[He stares hard at the ground, hearing and not hearing, his ears roaring. Hector is an arm's length from him and a world away, his aura crashing over him. Waves pounding and pounding at an unmoving rock. Isaac can't bring himself to confront what he thinks he'll find in that face, self-disgust already curling hot in his gut.]
She was wise never to have followed me.
[He hisses.
To the castle, he means. Six years his junior and wise beyond her years, the gift of foresight aside. How could he have protected her when he couldn't protect himself? When it had taken him three years, three years too long, to bring Abel's first form into being? His first devil with a whiplash temper to match his own and strength that he could count on. Strength that let him fear the vulnerability of sleep just a little less knowing that for every unkind thing breathing at his door, smelling anxiety and human flesh, there were gentler eyes watching the rise and fall of his side. A guardian at his bedside that could wound and kill unprompted, prepared to save him in ways he wishes it had been there to do when his own hand and dagger had failed him.
Hector can't promise him anything. But if there's any justice in the world, any at all, then Julia wouldn't ever know that same fear with those devils at her side. She'd never be alone.]
She had stayed in Cordova, saying goodbye to a brother whose existence had gone unspoken about, a nameless baby unmeant to have lived; he left for the castle, never looking back.
He wouldn't bow to a creature and was broken, given something he could never give back; only a day after, he had wiped his nose and dried his face and picked himself up, setting to work forging his first spear before he had even learned how to used it.
She looked him right in the eyes while Cordova was falling, the two of them alone in a house, and he could see in her face she was scared by the Isaac she saw; he let her run, sending his men the other way.
He isn't sure if Julia is smarter than either of them, when what he did was only what he felt was right. What had felt like the only real choice he could make and live with. But she is more patient, more graceful. More deserving than them of a life better than the hand she was dealt. But it is what it is.
Isaac lets his hands fall, reluctantly. They dangle between his knees, opening and closing; he looks up, briefly, only to answer.]
'twas a damned patch of myconid. Crimson found them first, burning to ashes what it could before they vanished into the earth.
All that, and done by pure chance by creatures who bear no malevolence toward us. Damn....
[That is shit luck, though Hector should be used to that by now. But the fact that it wasn't a targeted attack almost makes it worse. At least then, he could fine a purpose in it, could formulate a plan to defend himself or even avenge himself. There is a certain helplessness in being the victim of a random attack.]
I've seen no sign of any more nearby, but I will look out for it especially next time I venture out.
[He will have to train his devils to recognize it and respond to it as they do to more animated threats.]
[Isaac stares dully at his hands, kneading his wrists, fingers keeping busy to keep from shaking. He's not in the frame of mind to consider the possibility of another freak accident of that sort, or to really care. The whole keep could be overrun tomorrow, blanketed in floury myconid spores, and he'd hardly know the difference when reality and illusion blurred. His blackest thoughts already lie too close to the surface of his mind, and giving some of that pain a voice has only made his throat hurt and his chest grow tighter, as if his body is resisting the idea of finding relief, afraid of him knowing something different.]
I am no fragile waif in need of your protection.
[He rasps, latching onto a different thread of their conversation, one they keep circling back to only to arrive to the same infuriating conclusion every time: that Hector doesn't seem to think he's strong enough on his own.]
Think you that I flit about the castle being waited on hand and foot, fed and bathed and dressed, while others yet fought my battles for me? That I would shrivel and die without your intervention?
[He shoots him a cutting look, baring his teeth.]
I am a devil forgemaster! [Stabbing a finger into his chest:] I bled for this!
I don't believe you need anything from me, Isaac. You fight for everything goddamned thing you do. But there is no sense in you redoubling efforts I am already making. I have to make food for my own purposes, so why should you not also benefit from that, so that you can devote more of your time to your other efforts?
[Hector is half-exasperated that he has to explain specialization, a basic pillar of human society, to Isaac, and half-saddened that Isaac probably doesn't believe he can allow himself to rely on anyone else. He presses on.]
