this is what they will call our life.
AAAAAH, I'M ACTUALLY POSTING THIS. So, um, I don't even know how this fic happened, you guys. One moment I was just talking about how if Archie was a vampire, he'd totally be Godric and that means that Cook would be Eric and then I was writing down words and-- yeah, I DON'T KNOW, OKAY. IT JUST HAPPENED. It's kind of a weird fic, I wrote most of the parts when I was really over-tired and that means that my synaesthesia was on overdrive and I think you can tell in the way it's written. It's weird. And um, not that great? Anyway, here it is.
a thread cut with a carving knife
cook/archie. ~4000 words. r for themes.
beta-ed by jehane18 and
faerie_vixen -- both of them infinitely more talented than i ♥
Stories-true stories, are not like the ones you are told as a child; the plot safely structured between the once upon a time and the happily ever after. Some remain caught, suspended in the ether, with no clear beginning and no real end.
They spin around the same point, the words wrapping around themselves, never progressing. Half-finished verses to songs that were never written; trapped in the imagination of a child.
They just are.
The warrior moves like water, all anger and determination, strength running like a river under his skin; a maelstrom out at sea.
He’s creating music; the constant beating of a drum, weaving itself around the battle ground as he moves without fear. Dancing. David can’t-he can’t think; his thoughts writhing in the air as they float away from him, curling (gold and green) around the warrior’s body as he stands tall amongst the wreckage.
(And so it begins.)
David does it later that night, covered in the comforting blanket of blood thick in the air, the dark blue of sleep settling over the troops.
He’s only done this a handful of times before (trapped and needing an escape, left with no other choice-never like this) but it comes as easily as breathing once did, as easy as dying was. All he has to do is reach deep inside, and stare into the warrior’s eyes (so close, so close) and draw him out. It’s like gripping smoke in a clenched fist.
The warrior’s skin is too hot; it almost burns him as he falls forward into David’s body, not even feigning a struggle, just tipping his head back and gasping as David’s teeth sink in. His blood tastes like destruction (earthquakes, fire, flood) and forever as it slip-slides down his throat. David’s never tasted anything quite like it; he wants to drink and never stop, draw it out so that it lasts for months. Keep him forever.
He curls his fingers into the back of the warrior’s skull, scraping his nails through the dried blood and sweat there, and clenches his eyes tight against the feeling of a tongue at the open vein in his neck.
David knows he could (should) break the bone in the palm of his hand; crush it, turn it into nothing more than a fine, white dust coating his fingers. He thinks about it; the warm wet blood running down his arms, into the crook of his elbow, falling to the ground at his feet. It would be so easy.
He cradles the warrior’s head like something precious and keeps his eyes closed.
"Your name," David says afterwards, whispers it against the warrior’s hairline, "I would very much like to know what it is."
He feels the warrior laugh, vibrations travelling through his chest. He thinks could have been laughter, "Cook."
He coughs and blood spills from his mouth. David catches it in his own (hot and sweet against his tongue, coating his fangs) and places one hand on Cook’s shoulder, holding him steady as he tries to struggle, the other stroking through his hair, "Shhhh, it’ll be over soon."
"Teach me."
Cook’s voice is smooth (sand-paper roughness hiding under the surface) as it trickles down David’s spine; icy and warm all at the same time. He shivers; lust and fear burning like wildfire through his veins.
A frightened boy with awkward elbows and too-blonde hair sticking to his scalp; his wide blue eyes cloudy with fear, mirroring the hunger in Cook’s own. David stands and watches from a few steps away, rooted to the spot, and nods once, nudging the boy towards Cook’s outstretched hand.
Cook pets the boy’s head in a way that would be affectionate if David couldn’t sense the hunger that was crashing in Cook’s veins, if he couldn’t see the predatory nature in everything he was doing. (And the cat will catch the mouse.) David doesn’t miss the way Cook’s eyes flash gold as he sinks his teeth into the boy’s neck, doesn’t miss the way the blood stains his lips as it spills down onto the boy’s clavicle. It pools in the dip where his collar bones meet. (David thinks about lakes of warm, red liquid, the way it would look with the moonlight shining down on it.)
The boy goes limp and doll-like, his eyes rolling backwards into his skull, held up only by the fingers twisted into his hair and the teeth in his neck.
Cook holds on to David’s hand the entire time. (Two chords in harmony.)
He wakes up with Cook’s mouth open against the hollow of his neck, his palm against the back of his thigh, holding him still.
"David," Cook’s voice rolls over him like a hymn; he feels the soft, sweeping notes on the surface of his skin, "David."
Cook licks a stripe across where David’s pulse used to be, slow, his hand moving to the small of his back. David makes a low noise from somewhere in his chest (the baseline to Cook’s soaring refrain, their roles reversed) and closes his eyes as fire flares in the pit of his stomach.
They watch as the village in front of them burns to the ground.
