedly.

“Er, Aurelia? Addison. Fuck, I mean, Madison.”

“All of those are less embarrassing than ‘Adelaide.’”

“That’s what she went with? The fuck kind of name is ‘Adelaide?’”

“Sounds Southern,” Phillip replies, “Like it’s the name that ladies are supposed to gossip about while sitting on the veranda and sipping on Mint Juleps.” 

Mickey palms his face. “No, fuck it,” he groans through the hand covering his face. “You’re not going to keep this straight. Mandy. Mickey. Don’t make me regret this, Phillip.”

“I’m honored,” Lip deadpans.

“The reason Mandy got us out of there was because the sun basically is trying to kill me every second I’m out in it,” Ian tries to explain, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. “I’m weak, it feels like I’m walking on razor blades, and I’ve only recently gotten to the point where I can barely stand instead of getting hauled around.”   

“And it makes us pretty cranky to be around.” Mickey interjects. “We should get be getting to bed.”

“What am I supposed to do while you guys go into your sarcophagi or whatever? Those things—”

Ian shrugs as he slips through the door to the master bedroom. “You should check on your friends.”

“Look into the city morgue if you can’t find ‘em.” Mickey adds as he reaches into his pocket at pulls out a house key, tossing it to Ian’s brother.

“What’s this for?”

“I expect that back. Get your shit out of that nouveau-riche hotel before they charge you for another night. Goodnight, Phillip.”

“You know, friends call me, ‘Lip.’”

“I’ll take it under advisement, Phillip. I let you know my real name. Don’t push your luck.”

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛    

Ian wakes up before Mickey. He’s getting better at coming out of Mickey’s hypnotically induced sleep, even if he still needs the elder vampire to put him under each night. He loves watching Mickey in these few minutes when he is still slumbering. The short union suit he sleeps in unbuttoned and rolled down to just below his hips, putting the creamy white skin of his torso on display, like fresh milk rendered into handsomely-formed flesh. The cleft of his shapely posterior just barely visible. If he didn’t know any better, he would say Mickey is trying to tantalize him.   

His whole body is soft and relaxed, his face facial muscles are slack. So often, Ian can see the years behind him written on Mickey’s face, we weight of the world held firmly in the tension in between his shoulder blades. But when he is sleeping, a soft warm smile half-buried in the pillow, he doesn’t see a millennium-old man and dozens of bygone lives. Instead, he just sees another boy in the bed beside him. It makes Ian wonder what Mickey’s life was like in those few short years between buying himself out of bondage and meeting Wulfric.   

“You’re staring again,” murmurs Mickey without even opening his eyes.   

“Can I help it if you’re beautiful when you sleep?”  

“Fucking corny, man.” He rolls onto his side and cracks open one eyelid. “Why? Aren’t I easy on the eyes when I’m awake?”  

“Christ, no. You’re hideous,” he kids, “Lucky for you I’m into that.”  

He is caught by surprise when something soft and fluffy whacks him across the face at vampiric speed. And Ian figures that it is only fair to get a pillow lobbed at his head. He tries to parry back in kind, but finds that he isn’t able to muster that vampiric speed again they way he did when he saved Lip’s life the other night.   

“What? You successfully sprinted once and now you think you can get the jump on me, Gallagher?” Chides Mickey, sneering playfully.   

That is when Ian pounces, pinning the elder vampire’s shoulders down on the bed. “Think I need vampire tricks to take you down,  Milkovich?”   

Mickey had been hesitant about accepting the surname. It may be Mandy’s and he may treat Mandy as his sister, but it is the name of the family that sold him down the river and never thought about him ever again. They didn’t even include him in the oral retellings of the family history; even the stillborn and the ones who dies in infancy were afforded more dignity. Ian likes it, though. “Mickey Milkovich” just seems to roll off Ian’s tongue. And Mickey has come to begrudgingly tolerate  it.    

“Oh, yeah?” Mickey squirms playfully, enjoying the sensation of Ian’s impressive nine-inch measurement pressing against his abdomen through the thin layer of his linen drawers. "Is the big, strong working class vamp gonna throw me around like a rag doll first or—”  

Knock-knock.   

“Would you keep the noise down?” Snaps Mandy from the other side of the bedroom door. “There’s a child right across the hall.”  

“Damn…” Mickey rolls onto his side, wriggling free of Ian’s already-slackening grip.  

“Right?” Agrees Ian as he sits up, and throws his legs over the side of the bed.  “Hearing you squeal is the best part.”  

Mickey kneels on the mattress behind him, plastering himself against his young lover’s back, teeth grazing his bare shoulder; no fangs bared, just a gentle gnaw. “I know we like doing it the mortal way with the grunting and thrusting and the nipple pinching and all that, but our way is nice too. And it keeps our mouths busy.”  

Ian cranes his neck to face the his lover, the expression on Mickey’s heart-shaped face full of yearning. The tip of his tongue flicking his plump upper lip as his teeth press against Ian’s freckles shoulder. Ian feels his shorts dampen with pre-cum as Mickey’s canines lengthen, fangs coming out to play and in turn the tell-tale pinch of his own fangs pressing against his lower lip.   

“You know you have to feed more often when we do it this way,” warns Ian as he pushes Mickey onto his back and grabs two fistfuls of Mickey’s undergarments while Mickey paws at the girthy prize awaiting him in Ian's drawers.  

“That’s okay,” pants Mickey, his smile mischievous. “It makes me feel young again.”  

They plant kisses down each other’s treasure trails as they work themselves into position between one another’s firm thighs, slurping and nipping at the swelling pink-and-purple lengths of their manhoods, but ultimately their cocks are the province of their hands’ ginger ministrations. Ian sighs softly as he feels Mickey’s lips press against the femoral artery in his inner thigh as Ian presses his exposed fangs into Mickey’s pyramidalis muscle. They drink each other deep even as they pleasure one another in the far more mortal, venal way. Their blood practically sings to one another as they commingle, flowing into one another.   

The connection they experience as they drink from other another may not be as visceral or exciting actually fucking. There certainly isn’t the simple joy of eye contact. But there is a depth to the experience. It is connection on an almost cellular level. And sometimes, all Ian really wants in bed is that moment where two become one.   

🧛 Mickey 🧛    

As Ian predicted, Mickey has to feed afterwards. He doesn’t mind; it gives him more time to spend with Ian. And despite Ian’s youth and Mickey’s he never tires of the man.   

In very many ways, Mickey has come to prefer the more animalistic nature of mortal intimacy. All he needs after mortal sex is a smoke. He doesn’t need to seek out a meal on legs. Fortunately, tonight marks the opening of a food weeklong festival at a nearby Greek Orthodox Church. They feed on blood while enjoying the aftertaste of souvlaki and gyros.  

Outside the house, they share a cigarette at Ian’s insistence. If Phillip and Liam are going to be houseguests for a while, they don’t want to come in the house with the scent of blood on their breaths. Mickey finishes first and offers to wait, but Ian says he will catch up in a minute.  

Inside, he finds Mandy clattering about in the kitchen, enjoying the opportunity to subject her cooking to people who will actually consume it. Rather than see what monstrosity of culinary art she is concocting, he instead turns his attention to the sitting room, where Phillip is sitting head in hands, semi-circled by suitcases.   

“You okay, Phillip?” He asks.   

“What do you think?” He asks testily.  

“What happened?”   

“Lip?” Asks Ian as he comes inside. “Why do you have that ‘Frank found out where Fiona hid the squirrel fund’ look on your face?”  

“Don’t worry your pretty undead heads. I had a banner day. Took Liam see the Liberty Bell, then Art Museum. Way too many steps, by the way. We got our stuff out of the Rittenhouse. And oh— found out all but three of the Society members got away from those things last night.”  

“Shit, that’s terrible.” Ian approaches his brother, who flinches involuntarily at the touch of Ian’s freckled hand on his shoulder. Mickey catches Ian falter. Being physically shrugged off by the elder Gallagher must be new ground for him. Phillip doesn’t look up.   

“Anyone I knew?” Ian asks tentatively.  

Phillip doesn’t answer. Mickey can see the hurt on his ginger’s face. Any time Ian has brought up his family, Mickey has been a captive audience to whole odes about how brilliant the infamous Phillip Gallagher is, how the loyal Phillip was Ian’s constant companion and his rock, how Ian could go to the ever-fucking-wise Phillip Gallagher for anything and everything.   

Mickey looks at Ian, who has become part of the wallpaper. Ian is a giant of a man, but somehow, his brother has it in him to make the redhead feel small.  

“Eh, shithead!” Mickey growls, “Your brother asked you a question.”  

Phillip looks up. “No. Ian. Nobody you knew could have afforded to go on this expedition. Shit… they’re going back. All of them. Back to Chicago.”  

“Does that mean you’re heading back, too?”  

He shakes his head. "Can’t. There’s no turning back for me.”  

“Why not?”  

“How did you pay your way?” Mickey asks.  

“You mind yours, Mickey.”  

“Where did you get the dough?” Asks Ian.  

Phillip looks like he is sitting in a witness box or under the light of a police interrogation. “Where do you fucking think I got the money?”  

“The parting gift,” Mickey surmises. “Thirty grand. You took off with thirty thousand dollars?”  

“Lip, that money was supposed to go to the family!”   

“And what do you suppose I am? Chopped liver?” Explodes Phillip, rising to his feet. “I only took twelve. Mine and Liam’s shares.”  

“So, let me see if I got this. I gave your family enough money to basically set the lot of you up for life. And you ran off with one third—and your kid brother in tow— with the express intention of fomenting anti-vampire lynch mobs across the continent. Sound about right?”  

Phillip opens his mouth to speak, but then stops, purses his lips and taps a finger to them. Attempt number two yields actual sound. “In my defense, I was working from incomplete data.”   

“Incomplete… Lip, I literally left a note.”  

“And a suspiciously large amount of money. Like, a mind-boggling sum. I thought vampires… like the actual scary kind. Sorry. I thought they were aware of my work with the VH society and were trying to… buy my silence.”  

Phillip’s explanation hangs in the air for a moment. The atmosphere feels heated and tense. But then Mickey feels a twitch of a feeling pulse from Ian as he unexpectedly Ian begins to snicker. It’s like air slowly being let out of a balloon. Suddenly Mandy is cackling in the doorway. Mickey didn’t even notice her come into the room.   

“You really thought monsters under the bed gave you a fucking fortune?” She belly laughs.  

Phillip seems like he is fighting not to smile, but it is a losing battle. The left corner of his mouth tugging upward as though an unseen hand were tugging at it like the string of a marionette. Then his head bobs. Once. Twice. And then he is laughing to. “Okay, yeah. It sounds fucking stupid now .”  

“And it probably sounded fucking stupid when you told Fiona,” Ian adds. The three vampires continue to guffaw, but Mickey catches the moment when Phillip’s laughter dies in his throat.  

“Your… uh, your sister doesn’t know where you are, does she?”  

Ian’s laughter soon tapers off. Mickey can feel that tickle of giddiness in his lover shrivel. “Lip?”  

“She would have just told me it was a stupid idea.”  

“Which it was,” shrugs Mandy gently.   

“Lip. Does Fi know where Liam is?” Phillip’s only answer is a shrug. The child had supposed as much when they first came across him the night of Phillip’s speech, but the confirmation seems to hit Ian harder than expected. “Lip you do realize that there’s a word for that, right?”   

“‘Kidnapping.’” Mickey clarifies.  

“Did you at least leave a note?” Asks Mandy playing devil’s advocate.   

He shakes his head. “I can’t go back to Chicago. She will kill me.” Mickey is surprised by the urgent sincerity. Phillip’s eyes begin to water and his breathing hitches. “If I had left on my own, you know what Fi would have done. She would say she’s already down two able-bodied earners. She would pull him out of school and send him to work in the meat packing plant or something. He’s a bright kid. Almost as good with math as I was at his age and twice as good at lit and logic.”  

“Christ, Lip…” Ian uses his long arms to pull his elder brother into an embrace.   

“He deserves more,” Phillips declares, his voice thick and wet.  

Mickey looks appraisingly at his lover’s elder brother. Mickey cannot say he had a normal experience with his own brothers. He barely even remembers them. He was always set apart from them. And not simply because he was the runt of the litter. He was always a little different, more cerebral, more sensitive.   

He had assumed that Ian’s relationship to his brother was similar. Something must have set him apart, otherwise how would they have let him out of their sight long enough for someone like Wulfric to lure him away over the course of several weeks.   

“So, past the point of no return, huh?”  

“Or at least I need to figure out my next move. No society. No job. No direction.”  

“Here I go again, picking up strays.” Mickey teases.  

“He’s not a stray, he’s family.”  

“You were a stray,” Mickey snickers. “Practically a feral cat when I found you.”  

“That’s probably a Gallagher trait,” deflects the redhead. “So is making ourselves useful if you keep us around long enough.”  

“Who says I want to stay here?” Phillip asks, despite the fact that he hauled their luggage to Mickey’s house without contradiction.  

“You’re either stay  

“Do you think I would have Ian’s family living out of a hotel?”  

“Just because you’re plowing my little brother doesn’t mean you get to boss me around.”  

Mickey catches Ian glances at him out of the corner of his eye. A smirk segues into a fit of giggles. Infectious, they cause Mickey to start a fit of snorting chuckles.  

“What’s so funny?”  

“Don’t mind them,” Mandy rolls her eyebrows, leaning on the credenza. “As immature at 1046 as they are at 21. Men. I fucking swear... This is why you all need women to do the thinking for you.”  

Ian takes a deep breath and swallows down his laughter. “Lip, it’s simple. Either you stay with us or I’m dragging you back to Fiona kicking and screaming.”  

“And you know we can do it,” Mickey adds.  

“Liam will need his own bed.” Phillip declares by way of admitting defeat, though it sounds like it’s a counter-argument. A weak one.   

“Sounds like another trip to Wannamaker’s,” brightens Mandy.  

Mickey scowls at his sister. She has already pressganged him into two shopping trips in the past fortnight. He isn’t looking forward to a third. “We’ll need to figure out what to do about the kid.”     

“You know, Philly has some excellent schools,” offers Mandy.  

“Segregated schools,” Ian murmurs.  

“And I don't exactly want to settle here.”  

“Okay. Or we could always homeschool him. Mikhailo has a library that would put most college collections to shame.”   

“Yeah. But it’s back in Chicago. Where I have a mansion big enough to house the lot of you without having to worry about anyone hearing me and Ian going at it. If only someone wasn’t hiding from his sister.”  

“Well, as long as you’ve got your priorities straight...” Phillip snarks, eliciting chuckles. Mickey flips him off accordingly.   

“I’m serious, Mickey. We could teach him, ourselves if we really wanted to.” Mandy sounds excited at the prospect. “I could cover the humanities. And you probably have a couple dozen doctorates’ worth of science know-how rattling around in that skull of yours.”   

“I’m not a teacher,” Mickey refutes.   

“Come on, Mick,” Mandy flares a nostril at him.   

“I’m out of practice.”  

“You’re the smartest man I know,” Ian chimes in. Mickey doesn’t know what catches him more off-guard— his sister volunteering him or his lover siding with her.   

“Oh, yeah? Since when?” Asks Phillip sounding offended.  

Mandy slips over to the older Gallagher, fingers dancing across his shoulders. “Bow out now, Gallagher. Keep a hold of your dignity.”  

“He invented the sextant,” Ian boasts proudly. “And the steam engine.”  

“And he helped Galileo build his telescope,” adds Mandy.  

“Really? That’s a new one,” grins Ian. Mickey feels a warm flush of pink on the apples of his cheeks when Ian looks at him. “Oh! And he made the first bayonet.”  

“Oh, please… any jackass can strap a dagger onto a rifle.”  

“For fuck’s sake…”  

“Well? What have you invented?” Ian gets in his brother’s face, chest puffed out. Mickey struggles to pretend Ian getting aggressive on his behalf isn’t a major turn-on.  

“Well. Maybe I’d have some hits, too, if I was old as fucking dirt.”  

“Have we had enough o’ the dick measuring contest yet?” Mickey asks, palming his face.  

“I haven’t even pulled out my measuring tape,” jokes Mandy.   

“You are absolutely not measuring my dick.”  

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛   

"Your old boyfriend left you all this?” asks Liam, craning his neck to get as full a view of the Masonic Temple as possible.    

“It’s like a castle in a storybook,” the young boy’s words full of wonder.   

“Or a cathedral. Bell tower and everything,” adds Lip, lighting up his latest cigarette. Then in a spooky voice, he adds, “They might have a hunchback up there.”    

Liam side eyes his eldest brother, doubtless fighting the urge to tell Lip that he is ten, and not a little baby anymore.   

“Could we not call him my ‘old boyfriend?’”    

“Okay, but ‘the old geezer you used to blow in the alley behind the Dill Pickle Club’ is a bit of a mouthful.” Lip retorts.   

“Eh, he really wasn’t,” comments Mickey as he offers Ian a wry grin that escapes everyone else’s notice.   

His brother’s descriptions of Philadelphia’s Masonic Temple both hit the mark right on the head. Even in the soft glow of the halogen street lamps, the edifice is built to evoke something out of the Middle Ages. Which probably explains why Mickey seems less than impressed with it. Perhaps he’s a bit of a snob because he was there or maybe it’s residual bitterness because he was really spent the better part of two hundred years being put through the wringer.    

“So, what’s the plan?” Asks Liam. “You guys are going to sneak in and plant your flag? Claim that whole thing as your own?”   

“What do you think, kid?” Asks Mandy. She puts her hands on her knees to be on his eye level. “You think we’re just going to walk in there like we own the place? Freemasons are a members only club.”   

“Yeah, bud.” Lip adds. “Besides, the place is a damn monument. Do you think Ian’s ex—”   

“He’s not—”   

“—seriously left Ian with the key to a whole wannabe medieval stronghold smack dab in the middle of one of the biggest cities on the coast?”  

Mickey gnaws on his lower lip thoughtfully. “Wulf probably had quarters in the private areas of the temple.”   

“A secret room in a clandestine secret society?” Liam echoes excitably. “It’s like something out of Doc Savage .”   

“Probably isn’t that exiting,” shrugs Mickey. “Ian is gonna come with me and we are going to see if we have any connections to get us in there when we take our audience with the Council.”   

“I don’t see why we have to wait?” Asks Ian. “I thought you said vampires don’t need an invitation to enter a building.”   

Mickey looks at him as though Ian just declared that the sky is yellow, eyebrows knitted together in consternation. “Sure, we could break in at any time, freckles. Nothing’s stopping us. Except it’s rude. Fuck, Gallagher…”   

“You’re waiting on good manners?” Lip smirks smugly. “Really starting to wonder why folks are afraid of vampires in the first place.”   

“Says the mouthpiece of a hate group,” spits Mickey. “And don’t pretend like you didn’t just about shit your pants when there was a Drekavac breathing on your neck.”   

“Were they really that scary?”   

“Worse. The first time me and Mandy saw one, I ran so far we ended up in a different country.”   

“It was nice once we settled in, though,” Mandy reflects. “I haven’t been to Romania in ages…”   

“Are you shitting me? You lived in Transylvania?”    

“Bucharest.” Mickey replies with an indignant air. “And how many times do I have to tell you that Dracula book is bullshit, Phillip?” He turns to Ian, clapping him by the shoulder. “Hey, weren’t you the one who said he’s supposed to be the smart one?”   

Ian’s mouth curves into a crooked half-smile. In the week or so since his brothers officially became part of the household, he has come to enjoy the cadence of Lip and Mickey’s arguments. It is almost as though they plan out topics of conversation ahead of time to decide who is taking the pro and con on every possible point of contention.     

“So, what are we doing here if we don’t have an ‘in’ yet?”   

“We’re just scoping the place out before Mikhailo and your brother meet with the Council,” Mandy explains. “Since they’re literally next door to each other.”   

“What?” Lip asks skeptically as he scans the environs, eyes widening at the sight of the city’s imposing municipal center.    

It’s an ornate building several stories high, constructed in what Mickey later describes to him as the French Second Empire style. It reminds Ian of pictures of Versailles. The main building, which takes up an entire city block, is four stories tall and the clocktower in the courtyard scales nine stories high. It dwarfs any other building in the skyline. The building is bedizened in statuary representing both antiquity as well as the city’s own history, like it is an art piece unto itself. Atop the tower is a nearly forty-foot tall statue of the city’s founder.    

“Are you gonna stand there and tell me your vampire coven—”  

“Council.”  

“Council. Whatever. Meets at City Hall?”   

"What? Did you think we meet in the woods around a pentacle or something?"  

“What’s with this place and buildings that look like the king of England lives in ‘em?” Inquires the youngest member of the group, his eyes narrowed as he takes in the various statues mounted all over the building.  

“Philadelphia is older than Chicago, Liam. “There were still knights on horseback when they founded it.”   

“No there weren’t,” refutes Mandy. “And neither of these buildings are over fifty years old. They’re just a bunch of rich men’s vanity problems.”   

“Yeah, like some of the ritzy mansions in Mickey’s neighborhood back home,” adds Ian.   

“Some real eye-sores, some of them,” Mickey adds. “I’d be living somewhere a lot more subdued, but the movers and shakers won’t do business with you these days unless you make ostentatious shows of wealth. Tacky, if you ask me, but that’s the game.”   

“Exactly how loaded are you?” Asks Lip, sounding like an accusation   

“Multiple very’s.”   

“Stock market?” Liam inquires, more curious.   

“Absolutely not.”   

“Okay, Mr. Rockerfeller,” singsongs Lip sardonically, “when are we going to this vampire meeting?”    

“ We aren’t going anywhere; just me and Ian,” Mickey answers flatly. “It’s a no mortals kind of thing.”   

“Well, that’s racist.”   

“Excuse you, Mr. Vampire Hunter Society?”   

“ Van Helsing Society,” Lip corrects fastidiously.   

“You might want to backpedal, champ,” Mandy whispers softly in his ear.    

"Your face was in the papers leading the charge against vampire kind, Phillip. Don't get me wrong. You’re tolerable. But I’m not trying to advertise the fact that we’re in cahoots.”   

“Okay, point taken,” Lip concedes, clearly feeling outnumbered. “So why did you drag us lowly mortals here?”   

“I didn’t.”   

“ I did,” Mandy crows as she throws an arm around each of Ian’s brothers, her hand slipping not all that subtly into Lip’s pocket. “Do you tourists want to know some Philly history from someone who was around way back in the day?”   

Ian watches amused as she turns them around and walks them in the opposite direction.    

“Did I ever tell you guys I was friends with Betsy Ross?”   

“The flag lady?” Asks Liam.   

“You shitting us, Mandy?”   

“Well… ‘friend’ might be an exaggeration,” she admits. “Friend of a friend. The kind you nod politely at across the room at a party.”   

🧛 Mickey 🧛    

The city’s Vampire Council meets on the observation deck of the city hall’s tower. Of course, being after hours, they can’t exactly stroll in through the visitor’s entrance. Vampires have the leg strength to bound from window to window in order to get up to the summit. Unfortunately, Ian hasn’t been a vampire long enough to build up the required muscles, which means Mickey is giving Ian a piggyback ride.   

“I am never doing that again,” the younger vampire pants as he dismounts from Mickey’s back once they reach the solid surface of the ninth floor of the tower, just below the massive statue of William Penn.    

“Good luck getting back down, then. Fuckin’ backseat driver…” He rubs at his neck. There is probably already some nasty purple bruising under his collar. “Goddamn, Gallagher. Is it weird that it’s kind of hot when you choke me?”   

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.   

“Ahem.”   

The vampire lovers are brought back to reality by the sound of a pointed clearing of the throat. In front of them are four vampires representing the city, the four of them squeezed into the tight corridor. One, he remembers. Uli Gottlieb is originally from a spit of a village in Bavaria, but when Mickey first knew her, she was posing as a lesser companion to Queen Christina of Sweden. She likes to be off to the side of the seat of power. A born diplomat, she enjoys being the person who whispers into the ear of the man or woman who whispers into the ears of those in power.    

The others are new to him, but knowing what he does from his travels, he can assume two of the three remaining vampires are elder statesmen of the Delaware Valley’s vampiric community. Generally speaking, only one spot in a given council is reserved for a younger vampire. The elders know that they can often become set in their ways, so one seat is typically reserved for a vampire somewhere between one hundred and three hundred years of age; young enough to still recall the needs of the fledglings, but mature enough for the rest of the council to take seriously.       

“Mikkel,” smiles Uli with a tone of relief. “I was wondering who the telegram was from. I looked at it and was trying to figure out who on earth Mikhailo is supposed to be.”   

“Uh… that would be my sister Mandy’s doing. She insists I need to have some connection to the homeland.”   

“Mandy Milkovich is your sister?”    

“Well great, great grand niece, but functionally my little sister.”    

 “Oh, right,” chimes in one of the other vampires. He appears as a man in his mid-thirties. Mickey assumed he is another elder vampire. If the tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches are any indication, then he is a professor of some sort. Or at the very least, an academic. “Mandy did mention that a few members of her clan are blood relatives. Unusual for so many in one family.”   

“My mortal family is famously fertile. By the law of averages, it makes sense,” he explains, eying up the bespectacled vampire. “And how did you wring that information out of her?”   

“She isn’t exactly a Sphinx, Mick,” Ian comments under his breath.   

"You can relax. We knew each other for a spell about fifty years ago in Boston.”   

“Define, ‘knew?’” Mickey doesn’t know why he still gets so protective of Mandy. She has been a vampire for nearly nine centuries. And for vampires, longevity means strength. If Mandy were pursued by an unwanted admirer, there are actually only a scant few in the vampire community who could actually pose a legitimate threat to her now. Still, in those early days Mandy’s Sire Kazimir had little to no interest in protecting her from the dangers a young vampire is subject to. Predators of various persuasions. He often guesses Kaz turned her because she was a bit starstruck by him and really didn’t think things through when he offered her the Dark Gift.   

“If we can get the lead out, I have places to be,” demands a mature-looking black with a bright smile and her hair pinned up in loose curls. She has the carriage and bearings of a Roman patrician. “You wanted to know what is being done about the Drekava, yes?”    

“Yes, I would. Ian,” he claps a hand to the redhead’s shoulder. "My, er, my sort-of fledgling’s mortal family almost got killed by those things.”   

“And dozens more—”    

“I have some of my best mages planting wards all along the city limits,” Uli interrupts Ian impatiently, scowling at him. Typically speaking a vampire as young as Ian isn’t welcome at these proceedings. But Mickey would rather beg forgiveness than ask permission. Though he has no intention of begging forgiveness, if he is honest with himself.    

“Mages? Did she say ‘mages?’”   

“It’s not as impressive as it sounds,” Mickey mutters dismissively. “They wait until the herd moves on, then they do a little ritual at different points around the city limits. Don’t you have the numbers to mount an offensive, here? A small army could wipe out—”   

“We haven’t had those numbers in decades,” replies the matronly vampire, clucking her tongue. “The more mortals settled out West, the more our kind saw the point in following suit.”   

“We used to be nearly four hundred strong just within city limits,” adds a conventionally attractive black man just an inch taller than Ian and wearing the uniform of the municipal Fire Brigade. The guy keeps casting his eyes on Ian and it sends hot pangs shooting up Mickey’s spine each time he spots it. “Now we have one hundred nineteen as of last year’s census. And that’s only if we include the greater metropolitan area.”   

“One-eighteen,” amends Mickey. “Wulfric offed himself this past March.”   

“Yeah,” Ian chimes in. “He bum rushed a bonfire right after he turned me.”   

“I thought you said this one is your fledgling?” Asks the professor.   

Mickey feels himself break out into goose flesh. Ever since Mandy first disputed his theory that he and Ian became linked because Wulfric was a link between them, he had been ill at to discuss the situation outside of his very tight inner circle. He doesn’t want Ian, or himself for that matter, to be treated as some sort of oddity. Still, he figures he better have it out with before they find out and become suspicious that he didn’t tell them.   

“Yeah, strange thing. Wulfric was my Sire, too, way back when.” He does his best to hide his reservations. In fact, he strives to keep his voice as devoid of emotion as possible. Which would be hell of a lot easier if he didn’t feel Ian’s jitteriness. “Apparently, the old fuck made his way to Chicago and gave the Dark Gift to Ian here before going up in smoke. Don’t know how, but we ended up bonded the way he should have been with Wulf.”   

“Sorry, but who is Wulfric supposed to be again?” Asks the fire fighter.   

“He’s talking about Ned, Caleb,” explains the professor. Mickey thinks he can safely peg Caleb as the junior member of the council.    

“Oh. That old codger was your Sire?” Asks the matron. “Sorry, but neither of you really seem like his type.”   

“Oh yeah? Besides ‘young’ and ‘likes dick,’ what would the other qualifiers be?”   

“Mickey…” Ian scolds gently.   

“Underage,” she supplies. “Softer, doe-eyed little things.”   

“And not so… butch,” adds the professor.     

Mickey swallows a laugh. The old bastard spent a century and a half telling him what a helpless, pathetic specimen he was; just a pretty face that the ancient vampire simply had to have. Ever since parting ways with the man, it has always tickles a hard-to-itch spot in his soul whenever people treat him on first blush like a brute, barely removed from his days as a Norse barbarian.    

“Is that what brought you to the city of brotherly love to begin with?” Asks Uli? “Paying your respects?”   

“Fuck off,” Mickey replies almost laughing and rolling his eyes. “There’s no love lost between me and my Sire. If he had a grave, I’d be dancing on it. But he left Ian with a bit of a mystery. Red?”   

“Yeah,” Ian digs into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out the ornate silver key. “Seconds before he swan dived into the fire, he gave me this key and told me it’s my inheritance or whatever. Mandy figured we need to get into the Masonic lodge to find out what it goes to.”   

“What about Ned— Wulfric’s other fledglings?” Asks the matron. “Why you?”    

“If my experience is any indication, any of his fledglings who stuck around long enough to get to know him want nothing to do with him,” scoffs Mickey.   

“Can I get a closer look at that?” Asks the Professor, pressing his spectacles further up his nose.    

Ian looks hesitant, fidgeting with the key in his hands. But Mickey gives him a quiet nod. They don’t know these people, but they need to be able to trust these people. And the council needs to be able to trust them in return. Ian’s eyes continue to dart between the professor and Mickey before, still hesitating, he hands over the key.    

The man makes a series of noises as though he is having a one sided conversation with the key doing most of the talking. Ian looks at Mickey as though to ask whether the man is off his rocker. But other than Uli, he really is not familiar with these people. Speaking of which, he catches sight of Uli and the other remaining council members, who seem to be losing patience with the nutty professor as well.   

“Do you have anything other than ‘hm… how interesting’ to say, Zeb?” Asks the matronly woman.    

“That I do, Bernice.” Zeb beams at the assembled vampires. “You’re right. This does go to a room in the Masonic Temple. And I think I know exactly where.”   

Ian’s face lights up in excitement, almost aglow like freckled moonlight. Mickey has to admit that the younger vampire’s enthusiasm is contagious. Maybe they’re actually making some progress.     

“Yeah? What are we thinking?”   

“Know a lot about the Founding Fathers?”  

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

“Benjamin Franklin?” Asks Phillip incredulously from the doorway. “That’s his key?” 

“That’s what the local experts think,” answers Mickey as he and Ian get changed into something more comfortable behind a screen. 

“Christ sake, please don’t tell me this Wulfric guy was secretly a historical figure and my kid brother got railed by the inventor of the lightning rod. I don’t think my brain can manage it.” 

“Just for the record, I was the one doing the railing,” asserts Ian. 

“What, seriously?” 

"He’s good at it, too,” Mickey tilts his head a delivers a shit-eating grin.  

He probably would feel uncomfortable disclosing his bottoming preference to most anyone else, but making Ian’s elder brother uncomfortable is a remarkable consistent source of dopamine. It never fails to derive pleasure from the look on Phillip’s face like he is questioning every life choice that led him to this specific juncture. 

“As for your question— nope. I knew the guy for a few weeks in Paris,” Mickey details nonchalantly. "This was before the Revolution, of course.  Definitely not Wulf.” 

“Of… course, you did,” seethes the mortal as Ian and Mickey head downstairs and he follows after.  

“Way to name drop, Mick,” snickers Mandy as they find her and Liam in the living room. Mandy is reading a handwritten manuscript of some sort. It must be a piece of theatre, as she is acting out motions as she reads. And Liam is curled in on himself in a large easy chair. 

“Look, it wasn’t like we were bosom buddies. I just seized the opportunity to pick a famous brain. A mind like that only comes along once or twice a century. "Benji wasn’t one of us. And fucking Wulfric sure wasn’t a bright bulb, let alone a genius of his caliber.” 

“And if you’re so smart, then how did you fall for his charms? Or Ian for that manner?” 

“Young.” 

“Stupid.”  

“You’re not stupid, Ian.” Mandy insists. “No more so than any of the others. I’ve watched him do it a few times over the centuries.” She sets down her script on the coffee table and pours herself a bottle of red. “He goes for a young boy of Ian and Mickey’s persuasion, the pretty faces who strayed too far from their families. Runaways. Outcasts. Orphans. The ones  that nobody is going to miss. He swoops in, gives them small gifts and money. Comforts. He would promise them the moon, hoping they'd still be awestruck with him after he gave them the Dark Gift.” 

“What is it with calling it a gift?” Asks Liam, curled up in an arm chair. He should have been in bed ages ago. 

“It’s something we all share.”  Comes sound of a breathy alto with a light German lilt to her accent. 

The temperature of the room seems to drop instantly; the illusion of security in their privacy shattered. Five heads turn like they are on a swivel until they lay eyes on the woman standing in the arch of the sitting room entry. He had only been in her company two short hours ago, so Mickey is surprised to see Uli Gottlieb in his house without permission. She is wearing a jacket with a tightly tapered waist over the shirt waist and bell skirt he had first seen her in. Additionally, she is wearing a hat garnished with enough feathers for three whole pheasants.   

“Uli? It’s been a while.” Mandy seems surprised to see her. Mickey keeps forgetting his sister is on friendly terms with most East Coast vampires of any consequence.    

“You know, it’s common courtesy to knock,” he gripes. 

“Is everything okay, ma’am?” Asks Ian, approaching her. His tone is that fo trying to pull focus away from the mortals in their midst.  

“My apologies, but the door was unlocked.” It wasn’t, but that’s a battle Mickey is choosing not to have. “You know, I waited  that entire meeting for you to come clean. I don’t think the others know yet, but it’s better you have it out than for it to catch the others by surprise later.” 

“Oh, yeah? What the fuck do you think you know?” 

She moves at vampiric speed, no doubt catching the mortals by surprise. The three vampires watch the blur of her movements comes up behind Phillip. Her gloved fingers are splayed across his shoulder blades. “That you’re harboring the voice of the anti-vampire agenda here in your very own home.” 

“‘Home’ is a bit of an exaggeration.” 

“Mickey! Focus!” Snaps Mandy. “He hasn’t committed any crimes.” 

“Oh, I know that. I was at that little gathering in the park, too. I listened to what he had to say. What they all had to say. Mortals scare easily.” 

“I… uh… I’m sorry?” Mickey will have to sing the praises of Phillip’s ability to verbalize his contrition at a much later date. “I thought my brother was… well, he’s okay, right?” 

“These two are your fledgling’s mortal family you spoke of earlier?” She asks with a tone of understanding. “I figured there had to be some reason you risked your hide for this one the night of the attack.” She casts her eyes downward, towards Liam, who has leapt to his feet.  “That means you must be the one I saw Mikkel hurry away with.”  

“Yeah, this is Liam,” Ian explains.  

“I can speak for myself,” whines the youngest Gallagher brother. 

Mickey looks over to see that Ian has assumed a very protective stance practically hovering over his youngest sibling. Mickey doesn’t think either of the mortal Gallaghers are in any immediate danger, but he would think the Liam would be more sheepish around the stranger. The kid either has no sense of Uli’s significance or he isn’t threatened by the presence of strangers in general.  “And I guess you know who Lip is.” 

“His reputation precedes him.” 

“Thanks?” Replies an uneasy Phillip. 

Uli sniffs. “Is that AB positive?” 

“I think so,” Mandy concurs as she tries to peel Uli away from Phillip. “But I wouldn’t know for sure. We aren’t in the habit of sampling from family.” 

“Is Lip in trouble?” Asks Liam, the sudden influx of adrenaline helping him fight off sleep as he pushes past Ian for a clearer view of the proceedings. 

“No. Like Mandy said, he did nothing wrong according to vampire law. Vampire hunters in general are pretty inept and all your brother’s oratorios have really accomplished is spurring on vandalism from city to city. And that doesn’t fall into our jurisdiction.” 

With that, she relinquishes her hold on Phillip, though Mandy maintains a guarded stance betwixt the two.  

“You,” she points a moleskin-clad finger in Mickey’s direction, “On the other hand, need to make an official statement about the mortals you’re harboring before anyone else finds out.” 

“Or else what?” Asks Phillip, steeling himself against the vampire currently begrudging his existence. “What happens if he doesn’t?” 

“What?” She sounds taken aback. “I’m not here to make threats. I’m trying to nip this in the bud before it becomes an actual problem. Your problem, specifically. You just came to the council in good faith asking for help. And it would be pretty damning if you get caught in a lie of omission. Tell your own story before someone else tells it for you.” 

So, it is a threat , surmises Mickey. Grovel or else you’re on your own . Philadelphia isn’t even Mickey’s territory. It is no skin off his back if these assholes let a herd of Drekava wander unimpeded and ravage their own blood supply. If he is honest with himself, he doesn’t actually need the council’s help with the key mystery now that they have another clue to narrow down their search in the Masonic Temple. He could just cut his losses and operate independently. But as an engineer, he knows better than to burn his bridges. 

This is fucking stupid. Would-be vampire hunters like Phillip and his overzealous clowns stand a billion to one chance of actually spotting a vampire, much less harming them. It is as though Mickey is being asked to stand trial on behalf of a Yorkshire terrier that is nipping at people’s ankles. 

“The council reconvenes in three nights to determine what resources we will be able to allocate to assist in your requests.” She explains as she looks in the mirror to straighten her hat that has gone askew. “Please have your story straight by then.” I’ll arrange for a more accessible meeting place should you choose to bring the mortals along. You probably should.” 

And then she is gone. 

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛

“Should we be packing our bags?” asks Lip after Liam has been put to bed for the night. He has Liam’s dream journal set out in front of him and open somewhere several weeks back.

“Relax, it’s fine.” Mandy replies dismissively. “She’s right. You aren’t in trouble. Ian isn’t in any trouble. Mikhailo isn’t even in trouble. I see it all the time now that I’m getting up in years. Younger vampires in positions of power see Elders and feel threatened. So they use fear tactics and make us jump through hoops just so we know who has the authority.”

