Fic: Pulse point. (Moonlight, Josef, PG-13)
Pulse point. Yes, yes it is. You knew I was going to do this. It's Moonlight fic. Is there even a community for this yet ? I may start one. Josef, and the nature of the afterlife. Huh. PG-13 for language and bikini bottoms.
So he lies on the bottom of the pool and feels instead the slight motion, the rocking sensation, the pulse that's so like blood, around and over him. He shuts his eyes.
If he stops moving-
-well, anyway, he can't.
He remembers alcohol.
Oh, not like now; he still gets a little shitfaced on Grey Goose and falls into the pool to make the girls laugh. It doesn't matter how long he's underwater. In fact, if they follow him in, he usually just takes off their bikini bottoms with his teeth and-
-alcohol. Yeah. Real alcohol, sweet wine with grit; making his blood boil and his fingertips tingle with a fever that science took a few hundred years to understand, neurons and impulses in the cells, in the fabric of skin. He remembers how loose he felt in his own body. He'd sleep inside himself, senses dull and innocent, rippling like water.
Now ? Now he can't sleep.
That was the change.
"Like this ?" he says, swirling his glass. Mick just looks at him with that dumb-ass stare, eyes hooded, waiting for the answer. "Yes. I was always exactly like this. Brilliant. Good-looking. Filled with wisdom and charm and good breeding. A delight to the senses."
"So you think you're the same person now, as you were then." Mick takes a shot. "That's sad."
"Maybe for you." He smiles, watches the girls dive from the deck into the surface that moves like light. "The change didn't make me. Just gave me something to do. Ambition. Focus."
"You're a stockbroker, Josef." Mick laughs under his breath a little. "You're telling me you always wanted to be a stockbroker ? Four hundred years and that's the best thing you came up with ?"
"You misunderstand."
"I must," he says. "So who exactly are you ?" He drains the glass, looks him in the eye. "You think you're better than humans; hell, you think you're better than most of us."
Josef's still smiling.
"Chomp," he says, and shows his teeth.
Underwater, he can almost feel dead.
He lies on the bottom of the pool at night, with all the garden lights out; the girls are inside, sleeping it off. And dreaming: he can almost touch their dreams, so warm and young and human. So dense. So real. A long time ago, his dreams thinned out with memory and visions he couldn't control; things he'd seen and done, things he hardly believed in, anymore. They lost the power to transport, to renew. Lost their charm.
So he lies on the bottom of the pool and feels instead the slight motion, the rocking sensation, the pulse that's so like blood, around and over him. He shuts his eyes.
If he stops moving-
-well, anyway, he can't.
"Would you change back ?" Mick asks. He smells like fake blood and that human girl's perfume. Josef stops himself from saying so- there are worse ways to destroy yourself than what Mick's doing. "I mean, if you could. Hypothetically."
"No."
"It was simpler," Mick insists.
"It wasn't." He stands up, against the twilight, waiting for the brightness to settle into true dusk. "Death. Disease. Taxes, cataracts, child support, Ecoli in the spinach. You're drunk, and you're nostalgic. It isn't easier for them. It wasn't for us."
He puts his hand against the glass. The light brings the capillaries out, like a flashlight against his palm, illuminating skin like paper. The blood pulses, so slowly. "It's still hard for you, I know that," he says. "It's always difficult. This part. The part where you figure out what you really are."
"I'm a vampire," Mick says, coldly. "What else can I possibly be ?"
"You say that, but you drive a convertible. The only car that screams out I'm human ! Look how human I am ! I love the sunshine. Dig that California vibe." Josef turns around, leans his back against the window for the warmth that seeps in. "It's a nice car, buddy, but I'm reading you loud and clear."
"Shut up."
"I rarely do." He grins, sharply. "I'm not trying to give you shit, you know. I'm just trying to help."
"Right." Mick scratches at the back of his neck, idly, anger drifting away. "I need help from the guy in suspenders. Just don't make me snatch the pebble from your hand."
"Fuck you, grasshopper."
They're all transitory pleasures; the goose-liver and the expensive wine, the manicures, the silk shirts, skin on skin. But he's not living it up, so to speak; there's another, deeper pleasure in watching these things pass, watching them end, going forward alone. Even Mick will leave, one day, when he's learned enough.
There's still the sunset.
