Family

Please Note- This fic has been rated Mature for a reason! It contains graphic sexual references/conversations, 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 will defend it with my hordes of vampire minions!

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Vlad (formerly known as Keith) was trolling for dinner in Hackney. It was a place that he would never have dared to go to while he was alive. Particularly not at four in the morning. But, he mused a little triumphantly, there was nothing for him to fear now.

Now he was to be feared.

Dawn was not far off and hunger rang in his head, a painful bell that got louder with every stroke. It was like standing with his ear pressed against Big Ben. He knew this because he had actually done that once.

Since he became a vampire he had to take his fun where he could find it.

Contrary to popular belief he had found being undead to be really, really boring. Other than feeding, which took all of ten minutes, it was mainly waiting for sunset and hanging around in alleyways. There wasn't anything else to do. Nothing but to exist forever. It reminded him of double maths on Monday mornings.

These reflections put Vlad into a terrible mood. He had become much grumpier since dying. He resolved to be less cautious and headed into the heart of Hackney. He needed cheering up and a victim that he had to fight for, had to make an effort for, would do nicely. He liked it when they tried to defend themselves, tried to cling onto their sad little lives. He liked to watch as the swagger and the confidence left their eyes.

The streets were almost deserted, even the teenagers had gone home to bed and were now, no doubt, all tucked up in their fetid, adolescent, lust soaked sheets. Vlad strolled along flexing his fingers in frustrated hunger and, then, he saw him.

He didn't belong in a street like this. His shoes were expensive, his eyes were too bright, too trusting. He was leaning against a closed pub door, swaying gently as he tried to make a phone call on his state of the art mobile. A nearby street lamp picked out his shining dark hair.

All Vlad's good intentions vanished. Sod the difficult kill, sod the streetwise victim, it all flew away in the face of this lucky find. This man was stunning. True, he was also paralytic and so would Vlad be afterwards, but no matter. In fact, Vlad thought, as his teeth extended thereby digging into his lower lip, alcohol induced oblivion might be nice for once.

Lately he had been plagued by memories from another life, his other life. He remembered Keith, who had been an apprentice plumber. He remembered Keith's mother and how proud she had been when he got his NVQ. He remembered lots of things and they felt dirty, like a long ago mistake that filled his soul with a cringing self disgust.

Yes, it would be good to get pissed.

The target was continuing to try and make a phone call, perhaps for a taxi, but his uncoordinated fingers couldn't work the little keys. Also he was holding the phone upside down. And giggling.

Vlad crept silently nearer and then he noticed something odd. On the pale neck in front of him were several white scars. Some were old, some more recent. They crisscrossed and caressed against each other, defined by puncture points. It almost looked as though someone had been feeding on him.

But that was impossible, Vlad told himself, no vampire got halfway through a meal and then just stopped and let the victim live! Those couldn't be vampire bites because here the man still was, very much alive and smelling of red wine. The scent of his skin made Vlad's mouth water. He stepped forward to within clutching distance of his prey. His heart was trying to squeeze its way out of his chest, his whole body an orgy of wanting and fantasy. His dead muscles tensed in readiness.

Then a hand tapped him politely on the shoulder. He turned to see an ordinary looking vampire with short dark hair who smiled at him.

"Piss off," Vlad told him, silently, mentally, "I don't share."

"Me neither," the other vampire smiled.

And then Vlad died.

Again.




I sighed a little as body parts slid down my neck. It had been another long night.

I watched as David shook a piece of intestinal tubing off his shoe. I had told him not to wear designer loafers while slaying. But I think he would die, literally curl up and expire, if denied his nice shoes. It's the only thing about him that is really, well, gay.

That and being my boyfriend, obviously.

"Shall we call in on Tom before we go home?" I asked. David nodded, he looked rather green. I couldn't even smell the vampire bits anymore but David was new and still went a little shaky when he got a face full of pieces. Yet he insisted on coming out with me, night after night, and I had given up on trying to stop him. No matter what I did or said he still joined me. In rain and shine, winter and summer. Whatever I killed David stood right beside me, utterly steadfast, undeniable.

And I loved him for it.

We sloshed and slithered our way through the streets. It was a bloody long walk back to King's Cross but, while the night bus can be very understanding, they would have balked at two men dripping with suspicious juices and shedding bits of lung.

Consequently I really hoped that Tom was on tonight.

David's hand slid into mine making me jump a little. I smiled to myself. We walked on in silence, our bloodied fingers slippery together.