“Yeah, they probably want you guys along because they think it will wound my pride getting cowed in front of a couple o’ mortals,” Mickey agrees.

“Oh, so my brothers are set dressing in this situation?” Asks Ian slamming his open palms on the coffee table.

“They probably do want to hear a formal apology from you,” Mandy concedes, shrugging.

“Why don’t they care about anyone else from the VH Society?”

“Still not getting the salient point that this isn’t about you. This is about Mickey secretly harboring a human espousing anti-vampire rhetoric.”

“You okay?” Mickey inquires of Ian as their respective siblings continue to go back and forth. He sidles next to him on the sofa, sitting on his knee to give him that extra bit of height to throw an arm over Ian’s broad shoulders.

“I’m fine.”

Is he? Ian isn’t sure.

Ever since the night Mickey found Ian and brought him to live with him, Ian’s scope of the world of vampires has been shaped by Mickey. He knew there were others out there, but all he knew first-hand was Mickey.Then later, Mickey and his sister, whom he quickly took a shine to. But still, it was a tightly spun circle of vampires Ian had found himself in. Tonight was the first time he has ventured out into wider vampire society. And while he is hardly the power player that Mickey is, he had thought his encounter with the council had been passably successful.

Until that woman broke into their home. Okay, Mickey keeps trying to reinforce that this isn’t their home, just their current residence. But Mickey is here. So is Mandy and his brothers. As far as Ian is concerned, being surrounded by family is the very definition of home.

And in the blink of an eye, his home had been violated.

“Liar,” Mickey murmurs I. His ear.”

“Is there any point in lying if you know I’m not?”

“You know, if you tell an interesting enough lie, I’d be happy to run with it.” He’s wearing the type of smile that declares jus how funny Mickey thinks he is being.

“I thought you would be more upset. I know privacy is kind of a big priority for you. Hell, you wanted me staying on a whole different floor when I first came to live with you.

“I’ve gotten over that, clearly.”

“And now this— Ms. Gottlieb broke in just to intimidate us.” His hand clasps the wrist that Mickey has slung over his shoulder. “How are you not fuming?”

“I am.” He admits. “But I have a vampire’s full strength. I’m so livid I could smash the walls to flinders and dust in one punch. I could scream so hard the windows shatter.”

“I’ve seen you lose your cool before.”

“Not anywhere near like I’m feeling now. Your brothers are your family, that makes them part of my clan whether I want them here or not.”

“Do you not want them here?”

“Liam’s fine.  Jury is still out on Phillip. I don’t know if you noticed, but he’s kind of a dick.”

“That’s his charm.”

“Charm, he calls it,” echoes Mickey with gentle derision. “The fact of the matter is she came in here without warning, caught us with our pants down and made a show of force. She could have hurt or killed your brother before we would have had time to react.”

“And you don’t want to see my brother hurt?”

“I don’t especially like the guy, but he’s under my roof. That means he’s under my protection.”

“So, what’s our next move?”

Mickey looks out into the middle distance, sucking on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “We do what we have to.”

🧛 Mickey 🧛

The nights come and go so quickly that Mickey is still trying to put together what he is going to say as the vampires and their mortal companions step off a streetcar a couple blocks away from Franklin Square.

It is risky even for vampires to take another man’s hand in public, but it’s dark enough that Ian makes the gamble and slips his hand into Mickey’s own and giving him a reaffirming squeeze. The flow of emotions from the Fledgling to the elder may only pass in one direction, but Ian knows him. Perhaps he doesn’t have a full scope of Mickey’s history. A millennium is a lot to take in even for vampires. But in less than half a year, Ian has come to understand him.

Ian’s hands ought to feel rough yet gentle. A surgeon’s hands. Despite the fact that the superior strength that comes with advanced vampiric age, Mickey always feels safer when he knows Ian’s touch. He doesn’t know why he needs it right now. All that is going to happen is the Philadelphia vampires are going into revel in him eating a helping of crow.

“You got this,” Ian whispers. “We explain what happened, that it was all a misunderstanding,  and we all go on with our lives. We find whatever Wulfric’s key opens and we go home.”

Mickey wonders how Ian remains so optimistic. It must come with youth. Having lived  through history and sometimes bearing witness to it up close, Mickey knows that very rarely does the easy path prevail. And something is souring in the pit of his stomach.  

It takes Mickey and Ian by surprise when the youngest member of the council is outside City Hall waiting for them. Caleb is not dressed in his fire department blues as he was the last time the council convened. Instead he is dressed in grey plaid trousers and a white shirt with suspenders, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He looks like he is attending a luncheon by the riverside. It surprisingly casual. Mickey is the chairman of his own civic vampire council back in Chicago and he would be giving his council members such spiked glances if they showed up dressed like that.

“Mikkel, Ian,” he greets them before they are close enough for Phillip or Liam to hear. “Uli said you might bring company with you.” He introduces himself, which is something none of the council members bothered with last time. “Caleb Daniels, fourth seat of the Vampyr Council of Philadelphia. Fire fighter with Ladder 28’s night battalion.” 

Mickey has to keep from grimacing at the pretension, saying “vampyr” instead of “vampire” just to make himself seem a hair more refined. 

“Watch out, boys,” Mandy advises sardonically. “This is the part where he starts in about his sculptures.”

“Mandy Milkovich…” he responds, taking off his bowler and bowing. “I couldn’t believe it when Mikkel said you were related.”

“You guys know each other?” Asks Lip.

“Mutual friends,” Caleb explains.

“Formerly,” Mandy adds, gritting her teeth.

“Uli has arranged for us to meet somewhere a bit more convenient, considering you brought a couple of bleeders with you.”

“Do vampires not bleed?” Asks Liam.

“We heal quick. You must be Liam?” And then he turns to Phillip. “And if it isn’t the famous vampire hunter, man of the hour. Phillip Ronan Gallagher. My man.”

He extends his hand in friendship, albeit highly performatively. Phillip looks between the council member’s hand, then Ian, then finally Mickey. Ian doesn’t have a clear understanding of the protocols while Mickey begrudgingly nods.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, hunter.” Caleb smiles facetiously.

“I wasn’t really a hunter.”

“Please. Save it for the council. I’m sure you don’t want to repeat yourselves.” Caleb insists as he turns about face and leads them into City Hall. “‘Hunter’s’ actually catchier than what the council’s been calling you.”

“Which is…?”

“You’re probably better off not knowing.”

The Gallagher brothers all seem to marvel as they escorted through the overly embellished municipal buildings. Though in their long lifetimes, Mickey and Mandy have both seen more than their fair share of actual European splendor to be impressed by an imitation.

As Mickey expects Caleb to leads them into a court room. It would only make sense for the tableau Uli wants to create in order to shame him into towing whatever line she is trying to draw. Maybe she wouldn’t be putting them through all this if she knew they intended to return from whence they came as soon as they find what they’re looking for. He has done the wandering vampire schtick before and even now he finds it wearisome. He wants to be home in Chicago with Ian. And this oddball little family they’ve thrown together.

And his library. It comes as an afterthought which takes Mickey by surprise. Before Ian, he only begrudgingly let himself be pulled away from his studies, his pursuit of scientific innovations. He thinks he ought to feel ashamed that he is acting like a lovesick mortal and letting his feelings for Ian get the better of him, but he doesn’t. Getting to know Ian, letting Ian in feels like a new realm of exploration all its own.

The chamber is simple: one long table for a panel of judges in the front And two smaller tables in front of it for the defense and prosecution. Mickey knew Uli was blowing some hot air up his ass when she insisted he was only expected to make an official statement.

“Please be seated,” Caleb instructs, indicating the table on the right. “The council should be with you shortly.”  

🧛 Ian 🧛

 “This looks an awful lot like we’re being held at trial,” Phillip concludes.

“No fucking shit, Lip,” Ian hisses. Any minute his brother is going to kick up his heels for a rendition of his “I told you so” dance. And Ian is not looking forward to it. “I thought this was just going to be some informal thing.”

“Clearly not,” Mickey answers curtly.

Ian pick’s nervously at the loose flecks of skin in his nail beds as he takes his seat. Only three chairs are at their table. They must have only expected him and Mickey to come with Lip in tow.

Liam makes a loud scraping noise as he takes one of the heavy chairs lined against the wall and drags it to the table. The sound is murder on his enhanced vampiric hearing, though Mickey and Mandy seem unperturbed. Little moments like that always serve to remind him that despite the advantages that have come with having the blood of an ancient flowing in his veins, he is still very much a novice.

“Any idea what they’re going to ask?” Liam wonders.

“They probably just want to know why I’m letting you and your idiot brother crash at my place.” Mickey surmises. “I’m hoping it’ll be pretty cut and dry.”

Ian can’t help but wonder if Liam could shed a little bit of light. The youngest Gallagher is still in the dark as far as his prophetic dreaming is concerned. And even if he did know, it has only been a couple of weeks since they figured out Liam is a sayer of soothes. Hardly enough time for him to master the gift.

Still, the child does fill out at least a third of a page in his little leather-bound notebook every morning when he wakes up each morning. And sometimes also when he wakes up in the middle of the night.

Ian and Lip have been secretly checking his notebook after Liam goes to sleep to see what they can use. The problem is that they have no idea when Liam is having a vision and when he is simply dreaming. The only passage so far that seems relevant was from two nights ago when Liam wrote, “someone in a green hood was after the German lady, but didn’t want any help.” Considering Uli Gottlieb is subjecting them to a court hearing, he suspects it must be for a later date.

“I don’t know what you are all so sullen about,” Mandy says breezily as she sits side saddle on the table. “Sure, Lip might not have been making the best decisions, but he didn’t commit any actual crimes.”

“Arson.”

“Not in Philadelphia,” Ian spits defensively.

“And I wasn’t even with those guys. All the firebugs ended up in Cook County Jail,” Lip throws his hands in the air. “That’s how I ended up in charge to begin with. I was the last one with half a brain standing.”

“All rise!” The voice is Caleb again coming from a door in the back of the chamber where Philly’s vampiric council enters from. Ian had expected them to appear in judge’s robes. Maybe in wigs like they do in England. But the council members are all dressed plainly, not much different from what they wore the other night. Except Caleb who looks like he intends to hit the taverns or dance halls when they are done here.

Once everyone is seated again, Uli takes the lead. “The council has deliberated over Mikkel Milkovich’s request.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Mickey mutters. Ian cannot help but find it charming that he is the only one Mickey allows to call him Milkovich without complaint.

“But before the council makes its decision, would you like to enter any statements into the official record, Mikkel?”

“Yeah, well first of all I prefer ‘Mickey,’ if you want to jot that down in the official record.” Mandy snickers and Ian has to steel himself to keep from joining in. Bernice takes an ink pen from the table and begins to scribe down what he says. “Yeah, and I guess you ought to know I’ve given sanctuary to one of the Vampire Hunter Club jackasses.”

“Thanks. Mick,” Lip deadpans.

“Would you care to elaborate, Mickey?” Uli asks, though it sounds more like a command.

“Do I care to? No. My business is my own. But seeing as you want me to jump through hoops, fine. He is my Fledgling Ian’s brother. He was—”

“Phillip Ronan Gallagher, please stand,” commands Uli authoritatively.

Lip gets to his feet, “It’s ‘Lip,’ actually.”

“Well, that’s just stupid,” Bernice mutters even as she writes down what Lip just said. And this time, the laughter comes from both sides of the room. Ian catches his brother roll his eyes and turn pink behind the ears. It is neither the first nor the last time that he has been sassed over his preferred name.

“Continue, Lip,” Uli instructs.

“We come from a large family. Six siblings with a niece or nephew on the way. And our father makes a snake oil salesman look like a saint. Our eldest sister tries her best to keep the family together, but Ian and I were always expected to take care of ourselves from an early age. And Ian… he was never like the rest of us. He kept secrets. He dimmed himself to let the rest of us burn that much brighter. He had more than his fair share of problems and he always insisted on solving them on his own.”

Ian listens to his brother sum him up and a lump forms in his throat. Over the years, Ian has confided in Lip more than any other sibling, almost exclusively during periods when Fiona has been so overwhelmed that he didn’t want to burden her with his worries. And Lip was always unfailingly objective, unafraid to tell Ian when he is being rash or idiotic. But he has never heard his brother describe him to others. He has never caught the sound of his voice hitch or noticed the way his normally eyes soften.

“Everyone else always took it for granted that he could take care of himself except me. We’re only fourteen months apart. Up until I started attending university, he was as constant as a reflection in my life. And then he disappeared. And then the bodies started to turn up.”

“At first my family just thought he was out for a walkabout. He tended to stay out on his weekends. But he would always be home within a couple days for the start of a new work week. But when he didn’t come home Fiona, Debbie, they all just waved it off as just what Ian does. Even after the murders stopped and neither hide nor hair of my brother was found, they all refused to worry, like my brother is a cat that got out of the house. And when two months came and went, my siblings… they accepted he was probably dead. And they mourned, but they didn’t feel the loss the way I did.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but you mentioned bodies?” Asks Zeb “How many bodies?”

“Sixteen.  All men in surrounding neighborhoods. Exsanguinated.”

“And a cow,” Ian catches himself muttering under his breath.

“A friend got in my head, convinced me that it must be the work of something supernatural. And I ended up convincing myself that my brother must have been one of the victims, too. That’s how I ended up joining the Van Helsing Society.”

“Thank you, Lip. You may sit,” instructs Uli. “Ian Gallagher, please stand.

Shit.

“Hi,” Ian replies as he stands. “Ian Clayton Gallagher, if you need to know my full name.”

“Can you please describe your time between your first encounter with Wulfric of East Anglia and meeting Mikkel of Clan Milkovich?”

Ian looks at his lover and brother seated at either side of him. He doesn’t want to go into detail on his time with Wulfric. It makes him feel like an idiot and causes Mickey to become irritable. And he doesn’t want to revisit those ten days between waking up a vampire and Mickey taking him under his wing. He was a wretched thing who ended the lives of sixteen men and one Holstein, wanting to die but compelled to feed.

More immediately important is the fact that in the short time since Lip and Liam have re-entered his life, Ian has been keen to avoid the topic of what he was up to between Wulfric going up in smoke and Mickey taking him home with him like a stray cat. He’s a murderer. Whether or not he was fully in control, there are sixteen men whose lives were cut short at his hands. How will they ever be able to look him in the eyes again if they know the truth?  

 “Can I answer this question in private?”

“No. Please continue.”

🧛 Mickey 🧛

He holds Ian tight in his arms as the council deliberates in private. He doesn’t know what else to do for him. Mickey had convinced himself that he was accustomed to the direct pipeline to Ian’s feelings. He thought he knew what it felt like to be overwhelmed by the intensity of Ian’s emotions, like being submerged in a cool pond. Asking him to relate the harrowing week and a half after being sired, though, was like being drowned in a deep ocean of despair.

“It’s okay, Red.” Mickey insists soothingly as he combs his fingers through his lover’s brassy orange curls. “Nobody is judging you for what happened.”

He waits a moment, hoping for someone to second him, but the others remain silent. Looking around the room, Liam is looking on curiously and Mandy has a sympathetic pout to her face, yet she remains off to the side. No doubt if Mickey weren’t at hand, she would be right by Ian’s side to support him.

 But Phillip can’t lift his gaze from the floor. Mickey knows just how much his elder brother’s respect means to him. Before Phillip became a part of Mickey’s night-to-night life, Ian would sing his praises as though his big brother were as fair as King Solomon, noble as Sir Galahad, and as clever as Archimedes all in one neat package. The man in person falls short of the myths that Ian has spun. But it hasn’t really bothered Mickey until now.

Ian sniffles as he pulls away from Mickey’s embrace, reaching for a clean handkerchief in his back pocket. “I probably look like a mess don’t I?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you cry blood?” Asks Liam. “That is fantastic!”

Ian coughs out a throttled laugh as he dabs at the streaks of red running down his cheeks. “You’re morbid, you know that?”

“I’m ten. You look macabre!” There is nothing but a tone of thrill to his voice. Mickey hasn’t been a ten year old boy in centuries. And even when he was ten, he didn’t have the luxury of being a kid the way Liam has been afforded. As such he cannot decide whether he is amused or bemused by the youngest Gallagher’s excitement at the macabre. “Like something out of Edgar Allen Poe!”

“You didn’t sound this excited when you found out I’m literally a vampire.”

The boy shrugs. “It’s crackerjack now that I know you’ve actually killed people. I was starting to think vampires were pretty unimpressive.”

“Gee thanks, buddy.”

“You know, I’ve taken lives before.” Mandy admits. “Mickey, too. There was a time when discretion and preserving the lives of the mortals we feed on weren’t really a priority.”

“I only ever taught you to avoid detection, Mands. And I know your Sire didn’t want a trail of bodies leading back to him either.”

“Yeah, well, I had quite a few mentors in those early days. And don’t pretend you’ve never—”

“I’m not.”

“And even still, I had a period or two when I didn’t bother with the Little Sip when I figured taking bad men off the board. Murderers, rapists, usurers.”

“Render evil unto evil?” Asks Phillip, speaking for the first time since Uli dismissed him. But Mickey certainly notices that the mortal is avoiding Ian’s gaze. “Why did you stop?”

“When I came to the New World, the mortality rate wasn’t exactly splendid. There weren’t enough mortals in Massachusetts colony to justify reducing the blood supply. And I just fell out of the habit. I feel embarrassed when I think about that time now.”

“Embarrassment? Not the fact that we aren’t judge, jury, and executioners?” Mickey asks wryly. Mandy just shrugs. She is about to reply when the doors in the back swing open and the Council strides back into the chamber, taking their seats again.

“We thank you for your patience,” Uli begins. “I want to stress that it is our job to ensure vampires’ role in society, lest we conduct ourselves like the monsters humanity would paint us as. We feed on mortals, but in return in is our job to protect them from the shadows. It is important that when a vampire sires a Fledgling that he or she provide their young charges with the training so that they are danger neither to themselves nor to humanity at large. Obviously, there are some concerning details in your recent past that give us pause. I want to stress that none of you are facing death or imprisonment. As a mortal, Phillip is out of our jurisdiction. And Ian’s crimes fell to Chicago’s jurisdiction. And clearly, the chair of the Chicago council has made sure Ian has the oversight he needed. The only transgression we find at fault is Mickey’s failure to notify this Council of providing a known anti-vampire advocate with safe harbor.”

There it is, Mickey thinks. The Council doesn’t care about the mortals Ian drained dry and they certainly don’t worry themselves about something as patently ineffectual as Phillip and his garlic heads. What this all comes down to is a pretense to put an elder vampire in his goddamn place. Stiff upper lip, Mikkel, he advises himself. Play along, bend the knee and eat some crow. We get the help we need to find Wulf’s fucking hidey hole, and then we can be on a train headed back to Chicago before the week is out.

“And so, this duly elected Council has arrived at the following course of action…”

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛

“Get the fuck out!” The first thing Ian hears when he wakes up is Mickey hollering  as he throws the paperweight on his night table at the figure ambling toward their bedroom doorway. The vampire dodges it easily enough and the tchotchke buries itself in the wall causing a loud crushing smash of a sound, followed by crumbling plaster.

“Mickey?”  

But the elder vampire is stomping out of bed and chasing after the intruder. Ian has very little time to enjoy the sight of his lover’s bounteous milky white posterior jiggling before it registers that Mickey isn’t bothering to cover up in a house full of people.

He is hurriedly belting his own dressing gown with Mickey’s slung over his elbow as he steps out into the hall and finds Mickey shouting nakedly at the youngest member of Philadelphia’s vampiric council. Despite Caleb having seven inches and sixty pounds on Mickey, he is a stripling in terms of physical vampiric strength and speed. He has the disheveled fireman pinned against the wall outside Lip and Liam’s room, bare feet dangling four inches from the ground.

“Listen good, fuckhead! I don’t care what the council says,” Mickey roars to wake the dead. “We may be stuck with you as our fucking babysitter, but you are not welcome in my house and certainly fucking not in our bedroom.”

Mickey and Ian had expected a slap on the wrist and they could be along their way. Instead, Uli decided that Mickey’s judgment warrants some observation. Thus she assigned them an attaché in the form of the youngest member of Philadelphia’s Vampiric Council. He is responsible for accompanying them any time they are out of the house and reporting back to the council if they make any dubious judgment calls. And while none of them are thrilled at the prospect, apparently their chaperone has found unexpected reasons to enjoy his assignment.   

“Nobody steals into my bed and takes what they want like a thief in the night! Nobody!”

His brothers’ bedroom door opens and Lip gets an eyeful of Mickey in his full glory before he immediately turns about face and slams the door behind him.

“Relax, little Viking,” Caleb hums. “I figured if we’re gonna be working together for a while, there’s no harm mixing business with pleasure.”

It catches Ian by surprise—that a duly appointed member of the Council whose task it is to monitor them on the Council’s behalf would attempt to push his advantage and try to slip into their bed while they still slept.

 What astounds him even more is the fact that Mickey seems equally caught off guard. Mickey was the one who warned him over and over again that sex is so casual among vampires that it may as well be a handshake. Though maybe it shouldn’t considering the Ukrainian-born vampire seems to need Ian just as ardently as he needs Mickey.

“Why you fucking—”

“Mick, put him down,” Ian chides.

At first it seems that Mickey is more likely to punch a hole through Caleb’s head than he is to heed Ian’s words. But then slowly Caleb is lowered to the floor. Ian throws Mickey’s robe over him while the shorter man stares down the intruder.

“Hot damn…” whistles the unwelcome guest, eyes wandering across Mickey’s body even as Mickey covers himself up. “I thought you old, old guard vampires were supposed to be all about the free love.”

“Not this one,” snarls Mickey defiantly, seeming like he could possibly explode from the sheer intensity.

It’s strange to think that there was a time when Mickey kept warning him over and over again just how loose vampires’ attitudes are about sex. And even after they started waking up in one another’s bed, Ian still wondered whether where he stood with Mickey. Mickey meets and surpasses the very low bar Ian once set for himself—a lover that doesn’t treat him like a dirty little secret. And now, watching Mickey practically come to blows for his sake even though he Ian had been fairly libertine before they met?  Honestly, it is taking a lot of willpower to convince Ian not to grab Mickey by the waist and take him to bed.

"What the fuck is going on here?” Ian’s head whips around to see Mandy practically floating down the steps.

“Ladder Sixty-nine here tried to jab his fangs where they didn’t belong,” explains Mickey venomously.

“It’s Ladder Twenty-Eight.”

“Like anyone gives a flying fuck, bucket brigade?”

“You need to leave, Mr. Daniels,” Mandys states cooly. It isn’t an order nor a command, but rather a declaration of what must occur. Almost immediately, Caleb’s brash body language crumples, shoulders slumping hands suddenly restless like they are searching for what they are supposed to be doing.  It makes Ian wonder what transpired between his friend and the interloper that she can cow him without even seeming to try.

“What about my—?” Before he can finish his stalling tactic, Mickey zips away in the blink of an eye and returns just as quickly with a pair of Oxfords, they clatter to the floor in front of Caleb.  “–shoes?”

“Now out.”

“Allow me.” Mandy takes the councilman out, escorting him with one hand clutching him by the biceps. “Caleb and I need to talk.”

“Did I ever tell you how hot it is when you take charge like that, Mick?” Ian whispers into Mickey’s mouth, pushing him against the wall where Caleb had been not three minutes earlier.

“Oh yeah?” He serves up one of those unguarded smiles that make the corners of his eyes crinkle. And Ian can’t get enough of it. “Wanna strip me back down and rearrange my insides to show your appreciation?”

“Mmm... twist my arm, Mr. Milkovich,” Ian takes a fistful of Mickey’s robe in each hand and pulls at the purple terry cloth exposing smooth alabaster-white shoulders. He leans in and nibbles up and down the sinew of Mickey’s neck, eliciting soft moans.

“Could you guys please refrain from going at it right outside my door?” pleads a frustrated Lip, his voice only slightly muffled.

“My house, my rules, Phillip!”

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

For the next several weeks, Ian and Mickey refuse to leave the house for any reason other than for Ian to sup, for which they begrudgingly tolerate Caleb’s presence as long as he keeps a wide berth. Whatever Mandy said to him, it ekes some modicum of obeisance out of him and he keeps a safe distance; a mile, though they reach a compromise of three quarters of a mile in a crowded area. Any closer and Mickey makes it quite clear that Caleb will end up with injuries that will not easily heal even for a vampire.   

Otherwise, the Gallagher brothers and Milkovich siblings pointedly spend their nights in for the better part of the month purely out of spite. Whether they leave the house at all, Caleb is obliged by the council’s orders to keep watch over the house, track their movements. And just for a healthy level of pettiness, Mickey is perfectly pleased to waste the little shit’s time while leaving him out in the cold. And Autumn is right around the corner.    

While they are in this stalemate, the council at least does its part to address the threat the drekava pose. Yes, the Council still insisted on their goddamn mages and their wards. But Mickey’s input  yielded fruit. He his research back when Chicago was still in its early stages employing few methods coastal cities’ vampire councils have implemented to repel the invasive species.   

The council’s resident scientist, Zeb, makes several visits to the house. In fact, Zeb is generally well-received by Mickey’s little makeshift family. Even Phillip seems less smug towards him. Mickey finds the man to be a bit of an eccentric, the sort of personality he has found himself gravitating to on an intellectual level over the centuries. A cloudcuckoolander to be certain, but Zeb is brilliant; the type of mind you launch at a problem. Leave him alone to mull over a conundrum for a few days and he will come back with a brilliant (if unorthodox) plan and two contingencies.  

Together, Zeb and Mickey concoct a pesticide infused with sassafras, mustard seed, and belladonna root. Liam finds it amusing that they are treating the blood-curdling monsters like they were gypsy moths even after the adults explain that they have to wait until after the creatures move on to a new hunting ground before it will be safe for the Council to dust the city limits.   

But as much as Uli is willing to collaborate on the Drekava problem, the same could not be said of getting a different Council representative to be their intermediary. They’re stuck with Caleb.  

“I tried to speak woman to woman with Uli about getting someone else,” confesses Mandy. “But she is insistent on him. I don’t know. Maybe she owes him money. My other running theory is this is his punishment as much as ours.”  

“We’re not being punished,” argues Phillip. “We’re being surveilled. And I don’t think they’re being straight with us.”  

“Of course not.” Mickey agrees. “But do you to show your math?”  

“Okay, so point number one: me. Even they agreed I was never really taken seriously, right? I’m here because we’re Ian’s brothers, not because you’re harboring a dangerous killer. And Ian was a danger to himself and others, but he’s been fine for months. What happened in Chicago is out of their jurisdiction. And so is anything baseline humans do. They have no room to be issuing any reprimands.”  

“Start rounding your way to your point, Lip.” Mandy insists.  

“I figure they know about the key, yeah? And they know that it belonged to an even more ancient vampire than either of you?”  

“They wanna know what Ian and Mickey are getting from Wulfric,” deduces Liam, looking up from an Edgar Rice Burroughs novel.  

“And take it for themselves?” concludes Mickey with an air of contention. “We're vampires. We don’t—”  

“Exactly!” Phillip crows in triumph. Mickey wishes Ian’s idiot brother would keep his fucking voice down when Caleb the Interloper is waiting right outside their front door. “How often do you guys croak? How often do any of you stand to inherit?”  

🧛🧛🧛  

Phillip’s words ring in Mickey’s head as he and Ian make their way down the Merry-Go-Round. It’s a route that people around the city are only aware of if they are the type of gent go looking for it. It is one of a couple cruising spots Ian has learned about. When the bars let out, men searching for male companionship find themselves discretely promenading along Lombard St on the blocks between Broad St and Washington Square.   

This sort of thing didn’t exist in Mickey’s mortal life, but back in Chicago, Ian was known to take The Stroll down State Street between 26 th and 39th. Jealous as he gets at the thought of seeing the man he shares a bed with frequenting these kinds of place in earnest, Mickey can’t help but laugh whenever Ian describes it as “panning for dick.”  

Mickey has gotten back into the habit of feeding semi-regularly, at least on the nights he joins Ian. He may not need to drink blood more than once or twice a year, but there is no rule against it. Besides, that aftertaste of booze and life essence in the plasma gets him giddy by the time they get back home. Though this isn’t Mickey’s preferred way to source his blood, if he is being honest. It’s not as though he avoids feeding on men he finds attractive, but seeking out men who are here specifically to scratch a certain itch feels unnerving. And Mickey doesn’t like to think about his food’s sex life. Or being part of it.   

 Mickey wonders if he would be caught perusing this sort of ambulatory blood bank if it weren’t for the fact that Ian proposed the idea. It is peopled by men who are up well into the wee hours, chasing moonlight so Ian can get what he needs before bed. And these mortals are all men looking to get in close quarters with other men. Not that Mickey ever tires of Ian’s downright vaudevillian antics when he comedically trips fangs first into his unwary targets, but Ian would much rather play the honeypot and have the bees come to him.   

Normally, he would treat going out for Ian’s feedings to be an optional activity. Even if Ian does enjoy making a performance of playing with his food just to get Mickey hot and bothered. But Mickey has been insistent on joining Ian ever since their council-appointed nuisance started tailing them whenever they are out of the house. He doesn’t trust Caleb as far as he can throw him. Actually, Mickey is strong enough that he could probably throw the guy nearly the length of a soccer pitch, so perhaps he should think of a different turn of phrase is called for.  

“Looking for a third?” Asks a sweaty, tawny-haired businessman with a blatant tan line where a wedding ring ought to be. He’s been overserved, the alcohol so strong on his breath that the man ought to avoid open flames for the next several hours.   

Mickey looks at Ian. Both of them have already drank what they need for the night. Everything on top of that is just gravy. Mickey can tell just by looking at the guy that they’re going to get good and sauced over a little nip of this guy, but Ian’s face is curled into a disgusted sneer. Mickey can practically taste the bile in the back of Ian’s throat, that sense of his stomach twisting in on itself and shriveling. Christ, did Mickey know that feeling intimately once upon a time.  

“Nah, we’re good, thanks.”  

“You’re loss,” the guy whispers as he moves on to greener pastures.   

“What?” Asks Mickey as they stroll further up Lombard St. “Have something against blonds all the sudden?”  

“Reminds me of the type of guys who used to… you know, before. Men with wives and kids at home. They always made me feel like I was the other woman.”  

“That’s the type you used to run with, huh?”  

“Started out of necessity at first.” Ian shrugs. “Needed to keep my job and my boss had a wandering eye.” Mickey catches the way Ian stares out into the distance, not wanting to look him in the face while he admits to past relationships. As though Mickey had been a monk before they met. He wasn’t. He didn’t exactly have relationships with other vampires or even mortals, not serious ones anyway. But he dallied off and on for the first two or three centuries after he loosened himself from Wulfric’s tight leash. It took him that long to realize his worth. “It wasn’t all bad, though. I got lightly expired groceries for the house out of it.”     

Mickey turns back and looks into the distance. Their shadow is distracted by the cruising happening around him. Good.   

“You know you don’t need to feel ashamed, right?”  

“I’m not—”  

“I was sold off at the age of nine to someone who may as well have been my pimp the way the men around him used me, Ian.”   

Ian is stunned into silence.  

Mickey takes Ian by his large, freckled paws. “I know what it feels like to regret things beyond my control.”  

“You can remember that far back?” Ask Ian as they continue walking. “I thought you had to read your diaries if you wanted to—”  

“The memories have been coming back easier these days. Don’t know what it is. Sometimes I you’ll say something. Or Mandy or your brothers. And it reminds me of one thing and then another. Those early days have been coming back more easily. Maybe it’s you, what you feel taking me back to things I once felt. Some good, some bad.”  

“Sorry,” Ian murmurs as they turn into a park, leaving behind the well-trodden trail of men trolling for touch.   

Mickey’s face contorts, eyebrows knitting. “Sorry for what?”  

“Your life before we met. It must have taken centuries to get where you were… You were comfortable, a whole mansion to yourself. You had Chicago, practically helped build it; a city where you’re respected. Bad memories either forgotten or safely stowed away in diaries collecting dust. You didn’t need me throwing a spanner into the works. You didn’t even ask for all this, you never wanted me. We just got yoked together by some twist of fate. Now, here we are, wandering the country on what could just be a wild goose chase, falling afoul of other vampires— like, they literally put us on trial. Instead of your huge manor, you’re  living in close quarters with me and my brothers. You don’t gotta be—”  

Mickey doesn’t know precisely what the thought process that lead to him pouncing on Ian, pinning him on his back in the grass under a cedar tree, his thighs bracketing Ian’s torso, inked hands pinning Ian’s shoulders to the soft ground.   

“Mickey!” But the redhead is silenced by the caress of soft lips against his own.  

“Okay, you listen and you listen good, asshole! You’re right— I never asked for any of this. But you’ve gotta be the fucking fool of all fools if you don’t think you’re the best thing to happen to me in a thousand years! And if there is one person on this whole globe I want, it’s you.” He whispers breathily into Ian’s ear.   

Ian simpers, practically purring. Mickey yields, slackening his hold on Ian’s shoulders.  

Without any warning, now it is Mickey caught by surprise as he lands on his back with Ian holding him down. Despite Mickey’s strength advantage, he is quite pleased to find himself at Ian’s mercy. The big, beautiful lummox rolled their bodies until they essentially traded places in the grass. “Since when do you say sappy shit like that?”  

Mickey sneers playfully. “If you only knew, Firecrotch. I had a pretty schmaltzy phase during the Third Crusade. The mortal I was into was all about touchy feely poetry and shit. But I’ll admit I’m outta practice.”  

“I still can’t believe you really fooled around with Richard the Lionheart.”  

Mickey tilts his head. “What can I say? I like ‘em, brawny, ginger, and all heart.”  

“Sure there aren’t any other organs that interest you?” Asks Ian, grinding his hips against Mickey’s trouser-clad ass.  

“Love o’ god! Can you give it a rest?”   

Mickey looks up, past the lidded emeralds and the constellation of freckles gazing back at him and the carefree joy they had allowed themselves dries up like a puddle in an arid desert. Caleb has apparently given up on the agreed mile of distance he is supposed to maintain from them at all times.   

“The fuck you looking at, shithead?” demands Mickey as the vampire lovers climb to their feet and dust themselves off. Though truly, he doesn’t care what the firefighter looks at as long as it is at least a mile away from him or Ian at all times.   

“Are you seriously going to keep this up? Make me stand around and watch while you boys window shop?”  

“Excuse me?” Asks Ian, affronted. “Window shopping? You do remember those folks are people, right?”   

“Sure I do, animals don’t taste right.”  

This fucking guy…    

“Not that we owe you an explanation, but we already drank our fill.” Ian huffs.  

“Yeah, and you’d probably know that if you weren’t spending some quality time on your knees back in Rittenhouse Square,” Mickey adds, taunting him.  

“At least it’s something to do. Lord knows you two are determined to bore me into an early grave. Monogamous vamps… what will they think of next?”  

“Do you got a point or do you want to march back a mile like we agreed?”  

“How long are you going to waste my time?”  

“Till your boss assigns us someone who didn’t try an’ take what he wanted while we were sleeping.”  

“That was supposed to be all in good fun. Look, the redhead is hot and they say the blood of an Ancient has got some cache to it if you get my drift. But standing out side your door for the past month? Listening to you freaks banter at each other? Live with mortals you have no intention of drinking from ? Pass.”  

“Fuck off, ” Ian snaps, pulling an arm around Mickey and holding him close. Mickey almost forgets why he’s mad for a second. Ian’s touch has that effect on him. Unfortunately, Caleb opens his mouth again and Mickey’s blood boils anew.    

“Look, I don’t want to waste my time, you don’t want to waste yours. Can we just get the lead out with whatever you guys need to do so you can be on your way and I can get my evenings back?”  

“We got time. Eventually Uli will pull you for one reason or another and assign us… you know what? Really anybody else.”  

“You seriously going to be petty ‘cause I read my signals wrong? We’re vampires!”  

“You know, I used to have a real bad temper. Like, the fact that your head is on your shoulders is actually a sign of personal growth for me. Wanna know why?”  

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”  

“We got centuries. I can afford to be patient. Not like a stripling eager to go roaming and enjoy his immortality, huh?”  

“You may have centuries, but your housemates don’t. You gonna waste their time, too? Do you expect them to grow old, wither up and die here while you drag your heels just to spite me?” Their free-range jailor turns about, hopefully to head back to the mile distance Mickey insisted on in the first place.  

“What about council meetings?”  

“Huh?” Caleb turns back to them.   

Dammit, Gallagher! Just let him fuck off where he’s supposed to.  

“They’ve had council meetings since you’ve been assigned to us, right? Are they keeping your seat open?”  

Mickey’s eyes widen. Clever boy, Ian . Caleb is fighting the clock. The longer they stall their trip to the Masonic Temple, the longer before they move on and put the city of brotherly love behind them. And the more likely Uli will want to get Caleb’s empty seat filled.   

“Like I said, stop wasting my fucking time already.”  

He is about to turn away again when the impulse blooms in Mickey’s stomach and flutters up his throat. His mouth is full of an idea, but he doesn’t know if it’s going to be one of his winners or if it’s a dud like the aerial screw or the bayonet.  

“What say we make a deal?”  

Chapter Text

🧛 ‍ Ian 🧛 ‍   

“You think I didn’t try to get out of this assignment?” Asks Caleb, presumably in the rhetorical, as they arrive back at the house, “Because believe me, that sister of yours is fucking terrifying.”  

Ian pops his head in the kitchen where Mandy is looking through a cookbook for fresh breakfast ideas. Strange how she didn’t even seem to know where the kitchen was before his brothers came to live with them. Either Liam is that cute that she likes to treat him or those lingering looks she gives Lip mean something.  

“What? Mandy? She’s a total sweetheart.”  

Mickey laughs. And laughs hard. “Hey Mands! Did you know Ian thinks you’re all sweetness and light?”  

“Well, it’s been a few centuries since I’ve hunted wicked men for sport.” She looks devilishly at Caleb. “Though I am perfectly capable of it.”  

Ian trains his face into a neutral expression, but he has a hard time believing that Mandy could possibly be capable of what both she and Mickey seem to be implying. Although, she certainly did seem to instill some semblance of dread into Caleb when the man certainly seemed like he expected free reign of Mickey’s house— and their bedroom.  

“You don’t scare me, woman,” Caleb replies, his line of sight clearly looking anywhere but her eyes.  

“Ever hear of Elizabeth Bathory?”  

“Who?”  

“The blood countess?” asks Ian.  

“Would you knock it off with that shit?” demands Mickey. “Bad enough you got the kid convinced.”  

“Why is assface here in my house?”  

“ My house,” Mickey corrects. “And calm your tits. He isn’t staying long. Takes seat a the negotiation table and no further.” He points to the dining room.   