Their fingers knotted together, hard; knuckles pressed firmly against each other. It would hurt a human, the way that they’re grinding bone against bone through thin, fragile layers of cold (cold) skin. David flexes his wrist and grips harder, concentrating on anything but the shadows forming inside his mind. He clenches his jaw.
A raven flies overhead, the flames reflecting burnt orange against its jet black feathers.
"What were you like as a human?" Lightning flashes across the sky (bright yellow and white, burning), catching Cook’s hair and eyes. It looks magical, almost, like something out of a dream. He wants to just reach out and touch--
"I don’t know if I can remember."
David tugs a little on the end of Cook’s sleeve, just above the knuckles of his right hand, and the contact burns. "It was so long ago."
Cooks nods, moving to rest his hand in-between David’s shoulder blades, his palm (life line, love line) over David’s spine.
"Sometimes-sometimes I think I might remember some things," Cook doesn’t turn to look at him, just keeps staring outwards at the storm, the swirling greys and blacks, "My mother. Sometimes I remember her."
The rain feels warm against his skin. He catches it in the palm of his hands.
A song stutter-stops and the rhythm crumbles; a broken melody. (It spills out through the gaps in his fingers, it bleeds.)
David sings to the moon; old songs from long ago, lying discarded and blurred at the back of his memory. (There are so many things he can’t remember anymore, unable to hold onto the moments before the fall into spaces he can’t quite reach. They slip away.) His voice soars over the notes (golden, golden, golden) and he closes his eyes against the sound, soaking it in through his skin.
He can feel Cook; the familiar itch inside of his mouth, the insides of his elbows, the back of his neck. He can feel him everywhere, the way he always can. Cook’s nails are digging into the small of his back.
"David..." His name is whispered to him, Cook’s lips brushing his ear as they move around the word, drawing out the vowels. He shudders (tiny, tiny tremors starting at the edges of his mind, reaching into his fingertips) as Cook starts to sing along, pressing down harder with his nails.
The melody twists through the sky, drips dark red and gold, smudging the cold night air as it pours from their mouths effortlessly; stretching out and curling in on itself, a pattern too complex to track with human eyes.
He thinks it might be beautiful. (The moon sings back.)
Once upon a time-
Once upon a time, there was boy; a boy with thick, dark hair that fell into his eyes, a heart of gold, and a quick, open smile. A boy whose mind always ran too fast, who spoke quietly, tripping over his words just to keep up. He had a voice that slid over the waves of sound that filled the air and bathed them in golden light (only, he couldn’t see it yet).
That boy, so new to the world, dragged aside in the wicked moonlight where no one was there to hear his muffled cries; heart beating fast inside his ribcage, trapped inside like a frightened humming bird as sharp, too-white teeth tore at the soft, vulnerable skin of his neck. No one heard the gasps from deep in his throat as he was made to drink; hot, sticky liquid, like metal in his mouth, drowning him. The blood (always blood) curdling in his throat as he was made to swallow it down, the world fading to greens and blacks around him as he fell.
Yes, once upon a time.
(Somewhere in the future, there are bright blues and pinks as the boy burns away into nothing, the wind carrying away the dust that he leaves behind him.)
A violin string is pulled too tight, and it breaks, its last note ringing out.
Being made sheriff-he’s not sure how he feels about it. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know how to take charge. David’s been alive (dead, alive, it’s all the same, really) for a long time, but this? He doesn’t understand this. He sees the others all looking at him like he’s something-- someone, and he doesn’t know why.
He’s not any different. (Or maybe he is.)
Cook looks at him like he’s the only thing in the world, the same way he’s always looked at him, and tells David that he was meant to do this. That this is the way they were heading all along; all roads leading home. He pressed his lips to David’s temple and repeats the words in a whisper, circling his fingers around David’s wrist.
Michael and Carly just smile at them from across the room (Carly’s right hand buried deep in Michael’s hair, twisting it from the roots) and tell David that Cook’s right; that it's for the best.
Then why does he feel so lost?
(Dischord.)
The beat pulses harsh blues and too-bright greens against his skin, into his veins. It’s all leather and sweat and Cook; Cook, Cook pressed behind him, sharp edge of brilliant-white teeth at the nape of his neck. Cook’s hands on David’s hips, digging into the hard bone there, marking him.
It’s not-why isn’t it enough?
(He hangs his head and concentrates on the feeling, the points of fire where there’s skin on skin and pushes the cold, empty feelings down; keeps them hidden away. They’re not important right now.)
The drumbeat in the distance sounds the call to war; a prelude of what’s to come.
"I’m sorry, Cook." Words pressed against skin, secret places that nobody else knows, places where only they exist. "I’m so, so sorry."
Cook slides his palm against David’s cheek, his touch so careful, like David’s fragile, like he might break (and he might), and whispers onto his shoulder, the skin stretched over bone, "Shhhhh, David. Shhhh."
