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The Undead Riser Reformation Act of 1913 is the only reason Holden Ford is able to walk through the front doors of Quantico. The act, voted into existence with a liberal greasing of pockets by some particularly wealthy vampires, has been amended more than any other act. It now allows risers the right to work for a living, the right to have access to a fair amount of blood each month and the right to be free of persecution regardless of their living status.
Vampires, or risers, have been around since the first fish crawled out of the seas. Vampire fish, perhaps, but nevertheless. The majority of Homo sapiens stay dead when they die. A small number, a fraction of a fraction of a single percent, do not stay dead.
They rise.
Holden Ford uncomfortably discovered he was a riser in 1846 when he stuttered back into awareness six feet deep in the ground. He had passed from a terrible case of pneumonia and been buried with many tears from his mother and a sour expression from his father.
He was then met with many tears from his mother and an even further soured expression from his father upon his rising. He’d stumbled into the foyer, confused and weary from digging his way out, and had been promptly greeted with the business end of a shotgun. It had all gone quite pear-shaped from there and the encounter ended in the unfortunate demise of their newest scullery maid, Alise.
And Holden had been banished to the attic.
He went willingly. He fed on animal blood, didn’t leave the house and became increasingly bored as time went on. Eventually, mother and father died (and did not rise) and Holden allowed himself to leave the house again.
Always at night and always in secret. He continued to feed on animals, terrified of taking another human’s life. Life continued like this until a group of influential vampires known as the League set The Undead Riser Reformation Act (or the URRA) into motion and Holden rejoined society.
Every vampire is required to pledge fealty to the League and bear a loyalty bite. Holden’s is on his throat, under his jaw, where the world can see it. Upon receiving the loyalty bite, the vampire in question receives a blood allowance and the right to those of a living status human.
The reformation was not a simple process. Fear breeds anger and anger breeds public stakings. And public pyres. Holden was quite lucky to be in the progressive state of New York. And luckier still to be in Brooklyn, the only place where people are more mad when you steal their cab than suck their blood.
Holden completed college after a few decades of slumming around Brooklyn and was accepted as the fifth riser FBI trainee in 1961. He was granted a classroom and a fridge of type-O blood and then in 1978 he was transferred to the Behavioral Science Unit. He was allowed to explore more controversial psychological topics and to join Bill on his road school. They stumbled into researching serial killers and Holden is quite pleased with his life.
Bill doesn’t seem to see Holden as ‘just a riser’. Bill finds Holden intelligent and worthy of his time. Bill offers him a beer every time he drinks one and is never upset when Holden declines. Bill holds Holden’s umbrella over his head when he’s carrying the tape recorder equipment. Bill slugs Holden in the arm when he makes jokes and quips with him and points at old ladies when they’re walking and asks if that was Holden’s girlfriend.
Bill is the closest thing Holden’s had to a friend in over a hundred years. Holden cherishes that and does his best not to be a creep.
But, risers don’t need to breathe. Or blink. Or move, really. Holden often does to be polite, but when he’s very engaged in a case or an interview it does fall off his radar.
Holden is often a creep around Bill.
“Can you—can you take that in the bathroom? You’re getting it on the ground,” Bill chastises, waving his cigarette at the few blood droplets Holden’s spilled onto the carpet.
“I don’t want to eat in the bathroom,” Holden says, scuffing his foot over the drops. “Would you eat in the bathroom?”
“If I was eating…bodily fluids I would,” Bill argues and Holden rolls his eyes.
Eating always gives him a little extra pizzazz. The blood sings through him and he feels the closest he can to warmth. The blood allowance risers receive is enough to keep them from dying but nowhere near how much they would like to consume. Holden, who had been weaned on animal blood, is used to feeling constantly weakened. He likens it to anemia.
“I’m enjoying my meal at the table. It’s not like you look anymore dignified when you eat those burgers in bed,” Holden says and fits his fangs back into the blood bag.
It’s glory in a mouthful, warmed by a bath of boiling water and thick with proteins. This donor was healthy and strong. Holden feels his eyes tingle and his vision sharpen. He knows his eyes are completely black at this point and he keeps his gaze down on the table.
“Of course I get the only smartass riser in the Bureau,” Bill grumbles and he turns the volume back up on the television.
Holden is lost in his meal and only hums.
***
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Bill says. They’re leaning against their rental car and Bill is working his way through a chili dog. Holden is under an umbrella with his blood in a green thermos. They get looks, they always do, but Holden sips on. “How come that guy can walk around without an umbrella?”
Bill is talking about a vampire across the sunny parking lot. A classic vampire, he’s dressed in a leather jacket and cuffed jeans. He’s pale, they all are, and the purple bruises under his eyes and sharp teeth betray his living status. He’s got his arms around a woman in a green minidress and when she tosses her mane of red curls it reveals a cluster of bruised bites. Bill chokes on his dog and Holden reaches over to scoot his beer closer.
“I think you figured it out,” Holden says wryly and Bill squints at him over his Modelo.