It is not pampering for me to be on guard of an enemy we've both run foul of. It would be foolhardy for me not to be.
[He leans back and lifts an eyebrow at Isaac.]
As for 'waiting on you' and 'bathing and dressing' you, I haven't proposed that. Granted, I think you could benefit from giving yourself a break; that is true of almost anyone. If you allowed yourself a massage, or a nice bath, I bet you'd be twice as productive in the lab as you've been while driving yourself to exhaustion.
[Gods, if Isaac would consent to allow Hector to pamper him, just for an hour, Hector absolutely would do it. Because Isaac doesn't need anyone to care for him, but Hector needs someone to take care of.]
[Hector makes it sound so effortless. Giving in, reaching for the rare helping hand when it's offered. He has always struggled with being told that his way of doing anything is inefficient or wrong, that his best isn't good enough, but he can't deny any more than he can admit aloud that what Hector is telling him does make sense; he can recognize that his own bitterness has turned him away from making more sensible, pragmatic choices.
All that's come of digging in his heels is pity. And being asked to show some kindness to himself and to the body he's run ragged and carved his unrest and hurt into, to treat it just a little less like a tool, a means to an end, the way Dracula had. It's just the sort of thing Julia would have said, if she saw him now.
He's glad she can't. Or that if she already has, in one of her restless visions, that he has no way of knowing it.
He swipes at his face, angrily, his eyes filling, burning.
All he wants is to feel like himself again. Proud and vicious and unstoppable. He wants to smirk crookedly at this talk of massages and indulgent baths and answer with a snide proposal of his own, inviting Hector to wipe his ass for him if he was that eager to be of service. The laughter that used to come so easily to him doesn't this time, not today.
Something else snags low in his throat, a soft, choked noise, and he has to look away, hands fisted.]
[Isaac makes a noise, and Hector has to willfully refrain from leaning forward to reach out to him. 'You had to learn this lesson, too,' he reminds himself. Years of conditioning are not undone in a single day. Rosaly had been patient with Hector when he'd struggled with his fierce independence.
He pushes himself up and stands.]
Think on it. The food is in the kitchens. Anything else...you know where to find me.
[He can't force his help onto Isaac, so the kindest thing he can do is give Isaac space to reevaluate. Later, slowly, Hector can put out more offers, to have his fairy sooth the knots in Isaac's back, or to draw a hot bath, or to share a new cask of wine. To press too hard will only spook Isaac.
So he turns toward the door to make his way back into the castle.]
[Chains rattle and metal clink together, all his scuffed up armour pieces and plates sliding off him to form a pile by his feet. Isaac reaches for the back of his neck to unclasp his collar last, movements calm and purposeful, unhurried.
He had never actually said yes to the offer turning over and over in his mind. Not once in the weeks it has taken for him to make peace with his stalling plans to take to the freedom of the skies and embrace a more nomadic life. But leading Hector up into his study for the first time and letting him draw a bath, involving him in a ritualistic strip down with a long, pointed look through his lashes, is as close as Isaac comes to it. It's no coincidence that he has finally scrapped the wooden basin he's done his washing in and forged a wood-fired tub from metals and rough-hewn stone; something more comfortable, more proper for his height. Beside it lies a pail and washcloth, and some soap.]
Is this indeed a bath or your attempt at making a broth of my bones?
[He asks, pausing in the middle of tugging at his boot to consider the sprinkling of crushed herbs in the bathwater with a wry, barely-there twist of his mouth. Lavender, especially, has become a familiar scent in his ongoing struggle to sleep through his nights, perfuming a space often smelling of sweat and sex and wood smoke.]
If I were cooking you, I wouldn't use sweet scents. It would be garlic and salt to get some flavor into you.
[Hector doesn't look up at Isaac while he strips. His sleeves are rolled up the elbows and he is currently giving the steaming water a swirl with his hand. The temperature is just how Hector likes it. Isaac has remarked on a similar dislike of the cold that Hector has, so he is hoping 'just short of scalding' is the way to go.]