David bites down hard onto his bottom lip and blocks out all other thoughts, holding on to Cook tighter and tighter until everything else just falls away.
Time breaks like glass under his fingertips; it shatters, and he watches the shards fall slowly to the ground.
Cook’s fangs are sharp against his collarbone, slicing cleanly through the still too fragile skin as he bites down. There’s blood (vivid and red against the white of his skin) smeared over his lips, the curve of his cheekbone. David can hear the stars (they scream) as he twists his fingers hard into Cook’s hair, more blood blooming at his scalp, and throws his own head back to the inky black sky.
He gaps as Cook smirks against the skin of his chest, leaving trail of red as he goes; fingerprints left at the scene of a crime.
"Oh." Cook laughs and the sound bubbles in his ears. (David thinks he might remember this, this feeling, from before. Before, he might.)
Now there’s war.
It’s not like the one that Cook was born from (all swords and open ground, soldiers that faced each other with pride), this war-it’s worse. Neither side knows where to turn, or who is truly their enemy; blinded by anger and fear of the unknown. They attack each other in the night, sneaking up from behind, knives ready in their hands to plunge into the backs of their supposed friends.
(Up is down and down is up; nobody knows what’s right any more. Nothing is static.)
This war is full of lies and deceit; no pride, no glory. David can hardly stand it. Cook and Carly just laugh as the bodies pile up on both sides, like they want it. Their anger jumps from them in spikes. (David can almost - almost - understand. They feel pushed away, alienated by the world they were once a part of. The world that they had fought for.)
And David? David feels like he’s slipping. His last holds on reality crumbing under his feet, the tide pulling him away from the shore. (He clings to Cook as a life line and hopes against hope that it’s enough. He hopes.)
The day (night, always night) that vampires are granted equality with humans, Cook laughs without humour and knocks the bottles of Tru Blood to the floor with a sweep of his arm.
David stands in the corner, and watches. (The strings are beginning to unravel.)
When David dreams, it’s of the sunlight; thick and bright on the tip of his tongue. It only happens once. (When he wakes up, he almost feels warm. Almost.)
When they come for him, he is not surprised. (He thinks he felt it coming, the tremors in the earth, the whisper of war drums in the back of his mind.)
Men with bullets of pure silver and sharp lines of anger gripped tight in closed fists, worked deep into furrowed brows. Their souls shriek shadows of redredred and it hurts him, fires off the walls of his skull. How did they fall this far? How did they get here?
He doesn’t fight back, just lets them take him. (Maybe this could be the catalyst, the thing to bring the endless fighting to end an end. It might bring peace. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He hopes.)
Being alone in the cell, is easy.
He sits against the far wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, watching with something akin to satisfaction as the walls seem to close in, letting his mind drift away like the tide. He thinks about the club, about Carly and Michael and the way you could hear their laughter ringing around the room, ricocheting through the corridors like a bullet.
He thinks about Cook. Sometimes David thinks he can still feel him; his presence hovering just over the surface of his skin, itching like a phantom limb. (A phantom heartbeat.)
He slides his eyelids shut and he waits.
Somewhere along the way (the days don’t matter anymore, the sun can’t reach him down here), the men take another prisoner. He can sense her; can see her in his mind, knows that there’s something-something different about her. Her presence shimmers behind his eyes, spins across his thoughts.
Her name is Brooke and she’s not quite human, and entirely too human at the same time. She is yet another impossibility in a world that’s full of them.
He presses his palm again the wall and can almost feel her on the other side. It feels better now he’s not completely alone.
Brooke’s fear turns the world on its axis for one, glorious moment. Her terror spins in his chest, spiralling around his ribs, pushing at his skin. He feels full with it, completely taken over by the feeling. After so much time in isolation, it comes as a blessing.
He’s out of his cell a moment later, time bending to catch up with his movements.
When his eyes re-focus, all he sees is a flash of blonde hair, her aura blurry, and her small body held to the floor, strong hands used as vices, her back pushed down into the grey concrete of the ground.
The human man’s neck snaps like kindling under David’s fingertips.
Seeing Cook again-it feels like no time at all has passed; like there never was any men with guns filled with silver bullets, like there never was a tiny cell in the basement of a church. It feels like it was all a dream (just like the sunlight).
It feels like all the time in the world.
David sees it before anyone else does, he thinks; the blurry flash of rage in the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t have to look any closer to know who it is; Kristy-Lee with wires wrapped around her chest and stomach, enveloping her tiny frame in their violence. The sight makes his teeth hurt and his stomach churn. He knows what’s coming next. He knows.
"You haven’t won yet." Her voice is harsh flashes of black and bright red as she reaches for the detonator strapped to her hip.
When the bomb goes off, he reaches for Cook on reflex.
Carnage.