“If you drink from a body you’re healthier?”
“Not exactly. It’s the amount. The more we consume, the stronger we are. My allowance is a bare minimum situation. He’s obviously feeding more often. So, he can walk in the sun,” Holden says.
“It would be useful if you could walk around without that thing,” Bill says, gesturing to the umbrella. He falls quiet again and then clears his throat. “So, he bites her. Have you ever bitten anyone?”
“Yes,” Holden says and Alise’s blood-matted blonde curls tumble through his mind. “Once.”
“And you could walk in the sun?”
“No,” Holden says and he closes his eyes. “Maybe. I didn’t try.”
“Is it a sex thing?” Bill asks and it’s Holden’s turn to choke. Blood splatters out of his mouth on to his hand and Bill shoves a napkin at him. “That seems like a yes.”
“It’s not—I don’t—,” Holden starts and stops. He finishes wiping his mouth. Bill’s laughing at him from behind his chili dog and it breaks the nervous tension. “Our fangs produce an—I suppose you’d call it an aphrodisiac.”
“Like powdered tiger bone,” Bill offers and Holden makes a face.
“No,” he says. “Because that is a scam. When we bite, we want our source to be pliant. Arousal keeps the blood flowing and the mind simple.”
“It’s a chemical thing?”
“It’s certainly not magic,” Holden says and Bill snorts.
“I don’t think you’re magical , Holden,” Bill says and Holden allows himself a tiny smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
They eat in quiet for awhile and then Bill clears his throat.
“You’re stronger than me now? Right? Even with the bare minimum?”
“I’m very strong,” Holden agrees. “I haven’t tested my limits in awhile, but I could easily lift you. Probably the car if I’ve recently eaten.”
“The car,” Bill says quietly. He meets Holden’s eyes, face plainly worried in a way it’s not usually. “So Kemper is small potatoes to you?”
“Kemper?” Holden asks, thrown. “I could lift Kemper, yes.”
“You let him touch you last time,” Bill says after a beat. His gaze is somewhere beyond Holden’s left ear. “On your bite.”
“I think Kemper enjoys the concept of having power over me,” Holden says, trying to catch up to plot of the conversation. “If touching me garners us fresh information then he can touch my neck.”
“Could he kill you?”
“You’re being rather macabre,” Holden says. Bill meets his gaze then and Holden inhales slowly. “Any of you could kill me. You know of the riots that occurred when the URRA was invoked.”
“I know but--that was mobs of people. I mean just Kemper. Could he put you down?”
“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” Holden says and caps his blood thermos. “He would need a stake or fire. Neither are on hand in a prison.”
“Alright,” Bill says and he holds Holden’s gaze. “Just—be careful. He gives me the fucking heebeejeebies.”
“Is that a clinical term, Agent Tench?” Holden teases and Bill snorts.
***
The majority of Bill’s team are risers. Holden isn’t sure if Bill draws them to him or if the Bureau knows Bill can handle being a room with them.
People are still uncomfortable around risers. Hostile at times, nervous at others. Holden always takes his lunch in their basement office, previously he would drive his car a few miles away to eat. The other agents were very cruel when he made the mistake of eating where someone could see him.
But Bill simply treats them with the same aloof disdain he has for vegetarians when he walks in on any of them eating in the basement.
“Smell this,” he says and waves a burger under Holden’s nose. “This is food. I couldn’t stand it if I could never eat a burger again.”
“We can eat burgers,” Wendy said, pronouncing burger the same way one would say excrement. “We don’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You can eat dirt or paper,” she says. “You don’t.”
“Why would I?”
“Why would we? We get nothing from it. Our taste buds aren’t functional. We can smell it, certainly. But the only interesting part of the scent is the cooked blood,” Wendy says and then she sniffs again. “Someone with B-positive blood cut themselves making your meal. I believe the blood is on your tomatoes. That’s interesting as well.”
“Ah, hell,” Bill says and drops his burger in the trash. He pulls his fries out of the bag and peers at them suspiciously. “Are these clean?”
Holden sniffs carefully, looking for the familiar smell and finds none. On the fries or otherwise. He meets Wendy’s eyes and she gifts him a smile of camaraderie.
She’s the epitome of a riser in the classical grace of her motions and the sense of an ancient otherness.
Wendy is one of the older risers Holden considers himself close to. She died in the 1400’s in Ireland and refuses to extrapolate beyond that. She’s the most interesting person Holden knows.
He is perhaps a little in love with her. But he’s a little in love with Bill as well.
He is not in love with Gregg.
Gregg is a new, terrible vampire. He still forgets he will burn in the sun. He hasn’t resigned himself to the taste of bagged blood and complains often. He broke a desk last week trying to mop up a spilled blood bag.
He’s a headache.
The other agents tease Bill, Holden hears them. They ask how it is down in the batcave and they refer to their team as ‘Tench and the Ghoulies’. Bill laughs when they do.
Holden understands the need to fit in with the living status people. He understands.
