HOUSE CALL 8 (BUT YOU CAN'T MAKE HIM DRINK)

by Apache

Content:
Het
Vachon/Tracy
No Sexual Situations
No Violence

In case anyone besides me is trying to collate this series with House Call, this happens after (iv), in which Vachon went to Juarez. 

"Craaa- zeee, I'm crazy for -something- without you...."

Or is it "about you?"  All I remember is craaa-zeee, and it's all I could think of all day and night.  It's this Patsy Cline tune my Dad loves, and I could get all the lyrics instantly if I'd call him and ask-- but he'd want to know why.  //Well, Daddy, my vampire boyfriend kind of dumped me, you know?  And you know how when you're depressed this one song will run through your mind over and over... well, this is *my* song, Dad. Craa-zeeee, which is what I was all along.  Nuts.  Flipped out.//

Two weeks.  There's even dust on his damn guitar, which he handles at least once an hour if he's home.  He's gone, he's just gone.  And he didn't have the guts to tell me or anything--

And then I think, no, if he had to go without the guitar... and then .. no, he could get another guitar anywhere, he already told me this one's nothing special--

Yeah, that was a Hallmark moment.  Try to find something that has any meaning for Vachon.  What a joke.  I was poking around the church like he does in my apartment, and every single thing I picked up had belonged to the church.  I finally said "Don't you keep anything?  I mean, a favorite book?  A teddy bear?  I don't know -- the cork from your favorite bottle of blood?"

I couldn't believe those words came out of my mouth, and neither could he.  We both did this wide-eyed stare at each other, both incredulous, and it held and got a little tense and then I laughed. "C'mon, Vachon, nothing at all?  What about your guitar, for Pete's sake?"

He gave me a 'sorry, you struck out' kind of smile and shrugged. "Screed found it cheap at the swap meet.  Bought it for me after the crash."

I rolled my eyes, then had a thought.  "So you lost your old one in the crash?"

A slightly wider smile.  "Had it two years, Trace.  Just two." Maddening.

"Vachonnnn -- come on!  I'm twenty six and I've got a full apartment.  You're telling me you're twenty times that old and you've got NOTHING?"

He shrugged.  I folded my arms and pressed my lips together.  "You know what?  I don't believe you."

His eyebrows went up.  I gnawed on my lip.  "You've got a stash somewhere."  It was funny, it was police intuition plus just the tiny bit of knowledge I have of his character.  His eyes cut away from me, and I was sure. "You do, don't you?  What is it, like one of those self-storage things?  Is it here in Toronto?"

Now his eyes were really wide, and completely innocent.  "A castle, Trace," he said.  And grinned.  "Ancestral castle.  Gold and diamonds, and..."  his eyes wandered the ceiling, thinking... "um, art treasures and ... uh, more gold."

I drummed my fingers against my arm, and cocked my head.  "Unh-uh. Probably something pretty little, 'cause you really aren't a keeper.  But I'd bet my pension there's a guitar in that room.  A really old one, like a collector's item."  His eyes came back to mine, faintly troubled.  But he didn't deny it.

And since he gave me that much, I dropped it right there.

~ ~ ~

For me, and I think maybe for him, it all changed after he'd been sick.  Even the things that were the same were different, if you know what I mean.  At least, that's what I thought right up to the moment he disappeared--

I watched him, minute by minute, that night, this man -- being -- who fell out of the sky, gory and dismembered, and recovered enough in a single night to steal my car and kiss me.  The stranger I pry information out of.  The gorgeous guy who turns up now and then when I might be in trouble.  Who chased off the only "date" he ever found me with but can't bring himself to say that he actually likes me.

Who is also the animal with yellow eyes and fangs that snarled and purred and drained the lifeblood out of Vudu right in front of my eyes, and wiped his mouth quickly so the other humans wouldn't see what I saw -- that trickle from gulping so fast.  Blood.  Human blood in his mouth. Who almost almost almost did it to me that very afternoon -- First Hunger, eyes and fangs, hissing at me with bloodhunger and telling me to get out with the same breath--

It was always weird, but that night was the weirdest of all.  Just sitting there, that whole night, watching him sleep, listening to him breath in that draggy, fluidy way, knowing the sound meant his lungs were filling with blood, killing him.  Vachon just lying there, eventually not able to turn himself over or even lift an arm.  He woke up now and then and just looked at me -- I didn't really know if he was conscious or not, since he didn't stir, but his eyes would peel open for a second and look up and then close again.  It wasn't till almost dawn that he actually said something to me -- first "still here?" and then, "go."

It's warped of me, I know, but there was something very erotic about him just lying there in that bed and breathing. His face as vulnerable as a child's in his illness, his hair all tumbled on the pillow and his shoulders, his hands slack and open on the blankets, his thick eyelashes, his mouth a little open, trying to get more air, his lips so full.  Given what was going through my mind all those hours, it's a good thing he's a vampire, not a telepath.  I was so sorry he was going to be gone.  I realized I'd always thought we had a future, and I could put it off until it was convenient, or until I thought I had a handle on him, or until... whatever.  I realized I wanted him as badly as that pathetic woman from the Jerry Show with her "vampire" boyfriend.