'Tis nothing sinister. Lavender, chamomile, and rose for relaxation of the body and mind. Soak in the water, breath in the air, and supposedly you'll sleep easier tonight.
[It's the kind of home remedy used in villages, insomuch as the villagers bathe. It could be a placebo effect of belief and the simple act of taking time dedicated to relaxing, but Hector has known this mixture to help ease some pains and stress in those who have tried it.]
[He chuffs a mirthless laugh, jerking his leather pants down the sharp cut of his hipbones, his thighs. His gauntlets slap the floor, the last of his clothes.
Crimson watches them from Isaac's chair, lazily lashing its tail.
He's not unaware that it's the first time he has offered his whole body - still long-limbed and sinewy, winding patterns laid over most of the places where he has scarred - and its finer details for Hector's consideration. He's not uncomfortable with the exposure but he doesn't send his devil away, either, when he pads towards Hector and stands beside him, coolly expectant, crossing his arms.
It occurs to him that Hector's at a height where he could easily grab a fistful of his hair and jam his face into his crotch. The thought flickers through his mind, there and gone.]
All that pretty ink would likely spoil the taste anyways.
[Hector finally turns his head when Isaac comes to stand beside him, and he does look. He's not doing this for sex, but that doesn't mean he has to pretend to be blind. Isaac's body holds a harsh and savage beauty, and Hector catalogues it in his brain.]
It's no magic cure. But even if it does nothing else but scent the air, it won't hurt anything.
[He spreads an open palm toward the tub, an invitation for Isaac to step into the steaming water.]
[Isaac scoffs, having nothing to say to that. Pretty - he's heard that before. Pretty ink, pretty mouth, pretty hole. Not a word he'd have ever chosen for himself. It's too delicate, too often sharpened with a mocking edge.
He steps over the rim and smoothly dips a foot into the bath, never needing to ease himself in. Near-scalding is a comfortable temperature for him; it's holy water that burns.]
Remind me... [He begins, sliding the rest of himself into this tea-like brew and leaning back with a weary sigh, water lapping his collarbones] ...what is it you enjoy in tending to my whims?
[Lazily slinging an arm over the tub, he slants Hector a look as if this exchange is and has always been their normal.]
I had thought you above acts of servitude when you fled the castle.
[The sight of Isaac draped, loose and lazy, in the tub brings a smile to the corners of his lips. Isaac is so rarely relaxed, and Hector did this.]
In Dracula's castle, servitude was compulsory. This, I choose.
[He dips the cloth into the water and wrings it out. Scrubbing it against the bar of soap, Hector works up a mint-scented lather.]
For you, if I am not misjudging, being a man means taking care of yourself. You pride yourself in your independence. I use a different metric. I've chosen you as an ally, so it is a point of pride that you benefit from my presence.
[Short-lived thought it was, Isaac had been a lover of Hector's, and he wants to attend Isaac's needs. Hector is certain voicing that thought would bring this truce to an end. Alliances and value, perhaps Isaac can understand and accept.
He moves to the end of the tub so he can start washing at Isaac's feet.]
[From the way Hector frames his answer, Isaac finds himself understanding it better than he wants to. A desire to be useful to someone had fed into his fierce loyalty to Dracula; if he couldn't find any love in the world for him, he had told himself, then he'd settle for being needed, grasping desperately for and surviving on pity-scraps of acknowledgement. There's nothing to show for the years wasted on a soulless vampire, years of self-sacrifice and stringing himself along with hopeful delusions, but bitterness, and bruises to his ego that still ache as freshly as they day they were laid.
It's almost too raw still, even now.
He lets Hector's answer sit with him a while, scraping his nails lightly over stone.]
...And this you would do for the Belmont? [He drawls, skeptical, planting a foot up on the rim. Steam rolls off his unflushed skin.]