He’s glad the agents still joke with Bill.
***
They’re outside Tulsa, sitting by another pool. It’s close enough to sundown that the meager sunshine merely grazes Holden and he revels in the warmth. He’s got his suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up and he’s reclined in a chaise lounge beside Bill.
“You know,” Bill says out of the blue. He’s got a beer hanging from his fingers. “I knew a riser before you.”
“You did?” Holden asks, turning to look at Bill.
Bill takes a drink and glances over at him before looking back at the pool. The water laps lazily at the concrete edges of the pool before them and Bill inhales softly before he speaks.
“We served together. Name was Brock. Brock Hilliard. He died overseas. I heard he rose once he was back on American soil,” Bill says and Holden feels a little trill of excitement.
“I know Brock,” he says and sits up to face Bill. “He’s in Brooklyn. I was one of his guides after he rose. It’s part of the agreement—We help new risers in our area transition. I had no idea you knew each other.”
“No shit,” Bill says softly. He puts a hand over his wallet in his front pants pocket. “It’s a small world.”
“I haven’t seen him in a few decades, but he adjusted just fine,” Holden says. “Do you want his telephone number?”
“His—No. No,” Bill says and he sits up. “Last time he saw me he was choking on his own blood in a mud pit. I don’t—I don’t want his number. He doesn’t want to hear from me.”
“I’m sure he would be happy to see you, Bill,” Holden says carefully. He swings his legs over towards Bill and leans toward him. “Quite a few of his division members visited him after.”
“They did?” Bill asks. He pauses and rubs a hand over his own face. “He’s still twenty-seven. I’m—I’m an old man now.”
“Firstly, you are not an old man. Secondly, he won’t care what you look like. I think he’ll just be happy to see a familiar face,” Holden says and Bill doesn’t say anything.
“You’ll set it up?” He asks finally.
“Sure, Bill,” Holden says. “I’ll set it up. No problem.”
***
Brock Hilliard is still in Brooklyn. He’s got a studio apartment and a roommate named Lorenzo and he drops the phone when Holden says Bill’s name.
They stop by the next time road school leads them nearby. Brock buzzes them up and he and Bill hug for a long moment. It’s the most emotional display Bill has ever taken part in around Holden.
Brock is a tall, broad man. Six foot something and solid like an ox. He makes Bill look almost small. It’s strange. They pull apart finally and Brock leads Bill to the living room with a hand on his back.
Lorenzo carries in two coffee cups and offers one to Bill who takes it gratefully.
“It’s so strange,” Bill says, eyes never leaving Brock. “You look just the same.”
“I’m not sure if it’s a bonus or a negative,” Brock says with a laugh. “At least I didn’t look like Fitz.”
“You’d be carded everywhere you went,” Bill laughs. “Forever.”
“Forever,” Brock choruses. He’s quiet for a moment and Lorenzo pats his knee. Lorenzo’s sleeve pulls up enough that Holden spots a bite mark on his wrist.
“The bonus might be that we do get to see so many people we wouldn’t if we stayed dead,” Holden says. “I have met two sets of grandchildren. My cousin’s line. And the inventions are a plus. And film. Film is a wonderful thing.”
“Seeing people again has been a wonderful side effect,” Brock says and he grins at Bill. “Actually, seeing Bill again is quite poetic. He was my last living memory.”
“I didn’t realize that,” Holden says. Last living memories are a deeply personal and private thing. It’s very special to hear another vampires last living memory. Lorenzo puts a palm against Brock’s back and Brock exhales slowly.
“It’s wonderful you are reunited,” Lorenzo says.
“Bill was my best friend over there. When it happened—when I was dying. All I could hear were mortars. So loud they shook your rib bones. And leaning over me—holding me—Bill was wiping mud off my eyes, telling me over and over again that I was going home after this. I was going home,” Brock says. His voice is stuttering and distant, the story pulled out of him in messy jerks. Holden can smell the salt prickling in Bill’s eyes.
“You never could do anything right the first time. I guess that goes for dying too,” Bill says with a thick voice. His humor cracks the tension and Brock reaches across to grab his forearm. Bill lays a hand over it and the naked affection on his face is so jarring and lovely that Holden wishes he hadn’t come along for the visit.
“You kept telling me I was going home,” Brock continues and Bill squeezes his fingers. “And I did. I got to see my mom again and my niece. I got another chance. I thought of you. Often.”
“I don’t think you ever left my mind,” Bill says. “I carry your—“
Bill cuts off, let’s go of Brock’s hand to pull his wallet from his pocket. He reveals a pearly, green guitar pick from the bill pocket.
“Jesus,” Brock says and he takes the pick. “I’d forgotten about this. I owe you a song.”
“In boot camp,” Bill explains to the room, the bridge of his nose flushed with clear embarrassment. “Brock and I made a promise. Traded his pick for my old pigskin. After the war, he’d play me my favorite song and I’d take him to play.”
“Sounds like we have some debts to pay,” Brock says with a smile like the sun coming over a hill.