This isn’t the final battle; the war isn’t even nearly over yet. He thinks that maybe it never will be. All of them trapped in a vicious cycle for the rest of time. (The horizon stretching out to infinity, daylight on the other side.) Everything-everything he’d done, it was all in vain. Maybe he should have known (he knew) but he’d hoped. Hope had been his downfall, as it has been for so many. The thick stench of smoke and blood curdles in his throat, screams of pain ring in his ears. Enough.
(The song comes to an end; breaks away half-way through the bridge.)
He runs his fingers into Cook’s hair, just once, and leaves. He hears the sound of his footsteps echoing as he walks away, feels gravity weighing down on his shoulders.
There’s only one thing left to do, and he knows now, with a startling clarity, what that is.
"David!" When he turns to face Cook, he can see the strength coiled tight under his skin, the hard line of tension running through him. He can hear the harsh anger and fear in his voice, "David, stop."
David doesn’t answer. Instead, he cocks his head to one side, forces out a small smile, keeps looking Cook in the eye.
"David- Archie." When he speaks, Cook’s voice is too bright, too sharp and brittle, cracking over the name he scarcely uses. David can feel it in his chest, in the heart that hasn’t beat for so long now (too long, too long).
"Archie don’t do this. Not this."
Panic, bright white, slices through his body. It’s too much.
"I love you." He says it because it’s true. It’s the only thing in the whole universe that he knows anymore, maybe it’s the only thing he’s ever known. He says it again, the words running from his mouth like liquid silver (burning his skin as they fall), "I love you. This- this doesn’t change that." He doesn’t know if anything ever will.
"I won’t let you die alone." There’s steel in Cook’s voice, the razor sharp edge of it sticks in David’s throat, "I won’t."
"Yes, you will." He reaches out to touch Cook’s face with his fingertips, trailing them softly through the bright red of the tears staining his cheeks, fighting against the faintest hint of panic (blindingly white) rising from deep inside his chest trying to claw its way free, "You will because I’m asking you to. As your maker, I ask you to. Let me go, Cook."
He can feel the moment Cook breaks, the moment where he gives in. (But then, he always could.) His walls come crumbling down, nothing more than rubble at their feet. Cook doesn’t speak again, just leans in and kisses him once more, hard and messy and desperate and all David wants to do is cling to him for one more second, just-just hold him there. He lets go (of course, he always lets go) and Cook doesn’t look back once.
He aches as Cook walks away from him, away from the coming light. He sees Brooke at the edge of the roof, watching him silently from the steps. Her fingers are shaking.
"It’s so very strange, the way the world works." His voice sounds too steady even to his own ears. Brooke takes a step towards him, her hand outstretched, “I never did get used to it, I think."
"David, are you-"
"I’ve been alive along time, I’ve seen so many things... Do you believe in God, Brooke White?" He asks because he wants to know, needs to know. Over two thousand years on this earth and he still doesn’t know the answer to this. (The thought comforts him.)
"Yes." She answers without hesitation, strong and sure; steady like a heartbeat. He nods and lifts his head to look her in the eyes.
"And if you’re right, how will he punish me?"He thinks of fire, of burning until there’s nothing left, of a suffering that stretches out through eternity. He thinks of how much he wants it.
"God doesn’t punish." Her face is open and honest. She curls her hands into fists, he can hear as her fingernails scrape lightly on the denim of her jeans. "God forgives, David."
"I don’t deserve it." This he knows. The years (his years, their years) blur together in an endless cycle of fire, and blood, and darkness, all red and black and burnt orange against a blank expanse of thought. They taste like ash in the back on his throat, sawdust on his tongue. No-- no he does not deserve forgiveness.
"Are you afraid?" Brooke’s eyes are wide and red around the edges, her voice is paper thin (the cracks beginning to show in the light, hairline fractures where the rawness of the pain underneath is showing through). He can see her trembling.
"No. No, I don’t think that I am." His eyes slide close for a moment, feeling a warmth unfold in the palm of his hands, the beginning of a laugh bubbling somewhere under the surface.
“Well, I’m scared for you.” And oh, there it is, the moment her voice snaps, splinters, the aching tangible on his skin. He feels her hand on his shoulder; it’s warm.
"A human with me at the end," The thought spirals out from his mind, takes flight. He cocks his head to one side and just looks at her. "Human tears."
Her breath catches as she nods and he doesn’t try and stop the smile that he can feel starting at the edge of his consciousness, crawling to the surface, "I’ve lived for so long, Brooke, so very long, and yet... yet I can still be surprised. Thank you." He looks up at the sky, turning a shade a dusty purple and grey above him, "You’ll look after him?"
"Of course I will." Her voice shines clear, a blue sincerity, in the corner of his eye and he knows she means it. A wave of calm washes over him, cool against the fire raging inside. (From up here, the city is so, so quiet. It’s still.)
Cook’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay, and that’s all that matters. Right now, in his last moments, that’s all he cares about.
He can sense the sunrise, the milky morning light buzzing in his veins, pressure forming behind his eyes. It feels a lot like salvation. He unclenches his fists, spreads his fingers out. Two thousand plus years, and it all ends here.