Caleb looks at the room, then back at Mickey. His face is twisted into an indignant sneer and for a moment, Ian expects Caleb to defy the elder vampire’s instruction. They stare each other down like they are about to come to blows. But then something shifts. In the glimmer of an instant, Caleb’s expression softens and he nods as he struts in the direction of the dining room.   

“What’s going on?”   

“We’re bargaining. Care to join?”  

“I don’t even want the shithead in our home, let alone sit across the table from him.”  

Caleb clearly heard the remark, looking back from the dining room table looking as nervous as a schoolboy faking his way through the homework he never completed.  

“Turn around, Shithead. Private conversation.” Mandy shrills at him.  

“You’re literally talking about me.”  

“Yeah. And we can’t talk about you behind your back when you’re facing us. Get it together, hose boy.”  

🧛 ‍ 🧛 ‍ 🧛 ‍  

“Do you trust him?” Asks Lip, sitting down at his plate around the breakfast table with a fresh cup of coffee from the electric kettle.   

“About as far as you can throw him,” answers Mickey, seeming pleased with himself for some reason. “Look, any given civic vampiric council only has four spots. And that fourth seat is reserved for Neophytes.”  

“Can I get a quick lesson? What’s a Neophyte?”  

“Junior members. Young. But not as young as Fledglings.”  

“Very helpful.”  

“I’m a Fledgling, Lip.” Ian explains, yawning wearily. He likes being able to check in with his brothers in the morning before bed, but daywalking is such a drain on even he best of days. Even with the opaque black curtains drawn, being awake in the daytime is still a struggle. Maybe if he’s lucky, he can convince his Viking to carry him up to their bedroom.   

“Generally, speaking Fledglings aren’t considered part of vampire society until they hit the one hundred year marker.” Mandy explains, “Then you’re considered a Neophyte for a couple centuries. Then come the Literati, the elders. And then finally the Ancients.”    

“We done with the vampire lesson?” Asks Mickey impatiently. “My point is the other chairs on a Vampiric Council don’t have an expiration date. He on the other hand, only has so much time to hold onto his seat. And the longer he’s saddled babysitting us every night instead of attending to Council affairs…  

“They can just give his spot up like that?” Asks Lip as he dabs a pad of butter on his breakfast biscuit.   

“In a heartbeat,” Mickey confirms. “Made for a good incentive at the negotiation table. He’s gonna sit out our trip to the Masonic Temple.”  

“But…?”   

Ian catches the twitch ghost across his lover’s face. It is ever so slight that he doubts Lip noticed it. Mickey doesn’t necessarily hate his brother as far as Ian can tell. But if there is one person that can annoy the hell out of Mickey merely by asking a question, it’s Lip Gallagher.   

“But we’ve got to do him a favor while we’re in there. It turns out Uli wasn’t being straight with us. That little adjudication they put us through?”  

“Total farce?” Mandy volunteers.   

“Turns out that Wulfric might have taken something of Uli’s way back when. She wants it back. A bangle or some stupid piece of costume jewelry like that. Caleb is supposed to retrieve it for her.”  

Lip looks so confused. “Why didn’t she just ask you to look for it in the first place?”  

“Fucking drama queen,” murmurs Mandy.  

“Technically, anything behind that lock is Ian’s inheritance.”  

“And yours,” Ian insists and not for the first time.   

“Whatever. I don’t think we’re going to be put out if we part with a bracelet.” Mickey shrugs, though sounding confident. “So, we get Uli wants and Caleb stays out of our hair. Mr. Fire Hydrant gets to reclaim his seat on the Vampiric Council, and we can fuck off back to Chicago where we belong. Everyone goes home happy.”  

Ian espies the way Lip shifts his weight in his seat. All these weeks since his brothers came back into his life and Lip still is afraid to face their sister after running away with Liam and a small fortune. To be fair, that sounds like a reasonable reason to avoid Fiona’s wrath. But at least it’s something that the Gallagher clan can grasp. Ian doesn’t know if he will ever to be comfortable letting Fiona know what he has become.  

“Have none of you adults bothered to crack a book? Like, in a thousand years?”   

They turn to Liam, who has quietly finished his biscuit and bacon and started reading a book Mandy must have picked out for his home schooling. Ian has a hard time picturing Lip assigning Lady Chatterly’s Lover to read.  

“That’s how the plot of Aladdin and his Magic Lamp begins.” The child explains.   

“Don’t believe everything you read, kid,” advises Mickey, leaning across the table to ruffle the ten-year-old’s hair.   

Liam cannot resist but to roll his eyes. “Uh-huh. Do you at least know what’s so special about the bracelet?”  

“Sentimental value?” Ian suggests, slumping on Mickey’s shoulder.  

“Man, the sun really does do a number on you, huh?”  

It doesn’t sound judgmental, but even if it were, Ian is too pooped to come up with a witty retort.   

“What do you expect?” Asks Mickey. “We’re vampires. C’mon, Sleepyface. Let’s get you up to bed before you conk out at the table.”  

🧛 ‍ Mickey 🧛 ‍  

“Ready to get the show on the road?” Asks Caleb as the front door opens and Mickey and the two elder Gallagher brothers step out.  

Mickey looks at the younger vampire, eager to make tracks to Franklin Square and finally get their task under way. He tries to remind himself that Caleb is only being overzealous because he wants to get back to his own business instead of being their glorified security guard. But the same nagging worry that kept him up this morning after Ian fell asleep keeps rattling about in his head. This newfound accord between the two of them could simply be a ruse.   

“I still don’t see why I can’t come,” huffs the indignant ten-year-old standing at the door. Mickey understands why Liam feels cheated. He thinks of their task at the Masonic Temple as some sort of grand adventure, infiltrating a secret society. The truth is that they’re merely collecting what Ian is owed and getting on with their lives.   

If he didn’t have reason to suspect the Philadelphian Vampires of ill will, he wouldn’t think twice about bringing the kid along. Of Ian’s family that he’s acquainted with, Liam stands head over shoulders above Phillip in his esteem.   

“Don’t worry, bud,” exhorts Mandy soothingly. “Lip wrote down the instructions for a science experiment for you.”   

Mickey is honestly beyond surprised that Mandy agreed to stay back with Liam. She has been suspicious of Caleb even longer than Mickey, though she hasn’t explained why.   

The adults all agreed that they cannot predict whether the Council will betray them or not. The child had been right, this morning. Caleb tailing them all this time because Uli wants a sentimental item from Wulfric’s hidden trove doesn’t sound right. Whatever Uli really wanted by burdening them with Caleb, Mickey cannot help but read it as ominous. It could be nothing. They could be perfectly fine. But if they are walking into a hornet’s nest, Liam is a child. And Mandy begrudgingly relented when Mickey asked to stay back at the house to keep the child safe, despite vociferously making it clear that she does not trust Caleb. At all.   

“We’re headed out then?” Asks Phillip, playing it cool with his hands in his pockets as he follows the vampires down the street corner.  

“You’re bringing the vampire hunter?”  

“Reformed,” defends Phillip.  

“Technically, Wulfric said everything that was his is mine now. I’m the one choosing who comes. Got it?”  

“You boys fed yet?” Caleb asks. “It’s one thing to keep your mortal relations  around like cherished pets—”  

“Where’s a wooden stake when I need one?” Phillip jibes. Ian elbows him accordingly, causing the elder Gallagher to stagger backward. Mickey wonders if Ian was always stronger than his brother or if it’s a sign that his vampiric strength is starting to develop.  

“Does the mortal even have the stomach to watch us feed?”  

“Lip has seen worse.”  

Ian flinches. It’s been nearly a month from Uli’s little trial, but the Gallagher brothers have been keen to avoid discussing the revelation that the rash of murders that set Phillip careening across the continent on his anti-vampire campaign were in fact committed at Ian’s hands. Mickey doesn’t know how Phillip feels about it, but Ian felt miserable when he was forced to confess. He could feel Ian reliving the experience and it made Mickey’s own insides turn second-hand.   

The Masonic Temple comes into sight and as they approach, Mickey pulls out a folded up slightly yellowed slip of paper. In it, Zeb had written out instructions to gain access to the temple, posing as Freemasons themselves. Caleb scoffs. If Mickey didn’t have a mortal and a still-developing Fledgling, they could simply leapfrog their way up to the tower and slip in through there.  

“Didn’t we agree that you were going to hang to the rear?”  

“Right,” Caleb agrees. “Don’t want these secret society types to see you with a darky, huh?”  

Mickey flips the fireman off as Caleb takes three leaps until he reaches a window outside the sight lines of whoever might answer the doorMickey knocks on the side door; the grand entry is just for the tourists. They wait for minutes before the door creeks open and they are greeted by an older man, perhaps in his early fifties. He is dressed in plain clothes that look like they were hastily thrown on over pajamas, holding up a gas lantern. Mickey is surprised and maybe a touch disappointed that he isn’t wearing ceremonial robes.  

“Do you have any idea what time of night it is?”  

“Hello brother,” Mickey says, “Sorry for the late hour.” He proceeds to perform the secret grips and words of the order.   

The older man’s demeanor changes. “And these are trusted fellows?”   

“Close companions. A man I trust with my life and the brother he trusts with his.”  

Phillip is going to have a swelled head, I just know it.   

“Then enter in peace and may be be upon you, brothers. I am Brother Youens.”  

“Brother Wattley,” Mickey replies as they are led inside. As always, he is keen to avoid divulging his true name to mortals. “My companion with the fiery hair is Curtis and his brother Phillip. We are but weary travelers and strangers in the city and need respite just for the night, protection against the bitter winds and beating rains.”  

Mickey feels like an ass going off this script. And the Gallagher brothers’ quizzical expressions only confirm how awkward the stilted premeditated language is. Though, Mickey has become quite content to speak in his normal, and often very coarse manner of speech with them as members of the household. Something tells him that they have no idea just how officious Mickey can sound in his professional life, dealing with board members of the Elevated Rail’s board of directors as his current mortal persona.  

The call and response over, Brother Youens guides them inside to the back areas of the temple where rooms are reserved for weary travelers.   

“You’ll have to share. I hope you understand this may be one of our largest lodges in North America, but we rarely get travelers seeking safe harbor for the night. It’s fallen out of fashion. Modern times being what they are and all. We have been using many of those travelers’ dens for storage these days.”   

He leads them to a simple room with two cots and a nightstand with an electric lamp between it.   

“I can bring you a spare blanket and a pillow if that helps.”  

“No,” Mickey refuses. “This is more than enough. Thank you for your kindness.”  

After the door closes behind them, they wait until Brother Youens’ footprints become faint before any of them speak.  

“You know, this is probably the longest I’ve heard you go without swearing at someone.”  

“Fuck off. Are you timing me or something, Phillip?”  

Ian sits on the side of one of the cots, his long legs spread in front of him, heels digging into the simple rug between the beds. “So, what do we do now?”  

“We wait until the residents are all asleep. I don’t want to get caught wandering the halls. Midnight, maybe?”  

“What do we do until then? Rest up?”  

“Well, it is late for you diurnal types, isn’t it?”  

Phillip shrugs as he sits down and unlaces his shoes. “Please don’t go at it like cats in heat while I’m napping right next to you. That’s all I ask.”  

Mickey smirks. “I’m not making any guarantees.”  

🧛 ‍ 🧛 ‍ 🧛 ️   

They wander the grand halls of the Masonic Temple hours later. In the pitch black of darkness, Ian and Mickey are blessed with keen night vision. Phillip isn’t so lucky. With the other rooms with window access, he has some acuity granted to him by the moonlight, but in the inner chambers where they now find themselves searching, he is stumbling around in the dark.   

“Maybe Caleb was right. I’m slowing you down.”  

“No, fuck that guy.” Ian insists as he takes his brother’s hand and guides it to his shoulder. Mickey cannot help but notice the momentary flinch when he takes Phillip’s hand. “I’ll be your eyes, it’s fine.”  

Finally, they find themselves to the chamber they need. Mickey is hesitant to turn on the electric lights the building has been fitted with. He doesn’t want the telltale hum giving away that they are up and about to anyone who may be guarding the building. Instead, he reaches for a ceremonial torch on the wall and pulls out his trench lighter.   

In the soft glow of the torch light, the room is illuminated to reveal a large chamber with a beautiful ceramic floor, polished marble walls, and vaulted ceilings propped up by tall Corinthian columns. Towards the back of the room, is their goal: atop a three-tiered marble podium is a 17-foot bronze statue of Philadelphia’s most famous Freemason, Benjamin Franklin. He is depicted wearing a ceremonial costume under the overcoat he is always depicted wearing. His right hand brandishes a hammer while leaning on a shorter pillar.  

Ian pulls out the key. “So, what do we do now?”  

“Look for a keyhole. Zeb’s notes say that it has to be here somewhere.”   

They feel around the walls like blind men stumbling in the dark. After twenty minutes of searching, Ian shouts, “I found it! I think I found it!” The others flank him while he holds his finger against a narrow chink in the wall that is almost imperceptible to the eye.   

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Asks Phillip.  

Ian pulls the key out of his pocket. But then hesitates, eyes searching Mickey’s face. “Don’t you want to do the honors?”  

“He left the key to you, lover.”  

He slips the key into the slot until they hear a click and then he turns it a sharp quarter turn to the left.   

Nothing happens. Mickey thought a hidden door in the wall would reveal itself or a trap door in the floor would spring open. But the air is still and the only thing moving in the chamber is their own chests rising and falling.  

“So, it really was a giant goose chase,” Ian sighs. “Should have known this wouldn’t—” But Ian doesn’t get the chance to finish that statement before the statue starts to groan.   

Chapter Text

🧛 ‍️ Ian 🧛 ‍   

Ian’s jaw drops as the giant bronze statue begins to creak and rumble as some sort of motor hidden below the floor begins to churn. The ground shakes beneath his feet and for a moment he is frozen to the spot in surprise at the mammoth Benjamin Franklin simulacrum lurching backwards. The front middle section of the three-tiered pedestal splits submerges into the floor, revealing a thin, treacherous-looking spiral staircase.  

And then the room is still again. Silent as a tomb as though a statue that must weigh several tons hadn’t just moved ten feet from its resting place. Ian pockets the key in his breast pocket again.   

The trio form a semi-circle around the newly revealed set of stairs. If it weren’t for the fact that he has spent the past six months acclimating to life as a vampire, he would swear that this feels like something straight out of one of his old dime novels no doubt collecting dust back home, assuming Fiona didn’t sell them at a flea market by now.  

“Who  wants to do the honors?” Asks Mickey.   

“You’re the one holding the torch,” shrugs Lip.  

“You can lead the way if you want to, Ian.” Mickey presses his lips into a straight line, not trying to sway Ian’s decision even has he holds out the torch. “Whatever’s down there is yours. Your call.”  

Ian thinks for a moment, turning to look down at the mysterious stairs. “Do you think there’s anything down there to worry about?”   

Mickey blinks. “I don’t know. I’ll take pointe. I’m the strongest. Then you. If we come across something I can’t handle, you get yourself and Lip out of there. Do you understand?”   

He doesn’t wait for an answer, starting down the steps. Slowly. Mickey hasn’t lasted over one thousand years by leaping headlong into the unknown. Ian follows as the light recedes down the steps. He hears the telltale flicker of a lighter and the scent of a lit cigarette and then Lip is following behind. Even in the torchlight, he feels relief when Lip’s hand finds its way to his shoulder.   

Down. Down. Down. How deep did they dig when they laid the sediment?  

“So far, it seems like we’re in the clear, right?” Asks Lip.   

“Not certain,” murmurs Mickey, lost in thought. “I don’t think we’re the first ones down here recently.”   

“Anything you intend to share with the whole class, Mickey?” Lip joshes.   

“Dunno.” Mickey answers automatically. “But something feels off.”   

Finally, the stair case brings them to ground again. Instead of parquet flooring, they walk down a corridor of cold slabs of brick. They all agree that they must have ended up somewhere far older than the building they started in. It feels more like a medieval dungeon. Mickey holds the torch in his hand to the torch sconces they find at intervals along the wall. The Gallagher brothers each take a torch from the wall, increasing the illumination as they go.  

The path seems to lead them a long way. It is a straight shot, but it seems to go on for miles. As large as the Masonic Temple is, there is no way that they have not passed far beyond the property line some time ago.  

“I just want to go on record and say I feel more uncomfortable the further we get away from the steps,” Lip admits.   

“Understandable.” Mickey mutters reassuringly. “And I’m not exactly happy with how clean this place is.”  

“Clean?” Echoes Ian.   

Mickey waves his torch around in demonstration. “No dust. No cobwebs. No rat leavings or weeds growing in through the cracks. Someone’s been in here. And recently.”  

“You think Wulfric left another key?”  

“Or maybe he left someone down here to keep the place tidy.”   

“We made it this far, haven’t we?” Ian insists, feeling some thrill creeping through him, like his body is singing. It almost reminds him of the sensation he felt when he was searching the city for his brother. It’s almost as though he is honing in on their destination the further they travel. “The only way out is through.”  

“No, I think there is clearly a second form of egress in the form of turning around.”  

But concerns raised, they press on. And fortunately, it is not much longer until they reach a solid and very heavy steel door. Ian sees slash mark’s graven into it, not deep in the metal, but whatever or whoever did so must have been either very strong or very forceful.   

“Ian, your key.”  

Ian is already fumbling through his pocket for it even as he asks, “What good would it do? Whoever else was down here must have their own copy. So why wouldn't there key work a second time?”  

“Just follow me, here.” Mickey’s confidence seems to grow as he thinks it through. “I got a theory.”  

Ian pulls out the key and Mickey holds out his hand expectantly. He fidgets with the cool metal in his fingers before he hands it over. Mickey turns it over in his hand a couple times. Then he holds the torch in his other hand to it, which nearly causes Ian to knock it out of Mickey’s hand. There are very few ways to kill a vampire, but Ian has witnessed firsthand that fire is effective. The silver key glows opalescent under the light of their torches. Mickey nods, humming knowingly to himself before he hands the key back to Ian.   

“What was that all about?” Asks an impatient Lip.  

“Silver isn’t supposed to glow like that under firelight. It’s supposed to look dull and grey, not like refracted light. Wulfric did something here. Try the door, Ian.”  

“What do you think he did?” Asks Ian as he presses the key to the lock and is surprised when it fits.  

“Wulf always used to tell me he dabbled in magic. I always thought the old bastard was trying to pull my leg. But he did have a way of making sure nobody touched what was his. It’s why he kept me on so tight a leash for all those years. A fledgling would have been able to get past a seal.”  

“Are we talking about sideshow magician nonsense?” Asks Lip, “‘Cause that bunk is all just parlor tricks.”  

“Normally, I’d be inclined to agree with you, but I’ve seen the old fuck pull off blood magic firsthand.”  

Blood Magic? Ian doesn’t know what that means, but the way his whole body seems to be tingling from the inside out, he’s sure Mickey is on the right track.  

“Try and turn the key, Red.”  

He already has tried. All the while, he needs to steady himself. The feeling of his blood calling out to something just beyond his reach is reaching a fever pitch, threatening to overwhelm his clarity of thought. The key fits perfectly but he cannot turn it one iota in either direction. “It won’t budge,” he admits.  

“Figures. Gimme you hand. Palm up.”  

Ian obeys, allowing Mickey to gingerly take his hand, holding it steady in both of his. He trusts Mickey wholeheartedly even as the raven-haired vampire’s canine teeth extend, even as he puts his bowed lips to Ian’s palm and plunges his fangs into the rough skin of Ian’s palm. It doesn’t hurt. It never does. It stung a little the first time they fed from one another, but only for a moment or two. Instead, there is a thrill that courses through his whole body as the sharpened fangs tear through his flesh.   

“Gross.”  

But Mickey doesn’t drink. Instead, he lets the blood run. Twin puncture holes trickling with the the telltale bright crimson of vampiric blood. His life essence loosed, it honestly surprises Ian that the plasma eking out of the fresh wounds aren’t flying off his hand to whatever is calling out to him beyond the door.  

“Could I get a warning when you two pull shit like this? You know, the erections are really noticeable when you guys bite each other.” Ian and Mickey both flip him off in an almost synchronized movement.  

“Press your hand to the door. The bleeding one.”   

Ian isn’t sure what is going through Mickey’s head, but he complies. The blood wants to be there. He needs to get inside, if for no other reason than to quell the needful harmonizing of his vampiric blood. He holds the bleeding hand to the cold steel. But it isn’t merely cold steel that he senses. Rather, he feels as though he is touching something living, vibrating with energy. And his touch is disrupting it, the blood knocking out that vital force protecting the door as though he were shorting out an electrical circuit.  

“What did I just do?”  

“Try the key again.” This time when Ian grips the bow and shank of the key and turns, it still is a struggle, but it creaks and groans as the key twists to the right.  

“Like I said,” crows Mickey in a piss-poor attempt at modesty, “Blood Magic. Wulf sealed the door shut so that his own blood could crack it.”  

“And his blood is what made us,” chimes in Ian, understanding.  

“And you had to slice open my baby brother? Don’t you have that guy’s blood in you, too?”  

“Relax, Lip. Already healed.” Ian holds out his hand to show his brother the sealed puncture wounds. “We do this all the time. If you knew how many times we’ve dug into each other when we’re fang banging—”  

“Fang banging?”  

“That’s not what we call it.”  

“What’s …? Oh. Why would you tell me about that?”  

Ian shrugs. He honestly thought Lip would take comfort in knowing that he and Mickey have a workaround so that Liam and Lip aren’t woken up in the middle of the night while they are doing their best to break the bed-frame and making each other curse into the ceiling at the top of their lungs. It is only in hindsight that he realizes he could have just let his brother live in blissful ignorance.   

He turns to the door, blushing and pretending he didn’t just attempt to open the floodgates for a discussion of his sex life with his brother. The heavy handle of the door rattles loosely as though someone had tried to yank at it so hard that it nearly flew off its hinges. Ian needs to apply some elbow grease, but he only manages to make the door budge a fraction of an inch at a time. Sparks fly where it scrapes against the floor.   

“We coulda tried mine first, but the truth is my blood is much older,” Mickey replies as he leans in to aid Ian.   

The weighty slab of steel screeches along the cold uneven stones of the floor. “Yeah, I still got Wulf’s stink on me. That’ll never change. But the blood flowing through Ian’d veins is less diluted than mine.” Mickey groans, too as the two of them need to lift first and then pull. The elder vampire fires off a litany of swears, promising that if Wulfric were alive, Mickey would consider throttling the old man for making a door so heavy that two vampires have to struggle to open it in tandem. And Ian really can’t fault him for it.   

It makes sense why the struggled so once the door is finally open enough for them to sidle through on a crab walk. The door is nearly as thick as it is wide, as though it were meant for a bank vault.   

“I’d kill him if he weren’t already a pile of soot somewhere,” murmurs Mickey as he squeezes through, and not for the first time.   

To Ian’s surprise, the chamber they now find themselves in really does feel like a vault. Iron, wrought, older than the steel door, but vast.   

And empty.   

“I thought you said this key was supposed to lead to some sort of inheritance,” Lip bellyaches.   

“What’s that?” Ian asks, noticing an outsized protrusion forming a crease in the far wall, his body already striding to the far side of the room. Mickey and Lip follow after while Ian zeroes in on the outline of what looks like a storage cupboard hidden in the wall, his fingers tracing along the crease in the iron.   

“Mickey?” asks Ian.  

“Try it, Red.” Mickey insists. “Iron isn’t steel. And it’s old.”  

“You think so?”  

“Treat it like a test of strength.”  

“Like that thing you had me try the other night?” asks Ian, wiggling his eyebrows. “That kind of test of strength?”  

“Wouldn’t ask  you to do that in front of your brother, tough guy.”  

“Oh my god! Would you two please not?" Lip moans.  

Ian laughs as he stretches his long fingers, cracking his knuckles. “Okay, let’s see how this goes,” he says confidently, although the concern that he might be breaking his finger feels very real. Curling his fingers, he digs his nails into the coarse and discolored metal and is shocked that his digits dig into the material as easily as though it were sculptor’s clay. Ian has been sufficiently stronger than the average mortal for a while now, but he had no idea he could do this. How did Mickey know?  

He pulls at the material at though he were tearing open a package wrapped in brown paper. Behind the now-shredded plate of rusty iron is revealed to be a single shelf containing a thin chest encased in velvet. His body tingles all over, but this doesn’t add up with what Rutger— Wulfric told him so many months ago now. “Find my house.” He didn’t tell Ian to go treasure hunting for whatever trinkets that might be in that box.  

“Jesus, Ian!” Lip utters agape. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”  

“I am a vampire, Lip.”  

“Yeah, sure. But it’s different seeing you do that shit and not grampa here.”  

Mickey eyes Lip venomously, scowling with his eyebrows perched in attack formation. But he rises above, opting not to take the bait. “Go ahead, Ian. Open ‘er up.”  

Ian nods at Mickey, licking his lip as he turns to face the chest, hands gripping either side of the lid. Once more, he feels the fizzling sensation of a magical seal evaporating under his touch.  

“Drop it. Now.” The voice comes from the far end of the room, but he can hear fleet feet broaching the distance. “Face forward, vampires.”  

Automatically, he complies, turning round along with his companions to see Brother Youens again, flanked by two other men. But they can’t be men, not with their proportions. Impossibly broad shoulders and massive arms as long as their distorted lower limbs. A simple tan sack is strapped across Youens’ shoulder.  

“Brother Youens?” Asks Mickey, feigning an air of calm.  

“You can tell Madame Gottlieb that she is never getting her gnarled old hands on the codex.”  

Codex? What the fuck is a codex? Ian wonders.  

“Knew a bangle sounded like bullshit,” Mickey mutters.  

“Or at least you can tell her provided you get out of here with your throats intact.”   

With that, Youens reaches into his sac and pulls out an oblong object and tosses it at the trio. It arcs into the air, spiraling like a football. Then it lands at their feet and in the torchlight, they make out the torn flesh, the exposed bone and pink sinews. They see the face agape in cowering fear in his final moment. The abject terror is etched into Caleb’s expression, even though his eyes are now dull and lifeless.  

“You blood drinkers never learn, do you?”  

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

Skin changers, Mickey realizes. Their misshapen forms are a dead giveaway. The fact that they are stuck somewhere between men and something else leads Mickey to suspect they’re some flavor of were-creatures. Beings like werewolves can only fully shift from human form to wolves, or bears, or bunnies, or whatever under the light of a full moon, but their bodies will constantly contort like shifting sands on a windy day and attempt reshape themselves to suit their moods. They are massive. They stand several feet taller than normal height in this transitional state, making them intimidating even if they cannot assume their bestial forms. 

And these skin changers are mad.  

“We aren’t with Uli!” He shouts as the semi-feral beings close the distance. Mickey puts his hands up in a sign of surrender and hopes that the Gallagher brothers have enough common sense to follow his lead.  

“You sure keep strange company then,” scoffs Youens as his skin bubbles and his nose keeps threatening to form a snout. “We found Gottlieb’s little flunky attempting to sneak in through the bell tower. And don’t pretend to be that stupid. It’s insulting.” 

“Nobody’s pretending anything!” Insists Phillip.  

“She foisted that guy on us—we’re from out of town,” Ian adds.  

“Don’t take any chances, rip out their throats before they spill any more lies!” hisses the skin changer on Youens’ right. 

“Hey, what if we try’n lower the temperature of the conversation,” asks the third skin changer on Youens’ left, his voice is thick and slow with traces of Italian lineage to it. 

The skin changer on Youens’ right snarls. “I don’t trust them, Clyde. Can we backtrack to my slitting throats idea? I think I was onto something.” 

“We’re just looking for something that belongs to us,” explains Phillip. “Well, them, anyway.” 

“You blood drinkers always think the world is yours.” 

“Hey, what if we all just take a moment,” asks the third skin changer. Mickey knows that voice, but from where? Why does he sound familiar? “They broke the barrier. Obviously—” 

“Obviously, we should have dispatched them much sooner,” insists the snarler, pressing forward, despite Youens gesturing him to stop. 

Everything seems to happen at once, chaos bursts loose like a flooded dam. Snarler approaches Phillip and Ian jumps in between them. Suddenly they’re rolling around on the floor grappling.  

Of all the times for Ian to get a newfound surge of confidence… sigh.  

Ian seems so strong, his teeth bared  as he struggles against the skin changer. Mickey thinks the adrenaline and the very real potential for hard is the only thing keeping him from getting turned on.  

Youens and the Italian struggle to pull their loose cannon away from the fray while Phillip pulls at Ian by his shoulders. For a second, it seems like both scratched up and bloody combatants have given up the ghost. But abruptly, the skin changer lunges forth one more and clamps his jaws around Phillip’s forearm, with teeth more akin to the fangs he must have in his fully transfigured form. 

For a second, Phillip is frozen, his mouth agape, but no sound escapes as the skin changer’s mouth drips with blood. Human blood. The feral creature only relents when Youens cold-cocks the rogue skin changer, knocking him unconscious.  

That’s when the yowling, agonizing scream finally commences. Ian presses his hands to Phillip’s wound, applying pressure as best he can. It’s like watching the last puzzle piece fall into place as Mickey behold Ian trying to stop the bleeding. Normally a vampire so young would lose all reason in the fact of a smorgasbord of blood oozing out of Phillip’s arm, but not Ian. He is a man born to protect people, born to save lives. He has the disciplined restraint of a monk as he sets to the task of keeping his brother alive.  

The Italian skin changer kneels down beside the vampires, tearing off his shirt sleeve and handing it to the redhead to staunch the blood. His shifting form settles as he takes a few deep breaths. “So much for cooler heads prevailing, huh?” As his form finally settles, Mickey pieces it together. Staring back at him is one of Mickey’s cabin mates for six weeks ninety-odd years ago when he left Britain for the States.  

“Hope you don’t hold it against Bradley, here,” the Italian urges. “ His wife has been an absolute menace lately and bottled up emotions tend to spill out when we shift forms.”  

“Enzo?” He may look a solid twenty years older, but considering he ought to be over one hundred, or more likely dead by now, Mickey has to admit Enzo looks good for his age. Skin changers aren’t immortal like vampires are. But they are incredibly long-lived, aging at about a quarter the rate of their mortal counterparts. 

“Oh, so you do recognize me, Mr. Baumbach?” 

He laughs. “Jory Baumbach was a half a dozen mortal covers ago. It’s just ‘Mickey,’ speaking monster to monster.” 

“That’s Ned’s blood, isn’t it?” Asks Youens, his form also shrinking down to normal height, reverting back to his appearance as an old man. “I’d know that scent anywhere.” 

“My arm!” it comes out almost a whisper as Phillip tries to find his voice again.  

“He was going by Wulfric when he turned me. You seem a little old for his tastes, though. I’m guessing you two go back a ways?” 

“Rude, but I get it. I’m a prune now, but I was a pretty little thing when he met. Richmond. During the Seven Years War,” he shrugs. “You’re Ned’s Mikkel, aren’t you?” 

“He talked about me?” 

“My fucking arm!”  

“Shh. Sh.sh….” hums Enzo soothingly. It’s just the venom in your blood.” 

“Dammit, Young…” Youens mutters under his breath. 

“Venom?” Echoes a screeching Phillip. Then a surge of pain must tear through him, leading to another excruciating wail. “The fuck is going to happen to me?” 

“What did your little buddy do to my brother?” asks Ian, steel in his eyes. 

“This… we didn’t think there would be a mortal among you,” Youens explains ruefully. “We didn’t realize there would be... you two smelled the same... and then he smelled like your big red friend."

"Yeah. 'Cause we're blood relatives, you fucking--"

Mickey squeezes Ian's shoulder, soothing him.

Brother Youens sighs but continues. "Vampires aren’t vulnerable to were-creatures’ bites the way mortals are. And I didn’t think Young would be fucking stupid enough to chomp down on one of you.” 

“What’s wrong? Am I dying?” Demands a perspiring and red-faced Phillip. 

Mickey knows what is happening. The best case scenario is a life forever altered for Phillip; a particularly long life and a creature inside him longing for release. But somewhat more likely is several anguished hours before Ian’s brother is no more. 

Phillip clamps his teeth to keep from groaning, but to no avail. He whimpers and wheezes a few seconds longer, but then he mutters out a strangled, “fuck…” before his eyes roll back and his head clucks against the stone floor. 

“He’s only passed out, Red.”  

But Ian was studying medicine before they met. Ian at least medically knows what is happening. The feverish symptoms, the tachycardic pulse, the tremors.  

“We need to cool him down before…” Ian is gathering up his brother in his arms. Phillip is about Mickey’s height, though of a much slighter build. The wounded Gallagher looks small in his brother’s arms. “Do you have an ice box?” 

“There is a staff kitchen in the b—” 

But before Youens can finish, there is a sudden burst of air where Ian and Phillip had just been, accompanied by a brief suctioning vacuum where sound ought to be. It is only the second time that Mickey has observed his lover move at vampiric speed. Even if he is still a bit on the slower side of what a vampire is truly capable of. And it doesn’t escape Mickey’s notice that two for two, his brother was imperiled each time. He will need to remember that for further training. 

Youens is scooping Young up and hauling him over his shoulder like a sac of potatoes. The formerly massive shape of the unconscious skin changer is deflating like a flattened tire to something almost half what he was before, revealing himself to be a  slightly paunchy man with blond hair who at least appears to be in his mid-forties.  

“He’s a young vamp, isn’t he?” 

Mickey nods. “Wulf turned him right before he ended it.” 

“That’s… unexpected. Here and I thought he was being melodramatic when he said we would never see one another again.” 

“You were close enough that he bothered to tell you of his comings and goings?” 

“The romance died the moment Ned noticed I had crow’s feet.” 

“Yeah, Wulf’s always been a wolf like that.” 

“Careful of the animal puns around these parts, fratello ,” Enzo chides, though not mean-spiritedly.  

“That’s part of why I didn’t make a fuss when he asked me to start calling him ‘Ned.’ Less confusing that way. And I know vampires tend towards never doing anything small like the drama queens you are, but when Ned and I broke off our liaisons—” 

“Banging. You could just stay you stopped banging,” snarks Mickey, unpleased to be discussing Wulfric’s sex life with someone who actually seemed to enjoy the fucker.  

“What we had mellowed into a pretty long friendship. We kept in touch, told each other everything. And the last thing he told me was that he was headed west and wanted to reach out to his oldest surviving Fledgling, which I assume was supposed to be you.” 

“He never found me. Not that I made it easy. I’ve had my psychic barriers up against him specifically for centuries. I don’t know what he was like as a friend. Or even as a lover, at least not one where choice is involved, but as a vampire sire, he was a walking pile of shit.”  

“I know he had a bit of a reputation within the vampire community, but I I always supposed it was intentional. Make people distrust him because he’s a little shit  so that they won’t notice the massive burden on his shoulders.”  

“Right. That would be that codex you spoke of. What is this thing, anyway?” Asks Mickey, popping open the lid of the box and he’s surprised to find an antique bronze decoder radial. “Oh. Literally a codex.” 

“Yes. It is.” Youens hisses and he snaps the lid shut and wrests it from Mickey’s grip. 

“It needs a new hiding place now, doesn’t it, chief?” Asks Enzo. 

“Now that Ned’s seal is broken. The codex is supposed to decipher something Madame Gottlieb would very much like to get her leathery mitts on and use against skin changers. Maybe against other strains of civilized hematophages.” 

“Explains a few things. She called us to trial. Nothing serious, but she kept angling and angling until she had a flimsy case. The slap on the wrist came in the form of our chaperone back there.” 

“Sounds like this isn’t what you were expecting, huh?” Asks Enzo. 

“We were looking for Ian’s inheritance. Some sort of buried treasure. Or the routing number for a bank account, if we’re being practical here.” 

“Ned left an inheritance to him , and not you?” 

“To hear Ian tell it, that’s all Wulfric managed to tell him before going á la flambé . ‘Here’s the key to your inheritance, find my house.’” 

Youens thinks, tapping rubbing at the stubble of his chin. “It sounds to me that he couldn’t find his intended heir, so he made one instead.” 

“I wouldn’t want anything from the old shit anyway,” Mickey insists. 

“And it’s the same key that got you down here, eh?” Asks Enzo, his tone definitely tilting towards a point. 

“Yes, obviously.” 

“I only ask because our key to get down here went missing a few decades ago. Did the key ever leave your hands? Or your friends?” 

“No, I wouldn’t be an idiot and…oh.” But they did. When Zeb inspected it at their first meeting with the Philadelphian Council. Then again, at Uli’s little kangaroo court. “This here is your key, isn’t it? She switched ‘em during the hearing.” 

“And I might be going out on a limb,” admits Youens, “but I think I know what you guys are supposed to be looking for. But we need to get your key back first.” 

🧛 Ian 🧛  

The lights are on all over the back offices by the time Ian races through the halls in search of the kitchens. The skin changers weren’t skulking around in the dark like they had been, clearly. The kitchen is large, like it is meant for a staff of ten to serve a small school. He lays Lip on the work table nearest the large icebox and breaks off several large chunks, wrapping them in dish cloths before placing one to his brother’s forehead, another to his chest and presses the third to the wound. 

“Hold fast, Lip.” He says, mostly to himself, as his older brother is passed out. Lip doesn’t have much of a choice. He lays lightly whimpering, too weak to crack wise, which is truly the most worrying thing of all.   

He darts around looking for rudimentary disinfectant supplies. Soap and water. “Good,” he mutters to himself. And he finds a first aid kit in the pantry. Rubbing alcohol, petroleum jelly, sutures, and bandages. He allows himself to exhale for the first time since they climbed down those stairs.  

“We’re in business, Lip,” he whispers as he starts cleaning the site of the wound.  

The cruel half moon of bite marks shouldn’t seem quite so horrifying once the drool and foam is cleaned away, but there is some brownish green that he can spot seeping into his brother’s radial artery that he wasn’t quick enough to stop. That must be the venom.  

“God, please stay with me, Lip,” he pleads as he scoops up a dollop of petroleum jelly from a jar and starts applying it to the freshly cleaned area of the wound. “I don’t remember why I stayed away so long after… it happened. It’s bad enough I’ve got immortality ahead of me. I gotta watch you guys all go one by one. But I need you guys in my life as long as possible.” 

Ian checks his brother’s pulse. It’s not as frighteningly high as it was before, but Lip is not out of the woods. Not yet. He starts on suturing the area where the wound needs to be closed up if it is too heal properly. The pulse is still high. That skin changer must have thought he was going to make a meal out of his brother’s arm.   

“You’re staying with me,” he whispers as he begins suturing his brother back together. And he repeats it with each stitch. Like a mantra. Like a prayer.  