“I suppose we do.”
***
They’ve been driving for a few hours, heading back to the hotel. The street lights flicker through the cab of the car. Bill has been silent since they left Brock and Lorenzo’s home. Holden is lost in thoughts, rolling over the new information he’s gleaned from witnessing this encounter.
“You stopped breathing,” Bill says with an exhale of cigarette smoke.
“Sorry,” Holden says and he exhales fully. “I was thinking.”
Bill hums into his cigarette and Holden swivels in his seat to look at him. Bill casts a long-suffering glance at him and Holden gathers his thoughts.
“Alright. Out with it,” Bill sighs.
“My last living memory was of my mother,” Holden says and Bill stills. “I was very sick. Delirious with fever and she was--she was stroking my hair. She called me Holly when I was sick. My father hated that. He said it was a woman’s name, but mother always returned to it. I was laying there, sweating through the mattress and she was brushing my hair back from my head and calling me Holly.”
“How much--how much of the rising do you remember?”
“Most of it,” Holden says and he leans his back against the car door. “I panicked towards the end, but I remember waking up. All I could see was the silk roof of my coffin and I thought I had covered my face with a blanket, so I tried to pull it aside.”
“That’s terrible,” Bill says and Holden shrugs.
“When we rise initially, we are very strong,” Holden says. “I tried to pull the fabric away but I just shredded the wood. And all the dirt fell on me. I thought I had gone mad. Then I dug out.”
“Did you go home?”
“I went home,” Holden confirms. “Mother was happy to see me. Father wasn’t. And in the confusion he shot me. I went into a rage. I--”
“You don’t need to tell me this,” Bill says and Holden swallows against the lump in his throat. “Especially if it’s--illegal.”
“Yes,” Holden says and turns back to face the front window. “You’re right.”
“Thank you for that,” Bill says abruptly and he gestures behind them. “With Brock. I didn’t know what to expect. He looks good. Better than you. Maybe you need to switch blood types.”
“That’s one of those quantity versus quality situations,” Holden says. “He has a ready supply.”
“You can tell just from being around him?”
“Well, I saw the bite,” Holden says and Bill peers at him. “On Lorenzo’s wrist?”
“On Lor--,” Bill falls silent suddenly.
“It’s intimate, sure. But I can imagine a strong friendship would lend itself to that sort of arrangement. Lorenzo has been in Brock’s life for quite awhile now,” Holden continues. “Fifteen years or so.”
Bill jabs on the radio then, suddenly, and Queen blares into the quiet.
Holden starts, unsure what caused the sudden change. Bill’s staring out the front window with a blank expression on his face and Holden takes the cue to stay silent.
Bill slams the hotel door shut and marches firmly to the bathroom and it’s around then that Holden cottons on.
They are lovers.
Holden pulls his last blood bag from the cooler, wrinkling his nose when he realizes it’s gone bad. He carries it to an outside trash can and takes a seat at the desk in the room. Bill exits the bathroom fifteen minutes later and sets up on the bed, already smoking.
“I didn’t picture you as the type of man to be angry about that,” Holden says, unable to stop himself.
“What? Holden, shut up for once,” Bill snaps and Holden bristles.
“If dying taught me one thing, it’s that you have to find happiness when you can,” Holden continues, staring at the wall near Bill. “And we shouldn’t judge people—“
“I am not a bigot , Holden,” Bill says, exasperated.
“Well, what’s the problem then? Lorenzo obviously wants to be there,” Holden says and Bill exhales noisily through his nose.
“It's not about that,” Bill says gruffly. “He can—If he wants that it’s not—Christ.”
“Is it the—the biting?” Holden asks, shame burning his belly.
“No,” Bill says and he looks genuinely miserable. “It’s not the biting or the queer stuff. Just leave it.”
“Alright,” Holden says and he smoothes a hand over his tie. “I’m going for a walk.”
“A walk?” Bill asks, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed.
“I need to find a supplementary meal,” he says and Bill frowns.
“Why? What’s wrong with yours?”
“One of my bags was spoiled,” Holden says and he shrugs. “It’s not dignified, but I can hear a raccoon pack behind the motel.”
“Why can’t you pick up a bag at the hospital?”
“I’m not registered in New York State. It’s fine,” Holden says and he stands.
“Wait,” Bill says and he stands as well. “I can’t let you go eat a raccoon, Holden.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“Me,” Bill says, mouth snapping shut after he speaks.
“Bill, we just discussed how intimate—“
“Oh, don’t lecture me. I’m offering. You’re my partner. And I can’t let you eat vermin,” Bill says and Holden’s mind boggles.
“I haven’t fed from a person in over a hundred years,” Holden says and Bill blanches a little.
“I forget,” Bill says and takes a few steps closer. “You’re so youthful. But you’re twice my age. Almost three times.”
“Well, yes,” Holden says and meets Bill’s eyes.