"Goodbye, David." Brooke’s voice already seems so far away, like a half forgotten secret at the back of his skull, tucked in against all the thoughts that once might have been (but never were).
David tips his head back and smiles as he burns.
a thread cut with a carving knife
cook/archie. ~4000 words. r for themes.
beta-ed by jehane18 and
faerie_vixen -- both of them infinitely more talented than i ♥
Stories-true stories, are not like the ones you are told as a child; the plot safely structured between the once upon a time and the happily ever after. Some remain caught, suspended in the ether, with no clear beginning and no real end.
They spin around the same point, the words wrapping around themselves, never progressing. Half-finished verses to songs that were never written; trapped in the imagination of a child.
They just are.
The warrior moves like water, all anger and determination, strength running like a river under his skin; a maelstrom out at sea.
He’s creating music; the constant beating of a drum, weaving itself around the battle ground as he moves without fear. Dancing. David can’t-he can’t think; his thoughts writhing in the air as they float away from him, curling (gold and green) around the warrior’s body as he stands tall amongst the wreckage.
(And so it begins.)
David does it later that night, covered in the comforting blanket of blood thick in the air, the dark blue of sleep settling over the troops.
He’s only done this a handful of times before (trapped and needing an escape, left with no other choice-never like this) but it comes as easily as breathing once did, as easy as dying was. All he has to do is reach deep inside, and stare into the warrior’s eyes (so close, so close) and draw him out. It’s like gripping smoke in a clenched fist.
The warrior’s skin is too hot; it almost burns him as he falls forward into David’s body, not even feigning a struggle, just tipping his head back and gasping as David’s teeth sink in. His blood tastes like destruction (earthquakes, fire, flood) and forever as it slip-slides down his throat. David’s never tasted anything quite like it; he wants to drink and never stop, draw it out so that it lasts for months. Keep him forever.
He curls his fingers into the back of the warrior’s skull, scraping his nails through the dried blood and sweat there, and clenches his eyes tight against the feeling of a tongue at the open vein in his neck.
David knows he could (should) break the bone in the palm of his hand; crush it, turn it into nothing more than a fine, white dust coating his fingers. He thinks about it; the warm wet blood running down his arms, into the crook of his elbow, falling to the ground at his feet. It would be so easy.
He cradles the warrior’s head like something precious and keeps his eyes closed.
"Your name," David says afterwards, whispers it against the warrior’s hairline, "I would very much like to know what it is."
He feels the warrior laugh, vibrations travelling through his chest. He thinks could have been laughter, "Cook."
He coughs and blood spills from his mouth. David catches it in his own (hot and sweet against his tongue, coating his fangs) and places one hand on Cook’s shoulder, holding him steady as he tries to struggle, the other stroking through his hair, "Shhhh, it’ll be over soon."
"Teach me."
Cook’s voice is smooth (sand-paper roughness hiding under the surface) as it trickles down David’s spine; icy and warm all at the same time. He shivers; lust and fear burning like wildfire through his veins.
A frightened boy with awkward elbows and too-blonde hair sticking to his scalp; his wide blue eyes cloudy with fear, mirroring the hunger in Cook’s own. David stands and watches from a few steps away, rooted to the spot, and nods once, nudging the boy towards Cook’s outstretched hand.
Cook pets the boy’s head in a way that would be affectionate if David couldn’t sense the hunger that was crashing in Cook’s veins, if he couldn’t see the predatory nature in everything he was doing. (And the cat will catch the mouse.) David doesn’t miss the way Cook’s eyes flash gold as he sinks his teeth into the boy’s neck, doesn’t miss the way the blood stains his lips as it spills down onto the boy’s clavicle. It pools in the dip where his collar bones meet. (David thinks about lakes of warm, red liquid, the way it would look with the moonlight shining down on it.)
The boy goes limp and doll-like, his eyes rolling backwards into his skull, held up only by the fingers twisted into his hair and the teeth in his neck.
Cook holds on to David’s hand the entire time. (Two chords in harmony.)
He wakes up with Cook’s mouth open against the hollow of his neck, his palm against the back of his thigh, holding him still.
"David," Cook’s voice rolls over him like a hymn; he feels the soft, sweeping notes on the surface of his skin, "David."
Cook licks a stripe across where David’s pulse used to be, slow, his hand moving to the small of his back. David makes a low noise from somewhere in his chest (the baseline to Cook’s soaring refrain, their roles reversed) and closes his eyes as fire flares in the pit of his stomach.
They watch as the village in front of them burns to the ground.
Their fingers knotted together, hard; knuckles pressed firmly against each other. It would hurt a human, the way that they’re grinding bone against bone through thin, fragile layers of cold (cold) skin. David flexes his wrist and grips harder, concentrating on anything but the shadows forming inside his mind. He clenches his jaw.