Ha. [He laughs dryly. Playing along, if barely. Hector's touch is purposeful, sexless, and Isaac, in turn, isn't basking in pleasure like a spoiled prince. He's calm - as calm as can be expected of him - but attentive, heavy-lidded eyes still watching through the steam.]
...you could try, although I don't imagine his woman would suffer your presence for very long.
[He slips his foot back in. Soap foam sizzles, dissolves.]
And what matter of alliance would this be? [He asks, tonelessly, as if he's only making conversation, and nothing said between them is of any real interest.] One of convenience?
[Hector shrugs, and retrieves Isaac's other foot from the tub to give it the same treatment as its twin.]
I suppose you could say that. He and I had similar goals, and we resolved not to hinder one another. That is all.
[He can't imagine having a conversation with the Belmont outside of that context, much less initiating physical contact like this.]
That alliance has concluded, in any case. He's gone back to 'his woman', and so long as Dracula's power stays dormant, I expect we shall never cross paths again.
[Truthfully, Isaac had been asking of them and not of Hector and the Belmont, but he's not uninterested in the glimpse he's offered of the nature of their relationship. It's all business. Which while being more or less what was expected, is also reassuring, more than it should be. After all, this is a Belmont who struck a truce, maybe even formed a camaraderie, with a half-breed, the Dark Lord's son of all things; willing to shake hands - so to speak - where others would've easily lumped him with the other castle-dwelling creatures. Desperation, he thinks, can make for strange alliances and stranger bedfellows.
Oh, Trevor, Trevor, Trevor.
Isaac can admit to liking him a little, in his own way. The man had put up a decent fight, at least, when he was paying attention. And lord knows he'd have fucked the Belmont if time had permitted; the desire had been there, peaking, while he choked on air and blood-spattered half-threats, writhing on his knife. It'd have been like breaking a wild colt, Isaac thinks. Needing a little time, a firm, steady hand, persistence. But it'd have been inevitable. The human spirit is only so strong.
Dracula's spirit, on the other hand -- ]
It won't. [He sits himself straighter, muscles rippling up through his arms and in his back as he sits himself up straighter, water churning around him.] Not forever. Should he but stir, however, I would think you and I among the first to know it.
[It seems unlikely that a vengeful spirit reaching for potential vessels could go unfelt.]
[Hector isn't sure Isaac is ready to hear Hector's thoughts on their alliance. It's likely to spook him, and spoil the relative ease of this moment.
He releases Isaac's foot when he starts to shift, and dips the cloth back into the water to rinse and re-lather while he waits for Isaac to either settle or bristle against his help and demand to finish the job himself.]
Yes, we shouldn't be caught unawares...but I think we have time. Immortals have nothing if not time, and after his last attempt failed, he won't act in haste.
[He does go still, his brow knitting while he strums his roughened knuckles with his fingertips, a cold, distant look settling into his eyes.]
His magic courses through our veins yet; I have found myself wondering if we too shall be longer-lived than most. [Wryly:] ...Assuming we aren't put out of our misery first, one way or another.
[A forgemaster outlasting the violence in Wallachia to die when he is old and grey and limp-dicked strikes him as about as likely to happen as the Belmont turning whip and will against God. A sword through the heart could also be considered death by natural causes, he thinks. Not only more realistic, but a preferable exit.
He glances at Hector after a while, motioning him over with a lazy curl of his fingers. Might as well put him to work.]
Edited (oh my GOD brain, quit it with the typos and shit) 2019-10-13 21:10 (UTC)
[Hector scoots closer to the tub and begins to wash Isaac's calf. Maybe it's not what Isaac meant with his crooked finger, but Hector is moving at his own speed for now. He digs his fingertips into the muscles, willing the stiffness to ease.]
There's no way to know for now. But we've seemed to age normally thus far.
[Hector has no desire to live past a single mortal lifespan. He never sought vampirism to that point.]
Death will find us in its own time. There's no need for us to do anything to seek it out.