He realizes he could save him. Just like what happened to him. They could survive the centuries together. Even if things someday sour with Mickey, and let’s face it, men always end up tiring of him, at least he would always have his brother. He thinks he knows how to do it. First he drains Lip’s blood, then he opens up his own veins and... No. He can’t. Even if it means saving his life, he doesn’t think Lip would forgive him if he ripped away what made him human.  

But it would be so easy. And it would mean that there would be at least one member of his family he would never need to say goodbye to. Is it so wrong to want that? 

He shakes his head as though it will chase away the intrusive thought. He resumes looping  his suture knots. And quietly continues to pray. 

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛    

Rise and fall.  

Rise and fall.  

That is the reassuring rhythm of Phillip’s breathing. Mickey watches Ian cleave to hope as Phillip’s vital signs steady.   

Ian had been sitting, practically hovering over his elder brother when Mickey, Youens, and Enzo arrive. The torn-up front and sleeves of Ian’s shirt are stained in dry blood, both Ian’s and Phillip’s. The younger vampire seems unconcerned with the blood, stony-faced and fingers steepled in thought. Or in prayer?  

While Mickey wouldn’t claim medical expertise, he has assisted triage during more than his fair share of  wars to say that Phillip has received more than adequate care from his brother. The wound itself is properly cleaned and dressed. The scrapes of Bradley Young’s claws from when Phillip tried to separate his brother from their fight have been tended to as well.   

It isn’t until Ian stands to change the wet cloth on Phillip’s forehead that he notices he is not alone. “His fever is breaking. I think he might make it,” is all he says before he dips the cloth in the water basin beside him.   

Ian being so short on words is almost as concerning as Phillip’s grievous state.   

Mickey had intentionally held Youens up with questions on their way to catch up with Ian. If Phillip’s body survives the night, passes through the transformative crucible and comes out the other side, then the next course of action Mickey wants to be prepared for is Phillip’s mind and spirit. How do they help Ian’s brother through the transition?  

It would be easier if he’d been sired a vampire. Mickey knows how to help another through the early stages of waking up a deathless one. And thanks to the time spent with Ian, it is fresh in his memory. Mickey has befriended skin changers over the centuries, but has never needed to stand by and hold their hands in their earliest days.  

“That’s good, Red.” Mickey sits beside him, shoulders. He searches for what to say next. His mouth opens and closes two or three times, the words evaporate on his tongue. He ought to be well versed in this conversation. After all, helped Mandy, and the boys Iggy and Colin through their own early years following their transformations. But this is different. Phillip is Ian’s true brother. Everything is different about their circumstances. And nothing will ever be the same between the brothers.   

“Your brother is strong, Rosso, ” Enzo says encouragingly as the two skin changers inspect the convalescing body on the table. “I think the worst has past.”  

“What happens next?” Ian asks.  

“Nothing yet,” answers Youens. “And I’ve never encountered a situation where one of us bit a mortal while in our transitional form between man and beast. I would need to do some research to know what to expect. But normally the exposure of the venom in our saliva to an open wound would result in infecting the victim with our same condition.”   

“What will he become? What are you guys when you aren’t men?”  

“Look at this one whipping out the personal questions,” jibes Enzo. “You know, it’s like us asking what make of coffin you blood suckers prefer to sleep in.”  

“California Redwood, accept no substitute,” Mickey volleys back in kind.  

“Brad is a St. Bernard in the moonlight,” Youens answers. “That doesn’t mean your brother will be one, but somewhere in the canis genus. Fox, wolf, dingo, jackal, other breeds of dog, maybe.”  

“What? Like any breed of dog?” Ian asks, intrigued.  

“In theory,” concedes Youens, words measured like a teacher answering a tricky question. “I’ve never seen a were-chihuahua, for example, but it’s possible. Though our mass remains a constant, so a full-grown man would become a very dense little yapper.”  

“Yeah, like my lunar form is a river otter, but I’m not exactly seaworthy.”  

“What about you, Brother Youens?” Mickey asks. “Bear?”  

“Some variety of wolf, nothing special.”   

“He’s being modest. He’s huge in his lunar form.”  

Youens’ cheeks turn shiny and pink. “Yeah, I need to keep a low profile during the full moon unless I want to cause a panic. Speaking of low profiles, I take it Gottlieb knows where you reside?”  

The implication of Youens’ question fills Mickey with dread.   

“Yes.” Ian answers.   

“It won’t be safe after tonight, will it?”  

“Not when her catspaw doesn’t turn up. And that assumes he isn’t another one of her own fledglings.”  

“Another one?” asks Ian.  

“Oh, she has a prodigious brood. You’ve met with the council, so you’ve met with two of them. Zebadiah and Bernice. Though I doubt you’ve truly met them.”  

“But Zeb has visited our house several times,” Ian counters.   

Mickey feels a lead weight in his stomach. “She couldn’t possibly do what you’re implying. It takes a level of control—”  

“Which she has. She has been casing your place every time he has visited you.”  

Ian looks Mickey in the eyes. Confusion in his eyes, but an increasing, sickly worry pulsing from him. “Can you two slow down and explain?”  

Mickey chooses to demonstrate, training his mind on Ian and concentrating. He doesn’t like doing this to him. And Mickey has only used it a few times.  

Clap your hands.  

Ian suddenly starts applauding as though he is giving a standing ovation. It takes some ten or so seconds before he realizes what he is doing, then just a couple more to realize he isn’t in control of this action.  

“The psychic link?”  

Youens nods. “Part of why Ned kept a safe distance. She is particularly strong of mind and will.”  

“The rapport is supposed to fade,” Mickey utters, wrapping his head around what Youens is saying almost as much as  Ian is. “The link exists so that the Maker knows if his Fledgling is in danger and guide them from harm. Fledglings ought to be able to block the connection once they’re  old enough and strong enough to take care of themselves.  

“Not Ulrike. She can move her creations around like chess pieces, outright puppeteer them.”  

“Mandy and Liam,” Ian whispers.  

Mickey’s eyes widen. He left Liam with Mandy because she could protect him. But he had no idea the ambitions and resources at  Uli’s command. How many vampires can she sic on their home at once?  

 “We need to get them out of the house.  Now. Don’t wait for her to notice Caleb—”  

Mickey does not hear the rest of Ian’s plea. His feet move independently of his mind, bounding on their own volition out of  the room, out of the simple rooms of the otherwise ostentatious Masonic temple. He practically lunges through the city streets, desolate and silent as a tomb this late at night.   

As he zooms through the tree-lined avenues, he contemplates his next moves. Get Mandy and the child, gather up only the essentials and get them to sanctuary back at the temple. That is assuming it’s safe there now. Was it ever safe there or was just the damned Codex safe because it was guarded by Wulfric’s fucking blood magic?  

This new insight into Uli’s capabilities frightens Mickey to his very core. It horrifies him on a fundamental level. He spent a century and a half helpless to resist whenever Wulfric casually robbed him of his free will. But he never demonstrated such power over Mickey that he could pilot his body and speak through him.  

Had it been Zeb he was speaking to at all when he paid them visits this past month? Or was she using him as a proxy, wearing him like a costume? Bernice, too, is subject to the same fate. And who knows how many others she sired?   

What about Caleb? Was he one of hers as well or did she hold something else over his now-detached head? If she was using him as another set of eyes to spy through, would she think that the three of them met a similar end? Or may she have already retaliated against them, thinking herself betrayed? Would Mandy’s superior years and strength be enough to give Uli pause?  

He presses onward.  

🧛 Ian 🧛    

“Nnnggg…”  

Ian had been sitting stock still in his seat, elbows on knees, head in hands ever since Mickey ran off to find Liam and Mandy while Youens made himself scarce, mentioning something about a safe house.   

But the first sound his brother had made in over two hours practically causes Ian to jump ten feet into the air with clamorous anticipation.  

“Lip?”  

The elder Gallagher’s face twists in pain and he groans, beginning to stir on the table. He reaches for his temple with his injured arm. “My head… fucking throbbing…”  

“That’s probably from the blood loss. You’re going to want to take it easy, might be feeling a little anemic.” He takes his brother by the wrist, squeezing it. “You had me worried out of my fucking skull, I swear.”  

Lip sits up with a jerky, clumsy motion, one eye twitching its way into wakefulness, the other scrunched shut still. “Blood loss?” He asks as he wipes at his one open eye with the pad of his palm. Blinking, his eyes bulge at the sight of the dried red-black blood staining Ian’s torn-up shirtfront.  “That happened? The freaky looking guys?”  

“Aw, now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings,” teases Enzo from the doorway of the kitchen.  

Ian’s head turns on a swivel. He had almost forgotten that Enzo had stayed behind, keeping watch over him just as much as he had been holding a vigil for his brother. This alliance between them and the skin changers is so new that they haven’t even shaken hands on it, so it only makes sense that Youens wouldn’t leave them unattended in their terrain.   

“Lip, this is Enzo. He’s one of the men we met. He, uh, he can turn into a otter.”  

“An otter?”  

“You know, I tend not to lead with that detail.”  

“Because it’s not exactly threatening?” Ian worries he has committed some sort of skin changer faux pas.  

“Threatening? That sounds fucking adorable.”  

Enzo palms his face. “Nobody wants to see the big, bad wolf, but everybody wants to see me turn into a goddamn otter.”  

“How is this our lives now?” Asks Lip, running his fingers through his hair. The bandages wrapped and sealed with plaster around his forearm catch his notice and his eyes widen. “One of you tried to take a chunk out of me!”  

“Yeah, that’ll be Brad. He’s in the doghouse,” Enzo chuckles to himself, but it fades quickly enough when it becomes clear that neither of the Gallagher brothers are joining in.   

“It was touch and go getting you patched up.”  

“You patched me up?”  

Ian winces. “Yeah. Lip. Maybe I never got the chance to go to med school, but Vee made damn well sure I know how to triage a fucking wound.”   

The grogginess in his brother’s movements seems to clear up a bit as he lifts up his arms  as though holding a white flag. “Okay, sore spot. Not like anyone put a gun to your head and made you put your schooling on hold, though.”  

“Fuck off, Lip!”  

“You said you two are brothers, right?” Asks Enzo.  

“Yes!” They respond in tetchy unison.  

“Okay, yup. I see it.”  

“Ian, I just mean… well, look at you.” He gestures toward the blood on Ian’s button down. There is even more of it dried on his discarded jacket crumpled on the floor. “You’re a vampire, right? Did you— did you get through it okay? Were you tempted, or— ?”  

It takes Ian a beat to realize what his brother is asking, but then it clicks. He snickers a bit. “I was sort of focused on keeping you alive.”  

“It didn’t even cross your mind?”  

Ian reflects for a moment. He was practically drenched in Lip’s life blood a couple hours ago, first when he applied pressure to the wound, then when he was holding his brother safe in his arms when he carried him up to the kitchen. He shakes his head. “Not a once.”  

“I thought you were worried, right? That’s why you kept away from the house. Didn’t want us thinking you’re a monster.”  

“I was. I still am. But you were bleeding out.” He wants to tell his brother that all he cared about in the moment was keeping him alive, but it feels too… honest. Instead, he rolls his tongue as though getting a mouth feel for what he wants to say. “I was too panicked to think of anything except the task at hand.”  

“Yeah? Well, good.”   

Maybe if Ian hadn’t hid himself away in Mickey’s mansion, if some mishap befell the Gallagher household while Ian was at hand to save a life, perhaps he wouldn’t have to wonder whether Lip sees him as a man or a monster. Maybe if he had just had the stones to face his family, he could have spared Lip and Liam from a similar self-imposed exile from the family to the one he imposed upon himself.  

“I should have made you stay at the house,” Ian insists. “Or better yet sent you back home.”  

“It would be kind of irresponsible of us to send you packing wherever you folks came from, now wouldn’t it?”  

“Huh?”  

Ian motions for Enzo to drop the subject, drawing a line across the throat with his index finger. But while Enzo quite clearly sees the hand gesture, he either doesn’t grasp the meaning or doesn’t see the problem with running his mouth.   

“Yeah, when my buddy bit you. That’s how we skin changers do the whole ‘be fruitful and multiply’ routine,” Enzo explains.   

Ian hangs his head. Enzo is probably the personable of the three skin changers, but the guy doesn’t seem to be on speaking terms with tact. “From what they’ve told me, it must be an enzyme in their saliva that infected you when it was exposed to the open wound.”  

When Ian’s explanation is met with silence, he looks up hesitantly. Lip is sitting so very still that Ian wonders if his brother’s soul has vacated his body and taken up residence elsewhere.   

“Lip? Are you okay? I know it’s a lot to take in.”  

His brother inhales deep and rolls his body so that he is sitting up with his legs folded into one another. “So, let me see if I understand correctly. One of you changelings—”  

“Skin Changers.”  

“Whatever. One of you side show freaks chomped down on me and now I’m one too?”  

Ian is beside himself with consternation. Lip blows his top over far less portentous events. Overdue bills. Missed deliveries from the milkman. Any number of their father, Frank’s hijinks. But this is an under-reaction if ever there was one.  

“So, what? Do I have to sleep during the day like Ian’s got to?”  

“Nah. My day job is zoo-keeper if that’s any indication. And really it doesn’t need to change your life for most of the time, just on the full moon and the nights immediately before and after.”  

“I’ve got a monthly cycle, huh? If that don't beat all.” Lip asks wryly. “No known cure?”  

Enzo shakes his head.  

“So, what do I turn into?”  

“We’re going to have to live in mystery for a while. It takes one lunar month for your body to metabolize the venom in your bloodstream. So, the next full moon after that. But it’s gonna be something in the canine family.”  

“Oh. Kay.” Lip nods languidly as though he were wading in water.  

“You’re taking this awfully well. You okay?” Ian asks.  

“You said I was bleeding out, right? Could have died?”  

Ian nods affirmatively. “I could have amputated the arm before the infection could spread, but I’ve only read about it.”  

“Well… I appreciate that I don’t need to learn to write left-handed.” He swallows roughly. “Some kind of dog, huh? Well, you always did want a family pet.” He shoves himself off the table, shaky on his legs, but he steadies himself. Ian can tell his brother is light-headed, but Lip refuses to say a word, as ever insistent that he can do things himself.  

“Like I said, you lost a lot of blood,” Ian reminds him. “You might want to take it easy for a couple days.”  

“I’ll manage,” Lip hisses as he staggers out of the room. Ian and Enzo follow after, though giving Lip a wide berth so he doesn’t feel like Ian is hovering.   

“We just added a regular barrel of laughs to our pack, didn’t we?” Enzo deadpans.  

🧛 Mickey 🧛    

“Come on, we’re chasing moonlight, here,” Mickey insists as they speed along back to the Masonic Temple, not going nearly as fast he would like because Liam is fast asleep in Mandy’s arms. He tries not to sound irritable, but he came home to an empty house in the middle of the night. And at first, Mickey thought his fears were confirmed until he noticed that the house was undisturbed, not a stick of furniture out of place. And Mandy would not have been taken without a fight.  

He was pacing in the foyer, trying to plan out his next move when Mandy and a beyond sleepy Liam strolled into the house. Mandy had decided that the science project was too boring, which Mickey interprets to mean it was math-intensive or mostly just theory.   

So she altered course and snuck the pair of them into the Franklin Institute observatory to do some stargazing, a hobby they’ve shared for centuries. Mandy would point out a constellation and from there they traded facts. Liam would tell her whether each constellation had any noteworthy stars and what was unique about them. And in return, Mandy told Liam the myths she knew about them.   

It wasn’t too impressively long between his arrival at the house and Mandy returning with a tuckered out pre-teen in tow. But Mickey was growing admittedly distressed by the delay and having to summarize as quickly as possible as they gathered up only the very essentials and hurried out the door.  

“If Uli is as dangerous as you say, why are we hiding out with these skin changers instead of booking passage out of here?”  

“Because she stole Ian’s key and set us up to unleash a Pandora’s box.”  

“This Codex?” She asks as they slow down outside the Temple. “Do you even know what it’s supposed to decode?”  

 Mickey is about to knock on the side door when it opens to reveal Youens once again ready to welcome them in. “It decodes a text so old it has no name you would recognize,” he answers. Mickey figures Youens has wolf-like hearing to have heard them from the other side of the heavy door. “It’s a book of the most ancient laws our different races adhere to.  But that’s just part of it.”  

 Youens turns around and keeps walking, gesturing for them to follow. He is past the point in the night when he wants to put up with social niceties, it seems. He didn’t even give Mandy or Liam even a cursory introduction. Though, in Liam’s case, he is drifting in and out of consciousness, anyway.  

"The important thing is what is hidden within the text. It has been infused with magic that obscures its true nature.”  

“Magic, huh?” Mickey rolls his eyes, deciding that this just became a lark.  

“Dangerous magic. That’s why someone as old as Ned was charged with keeping it secret. And he inherited it from a vampire who had hidden it even longer than Ned did. And so on and so on all the way back to a time before the pharoahs.”   

“Some of that sounds like Wulfric being a fucking drama queen,” chuckles Mickey.  

“True, but he never downplayed the importance. It’s a grimoire containing a spell so dangerous that it could shift the balance of power between the supernatural races irrevocably. Absolute power.”  

“And Uli was already corrupt to begin with.”  

“Power doesn’t corrupt, vampire—it reveals. And we do not want to see what a world would look like if she holds dominion.”  

“So this is, like, really bad, huh?” asks a yawning Liam.  

“You bet you sweet bippy it does.”  

“We’re going to hide in the basement, right? It’s safe there? Lots of passages and stuff?”  

  “You read that in a history book?”  

The child nods. “I kinda just know things sometimes.”  

“We think the kid’s a Seer,” Mickey whispers to Youens. “Dream Walker.”  

“Interesting company you keep, Mikkel.”  

Mickey can only shrug. “Ian’s family is just full of surprises. Lip’s sure in for a doozy.”  

Chapter Text

  🧛 Ian 🧛    

He wakes up not sleeping beside Mickey in the same bed, but rather Mickey is recumbent in a simple cot next to his. And Mandy is slumbering in the cot on Mickey’s other side. Across from them sleep Mickey’s brothers. Well, Lip is asleep, tossing, turning  and snoring like a rusted motor. Liam is curled up on his side reading a book by candlelight.  

He sits up and looks around. The room they are in is quite long with fourteen simple cots in all in two rows lined against either wall. There are no windows to the world outside, which makes sense when Ian remembers the Byzantine labyrinth of underground passages Youens led them through late last night. Instead, dim candle-lit sconces on the walls bathe the room in dim flickering light.  

The events of last night slowly reformulate in his mind’s eye as he blinks away the fuzzy sensation of twilight sleep.  

“Early riser, huh?”  

Ian spots the source of the voice by the door. He’s a stout middle-aged blond man sitting on the floor with a shotgun cradled between his thighs. It takes a moment for Ian to place him. He only appeared as he is now briefly after Youens made him see stars and stashed him somewhere secure to sleep it off.  

“Oh. It’s you,” Ian deadpans.   

“Brad,” he introduces himself.  

“Right. The bitey one.”  

The skin changer blanches, scratching the back of his head. Ian is surprised  motion seems more human than canine. “Yeah, uh… sorry about that. If it means anything, I’ve been going through something with the missus and sometimes it can come out through the animal.”  

“Yeah, I’m sure thinking of your marital woes will make everything feel a-okay when we’re fitting my brother for a dog collar.”  

“Hey! I thought Clyde said we had a truce going.”  

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be mad at you specifically.” Ian pushes himself out of bed, padding barefoot across the room to face down the skin changer that had pounced on him in a berserker fury less than a full twenty four hours ago. “Would you mind putting that gun somewhere else?”  

The doughy blond reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small drawstring sac. “Calm down, it isn’t even loaded.”  

“Pardon me if I don’t trust the guy who was too quick on the trigger last night.” Ian snarls as he snatches away the firearm.  

“Leave him be, lover.”   

Ian turns about to see both Mickey as well as Liam sitting up in bed. Liam is sitting with legs tucked under him at the knees, the book he had been reading is fanned out face down so that the child does not lose his place. He is watching the conversation with quiet curiosity.   

“Not like vampires never think with their fangs, right?” Mickey asks rhetorically, sitting up, legs spread under the thin cotton blanket. He wipes at the crud in his eye with the pad of his thumb.  

“Is Lip going to need a collar if it’s only a few nights at a time?”  

Ian struggles to remember the extent to which the adults explained last night’s proceedings to his baby brother. Or when? Did Mickey field the questions? Did Lip? Did the were-folks explain while the vampires were sleeping and Lip convalesced?  

He figures that’s the problem with being a vampire with mortal family in his life. Fundamentally, he is on an opposing sleep schedule. He has no idea what transpires during the day. And his brothers spend Ian’s waking hours bleary-eyed and increasingly groggy if they want to spend time together.   

“No, kid. Your brother was joking. Phillip’s not gonna need a collar.”   

“He will need some guidance, though,” sighs Youens, appearing at the narrow door with a clipboard tucked under his arm. “First thing’s first, though. I drew up a list.” Youens brushes past Ian and Brad and closes the distance between himself and Mickey, handing over the clipboard. It feels a little rude, but then it makes sense for the two senior members of their respective groups to liaise directly.  

“Can I request my own room?” grumbles Mandy, stirring in bed. “All you boys are way too chatty first thing in the evening.”  

“Sorry, the accommodations aren’t to your liking, Ms. Milkovich,” Youens deadpans. “It was a little short-notice.  

Mickey flips through the sheets of paper on the clipboard. Black on sepia. “This is all just names,” he mutters.   

Lip starts breathing heavily in his sleep, as though he were being chased.  

“Yes,” Youens confirms. “The name of every known vampire under Gottlieb’s thrall. I spent hours going through Ned’s storage to find it.”  

Mickey looks up, the expression on his face incredulous. There’s over twenty names here.”   

“Twenty along the East Coast, but only eleven in the area.”  

“Are you fucking kidding me?”  

“Put yourself in her shoes. She is physically far from the strongest of your kind, but she has unparalleled control over her fledglings. Literally, her power is strength in numbers.”  

“Any names you recognize?” Mickey asks as he hands Mandy the list.  

She reads. “I couple I know, another one or two I know by reputation. But most of these are in my blind spot.”  

“What about the rest of the continent?” Ian asks. “Or in Europe?”  

Youens shrugs, unhappily. “Ned never compiled that complete a list for me. Hell, that list is just the ones we know about.”  

“If they’re out there, then they’re a threat. A fledgling can hear their maker’s call anywhere in the world,” Mickey explains, frustration in his voice. “Is subject to their authority until they’re strong enough to block their maker out. We’re meant to outgrow our makers’ control.”   

He almost sounds like he is on the verge of tears. The inverse of the Maker/Fledgling bond gives Mickey a direct pipeline to Ian’s emotions, leaving Ian to have the harder task of guessing what is in Mickey’s heart. But he has known Mickey long enough now that he at least understands in moments like this. His heart is bleeding for Uli’s fledglings. Mickey bought his freedom from the Danes and broke Ned’s power over him, but Uli has sentenced her rather large vampire family to an eternity of enslavement.   

“Not that we have to worry about Europe or across the country any time soon,” assuages Mandy as she takes out a compact mirror to fix her hair. “We can’t walk on water. And vampires may be fast, bit we tire quickly.”  

“If you still plan on finding whatever Ned left you, Europe is in your sights sooner or later.”  

“Why’s that? Ian asks.”  

“That key? The one Uli swapped for the one that got you in downstairs? That key belongs to Ben Franklin.”  

“So, the Council wasn’t lying about that, huh?”  

“They just sent you all to the wrong place. It goes to the basement of his house.”  

“What? Like in Old City?” Asks Liam. “Me and Lip saw it on a historical tour.”  

“No, that’s just his workshop. Franklin’s house in the city was torn down ages ago. Progress.”   

“Then where?”  

“London.”  

“We’re going to Great Britain?”  

Lip suddenly sits up in bed, his eyes wide and darting around disoriented. He is breathing in strained, hitched pants, his whole body rigid and tensed. He calms down a bit and his breathing steadies. “It’s okay? Everything’s…” but then he falls back into bed again.  

“What’s going on with my brother?” Ian demands. He has kept an eye on Lip ever since he woke up, waiting for whatever night terrors he is having to pass. He thought the worst was over when he woke up, but that lasted all of a second. “He seemed fine last night after what happened!”  

“When he woke from his fever last night, it was merely a matter of surviving the venom.”  

“Merely surviving?” Echoes Ian about ready to go fangs deep on Youens over his cavalier attitude about his brother.  

The man nods. “Now he’s undergoing something much more taxing.”  

“This is all my fault,” mutters Brad.  

“Yes! It is!”  

“Ian… calm down,” reproaches Mandy.   

“This is normal, Mr. Gallagher.” Youens says formally. “The first forty-eight hours can be rough as the body adjusts. He’s rebuilding himself from the inside out to be strong enough to handle what our bodies put themselves through when we change our skins from man to beast.”   

“I’ve had some werewolf friends over the centuries, Red. They’ve told me as much as Youens says. Wolf dreams, right?  

“Assuming he’s a wolf, yeah.” Brad answers. “I’m a were-St-Bernard. He’ll probably be a dog like me.”  

“Or a wolf. Or a coyote. Or a jackal. Even an outside chance of a fox. The canidae genus is fairly diverse.” But then Youens shrugs. “Though odds are more likely… dog. And those dreams he is having? They’re filling his subconscious with the instincts that his lunar form will need.”  

“But…” Ian felt his stomach turn. He thinks of the weeks and months when his family didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Technically, he is neither and both. And technically his family at large still thinks he is gone save for these two brothers. If the anguish he put his family through thinking him lost to them is anything compared to the torment he feels knowing he led his brother blindly into the danger that has no permanently altered his existence, then he can never stop apologizing to them if he ever gets his brothers back safely to Chicago. He has to get them safely home. They’re his responsibility. And it’s his fault. Brad may have bitten his brother, but if it hadn’t been a skin changer’s bite, it would have been something else.    

“So, should we wait until Lip’s on the mend before we deal with Uli and her people? Asks Mandy.   

“I’m taking my brothers home,” Ian says. “Back to Chicago. I can’t put them in any more danger.”   

“It’s a little late for that,” sighs Youens.  

“Yeah, pretty hard to get the genie back in the bottle,” comments Liam, who is now sitting on the side of Lip’s cot.  

“No, I mean it’s too late to take your brothers home. Or at least Lip.” Youens’ tone is remorseful. “At least not for a while. He needs to stay with the pack so he can learn.”  

“He’s not a member of your goddamn pack. He’s staying with us.”  

“We’re his family. He’s staying with us!”  

His voice resounds around the room, booming and causing the walls to tremor. Everyone around him instinctively reaches for something to brace themselves with as though the ceiling is about to collapse on their heads. Even Lip is roused again from his arduous sleep, sitting up in shock.  

“Jesus, Ian…”  

He was always the quiet one, the Gallagher who would rather not be in the limelight, the one content to go unnoticed. He rarely raises his voice and demands what he wants, let alone in anger. But even now his own cry is ringing in his ears.   

“Did… was that me?”  

Six heads nod.  

“Is that… is this a normal vampire thing?”  

“No,” answers Mandy. “But neither is my sense of smell. Some of us just have these little talents.”  

“Talents?” Astounds Ian. “I could’ve brought the building down around our ears.”  

He feels a warmth wrap around his wrist. Looking around, he sees a hand as familiar as his own. Both brother and parent, friend and guide. Lip’s hold is weak, Ian can tell he is struggling with the physical strain his body is enduring.   

“Lip?”  

“Gotta get a hold of that Irish temper of yours,” he says grinning. All three Gallagher brothers break into a fit of laughter. Usually, that’s a phrase Lip hears directed his way, but rarely if ever has he been given the opportunity to direct it someone else’s way.   

“Yeah, I’ll work on that, big brother,” he braces his weakened sibling, who looks like he should still be in bed. “How are you holding up?”   

“What? Waking up tired and covered in sweat? I’m fine.”  

“Lip, they want to—”  

“They want you to rest up, Phillip.” Mickey interrupts, his meaning clear. This is not the time to encumber the elder Gallagher brother with undue stress.   

“Nothing restful about these dreams,” Lip tries to swallow a yawn, but it just makes what he says sound like one big sighing sound.   

“It’s easier if you relax and go with it, kid.”  

“I’m twenty-two. I’m not a kid.”  

Ian stares down Brad, eyes ablaze. But he says nothing. Youens or Enzo can comfort and guide him through this skin changer business, but not the little shit who did this to him.   

“Yeah, I’m sure. I felt like lord of the manor when I was that age, too. Then Cami happened. My wife. Best thing for me, she keeps me in line.” Brad sounds like he has rehearsed this and said it to himself in the mirror enough times to believe it.   

Lip nods even as he lays back on his side on the bed. “Had a girl like that in Chicago once. I probably would’ve dropped out of my engineering program if she wasn’t so assertive.”  

“Engineer, huh?”   

Ian wants to scream. This asshole just turned you into some feral mutt three nights out of every month. Stop being all buddy-buddy with him! Fuck’s sake, Lip!  

“Yeah, I just graduated in the Spring.”  

“Y’know, I got a shop over in Greektown,” Brad muses. “It’s mostly just ship engines, but we’ve been getting more automobiles lately. I could find you some work once you’re feeling up to it.”  

“You just... just...” but Lip conks out again, eyes rolling back as sleep takes him. Ian assumes he was about to ask whether Brad was offering just because he felt guilty.   

“We’re headed out of town soon, if that isn’t perfectly clear.” Ian insists. “Try not to offer my brother any fulltime positions.”  

Mandy nods. “Agreed, now that we know Philly’s been a bust this whole time... it feels like we overstayed our welcome.”  

Ian stalls their first feed of the night as long as it takes for Youens to officially relieve Brad to keep vigil over Lip. Ian doesn’t wholeheartedly trust any of the skin changers, but at least Youens seems fair and level-headed. And if Ian is being honest, Brad isn’t a monster. But what he did to Ian’s brother is monstrous and he can’t find it in himself to forgive easily; not when Lip’s body is tormenting him from the inside out.   

It’s a relief to feel the fresh night air on their skin again, far from the scent of wet dog. They find themselves new feeding grounds, wandering the outdoor street bazaars of the city in search of easy marks. They go for people who have their ties loosened and the the top buttons of their shirts unbuttoned; too invested in sifting through the stalls of the outdoor rummage sale.  Under the soft glow of Edison’s halogen lamps, they’re too distracted to notice the vampires’ swift handiwork. An ounce or two from a baker’s dozen and the three of them are good until the wee hours. They stick to side streets on their way back to their new hideout in the bowels of the Masonic temple,   

Mickey is looking at the both of them as though they have crossed some social boundaries. “Would you two both cool it? We can’t go anywhere until we clean up our mess anyway.”  

“Mickey— ”  

He taps his temple. “You forget I know what you’re feeling, Ian? I get it. I know what Lip means to you. I know how seeing him suffering like this makes you want to burn the world down. But that’s not productive. Skin changers are constantly at war with the beast within them. The dog bit your brother, not the man.”  

Rationally, Ian understands this. The volatile thing that charged at him last night is a far cry from the man he woke up to, who comes across as the kind of man who cuts the crusts off his sandwiches. Ian doesn’t reply. Mickey knows note for note what he’s feeling. If he were a bit more even keeled about now, he could mask what he feels even if he doesn’t know how to block Mickey completely yet. But why would he want to? He can’t verbalize the tightness in his chest, the burning taste of hot bloody bile in the back of his throat, the leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. How does he put into words the need to thrash something that doesn’t even have physical form.  

“Ian—”  

“I can’t lose them,” is all Ian can say in a thick, wet voice. He tries not to cry. He’ll jus need to feed all over again if he does.   

Without warning, he feels strong arms wrap around him. His face sinks into the crook of Mickey’s neck and the older vampire is holding him tight. Despite the seven-in height advantage, he suddenly feels small but cared for in Mickey’s embrace.   

“Everything alright?” He hears Mandy whisper.   

“Give us a moment.” Mickey pulls out his handkerchief from his breast pocket and begins dabbing at the corners of Ian’s eyes.   

“It’s okay, I’ve got you, Red. You can let it out.”  

“I— I only just got them back, Mickey. Not even two whole months. I can’t lose them again.”  

“You won’t, Ian.”  

They walk silently side by side for some time, Mickey steadying Ian’s stuttering gait. They don’t stop until they are back in the safety of the Masonic temple once more. “They want to take Lip away,” Ian admits once they are navigating the secret passages again.  

“That’s not what’s happening. But he is going to need training. Just like I helped you.”  

“What if Lip wants  to stay here? A-and that means Liam will want to, too. Because— eldest brother, hello.”  

“I doubt it. Phillip thinks he’s the only thing keeping you out of trouble.”  

“I don’t want to keep losing family, Mick. I know being a vampire means I’ll eventually lose them for good. But I can’t— I don’t know if I can part with them, leave them behind with Youens and the others, not knowing when or if I’ll ever see my family ever again."  

Mickey plants a hand on Ian’s shoulder, squeezing it tenderly. “I’ll be your family as long as we endure,” it seems to whisper. It hardly resolves what Ian is feeling, but it’s enough. Even if just for this moment, Mickey is enough to make the prospect of eternity not feel so crushingly lonely.     

"Have you ever told Lip how you feel? Told him it's not just because it's safer if they stay with us, that you want them here with you?"

Ian shrugs, still swaying under Mickey's embrace. "You mean tell them what I want? I was never the pushy one."

"Well, that's gonna have to change now that you can make yourself be heard the way you screamed like that. You can really make yourself be heard now."

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛  

Ian wakes up at dusk of the third night since Lip’s injury to find himself once sleeping in the chair beside his brother’s cot once again to find the elder Gallagher missing and his bedding stripped, leaving only the thin bare mattress.  

He sits up and a blanket that he had not been covered in when he fell asleep flops down on the floor around his ankles. Ian grins. It brings back fond memories, though with a sting to them as well. Ian was never the natural academic Lip was. Knowledge and understanding that would come to Lip as a duck takes to water would be a concerted effort on his part. Sometimes he would fall asleep at the kitchen table struggling to apply his mind to his studies. And on the mornings that would follow, a blanket from the boys’ room linen cabinet would be draped over his shoulders. He always suspected it was Lip who did it, but he had never thought to ask. 

“Lip?” 

“They’ll be back soon.” 

It’s Enzo’s shift to keep an eye on them this time. Rather than sit by the door like a guard dog, the way Brad does during his vigils, Enzo is a more relaxed type of man. He is sprawled out on a patchwork quilt that Ian swears he must have brought from home in the middle of the room. A wooden lunch box is by his side, making Ian suspect that Enzo is treating this like a little picnic.  

“Lip was up and about a bit before noon today. And boy, was he ripe.” 

“Well, he hadn’t been out of bed in days, En.” 

“Yeah, and sweating like a pig the whole time. He was a little wobbly on his feet on the way to the showers. He only started feeling steady a few hours back. The little one, Liam insisted on taking him for a walk.”  

Took him for a walk? I thought Youens said he wouldn’t wolf out until after a month. The prospect of Lip’s newly lycanthropic nature comes in fits and starts. He pictures his elder brother with floppy ears and a brown leather collar displaying his name on a little brass token. He imagines Lip lumbering about with his  furry paw-like hands up in front of him as though begging for scraps while Liam leads him about on a leash. Ian starts to worry he’s deranged. It takes an extra second for his brain to catch up and to supply that Enzo meant “they went for a walk together.” 

“The little guy said your brother needs to  fight off the muscular entropy,” Enzo explains. 

“He actually used that word?” 

“Yeah, he did,” answers Mandy, who is sitting up in bed wearing her first change of clothes in three days. Though it isn’t her usual style. She looks less like a stately art patroness or the avant-garde dresser she usually vacillates between. Rather, she is dressed in a simple white high-collared blouse and a dark blue bell skirt. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun and tucked under a much smaller, modest hat than he typically sees her in. For once, she looks the way a woman who appears twenty-one ought to dress. 

“Did you stop by the house for fresh clothes?” 

She taps the side of her temple. “Use your head, Ian. It’s still too risky even in the daylight. Besides, I didn’t need to. Wannamaker’s is right around the corner.  

“It’s still so weird to me, you know? Just buying clothes from the store when you need them.” 

“That’s the thing about being a vampire. You get to live long enough, you start to amass more than you’ll ever need in one lifetime. Which is great considering we’re build for the long haul. I got the rest of you some basics, too. See?” She points to the bed Ian didn’t sleep in today. On it, there is a brown paper package.  A similar package is resting at the foot of Mickey’s bed, who is still asleep on his stomach, face buried in the pillow.  

Ian pads over to his cot and unties the thin twine, opening up the package. As with Mandy own ensemble, she chose simplicity for him, which he appreciates. A plain white shirt, suspenders, brown trousers, a flat cap, stockings, and brown work boots. Nothing that would set him apart in a crowd of the working poor.  

But then a little black bottle of Aureole falls out of the package as well. Ian picks it up and holds it, inspecting the little vial of chemicals. It looks like coal tar.  

“It’s hair dye.” 

“What for?” 

“What do you think it’s for?” asks a grumpy Mickey rolling over to face them in bed. “You’re figuring we should lay low. That it, Mands?” 

“Yeah, and red hair tends to attract attention.” 

“It sure does,” smirks Mickey despite the misty half-conscious expression on his face.  

“But the problem is we don’t know what more than half the names on Clyde Youens’ little list look like. And if Uli can commandeer any of her fledglings at any time like marionettes, see what they’re seeing, maybe we should try to draw less attention.” 

“Maybe stop dressing like Miss Havisham, then?”  

“What? Do you think I’m dressed for a day at the damn mill to make a fashion statement?” 

“Can I bother with this later?” 

“Yeah,” agrees Mickey, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and opening the package Mandy picked out for him. “If I’m feeling peckish, then you’ve gotta be starving."  

Ian shrugs. “I could eat.” 

Again, Mandy picked out simple clothes for Mickey as well. And as with Ian, a small bottle of chemicals in his package. He holds it up incredulously to his sister. “Blonde?” 

“They’re looking for two brunettes and a ginger, right?” She unpins her hat and removes it, loosening her bun. Ian doesn’t know if this comes from literally centuries of practice or if vampire women just have a knack for drama, but he hair comes down cascading perfectly around her shoulders to reveal bright honey blonde tresses. “They won’t be looking for two blonds and a brunette, right?” 

“Are you fucking kidding with this shit? I’m pale enough as it is. I’d look fucking ridiculous with blonde hair.” 

“Yeah, I’m with Mickey on this,” seconds Ian. 

“You guys aren’t giving it a chance.” 

“Mandy… mortals fall for this sort of shit, not us.” He tosses the bottle of dye at Mandy, who catches it before the little glass bottle can splatter all over the wall. 