A raven flies overhead, the flames reflecting burnt orange against its jet black feathers.
"What were you like as a human?" Lightning flashes across the sky (bright yellow and white, burning), catching Cook’s hair and eyes. It looks magical, almost, like something out of a dream. He wants to just reach out and touch--
"I don’t know if I can remember."
David tugs a little on the end of Cook’s sleeve, just above the knuckles of his right hand, and the contact burns. "It was so long ago."
Cooks nods, moving to rest his hand in-between David’s shoulder blades, his palm (life line, love line) over David’s spine.
"Sometimes-sometimes I think I might remember some things," Cook doesn’t turn to look at him, just keeps staring outwards at the storm, the swirling greys and blacks, "My mother. Sometimes I remember her."
The rain feels warm against his skin. He catches it in the palm of his hands.
A song stutter-stops and the rhythm crumbles; a broken melody. (It spills out through the gaps in his fingers, it bleeds.)
David sings to the moon; old songs from long ago, lying discarded and blurred at the back of his memory. (There are so many things he can’t remember anymore, unable to hold onto the moments before the fall into spaces he can’t quite reach. They slip away.) His voice soars over the notes (golden, golden, golden) and he closes his eyes against the sound, soaking it in through his skin.
He can feel Cook; the familiar itch inside of his mouth, the insides of his elbows, the back of his neck. He can feel him everywhere, the way he always can. Cook’s nails are digging into the small of his back.
"David..." His name is whispered to him, Cook’s lips brushing his ear as they move around the word, drawing out the vowels. He shudders (tiny, tiny tremors starting at the edges of his mind, reaching into his fingertips) as Cook starts to sing along, pressing down harder with his nails.
The melody twists through the sky, drips dark red and gold, smudging the cold night air as it pours from their mouths effortlessly; stretching out and curling in on itself, a pattern too complex to track with human eyes.
He thinks it might be beautiful. (The moon sings back.)
Once upon a time-
Once upon a time, there was boy; a boy with thick, dark hair that fell into his eyes, a heart of gold, and a quick, open smile. A boy whose mind always ran too fast, who spoke quietly, tripping over his words just to keep up. He had a voice that slid over the waves of sound that filled the air and bathed them in golden light (only, he couldn’t see it yet).
That boy, so new to the world, dragged aside in the wicked moonlight where no one was there to hear his muffled cries; heart beating fast inside his ribcage, trapped inside like a frightened humming bird as sharp, too-white teeth tore at the soft, vulnerable skin of his neck. No one heard the gasps from deep in his throat as he was made to drink; hot, sticky liquid, like metal in his mouth, drowning him. The blood (always blood) curdling in his throat as he was made to swallow it down, the world fading to greens and blacks around him as he fell.
Yes, once upon a time.
(Somewhere in the future, there are bright blues and pinks as the boy burns away into nothing, the wind carrying away the dust that he leaves behind him.)
A violin string is pulled too tight, and it breaks, its last note ringing out.
Being made sheriff-he’s not sure how he feels about it. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know how to take charge. David’s been alive (dead, alive, it’s all the same, really) for a long time, but this? He doesn’t understand this. He sees the others all looking at him like he’s something-- someone, and he doesn’t know why.
He’s not any different. (Or maybe he is.)
Cook looks at him like he’s the only thing in the world, the same way he’s always looked at him, and tells David that he was meant to do this. That this is the way they were heading all along; all roads leading home. He pressed his lips to David’s temple and repeats the words in a whisper, circling his fingers around David’s wrist.
Michael and Carly just smile at them from across the room (Carly’s right hand buried deep in Michael’s hair, twisting it from the roots) and tell David that Cook’s right; that it's for the best.
Then why does he feel so lost?
(Dischord.)
The beat pulses harsh blues and too-bright greens against his skin, into his veins. It’s all leather and sweat and Cook; Cook, Cook pressed behind him, sharp edge of brilliant-white teeth at the nape of his neck. Cook’s hands on David’s hips, digging into the hard bone there, marking him.
It’s not-why isn’t it enough?
(He hangs his head and concentrates on the feeling, the points of fire where there’s skin on skin and pushes the cold, empty feelings down; keeps them hidden away. They’re not important right now.)
The drumbeat in the distance sounds the call to war; a prelude of what’s to come.
"I’m sorry, Cook." Words pressed against skin, secret places that nobody else knows, places where only they exist. "I’m so, so sorry."
Cook slides his palm against David’s cheek, his touch so careful, like David’s fragile, like he might break (and he might), and whispers onto his shoulder, the skin stretched over bone, "Shhhhh, David. Shhhh."
David bites down hard onto his bottom lip and blocks out all other thoughts, holding on to Cook tighter and tighter until everything else just falls away.
Time breaks like glass under his fingertips; it shatters, and he watches the shards fall slowly to the ground.