['That remains for every man to decide,' he nearly says. But tonight, it's easier to say nothing at all. His bad days are never too far away, and when they're there and lying heavy on top of him, smothering him, there's reason enough to save what little hope he has left for death. But for now, since turning his efforts back to forging, he still surges with motivation, just enough to thrash and keep his head above the water. His hands would've turned against himself long ago, he thinks, if they had no power to create.
It's a fairly smooth part of his leg that Hector has gotten to scrubbing now. Isaac lets him, wordlessly. It's neither keenly pleasurable or unpleasant, though the motions he's making are calming in their sureness, their steadiness. But at the press of fingers into skin he slides free of that grip, easy, sinking back into the bath.]
No. [He says, coolly.
Massage is beyond what he's agreed to. At least, for now.]
[Hector sighs, but he rinses, lathers up the cloth, and begins a gentle scrub of the other calf, not pushing for more.]
My father sought eternal life, you know. I can think of no greater form of torture, but he honestly thought he wanted it.
[That and gold, the oldest and most cliche desires of an alchemist. How someone with so little creativity thought he would be the one to crack the code, Hector will never understand.]
Do you think our craft will die out with us? I have fathered no children; my bloodline ends with me.
no real kids for them is probably for the best, lol
[Every man desperate enough for something rarely thinks of its cost. But he doubts he'd have turned back if he knew from the start what it meant to be a devil forgemaster. He was still a boy when he had decided the end goal would justify all the suffering and frustration and sleepless nights reading by candlelight.
He sighs through his nose, lolling his head back.
No child left alive in that place remained a child for very long, though, he muses.]
Perhaps there will be others clever enough to master this art in time, even if it takes centuries for them to emerge. Curiosity and a hunger for power is without limit among men, and the dark lord will be wanting of new flesh to groom to his purposes.
[He pauses, thinking.]
...I am rather amazed you never had a part in siring a cambion or two, not even in your sleep. [Said to the ceiling with a touch of grim amusement.] More than a few succubi spoke highly of your vigor. [A beat.] Which was rather suspect, as you had struck me at the time as being a man with all the passion of a plank of wood.
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She was wise never to have followed me.
[He hisses.
To the castle, he means. Six years his junior and wise beyond her years, the gift of foresight aside. How could he have protected her when he couldn't protect himself? When it had taken him three years, three years too long, to bring Abel's first form into being? His first devil with a whiplash temper to match his own and strength that he could count on. Strength that let him fear the vulnerability of sleep just a little less knowing that for every unkind thing breathing at his door, smelling anxiety and human flesh, there were gentler eyes watching the rise and fall of his side. A guardian at his bedside that could wound and kill unprompted, prepared to save him in ways he wishes it had been there to do when his own hand and dagger had failed him.
Hector can't promise him anything. But if there's any justice in the world, any at all, then Julia wouldn't ever know that same fear with those devils at her side. She'd never be alone.]
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Yes, she is much smarter than either of us.
[And Hector has learned from his mistakes. He has done for Julia what he’d failed to do for Rosaly. He’s given her the tools to keep herself safe.]
What was it that gave us such visions? I didn’t sense any demons about that night.
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She urged him to forgive; he couldn't.
She had stayed in Cordova, saying goodbye to a brother whose existence had gone unspoken about, a nameless baby unmeant to have lived; he left for the castle, never looking back.
He wouldn't bow to a creature and was broken, given something he could never give back; only a day after, he had wiped his nose and dried his face and picked himself up, setting to work forging his first spear before he had even learned how to used it.
She looked him right in the eyes while Cordova was falling, the two of them alone in a house, and he could see in her face she was scared by the Isaac she saw; he let her run, sending his men the other way.
He isn't sure if Julia is smarter than either of them, when what he did was only what he felt was right. What had felt like the only real choice he could make and live with. But she is more patient, more graceful. More deserving than them of a life better than the hand she was dealt. But it is what it is.
