The Rescued

Please Note- This fic has been rated Mature for a reason! It contains violence and loads of swearing and generally grown up situations. Please adhere to the age of consent for your country. I take no responsibility for those who don't.

I own the copyright on these stories and characters and am prepared to defend it with the aid of my horde of vampire minions!

However I do NOT own the trademarks and titles mentioned (Buffy the Vampire Slayer for example).

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Now and then I find myself watching 'Buffy, The Vampire Slayer,' just so that I can marvel at how very wrong they got it. It's masochistic of me I know, and every time Buffy whinges about how difficult her life is I want to throw things at her. Still I'm fascinated, compelled, swallowed up by the appalling contrast.

In the Buffy universe the slayer is surrounded by loyal, loving (not to mention photogenic) family and friends. I am alone. I have to be. What sort of idiot would endanger friends by leading vengeful creatures to their very doors? For every vampire I kill, three get away from me. They would howl with unholy glee if there were vulnerable loved ones in my life that they could hunt down, torture, suck dry.

Sometimes I feel like going to one of those non-denominational support groups in church halls that smell of coffee and standing there amongst the hopeless, the earnest, the biscuits and saying, "Hi, my name is Crowley and I kill vampires." It would be worth it just to see the expressions on their faces. But unfortunately the men in white coats would be there within the hour. That's how a lot of us end up. We get so lonely, so grindingly, desperately lonely, that we just crack and tell someone. And somehow it's always the wrong person. After all, how would you convince them? Where would you start?

"Did you know, I mean were you aware, that our streets are teaming with monsters? It is my job to kill them. Well, I say job but it's not exactly listed in those plastic folders in the school career office. I have this 'occupation', this ability, because somewhere in my ancestry is a human that was partly initiated to vampirism but not fully. Perhaps the vampire was interrupted or just incompetent but that person then went through life not quite blood devotee, not quite human, not quite anything. Probably insane and certainly homicidal. Somewhere along the lines, before a doubtlessly early demise, this person bred and I am one of the results, mostly human, nearly human. I am immune to their glamour, their magic and on a good day I can even kill them.

"Why are you locking away the cutlery?

"Who are you phoning?"

So I will never make that mistake.

Anyway, to return to Buffy (may she rot), the other thing that winds me up beyond belief is her never ending, imaginative and invariably thrilling, sex life. Ha! Maybe that is possible in a world where vampires burst into nice, clean dust when they die but I would like to see her get achingly gorgeous men if she was regularly covered in globs of bloody flesh and strings of tendon and gut. Because, as was currently being demonstrated in an alleyway in Kings Cross at half past two in the morning, when you kill a vampire it explodes like a bag of rotting meat, all over you.

I forced the stake deeper into the creatures back and listened to it scream in that skin crawlingly way that they have. It writhed for a moment as though its insides were trying to squirm away from the point of the wood. Then it shattered outwards in wet thumps onto the paving stones and, sadly, me. The familiar stench swarmed into my nose but I have to admit that I am used to it now. I opened my eyes and felt a globule of body fat drip off my chin.

Sexy and heroic, eh?

On the ground in front of me was the vampire's intended victim. I had just saved him from a grisly fate but at that moment I probably looked more disgusting than any vampire ever had. The victim was crouched down with his arms over his head, trembling like a wind chime.

"It's alright," I told him, as I wiped blood out of my eyes, "It's gone now."

Any minute he was going to run off without even thanking me. They always did. He looked up and I caught my breath for a moment. He was so beautiful. He had the biggest and wickedest looking blue eyes; he looked like he must always be up to something. No wonder the vampire had wanted him, who wouldn't? I soon realised that I was staring and I shook myself into my senses again.

"Was that, I mean I feel stupid even asking really, but was that a vampire?" he said, with admirable calmness. He was still shaking but he was dragging himself to his feet. I was impressed.

"I'm afraid so," I replied, "But don't worry. By tomorrow you will have convinced yourself that none of this happened, or at least not like this. Might I suggest that you cultivate a deep belief that someone slipped you drugs in your drink this evening? That interpretation works very well."

"No, I am fairly sure that this actually happened," he insisted. His voice was hollow but emphatic. I put my head to one side, causing a hunk of flesh to slither off it, and regarded him quizzically. He was not reacting in the time honoured fashion of The Rescued which consisted of shock, denial and repression. He was getting it all wrong.

He was even making eye contact with me, which never happens and consequently he was making me nervous.

What he said next floored me completely.

"Come back to my flat and have a shower. It's near here and it seems to be the least I can do."

"What?"

"Well, you are in a bit of a mess and it's my fault."