“C’mon, Red. Get dressed. We’ve got to drink up, track down those brothers of yours, and see about your training.” 

“Training?” 

“Yeah. I have a theory I wanna try out.” 

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

They find Ian’s brothers easily enough. Even if Ian couldn’t close his eyes and hone in on Phillip and Liam through their ties of blood, Youens insisted that they needed an escort without the vampires to protect them. So they just follow the unmistakable scent of bourbon and dog dander.  

It is a relief that it is Youens and not Brad they find with the other Gallagher siblings. Ian isn’t raring to pounce on everything the guy says, ready to go on the offensive anymore, but he still isn’t shy about letting it known that he would rather bathe in acid than play nice with him.  

It is so strange to see his Ian behave like this to another soul. Ian, who was born to save lives, treats everyone he meets as he would a brother or sister, and sees the good in everyone only barely manages to contain his fury towards Brad Young, a  man who may as well be the human embodiment of unseasoned chicken. 

He pulls their chaperone aside and whispers the plan that has been bubbling in his head for the past several days. Now that Phillip is on the mend and Ian no longer refuses to leave his bedside, it is finally the right time.  When  Mickey explains his intent to Youens, he seems hesitant for only a moment, but concedes. However, he insists on joining them, offering up the use of his own automobile, a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.  

Mickey sees the practicality. The drawback of his superior vampiric strength is that while he can lift three metric tons, he only has so many arms to carry passengers— and more importantly, to secure them. At the speeds Mickey will be running, he needs to secure his passengers with his own two hands. Mortals can try to hold on for a few minutes maybe, but flying off Mickey when he’s at full gallop can do the people he is carrying some real damage.  

So, they drive— to the wide open spaces of the nearest national park, beyond the city limits. The history of Valley Forge means little to Mickey, but it’s a curiosity for the American-born Gallagher brothers as the connection to Ben Franklin did. Apparently, George Washington slept there. Which isn’t a huge accomplishment, if Mickey recalls. Practically a vagabond wanderer, that first president of theirs.   

🧛 Ian 🧛  

They’re in the middle of nowhere. When Mickey said that they were going to Valley Forge, he expected to see some sort of monument commemorating the Winter that Washington and his men camped here. They did spot some old cabins with a placard, but Youens didn’t even bother to slow down so they could get a better look. Doesn’t he realize they're standing on history? 

“So, why’d we come all the way out here?” Ian asks once the Silver Ghost is parked deep enough into the park that they will be unlikely to be disturbed.  

“So there will be no witnesses,” explains Youens. 

“Oh, okay.” A beat. “What do you mean no—” 

“Look out!” Mickey warns. 

But it’s too late. In the blink of an eye, Youens body contorts, limbs growing wildly out of proportion with his body as his face distorts into something not man but not yet wolf, a sea of teeth. The fabric of his suit tears as his legs extend and his torso expands. Before anyone has time to react, Youens leaps at Ian’s brothers, seizing Lip by the scruff of the neck and lifting him off the ground, teeth bared. 

“The fuck, man?” Shouts Lip. 

“Mickey?” 

“Think fast, Ian!” Mickey shouts, barreling toward Liam. “I’ll get the kid.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? We trusted you?” 

“Gotta let the wolf out sometime,” snarls Youens. He opens his jaws wide, about to snap them shut around his brother’s head. But in a burst of adrenaline, he lunges forward and pulls back his arm. Knuckles make contact with Youens’ broad chest and suddenly the creature somewhere between man and beast is gone and Lip falls to his knees.  

Ian drops to one knee and reaches for Lip. “Are you okay?” 

“The fuck is going on?” 

“Not bad, kid.” Grins Youens impressed as he climbs to his feet three hundred yards away from where he had been a moment ago. His body is slowly reverting back to his regular self. “Nice right hook you got there.” 

“What the fuck’s gotten into you.” 

“Confirming a theory,” answers Mickey. Ian spins on his heels to see his lover sitting on a tree branch with his baby brother by his side. “Ever notice the only times you’ve demonstrated vampire-level anything is when Lip’s been in trouble?”    

“You practically launched him into orbit!” Liam exclaims.  

“We wanted to see if we could provoke you.”  

“Looks like we succeeded,” Youens comments, nursing his jaw, which is sure to sport a nice bruise in no time.  

“You couldn’t have warned me?” He asks, holding the hand that just cracked across Youens’ face. He knows he should have kept his thumb out for the punch, but his hand seems fine. It’s probably the result of the rapid healing vampires experience. 

“I think you’re missing the point of the exercise,” sighs Mickey as he jumps down from the tree and lowers the branch so it is safe for Liam to climb down. 

“So was I in any danger?” Liam asks as he tightrope walks his way down the branch. 

“Are you kidding? Lip wasn’t even in any danger.” Youens scoffs as he jogs back to rejoin the Chicagoans.  

“Oh, sure,” grumbles Lip, grasping at where Youens’ talons had been clutching around his neck. “Rough up the guy who’s been laid out on his as for days.”  

“Okay. So what? I can muster up the strength when Lip’s in danger?” 

“Or Liam,” Mickey hypothesizes. “Or any member of your family. It must be a protective instinct. Remember when we met? Outside the house on North Wallace? ‘This house is protected.’ That’s the first thing you ever said to me.” 

“You were at the house?” Asks Lip. “And you never… well, I guess I understand now.” 

“I told you guys he was still around. I knew it!”   

Ian pulls Liam into a one-armed hug. “Let me guess. Did you see me in your dreams?” 

The youngest Gallagher nods. “Sad dreams at first. Definitely nightmares. But after a while, you were just… the dreams got happier.” 

Ian feels like an unseen hand is squeezing at his heart a bit knowing that even if it was just in vague dreams, Liam knew he was suffering in those early days. Did Liam know about him wandering the streets like a feral, unwashed cat? Was his kid brother forced to see visions of the people whose lives he ended?  

But on the other hand, Liam knew in his heart that Ian was alive and well. He tried to tell his older brothers and sisters not to worry about him. He feels misty with bloody red tears at the corners of his eyes at the thought that Liam tried to comfort them in their time of grief. 

But then he remembers. “Okay, so I won’t let anything happen to you guy. What does it matter? As soon as we’re done here, I’m getting you guys back to Chicago, and—” 

“Since when?” Demands Lip.  

“Look at what’s happened… You guys have almost been killed by Drekava. And you got bit by an idiot werewolf all on my watch. I can’t let—” 

“I think you’re forgetting I’ve been the one keeping your tail out of the fire since we were kids, Ian,” Lip chides as he lets out a long, low sigh like air being let slowly out of a balloon. “You got yourself into plenty of scraps at school. It doesn’t mean I could send you back to the house whenever I thought you bit off more than you could chew.”  

“This isn’t the same and you know it! I cost you your humanity!” 

Lip takes his brother by the shoulders. “As if you’ve got room to talk, fang face?”  

Ian lets out a stifled laugh despite himself. “Watch it, wolf boy.” He slumps his head against his brother.  

“You think I didn’t blame myself when you went missing? Heck, I felt even worse when we finally met up. Like if I’d been a better brother and told you to stop seeing that guy… I knew something was off, but I didn’t want to interfere. If I’d only… but it’s no use going in circles like this. What’s done is done. But it’s like I told you before—if there was no going back before, then I’m way past the point of no return now.” 

“So… what do we do now?” 

“How about we figure out how you use your parlor tricks without one of us nearly getting killed?” Suggests Liam with an uncharacteristic amount of sass. 

Ian and Lip both look at their youngest brother and laugh deeply like they haven’t smiled in years and want to get a feel for it again.  

“The kid’s right.” Mickey pats Liam on the shoulder. “We got some work to do.” 

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

“What do you mean he’s gone?” 

“Just for a few days,” Enzo waves off casually. He seems more interested in checking the shifting musculature attempting to shift in the back of his hand. It occurs to Mickey that it’s the night before the full moon. The first of the three nights each month that the skin changers can shift completely between man and beast. “Don’t worry, you’ve still got the run of the place as long as you stick to either down here or the back rooms like you’ve been doing.” 

“I’m not worried. I’m concerned.” Mickey rolls up his pant legs to unlace his boots. “He was just okay with buggering off with three vampires camped out in his turf?” 

“What can I say? You’ve only been with us a couple weeks, so I wouldn’t say you’re part of the pack. ButI vouched for you guys. And he seems to trust you.” 

“Thanks. I figure he’s off to let his wolf out? Took Young along with him?”  

Enzo nods, then nods down the hall to where Lip and Liam are enjoying their supper. “Clyde told you we have to keep an eye out for the older brother, right?”  

“Yeah, but he was scant on details. Is he dangerous?” 

He still won’t be able to take on his lunar form until the next full moon, he’s still going to be… sensitive.”  

“Sensitive how?” Asks Ian as he and Mandy enter their communal bed chamber. The two of them were having a laugh interacting with a pair of street performers with a living statues act. Mickey generally doesn’t have the patience for these buskers. Although at least it wasn’t a damn organ grinder with a monkey on a leash.  

However, if Mickey had known Youens was away, he probably would have insisted on making sure they got back inside with all haste. There is no way to be certain, but Mickey is convinced that Youens’ mere presence keeps Uli and her horde at bay, like an apotropaic ward in lycanthropic form. He reasons that must be why she was patient enough to attach Caleb to them and wait for them to break the seal of Wulfric’s blood magic instead of seizing them herself and driving them down there herself. 

Enzo shrugs. “It’s his canine senses. They come on the full moon whether he shifts or not. You’ll see.” 

Ian nods. “If it’s anything like when Rutger— Wulfric, Ned, whatever we’re calling him— when he turned me and I woke up, my senses were overwhelmed. It took days, er, nights to adjust.”  

“Granted, I’m a different strain of skin changer, but yeah. Sight, hearing, smell, the whole package.” 

“Werewolves’ senses typically aren’t as intense as ours are.” Mickey adds. He’s had a few cross-species friendships over the years, particularly in earlier centuries when he wasn’t so cagey with new acquaintances. “Except smell. Their sense of smell rivals Mandy’s.”  

“He should be fine.” Enzo insists. “We just minimize his stimuli, a few nights in—” 

“Staying inside. How novel,” deadpans Mandy, perusing a stack of books Lip and Liam picked out from the library during the daytime. “Like every night for the past two weeks. Unless we’re feeding or putting Ian through his paces, we’ve turned into a bunch of homebodies.” 

Mickey can’t fault his sister’s impatience. It has been uneventful since they’ve been staying in the bowels of the temple, certainly a case of hiding in plain sight. Perhaps Uli thinks the five of them were murdered the same night Youens separated Caleb’s head from his body. Or maybe they’ve been commingling with skin changers long enough that their scent is covering them. Either way, though they have gone without reprisals from Uli and her cohort of fledglings, they have played it safe. He and Ian wake up at dusk, drink up, spend a bit of time with their family before they leave Mandy to watch over Lip and Liam while they head out to the countryside in order for Ian to practice.  

They can’t leave Philadelphia with Wulfric’s key still in Uli’s possession, nor until they know that the Codex that the skin changers protect is safe. It was after all their fault that it has been left vulnerable. It’s part of the reason that Youens keeps agreeing to come out night after night to a different park, forest, or wide open pasture each time. Uli cannot get her hands on the artifact if it is a moving target.  

In the intervening time, the skin changers have checked on Mickey’s house during the day, safe from Uli’s network of extra sets of eyes. And upon request, they have brought back necessities. For the majority, it comes down to what can fit into a suitcase. But Mickey asks for them to bring back his diaries. He is surprised how long he has gone without revisiting them ever since they started on this adventure. Sometimes, he feels like he needs them less with the small circle he has gathered around him of late. But still, they are the sum total of a millennium of memories. They’re precious to him.  

“What does this mean for us?” Asks Ian. “It wouldn’t feel right to head out for training when Lip is going through it, right? What I wouldn’t give if I could’ve had someone with me when…” he sighs. 

“I know,” Mickey murmurs patting the small of his back. He knows first hand the flooding sense of being overwhelmed and the desperation. And that was before his instincts compelled him to feed. Guilt and remorse followed. It took Mickey a few more nights before he resolved to locate the source of the emotions pouring into his mind. And like a love-addled fool, he took one look at the beautiful young fledgling and retreated for another week before he brought Ian home with him. He felt like a schoolboy who had had tugged on some girl’s pigtails, then ran away to tell his friends. At his age.  

“Do you think you need to train?” 

Ian has been running laps at breakneck speed for days now without either of his siblings having to be in danger. He’s figured out how to harness the feeling and control it to great effect. They’ve watched him lift boulders and fell trees with his bare hands.  

His unique gift, though, remains a bit more spotty. And a bit more dangerous, which made everyone involved a bit leery to test it. But Mickey cannot help but think of the potential. He recalls tell of a similarly gifted vampire who last walked the earth ages before Mickey was born. They say that her screams could punch holes through mountains. And her whispers could twist men’s minds to his wishes like a siren’s song.  

“I’ve got control, now.” Ian says, not boastfully.  

“So we stay close to your brother.” 

“Thanks. I know he isn’t exactly your favorite person.” 

“He’s… fine. For someone as smart as he is, Phillip just reacts without thinking sometimes. If you tell him this, I’ll deny it, but he reminds me of myself ages and ages ago.” 

“How long did it take you to look before you leap?” 

“Centuries,” supplies Mandy. “Good thing he had me around, right?”  

“You know, once the moon wanes, we could go off, just you and me,” Mickey offers. “I know you wanted to check out that swamp in Bucks County.” 

Ian chuckles softly. “You know, we don’t need to keep coming up with training plans if we wants to explore the area more. But aren’t you tired of having to skulk around the boonies?” 

“Aren’t you just plain tired of Philadelphia?” Asks Mandy, looking up from a book of poetry.  

“I know, I know.” Mickey sighs, beleaguered. “But we can’t leave just yet. Not until—” 

“Not until we get the key, we know. So what are we doing to get it back?” 

“Well, we’re…” 

“We’re getting me trained so I won’t be such a liability.” 

“Do we even know where she lives?” Asks Mandy. “Like, do we have anyone trying to locate where she’s holed up? 

“What? Oh, yeah. Big old house up in Germantown.” Enzo sounds very matter-of-fact. 

It takes Mickey by surprise. “We’ve known where she is the whole time?” 

“Well, yeah. Just like she knows we’re down here. But unlike her, we don’t hold our stupid clubhouse meetings right across the boulevard so we have to sneak out ‘round the back.” 

“And we haven’t done anything with this information?” Demands Mandy. 

“We’ve been at a stalemate with her for close to seventy years, long before Ned trusted Clyde with the Codex. Your High Council and ours, you know? We strictly have a hands off policy unless we trespass on one another’s homes and hideaways.”  

“Which is why she sent us, right,” nods Ian.  

“And why Youens is so keen that we stay here,” adds Mandy. “They can come in here and sneak around all they like, but we’re under your protection. Out on the streets, we’re at her mercy. And she can make up any number of reasons to justify it if the North Atlantic Council ever finds out.  But if they attack us here—” 

“Uli doesn’t want a war,” Mickey concludes. “She doesn’t want to answer to the higher echelons.”  

Mickey only has an academic knowledge of how the Skin Changers’ governing bodies operate, but he is very familiar with the vampiric system. Cities have their own councils that extend out into the surrounding countryside. As vampires are long-lived enough to see nation-state borders expand, retract, and fade away, the next highest level is regional. North America for instance has six regional councils, then a continental council that presides over them. And above the continental councils is The High Council. 

Though, in the past few weeks, Mickey wonders whether that august body of government has eroded. The Philadelphia Council has gone rogue and apparently has been so for some time. Laws laid down by governing bodies three tiers above Uli’s council are being flaunted and she is acting with a terrifying amount of unilateral power. 

“Then again, if she does try and show her face here, she’s at fault. She could wind up like your headless friend and we would be within our right.” 

“Not our friend,” Mandy insists.  

“One of these days, you’re going to tell us what he did to you,” smirks Ian. 

“Not to me, just people who matter to me. He was a scoundrel.” 

Ian presumably opens his mouth with a follow-up question when a baleful howl rumbles from down the hall. A wet splattering sound is accompanied by the shattering of ceramics. 

“Ian!” Shouts Liam spurring himself down the hall. He appears at the door, clutching at the threshold and gasping. “Something’s wrong with—” 

Ian vanishes from the room, a slight vacuum of air swallowing the sound around where he had stood only a moment before. 

🧛 Ian 🧛  

He finds his elder brother in the servants’ kitchen just a few rooms down the hall. He is on his knees, one hand shielding his eyes while he searches blindly for shards of the shattered bowl of mulligan stew he had knocked over. 

“Lip?” 

“Fuck! Not so loud!” 

Ian is quickly down on his knees beside Lip gathering up pieces of pottery infinity rather than the mortal is capable of. “I went through something like this when I was turned,” he whispers. “It took me a few days to adjust.” He stands and snuffs out the candelabras along the wall. “Try opening your eyes now.” 

Guardedly, Lip cracks open his eyes. Everything feels like…” 

“Intense? Like looking through a focused lens? Yeah.”  

“How did you know to turn off the light?” Lip sniffs audibly, then mutters, “And why do you smell like cardamom and..." sniff, sniff. "Patchouli?” 

“Wolves have keen night vision. And I remember light sources causing splitting headaches my first few nights as a vampire.”  

“Maybe I’d be less thrown off if this didn’t happen until I could change shape like the others.” 

“Didn’t Youens or one of the others give you a heads up about this?” 

“He did, but fuck’s sake!” 

Ian cannot help but laugh a bit. “You know, this is the first time I’ve heard you raise your voice since you got bit? You almost sound like your old self.” 

“Maybe it’s that inner beast they keep warning me about. He must have gotten my temper.” 

“At least it’s only a few nights every month.” 

“Yeah, but at least you get to live forever,” Lip lets out with a strained puff of air. “Imagine everything you’ll get to see.” 

“Living four times as long as the average human is nothing to sneeze at. And since when do you have nice things to say about vampires, Mr. President of the Van Helsing Club?” 

“Van Helsing Society ,” Lip corrects, “and clearly the prospect of spending three nights a month digging holes in the back yard puts things into perspective. Now seriously, why does it smell like you fucked the perfume counter at Sears & Roebuck?” 

“Heh. That’s probably lavender. Some of the men I sipped from must have been wearing cologne.” Ian laughs uncomfortably, hoping his brother won’t make mention of the cardamom and sandalwood. He in no way wants his brother to know that sometimes he and Mickey sometimes get a rise out of watching each other by feeding off the perfumed dandies under the guise of panning for dick. And he especially doesn’t want Lip to know that sometimes they can’t quite wait to get back home afterwards before they are all over each other. But the last time they went at it was two nights ago. Is the canine sense of smell really that good?  

Lip sniffs again. “Something else, too. Cardamom and sandalwood. And… huh. What is that?”  

“Please stop that.” 

“Can’t help it,” grins Lip. “Is this making you uncomfortable?” 

“You’re smelling my boyfriend on me, so yeah.” 

“I… that smell is…oh, fucking hell! I’m always going to know when people have fucked and with who, now?” 

“It’ll probably end up like background noise after a few months.” 

“Can you smell sex on me? Can Mickey?” 

“No. Why? Who have you been… oh.” 

“Don’t tell Mickey. Okay?” 

Ian smiles. “Hope you never plan on stepping out on her. Because Mandy can smell it on you.” 

“Shit. Seriously?” 

“She likes to say ‘the nose knows.’ Speaking of, c’mon. I think she has some tinted lenses you can wear.” 

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

Both of Ian’s brothers are asleep before midnight, though much earlier than Phillip is accustomed. Mickey stays at a respectable distance as he observes Ian and Mandy act as a solid supports for Phillip. Having recently been through the radical blossoming of his own enhanced senses, is primed to coach his brother through the experience. And Mandy, despite herself with her flippant humor and casual attitude towards flirtation, seems to really be invested in the man’s well-being. 

One would think that he would be kept up from the sheer explosion of stimuli he must be experiencing. And perhaps by the time he can shift like the other skin changers, perhaps he will. But tonight, Phillip is overwhelmed to the point of physical exhaustion. And blessedly, sleep comes easily to him.  

Knowing looks pass between Ian and Mandy once the humans are asleep. No, he needs to get out of the habit of lumping Phillip in with humanity. Like Ian, despite being rooted in his human nature, being so young, he is something more now. They both are in on a joke that Mickey isn’t. But if he is reading Ian’s emotions right, it’s salacious. Mickey wonders how much longer until one of them lets the cat out of the bag so he doesn’t have to feign ignorance that Mandy and Phillip are going at it anymore. 

Ian whispers something (it sounds something like “are all Milkoviches into younger men?”) to his sister and it elicits a stifled laugh and she playfully backhands him at the shoulder. Mickey wonders what the use of whispering is when literally everyone in residence except for the child can hear things from a mile or two away.  

But at least whatever nonsense Ian and Mandy are discussing proves a welcome distraction. Mickey is a bit on edge, knowing that Youens is away. He is the unofficial leader of this pack of skin changers and as the eldest vampire in residence, he would have liked to have been consulted that he would be gone for three nights. 

Granted, he understands Youens’ reasoning. The were-creature variety of skin changers are slaves to their monthly cycle. Three nights a month, they are compelled to let out the beast inside them, even if just for an hour or two. And between Brad’s large dog and Youens’ enormous direwolf, he can see the logic in getting away while their theriomorphic counterparts mark their territory or whatever. 

Meanwhile, Enzo looks like he’s getting the shakes. He might not turn into a lumbering rescue dog or the big bad wolf, but his inner creature needs time in the moonlight as well. The vampires all seem to notice, the way his body shakes and something keeps moving under his skin like tectonic plates. A few times, Mickey spots goose flesh visibly crawl up Enzo’s arms. 

“You know, we can handle ourselves if you want to do what you’ve gotta for a little while.” Mickey offers. 

Enzo winces. “Nah, I’m right as rain, old buddy.” 

“You don’t have to be afraid to shift form in front of us. You’ve seen us feed, after all. It’s only fair.” Mandy suggests. Her hands are steepled expectantly as if to say, “show me the otter.” 

“And if I turned into something that strikes fear into your hearts, maybe I’d want to impress you. It’s embarrassing the way people treat me like I’m a teddy bear from FAO Schwartz.” 

“At least they treat you like a top of the line teddy and not something I picked up for Liam at the church bazaar,” shrugs Ian. Mickey has to restrain the mirthful giggle rising up his throat. He honestly cannot tell whether or not that was meant to be funny or not.    

“You know what?” Asks Enzo, standing up with a determined air. “I think I’m gonna… go get some fresh air.” He flexes his fingers even as they start to take on more paw-like attributes. “I’ll catch up with you in a few hours. Sì, amici?” 

He barely turns around the corner before the vampires hear grunting and convulsing as his body turns in on itself, bones cracking, muscles compacting until the full-grown man has been resized to fit the form of a river otter. Enzo’s languid tenor ascends a few octaves until it becomes a chittering squeak. The dull thump of clothes falling to the ground. Mandy desperately wants to take a peek, but Mickey manages to convince her to give the man his privacy until they hear the sounds of Enzo’s lunar form scurrying away on fleet paws.  

And then, for the first time since Clyde Youens offered them sanctuary here, the three vampires are truly alone for the first time in over a fortnight. Ian and Mandy step out into the hallway to see where Enzo had just been. 

“I supposed he’ll appreciate it if his clothes are folded up for him when he gets back,” muses Ian aloud as he gathers up Enzo’s discarded clothes. Folding the trousers and underclothes in a neat stack and draping the socks over the back of a chair, he does his best to flatten out the rolled up sleeves of the Italian’s shirt.  

“I can’t believe I didn’t get to watch.” 

“Give the guy a little common courtesy, Mands,” Mickey impresses upon her. 

“I want a pet.” 

“I let you keep Lip, did I?” 

Both his lover and his sister shoot him dirty looks for that comment. He acknowledges that was a low blow. He had forgotten that Phillip is a part time mongrel when the jibe popped into his head. Still, it’s amusing to know he get the both of them huffy. 

“Either of you up for a smoke?” He asks by way of a peace offering.  

“No,” Mandy snipes in an almost playful tone as grabs the book of poetry she had been reading earlier. “I think I’m going to sit with the family pet in case he needs something.” 

“I’ll come with,” Ian nods. “Topside? I could use some fresh air.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Other than to feed, for which Youens provided them very explicit instructions where it was safe, the vampires haven’t been out of the Masonic Temple without a skin changer escort by their side in ages. Not that Mickey feels like they need to guard their words around them. They don’t have any secrets to hide. They just stumbled into the situation they now find themselves. That said, he doesn’t like an audience when he and Ian try to have a few minutes to themselves.  

They find they way to a large beech tree with plenty of coverage. Ian digs out two sticks from his own cigarette case while Mickey fights against the wind with his trench lighter.  

They should have paid closer attention to their surroundings. Mickey realizes this only too late when four bodies come out of nowhere pinioning them to the ground just as they were about to sit under the tree.  

“Mickey!” 

“Go limp,” he mutters, albeit muffled by the grass his face is pressed into. He is sorely tempted to command his fledgling mentally lest Ian does something rash. These vampires must know that Youens is gone. The three of them typically have a berth of three city blocks in any direction that it is safe for them to hunt each night under the skin changers’ sanctuary. And these brazen young vamps pounced on them on the grounds of the temple itself. 

With all the force of strike with a cat o’ nine-tails, they are flipped over onto their backs. Mickey holds back. He could make a show of power, could send these younger second millennium vampires running with their tails tucked between their legs. He is far older than any one of them and he is physically more powerful than the four figures combined. But Ian isn’t. Not yet.  

It’s dark, too dark to make out the faces of the four shapes, backlit by moonlight, but the inky blue-black of night perfectly masking their faces. Though, it doesn’t seem to even matter who they are. They could be anyone and it wouldn’t matter. For when they open their mouths to speak, their voices form a terrible chorus. And the same artificially saccharine yet acid-laced voice comes out of each puppeteered mouth.  

“I’ve missed you so much, my little lost lambs.” 

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛  

Thirst. That’s what Ian feels when he wakes up. Not as intense as it had been those first couple weeks of waywardly wandering the slums of South Side, Chicago. But still. It feels like that strong all-consuming need to feed that can drive him to a mindless cycle of Need, Want, and Take. It is the horrible sensation that most keenly defines his memories of those early days when he first woke up an immortal vampire. It must be dangerously close to dawn for him to feel ike this. Before he can think of what he is going to do about it, an alabaster forearm with runes etched into his knuckles. 

“Drink up, lover,” murmurs Mickey sluggishly, words slurring. “I don’ thin’ we’re gettin’ outta here ‘fore dawn.” 

“Wha’bout you?” He, too, sounds like he lost a fight with a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. His tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth and he isn’t even entirely sure that his lips are moving. 

“Drugged. Keeps us t’ weak t’ break out. Drink.”  

He searches Mickey’s face for the words he doesn’t say. If Mickey offers his blood for Ian to sustain himself, will he be okay?  

“I’ll b’fine,” Mickey answers the unspoken question. “I been drinking ‘f you nightly when I onl’ need t’ couple times a year. I g-got more’n enough.” Mickey’s words gradually start sounding clearer, as though talking to him is the oil that the squeaky wheel on the cart needs. 

Ian steels himself. Intimate as sharing blood is for them, this is Mickey assuring Ian’s survival, not pleasure. Mickey isn’t drinking back.   

Looking around, he finds that they have been brought to a cold cell. The bare stone floor remind him of the centuries-old vault hidden deep below the sediment of the city under the statue of Ben Franklin. It feels as though something lost in time dating back to the English settlers. But surprisingly it is scenic for a prison cell. Rather than walls, the chamber is encircled by an oblong semicircle of crosshatched steel bars that all converge at a point above their heads. It is as though they are being kept in a bird cage. 

Outside, it seems they are facing the waterfront. But they seem to be facing the city. They must have knocked him out. He doesn’t have passing memories of anything beyond when Uli’s press-ganged cadre of fledglings got the jump on them. They must have really laid me out flat to ferry us all the way across river without me waking.   

Looking beyond the bars of their cage, his heart nearly seizes. They are looking out into the water, but down below is a trench of land. And pacing down below are a pack of deathly pale creatures abhorrent to see, blood drinkers like vampires, but feral, bodies a distorted mockery of the human forms they mirror. Their large eyes are an eerie green fog and their ears are wide and come to a point like a bat’s. Their mouths are like a shark’s and matched by their dagger-like talons. Ian has only seen these beasts once before. And he wishes it had been the last. 

But at least they are penned up in a cage of their own. Uli must keep them drugged or some other way of keeping them weak or docile as well, otherwise the creatures could easily render their confinement to flinders and dust with a few swings of their arms. 

“Th’ sen’ all th' Drekava here?” 

“Better’n Dobermans, huh?” Mickey drags himself to his feet. “Look closer.” 

He would rather not. The last time he faced these creatures, he bore witness to a massacre. He only narrowly managed to save Lip from becoming one of their chew toys. But he presses his heads to the bars and casts his eyes below again.  

Narrowing his eyes and letting his vampire senses take over, taking in every square inch, each molecule. Residual redness, chafing and minor self inflicted lacerations around the wrists, ankles and neck. The heavily visible remnants of deep lacerations running across the creatures backs consistent with the strokes of a whip. Visible ribs. Gaunt cheekbones. Scars on the faces, one of them has a healed over patch of flesh where an eye once was.  

Three or four of them are healthy specimens. Robust and looming large compared to the others. Full bellies and a shine to their skins that the others lack. They are corralled off from the rest of the herd. The sickly ones, of which there are nearly two dozen, look pitiful by comparison. 

Ian chews his lower lip, feeling the clumsy numbness start to give way to sensation again. “The Drekava were never running wild, were they?” 

“We only ever saw three or four at a time. And strange how they showed up exactly where we were twice in as many nights.” 

“You think she was trying to run us out of town?” 

“Or your brother’s vamp hunters. Either way, we didn’t even question it when the attacks stopped overnight, did we?”  

“We just wanted the problem to go away,” nods Ian. “Didn’t care how.” 

He turns away from the window. He feels torn between terror and pity. Ian doesn’t pretend to know the full scope of the different races of blood drinkers. Of which there are many. Mickey has told them about the three overarching types. The Deathless, The Nightmares, and the Ferals. Vampires fall into the first category. Immortal, sentient, some varying enhanced physical traits. Mickey hasn’t told him much about the Nightmares except that the name is apt. And the Drevaka are among the Ferals. Basically, animals. And Uli has caged and enslaved them, neglected all but a few and used them to stoke fear.  

“Never seen anything like it,” Mickey admits despairingly. “We don’t put other blood drinkers like ourselves in pens like zoo animals. And we certainly don’t sic the lower species on each other like attack dogs.” 

“What do we do?”  

“Wait, I guess.” Mickey sounds uncertain. “Torpor will heal us, get the drugs out of our system. I would have busted us out hours ago if I had the strength.” 

“And if they drug us again?” 

“Just gotta wake up early enough that they can’t get the jump on us. And these vamps were all sired by Uli, which means they can probably be awake in the day time, but they’re weak as pussy cats until the sun goes down. We’ll have the advantage. Or I could just as easily bust the windows open and we could make a jump for it.” 

“Can you jump all the way to land from here?” 

“Probably not. I can get us pretty far, though. Know how to swim.” 

“Yeah, d’you?” 

“It took eight hundred years, but I got around to it. Long story.” 

Ian thinks back to the night they first spotted the Drekava crossing into the city through a railway viaduct. Until the disturbing silhouettes of those creatures came into view, they had been discussing the city’s industrial progress and the factories dotting all along Philadelphia riverfront as well as Camden across the way. He had shuddered to think how much run-off there is in the waters of the Delaware River. He was disgusted by the mortals’ willingness to taint their own water supplies in the name of progress.  

“Still not a big fan of swimming though. If you can think of an alternative—” 

“You’ll be the first to know,” Mickey assures him as the elder vampire clocks the sight of the inky black and blue blanket of night starts to give way to a dusty shade of charcoal purple. 

Mickey starts to unbutton his shirt. “The sun’ll be up soon. ‘We’ll be exposed all day. You nee to cover up your face and hands.” He shreds off the sleeves. And Ian understands Mickey’s intent. Ian has worked his way up to maybe forty minutes in the morning sun before he’ll start breaking out in a horrible rash that causes his skin to look like dried out sponge. And maybe twice as long before he grows so exhausted from exposure that his body goes into torpor. The last time he pushed his body to the limit like that was when he and Mandy scoured the city’s hotels in search of his brothers.  

“What about you?” He asks as Mickey wraps his hands in the tattered shreds of his sleeves.  

“I’ll manage,” Mickey assures as he begins wrapping Ian’s right hand and forearm like he is preparing Ian for mummification.  “I’m old enough that the sun won’t wreak havoc on my body the way it can yours. An it’a not like the cold bothers me. Former Viking, remember?” 

Mickey is about to start on the second hand when a chittering animal sound. The vampires look around and spot a small, sleek brown sea lion that somehow manages to scale the side of whatever building they’re being kept in. It’s little paws clutch at the bars just as though they were human hands. And then the form starts to shift… into a very naked Enzo. 

Ian makes note that’s what a Giant River Otter is supposed to look like.  

“You blood suckers okay in there?”  

“How did you find us?” Asks Ian. 

“I was on the grounds when they got the drop on you. I followed all the way to the river.” 

“We’ve been here for hours. How did it take you so long to—” 

“Remember when I told you my mass remains a constant? I’m not exactly the most buoyant in my lunar form. It took me a bit longer than I would’ve liked.” 

“Why didn’t you just shift back to human?” 

“I… okay, in hindsight that would have probably been faster. So, how am I supposed to get you out of here?” 

“I don’t know if you can,” Mickey admits ruefully.  

“Can you tell the others where we are? That we’re safe for the moment?” 

“And do what? Leave you here and pray you’ll be safe till tomorrow night?” 

“If Uli is after the Codex, she’ll keep us alive. She doesn’t know that the blood magic is broken,” posits Ian. 

“And as long as we get up before her minions do, I’ll be too strong for them to take now that I know what’s coming.” 

“Do you want me to show up back here tomorrow with an iron file or something?” 

“It wouldn’t hurt.” 

“Okay, I need to swim ashore and find something to wear while it’s still dark out. I won’t do any good to you locked up for public exposure.” 

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

He insisted on inducing Ian’s sleep hypnotically. Ian can do it himself these days, but with everything about their given circumstances, Mickey didn’t think he would have the composure. He lays beside Mickey, his face, neck and hands wrapped up with the shreds of the shirt Mickey had been wearing.  

He curls up on his side hugging his bare, exposed chest, as though that were proof against the sun’s rays. 

The first hour or two aren’t too bad. Mickey can honestly say he actually managed a few winks of sleep. But as the sun ascends its daily arc, Mickey worsens. First comes the rashes by ten in the morning. This Ian knows about, having experienced it two or three times by now. But Mickey hopes Ian never has to endure the next part. Of course there isn’t a cloud in the sky.  

Fucking Christ, could I use some miserably cloudy Chicago weather right about now!  

The heat of the rashes on his skin causes the layer of dermis to dry out and crackle like Autumn leaves. Then comes the most painful part of prolonged solar exposure. The blood vessels under his skin begin to swell, then burst. It’s agony, making him feel like his body is imploding from the inside out. But of course he is a vampire, cursed with rapid healing. And no sooner has his body restored itself before this painful sequence repeats itself. On. And on. 

He drifts into a memory he thought he had lost. Right about now, memories, even the most painful ones, don’t hurt as much as staying in the moment.  

His last night of mortality.  

Mikkel was only twenty-three years old. And in only three of those years had he known freedom. And he hadn’t bee granted his liberty, he earned it. Buy hook or by crook, he saved every coin that crossed his palm respectably or not in order to secure his right to his own destiny. To his own body.   

Still, it wasn’t mead and roses. The unspoken cost of his freedom was the loss of the security of knowing where he was laying his head each night, where the next day’s meal was coming from. Thralls had very little standing among the Norsemen, but at least they had a place. An ex-thrall had neither. He spent much of his three final years of mortality working for a daily wage, enough to hopefully earn him a spot to sleep in barns or longhouses, as well as porridge in the mornings and maybe bread and cheese for his supper. On occasion when he could afford neither, if certain men of means wished to share their bed with him with certain transactional expectations in mind, it was Mikkel’s choice and nobody else’s if he  agreed. Or if he walloped them. That actually happened a fair bit.   

As time wore on, though, he found himself he found himself aligning more and more with the Anglo-Saxons. Rendered second-class citizens in their own land by the Danelaw, he found a kinship with them. That’s how he came to know a certain tall East Anglian with an odd sing-song quality to his voice that suggested he as well-traveled on the continent.   

Wulfric, or Ulfric as he first introduced himself, was older, which was typical of the men who tended to take a shine to him. Though the man certainly not typically Mikkel’s taste. The leers of men twice his age reminded him too much of life in his former master’s house and the unspoken rule that he was obliged to bend to the desires of any man welcomed into the home under a banner of friendship.  

But over time, he ended up swallowing the feelings of disgust and shame his years of servitude instilled in engaging with older men. With age comes stability. And comfort. And on a cold night, he would rather be in a real bed besides a man who may be long in the tooth than curled up in a hay loft with the feckless son of a pig farmer.   

Still, Wulfric set himself apart from the rest. He didn’t treat Mikkel like a plaything he could lure into his bed with promises of comforts or baubles. In fact, Wulfric treated him like he was more than just some shiftless barbarian with a pretty face.   

He acted like Mikkel is the subject of intrigue. He would take a seat across from the boy night after night meeting him by sheer coincidence whether Mikkel found himself enjoying the anonymity of the taverns or at Jarls’ feasting halls, at pagan festivals days or candle-lit vigils held by the upstart Christian followers. Always seemed to find Mikkel maybe a half hour past dusk.   

When Mikkel left the tavern with him for the first time, he was surprised to find that he was being shown to a spare room instead of Wulfric’s bed. In the mornings, a servant, not a slave or a thrall, but a paid servant, would insist on sending Mikkel off with a full belly to start the day. Mikkel kept finding reasons to accept Wulfric’s hospitality whether he could afford a bed for the night or not.  

He would always have questions for Mikkel. Unlike the men who usually propositioned him, Ulfric made Mikkel feel like his thoughts and aspirations were actually interesting and not just small talk meant to bide the time until an offer is made. He asked what Mikkel thought of philosophy and science, rhetoric and art, all topics that he never even knew about until Wulfric set his mind ablaze.  

“You have a sharp mind, Mikk. It’s a shame the limits of your opportunities in life.” He would say, “If you time didn’t matter and you were the son of a rich man and not as you are now and you could study at the finest halls of learning on the planet, what would you want to learn? What would you do with that knowledge? How would you choose to do with your life?   