Cook’s fangs are sharp against his collarbone, slicing cleanly through the still too fragile skin as he bites down. There’s blood (vivid and red against the white of his skin) smeared over his lips, the curve of his cheekbone. David can hear the stars (they scream) as he twists his fingers hard into Cook’s hair, more blood blooming at his scalp, and throws his own head back to the inky black sky.
He gaps as Cook smirks against the skin of his chest, leaving trail of red as he goes; fingerprints left at the scene of a crime.
"Oh." Cook laughs and the sound bubbles in his ears. (David thinks he might remember this, this feeling, from before. Before, he might.)
Now there’s war.
It’s not like the one that Cook was born from (all swords and open ground, soldiers that faced each other with pride), this war-it’s worse. Neither side knows where to turn, or who is truly their enemy; blinded by anger and fear of the unknown. They attack each other in the night, sneaking up from behind, knives ready in their hands to plunge into the backs of their supposed friends.
(Up is down and down is up; nobody knows what’s right any more. Nothing is static.)
This war is full of lies and deceit; no pride, no glory. David can hardly stand it. Cook and Carly just laugh as the bodies pile up on both sides, like they want it. Their anger jumps from them in spikes. (David can almost - almost - understand. They feel pushed away, alienated by the world they were once a part of. The world that they had fought for.)
And David? David feels like he’s slipping. His last holds on reality crumbing under his feet, the tide pulling him away from the shore. (He clings to Cook as a life line and hopes against hope that it’s enough. He hopes.)
The day (night, always night) that vampires are granted equality with humans, Cook laughs without humour and knocks the bottles of Tru Blood to the floor with a sweep of his arm.
David stands in the corner, and watches. (The strings are beginning to unravel.)
When David dreams, it’s of the sunlight; thick and bright on the tip of his tongue. It only happens once. (When he wakes up, he almost feels warm. Almost.)
When they come for him, he is not surprised. (He thinks he felt it coming, the tremors in the earth, the whisper of war drums in the back of his mind.)
Men with bullets of pure silver and sharp lines of anger gripped tight in closed fists, worked deep into furrowed brows. Their souls shriek shadows of redredred and it hurts him, fires off the walls of his skull. How did they fall this far? How did they get here?
He doesn’t fight back, just lets them take him. (Maybe this could be the catalyst, the thing to bring the endless fighting to end an end. It might bring peace. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He hopes.)
Being alone in the cell, is easy.
He sits against the far wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, watching with something akin to satisfaction as the walls seem to close in, letting his mind drift away like the tide. He thinks about the club, about Carly and Michael and the way you could hear their laughter ringing around the room, ricocheting through the corridors like a bullet.
He thinks about Cook. Sometimes David thinks he can still feel him; his presence hovering just over the surface of his skin, itching like a phantom limb. (A phantom heartbeat.)
He slides his eyelids shut and he waits.
Somewhere along the way (the days don’t matter anymore, the sun can’t reach him down here), the men take another prisoner. He can sense her; can see her in his mind, knows that there’s something-something different about her. Her presence shimmers behind his eyes, spins across his thoughts.
Her name is Brooke and she’s not quite human, and entirely too human at the same time. She is yet another impossibility in a world that’s full of them.
He presses his palm again the wall and can almost feel her on the other side. It feels better now he’s not completely alone.
Brooke’s fear turns the world on its axis for one, glorious moment. Her terror spins in his chest, spiralling around his ribs, pushing at his skin. He feels full with it, completely taken over by the feeling. After so much time in isolation, it comes as a blessing.
He’s out of his cell a moment later, time bending to catch up with his movements.
When his eyes re-focus, all he sees is a flash of blonde hair, her aura blurry, and her small body held to the floor, strong hands used as vices, her back pushed down into the grey concrete of the ground.
The human man’s neck snaps like kindling under David’s fingertips.
Seeing Cook again-it feels like no time at all has passed; like there never was any men with guns filled with silver bullets, like there never was a tiny cell in the basement of a church. It feels like it was all a dream (just like the sunlight).
It feels like all the time in the world.
David sees it before anyone else does, he thinks; the blurry flash of rage in the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t have to look any closer to know who it is; Kristy-Lee with wires wrapped around her chest and stomach, enveloping her tiny frame in their violence. The sight makes his teeth hurt and his stomach churn. He knows what’s coming next. He knows.
"You haven’t won yet." Her voice is harsh flashes of black and bright red as she reaches for the detonator strapped to her hip.
When the bomb goes off, he reaches for Cook on reflex.
Carnage.
This isn’t the final battle; the war isn’t even nearly over yet. He thinks that maybe it never will be. All of them trapped in a vicious cycle for the rest of time. (The horizon stretching out to infinity, daylight on the other side.) Everything-everything he’d done, it was all in vain. Maybe he should have known (he knew) but he’d hoped. Hope had been his downfall, as it has been for so many. The thick stench of smoke and blood curdles in his throat, screams of pain ring in his ears. Enough.