And it mattered to him that I was there.  He's never quite said it, exactly -- he just thanked me for the blood.  But I found out later that even when he made me leave, it was only because another vampire had showed up -- with the cure, it turned out.  And I left the blood I filched from Natalie behind.

He told me he fed from it first.  I knew what that meant to him, but of course it gave me the creeps.  I mean, I'd do the same thing again in a second, but on the other hand, it's *human blood.* But what it meant to him... it meant I gave him something on his own terms.

And strangely, it was after he was sick that it became easier for me to not-know all the stuff I don't know about him.  Like, instead of filling in the blanks with stuff I project from old boyfriends -- who were all, to the very best of my knowledge, human beings, and pretty ordinary ones at that -- I would just let there be a blank.  An 'I don't know.' A 'there's probably some weird vampire thing there, but what the hell.' I quit trying to grill him (ok, I grilled him -less-).  He continued to investigate every little crevice of my existence -- no one in the history of green grocers has ever paid more attention to vegetables in a refrigerator, and he has a fascination approaching monomania with butter wrapped in sticks -- but now the teasing that used to be meant to unsettle me was meant to settle me, instead.  It's not like anything changed -- I mean, the words in a conversation could be exactly the same as they were before.  Yet everything changed.

It's a terrifying thought, but that may be how serious love starts.  Or at least I was starting to think so.  I don't know what he was thinking, but I thought -- whatever it is, I thought he was in this with me.

Well, whatever it was, it looks like it's come to a screeching halt.  Two weeks now, no Vachon.  Gone.  Not at the Raven, not at the church, doesn't answer his phone -- actually, I found it at the church. Left that behind too.

I don't even know if I'm why he left -- the fact that I really want something from him now, that it's not going to be easy, casual.  Oh hell, that's a good enough reason for a lot of *human* guys to blow town -- why should a jumpy vampire with 500 years of experience in avoiding entanglements do any different?

"Craaa-zeeeee..."  I've been humming it for days.  I saw Nick grinding his teeth when I started in again tonight.  I giggled and apologized.  He doesn't pry, which is nice, though of course it's also a hint to return the favor.

"Cra-zeeee, I'm crazy for feeling so lone-leee..."  Oh well. I broke down and bought the CD tonight.  And some ice cream, and some Oreos.  I'm going to make a good self-pitying weekend out of it and then close the book.  Tell my grandchildren someday -- say, kids, do you believe in vampires?  Granny knew one who lived in a church and played Eric Clapton riffs.

Right, and then they'll commit me and I'll die alone in a rubber room.  And they'll tell their kids:  you had this crazy great-grandmother who believed in this weird stuff like ghosts and vampires.  It was so sad, but we had to have her locked up.  It was for her own good, of course.... she looked pretty happy in the end, though with all that thorazine in her system, how could you tell?  Auuuuuugggghhhhh.....

Tracy, Tracy, lighten UP.

I've got the CD on low, no lights, just a candle, bad idea, reminds me of Vachon but what the hell -- even dancing a little to it-- never got to know him, really; what would it have been like, how do you make love with a vampire? -- very carefully -- old Girl Guides porcupine joke for cripe's sake -- "crazy for thinking about you--"  Great, Patsy, just tell me how to stop -- his eyes, I would have sworn that time he made me blush a few weeks back -- I would have sworn he cared -- was so sure I could tell -- I can't believe he just took off -- it could have been to protect me, could have been some vampire thing I don't even know about -- I was kind of swirling around in my living room with the music, feeling sorry for myself, singing along in my limited voice.

Hands grasped my waist from behind.

I did what any cop would do:  slammed an elbow backward into the solar plexus as hard as I could, and jammed upward with a heel.  Both connected; the hands fell away with a kind of an "oof" noise behind me.

I turned around to find Vachon sitting on my floor, or rather knocked down on my floor, leaning back on his hands and looking a trifle strained.  "Hi Trace," he said with a weak grin.  "I missed you too."  He shifted and made a little grunt.

A disbelieving noise came out of me.  I bit my lip and stared at him.  It was a substitute for falling on my knees next to him and hugging him like crazy.  It was also a substitute for kicking him where he sat.  And it was a substitute for about a million words that were racing through my mind.

He smiled a little.  "I know -- serves me right."

Now I sucked both my lips in and squinted.

He nodded, and drew one hand through the air, "aaaand why didn't I at least call."  The ironic grin -- and it does work on me.  Almost every time.  Almost.

But this time I was getting angrier.  It wasn't funny.  I was too mad to care about being relieved he was still in one piece.

"aaand..."  but he saw the joke wasn't getting anywhere and gave it up.  Got up -- carefully, I was pleased to note, with a little sound -- and faced me.  We're almost exactly the same height so I just glared straight across at him.

"I had to go out of town, Trace," he said quietly.  There was no artifice in his voice, no tease, no dodge, and no apology.  But it was a straight story.  "It was -- business."  He looked away and I thought, yuk, some vampire thing.  Now he frowned.  "And if it hadn't worked, I couldn't have come back."  His eyes said the rest:  that's all you're getting, and it has to be enough.