“It’s easy to forget you aren’t really a wet-behind-the-ears kid,” Bill says and he leans over to stub his cigarette out. “Either way. I’m offering.”
“That’s very generous, Bill,” Holden says carefully. The idea of feeding from Bill is overwhelming. He can barely think. He can feel his eyes tingling and he looks down to hide their blackening.
“Where’s it easiest to feed from? You said Lorenzo had a mark on his arm?” Bill shrugs off his suit jacket and unbuttons the wrist, then rolls his sleeve up.
“Jesus, Bill,” Holden says and closes his eyes. Covers his elongated fangs with his hand. He’s on the verge of rushing Bill. It takes every inch of his willpower to stay across the room. “You don't understand what you’re getting into.”
“I doubt anything you can throw at me is more than I can handle,” Bill says wryly and he takes a seat on the bed. “Come on, Holden. I don’t want to sit here all night.”
“Are you sure?” Holden asks and he raises his eyes enough to see Bill’s face. He’s sure he looks disastrous with black eyes and wicked fangs. Bill inhales sharply when their eyes meet, but he stays put.
“I’m sure,” Bill says, talking to Holden like he’s a startled dog. He raises his wrist and Holden’s entire body zeroes in on the throbbing lub-lub of his pulse.
Holden’s legs jerk into motion, forcing his body across the hotel room to the bed. He sits beside Bill in a flurry, causing a jump in his heart rate. Holden takes Bill’s arm with a terrible reverence, mind empty of all except the blue-green frill on the underside of Bill’s wrist.
His eyes, more sharp now that his pupils have expanded to fill his eyes, take in every lacing of Bill’s veins. His hands shake as he lifts Bill’s arm up and he can hear the blood rushing in their tiny tunnels.
“May I?” He manages around razor fangs. He isn’t sure he could actually stop at this point but he wants to. On God, he would try to stop.
“Do it,” Bill grinds out, tense beneath Holden’s icy fingers.
Holden’s fangs slip, smooth and hot, into Bill’s wrist. It’s a scratch to an itch Holden hadn’t even felt. The air turns spicy with Bill’s immediate arousal and Holden groans against his wrist when Bill’s hand fists in his hair.
“Oh, fuck,” Bill whispers, gritty and dark like silt. He presses Holden more firmly against his wrist and Holden lets his tongue out to gloss along the wounds.
He’s lost in Bill, tripping and stumbling over the waves of blood in his mouth, and he’s fed for a long moment before his head clears enough to pull back.
He pulls against Bill’s hand in his hair, careful not to be too rough. Bill’s mouth is open, panting and slick, and Holden fights every urge to bite his lips. It’s an impossibly charged moment and Holden forces himself to let go of Bill’s arm and back away.
“Come back over here,” Bill says, mindless, and Holden shakes his head.
He can’t form thoughts. Bill grinds a hand down between his legs and Holden’s back hits the bathroom door. He fumbles for the doorknob and locks himself in.
He turns to the mirror, he always does, for comfort. And the mirror is always empty. His suit floats, empty, and blood drips from the air where his mouth would be. He swipes a hand over his mouth and the blood smears to show the curve of his chin and the back of his hand.
He closes his eyes.
Slowly, the flood of blood in his body settles into all the cracks and he feels calmer. He can smell Bill’s bitter shame out in the room and he sighs.
How does he come back from this? Bill is going to quit or fire him or just sock him in the face. It’s a terrible dread, made worse by how good he had felt just a few moments ago.
He steels himself, watches his shoulder straighten in the mirror. He washes the blood of his mouth and chin and hands and opens the bathroom door.
“Am I supposed to be bleeding still?” Bill asks, a little woozy, and Holden rushes to his side.
Bills got the blanket pressed to his wounds and it’s steadily being stained red. Holden pulls the blanket aside and activates the healing enzyme he can make. He laps over the wounds, spreading the enzyme liberally and Bill’s puncture wounds seal over in seconds.
“I forgot to heal you,” Holden says, still holding Bill’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
“S’fine. That was more than either of us expected,” Bill says gruffly, not looking anywhere near the vicinity of Holden.
“Yes,” Holden says. He can’t help but watch Bill. His senses are achingly heightened, every one of them centered on Bill. His eyelashes. The nicotine scenting from his breath. The freckles of blue among his irises. His heart, beating steadily under his ribs. Holden feels his fangs drag over his bottom lip and he pulls back.
“Are you—Did you get enough?”
“Yes,” Holden says again and he stands. Bill is a little paler than normal, but Holden can tell he isn’t missing too much blood.
“You still look like the boogeyman,” Bill says, gesturing towards his own eyes and teeth. “Your eyes are all black and the—the fangs.”
“I’m sorry,” Holden apologizes again. “You were very...good.”
“I was good,” Bill parrots. He has a peculiar look on his face. “As in, my taste?”
“Your taste,” Holden confirms.
The room falls into awkward silence. Bill stands as well and Holden backs up into the bed to get out of his way. Bill begins to say something, sighs and then walks into the bathroom.