Isaac lets his hands fall, reluctantly. They dangle between his knees, opening and closing; he looks up, briefly, only to answer.]
'twas a damned patch of myconid. Crimson found them first, burning to ashes what it could before they vanished into the earth.
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[That is shit luck, though Hector should be used to that by now. But the fact that it wasn't a targeted attack almost makes it worse. At least then, he could fine a purpose in it, could formulate a plan to defend himself or even avenge himself. There is a certain helplessness in being the victim of a random attack.]
I've seen no sign of any more nearby, but I will look out for it especially next time I venture out.
[He will have to train his devils to recognize it and respond to it as they do to more animated threats.]
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I am no fragile waif in need of your protection.
[He rasps, latching onto a different thread of their conversation, one they keep circling back to only to arrive to the same infuriating conclusion every time: that Hector doesn't seem to think he's strong enough on his own.]
Think you that I flit about the castle being waited on hand and foot, fed and bathed and dressed, while others yet fought my battles for me? That I would shrivel and die without your intervention?
[He shoots him a cutting look, baring his teeth.]
I am a devil forgemaster! [Stabbing a finger into his chest:] I bled for this!
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[Hector is half-exasperated that he has to explain specialization, a basic pillar of human society, to Isaac, and half-saddened that Isaac probably doesn't believe he can allow himself to rely on anyone else. He presses on.]
It is not pampering for me to be on guard of an enemy we've both run foul of. It would be foolhardy for me not to be.
[He leans back and lifts an eyebrow at Isaac.]
As for 'waiting on you' and 'bathing and dressing' you, I haven't proposed that. Granted, I think you could benefit from giving yourself a break; that is true of almost anyone. If you allowed yourself a massage, or a nice bath, I bet you'd be twice as productive in the lab as you've been while driving yourself to exhaustion.
[Gods, if Isaac would consent to allow Hector to pamper him, just for an hour, Hector absolutely would do it. Because Isaac doesn't need anyone to care for him, but Hector needs someone to take care of.]
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All that's come of digging in his heels is pity. And being asked to show some kindness to himself and to the body he's run ragged and carved his unrest and hurt into, to treat it just a little less like a tool, a means to an end, the way Dracula had. It's just the sort of thing Julia would have said, if she saw him now.
He's glad she can't. Or that if she already has, in one of her restless visions, that he has no way of knowing it.
He swipes at his face, angrily, his eyes filling, burning.
All he wants is to feel like himself again. Proud and vicious and unstoppable. He wants to smirk crookedly at this talk of massages and indulgent baths and answer with a snide proposal of his own, inviting Hector to wipe his ass for him if he was that eager to be of service. The laughter that used to come so easily to him doesn't this time, not today.
Something else snags low in his throat, a soft, choked noise, and he has to look away, hands fisted.]
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He pushes himself up and stands.]
Think on it. The food is in the kitchens. Anything else...you know where to find me.
[He can't force his help onto Isaac, so the kindest thing he can do is give Isaac space to reevaluate. Later, slowly, Hector can put out more offers, to have his fairy sooth the knots in Isaac's back, or to draw a hot bath, or to share a new cask of wine. To press too hard will only spook Isaac.
So he turns toward the door to make his way back into the castle.]
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He had never actually said yes to the offer turning over and over in his mind. Not once in the weeks it has taken for him to make peace with his stalling plans to take to the freedom of the skies and embrace a more nomadic life. But leading Hector up into his study for the first time and letting him draw a bath, involving him in a ritualistic strip down with a long, pointed look through his lashes, is as close as Isaac comes to it. It's no coincidence that he has finally scrapped the wooden basin he's done his washing in and forged a wood-fired tub from metals and rough-hewn stone; something more comfortable, more proper for his height. Beside it lies a pail and washcloth, and some soap.]
Is this indeed a bath or your attempt at making a broth of my bones?