And every reply brought another question or unlocked another wonderment to fascinate young barbarian’s imagination.   

“If it is the natural sciences you wish to study,” he would say, “then one day I should take you with me to Baghdad. The Abbasid Caliphs have been gathering the sharpest minds in the world to the House of Knowledge for centuries now. Think of all you could learn.”  

“You really think I’m some sort of smart guy? Wulf, I’m the unwanted son of a wheat farmer from the Rus. A former thrall with nothing to my name. I’m such garbage that the only value I have to trade upon is a strong back and a warm mouth. And you think I could be some highfalutin man of letters?”  

“You’ve never been afforded the opportunity, Mikkel. Let me take you away from this— I want to make sure you have the means to achieve all the potential I see in you. Let me share the world with you.”    

Offer after offer of “come away with me,” “I could change your life,” “the world could hold such wonders for you, Mikkel” came each night and each time, Mikkel found fewer and fewer reasons to refuse. It was a slow seduction to be sure, but it awoke a desire for him that Mikkel could never quench on his own. And it grew harder to tell the difference between the lust for what Wulfric offered from his charms. The intent was always clear, though. If he wants to accept Wulfric’s offer, than the little barbarian would need to go to bed with him. There would always be an exchange. That’s all life ever taught him.  

Then one night, after following Wulfric once again back to his house, instead of settling in the guest room, Mikkel followed the older man into his room, kneeling at the foot of his bed. “If I take you up on your offer, when would we leave?” Mikkel asked as he unlaced the front of  his tunic and pulled it over his head.  

Wulfric smiled, clearly proud of having wooed the boy without ever even touching him before now. He pushed Mikkel onto his back and pulled off the former thrall’s boots and then his hose. “Whenever we want. We’ll have all the time in the world. Is this what you want?”  

Beauty fades. And even the strongest backs will break in time. The only things he has to trade on will slip through his hands like sand in time. But wisdom is something that can only amass with age. “Yes,” he promised as the older man hovered over the boy's exposed body, fingers grazed the alabaster mountains of his pectorals, the man’s eyes bright with hunger. “Yeah, I want what you have to offer.”  

Without warning, Wulfric buried his face into Mickey’s neck, teeth gnashing at his porcelain-white flesh, and he pretended to be taken by the older man’s aggressive foreplay. But then Wulfric kept going. And as Wulfric’s hold intensified, Mickey found that could not move his body, as though he was caught like a wasp in amber. He felt like his body was being drained, like the essence of what made him Mikkel was being siphoned out and all that would remain would be a dried out husk. He was utterly unable to move his mouth to speak or shout out in fright. He couldn’t even turn away from the sight unfolding before him. His eyes darted around helplessly, widening in terror at the sight when Wulfric finally pulled away, his lips and chin bathed in Mikkel’s own blood. Fangs like a beast protruded over his lower lip as Wulfric put his wrist to his mouth and tore open the underside of his forearm, a long gash dripping drops of unnaturally red plasma that shine like rubies in the moonlight.  

“Drink,” he commanded as drops fell into Mikkel’s mouth. And at first he had no choice, he was paralyzed with his mouth agape. But then his rigid, frozen body went limp, muscles relaxing. He wished his body would eject itself from Wulfric’s bed like a tightened coil finally springing. He wanted to run but he hadn’t the strength. Instead, he clutched Wulfric by the forearm and he did just what he was told.  

The memory turns dark after that. That was the last memory he has of his mortal life.  

And Wulfric kept him a thrall for the next century and a half, never missing the opportunity to tell him he only wanted Mikkel for his pretty face and handsome body, drumming it into his head through their psychic rapport even when he wasn’t present to speak the words.   

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛   

It isn’t yet dusk when Ian feels Mickey’s hands rousing him from sleep. As Ian’s eyes flutter open, he is thrown off, confused by the darkness engulfing him. “Mickey?”  

“Calm down, Red. We covered you up to protect you from the sun, remember?”   

The memory of the last moments before bed seeps back as though they were brought in with the evening tide. He nods.   

“Before I uncover your face, I need you to promise not to overreact. Can you do that for me?” Ian doesn’t like the sound of that, but he nods in the affirmative all the same. Mickey starts unwinding the strips of linen that were once his shirt, and Ian reaches up to help once light pierces the fabric and he can tell that Mickey is almost done.   

His eyes widen at the sight of Mickey face and chest. It’s almost as though he has been riddled with shrapnel, tiny rivulets of blood have trickled and dried all over his exposed skin, the beautiful ivory complexion rendered violently pink and crisp under the heat of the summer sun all day long.  

“It looks worse than it feels.”  

He eyes the elder vampire incredulously. “Really? Because it looks like you’ve been through hell and come out the other side.”  

“Okay, it felt pretty fucking bad, but the worst is over.” He looks down and points out the shadows. It will still be a while before dusk, but the sun has trekked its daily course far enough that the wall of their little oubliette is casting them in shadow. Mickey turns his focus to Ian’s hands still wrapped up thick as mittens. It reminds Ian of Fiona’s approach to keep him and Lip from scratching when they both came down with the chickenpox.    

“I’m already mostly healed.”  

Ian’s face must be betraying him because Mickey clasps his fingers around the curve of Ian’s forearm, his thumb rubbing softly. “You don’t need to worry about me, Mr. Gallagher. Tough as nails, remember?”  

“How are you doing on strength? Whatever they did yesterday—”  

“It sure did a number on us, huh? She must have been planning her attack for a while. It takes a couple weeks to brew Ansofurite to full potency.”  

“Ansofurite?”  

Mickey nods. “Bloodsbane. It’s complicated chemistry to come up with something strong enough to weaken us like that without killing us. I bet she chained Zeb in his lab until it was done.”  

“Would she have to? I thought she could control them all like dolls.”  

“She must have limits. I refuse to believe she’s powerful enough to control that many fledglings at all times.”   

“How did you break Wulfric’s hold?”   

“I learned how to block him out. Created a sanctuary in my own head, built up a barrier out of my own free will until it was powerful enough to silence his. You've actually done something similar once or twice— kept me from getting a good bead on what you're feeling by thinking happy thoughts or whatever.”  

“Do you think any of hers could be like you? Could they find their way free of her?”    

“If she’s as strong as Youens says, not likely on their own. I want to believe there is hope for them, though. She can’t overwhelm them completely. I just refuse to believe it. I remember the way Wulfric constantly pumped into my head this belief that I was pathetic without him, that I’d be an easy victim if I ever tried to break free of his control. But it was all part of the manipulation. The fucker could only ever shackle my spirit, not break it.”   

Mickey looks like he has something else to say, opening his mouth, but then he stops as though he has been struck by some unseen force. His face goes alight. “Oh! Oh, yes. That could work!”  

“What could work?”  

Mickey’s complexion had just barely healed enough for it to return to its natural, or perhaps, preternatural ivory pigmentation when it starts to turn rosy again, this time from a newfound zeal. “No time, just follow my lead!”   

Mickey approaches the bars of their outdoor cage. He balls up his fist and rears back his arm. With a powerful thrust, he strikes at the steel beam. The metal warps and the soldered point where all the other beams meet above them screeches. Sparks fly above them as the metal buckles under the force of Mickey’s punch. Ian almost thinks the indentation of Mickey’s forearm in the steel is comical.   

“Yup,” Mickey nods. “If I’m not back to full fighting strength, then I certainly am close to.”  

“So, what’s our next move?” Asks Ian. “We jump? Like you said?”  

Mickey seems to consider the question. “It won’t do us any good trying.”  

“What do you mean?”  

Mickey points out to the distance. That’s the direction the sun rose from. As in the east.”  

Ian takes a second to riddle out Mickey’s meaning. “So that’s not Philadelphia over there?”  

“Nope. That’s Camden.”  

“Wouldn’t Camden still be an improvement?”  

“Says someone who’s never stepped foot in New Jersey,” Mickey scoffs as he scurries back into the oubliette. Then he smiles the way he does when he’s trying to be polite when Lip is talking out of his ass. “No, if anything, we are going out the front door.”    

Ian doesn’t know what Mickey has in mind, but watches with interest as Mickey heads over to the wall. Mickey curls his fingers into talons and clamps his hands around one of the stone slabs. His digits dig deep into the mortar as he pulls out the large dull stone brick. “We’ve got the advantage. Dusk won’t be for an hour or so. But I want to make this interesting.”   

Holding the stone at either end, he exerts force on both sides, grimacing and quietly grunting until a crack forms down the middle. Then he puts up his knee and slams the slab across it, splitting it into two rough hunks of rock. Excitedly, Mickey drops them both to the ground and sets to work pulling three of the tall girders that form the bars of their imprisonment. If Ian didn’t know any better, he would think Mickey seems downright gleeful as he uses his might to bend them at a ninety-degree angle, as though trying to form a makeshift bridge or diving board. Ian has never been afforded the chance to witness Mickey demonstrate his vampiric strength without restraint.   

“Vampires go through the world like they’re Herakles but need to navigate a china shop,” Mickey repeated a few times over the past couple weeks of honing Ian’s skills. “We can’t afford to let down our guard or we could do some serious damage without even trying. Ever hear of the Sphinx at Giza?”   

“Sure, of course,” Ian replied. “I read about digs in Egypt and pictures in the paper. Everyone has.”   

“Get a look at her nose?”   

“She doesn’t have a nose.”   

“Yeah, about that… my bad.”   

Ian feels foolish that the memory of that conversation, only held last week, suddenly feels like a lifetime ago.   

“What are you doing?” He asks as he watches an exuberant Mickey crab walking on the bridge to nowhere with one of the two halves of the large stone slab held tucked under one arm while he steadies himself with the other.  

“Building a better mouse trap.”  

Ian can’t help but wonder if this is what he can expect to see from Mickey if and when Ian ever gets to see his vampire lover in a state of innovation. He has heard Mickey tell him time and again of his various contributions to human progress over the past millennium, but he has never seen the man blessed by the spark of invention before. It truthfully reminds Ian of how his siblings have described him when he was been hypomanic in the past. 

“Didn’t you say we’re going out the other way?” Asks Ian, bracing the beams for fear that they might buckle under Mickey’s admittedly slight weight.   

“We are. But do you think we’re just going to waltz out of here?”  

“Get with the times, Mick. I thought we’d Lindy Hop.”  

Mickey turns around to face the stronghold they are being kept in and casts his line of sight below. Holding the great hunk of rock like he is about to play a game of ninepins; he narrows his eyes and his tongue sticking out the side as he lines up the stone. He winds back his arm and Ian is agape at Mickey hurl the stone through the air with all the force of a cannon, smashing the wall nearest to the Drevakas’ enclosure to smithereens. Ian risks the danger of crawling a yard or two out on Mickey’s self-made outcropping to get a better look.   

The damage Mickey made is much larger than the stone that he pelted at the building, enough for two, perhaps three men to walk shoulder to shoulder. Ian is thankful Mickey didn’t hit a load-bearing wall, lest they spend the night digging themselves out of the rubble.   

“Is that how we’re getting out of here?” Ian asks, uncertain what Mickey’s end goal is.  

“Pfft. Keep up with me, Big Guy.”  

Ian just shakes his head. “So, what exactly is that supposed to accomplish? Other than waking everyone else?”  

He shakes his head, making a comical expression of disbelief. “Don’t think that’s going to happen. Penned up or not, Uli and her people don’t want to go to sleep with those things screeching in their ears, right? They probably sleep as far from this side of this little roost they have as possible.”  

Ian has no idea where Mickey is going with this, but he will trust this man with his life. “Okay, so what is our next move?”  

“Next we clear a path out of this cell,” he grins devilishly as he squats down where he pulled out that first stone slab and repeats the process. “C’mon, we gotta hurry if we want to time this right."  

 🧛 Mickey 🧛   

He almost hates himself for not slowing down to explain his plan to Ian, but time is of the essence. Their window is closing and he loves the plan he came up with so much he wants to marry it.   

Once they pull out enough stone slabs to get them into the next room over, they repeat the process with the next room over. Once they are two rooms over, they check the unlocked door and Mickey nods with approval seeing that they have close access to the stairs. And it is only then that Mickey insists they double back.   

“We’re going back?”  

Mickey laughs. This might be spectacular if everything pans out. And what can Mickey say? He likes the poetic justice.   

He cracks a few of the stone bricks they’ve dislodged from the wall. He wants to have ammo just in case his aim isn’t true. Then he takes the steel beams he has already wrested from their intended position and rips them from where they were soldered to the floor of their cell altogether.   

“We need to control their traffic patterns.”  

“Whose?” Asks Ian as he watches Mickey throw the beams into position creating a sort of fence that bridges the Drekavas’ pen and the far side of the opening in the side of the gap Mickey created in the wall below.   

“And now we wait.”  

“Wait for what?”  

Mickey inhales deeply. “You know what ought to keep people like Uli up at night?”  

“We’re vampires. She’s always up late at night.”  

Mickey backhands Ian playfully. “You know what I mean. What should men and women like her be scared of every day? People who make it their mission to keep people under their boot heels?”  

“When they rebel?”  

“That’s step two. What’s step one?”  

Mickey licks his lip expectantly watching the gears turn in Ian’s head. It’s worth it just to watch that pinched smile of polite bewilderment turn into something more genuine. His eyes go bright and merciful gods, could Mickey kiss the creases of Ian’s laugh lines all night and day if he could.  

“When they lose control?”  

Mickey snaps his finger. “Good, you’re caught up. And all we need is an instant and we could bring this whole place down around her ears long enough for us to bust out.”  

🧛 Ian 🧛   

“Sounds like more of them.”  

“How many?”  

“Maybe ten.”  

Mickey considers this briefly, but then he shakes his head. “How many heartbeats."   

Ian stops listening for movement and instead tries to do as Mickey has been gradually teaching him even before they left Chicago. Ian has hardly mastered it yet. His senses grow more finely tuned all the time, but tuning out even ambient noises like the wind in the trees or the angry buzzing of the streetlights, the sheer tumult of human life in all its inchoate wonder all around them.   

But it’s easier here. Ian will have to find a way to thank Uli for creating a situation in which they he and Mickey are imprisoned away from so many of the stimuli that would otherwise wreak havoc on his senses.    

He closes his eyes and places a hand to the wall to steady himself. He doesn’t know why the touch of cold stone against his fingertips helps. Maybe it has some metaphorical significance, like a connection to the earth or something. He should make a mental note to ask Mickey at some point when they aren’t trying to save their skins.   

He hears the needy thrums of vampire hearts. Vampires’ heart rates are tachycardic when they first awaken every night, only settled once they’ve consumed about a cup of fresh blood straight from the vein.   

“Seventeen. Maybe eighteen.”  

“Okay, wait a little longer. As many of them need to be up as possible for full effect.”  

But it does not take that much of a wait before the majority of them are stirring within. Vampires need to drink after dusk like clockwork. Especially youngbloods. Ian himself would be feeling the shakes right about now if Mickey hadn’t offered him another nip. And this is even though he has the blood of not one but two ancients in his bloodstream. He throws down his arm as though flagging the start of a race. “Now!”  

Mickey nods and hefts up one of the heavy granite stones and pitches it at the  Drekavac enclosure. It practically spirals through the air like a football before it hits its destination, smashing open the crosshatched fencing of their cage. Ian doesn’t know how Uli convinced those dreaded beasts that they were powerless in their captivity. But that’s over now.   

The pale howlers rush into the building. 

“Yaooowhaaaaaaaallll!” screeches the leader of the pack. Within seconds the rest shriek it back, like a call and response. 

Minutes ago, the majority of the herd would not have seemed a threat to anyone. Sickly, hopeless things, Ian doesn’t even know if they have ever known a life outside of this horrible mockery of a zoo paddock.   

But now that Mickey has granted them their freedom, everything has changed. They are starving. And they are desperate. There truly is no way to predict how an abused animal will act once it has the chance to finally lash out.  

And that is what makes them truly dangerous. 

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

The screams resounding through the several-centuries-old tower house are bloodcurdling. Mickey ought to be feeling a rush of triumph, but it’s hollow.   

Once upon a time, Mickey thought he would live and die in shame. He was the runt of the litter, his father sold him into bondage just because he didn’t expect Mickey to measure up to his brothers. And even if he wasn’t so meaningless that not even his mother protested when he was hauled away from the Rus liked chattel, there was the growing suspicion that his father saw something unnatural in the way the Mickey’s gaze lingered where it shouldn’t.    

Even though he casually calls himself a Northman and a Viking now, among the Danes he was always treated as less than a man. Mickey often forgets where his name comes from, but it started as a joke. “Mikkel” means “enormous” in Danish. And he was anything but even if he you would be hard-pressed to convince the young boy from the outskirts of Kyiv otherwise, who acted like he was seven feet tall before his captors brought him to heel on the long journey from the Rus to the North.   

And make no mistake, the Danes made sure to convince him otherwise. As far as they were concerned, he was a scrawny, mewling little thing unfit for “men’s work,” as they called it. He was trained as a houseboy and a cupbearer; a helpmate to the women with a pretty enough a face that the men of his master’s household could claim they thought he was a girl when they were in their cups and used his catamite ass as they saw fit.  

A late bloomer, Mickey did end up filling out. But he was still dwarfed by his Scandinavian masters. The end result was that suddenly the men that used him saw a handsome body to go with his beautiful face. Oddly though, it didn’t deter the brutes who claimed that he was too easy to confuse for a girl when they were sauced.  

It was not until he purchased his freedom that he truly started to live, gradually spending more time with the native born denizens of Angleland rather than their Danish invaders. He worked in the fields and broke his back digging ditches, proving he was just as capable of the work his father once thought he was so unsuited for that Mickey didn’t seem worth the effort of keeping.   

And then he was bitten. And it was one hundred and fifty-two years later, well past coming into his own strength, before finally shook himself free of Wulfric’s hold. It was only then that he finally got the chance to enjoy his immortal existence.   

Briefly, he thought the true thrill of his vampiric existence came from finally being the biggest dog in the yard. Avoiding others of his kind was easy enough. There were relatively few of them. And for that first decade or two, he took glee merely in the fact that nobody could shackle him anymore literally or figuratively. He went where he pleased, did as he pleased, and drank his fill. No-one could touch him.   

Until the day he first had to prove it— the first time he took a life. Just a senseless tavern brawl. He may not know the man’s name, but even now nearly nine centuries later, he will never forget the face of the first life he took. He has killed since. Reluctantly. But he sees that drunk old sod who didn’t deserve the full brunt of Mickey’s strength every time.    

This shouldn’t be happening. The sheer need to survive should have forced Miss Gottlieb’s minions to shake off their hold on them. So why are they still here? Why haven’t they fled? Mickey knows that any loss of life those pale howlers cause is on his own hands.  

“I think I miscalculated.”  

I did this.  

“What?” Asks Ian, the tone of alarm self-evident as he follows Mickey racing out their hiding place and into down the stairs.   

“I thought the Drekava would rattle Uli’s minions. Fight or flight. The need to survive should overpower the compulsion to obey.”    

“ Protect me! Protect your mother! ” He hears in chorus from various corners of the stronghold.   

“Goddammit.” He put his fellow vampires in danger thinking he was liberating, poor souls who are blameless, compelled to follow their mistress’s commands as surely as they are compelled to feed each night.   

As they barrel down the stairs, they spot a Fledgling vampire. She must be young, incapable of achieving vampiric velocity, but nevertheless running at fill tilt from two of the starving beasts that Mickey unleashed on him. Or at least she is trying to. The girl is fighting it. Uli is trying to compel her fledglings to her— make a human shield of them. But the younger and weaker members of her brood are the ones least able to resist their maker’s command. And even with her own need for survival outweighing Uli’s psychic domination, the damn woman still finds her way back in.   

“ Come protect your mother !” Comes blaring out of her mouth in Uli’s voice even as the girl leaps out of the Drekavas’ path.  

I caused this.    

“Which way?” Asks Ian furtively in my ear.  

Mickey turns to his lover, processing his question on a bit of a delay. He thinks even as he turns to check on the poor girl. But she is already gone, the telltale vacuum of air where she had just been. The famished Drekava both lumbering away in pursuit. Mickey only prays that she makes it out alright.    

Mickey isn’t sure. He didn’t think they were going to slip out of this place before the pale howlers had chased Uli’s small army away. Damn his conscience. Mickey wishes he could be as heartless as the vampires that appear in the stories.   

“Mikkel!”  

They turn about and see Zeb running down the hall. He looks like he has only barely evaded some pretty serious injuries in the past hour. The back of his tweed jacket has been shredded to ribbons and he is sporting two gruesome scars on his cheek, the skin already knitting itself back together, plus a third on his chin that have yet to heal.   

“Zeb!” Mickey shouts back as the frantic man comes close. Mickey claps him by the shoulders, attempting to steady him. “You’re free, huh?”  

His head darts around wildly. Mickey forgot that Zeb can be peculiar at times. He tends to act particularly poorly to touch. But after a few deep breaths, he seems to regroup. He nods. “For now. But she’s trying to— heed your mother! — she’s trying to pull us back.” Mickey and Ian both are taken aback at hearing Uli’s voice coming out of his lips, the way his features shift to reflect her facial tics.   

Zeb sighs, the panic in his voice giving way to something sad and resigned. “Maybe we’d be better off just dropping to our knees and let the Dreks take us.”  

“Fuck, no!” Mickey hollers, surprising himself. “I don’t care why she bit you, but you weren’t gifted with immortality just so that your only options to be eternal thrall or suicide by monster.   

“That’s all I have. This? This moment of terror? This is all we have.   

I thought I was so clever.  

“Can’t you try and run?” Wonders Ian. “What good are her commands going to be if you’re across the country?”  

“Not enough time.”   

“And not much point. Eventually, she’ll get somewhere safe, calm down enough to re-exert control. And no matter how far we go…” he swallows and seems to steel himself. “It won’t last. It never does. You two have to get out of here while you can.”  

“What about you guys?”  

“We’re damned either way. We aren’t lucky enough— Protect! —  to expect Uli to get herself killed. And it’s either her or the beasts. Scylla or Charybdis.”  

Me and my stupid fucking pride… Here and I thought I was their liberator. Turns out I’m their hangman.  

“Well…” Ian starts, formulating his question as he goes, “How did she control them?”  

“How did she…? How…” Zeb’s eyes light up like halogen bulbs. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. “There’s this flute, only plays six or seven notes. I think she keeps it upstairs in her office. I think once she caged them, she trained the bigger ones to respond to command.”  

“Can you show me?” Mickey asks. This is his mess, he needs to be the one to clean it up.  

“Are you insane?”   

Ian’s lip curls. “He was raised by Vikings. Mickey has a bit of a warped sense of self-preservation.” An utter lie. Mickey wouldn’t be alive one thousand years past when he should have rightfully died otherwise. But Zeb doesn’t need to know that.  

🧛 Ian 🧛    

“And you’re sure she’s not up here?” Asks Ian warily. Normally, Mickey would be the one watching their tails, ever the pragmatist. But he is fixated on saving the lives of the vampires that had them imprisoned only a short time ago. He is so fixated that Mickey doesn’t seem to either register or care about the danger inherent in the fact that they are now further up the stairs than when they started.   

Zeb closes his eyes and winces. “ Barricade the door! ” His eyes go wide, once again the wrong purple color and screams in Uli’s domineering voice. Then his eyes twitch and he is himself again. He bites his lip, as visibly rattled as he has been every time it happens. Ian wonders how long ago Zeb was turned versus how often Uli uses this particular parlor trick. It doesn’t seem like he is at all accustomed to it, like Uli is an alien presence his body desperately wants to expel.  He shakes his head. “No, the pull is downward.”  

They are at the peak of the stronghold’s tower. Hurriedly, Zeb gives them an abridged history lesson of the building. Initially built as a fortification by European colonizers fearful of their Lenape neighbors, it was repurposed by the Redcoats as a prison during the Revolutionary War, then off and on a home from smugglers and gamblers before Uli turned it into a tenament by way of stockade for her own brood of vampires.   

Of course the woman would claim the top of the little tower she has claimed for herself as her base of operations, but the ground floor when she rests at night. It’s a prison— the lower floors very intentionally without windows, lest the captives try to escape any way besides the one way in or out. Perfect rest for a vampire. Meanwhile, the warden looks down from her perch high above them. Uli must have claimed this place as her roost some time ago for her to make modifications like the Drekava paddock and the oubliette that he and Mickey found themselves in.   

Suddenly, when they are almost at the top, Mickey holds up his hand, gesturing for Zeb and Ian to stop. “I want you guys to hang to the rear.”  

“What? No way,” Ian says feeling a heat rise on the back of his neck. “What if there’s a trap up there?  

“Zebadiah? Is there are any surprises waiting for us up there?”  

He shrugs. “She’s never let me up there. She never lets anyone up there.”  

“And that would be nice to know if Gottlieb didn’t have a pipeline to your head.”  

Zeb shoves his hands in his pockets. “You saw the way she’s been trying to work her way back into my skull. I don’t blame you.”  

“So, here’s what’s happening. You’re staying with Zeb. Not just because I’m protecting you. Zeb’s fighting her, but you’re strong enough to knock him out if it looks like she’s got the upper hand.”   

“But—”  

“He’s right,” agrees Zeb. “We’re her eyes and ears. She’s only poking around now, but any more than that and I’m basically her eyes and ears. And, if she wants, her proxy.”   

“She’ll know we busted out and she’ll know exactly where we are,” Mickey summarizes.  

“Okay, yeah. That makes sense,” nods Ian, seeing the wisdom.  

“If I need back up, you’re close enough that I can call you. And if I need you to leg it…”  

Ian would know Mickey’s meaning even without the two staccato taps to the side of his temple.   

“Mick, no! Don’t you dare!” He pushes past Zeb and gets in Mickey’s face. “I’ll hang to the rear and and take the guard detail, but you aren’t sending me away!” He stares his lover down, challenging Mickey’s authority with fire in his eye.  

It occurs to him briefly that he’s never gotten in Mickey’s face like this before with the express point of being confrontational. Oh, he has gotten in Mickey’s face before plenty of times.  It generally with the intention of either throwing him into various creative positions and opening him up and taking him apart.  

Now though, his words are heated. But it isn’t the sort of heat meant to enflame passions. And yet the way Mickey’s stern expression falters tells another story. The way his eyes go soft and the corners of his eyes start to crinkle, the way the left eyebrow and the right corner of his mouth both quirk up and the little tip of his tongue pokes out nipping his lower lip. They all serve to suggest Mickey is getting a rise out him showing a little backbone.  

Mickey grins. “Well, damn, Gallagher. I ought to piss you off more often.”         

🧛 🧛 🧛  

“How long has it been?”  

Zeb looks up at him from where he is sitting on the steps and takes out his pocket watch. Ian can tell he’s grating on the man, but doesn’t very much care. Zeb’s hand shakes at he clicks on the clasp to open the brass lid. “Forty seconds since the last time you asked,” he answers, seeming to swallow back a mouthful of bloody bile as his trembling hand attempts to replace the watch in his coat.   

“Sorry, it’s just… it can be frustrating. One way street, you know? I always have to guess what's going on in his head. Mickey can always at least get a sense of what’s going on with me. But I always have to guess.”  

“Do you like having him in your head?”  

“I’m used to it,” Ian answers suddenly feeling like he is being quizzed.   

“And you don’t feel like it’s invasive?”  

Ian sits down on the landing of the stairs, “I don’t know. Sometimes. At first, it was weird knowing he could just… know how I’m feeling. But, I don’t know, it’s nice to have someone who just always gets me. My family never did.”  

“Must be nice...” The older vampire muses ruefully. “I wonder what that’s like? My wife never understood me in the least.”  

“You’re married?”  

“Was.” Zeb chuckles weakly. He seems more at ease now that they are talking about anything other than the crisis at hand. “Uli claimed me almost three hundred years ago.”  

“Oh. I’m sorry.”    

 “It’s fine now. I read that she remarried much happier. And my kids got to have a halfway normal father.”  

“Halfway normal?”  

“My brain is configured a bit differently than most. I could spend hours or days at a time tinkering away in my laboratory, bouncing off the walls with ideas. But tending to the farm? Attending to Mellie and the children? It’s like they could really only reach me if they wanted to talk about my projects. They deserved a husband and father who cared.”  

The silence permeates the air for the moment. Ian’s incisors press against his lower lip as the question forms in his head. “Is that why Uli turned you? Because you wanted out?”  

Zeb arches an eyebrow. “You’re funny, Ian Gallagher. Uli doesn’t do anything to help her fellow vampires. Or humans. Or Skin Changers, Djinn, or Fae and whatever else. She doesn’t have even a shred of empathy.”  

“Okay, I hate her too, but there has to be—”  

“No,” Zeb cuts him off. “I mean it literally. She is incapable of it. Even through the Maker slash Fledgling rapport. It’s part of how she can do what she can. A Maker’s ability to command a fledgling ought to be counterbalanced by the Fledgling’s emotions, so the Maker can feel when she is going too far or when the Fledgling is ready to cut the apron strings.”  

“But she doesn’t hear any of you in her head?”  

“One way street. She commands and we obe—” he stops for a moment. “Shit. You’ve got to knock me out.”  

“What?”  

“She’s regrouping!” Zeb trembles. “I can feel more minds behind her now. Do it now before she—!”  

But before Zeb can finish the sentence, Ian rears back his fist and combines his vampiric strength and speed to crack Zeb across the face with the force of a cannonball. Ian hates the sound it makes, of Zeb’s maxilla and zygomatic bones crunching under the force of his blow. It makes that dream of becoming a doctor someday feel just that much further out of his reach. He has managed to justify drinking blood because he drinks less blood per person than they typical medical transfusion. But smashing this poor man’s face? So much for prima non nocere.     

Ian catches Zeb before he hits the ground. “Mickey! Sounds we gotta make like a bread truck and haul buns!”   

Mickey appears heading down the hall with his arm festooned with far more than Ian anticipated. He almost wants to say Mickey is just as bad as Mandy for saying he is only going shopping for one thing and coming back with a dozen.   

“What’s all that?”   

“Just a few odds and ends,” he answers making a good effort to sound nonchalant. When Ian takes a closer inspection, he notices it’s mostly books, which is typical Mickey. “I got the Drekava’s dog whistle. Uli was good enough to write down all the notes and commands, but her handwriting is for shit. And then there were these tomes that no business being anywhere besides a museum. Oh!” Mickey shifts the books to free up his non-dominant hand and pulled something out of his pocket. “Catch.”  

The little silver object cartwheels through the air arcing almost as though in slow-motion. He takes his dominant hand away from the unconscious vampire propped up in his arms just long enough for him to grasp the object in Ian’s large catcher’s mitt of a paw. The metal is cool under his grasp. Ian doesn’t understand how Uli managed to swap out the key Wulfric had given him with the false one. The electrical scorch marks immediately set it apart and Ian knows it instantly before he even catches sight of the distinctive Freemason imagery engraved in the ribbon of the key.   

“Found it shoved in a junk drawer, if you’d believe it.”  

“She probably didn’t expect us to live long enough to retrieve it.”  

“No. I didn’t.”   

Ian’s body goes rigid and Mickey’s brows knit together in anger, his lip curling like a dog about to pounce.   

Ian slowly turned around and was confronted with the sight of Uli and six of her Fledglings turning the corner. Ian recognizes one of the thralls at her command—the girl they watched narrowly escape two of the Drekava earlier. With the exception of Uli, they all look like they’ve had a few run-ins with the Dreks before Uli managed to reassert control. Ian wonders whether she managed to herd the Drekava back into their pen or simply chased them out of her home.   

 The Fledglings form a flank. Ian knew traveling higher in the tower was a huge gamble. Even if seconds ago, he was elated to have the key to whatever inheritance their Marker had set aside for him, it means nothing now. They are hemmed in at the summit of the tower.   

Ian has a fleeting memory, calling back to the week when his brother Lip taught him how to play chess. Castling was a move that Lip always painted as this game-changer of a ploy. You protect your king by having it and its rook switch places, positioning the king one square away from the edge of the board.  

Lip kept on telling him it was a defensive strategy, but Lip ended up putting him in checkmate every time he tried it. Always cleverer than Ian even when he was trying to go easy on him, Lip inevitably drew out the pawns in front of the king and the rook by its side, leaving him with nowhere to go and no way to defend his king. Ian always felt like he was backing himself into a corner.  

And Uli has them in checkmate.  

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

“Of course you know the official record will state that we had to eliminate the two of you in accordance with Council law,”  chimes Uli in her singsong voice. The sugar and light voice she used to inspire their cooperation before Mickey knew her true intentions. The dagger in her hand drips with blood far redder than any ruby. It it positively luminescent in the moonlight. “Or you could simply tell me  where my Codex is. I get what I want and you can slink back into whatever Mid-Western ditch you crawled out of. Everyone goes home happy. Just give me my Codex.” 

My Codex, she says, scoffs Mickey inwardly. As if she had a real claim to any of the relics she keeps in her office like trophies. If he had more time, more arms, they would be walking out of here with enough evidence to bring the Continental, maybe even the High Council down on Uli’s head.  And doubtless, if the High Council  gets involved, the sheer number of vampires she has effectively enslaved would land her deep in hot water, so much so that they might bury her.  

Burial is a punishment reserved for only the truly unredeemable of vampire society, but in this case, it might be warranted. What she has done to her fledglings for centuries and in such numbers is nothing short of profane. They would dose her with Bloodsbane and lock her up in a dense steel plated coffin, bind the coffin with enough chains to make Jacob Marley nervous, and sail her out to where the ocean is at its deepest. For extra measure, they would latch an anchor to the box for good measure before sending her to a watery eternity.  By the time the Bloodsbane is out of her system, the overwhelming pressure of the waters at the bottom of the Pacific’s deepest point would be so strong that it would make a vampire’s strength negligible.  

The only punishments Vampires have that are more extreme are the axe and the flame. 

 But maybe Mickey is being too harsh. He doesn’t truly know. His ability to judge the woman objectively gave up the ghost somewhere between being  held down on  the floor outside her office and  being sliced into over and over again with a dagger.  

“Even if we did know what you’re talking about,” he lies, “do you seriously think we believe you won’t kill us if we tell you?” 

“My forgiveness is bountiful,” she demurs in that sugary fake voice even as she rips her blade across his chest, long and deep. Just like each jab and slash before, it burns as she opens up his chest yet again. That one will take a little longer to heal , Mickey realizes. “But my patience is not.” And then she twists the knife. Mickey tries to hold back the scream, but it is leagues more painful than any slash or cut she has made thus far. “Now, I expect some cooperation before I start slicing at things that won’t grow back. And trust me- they will be things you’ll miss.”  

“Lay off him!” Shouts Ian. Ian is being restrained by the three remaining Fledglings Uli brought with her, plus Zeb who once again is at her command, his face expressionless apart from the bloody tear trickling down his face. 

Mickey catches Uli’s eyes practically twinkle in the split second before she spins on her heels to face him. 

Please, Ian. Don’t pull her focus.  

“We already told you we never even saw your stupid codex.” 

“Hey!” Mickey gives a strangled shout. “Eyes on me, bitch! He doesn’t know shit.” 

But she keeps her gaze focused on Ian. Shit .  

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but if I recall correctly you two by some freak twist of fate share the Maker and Fledgling bond?”   

No. Please no.  

“Everything you feel, Mikkel feels in kind, yes?” 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” 

“Muzzle him.” 

With reactions as fast as a neural synapse, one of the Fledglings covers Mickey’s mouth with her hand, freeing his left forearm. Not that having the the one half of his non-dominant limb released will do much good when they are outnumbered eight to two.  

Uli spins the tip of the blade on the tip of her index finger. “I’m sure Mikkel will take anything I throw at him.” She tears open Ian’s shirt. “But how long can he stand your pain?” 

Before either of them an say anything, her arm arcs the air and the gurgling sound of fresh flesh being shredded open across Ian’s left laterals. Ian’s scream rings in Mickey’s ears as he feels himself being burned alive from the inside out as though molten lava was coursing through his veins. Fucking Christ! His knees buckle and he would be down on all fours if he weren’t pinioned against the wall by Gottlieb’s unwilling participants.  

“Now, about my Codex?” 

“Fuck off!” 

Another swing of the blade. Arcs through the air as unnaturally red blood splatters against the wall. This one lands across his left breast. The pain is blinding. First he sees white and then Mickey sees stars. Mickey is used to the way Ian feels everything so deeply, so intensely. But physical pain is proving to be too much.   

The third slashes up Ian’s abdominals and Mickey doesn’t know if he can take another dose of Ian’s physical suffering. And if Mickey feels like Death is riding a pale mare in his direction, he can only imagine how Ian must be barely managing to endure.  

He’s desperate. He would only even think of doing this if their lives depended on it. He only hopes that Ian will forgive him. 

“Now, about my Codex?” She asks. 

“Use your Voice,” Mickey mentally. He knows the unusual nature of their rapport means that he only has limited ability to send Ian these commands. So he keeps it as short as possible. 

Ian’s eyes go wide and for a second the gold flecks scattered in the clover fields of his irises glow. He stares at Uli and inhales deep.” 

“Well?” 

“NO!”  

They still don’t know the full extent of Ian’s gift. It is uncommon for vampires to wake up from their transformation with a unique ability. And it is ever rarer for it to be more than a prosaic aid, such as Mandy’s werewolfish sense of smell. And it has been dicey training Ian in the use of his Voice just because it just fundamentally draws attention. So, Mickey really was taking a gamble when he hijacked Ian’s free will just long enough to make this Hail Mary play.   

And for a brief eternity, Mickey thinks he has doomed everyone in the tower as the force of Ian’s scream knocks everyone in the hall save for Uli a yard or so from where they had been and Mickey dimly registers as dull wet splattering sound against the stone walls. All around them, bricks rattle and mortar crumbles. And the whole tower house shakes. Mickey worries it might collapse from under them at any moment.  

He tries to get his bearings, get Ian and go before the ceiling crashes down on him. When his eyes zero in on the man he loves, he is agog at the sight of Ian climbing to his feet, wounds still knitting themselves back together. And before him is a skeleton where Uli once stood, remnants of of muscle matter clinging to the bones, attempting quite feebly trying to reform.  

He has never seen anything like this. But then, he has never seen a vampire flayed to the bone by a vampire with a banshee-like wail. But in theory this is what vampires are meant for— they are eternal. The only way to truly end them is to either disincorporate them such as burning them into ash or sever their heads from their body. How humans landed on hearts, Mickey genuinely doesn’t know.  

Looking at the wall behind the skeleton, he sees bloody muscle, viscera, and the tattered remains of what was once Uli’s skin splattered against the wall.  

“Holy fuck…” Ian murmurs.  