The shower starts again and Holden lets himself press his face into his hands.
***
They are fine the next day, surprisingly. Bill only has four little scabs and Holden sticks his hand out the window to feel the sunshine for the first time in one hundred and thirty five years.
He feels euphoric. He can’t help the smile that spills across his face.
Bill plays the radio loud and they both hum along, together physically but in separate worlds. Holden is enjoying the heightening of his senses. He can see the individual petals on the foxglove flowers they drive passed. He can hear the birds across the alfalfa fields and the lowing of cows in the barn.
It’s very much the happiest he’s been in a long time.
***
And it keeps happening. Bill keeps offering.
“Holden, we could golf,” Bill says on their next California venture. They’re in a gas station. “When’s the last time you golfed?”
“I have never golfed,” Holden says and leans over to pick up a funny little bobble head. “It wasn’t in fashion when I was living.”
“Never g—Holden. It’s essential to our partnership that you golf at some point in your life,” Bill says and he’s gesturing at Holden with a can of Pringles. “It’s essential that we golf this weekend.”
“Bill—,” Holden starts. He falters. Of course he wants to feed from Bill, but this seems like a paltry excuse. “Alright.”
And then in Kansas, there’s a county fair.
And in Nevada, it’s too hot to carry around an umbrella.
And it just keeps happening.
Holden’s on his knees this time, feet and calves together like he’s praying. He’s cradling Bill’s arm in his hands, carefully tracing the drips of blood with his tongue.
They ignore the hardness in Bill’s pants, an unspoken accord, and the way Bill’s fingers tangle in Holden’s hair.
They ignore the hard breathing and slick sounds of Holden’s mouth.
It works.
***
“You look flushed,” Wendy says to him after she corners him in the basement. “Did you have lunch without us?”
“Have a new girlfriend?” Gregg asks. “Maybe I should say ghoulfriend.”
“That hardly makes sense,” Holden replies to Gregg. “I’d be the ghoulfriend, if anything.”
Wendy removes herself from the conversation at this point. Bill enters the room at some point after that and Holden feels the situation getting away from him rapidly.
“Bill? Did you hurt yourself?” Wendy asks and Holden chances a look. Bill’s got his sleeves rolled up and thick white bandage around one wrist.
The silence is palpable.
“Yes,” Bill says finally. “I was retiling my shower. My hand slipped and I cut myself on a broken piece.”
“That’s one thing I don’t miss,” Gregg interjects and Holden could hug him. “I never hurt myself anymore. I think I could get hit by a car and be fine.”
“You could,” Wendy says. “Or a sailboat. Schooner or smaller.”
“That sounds like a story,” Bill says and he sits on the edge of a desk.
Wendy regales them with a daring adventure on the high seas and it carries them through lunch. The conversation never circles back to Holden and he feels like he’s escaped a trap.
At least, until Wendy sits on the edge of his desk.
“Our healing enzymes have a specific scent signature. Specific to the riser,” Wendy says and Holden freezes. “If one knows what to look for.”
“And I’m assuming one does,” Holden answers and she tilts her head in a small concession.
“Yes. One also knows how to keep a secret,” Wendy continues. “But there are quite a few risers in this department, Holden.”
“I know,” Holden says and she raises her eyebrows.
“It’s one thing to be a fanger,” Wendy says, using the ugly slang word for humans who let risers feed. “And it’s quite another to be a homosexual fanger.”
Holden is silent, eyes darting to Bill, and Wendy exhales softly.
“Thank you for the reminder,” Holden says, sincerely, and Wendy nods.
She leaves then, wordlessly and silently and Holden watches Bill point at something on Gregg’s desk. Holden is intimately tied to Bill now, to his blood thrumming in his veins and the pulse point on his neck and the scent of Marlboro’s on his fingertips.
He doesn’t want to stop.
***
“I don’t think I should feed from you again,” Holden blurts as soon as Bill shuts the car door.
Bill already looks annoyed so Holden starts the car and starts driving. It’s close to ten miles down the road when Bill speaks.
“If you want to go back to bagged blood—That’s your business,” Bill says, voice still. “It’s a little out of left field, is all.”
“I’m not certain the risk is worth the reward,” Holden says, gripping the steering wheel.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Bill says. “It’s a win-win. I get a golfing partner. You get blood. It’s a no-brainer.”
“Bill, if anyone found out—,” Holden starts and Bill scoffs.
“Nobody is going to find out,” Bill says and Holden sighs.
“Your wrist is a very visible area,” Holden says and Bill tugs on his sleeve. “It’s bound to happen.”
“So bite me somewhere else,” Bill says and Holden’s brain falters.
His mind traces his fangs over Bill’s throat, over his sternum, the flesh of his inner thigh. Imagines lush, ruby blood drizzled over Bill’s skin. Can nearly taste it.
“Holden? You’re all fangy.”
“Ah,” Holden says and pulls his teeth behind his lips. His vision is preternaturally sharpened and he assumes they’re inky black. “I’m sorry. You excited me.”