[He asks, pausing in the middle of tugging at his boot to consider the sprinkling of crushed herbs in the bathwater with a wry, barely-there twist of his mouth. Lavender, especially, has become a familiar scent in his ongoing struggle to sleep through his nights, perfuming a space often smelling of sweat and sex and wood smoke.]
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[Hector doesn't look up at Isaac while he strips. His sleeves are rolled up the elbows and he is currently giving the steaming water a swirl with his hand. The temperature is just how Hector likes it. Isaac has remarked on a similar dislike of the cold that Hector has, so he is hoping 'just short of scalding' is the way to go.]
'Tis nothing sinister. Lavender, chamomile, and rose for relaxation of the body and mind. Soak in the water, breath in the air, and supposedly you'll sleep easier tonight.
[It's the kind of home remedy used in villages, insomuch as the villagers bathe. It could be a placebo effect of belief and the simple act of taking time dedicated to relaxing, but Hector has known this mixture to help ease some pains and stress in those who have tried it.]
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[He chuffs a mirthless laugh, jerking his leather pants down the sharp cut of his hipbones, his thighs. His gauntlets slap the floor, the last of his clothes.
Crimson watches them from Isaac's chair, lazily lashing its tail.
He's not unaware that it's the first time he has offered his whole body - still long-limbed and sinewy, winding patterns laid over most of the places where he has scarred - and its finer details for Hector's consideration. He's not uncomfortable with the exposure but he doesn't send his devil away, either, when he pads towards Hector and stands beside him, coolly expectant, crossing his arms.
It occurs to him that Hector's at a height where he could easily grab a fistful of his hair and jam his face into his crotch. The thought flickers through his mind, there and gone.]
Supposedly.
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[Hector finally turns his head when Isaac comes to stand beside him, and he does look. He's not doing this for sex, but that doesn't mean he has to pretend to be blind. Isaac's body holds a harsh and savage beauty, and Hector catalogues it in his brain.]
It's no magic cure. But even if it does nothing else but scent the air, it won't hurt anything.
[He spreads an open palm toward the tub, an invitation for Isaac to step into the steaming water.]
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He steps over the rim and smoothly dips a foot into the bath, never needing to ease himself in. Near-scalding is a comfortable temperature for him; it's holy water that burns.]
Remind me... [He begins, sliding the rest of himself into this tea-like brew and leaning back with a weary sigh, water lapping his collarbones] ...what is it you enjoy in tending to my whims?
[Lazily slinging an arm over the tub, he slants Hector a look as if this exchange is and has always been their normal.]
I had thought you above acts of servitude when you fled the castle.
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[The sight of Isaac draped, loose and lazy, in the tub brings a smile to the corners of his lips. Isaac is so rarely relaxed, and Hector did this.]
In Dracula's castle, servitude was compulsory. This, I choose.
[He dips the cloth into the water and wrings it out. Scrubbing it against the bar of soap, Hector works up a mint-scented lather.]
For you, if I am not misjudging, being a man means taking care of yourself. You pride yourself in your independence. I use a different metric. I've chosen you as an ally, so it is a point of pride that you benefit from my presence.
[Short-lived thought it was, Isaac had been a lover of Hector's, and he wants to attend Isaac's needs. Hector is certain voicing that thought would bring this truce to an end. Alliances and value, perhaps Isaac can understand and accept.
He moves to the end of the tub so he can start washing at Isaac's feet.]
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It's almost too raw still, even now.
He lets Hector's answer sit with him a while, scraping his nails lightly over stone.]
...And this you would do for the Belmont? [He drawls, skeptical, planting a foot up on the rim. Steam rolls off his unflushed skin.]
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Do you think I should find him and offer?
[He lathers the foot and releases it so Isaac can dip it back into the water to rinse.]
But no, I wouldn't. That isn't the type of alliance we had.
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...you could try, although I don't imagine his woman would suffer your presence for very long.
[He slips his foot back in. Soap foam sizzles, dissolves.]
