aware (peterick)

7

It's not often I imagine myself standing in my kitchen at nine o'clock in the evening savouring a steaming cup of coffee, readying myself for the busy night ahead. I'm not completely unfamiliar with the night shift, but although I've been sleeping deeply for the last twelve hours, my body seems to think otherwise, and is telling me to go back to bed. To be honest, I probably would, if it weren't for the vampire currently claiming it as his own.

The absence of an actual bed has caused that awful crick in my neck to come back again. Granted it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did last week, but when I'd been discharged from the hospital the doctors had informed me to avoid doing anything too strenuous for a few weeks, and that included sleeping on anything that wasn't a bed.

Grimacing, I strain my neck to one side, and then the other, until I feel that painful but satisfying pop. I sigh and lift my mug up to my lips.

"That looks sore."

My eyes pop open, and what little coffee passes my lips spills immediately out again, dribbling down my chin and wetting my shirt. I frown. It hadn't been clean on, anyway. Which reminds me, I still need that shower...

I place my mug on the counter and fuss as an excuse not to turn around and face the unheard-of voice. My initial thought is that it's a ghost. But I guess an undead bloodsucker is near enough the same thing. I turn around slowly and try not to look surprised. Not only can he talk, but he can walk, too. "Sorry?"

"That bite mark on your neck," Patrick says, his face dormant of expression. "It looks sore."

I blink, my fingers tugging awkwardly at the neckline of my shirt. "Yeah, it is. Sore."

"It's not mine."

"You can speak," I say, gawking.

"Of course I can, I'm not an idiot," he sneers. "I haven't slept well in a long time. I only needed a recharge." Delightful. I wonder if any of the other children we find turn into sassy little brats overnight. "A bite mark signifies possession," he continues, no longer snarling, though his fingertips twitch restlessly at hid sides. "But it's not mine."

"And you want it to be yours?" I enquire, the corner of my mouth quirking up, and the boy responds only by staring at me and swallowing. I drop my smirk. "Wait, are you... are you jealous? Of the psychopath that tried to eat me alive?"

Patrick's gaze flickers from my neck to my face. It's the first time he's looked me in the eye since he's been here, and it's that same longing gaze he'd held with mine while locked up in that dreadful white cell. It depicts both his vulnerability and his trust, but also something else, terrifyingly unnatural.

A sort of love. A lust.

My lips part slightly to intake a gulp of much needed oxygen. My heart isn't in the right place. It should be beside my head, clouded with the terror that this kid could quite literally eat me alive right now if he put his mind to it.

"Hey Patrick, I know I'm just a bag of blood to you, but I'd really appreciate it if you didn't stare at me like that. I know I may look delicious, but I'd rather not be drained dry anytime soon."

Patrick doesn't waver. Unlike the traumatized, confused creature I befriended yesterday, this boy standing in front of me knows exactly what kind of damage he is capable of inflicting. "I've never fed from a human before."

Hunger. Definitely hunger.

"Speaking of blood, yours arrived," I announce with as much enthusiasm as possible. I turn my attention to the basement door, motioning to the three cardboard boxes stacked neatly in front of it. "Better yet, it's human." I gage his reaction. His eye twitches, a half wink. Other than that, he's pretty limited. "Not to worry, though," I continue to fill the silence. "I'm sure the donors gave willingly."

Rubbing my hands together, I locate the cutlery drawer and pull it open, slipping out the small knife nestled inside it. I'll mentally scold myself later for showing Patrick where the all sharp, dangerous utensils are kept. I have a funny feeling I'm going to regret this later. All of this. Welcoming him into my home, bothering to go into work at all yesterday. Hell, accepting the fucking job offer in the first place.

"He starved me," Patrick mutters, seemingly uninterested in food, which should be at the top of his list of priorities right now. My own stomach drops as the mere thought of eating plummets to the second spot on that list. "He hit me when I didn't listen."

It doesn't take a genius to grasp that it's his captor he's talking about. This child is no different to any of the others we rehome. His abuse may not have left any scars, but that doesn't make it ok to tolerate.

It's not ok.

Quite probably the worst part about my job is asking victims of sexual abuse questions about their abusers, if and when they are involved in these types of cases. If the NSPCC are looking for suspects, they're going to need as much information as they can get in order to track them down and subdue them, thus preventing more children from falling victim to their sick, twisted fantasies.

"Do you remember his name?" I ask. I have to be extremely careful with this; memories of trauma, especially that of abuse – physical, emotional, even sexual – can permanently haunt a life. "What he looked like? Or where he might have gone?"

Remarkably, Patrick has no problem answering. "He's probably hundreds of miles away by now," he ponders. "He's the kind that doesn't like to stay in one place for too long. Clans never do. I think he was trying to build his own clan. But he couldn't teach me in time for his next migration, so he left me behind."

"Then it's likely there'll be more victims," I suggest wholeheartedly. "Abductions; families looking for lost children, a whole trail of them. Maybe some like you."

Patrick quirks an eyebrow. "You're probably right. But I doubt he's the only one out there doing what he's trying to do. Most new-borns are easily tamed. They won't end up like me. So why should we care?"

Good point. I have, after all, dedicated my life to looking after Patrick. I've signed the contract; I don't get to decide when this case closes, nor under what circumstance. It's kind of sad, actually. By the time Patrick is considered well enough to pursue his own life without my help, I'll be forced to evict him, and the VCA will step in to make sure we never cross paths ever again.

Deeming Patrick suitably well for eviction is really the only say I get in all this, since I haven't been given any sort of discharge date; I'm going to have to decide that for myself at some point. For now, thankfully there's no pressure on me to make that choice.

"I'm hungry," Patrick says, his tongue darting across his lips. He stares intently at the stacked boxes.

And at the knife in my hand.

"Right, blood..."

Swallowing the sick feeling at the back of my throat, I hunker down and slice open the first cardboard box, picking out one of the blood-filled bags, my stomach churning in disgust as I test its weight in my palm. I turn to face Patrick and hold it out to him, unsure. His quiet stillness is making me nervous. "I don't really know how this works, whether you prefer it hot or cold or whatever. Just try to pace yourself, I guess, we have to make it last."

"But if we run out," he murmurs, back to staring at my neck. "There's an easy solution standing right in front of me."

"We're not going to run out," I assure him breathlessly.

Patrick eyes me. "You know, I haven't eaten properly in weeks."

I grin smugly. "What happened to the frightened, misused boy I found in the apartment?"

He's going to be a right pain in my ass, isn't he? Nonetheless, I think it could add a layer of fun to my job. I quite like a bad boy... in the sense that we could get along. I should know, I am quite the bad boy myself.

As if he's heard my thoughts, Patrick pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and lowers his head, like he's trying to hide a devious smirk. "You give good cuddles," I hear him mutter under his breath.

"I- I mean," I stutter, my face heating up. "I've never really given cuddles, so I wouldn't know..." He mumbles again, something incoherent, to which I smile and ask, "What's that?"

"Blood," he whispers again. "I like it warm."