"Come to bed," she says, at his ear. She puts her pulse point against his mouth but he doesn't bite; just presses his throat to hers, counts the fluttering beats. "Come to bed, with me." He follows her, to lie awake beside her.
Everything ends.
Hooray.
So he lies on the bottom of the pool and feels instead the slight motion, the rocking sensation, the pulse that's so like blood, around and over him. He shuts his eyes.
If he stops moving-
-well, anyway, he can't.
He remembers alcohol.
Oh, not like now; he still gets a little shitfaced on Grey Goose and falls into the pool to make the girls laugh. It doesn't matter how long he's underwater. In fact, if they follow him in, he usually just takes off their bikini bottoms with his teeth and-
-alcohol. Yeah. Real alcohol, sweet wine with grit; making his blood boil and his fingertips tingle with a fever that science took a few hundred years to understand, neurons and impulses in the cells, in the fabric of skin. He remembers how loose he felt in his own body. He'd sleep inside himself, senses dull and innocent, rippling like water.
Now ? Now he can't sleep.
That was the change.
"Like this ?" he says, swirling his glass. Mick just looks at him with that dumb-ass stare, eyes hooded, waiting for the answer. "Yes. I was always exactly like this. Brilliant. Good-looking. Filled with wisdom and charm and good breeding. A delight to the senses."
"So you think you're the same person now, as you were then." Mick takes a shot. "That's sad."
"Maybe for you." He smiles, watches the girls dive from the deck into the surface that moves like light. "The change didn't make me. Just gave me something to do. Ambition. Focus."
"You're a stockbroker, Josef." Mick laughs under his breath a little. "You're telling me you always wanted to be a stockbroker ? Four hundred years and that's the best thing you came up with ?"
"You misunderstand."
"I must," he says. "So who exactly are you ?" He drains the glass, looks him in the eye. "You think you're better than humans; hell, you think you're better than most of us."
Josef's still smiling.
"Chomp," he says, and shows his teeth.
Underwater, he can almost feel dead.
He lies on the bottom of the pool at night, with all the garden lights out; the girls are inside, sleeping it off. And dreaming: he can almost touch their dreams, so warm and young and human. So dense. So real. A long time ago, his dreams thinned out with memory and visions he couldn't control; things he'd seen and done, things he hardly believed in, anymore. They lost the power to transport, to renew. Lost their charm.
So he lies on the bottom of the pool and feels instead the slight motion, the rocking sensation, the pulse that's so like blood, around and over him. He shuts his eyes.
If he stops moving-
-well, anyway, he can't.
"Would you change back ?" Mick asks. He smells like fake blood and that human girl's perfume. Josef stops himself from saying so- there are worse ways to destroy yourself than what Mick's doing. "I mean, if you could. Hypothetically."
"No."
"It was simpler," Mick insists.
"It wasn't." He stands up, against the twilight, waiting for the brightness to settle into true dusk. "Death. Disease. Taxes, cataracts, child support, Ecoli in the spinach. You're drunk, and you're nostalgic. It isn't easier for them. It wasn't for us."
He puts his hand against the glass. The light brings the capillaries out, like a flashlight against his palm, illuminating skin like paper. The blood pulses, so slowly. "It's still hard for you, I know that," he says. "It's always difficult. This part. The part where you figure out what you really are."
"I'm a vampire," Mick says, coldly. "What else can I possibly be ?"
"You say that, but you drive a convertible. The only car that screams out I'm human ! Look how human I am ! I love the sunshine. Dig that California vibe." Josef turns around, leans his back against the window for the warmth that seeps in. "It's a nice car, buddy, but I'm reading you loud and clear."
"Shut up."
"I rarely do." He grins, sharply. "I'm not trying to give you shit, you know. I'm just trying to help."
"Right." Mick scratches at the back of his neck, idly, anger drifting away. "I need help from the guy in suspenders. Just don't make me snatch the pebble from your hand."
"Fuck you, grasshopper."
They're all transitory pleasures; the goose-liver and the expensive wine, the manicures, the silk shirts, skin on skin. But he's not living it up, so to speak; there's another, deeper pleasure in watching these things pass, watching them end, going forward alone. Even Mick will leave, one day, when he's learned enough.
There's still the sunset.
"Come to bed," she says, at his ear. She puts her pulse point against his mouth but he doesn't bite; just presses his throat to hers, counts the fluttering beats. "Come to bed, with me." He follows her, to lie awake beside her.
Everything ends.
Hooray.