And what matter of alliance would this be? [He asks, tonelessly, as if he's only making conversation, and nothing said between them is of any real interest.] One of convenience?
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I suppose you could say that. He and I had similar goals, and we resolved not to hinder one another. That is all.
[He can't imagine having a conversation with the Belmont outside of that context, much less initiating physical contact like this.]
That alliance has concluded, in any case. He's gone back to 'his woman', and so long as Dracula's power stays dormant, I expect we shall never cross paths again.
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Oh, Trevor, Trevor, Trevor.
Isaac can admit to liking him a little, in his own way. The man had put up a decent fight, at least, when he was paying attention. And lord knows he'd have fucked the Belmont if time had permitted; the desire had been there, peaking, while he choked on air and blood-spattered half-threats, writhing on his knife. It'd have been like breaking a wild colt, Isaac thinks. Needing a little time, a firm, steady hand, persistence. But it'd have been inevitable. The human spirit is only so strong.
Dracula's spirit, on the other hand -- ]
It won't. [He sits himself straighter, muscles rippling up through his arms and in his back as he sits himself up straighter, water churning around him.] Not forever. Should he but stir, however, I would think you and I among the first to know it.
[It seems unlikely that a vengeful spirit reaching for potential vessels could go unfelt.]
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He releases Isaac's foot when he starts to shift, and dips the cloth back into the water to rinse and re-lather while he waits for Isaac to either settle or bristle against his help and demand to finish the job himself.]
Yes, we shouldn't be caught unawares...but I think we have time. Immortals have nothing if not time, and after his last attempt failed, he won't act in haste.
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His magic courses through our veins yet; I have found myself wondering if we too shall be longer-lived than most. [Wryly:] ...Assuming we aren't put out of our misery first, one way or another.
[A forgemaster outlasting the violence in Wallachia to die when he is old and grey and limp-dicked strikes him as about as likely to happen as the Belmont turning whip and will against God. A sword through the heart could also be considered death by natural causes, he thinks. Not only more realistic, but a preferable exit.
He glances at Hector after a while, motioning him over with a lazy curl of his fingers. Might as well put him to work.]
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There's no way to know for now. But we've seemed to age normally thus far.
[Hector has no desire to live past a single mortal lifespan. He never sought vampirism to that point.]
Death will find us in its own time. There's no need for us to do anything to seek it out.
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It's a fairly smooth part of his leg that Hector has gotten to scrubbing now. Isaac lets him, wordlessly. It's neither keenly pleasurable or unpleasant, though the motions he's making are calming in their sureness, their steadiness. But at the press of fingers into skin he slides free of that grip, easy, sinking back into the bath.]
No. [He says, coolly.
Massage is beyond what he's agreed to. At least, for now.]
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My father sought eternal life, you know. I can think of no greater form of torture, but he honestly thought he wanted it.
[That and gold, the oldest and most cliche desires of an alchemist. How someone with so little creativity thought he would be the one to crack the code, Hector will never understand.]
Do you think our craft will die out with us? I have fathered no children; my bloodline ends with me.
no real kids for them is probably for the best, lol
He sighs through his nose, lolling his head back.
No child left alive in that place remained a child for very long, though, he muses.]
Perhaps there will be others clever enough to master this art in time, even if it takes centuries for them to emerge. Curiosity and a hunger for power is without limit among men, and the dark lord will be wanting of new flesh to groom to his purposes.
[He pauses, thinking.]
...I am rather amazed you never had a part in siring a cambion or two, not even in your sleep. [Said to the ceiling with a touch of grim amusement.] More than a few succubi spoke highly of your vigor. [A beat.] Which was rather suspect, as you had struck me at the time as being a man with all the passion of a plank of wood.
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HOW DARE HECTOR HAVE NEEDS OF HIS OWN
HE’S NOT SAYING IT SHOULD totally absolutely BE HIM
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hope this timeskippery is okay -- let me know if you wanted anything changed
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