My jaw was hanging open. Normally The Rescued wanted nothing more than to be out of sight of me, as quickly as possible. This one was inviting me into his home!

"It's a power shower," he added, slightly stubbornly.

That swung it.

He led me through King's Cross for about half a mile. Fortunately there was no one much around at that time of night to see me dripping with body parts, no one sober anyway. He didn't say much but that was understandable. He seemed to be turning things over in his head. I felt strangely at ease with the silence. Normally everyone I meet is screaming so I like the quiet. He took me to a non descript Victorian house and conducted me up to the second floor.

As he unlocked the door I blurted, "Are you completely sure about this? I am going to drip on your carpet."

He flashed me a brief, dazzling smile. Suddenly my stomach hurt.

"You may well ruin the carpet but you did save my life tonight, so you are up on the evening."

I found myself smiling at him. I don't do it much and it made my jaw ache.

His flat was another surprise. I was expecting something executive, soulless, white, to go with his tailored, expensive suit but it was chaos. Every available surface sported open books, tubes of paint half squeezed, CD cases, magazines and the living room was plastered with wild paintings in every possible colour. They swirled dizzyingly, round and round. He took me to the bathroom and switched on the shower.

"Use anything you like," he said, "I'll throw out your clothes and you can have some of mine."

With that he left, for a stiff drink no doubt. One of my clan did a bit of research once into just how many of The Rescued end up as alcoholics. I peeled my clothes off. I dropped them wetly into his bathroom bin. He was right of course, the clothes were ruined. I had tried but nothing ever seemed to get the smell out. Besides some bodily juices eat into fibres. I find it thoroughly depressing sometimes that I know this kind of thing.

The only thing I go through more than clothes is soap. The power shower was bliss. It took half the time it usually did to get the crap out of my hair. I used lots of my host's shower gel, thinking rather crazily that now I would smell like him. When I was done I looked in the foggy mirror, at my short, brown hair, standing up in spikes, at my unusually long and pointed canines (an unlucky part of my genetic inheritance) and I sighed. I was twenty five but I looked thirty five. Mine is an ageing profession.

With a towel wrapped around my waist I opened the bathroom door and tentatively headed into the living room. Part of me expected to be bundled out into the street, sharpish. He would have started freaking out by now, surely. But instead he handed me a red dressing gown and a large glass of red wine. I noticed however that his hands were still shaking.

"I like your paintings", I said, in a clumsy attempt to distract him. I walked up to one of them. It looked like a star having a panic attack. I don't normally care for abstract art (due to it often being a pile of self referential, pretentious wank) but this was wonderful, full of passion rather than cynicism. He followed me and frowningly contemplated his work.

"I do them for fun really," he told me, "I have never been able to make a living from them."

"So, what do you make a living from?"

"I have learnt not to tell people that. They tend to blush, laugh and leave."

"I get vampire entrails on my head at least once a month. How can I mock anyone else's job?"

"Alright," he said, evenly, taking a sip of his wine and smiling, "I make gay porn movies."

I immediately snorted my wine through my nose.

"Are you laughing?" he asked me, his lips twitched a suppressed grin.

"No, I'm choking," I spluttered.

He banged me on the back until I could breathe. It was then that, after a long lifetimes practice in saying stupid things, that I said the stupidest one yet.

"It makes sense. You are the most gorgeous man I have ever seen."

Obviously what wine hadn't come out of my nose had gone straight to my tiny, tiny brain. His eyes widened and British embarrassment descended upon us.

"Uh...thank you," he said, "But I am behind the cameras, not in front of them."

'Kill me, kill me,' I begged the universe, blushing furiously. I stared sightlessly at the painting. There was a brief, very awkward silence.

"Are you hungry?" he asked me, eventually.

I couldn't help it, I had to ask.

"You know, rescued people are never this nice to me. They don't let me use their showers. They don't give me wine. They never even say thank you. Why are you doing this?"

"It never occurred to me not to," he shrugged, "I've got chicken. I could make sandwiches?"

"Alright," I said. I gave up. Who was I to object to chicken? I sat on his sofa while he clattered about in the kitchen. I flicked through his film magazines and tried to block out my humiliation at the 'gorgeous' incident. I might as well have written, "I'm gay, by the way," on my moron forehead. I still couldn't believe that he made porn for a living. He looked like the kind of man who should be doing esoteric studies in a university somewhere, conducting absent minded tutorials with his glasses pushed up on his head.

Before long he brought me my sandwiches. I wolfed them down. He sat next to me and put his feet on the coffee table amongst the dirty coffee mugs and TV remotes.