Sometimes I am so happy that I stop what I'm doing and just stare at him, lost in admiration. I find that I space out for awhile as though I am a pubescent suffering his first agonising crush. It can be embarrassing. It happened once in the supermarket while he was staring into a freezer and wondering if we wanted potato wedges. I lurched to a halt, still holding a packet of peas, and started grinning stupidly, wondering how I had got so lucky. People with erratic trolleys started to back up behind me and I was only called back to my brain when an old lady kicked me in the shin.

I glanced at him as we passed under a street lamp, admiring him surreptitiously as I often do, but my stomach churned sickly at what I saw. The light fell on his scarred neck, mercilessly emphasising every wound, every bite mark. The familiar surge of guilt made me look away.

It was my fault. I was the one that had covered him in those marks. Not just once but three times now and only two of those had been with his consent. The latest scars had been at his demanding but the oldest, whitest ones, they had been forced on him. He had barely survived them.

He had ordered me months ago to stop remembering that first time. He called it my martyrdom complex. He had waved his hands as though casting a spell and said, "There, done. You didn't kill me, here I am, so get over it, Crowley." But I couldn't.

Now he gave it willingly and he kept me alive. I in return had left him looking like a dog had been at his throat.

When we arrived at the 24 hour garage Tom was indeed at work. He sat behind thick glass reading Jane Eyre (David says that he wonders about Tom sometimes) and when we knocked on the glass he took one look at our disgusting selves and immediately turned the key for the car wash.

I hoped to God that Tom had remembered to omit the wax this time. It wasn�t an experience that I was keen to repeat.

David and I stood in the middle between the moving runners and watched the brushes move up and down. The carwash had been David's idea. It certainly meant we smelled nicer when we got home. Tom was happy to oblige. He was one of The Rescued from one of my first ever nights. We had bumped into him a few months after I got back to England. He had taken one look at us and asked since when I had a sidekick.

Since then David had loved to call himself my sidekick. I was dreading the day that he demanded a cape of some kind. It had also led to a series of torturous jokes. Once, in that sickening silence after a vampire had exploded, David had exclaimed,

"Holy splattered vampires, Crowley!"

Oh, the shame. I think I even love his horrible jokes.

We both yelped as the cold water came down, drenching us from head to foot and then continuing its burst at us from all directions. David clung to me and I looked into his blue eyes and thought of how I got to wake up with him every morning. I remembered what it had been like when that wasn't so. I kissed him and he put soggy arms around me. His mouth was warm and it made me skin thrill when his lips parted for my tongue. He tasted of the cheap soap that was now coming down amongst the water. For the briefest instant I thought about moving my mouth downwards and biting deep into his throat, letting the heat of each heartbeat into my mouth.

But then he tangled his fingers in my hair and the thought receded.

We waited until the jets of water turned to drying air that buffeted us around. David's hair stood up in crazy tufts and I laughed and tried unsuccessfully to smooth it down with my fingers.

We waved at Tom as we left. He gave us a thumbs up and went back to Jane Eyre and his crisps.

"You know," David mused as we covered the last of the distance to King's cross and early commuters went past us in packed buses on their way to work just as we were coming back from it, "You were wrong when you said that The Rescued are an ungrateful shower of bastards. Tom's pretty grateful."

"And then there is you," I grinned, nudging him significantly. He caught my eye and calmly smacked me hard on the arse, scandalising a woman who was walking by.

"I think I have made it up to you." he said.

My heart froze abruptly. "Yes," I said, thinking of his ravaged neck.

He looked at me and tutted, "I meant with all the sex," he explained slowly, as though to someone very dense. I blushed. He was thoughtful for a moment as we walked around a flock of diseased London pigeons. " If sex in return for having one's life saved was standard practice how much more fun the world would be." he observed.

"Except that all the doctors and firemen would be too exhausted to work," I pointed out.

"That's true," he conceded as we arrived at our block of flats. He smiled at me as I searched for my key. I don't think that he has once remembered his since I moved in. "And I don't think that I like the thought of The Rescued all trying to get into your pants. I would have to work my way up to being quite jealous."

I snorted. The door swung open and we were just about to head in when a voice from the street said, "David!"

David stopped, his face suddenly white, all smiles gone. He winced a little as he turned around to greet the man who stood on the pavement staring up at us. The stranger was about sixty with a hard, square face and bright blue eyes. David just looked at him for a moment.

The man walked up the path towards us. Almost imperceptibly David pressed his back defensively into the door frame. The man nodded to him.

"Who is this then?" he demanded. He clearly meant me. I resisted the urge to ask who the hell he was.

"This is Crowley." David said quietly, his eyes on the ground, looking very small somehow, "He's my...friend."

I tried to catch David's eye. He continued to stare at the ground, possibly so that he wouldn't have to see my expression.

"Crowley," he added, his voice toneless, "This is my father."