I just stood there and looked at him, stone angry.  But maybe it -was- enough.  "Were you... Are you in some kind of trouble?  With, what'd you call them, enforcers?"  How can you be furious and worried in the same feeling?  In the background, Patsy Cline was starting in on a tune about a faithless lover, "The Tennessee Waltz."

"No."  This was quick and true.

I kept glaring; it was how I felt, but I couldn't find words to say why.  He reached out and ran my hair through his fingers, got to the tips, and went back up the strand again.  All the while, he met my eyes and his eyes were soft and undefended.  The back of his fingers stroked very lightly down my cheek and came under my jaw, down my neck.

The smallest possible smile.  And in the same quiet voice, "dance with me, Trace."

His hands grasped my waist again and pulled me a little closer to him, and he started swaying with the waltz, just a little -- he knows how to waltz?

It took a second before I felt like it, but then I put my hands on his shoulders, and the instant I did he pulled me in very close to him, not passionately but very definite, and still dancing, just in those little steps, leading me through that sad song of betrayal, gathering me in and holding me.  I put my forehead on his shoulder and tears started rolling out of my eyes, tears that were as quiet as his voice had been, the last of the anger and fear, I guess, not to mention the shame and misery of being left like that -- and now his hands slid up my back, almost wrapping his arms around me, and I realized there was no tension in his body at all, none of the nervous vampire brinksmanship that had always happened before when we touched.

"What happened to you?"  I started to pull my head back to look at him, but he shook his head 'no' and pushed mine back onto his shoulder. "Shhhhhhh."

The tune changed and we kept dancing through a song of a dream, a different time, what they call common time, just the ordinary ballad time, and he gently shifted to a box step, leading me easily through the furniture as if the floor were endless, and eventually the tears stopped coming out of my eyes.

I thought of that night of watching him breathe -- because now I was feeling it, just the swell and fall of his chest, he was holding me that closely and yet with so little intensity.  There was that one deep breath of the vampire in him scenting me-- now that he's tasted my blood once, catching that whiff is a strong experience -- but even then he didn't stiffen or freeze like he's been doing.  And his hand came up and stroked the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair...

"Hey Trace?  C'mon, I want to show you something," a whisper in my ear.

He led me downstairs to the street, nice warm spring night, maple trees dripping their yellow, thready flowers onto all the cars, last of the apple trees blossoming, some tulips, the sidewalk cool under my bare feet, not that much time till dawn, looking east to see the first blue -- wondering if he'd brought me down to show me something new on his motorcycle or something--

"They're pretty, aren't they," I said idly, looking at the flowers.  "Even at night, the colors--" and then I thought, oh God, he's only got the night--

But he just grinned.  "Yeah, even at night."  And tipped his head slightly like he does when he wants to breathe deeply, just a little bit like a dog does. I knew he could smell things I would miss-- the first cutting of the grass up the street, he can probably smell that from here, the fragrance of the apple blossoms.  His eyes were really soft, and he looked easy somehow.

"Trace,"  he said softly.  "This flower?"  He pointed to a white tulip.  "It has five colors."  I stared at him, and he looked back, with a slow smile growing across his face.  He swallowed, looking closely at my face.  "The irises of your eyes... a color there you can't see, too."  More of that happy smile.

Whatever he is, it's not just about blood.  Every once in a while I get another one of these flickers of the world he's in -- it's not the same as mine.  And most of the time, it's his carefully protected secret.  Vampires can't afford to be caught not being human, yet they have to be not-human and protect themselves every minute of their lives. Non-lives.  Whatever.  Almost all I ever see is a regular Gen X guy with an ironic outlook and no visible means of support.  I sort of have to remember the rest, except when I accidentally jolt it out of hiding.  But this -- this simple happiness with what he is --

He just kept looking at me, and kept smiling.  And again the sense of all his years was there in his eyes; it was like the five hundred years of experiences were getting filtered into a single spring morning. "There's a lot, Trace...."  his voice trailed off.  And then my senses turned upside down.

Wind -- oh, he'd picked me up and we were flying -- this thing I always imagined, this is it, weightless, and I can barely feel him holding me -- I put one arm around his neck and used the other to try to keep his hair out of my face -- it seemed lighter, higher up, and I could see him, happy and his eyes shining, and I was laughing for nothing --

The Lake, the Spit, Allen Gardens an incongruous green only just visible in the almost-dark -- I was looking down, looking for his church, for the Ninety-Sixth, oh the heck with it my God how pretty-- and flying -- oh my God

He took me up to the top of the CN Tower.  Now *there's* a great date cliche -- watching the dawn (well, not all of it, let's be real) on top of the world, sitting side by side as the sky goes blue over the water and you begin to see the landscape and the buildings, making out details and seeing the delivery trucks and the very earliest commuters and the city lights go out -- watching that with someone you -- might, really might -- trust.  Love.  Be starting to love.  Oh god.

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