“Christ,” Bill says with a rueful laugh.
Holden can smell the blood rushing to fill the delicate capillaries of his cheeks. He wants to scrape his teeth over Bill’s face. He wants to spread Bill out on the hood of the car and bite every inch of his body. He wants to ruin every smooth—
“Holden!” Bill snaps and Holden jerks back into awareness. He’s speeding, pushing the little needle to its max. He eases back down to a safer speed and shivers a little at the hint of spicy arousal in the air.
“I’m very—I think that idea has merit,” Holden says as mildly as he can and Bill’s pulse ratchets up a notch. The scent of arousal sharpens as well and Holden fights the urge to growl. He’s embarrassing himself. He’s embarrassing Bill.
He’s being a creep.
“My neck then?” Bill asks. His steady voice belays none of the rushing in his veins. Nor the smell of his excitement.
“It’s possibly the only place that’s more visible,” Holden says, grasping for their normal banter like a drowning man with a raft. “Your leg.”
“My leg,” Bill repeats, voice casual. “My femoral artery.”
“Yes,” Holden says through wicked fangs. He keeps his eyes studiously ahead. He doesn’t bend the steering wheel. He is not a creep.
“I suppose that would make the most sense,” Bill agrees.
Holden does not look at him.
Bill doesn’t say anything further.
The drive to the airport is a quiet one. The conversation bounces to a more neutral one and they board the airplane together but mostly separate. Their new shared secrecy has placed a wall around them, between them.
It’s not a new wall.
In the office, since Holden began drinking Bill, they stand across the room when they might have once perched on the other’s desk. They lunch separately sometimes. Holden makes a point to untuck himself from Bill’s pocket. They no longer follow Wendy together through the halls like cheerful hounds, instead they have quiet meetings with her one-on-one.
Holden is wildly aware of his awareness of Bill. In his attempts to camouflage, perhaps he’s instead sent off a flare.
I have had my teeth—lips—spit—tongue on this man. Watch me watch him.
The fangs in Holden’s mouth press against his gums when Bill reaches across him to accept a whiskey form the stewardess. Bill’s veins pulse sluggishly, thickened with alcohol, and Holden fights the urge to drag his tongue over them.
He’s enraptured by Bill. By the steady majesty of his blood and the heat of his body. The concept of feeding from a major artery, the femoral artery, is dizzying. If he could, he’d be sweating.
Instead, he reads over the case file and offers commentary in their skyline summit.
***
It’s a week before it gets brought up again. Bill’s lounging in an undershirt and boxers and Holden’s eating his second meal of the week. He’s just drained his blood bag when Bill stubs out his cigarette and the stillness of the room breaks.
“Do you even need those? With my blood?”
“Yes,” Holden answers. He rinses the bag in the bathroom and folds it into the pastel green bathroom trash can. “Feeding from you certainly gives me a boost. But I would need to feed daily to stop being hungry.”
“They only give you two bags a week, Holden,” Bill says, swinging his legs off the bed and frowning at Holden. “What does that even do for you?”
“Keeps me--Well, not alive,” Holden starts and Bill scoffs. “You know what I mean.”
“Come here,” Bill says and Holden’s eyes dart down to his bare legs.
Bill’s pulse jumps with Holden’s eyes and Holden takes the initiative to cross the room and kneel before him. Bill’s elbows are pressed to his knees and he inhales sharply as Holden folds his hands neatly in his own lap. The carpet is a thin skin over the concrete foundation and Holden’s knees would be bruised were he alive. But he isn’t.
Bill spreads his legs, just a hair, and Holden leans in and takes the reigns. There is no need to jump over the precipice if you are pulled. Holden knows his hands are cold on Bill’s thighs and the responding goosebumps are a pleasing show of nerves. Holden’s pupils film over his cornea until his eyes are pitch-black, and his vision sharpens dramatically. There are minute divots on either side of Bill’s chin and Holden wishes he could touch them with his tongue. Bill’s pupils expand and he begins to smell of sex before Holden even pops his fangs.
The femoral artery, thick and luscious beneath Bill’s flesh. Holden leans in, eyes holding Bill’s and feels the pulse quicken beneath his hands. He exhales purposefully, enjoying the unspoken correspondence he’s receiving from Bill’s body. He can’t quite make himself be completely polite.
“May I?” He asks, licks his lips around his fangs.
“Just get on with it,” Bill grouses and Holden revels in the blush at the base of his throat.
Holden presses lips against his thigh, then curves his fangs into the soft and tender flesh. Bill exhales slow, as he does with his cigarettes, and Holden loses himself in the silky heat of blood. It’s different, down here, head bowed. His hands wrap around Bill’s thigh and the side of his skull brushes against Bill’s hardness when he turns to suck from a new angle. It’s heady, the most intimate dining imaginable.
He wishes Bill were laid out, hands above his head. But like this Bill can thread fingers through his hair and pull him more firmly against his thigh. The skin parts like warm butter when Holden resets his fangs and it leads to a renewed fervor in his feeding.