Mickey gets to his feet. All around him, the Fledgling vampires are groaning as they try to regain their composure. The skeleton tries to move. There’s still life in the old girl. Well, Mickey’s putting a stop to that.  

Cracking his knuckles, he strides over to the animated skeleton. He grips the wet, slimy skull with one hand and the spinal column with the other. 

The snapping sound it makes as Mickey twists the skull from the body should make his stomach turn. But all Mickey can feels is relief.  

It’s over. It’s done. 

They’re free to go.  

They’re all free to go. 

🧛 Ian 🧛  

It’s a bit of a whirlwind. So many voices that we once silence and suppressed, forced into a single unwilling consciousness are now suddenly not only freed from Uli’s control once and for all. Unlike the frantic panic and danger of earlier this evening when the Drekava were plaguing the tower, now there is an overwhelming sense of relief permeating throughout the river island. 

They all swarm around Mickey. And it’s understandable. Their free will has been suppressed for so long that in a practical sense they don’t have much more life experience as vampires that Ian does. As a child of the millennium, they look to him for guidance now that they are blessedly orphaned and in need to guidance.  

That’s what Mickey did for Ian, wasn’t it? It only makes sense. 

So why then are they swarming around Ian almost as much? The majority of them have a minimum of a century over him. Why are they turning to him as much as Mickey now? He should be the one picking their brains, not the other way around. 

All the while, there is something eating at him that he can’t quite put into words.  

He needs to think, needs some air. As soon as there is a lull in the proceedings at least as far as he is concerned, he slips away unnoticed; a talent he spent his entire mortal life honing to a fine point. The door he was once desperate to reach not three hours ago he now walks through casually and plants himself at the front stoop of the tower.  

His fingers run along the outline of the key in his pants pocket. They went through all this just because they wanted to know what this goddamn key opens. He’s sorely tempted to throw the damn thing into the river. He just might if it weren’t for all the storm and stress they went through to get it back. Fucking Rutger… Wulfric… Ned… whatever the fuck his name is.  

He reaches into his breast pocket and thanks whatever unseen force vampires worship that his cigarette case survived in tact. He needs the stress relief of nicotine on his nerves. He slips out a long slender stick and the thin matchbox and sparks a flame across the stone steps.  

He looks out into the western bank of the river. Philadelphia. The waters are so still save for a rowboat in the distance. Though that seems odd. It’s nearly two in the morning. It seems strange. Ian pulls a little on his cigarette and waves away the smoke to clear his view. They are only a couple miles away yet, but as they come closer into view, Ian espies a man and a woman… and an otter.  

Maybe it was the torture, the way Uli first made him watch as she tortured Mickey. Or perhaps it’s when she gutted him just to increase Mickey’s suffering. Both sobering experiences, to be sure. Or maybe it was watching Uli’s skeleton stiltedly moving about desperate to stay alive like something out of dime novel. Whatever the case may be, it feels like it has been forever since he smiled a genuine smile. He races to the water line waving his brother and friends over. 

Things feel lighter just knowing that they’re here, that he and Mickey haven’t been abandoned to their fate. He was starting to think they had been forgotten. Being forgotten comes all too naturally to him. Especially when his back is up against the wall.  

By the time the boat hits the rocky edge of the island, Enzo has shifted back into his human guise and his just about done.  

“You know, it’s a lot cuter watching him turn into an otter,” bemoans Mandy as the disembark the tiny boat.  

“Yeah, and when we weren’t stuck on a small boat and have to listen to all those gross bone-cracking and organ squishing sounds.” Lip concurs. “Am I gonna make those noises when I can shift?”   

“Bigger. Louder,” cackles Mandy. 

“You never know. He could be smaller dog. Maybe a Frenchie.” 

“Oh! You would make such a cute Frenchie,” croons Mandy, pinching Lip’s cheek. 

“I hate you guys.” 

“No you don’t,” she refutes, kissing the spot on Lip’s cheek where she had just pinched. And in response, blood flush to Lip’s face, filling his cheeks with shades of scarlet. 

“Looks like you guys got it all sorted out without us,” grumbles Enzo even as he pulls an improbably large iron file from the floor of the boat.  

“It was touch and go, but Uli’s not going to be troubling anyone anymore.” 

“That’s a turn of events,” remarks Mandy. What happened?” 

“Mickey did,” he smiles. Despite his unrest. 

🧛 🧛 🧛  

“You want to talk about it?” Asks Mickey as they load onto the commuter yacht moored at the docks.  

“About what?” Asks Ian evasively. 

“Ian. Come on. Your thoughts are my feelings. I know you’re upset that I Commanded you.” Mickey takes Ian by his biceps. “But you have to understand, if I could have thought of any other way—” 

“Mick, it… That’s not exactly what’s… just don’t worry about it.” Ian turns away leaning over the rail of the ship. At the front of the ship, he can hear their siblings squabbling playfully over how to pilot the boat. Mickey obviously is the most qualified. The guy invented the sextant and sailed the seas during the Golden Age of Piracy. He could easily get them back to the other side of the river. Ian doesn’t get why he’s over here with him instead of taking charge. Whatever is going on in his head can wait.  

“Uh-uh. Don’t pull away like that, Red. Not from me.” 

“I’m not pulling away.” 

“I know you don’t want me in your head—” 

“Since when?” Ian looks at Mickey confused and clearly this isn’t the reaction Mickey expected.  

“You didn’t want me commanding you before.” 

“No… I didn’t want you sending me away. Until today, I don’t think you’ve used that trick often enough for me to have an opinion one way or another.” 

Mickey leans his back on the railing. “Yeah, well, if you had spent as long as I did following Wulf’s commands, you’d know why I never want to do unto others. You know?” 

“Yeah. I know. Here’s the thing though,” Ian says, sidling along the rail until he’s right up against Mickey. “My feelings are in your head all the time, right?” 

Mickey nods fondly, a laugh coming out as a puff of air through his nostril. “Like a leaky faucet. I practically sing in all your thoughts, Gallagher.  

“But I don’t  get to hear your thoughts the way a Fledgling is supposed to hear their Maker.” Mickey opens his mouth but Ian stops him. “Yeah, yeah. You’re not my Maker. I know. I just get the Commands.” 

“The Commands take away your free will, Ian. I wanted to run away from Wulfric so many times, but… a century and a half, Ian. I know relatively speaking that’s not even the equivalent of a decade in a mortal lifespan. But at the time, it felt like an eternity of enslavement.” 

“Well,” beams Ian throwing an arm around Mickey’s shoulder, “I really wouldn’t mind if you Commanded me to do things I already want to do.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Could be kind of hot.” 

“That so, huh?” 

“Kiss Me.”     

Once upon a time, Mickey's mental command was like murmurings in a different room. But he knows Mickey now. Intimately. Their bond is deep and true. Resonating in his ear as  clear as a bell, Ian is only too happy to follow his voice. 

“See? Totally fine.” 

“I’ll have to note that for later. So what’s the problem if you’re okay with me knockin’ around your noggin like that?” 

“You commanded me to kill.” 

“I told you to use your voice.” 

“Yeah. In order to kill," Ian emphasizes. "And seriously, I watched an animated skeleton try to put herself back together. How the fuck am I supposed to get to sleep when we get home?”    

“Um. Yeah,” he says lowering his head letting it rest on Ian’s chest. “I wasn’t expecting to see that either.” 

“You know what I went through those first days without you, right? The way that instinctual hunger caused me to drain those men completely? No control? No will of my own?” 

Swallowing, Mickey nods. 

“That’s what making me kill like that felt like.” He kissed the top of Mickey’s head, trying to convey that he isn’t mad, but he is upset. “All I ask is if you get in my head, don’t ask me to do that. Don’t make me do something I can’t un do. Nothing I can’t take back. Got it?” 

Mickey holds him tight as the little commuter boat casts off. “Promise. What we have depends on trust. If you don’t feel safe with me, this can’t work.” 

The boat putters on into the night.  

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

“I had almost forgotten how much I miss this.” Mickey croons as he breathes in the salty air of the late afternoon.  

“Oh, that’s right. You said you used to ride boats a lot,” remarks Liam, looking up from where he had been leaning on the on the bow of The Lusitania , the ocean liner where he had been resting his head on his arms.  

Mickey lets out a chuckle. Maybe it’s a sign of personal growth that spite of how irritable being out and about in the sunlight makes him, he finds more reasons to laugh these days. “Way to undersell me, kid. Saying I rode on boats is like the Romans did some traveling.” He cuffs the boy by the back of the neck and shakes Liam playfully. But suddenly he recoils.  

Not a full week ago, he was using his strength to its fullest capacity. Bending steel beams like they were pliant clay, cracking large, dense granite slabs of stone in his hands, bashing in the walls of a fortified tower. Mickey knows he is in full control, but it has been several centuries since the last time he has needed to let loose like he did and unleash his full might. It deranges his senses. He often reminds himself that vampires go through the world like they are Herakles navigating a China shop. Touching a mortal— a small mortal and Ian’s baby brother, to boot— it’s unnerving to be reminded how easily he could render real harm if he forgets himself.  

Hell, he hasn’t even been able to bring himself to touch Ian since the night they freed themselves. Though perhaps it’s for the best. Ian needs time to work through what happened.   

“Mickey?” Asks Liam, the concern obvious in his tone. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” Am I? “Yeah, I’m just peachy, Liam.” He doesn’t know if he sounds convincing, but he would rather not broach the conversation with Liam or really any of his human, or at least mortal, companions of how easily he could hurt them.  

“So, were you a pirate or something?” 

“Privateer, yes.” Answers Mickey pointedly. “Pirate came down to what side of the law I landed on and who was writing the history. But yeah. I captained quite a few vessels over the centuries, but mostly during the age of exploration and the golden age of piracy. Three hundred years off and on. Never did find that Northwest Passage. Oh well.” 

“What are you doing topside this time of day?” 

Mickey turns around to see Lip, Mandy, and Enzo headed toward them. Mandy is wearing an ostentatious outfit worthy of what she calls yachting life. Mickey swears the next time they have to switch things up and go more low-key, he is going to plead with Mandy to follow his lead and go more the “mysterious recluse” route. Because he looks at his sister and he might not clock her for a vampire per se, but her approach of hiding in plain sight as an eccentric society dame no doubt reads as “not quite human.”  

“You’re strolling arm in arm with my sister and you’re asking why I’m up and about?” 

“Yeah, but you’re attached to the hip with Gallagher’s brother, ain’t ya?” Demurs Enzo. 

Mickey thinks for a moment? Is it true that he and Ian’s bond is that deep? Certainly. True, whatever wrinkle in the order of the universe it was that linked them together has a hand in it, but it goes further than that. Relationships among vampires tend to be flirtatious and non-committal, characterized by a certain hedonistic desire to go as a bee does from flower to flower sampling the nectar. Romantic connections between vampires tend to be superficial.   

Perhaps that is the reason why until Ian, Mickey would have told you that his deeper emotional connections over the centuries had been with mortals. They only have one lifetime to live, their time is precious. Somehow, it makes what time an immortal like Mickey gets to spend with them feel more deeper, richer, more precious. 

But then, that’s how Mickey would describe what he and Ian share. In the early days, he tried to give Ian space, but the truth is even when their roles were still very much cast as mentor and novice, every moment spent with Ian made Mickey feel as though there was ichor, or perhaps liquid gold, coursing through his veins instead of blood, like there was something fundamentally right about their pairing. It makes Mickey feel like their psychic connection wasn’t merely an accident of chance, but rather the workings of the hand of fate.  

“I let him sleep a little longer,” Mickey says by way of an answer. Though in truth, he is trying to remove himself from the bed earlier so that he doesn’t pounce on Ian. After what they have been through, he doesn’t think Ian is ready to resume their physical relationship. But Mickey is practically gnawing on the headboard. “But I haven’t been on the sea in over ninety years. I wanted to see the way sunlight dances on the water again.” 

“You really miss this chapter of your life that much, huh?” Asks Mandy. “I never expect you to get so sentimental in your old age.” 

“Old age?” 

“We are literally Ancients, Mick.” 

“You saw the way those other blood drinkers were gushing over you? It was like you were their Chingachgook. Or their Merlin.” 

“Or like Abraham Van Helsing!” Adds Liam, who may have been sound asleep the night Ian and Mickey ended Uli Gottlieb’s reign of terror, but has certainly heard the events of the night in great detail since.  

Mickey gives him a perturbed look and Mandy snorts out a laugh. Lip makes a silent gesture for Liam to dummy up. But too late. 

“What?” Asks Liam. “Okay, like the book got you guys pegged all wrong, but he was a wise mentor figure right?” 

“Yeah, Mickey, he’s got you there,” grins Enzo. 

“Okay, can we all just keep it down?” He hisses testily. “Remember, strictly speaking, mortals aren’t supposed to know about us. And voices carry on the water.” 

“Hey, it’s not like you’re gonna run afoul of the vampiric council of The Lusitania , right?” 

“More like I’m worried about villagers with pitchforks and torches.” 

“Where are they going to get pitchforks around here?” 

The group turns around to find Ian, braving the light of the setting sun wearing a wider-brimmed boater, sun cheaters perched on his nose, and holding as black parasol borrowed from Mandy, above his head.  

Earlier that day at boarding, they had passed off Ian’s aversion to sunlight as an extreme light sensitivity. And in practice, that is what a vampire’s aversion to the sun functionally is once they are strong enough to power through their daily torpor. So technically, they weren’t lying. 

Mickey takes Ian by the waist. Despite his concern about being outed in such close quarters as a vampire, he is quite unconcerned anymore whether they might be spotted by anyone who might clutch their pearls at the sight of two men together. It is strange how even after a millennium, he had felt the need to keep even innocuous signs of his pederasty out of public sight. But with Ian, he cannot find himself bothering to comport himself other than how Mickey naturally feels around his precious redhead.  

“Ian,” begins Mickey soothingly. “You could have waited another hour. It would have been fine.” 

“Seriously? You’ve been gushing over this trip all week.” 

“I have not—” 

“Yeah, you have, Mick,” confirms Mandy with a coy smirk. 

 Mickey grimaces heatedly. Perhaps he has been a little excited to be on the open water again, but it isn’t as though he were a small mortal child giddy over his first ferry ride. Still there is something that has been baked into him ever since his days of thralldom on the Baltic Coast. As a house servant, he was even more ensnared in his servitude than the thralls who fished or farmed or even went on Viking raids.  

But on days when he could afford to steal away unnoticed, he would sneak out to the shoreline and imagine his freedom in lands beyond. And it wasn’t long after he was carried on the sea along with his master’s whole household to Angleland that he finally did buy his freedom. The sea always represented liberation to Mickey, even now long after he has become the master of his own destiny. 

“Yeah, well… the sunset always looks nicer on the water,” Mickey sighs accepting Ian’s arm stretching across his back, encompassing his shoulders. “I’m just happy I get to share it with you. This is your first time on the ocean, after all.” 

“Oh my god. Mick, I’m glad you got someone, but that kind of talk is going to make me barf.” Mandy snarks. “And I’m sure White Star Lines would rather not have blood vomited all over the side of the ship.” 

“So, I know we’re trapped on this floating hotel for the next week,” Enzo changes the subject. “But do you have any idea where we are headed once we get to London?” 

“Don’t you have an opinion?” Asks Liam.  

“Sure, I do. But I’m under orders. I follow your lead and only take the reins when it’s time to keep this guy from running amuck for his first couple wolf moons.” 

🧛 🧛 🧛  

Two weeks ago.   

“Look, I like En, we go way back. But is this really the move?” Mickey asks two nights later once Youens and Brad had returned from their self-inflicted werewolf exile.   

“Would you rather Mr. Young?”  

“Well, Ian hates the guy’s guts, so probably not. What about you?” Asks Mickey. “If one of you have gotta chaperone Lip for a while, then I’d rather have you there.”  

“I’ve got to find a new home for the Codex.”  

“What’s wrong with here? Uli is history, right?”  

“Do you seriously think she is the only one who has ever come looking for it?”  

Mickey hesitates. He is smarted than this. Much smarter. But if he has to accept the addition of one of the Skin Changers to their traveling party, he would prefer Youens’ wisdom and ability to maintain order in a crisis. As much as he appreciates Enzo for his cool head and easy-going disposition, that’s not what is called for when Lip’s lycanthropy finally manifests.  

“No. I suppose not. Can’t Brad handle the Codex and you come with us?”  

Youens gives Mickey a guileful smirk. “Would you trust Brad with something like this?”  

Mickey huffs. “No, I suppose not.”  

“Look, if it’s any consolation, I’ll have a new home for the Codex secured within the fortnight. Check in with the Temple by  telegram once you’re settled so we know where you’re staying and once I find a secure new home for it, I’ll follow after.”  

Enzo’s head popped up from where he was seated on a bench on the temple grounds. Now that Mickey has seen him transformed, he cannot help but picture an otter’s head popping up into view. “What’s the word?” Enzo inquired , his tone clearly telegraphing that he already knew the answer.  

Mickey looks at the good-natured Italian, one eyebrow perched high and quizzical. “Why are you giving me that look when you know exactly what he said?”  

“I’m waiting for an ‘I told you so.’”  

“You’ll have to settle for a ‘fuck you.’” Mickey keeps walking. “As if I don’t have enough on my plate without having to wonder who’s going to keep Phillip from chasing down truck tires.”  

“Still got headaches with the new council, huh?” Enzo nods appraisingly as they wait at the streetcar stop.   

“Bernice stepped down. And she pretty much vanished. And I can’t blame her. Or any of them, really. I’ve convinced Zeb to stay on, but he doesn’t sound enthusiastic. He just needs to find a team to keep order until the regional council can make it into town.”  

“Wouldn’t things all be easier if you just, I don’t know, became interim chair or whatever.” Asks his old friend as they board the southbound streetcar.  

“Absolutely not.”  

But Mickey had considered it. He presided over the Chicago council for decades. Before that,  he filled the scholarly role that Zeb prefers to fill for some time with the Western European council, but it wasn’t a good fit between his burgeoning wanderlust and the sheer preponderance of meetings that the greater regional councils require. He even ended up serving as an Ad Hoc participant of Florence’s council for nearly a decade.   

Maybe if he were here as a free agent, he would fall on his sword and offer to head Philadelphia’s council until a more permanent solution can be found. He might even see it as his responsibility considering he was the one that snapped Uli’s skull from her spine. But the regional councils aren’t known for expediency as much as goddamn bureaucracy. Meaning it could be years before he could be free of this city. And yet he would have seen it as his duty.   

But he doesn’t. All he wants is to put Philadelphia behind him, and behind Ian too, for a good long time. Ian has been struggling ever since that night. It has been a struggle, but Mickey has made a point of giving Ian the time he needs to come to grips with what happened to them. And if it weren’t for Mickey’s impulsive decision to take Ian away from their home, Ian could have been spared it.  

All they left Chicago for was to find whatever Wulfric left for Ian behind whatever door that stupid key opens. Ian. He only ever ventured from the comfort he knew and the city he had helped build from the ground up for Ian’s sake. And it wasn’t even Wulfric’s little mystery at all that had sent them traveling to parts east. It was to protect Ian from the truth of his idiot brother’s anti-vampire activities. Mickey had no idea he was pushing Ian into a position where he would have to kill again. How could he imagine he would be the one commanding Ian to kill?   

Well, that problem has long since resolved itself. Or more accurately, Uli resolved it. It is only in hindsight that he realizes that she  sicced her Drekava on the Van Helsing idiots just to draw Mickey out. And now the mystery remains. The sooner they leave Philadelphia, the sooner they find whatever Wulfric hid for them to find in London and the sooner they can finally close this chapter and head the fuck back home.   

“Why are you following me, anyway?” Asks Mickey heatedly “Don’t you have your own place to stay now that you aren’t on guard duty back at the Temple?”  

“If I’m going to be with you and yours for a while, I might as well get you all used to seeing me socially instead of just the skin changer at the door.”  

“You know that’s not how we see you, right?”  

“No, you see me as the one with the goofy accent.”  

“Well, yeah. Who knew that’s what happens when you drop an Italian down in the middle of South Philly for ninety years?” Mickey deadpans. “But no. Don’t ask me to explain why, but my family seems to all like you without having the benefit of being stuck sharing a cabin with you for a month.”  

Enzo grins like he knows something Mickey doesn’t. Which is highly unlikely unless Enzo is thinking about zoology. Or zookeeping or animal husbandry, or whatever it is Enzo does for his day job.   

“What?” Mickey finally asks once they step off the streetcar.  

“You’re not the hard-ass you think you are, right?”  

“Fuck off.”  

“You called them family.”  

“Yeah? Well, Mandy is family.”  

“And the redhead?”  

Mickey hesitates. Ian is more than family. But he doesn’t know if there is a word for it.   

🧛 🧛 🧛  

The present.  

As their Atlantic crossing continues, everyone seems to find their own particular niches. Enzo gravitates towards the smoking room, no doubt scandalizing the upper crust with his tales of cleaning up animal shit for a living. Mandy and Lip find themselves spending a lot of time in the Gentlemen’s lounge, Mandy taking great glee in making the menfolk harrumph over the presence of a woman who has more balls than they do— and makes sure they know it. They also keep finding their way to the Turkish Baths. A lot of time, actually. And Liam keeps telling everyone that he is spending time in the library, but people on the ship keep mentioning the clever young boy who keeps hustling men three times his age at the billiard tables.  

This leaves Mickey and Ian alone together much of the time, which Mickey certainly isn’t complaining about. It’s quiet and companionable as they promenade along the deck. Mickey feels bold and wraps his arm around around Ian as they stroll, just as he watches Mandy and Lip do. It makes up for the lack of Ian’s usual chatter. He’s been quieter lately. Mickey can tell he has been somber during his waking hours and restless in his sleep. But he is trying to be patient. Ian will talk to him when he feels ready. He will, won’t he?  

“We’re only a day or so from London, right?” Asks Ian. 

“Yeah. I wired my lawyer the other day. Fred set us up with a nice place, but it’s outside the city a ways.” 

“Probably good. Considering how odd our household can be. Vampires. Werewolves. Enzo.” 

It gets quiet again.  

Mickey can’t take it. He can feel like something is empty, hollowed out. Something is missing and Mickey can’t figure out what. How does Ian feel lonely like this when Mickey is right here beside him? 

“Once we’re done, though, it’s back to Chicago?” 

“Fingers crossed, lover.” 

Mickey feels a stinging pang of a sensation as Ian slips from Mickey’s embrace, turning away to lean against the railing, looking out onto choppy moonlit waters. Mickey can practically see the tension mounting in between his shoulder blades, and he almost expects Ian’s grip on the guard rail to leave an indentation.  

“Okay, I give up. What is it?” 

“What’s what?” 

“Don’t fucking play games with me, Gallagher. Something’s off. And the more you won’t talk to me about it, the bigger it gets up here.” Mickey taps the side of his temple for emphasis. “Is it Chicago? I know you wanted to take your brothers home.” 

He shakes his head on a derisive exhale. “No. I gave up that fight. At least I convinced Lip to mail the rest of the money he took back to Fiona.”   

“Yeah, I was impressed. Phillip doesn’t seem like the type of guy who budges once he makes a stupid decision.” 

Ian smiles dimly. “He isn’t. And he was ready to dig his heels in deep on it too. He said he didn’t want to be reliant on your money.” 

“And I’m guessing you pointed out that it was my money he ran off with?”  

Ian turned around to face Mickey, his expression wily. He leans cockily on the railing.  God, does Mickey miss seeing this version of Ian lately. “You know, you never told me how amusing it is to watch the color drain from a person’s face with vampiric sight.” 

“I’ll make sure to add it to the curriculum if I ever need to show anyone else the ropes.” Mickey snickers and Ian echoes it back. But then they are silent again. Mickey hates it. “So, if not Chicago, then what? Are you still upset about what happened? With Uli?” 

Ian sighs. “Part of it, but probably not what you’re thinking.  

“I told you, Red. If I could think of any other way—” 

“You got it wrong.” 

“—I would have done anything to keep from using a mental command.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“It makes me no worse than Uli, the way she treated her fledglings like puppets. Ian, you’ve got to believe me that I feel like shit that I had to—” 

“We haven’t fucked since!” Ian roars. If it weren’t for the late hour, Mickey is certain they would be surrounded by heads turning in their direction.  

Mickey steps back. Ian didn’t use The Voice, but he may as well have the way Mickey feels utterly shaken and disoriented.  

“I—I didn’t realize… I figured you needed some space. And then you were resting a lot more. I figured—” 

“The last thing I ever want is for you to give me space, Mick. Crowd me! I can get through a lot of shit, but I can’t deal with the idea of you thinking I’m better off on my own.” 

Mickey smiles fondly. “I thought you’d like a little breathing room. To process or whatever.” 

“I’m not a china doll, Mick.” Ian says, lowering his voice once again. But he claps a large freckled paw on each of Mickey’s biceps. “I’m not made of glass and I’m not going to fall apart if you try to touch me just ‘cause we’ve been through some shit.” 

“I knew something was wrong.” 

“Then why didn’t you do something about it?” 

“Because you never told me what’s wrong, dumbass!” Mickey has tried to explain how Ian’s feelings read in his mind. When feelings are so intense that they are the only thing on his mind, Mickey can read him clear as crystal. Pain, danger, anger, fear. Those lizard brain emotions that are meant to keep him alive all read plain as day. But complex, less immediate feelings are like a swirling slurry of different sensations that Mickey is always parsing. Jealousy for instance is some alchemy of sadness, anger, and want. But “want” could range from a carnal lust to a pragmatic need, or a broader proprietary impulse to take what belongs to someone else. 

And the feelings that have been haunting Ian for the better part of a fortnight are far more nuanced and harder to read than something as straightforward as jealousy.  

“What I’ve got in my head is a compass, not a road map, Ian,” Mickey explains. I know when your feelings are going one way or another, but the streets aren’t named.” 

Ian huffs like a petulant child and Mickey is certain in other contexts, he would find the behavior charming. “Okay. Yeah, I needed some time to get my head on straight after what happened. But it was like you kept finding reasons not to be there with me when I woke up at dusk and stayed up past when I could keep myself awake during the day.” 

“Ian…”  

“I thought it was just the council bullshit. I figured once we got out of Philly, we could… Mickey, I miss you. Physically.” 

Mickey feels a little lost. Ian is far and away the more dominant and aggressive of the two of them between the sheets. Why is Ian waiting for Mickey to make the first move? But what does it matter? All this time, he thought Ian was drifting away from him when in reality he has been waiting for Mickey be be a lion and not a lamb in the bedroom.  

Before he knows it, Mickey is up on the balls of his feet, hands cupping Ian’s face, thumbs caressing the curve of his jawline. He feels the softness of Ian’s lips against his own as he invades the redhead’s mouth with his tongue. Time vanishes. The world somehow freezes and yet spins around them like a hurricane as Mickey fills two weeks’, or maybe an eternity’s worth of longing into one kiss. 

You want me to take the lead, big guy? Here goes.  

They release one another. Gasping for more. Or maybe gasping for air. Mickey is already counting the seconds until they pounce on each other again. Casting his gaze downward, he realizes his hands have been busy. Ian’s shirt ripped open, buttons popped off revealing the patch of red chest hair that Mickey likes to comb his fingers through.  

It’s insane, he realizes. He has gone literally centuries without carnal, mortal sex. But after only a couple weeks of restraint, he feels like if Ian doesn’t fuck him now, he’ll die. Being with Ian makes him feel young, makes him feel like the world is something he needs to enjoy in the present, like it could all come crashing down at any minute. Crashing. Crashing. He just might implode if he doesn’t get Ian in him right this second. 

The raven-haired vampire looks around. Their cabin is a brisk walk down to B deck. But even if they ran at full vampiric tilt, it feels like to long a wait. He needs Ian now.  

He grins devilishly. “Behind the life rafts. C’mon.” 

Ian smiles and they scurry behind the life boats, Mickey landing on his back, reaching Ian’s suspenders and pulling him down to meet his eager mouth again.  

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

“I thought you said we were staying in the country,” Phillip remarks as the Napier that Mickey rented puttered along Ducksetters Lane into the bustling village of Church End.  

“No, I said we weren’t staying in the city. If I wanted to stay in the country, I could have spared the expense of renting a goddamn house,” grumbles Mickey as he flicks some cigarette ash out of the driver’s side window. “This is just a suburb.” 

“What’s a suburb?” Asks Liam. 

“It’s a— you don’t know what a suburb is?” 

“America’s a younger country, Mick.” Mandy chides gently. “Suburbs are what happens when enough people in the city want out of the fetid cesspool of urban life, but they don’t make it more than maybe ten miles outside of city limits.” 

“I could take you to the family farm, if you want, Phillip.” Offers Mickey only a little facetiously.  

“Yorkshire’s a hell of a drive though, right?” Asks Liam who took time to look at some maps. 

“Yeah, it’s a couple days on the road,” Mandy agrees. “But then, I haven’t been here since, you know, trains.”    

Ian turns to Mickey. “Well?” 

“Do you all just think I have train schedules committed to memory?” 

“Yes.” Answers a chorus.  

 “The S&D didn’t even break ground until after I had already planting roots in Chicago.” 

They all keep their gaze fixed on him. Mickey can practically feel their stares. He takes another puff of his cigarette, rolling his eyes as he does the math in his head. “I don’t know. Five hours. Maybe four.”  

Ian gives his arm a squeeze, affectionate in the face of their gentle teasing. “I still have a hard time picturing you as a farmer.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m no stranger to the facts of your existence. A thousand years is a lot of lifetimes. Especially when you have to reinvent yourself every few decades before people notice you aren’t aging. Like, I’ve lost track of the number of times you will just bring up the most obscure historical figures and events all nonchalant. Half the time, I’m not even sure whether or not you’re fucking with me.” 

“Oh, Mikhailo…” Mandy sighs. “Please don’t tell me you told him about the time you spent a week modeling in the buff for Michelangelo.” 

Mickey feels like his whole body is about ready to burst into flames as Ian picks his jaw up from off the floor. “No, actually I managed to keep that one under my hat. Thanks, sis.”  

“So, there’s a naked statue of you  out there somewhere?” Ian sounds like he just got very interested in art.  

Mickey bites his lip, self-conscious. “You wouldn’t recognize me, he used someone else for the head.” 

“Yeah, but Ian could probably pick your butt out of a lineup,” snickers Liam. 

“Getting back to my point,” Ian sticks his chin out pointedly at his baby brother, “I know you’re no stranger to the countryside. You’ve told me all about the farms and the vineyards, and you probably started inventing shit in the first place just to make farming suck less. But I could never quite picture it.” 

“You’re not just saying that because the first time you saw me, I was dressed like an oil baron and taking you to my mansion, eh?” 

“Well, there is that, but there’s more. You know what’s the first thing I remember learning about you?” 

“That I’m a blood-sucking fiend who can’t turn into a bat?” Mickey snarks, knowing full well that the freckle faced vampire probably still thinks they can fly and Mickey is just holding out on him. 

“Astronomy.” Ian practically proclaims. “You were showing me how to feed properly. We took a break and you laid out flat on your back in the middle of a field and just started stargazing. You pointed out Algol.” 

Mickey nods, remembering. “My favorite star.” 

“Binary star. Never heard of that before you. And you told me how you used to travel just by the night’s sky. If you wonder why I have trouble picturing you letting the grass grow under you it’s because you told me right up front that you get itchy feet, like you’re this object in motion. And when you aren’t in motion, you’re busy thinking of new ways to get where you want to go.”  

Mickey shrugs, conceding. But he thinks about his farmland. Yes, he has certainly been defined by his wanderlust over the years, but he did put a lot of time into his pastures over the years. As much as he feels fully alive on the open sea or riding under the churning power of a combustion engine, there is something to be said about farming, at least once he was the farmer and not a day laborer. To reach down and hold the soil of your own land between your fingers, to till the earth and nurture the land and ultimately know that your autumn yield was purchased with the sweat of your own brow.   

 “It wouldn’t be that far a ride,” Mickey muses. “It might be nice just to visit for a week or so. Get away from the city, see how the old girl is doing. She was thriving last time I was in the country.” 

“What did you grow? Or were you a dairy farmer or something?” 

“Wheat and Barley, mostly. And I just planted a field of potatoes a year or two before I decided I needed a fresh start.” 

“Yeah. He planted potatoes a couple decades before the Blight,” ribs Mandy. “Guess how well that worked out.” 

“My executor at the time said it bounced back,” Mickey shrugged as he spots the avenue he is looking for and turns off the main drag.  

“Do you really want to head up there?” asks Ian. 

“After everything we’ve been through, I don’t know. Maybe. We deserve some quiet.” Mickey hears himself say it, though as much as he wants to believe what he says, he doesn’t know if he does deserve it. Or if it is even viable. The folly of being a vampire lays in the belief that if you live long enough, eventually things will quiet down. But if you rub up against enough of human history, you learn that “eventually” is the carrot you’re chasing. And even if it is even feasible, there is Ian to consider. Yes, he has lived into a ripe old vampiric age. But Ian is a young buck of a vampire with the blood of an ancient coursing through his veins. He’ll reach his full power in a fraction of the time it takes most. Within a decade, he’ll be ready to roam the world and live life to the fullest in a way that makes their little trip from Chicago to DC, then Philadelphia, and now London seem like a leisurely excursion. 

If he were in Ian’s shoes with both youth and freedom, he could imagine Ian wanting to explore the ruins of the ancient peoples of Central and South America or the Gobi Desert. Run alongside gazelles in deepest Africa or visit with India or Japan. Mickey never made it to Japan. Ian deserves the chance to see it though. How could Mickey retire to country estate and expect his beautiful young stripling of a vampire with the world at his fingertips to settle down for a simple life with a ancient geriatric vampire like him? Mickey knows he wouldn’t.  

Ian would stay if he asked. Or at least he believes he would. Mickey hopes he would.  

A part of Mickey that brings him no small amount of shame whispers in his ear—he could make Ian stay. He could Command Ian to be with him. But he recoils at the thought. That’s what Wulfric would do—what he did to Mickey for decades beyond when he was ready to be on his own. Mickey won’t do that to Ian.  

Making Ian stay won’t make Ian love him. It certainly didn’t make him love Wulfric. 

🧛🧛🧛 

The home they rent in Church End isn’t quite as large and opulent as the nouveau riche eyesore, though it certainly is a beauty. It certainly isn’t the claustrophobic pile of bricks that Mickey’s little Colonial in Philadelphia had turned out to be, but it’s just more modest altogether than Mickey’s Chicago manse. It exists to be a home, not to show off your wealth in order to blend in among newly minted millionaires not more than a generation or two removed from subsistence farming or toiling away in factories. It certainly falls into the category of mansion, though. Enough space so that the six of them aren’t on top of one another. There are even a few unclaimed bedrooms in case they end up with any more hangers on. 

Remember those bygone halcyon days when it was just me and Ian?  

The beautiful gabled early Victorian is painted a lush emerald shade that reminds Mickey of Ian’s eyes. It is surrounded by an acre on every side and hemmed in with well-manicured rose bushes, giving them plenty of privacy. After the Mickey’s little house in Philly and Mandy’s DC Brownstone before it, this feels like the first time since they left Chicago that Mickey feels like they don’t have to worry about the neighbors overhearing their business.  

That privacy is what brings him outside to light up a cigarette. Technically, this is his house and he could smoke in any room of the house if he really wanted. But between a nascent werewolf, a wereotter, and a sister with the nose of a bloodhound, it’s simply common courtesy to take it outside.  

“Look, I don’t mean to be ungrateful,” he hears Phillip fume across the garden. “But I’m really better off, I don’t know, doing some research or something. There’s got to be libraries in the city right?” 

“Oh, yeah,” scoffs Enzo. “I hear that The Care and Training of Werewolves of the most popular books according to the London Gazette .”  

“Aren’t there occult libraries?” 

“If there are, do you think their addresses are common knowledge?” Enzo’s arms are crossed over his chest. “You do know this country has a proud history of witch hunts, right? Had witch hunter generals and everything. Probably aren’t that big on were-folk or vampires, either.” 

“So did America.” 

“By English settlers.” Enzo inhales and then releases like he is letting out bad toxins. “Look, Lip. I know you don’t like it but this is just how it’s done. A new pack member always needs guidance. And I'm here to be that guide.” 

“But that’s just the thing, En. I’m not your pack member.” Phillip hisses. “You’re not even a werewolf. You turn into a cute little critter and I’m going turn into the big, bad wolf. I’m going to be a danger to everyone around me. How do you actually expect to help?” 

“I’m a zoologist, Galla— hey, wait!” 

Phillip has no interest in what Enzo has to say and doesn’t wait for Enzo to respond before he storms past him, stomping across the garden and nearly tripping over Mickey on his way into the house. 

“Hey, wipe your fucking feet, shithead,” Mickey calls after. Lip doesn’t respond, but Mickey hears the sound of two heavy boots being kicked off and left in the mud room before Phillip is taking the stairs two at a time.”  

Mickey gets to his feet when Enzo staggers defeatedly to the back verandah. “Lessons not going well?” 

“Maybe Brad should have been the one to come with you after all,” bemoans Enzo, collapsing forlorn against the banister of the verandah, letting it bear his weight.  

“No, don’t do that man. If anyone, I wanted Youens here.” 

“Figures.” 

“Hey, don’t want to stand here lying to you, buddy. But I’ll take you over Brad any day. The guy has enough on his plate with that wife of his. He’s kind of a mess.” Mickey pats his shoulder. “Besides, you know your shit, right?” 

“About eighty years since I started animal care. And I’ve worked with a lot of skin changers over the years.” 

“Do werewolves tend to be more resistant to help than others?” 

“What?” Enzo sounds surprised by the question. “Nah, usually it’s easy considering how well they acclimate to a pack mentality. They like the sense of structure, you know? It helps keep the inner wolf in line when he wants to fall in line with the others.” 

“Unless you’ve got a lone wolf on your hands?” 

Enzo sighs. “I’ve seen lone wolves. Lip isn’t one. But he’s still… it’s like he’s being contrarian on principle. I half expect him to turn into a were-mule in a couple weeks. Maybe I need to be more assertive. Who knows? Maybe Lip's one of those dumb-dumbs that think 'alpha wolves' are real thing.”

"In theory, Lip is a genius. Or at least that's what I'm told."

"You'd think a genius would know what's good for him and accept some help." 

Mickey thinks for a moment. “Yeah, Phillip’s can be a stubborn piece of shit sometimes, but he’s Ian’s brother, so I can’t exactly take him back to the store for a refund.”  

“So, what do you suggest I do? I can’t teach him if all he’s going to do is pay me lip service.” 

The corners of Mickey’s mouth curl upward and his brows form bird’s wings as they knit together as a plan begins to form. “You know what Phillip really needs? Someone who knows how to press his buttons.” 