(The song comes to an end; breaks away half-way through the bridge.)
He runs his fingers into Cook’s hair, just once, and leaves. He hears the sound of his footsteps echoing as he walks away, feels gravity weighing down on his shoulders.
There’s only one thing left to do, and he knows now, with a startling clarity, what that is.
"David!" When he turns to face Cook, he can see the strength coiled tight under his skin, the hard line of tension running through him. He can hear the harsh anger and fear in his voice, "David, stop."
David doesn’t answer. Instead, he cocks his head to one side, forces out a small smile, keeps looking Cook in the eye.
"David- Archie." When he speaks, Cook’s voice is too bright, too sharp and brittle, cracking over the name he scarcely uses. David can feel it in his chest, in the heart that hasn’t beat for so long now (too long, too long).
"Archie don’t do this. Not this."
Panic, bright white, slices through his body. It’s too much.
"I love you." He says it because it’s true. It’s the only thing in the whole universe that he knows anymore, maybe it’s the only thing he’s ever known. He says it again, the words running from his mouth like liquid silver (burning his skin as they fall), "I love you. This- this doesn’t change that." He doesn’t know if anything ever will.
"I won’t let you die alone." There’s steel in Cook’s voice, the razor sharp edge of it sticks in David’s throat, "I won’t."
"Yes, you will." He reaches out to touch Cook’s face with his fingertips, trailing them softly through the bright red of the tears staining his cheeks, fighting against the faintest hint of panic (blindingly white) rising from deep inside his chest trying to claw its way free, "You will because I’m asking you to. As your maker, I ask you to. Let me go, Cook."
He can feel the moment Cook breaks, the moment where he gives in. (But then, he always could.) His walls come crumbling down, nothing more than rubble at their feet. Cook doesn’t speak again, just leans in and kisses him once more, hard and messy and desperate and all David wants to do is cling to him for one more second, just-just hold him there. He lets go (of course, he always lets go) and Cook doesn’t look back once.
He aches as Cook walks away from him, away from the coming light. He sees Brooke at the edge of the roof, watching him silently from the steps. Her fingers are shaking.
"It’s so very strange, the way the world works." His voice sounds too steady even to his own ears. Brooke takes a step towards him, her hand outstretched, “I never did get used to it, I think."
"David, are you-"
"I’ve been alive along time, I’ve seen so many things... Do you believe in God, Brooke White?" He asks because he wants to know, needs to know. Over two thousand years on this earth and he still doesn’t know the answer to this. (The thought comforts him.)
"Yes." She answers without hesitation, strong and sure; steady like a heartbeat. He nods and lifts his head to look her in the eyes.
"And if you’re right, how will he punish me?"He thinks of fire, of burning until there’s nothing left, of a suffering that stretches out through eternity. He thinks of how much he wants it.
"God doesn’t punish." Her face is open and honest. She curls her hands into fists, he can hear as her fingernails scrape lightly on the denim of her jeans. "God forgives, David."
"I don’t deserve it." This he knows. The years (his years, their years) blur together in an endless cycle of fire, and blood, and darkness, all red and black and burnt orange against a blank expanse of thought. They taste like ash in the back on his throat, sawdust on his tongue. No-- no he does not deserve forgiveness.
"Are you afraid?" Brooke’s eyes are wide and red around the edges, her voice is paper thin (the cracks beginning to show in the light, hairline fractures where the rawness of the pain underneath is showing through). He can see her trembling.
"No. No, I don’t think that I am." His eyes slide close for a moment, feeling a warmth unfold in the palm of his hands, the beginning of a laugh bubbling somewhere under the surface.
“Well, I’m scared for you.” And oh, there it is, the moment her voice snaps, splinters, the aching tangible on his skin. He feels her hand on his shoulder; it’s warm.
"A human with me at the end," The thought spirals out from his mind, takes flight. He cocks his head to one side and just looks at her. "Human tears."
Her breath catches as she nods and he doesn’t try and stop the smile that he can feel starting at the edge of his consciousness, crawling to the surface, "I’ve lived for so long, Brooke, so very long, and yet... yet I can still be surprised. Thank you." He looks up at the sky, turning a shade a dusty purple and grey above him, "You’ll look after him?"
"Of course I will." Her voice shines clear, a blue sincerity, in the corner of his eye and he knows she means it. A wave of calm washes over him, cool against the fire raging inside. (From up here, the city is so, so quiet. It’s still.)
Cook’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay, and that’s all that matters. Right now, in his last moments, that’s all he cares about.
He can sense the sunrise, the milky morning light buzzing in his veins, pressure forming behind his eyes. It feels a lot like salvation. He unclenches his fists, spreads his fingers out. Two thousand plus years, and it all ends here.
"Goodbye, David." Brooke’s voice already seems so far away, like a half forgotten secret at the back of his skull, tucked in against all the thoughts that once might have been (but never were).
David tips his head back and smiles as he burns.