He’s sated quicker with the fresh feeding from the bag and he’s licking softly over the bite wounds in a matter of moments. The healing enzyme spreads easily enough and he allows himself a few too many proprietary laps over the swollen flesh.
“Holden,” Bill says gruffly.
Holden gazes up him, head swimming. He keeps his hold of Bill’s thigh and licks the trails of escaped blood from the corner of his mouth. Bill runs a thumb over Holden’s right fang and Holden fights the urge to nip it.
“You can feed from me tomorrow,” Bill says, eyes cloudy with lust. “And the next. If we’re traveling--”
“Tell me again when you’re not bite-drunk,” Holden says.
He presses one last, lingering smear of his tongue over Bill’s leg. Then, he stands and brushes the knees of his suit pants to clear any debris from the rug. Bill stands as well, reaches for him and Holden lets him press their bodies together, allows this infraction in their silent rules.
“You feel it too?” Bill asks, mouth sliding over Holden’s throat.
He’s still spun in the rush of hormones Holden’s bite gives. There must be a stronger effect when it’s administered in the larger vein. Bill presses a kiss then, a firm one that can’t be written off as a fumble or slip. Holden takes a careful hold of his upper arms and presses him back and down onto the bed.
“Bill,” Holden says, leaning over to hold Bill in place. Bill arches up against him and Holden gasps as his fangs distend again. He tries again. “Bill.”
“Holden, let’s stop dancing around it,” Bill says and he strains his neck to lick the curve of Holden’s jaw. His tongue is scorching. “Just come down here--Let me feel you. I know you want to feel me--”
“Taste you is more accurate,” Holden says.
He nearly shivers when Bill laves a wet tongue across the soft underneath of his chin. It’s sinful, the shoot of pleasure his mouth brings. Arousal, just nearly. Bitter, in that it couldn’t be felt in earnest. But sweet, to think of it all the same.
Bill stills beneath him.
“Are you alright?” Holden asks, standing upright and leaving Bill in place. Bill blinks, then his face hardens and he sits up.
“I’m fine,” Bill says and pinches the brim of his nose. “I made a fool of myself. But I’m fine.”
“I understand why,” Holden says softly. “It’s not--I don’t think you mean it.”
“I did mean--,” Bill starts and drops off before visibly steeling himself. “I did mean the more frequent feedings. If you need it, it’s yours.”
“Bill, your reaction--,” Holden says and Bill sighs over him.
“My reaction is not your concern,” he says. “Unless you’re uncomfortable--”
“No,” Holden interjects, showing his hand.
“No?”
“No.”
Bill is quiet for a long moment and then he lays back down. He reaches over and turns off his light and is silent until he falls asleep.
***
Bill doesn’t bring up the feeding until after they’ve finished working for the day and are safely tucked back into their hotel room. He showers, for longer than usual, and Holden amuses himself by listening to their neighbors argue about what brand of cigarettes is best.
Bill leaves the bathroom in a clean undershirt and boxers, pink from the warmth of the shower and smelling like cheap soap. Holden very carefully refrains from wrinkling his nose.
“It might be better if I stood,” Bill says suddenly. “It’ll take longer for the venom to reach my brain.”
“It might be,” Holden hedges.
He watches Bill cross to lean against the desk. Bill watches him back and Holden takes his cue to join him. He drops to his knees, back on their unforgiving floor and he holds Bill’s eyes as he pulls his leg forward and presses it at the knee to reveal the bruises left from last night’s meal.
Bill is breathing more steadily tonight but his heart is beating a staccato against his ribs. Holden preens, just a little, and wets his lips with a flick of his tongue.
“May I?” He asks, their familiar commencing phrase.
“You may,” Bill responds and his dark tone sets something dark and heated twisting in Holden’s gut.
Holden bites him and instead of tensing, Bill surrenders against him. His fingers find Holden’s hair, cracking through the glaze of gel, and pull him closer. It’s comforting at this point. The points of their connection-- Holden’s hands on his legs and teeth in his body and Bill’s fingers in his hair.
Surrender suits him. He adjusts his stance, opens just that little bit more. Holden holds the back of Bill’s thigh with one hand and traces the ridge of his hip with the other. Bill moves against his hand, rocking forward and back and curling forward just a little to truly embrace Holden’s head.
If Bill’s fevered writhing was enjoyable before, this yielding is mind-numbingly exhilarating. He bends against Holden like a buoy in the waves. Him, this steadfast brick of a man, opening and humming beneath Holden’s teeth. It’s too much.
Holden sheathes his fangs, licks over the wounds to spread the enzyme. Bill is wavering on his feet, tilting forward woozily, and Holden stands to support him. Guiding him to the bed is simple enough and Bill watches him with fuzzy focus.
“Holden,” he murmurs, reaching up towards him.
It takes every ounce of Holden’s will to stay standing. Bill blinks once and then he sighs.
Holden watches him fall asleep.