"I suppose there is no point asking what you do," he said.

I fidgeted a bit as I put down my empty plate. I was trying to keep a respectable distance between us. I didn't want him to think that I regarded him as owing me...something.

"It's genetic," I said and I took him, as gently as possible, through the basics of my crappy existence. He listened carefully with no signs of impending insanity and I tried to make it all sound normal, well, sort of normal. I really didn't want him to see me as the freak that I am. Silence fell when I stopped speaking. I wondered what he would say. He would probably ask me if I had met Dracula.

"That sounds like a really lonely life." He observed.

Suddenly I couldn't meet his eyes and I finished my wine so that I would have an excuse to look away. I felt a strong need to change the subject.

"Why porn?" I asked him.

"I have a knack for turning people on," he grinned, wickedly, "I would like to emphasise that it's classy stuff, plots and everything."

I grinned back at him, filled with admiration at how he was surviving the evening, "Why aren't you a gibbering wreck?" I wondered, "The Rescued are usually under their beds crying by now."

He looked thoughtful, "I was terrified, I am terrified, but I didn't die so I am feeling pretty good. As for discovering the literal existence of vampires, the weirdness of the world is self evident and besides, with you out there too, to save us all, I feel OK about it. Kind of. Anyway, it's humans that you have to watch out for, in my experience. They are the monsters that freak me out."

Abruptly my brain felt like it was being massaged by strong hands. I recognised the sensation. Having vampire blood in me gives me certain skills, certain advantages. I wouldn't call myself psychic but I get flashes, glimpses. I got some now of strange shadows and hard hands and dark memories. Tinged with horror I glanced at him, no wonder he wasn't afraid much of vampires.

"More wine?" he suggested, and after seeing what I had just seen, I had to say yes.

We quietly got a bit bladdered. We talked about books, films and the ridiculous popular representation of vampires. He had boxes of Buffy DVDs but I decided to forgive him.

"None of your creatures are like Spike then?" he sighed, with an air of amused disappointment.

"Sadly, no." I grinned. I felt lazy and warm with wine. I felt happy. My eyes were heavy. By now it was five in the morning and I was dreading my journey back to Stoke Newington. The idea of having to stand up and move around was horrifying. This time he seemed to read my mind.

"I have a spare room," he slurred a little, tremulous with alcohol, "If you want to sleep."

"Really?" I marvelled at his trust in a total stranger.

"Why not? I haven't got anything to do tomorrow. I'll take you to buy some clothes."

"Thank you..." I couldn't believe this man.

When we stood up we both swayed a little. How is it that you are never drunk until you try to stand up? We clung to each other to stay upright. His touch on my arm sent little sparks through my skin. I immediately regretted my decision to stay.

The guest bedroom had a double bed which was just as well as I tend to sleep like a starfish when I am drunk. I turned in the doorway and looked at him. His eyes were slightly unfocussed but that just seemed to make him prettier. Not for the first time I wanted Buffy's version of my life to be true. I wanted him.

"Are you going to be alright?" I asked him, trying to be a professional for once, "There is such a thing as delayed shock, you know. It's a fucker."

He shook his head which turned him a little green.

"No," he said, "I think I am doing OK."

And then he reached out a hand and ran a finger over my lower lip. I jumped, like a nervous teenager at his first nightclub. This was not happening, not happening, not

He kissed me. His lips were warm and tasted of red wine. He sighed contentedly into my mouth and I couldn't help kissing him back. He made me burn and I wanted to throw him against a wall. I wanted and wanted. But even as his lips caught at mine I knew that I was taking advantage of a drunken and, above all, a grateful man. He was overwhelmed at what I had done for him and he knew that I was attracted to him (I hadn't been exactly subtle, had I) and he wanted to do something for me. It was perfect drunk logic. But I didn't want him like that.

I pushed him carefully away and mumbled, "It's OK, you don't have to do that."

"I want to," he insisted. His lips were red from kissing. I fought back an urge to believe him.

"Now, maybe but you'll feel differently when you are sober. This is just because I saved your life."

"You say that like it's such an insignificant thing!" he laughed.

I shrugged. I had stopped feeling like a hero years ago, around about the time that my mother died.

"Get some sleep," he told me.

My heart sank a little; it hadn't taken much to deter him had it. I turned into the room but he stopped me in my tracks with the words,

"I want you and I usually get what I want."

I felt like he had just hit me with a chair. I turned back and met his determined eyes.

"I'm not an option," I tried to explain through the alarm bells in my head.

"We'll see." He replied.

Later, I lay in bed, chewing my nails and trying to make sense of it all. What would Buffy do?