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛  

The fourth floor is a repurposed attic, one large open-floor space that provides Ian and Mickey with a modest bedroom, a small sitting room, and a study. It’s hardly the suite Mickey has set up for himself back in his grand estate back in Chicago, but it more than gets the job done as far as Ian is concerned.  

When Ian rises, Mickey is already up and sitting slouched in a tall, cushioned chair in the study with a copy of De Profundis cradled between his knees. “Leave it to Mickey Milkovich to gravitate to the one Oscar Wilde book about misery and imprisonment,” Mandy had remarked last night.  

“Joining me?” Ian asks, feeling peckish. 

“Check in with your brother, first.” He advises, flipping a page.  

Ian sighs as he buttons his shirt. “You still want me to go ahead?” 

“He’s your brother,” Mickey insists. “You know him best.” 

Ian makes a mental note never to agree to anything when Mickey is riding on top and doing that thing with his tongue that makes Ian’s brain short-circuit. He could try to argue his way out of it, but they would only be going in circles. And Mickey will win because Ian has to concede the fact that his elder brother is no stranger to needing a good solid kick in the pants whenever he gets in his own way—which is often. Ian may know Lip inside and out, but he’s biased. Mickey sees his Lip with fresh eyes.  

“Okay,” Ian concedes  on an eye rolls as he hoists up his pants, hoisting his suspenders over his shoulders. “But this is on you if it backfires and I’m stuck talking him down from a ledge. 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” 

“He can turn into a wolf and maul me.” 

🧛🧛🧛 

Enzo is the only one with a bedroom on the third floor, though there are three more modestly sized unclaimed bedrooms as well as a room Mickey has described as a billiard room, even though it lacks a pool table. Ian would call it a lounge or a game room, if anything. Board games are stacked on book cases along the far wall a game of chess has been left out on the table between two cozy chairs where Enzo has been teaching Liam how to play. It’s only a matter of time before Enzo finds out the hard way that Liam knows very well how to play. 

Then the next floor down, Mandy has the actually intended master bedroom to herself, even though technically speaking Ian and Mickey’s room in the attic is larger in terms of square footage. While on the other side of the music room (of course, Mandy would end up sleeping adjacent to the music room), Lip and Liam both have a bedroom just about the size of the bedrooms on the third floor.  

But Ian strides right past the second and third floor, knowing very well that not even Liam is getting ready for bed this time of the evening, even with the longer Summer days. They all seem to favor the ground floor, despite the fact that other than the kitchen and breakfast table, it seems to be set up like a showpiece, the house’s parlor, library, and ballroom all perfectly arrayed like doll furniture.  

Doll furniture. The thought echoes in his skull as he espies Mandy seated on a chaise surrounded by stacks of paper parcels. Three nights since their arrival, their little group is still settling in; they haven’t even gone into the city yet. Or at least they as a whole haven’t. It seems that Mandy’s first order of business when she arrives somewhere new is scope out the local fashions and set about dressing like the natives do. And as Lip stands in front of her in a tailored slick black suit that looks like he just barely breathe in it, Ian figures Mandy has roped his brother into her nesting process.  

He’s seen men in formalwear, albeit the American variation, which doesn’t pinch so tightly. Hell, he’s seen Mickey in tuxes once or twice on nights where he had to put on mortal drag long enough to attend charity events or fundraisers for the projects he, or more precisely Foster K Wattley, Jr, was sponsoring back home in Chicago. But seeing his brother dressed up like a pompous penguin is new. 

Not that he doesn’t clean up well. Lip was on full scholarship at the Chicago Institute of Technology. And his classmates were the sons and daughters of the upper echelons of society. Ian went around with Lip from thrift shop to flea market the Summer before he started classes hunting suit pieces that would make him blend in a bit more easily among the upper crusts. And it worked. Or at least Lip didn’t feel like people didn’t look at him and see some poor wretch that just climbed out of the gutter. The result was that Lip learned to put a lot of pride into his appearance. In fact, Ian would go so far as to say he looked pretty natty.  

But natty and looking like he is about to have an audience with the king of England are two different things entirely.  

“Come on, turn around,” Mandy insists. “Let me get the full effect!” 

Lip slowly turns and smiles patiently, like a lapdog who is just waiting for his mistress to grow weary of putting him in silly costumes. Ian tries to shake the thought from his mind. More and more he keeps catching himself making these off-handed comparisons of his brother to dogs. It’s like his subconscious is preparing for two weeks from now when he will have to come to grips with Lip being a part time mutt.  

“I feel ridiculous,” Lip admits. 

“You look ridiculous,” comments Ian on impulse. He bites his lip, regretfully, but then he remembers that this is what he is supposed to be doing. A rousing game of “Poke the Bear.” 

“He looks like a proper English gentleman,” Mandy insists. “Remember— this isn’t America. It’s not enough just to have money. You need to look like you’ve had it for generations.” 

“I still think you’re spending way too much money on me,” Lip insists.  

And there it is—the opening Ian has been waiting for. He hardens his heart and remembers Mickey’s instructions. Press his buttons. “You didn’t have a problem blowing your way through Fiona’s money.” 

“What?” 

“Oh, right. My mistake. Sorry, I just don’t know what I was thinking— I meant ‘Mickey’s money.’”  

“What are you getting at, little brother?” Asks Lip, the warm smile he had for Mandy hardening into grimace. 

“My point is that if you’re going to run around acting like Little Lord Fauntleroy with money you didn’t earn much less deserve, maybe you should show a little fucking gratitude when Mandy’s offering you gifts like you’re her kept boy.” 

“Gallagher, calm down,” Mandy hisses. 

“What did you call me?” Lip’s tone darkens.  

Okay, Mickey. I poked the bear. Now what?   

“You heard me— a kept boy. You aren’t even the same species, Lip. What are you thinking? You’re just this little dolly she gets to dress up for a few decades while you’re still pretty.” 

Ian can feel the cadence of Lip’s breathing hitch and turn ragged as he tries to collect himself. 

“But you know, I really can’t blame you for not knowing how to treat women, right?” 

“Ian, I swear to Christ—” 

Ian counts off on her fingers. “Let’s see, you went with Batty Sheila’s daughter because let’s face it, she was easy. Then there was the girl on Trumbull Street you strung along. Wrote all your college essays—last I checked, you still never thanked her. She’s still pissed, by the way.” 

“You hear this?” Asks Mandy. Ian doesn’t look, but a flash of alabaster and raven-black streaks across his periphery. 

“Shh...” he hears Mickey whisper, “Just let them go at it.” 

“You’re serious?” 

“Then, there was that poor Amanda girl who got you through your first year at college. How long were you in bed with your professor before she finally gave up on your sorry ass?” 

Lip is a mortal, and not a particularly athletic one. Unless he’s out on a full moon, he’s not exactly a threat as far as Ian is concerned.  So when Ian’s brother shoves him against the parlor wall, sending the innocuous French art clattering to the floor, it is only because Ian allows him to do so.  

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll fucking shut your mouth!” Lip holds him pinned to the wall. Or at least Ian allows him to. Even when Ian was mortal, he could overpower his brother, who was spared the rougher youth that Ian experienced, as his education was always prioritized. Even now, the two hands seizing Ian by the shirtfront are softer, his body leaner and shoulders permanently hunched over from years behind a desk. But now, the disparity granted by Ian’s vampiric physiology means that he doesn’t even feel the need to fight back.  

“Of course, it’s not your fault your such a fuck-up,” Ian grins. “You spent so many years letting the women in your life clean up your fuck-ups and let them pat you on the head 'cause you can rattle off the square route of Pi.”  

Lip’s fist connects with his face. For a moment, Ian forgets that this was the plan, shocked that Lip could be driven to strike him. But he recovers and purses his lips into a sneer. Thanks to his supernatural biology, the burst capillaries in his cheek are healing even before he even registers the pain.  

“The fuck is wrong with you, Ian?” 

“Lip?”  

Liam. Shit. Ian had almost forgotten that there was a good chance that his baby brother would be around to see this. But Ian is far too deep into this to stop now. Why isn’t he upstairs learning how to hustle people at chess? Or in the music room. He’s been asking me to teach him how to play the fiddle since forever. I spotted one in there. Why haven’t I yet?  

“Hang back there, buddy,” Mickey insists, arm on Liam’s shoulder. 

“Course, your screwed up love life is only the tip of the iceberg,” jibes Ian, pushing past the momentary distraction. “You’re like a trainwreck of fucking boneheaded decisions posing as a person. Like, you threw your lot in with a bunch of weirdoes who couldn’t tell fiction from reality. Joined up with a bunch of idiot would be vampire hunters.” 

Another punch comes from the other direction. If Lip were capable of actually bruising Ian’s face, he would have a matched set. 

“Then you failed your way into a leadership role and what did you do? Robbed the family blind and kidnapped our brother.” 

“I didn’t kidnap—” 

“You kinda did, though.” Mandy interjects, her voice a concession. 

“Whose side are you even on?” 

She shrugs. 

“You ran off with a child you’re not legally responsible for, dumbass! And you stole the money we meant to set you all up for life, you selfish piece of shit!” 

The next punch hits Ian in the eye socket. He ought to be seeing stars by now if it weren’t for the fact that Lip may as well be punching a brick wall for all the . And if he hadn’t been trained such restraint by Mickey back when they first met, he might be fighting back. But Ian knows he has all the power, all the control. He needs to push Lip. He’s almost there. Ian can feel it.  

“And for what? Big vampire hunter Lip Gallagher giving speeches like he’s at a temperance rally.” 

The next punch has a bit more of a wallop to it. Just to  give Lip a sense of accomplishment, Ian makes a meal of knocking his head back. Maybe he could have a career doing stunts in silent pictures.  

“He’s got a point,” Mandy whispers to Mickey. “Not much of a vampire hunter when you get down to it.” 

Mickey’s lip curls but he tamps it down as Lip shoots daggers at the elder vampires. 

Focus on me, Lip.  

“Big man! Tough man! Nearly shat your pants when they creatures that go bump in the night showed up! Should've gone back home ages ago. We wouldn't need to be fitting the house with a doggy door if you had the sense of self-preservation god gave a fucking lemming!” 

“You gonna keep this up, Ian?” Lip hollers wetly. “What are you gonna do when I’m a werewolf and I can actually do some damage?” 

For the first time since their physical altercation began, Ian asserts himself. He clutches at Lip by his biceps, spinning around so now that it is the elder Gallagher who is up against the wall, Lip’s feet dangling half a foot off the ground.  

“I don’t know, Lip. What are you going to do?” 

“I... I... shit.” Ian has an arm around his brother as the shorter man’s head comes to rest on his shoulder. Lip breathes deep, trying to steel himself, but the sobs come. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.” 

Ian lets himself deflate even if just slightly. This was what he’s been waiting for. He slowly lowers the blonde man to the ground. “I could have stopped you at any time, Lip. I was in control the whole time. Because I had someone who showed me how to live like this back when I could barely be around mortals without tearing their throats out,” Ian’s voice cracks and he falters for a moment at the still painful memories of his earliest nights as a vampire. “Are you going to wait until you’ve got the blood of a baker’s dozen on your hands before you’ll swallow your fucking pride and ask for help?” 

Lip looks up at his brother, his eyes glistening wet and rimmed with red. “I don’t want to be a monster.” For all his clever snark and biting wit, it’s all Lip can muster.  

And Ian feels his heart bleed for the elder Gallagher. He pulls Lip into a tight a hug as he can without worry about crushing him. In just seven simple words, Ian understands. He’s been where Lip is. He has been lost in a world beyond the natural scope and he never asked for it. Any of it, not even the good parts, not even Mickey.  

At least he had the virtue of being taken by surprise. In the moment, he was lost and confused for so long. If it weren’t for very recently witnessing a skeleton move of its own accord after Ian flayed its owner alive with just the power of his voice, the days following his vampiric rebirth would still be the most horrific thing he has ever experienced.  

But Lip is in a different set of circumstances. Skin changers don’t gain the ability to shift form until after a full lunar month after they have been bitten. And the next full moon wasn’t for another three weeks after Lip hit that twenty-eight day milestone. That means for five weeks, what has been done to him must have felt abstract, theoretical. But now they are staring down two weeks until Lip’s first wolf moon. It’s starting to feel real.  

And as horrific as it was to wake up one night and discover he has been robbed of his humanity, Ian can only imagine how it feels to wake up every morning knowing he is one day closer to the last day he can truly call himself human.  

“Hey,” he whispers. Lip looks up again, his face is a mess. Ian pulls out a handkerchief. He always carries them around with him now. Lip takes it as Ian offers. As he wipes up his face and blows his nose, Ian can’t help but say, “We don’t want to get that nice suit Mandy gave you all messed up before you have a chance to wear it anywhere, right?”  

🧛 Mickey 🧛 

Ian and Mickey go out for their early evening drink after things the dust settles and the household returns to what passes for normal for the six of them. The village’s dance hall seem to be their most reliable source for a nip of blood early in the evening, whereas the benches in the park a couple blocks away from the pubs seem to be where to go for their later feeding.  

Typically, Ian is fond of finding guys that are decidedly type. Which basically means hunting down his own doppelgangers. Tall fair-skinned red-heads, preferably if they are just every so slightly on the beefy side and look like they are familiar with the Marquess of Queensbury rules. He knows it stokes Mickey’s fire to watch some ginger-on-ginger. Some nights watching  

Tonight, though, Ian is straightforward. Drink up and get going. He isn’t rushing or anything, but the usual joie de vivre of performing for Mickey’s benefit has been tabled for the time being. For once, Mickey can read the more muddy complex feeling flowing from Ian into his head. It is a sense of sadness that is turned in on itself and coiling around itself like a serpent coiling around its victim. Regret. And it comes with a hot itchy feeling that crawls up and down Ian’s spinal column and roots itself between his shoulder blades. It would be anger, except for a self-inflicted stinging sensation. Shame.  

Mickey sighs. He knew he might be kicking a hornet’s nest when he asked Ian to do this for him. But they are two weeks away from having an unruly werewolf on their hands and a stubborn jackass for a human counterpart. Mickey knew if there was anyone who was going to get through that fluffy-haired pain in the butt’s head, it would be Ian.  

“You good did work,” he praises tentatively once they’re back under the night air, his hand finding his way the cigarette case in his breast pocket. “Back at the house, I mean.” 

“Then why do I feel like shit?” 

“He’ll get over it, don’t worry.” Mickey feels a sudden nagging tickle causing a tightness in the chest. An ache. Does Ian want to be punished or something? “Your brother wasn’t listening to Enzo. To anyone. Someone had to get it through that thick skull of his that he’s not always the smartest person in the room.” Mickey takes a puff of the freshly lit cigarette. 

Ian lets out a strangled chuckle. “And with you around, it’s more like he never is.” 

“Yeah?” Mickey smiles, handing off the cigarette to Ian. “Well, don’t tell him that. I think one meltdown is enough for the night.” 

Ian doesn’t have much to say for about a block or so. But then he wonders, “I was too harsh, right?” 

“You did exactly what I asked you to do,” Mickey insists.  

“I feel like I broke him.” 

“Yeah. So you could build him back up again.”  

“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, huh?” 

Mickey bumps his shoulder against Ian and slips his arm around Ian’s waist. “You got through to him. Enzo actually stands a chance of getting him to fall in line now.” Mickey hesitates at the thought that pops into his head. “In fact, I think you and En should team up.” 

Ian blows a smoke ring. “Team up?” 

Mickey nods. “Look, the way I figure, Enzo’s been a shifter since before the Civil War. And me and Mands? We’ve been vampires for centuries. But this is all still pretty new for you. Not even a full year yet.” 

“Yeah, but I’ve come a long way, right?” Asks Ian defensively, handing the cigarette back to Mickey. “Things you said I shouldn’t be able to do for decades—” 

“Hey, hey! Ease up, lover.” Mickey pushes Ian up against a brick wall, bracketing the larger man between his thighs. “I’m not saying one iota against you or how far you’ve come. Frankly it’s astounding. But you’re still new to this. And so is he. Enzo can teach him how to accept his inner animal, but I think you can be his Sherpa through just… accepting that he’s not quite human. Show him that he’s more than the monsters he thinks he is.” 

Mickey puts out the cigarette at the outer border of their rental property. It’s still a brisk walk to the house, especially as they prefer to take their time instead of dash there at their full preternatural capacity. “Why would he listen to me after what I just pulled? I’ve never… I don’t talk to my brothers and sisters like that. I’m supposed to be… okay, I guess I’m not the one they turn to for advice, but I’m supposed to be the nice one.” 

Mickey can’t help but chuckle. “You’ll be fine.”  

“Why?”  

“Hey, listen. I got a millennium of studying human behavior. Whether I like it or not.” Mickey smiles, shrugging. “But you’re brothers. Hell, Mandy and me, we’ve said meaner things to each other just to see who’ll blink first.” 

Inside, the first floor is for once still as can be. The portraits in the parlor have been righted and you would never know there had been a fight a mere hour or two ago.  

The music flows through the house, filling every corner and crevice like water fills the nooks and crannies of even the most improbably shaped container. 

They find everyone gathered in the music room on the second floor. Mandy sits at an upright piano sight-reading some ragtime that they found sheet music for in the room. Meanwhile Lip joins in on the clarinet, reading the treble line over her shoulder, showing off a talent for transposing on the fly.  

Mickey sits down to enjoy the performance, thinking that Ian sit beside him and enjoy. But instead, Mickey is pleasantly surprised to see reach for one of the various other musical instruments that line the far wall of the room. A violin. Has Ian been holding out on me all this time?   

Ian must know the tune, because he barely has the instrument tucked under his chin before he is joining in, taking advantage of his recently mastered vampiric speed to tune her even as he fiddles along. Phillip must not have noticed them come in but his eyes widen at the sound of the sharp violin, turning round to see Ian joining them even as he adjusts the tuning pegs. For someone who was feebly trying to pummel Ian just a couple hours ago, you would never know it to see the way he grins through the horn pressed to his lips. And that contented expression is reflected back on Ian’s pale, freckled expression. Ian elbows his brother gently as they harmonize.  

Things are going to be alright, Mickey thinks to himself, tapping his foot to the rhythm as the bouncy Scott Joplin melody envelops them. Ian and his brothers are more resilient than they know.   

Chapter Text

🧛 Ian 🧛  

“I thought there’d be more fog,” admits Liam.  

“Is that so?” Grins Mandy wryly.  

“Yeah. I just pictured a lot of fog or mist. And frozen barges on the river.” 

Ian looks past Liam and Mandy. He knows if Mickey were here with them, he would be just as curious as he is whether his little brother is just extemporizing or whether he is rattling off something from a vision. 

Spamathir. That’s the word Mickey used to describe Liam once. And varyingly, Mickey has called him a prophet, a dream seer, a dream walker, wise man, guide, and a sayer of soothes. And maybe someday he will be all those things and more. For now, though, he is just a kid who has some eerily accurate dreams. Sometimes. Ian is pretty certain Liam won’t be living out some of  the dreams he wrote down two weeks ago where he rode a magic carpet with the Scarlet Pimpernel or had to explain to Dejah Thorus why he didn’t finish his Latin verbs.   

But if Mandy thinks there is anything off about Liam’s observation, she doesn’t say so. Instead, she tuts and taps at his shoulder with the handle of her parasol. “It’s still September, Liam. But maybe we’ll be here long enough to see the Thames freeze up the way… whatever Great Lake you’re from does.” 

“Michigan,” the young boy giggles. Mandy may be nine hundred years old and an East Coast sophisticate, but facts about the world west of the Ohio River Valley tend to elude her. 

They stroll at a brisk pace. There is still a while before the show but Mandy has persnickety policy of towards getting to the theater before the doors open. It’s just common courtesy, she insists. She continues on about theatre etiquette as they’ve never seen a  vaudeville before. But Liam and Ian yield to her input. It sounds like this is a classier event than anything they’re used to. Besides, these are her tickets, after all. Ian supposes that makes her the designated Mickey of the evening.  

“So, why did you ask me along?” Ian asks as they navigate the city cobbles. “I figured you’ve been getting pretty cozy with Lip lately. Or maybe ask Mickey.” 

“Ian Gallagher,” she begins, bringing herself to a complete stop for emphasis. “Have you somehow got it into your head that we aren’t friends or something?” 

Ian suddenly feels just as much on trial as he did when Uli orchestrated her little “informal hearing.”  

“What? No. It’s just… Mickey’s your kin. And you and and Lip have been… close… for a while now.  

“You know we’re both adults, right?” She asks. 

“Yeah. But he isn’t,” Ian nudges to where Liam is strolling ahead of them. 

“I know what sex is,” asserts Liam calmly. Then he turns back, looking like the cat who got the cream. “And I know all of you guys are doing it.” 

Mandy resumes walking, her heels clacking on the cobble stones as she catches up to Liam. “Okay, I know Mickey and your brother are way too loud—” 

“I’ll say, can’t you gag him or something?” He asks of Ian.  

That actually sounds like it has some potential. There are quite a few compromising positions Ian has wanted to put Mickey in now that they have more privacy than they have had in some time. And the mental image of Mickey tied to the headboard and unable to scream just tickles the primordial lizard area of his brain. However, he isn’t about to say so to his preteen brother. 

“What ever happened to respecting your elders?” Wonders Mandy. 

“He’s not my elder, he’s my brother.”  

Mandy lets out a loud burst of laughter. “Okay, I give Mickey a hard enough time that I really can’t fault that logic. Anyway,” she turns practically on a swivel to face Ian again, “Just because your brother and I have gotten close doesn’t mean I don’t genuinely enjoy your company. And besides, Lip needs to focus on learning how to not chase his tail or whatever. And Mick? Well, I didn’t even tell him what we’re seeing. The whole being getting sold into slavery thing.” 

In the distance, Ian faintly hears the dull roar of crowds pouring into the theaters. They are fast approaching Covent Garden. But another voice contrasts, almost like it’s the one instrument in the ensemble playing a different melody altogether. 

“But you invited my black little brother?” 

“Is the actor black?” Asks Liam. Every time Ian thinks Liam isn’t listening, the youngest Gallagher proves he shouldn’t be underestimated.  

“Probably not,” shrugs Mandy. 

“Then, it’s fine by me. Besides, I read the book. He isn’t exactly out picking cotton in a field,” snickers Liam. “I’m just here for a revenge story and a chariot race.” 

“Well, that settles that.” 

“Sir, a moment of your time,” asks a small man with a light olive complexion and curly hair whom they are fast approaching. Surprisingly, Ian picks up on the man’s American accent as they draw nearer, his tenor voice pointed demanding to be heard. He sounded like a native Brit at a distance. There is something about him that cannot help but catch Ian's eye. However, the well-heeled gentleman he is addressing doesn’t even slow his gait. But the curly-haired man takes it in stride.  

Two more people blow him off as though he isn’t even there before the three of them are close enough to get a better look at him. As soon as he’s within arm’s reach, the man is trying to shove a trifold pamphlet into Ian’s face. “Sir, do you have a moment to talk about the living conditions of the poor and destitute of our city?”  

Ian doesn’t think he has ever seen brown eyes that sparkle like this man’s before. It makes it hard for him to look away once they have made eye contact. He’s handsome in a boyish way, but there is something off-putting about him, like he shouldn’t be here. It’s unsettling, like it takes his enhanced vampiric eyesight a moment to adjust as the figure before him oscillates until his vision settles. 

He smiles back awkwardly though, not wanting to be rude. “Yeah, I grew up practically living on the streets,” he admits, not knowing why.  

“That’s just great, handsome. Not that growing up in that kind of life is great, but it’s… you have no idea how many people have just walked by me like I’m not even here.” 

Ian shrugs. “People like to pretend the poverty doesn’t exist if they can ignore it.” 

“Lord, isn’t that the truth.” It is so odd, but the young social crusader still retains a strangely Cheshire Cat grin even as they commiserate. “So. Would you and your wife be interested in attending a charity event?  

“Oh, she’s not my wife. Mand—” Ian catches himself and remembers their assumed identities. “Er, Adelaide is my—” 

“Future sister-in-law,” Mandy says pointedly, putting herself between Ian and the stranger. Her Slavic accent coming out. Ian doesn’t think he’s ever heard her speak in her natural speaking voice before. “And he isn’t making any social agreements without consulting his fiancé first. 

Sister-in-law? Ian can’t help but smile to himself.     

“Well, the fundraiser isn’t for another two weeks. You still have plenty of time to talk with her .” The intention is clear, probing emphasis on the pronoun. Ian has played this game many times when he would spend time looking to quell the loneliness back home in Chicago before he was turned. 

“We’re trying to raise funds to build a new home for homeless youth who have been kicked out of their homes.”  

It strikes Ian where he lives. Ian has known poverty and homelessness in his time. Until he was three, his whole family lived in a one-room shack. And his family has been evicted in recent years with Fiona powerless to prevent it despite her best efforts. He takes the mimeographed pamphlet from the stranger’s hands, he feels goose flesh run up to his elbow when their fingers graze one another. It makes him shiver. Why does this man feel so unnatural?  

But he barely has time to take in the most basic of particulars before Mandy is snatching it out of his hands, folding it up and stuffing it quickly into her small handbag. “Well, we have the particulars.” She answers in Ian’s stead. Still speaking with notes of her native Ukrainian, her words are clipped and pointedly so. “We will give it all due consideration, Mister…?” 

“Trevor.” 

“Trevor. A pleasure. Come along, Curtis. Liam. We don’t want to miss opening curtain.” 

By the time they are distant enough to speak without the stranger overhearing them, Ian turns around and sees that Trevor has disappeared. He doesn’t understand what Mandy’s problem is, but the peculiar man clearly must have picked up on whatever Mandy was trying to lay down to have run off without a trace like that.  

“What was your problem back there?” He asks in a hushed whisper as they join the queue outside the Drury Lane Playhouse, taking advantage of Liam being closer to the end of the line, taking in the sights of the play’s large poster illustration. 

“You seriously have to ask?” She asks, her voice back to its typical American vowels. “God, it’s like Caleb all over again. You don’t know if other men are flirting with you until they’re trying to crawl into your bed, do you?” 

Ian shrugs. For whatever reason, despite everything else wrong in his genetic inheritance, the universe saw fit to give him a pleasing shape. He is used to people just batting their eyes at him with designs in mind for him whether he likes it or not. He’s come to ignore it, like it is just something in the background of all his interactions he needs to learn to look past.  

“You really didn’t like Caleb from the jump, did you?”  

“He has a pattern. Vampires tend to be casual in their affection, but what he does… he lived to be worshipped. Vampire or mortal, it really didn’t matter to him.” There is a strain to Mandy’s voice. “He would demand devotion from his lovers, act like it was some profound romance like what you and Mickey share. But that was just the thrill of the chase for him. He’d get bored, dally with others.” 

“So a total Don Juan type?” 

She nods. “But he never owned up to his infidelities. He’d make his lovers think it was all in their heads or it was their own fault that he was faithless. I had this one friend, a mortal, who fell victim to his charms. And, well…” 

“What happened?” 

“Chaz, he…Look, the only thing more fragile than the human heart is the human mind. Ian, if you ever take up with a mortal, make sure you’re in it for the long haul.” 

“I have Mickey.” 

“Eternity is a very long time, Irish.” 

“Well? Come on, Mands. Don’t leave me in suspense.” 

“What do you think happens to a mortal who goes around getting sloshed and telling everyone they got their heart broken by a vampire?” 

“I’d take him for the town drunk?” 

Mandy rolls her eyes disdainfully, the left side of her mouth curling in on itself. Ian’s mouth goes dry. She must have cared about this mortal. Ian isn’t used to seeing the business end of her withering glances. 

“Okay, now picture accidentally admitting to pederasty and telling people you’ve seen a vampire. He ended up institutionalized.”  

An icy shiver runs down Ian’s spine like someone is dancing on his grave. Before, it just an anecdote. A story. An instance of salacious vampire gossip. Now it feels real and viscerally so. He’s been locked up in a small sunless room. He’s been told that his mind is diseased. He remembers braving the horrors of the madhouse time and again every time he had to come back to be subjected to all manner of palliative torments for weeks in search of the right alchemy of medicines to quell his fevered mind. He remembers the looks of pity when his family had to tell him what he was seeing wasn’t real. 

And Ian knows his way around a medical text book, he has read what psych wards could do in an effort to “fix” men of his proclivities. 

Mandy continues. “Subjected to shock therapy and pumped full of so much morphine and mercury... Chaz was hardly Chaz by the time they were done with him. That’s the sort of damage we’re capable of without even trying, Ian.”  

The girl at the box office reminds Ian of Trevor, but he can’t quite reason why. It’s a sense of unreality that Ian still can’t quite verbalize and it makes his forearms break out in goose flesh. He squints his eyes as his mind tries to make sense of the world. It reminds him so much of the night he woke up a vampire and his senses were on fire and everything felt both too real and yet illusory.  

Ian starts to wonder if he has just been so cloistered among vampires and werewolves for so long that humans are starting to feel less like people to him? Is this how you end up becoming someone like Uli or Wulfric? By seeing them as things as other people? 

He experiences the same sensation when they meet the young man tearing tickets at the door. Then the older woman at the cloak room. And again with the usher who escorts them upstairs to their private box. 

If this is how vampires see mortals, how do Mickey and Mandy weave their way through society such ease? How do they engage with humans when they feel like smoke and mirrors. 

He glances over at Mandy, adjusting the layers of dress in her seat for optimal comfort. She doesn’t even look fazed. Ian doesn’t know how this can be his day-to-day. Not for an eternity. It might be too long. 

Chapter Text

🧛 Mickey 🧛  

Mickey concludes that Liam must have some wild imagination as he flips through the past couple weeks’ worth of his dream journal, careful not to get any cigarette ash on clean, cream-colored pages. Sometimes, he writes in depth. Sometimes, he just writes a paragraph of an image he saw. Even as little as a line or two, which Mickey isn’t exactly a big fan of. The last thing anyone wants is a cryptic seer. Down that path leads to  killing your father and marrying your mother and stabbing your eyes out. Not on Mickey’s watch.   

But then, Liam is still young and imaginative. Children dream more wildly and chaotically than their elders, full of dragons, and unicorns, and tea time with the Queen of Hearts. Flights of fancy. If children ever got a glimpse of what unicorns looked like before they were wiped out, they would turn their knickerbockers a shade of brown.  

Liam’s dreams tend to skew a little older than fairy tails. Still, the kid certainly has an imagination on him.  He doesn’t expect Liam to be having drinks at the table with Blackbeard any time soon. Also, what the hell is a Dejah Thorus? Liam is still far too young to know the difference between flights of fantasy and a seer’s visions. And unfortunately, none of them are equipped to teach him. So they all take turns perusing his dream journals so they will at least have some semblance of guideposts they can look for.  

He enjoying the night air as he flips past a passage about riddles and judges when his attention is pulled from his reading by the sound of Phillip hollering. He looks up and sees Enzo prodding at the elder Gallagher sibling. Literally poking at him with a gnarled walking stick he has fashioned out of a thin hickory branch.   

Phillip already looks less than thrilled, standing barefoot in the grass, in trousers, shirt and vest, looking like he’s fallen in the dirt a few times since today’s instruction began.. The two of them have been at it since this afternoon and Mickey can tell that Phillip is spent.   

Though, Mickey can’t help but feel like pushing the pain in the ass can only be a net positive. Phillip Ronin Gallagher is far too prideful of his intelligence, which in all fairness, is a trait that the two of them share. But Phillip confuses acumen and achievement. And he doesn’t understand how the two of them differ—how Mickey has earned his seat at the table but he hasn’t. Not yet.  

Mickey's thumbprint is pressed against the wax seal of human progress whether the history books remember his name or not. Whereas, Phillip thinks a bit too highly of himself when all he really has done in his young life is prove that he tests well in school. And the more Enzo tries to get him to accept the beast within, the more he clings to that mental image of himself as child genius. Mickey can't say he blames Phillip, but still. He only has twelve nights to get over this and tame the beast within.  

Since his confession the other night, the future werewolf has only doubled down on this idealized vision of himself as a man of pure science and reason. Not that he’s all that reasonable. He’s pretty impulsive for someone who prides himself on his intellect.. He doesn’t want to see himself as sharing real estate with an animal. Mickey remembers the old days. Wulfric’s treatment, like he had made a mistake in turning him, had him feeling like his transformation into a vampire made him less of a man than he was before. That change, that inescapable redefinition of what you are can feel insurmountable.      

“Fucking hell, man!” Phillip shouts. “Are you trying to piss me off?”  

“Yes, literally that’s the point of this exercise,” Enzo insists as he stabs at Phillip’s bare shin. “Temper training.”  

“Well you sure are making me lose my temper,” snarls Phillip, sliding to the side to avoid a jab to his side. He tries to grab Enzo’s stick, but the wily older Italian is too quick for him.   

“The goal here is for you to keep your temper." Enzo insists. “Being able to control your impulses as a man makes it that much easier to tamp down the wolf instead of letting the wolf drag you along.”  

“I have my impulses under control!” Phillip lunges forward grabbing the wooden switch and attempting to wrest it from Enzo’s grip.   

“You committed grand larceny and kidnapped a child in a fit of pique, Gallagher.”   

Phillips stares Mickey down, seemingly debating whether or not he’s the enemy. “There is a lot more nuance to that and you know it.   

Enzo snaps his fingers in Lip’s face, drawing his attention very intentionally. “Come on, cucciolo. Keep focused. I know you’re tired, but you’ve got to maintain control at all times. Master yourself before you master the beast. Mi capisci?”  

“What the fuck ever, Enzo,” mutters Phillip, his cheeks flushed and eyes beady with rage and frustration.  

"Remember, Gallagher, you still got your hands on the reins even when the wild animal inside you is pulling the sleigh; it'll be hard your first couple lunar cycles. The wolf is going to want to run wild, but you can tame him."  

“Composure, Phillip.”  

“I’m plenty composed!” bellows Phillip in a tone that is anything but.   

Enzo opens his mouth to speak when suddenly he stops himself and seems to consider. “You know, perhaps we are overdue for a break.”   

“You think?” asks Phillip, wiping at his mouth with the back of his forearm. He staggers over to the steps of the verandah, sitting shakily down on the third ornate step. “Working me like a slavedriver.”  

“No, he isn’t,” replies Mickey authoritatively.   

“You’ll thank me when you aren’t getting chased down by angry mobs with torches and pitchforks,” Enzo offers reassuringly.  

“When do you teach me to do that trick you guys pulled the night we met?”  

“What you mean the pure skin crawling?” Asks Enzo. And for the first time since the night of Wulfric’s vault, he illustrates the Skin Changers’ ability to temporarily reshape their human skin like molder’s clay. Phillip flinches in surprise as Enzo assumes a form almost comical in how ghastly it appears. Bat-like ears and snout with a exaggerated overbite. He gains an extra foot of height and his arm length doubles, fingers turning into a raptor’s talons. He laughs as his skin bubbles like there is something crawling under the surface. He lets his form slowly put itself back to his natural shape.   

“Skin crawling is a bit beyond your skill level.”  

“I’m a quick study.”  

“You hear this, Mr. Milkovich?” Asks Enzo. “Yesterday, he don’t even wanna learn and now he’s getting antsy  ‘cause I won’t teach him fast enough. I can’t win with this guy!”  

Enzo strides up the verandah steps.  

“Where are you going?”  

“I think I saw some vermouth in the wine cellar.”  

Lip cranes his head, eyes following as Enzo disappears into the house. Then he turns to Mickey. “Vermouth? Who is he kidding? I’ve seriously seen him drink out of an unmarked jug that smells like floor cleaner.”  

“That’s moonshine.”  

“Oh. Ha-ha. Moonshine. Were-creatures. Very funny, Milkovich.”  

“No, literally. That’s what he was drinking. But I guess he developed a taste for the more expensive shit on The Lusitania .”  

“Can you put in a word for me? The guy listens to you, right?”  

Mickey stands, eying Phillip like a child he just caught stealing from his mother’s pocketbook. “Don’t pull that shit, man. He’s your teacher. Not me. Don’t ask me to undermine him.”  

“I’m not asking you to—”  

“Yeah. You are. That is literally what you’re doing. He’s been at this for decades, Phillip.  He knows what he’s doing. And I know you’ve gotten through the first twenty-odd years of your life being the smartest man in any subject you tackled, but guess what? Right now, you’re painfully average. And you’re wasting everybody’s time by acting like you can skip to the end of the textbook when you won’t even learn the basics. Werewolves don’t do it like vampires. I’m probably still going to be teaching your brother new things eighty years from now. You’ve got two, maybe three months with Enzo before you’re on your own. And you aren’t using your time effectively. So stop wasting everybody’s time, swallow your goddamn pride and follow along in the fucking syllabus!”  

“Fucking don’t talk to me like I’m a child!”  

Mickey tries not to laugh, but the demand just feels preposterous. “I’m 1,046 years old, Phillip. And before I was a vampire, I spent half my mortal life enslaved. You’re twenty-three and don’t have a single callus on your hand. Pardon me if by my standards you kind of are a kid.”  

Mickey heads toward the door. Then he stops. “Do you know what one of the first things Ian told me about you was?” He answers his own question. “Lip is the smartest person I know. If only he’d get out of his own way.”  

And with that, Phillip Gallagher is left to sulk.  

🧛 Ian 🧛    

“Maybe it was someone I ate,” think Ian as they step out of the Drury Lane and the world makes a bit more sense. One of the men he fed from earlier this evening must have been on something a lot stronger than weed for Ian to seriously convince himself that mortals suddenly seemed both less real and vividly real all at once. All over the theater, his mind was playing tricks on him and even the boy they met outside the theater seemed illusory and made Ian’s skin shiver. 

But as they walk through the night air, everything seems to settle. The people around him feel a warm and vibrant and present as they ever did.   

He strolls with cavalier relief, his hands in pockets enjoying the crisp autumn night air as he catching up with Mandy and Liam— who seem to be rubbernecking an explosively loud argument between a flower girl and a middle-aged college professor dressed like he is impersonating Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm a good girl, I am! I 'ave a righ' 'o be sellin' me flowers as long as I stay off 'he kerb!"

The flower girl is shrill, whatever accent she is speaking in is halfway unintelligible and seems to have worked herself into a frenzy. Whatever the older man said to set her off, he either is disinterested or he’s having fun instigating her because he just keeps needling her without even looking up from the notepad he is scribbling away in.  

“Da bastard needs 'o learn 'o mind 'is Jack Jones business! i 'ave a righ' 'o wawk jus' as much as anybody else!”  

“What’s all this about?” Asks Ian as he slips into the crowd between his companions.  

“It’s fascinating,” murmurs Mandy just low enough for Ian to hear. “This dialect just did not exist the last time I was on this side of the Atlantic.”