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Nelli comes to consciousness the same as every night; the rise to unlife both abrupt and sluggish. She stretches the rigor from her muscles and inhales a long, completely unnecessary breath. The heavy, fur edged blanket is comforting weight against her. It's kept her from becoming too frigid during the day, not that it makes much of a difference to her. Still, she prefers waking up not feeling like a corpse as much as possible.
She pushes the eye-mask off her face and shifts into a sitting position, only to freeze. She's not alone. Someone is sleeping next to her. Someone who wasn't there when she slipped beneath silk sheets the previous morning. Her vision heightens and the shadows of night bleed away.
Greg Demetrios lays out on top of her bedding, fully dressed, head tilted back, mouth open. Nelli reflexively places a hand to her chest even though there's no heartbeat under her palm to slow as the alarm ebbs out of her.
By any rights, it should be unattractive; a human sprawled on the bed beside her. But there's something...endearing about the looseness of his limbs, the peacefulness of his slow breathing, the vulnerability of his bared throat. Wonderfully and carelessly mortal.
She reaches out to press cold, careful fingers to his arm. He snaps awake in a burst of movement, his fingers gripping her wrist like a vice, eyes wide in animal panic. Nelli doesn't move, startled frozen. Greg's gaze clears. He goes slack, releasing her.
"Nelli," he croaks.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you." She feels off kilter. She- she didn't like it. The fear in his eyes before he recognized her.
He rubs at his face, palms rasping against old stubble. "It's fine. Sorry for grabbing you like that."
She pulls her arms a little closer to herself. He can't hurt her barehanded. There will be no dark smudges blooming on the thin skin of her wrist, even though she knows he'd gripped her hard enough to bruise.
"I'll remember to let sleeping Inquisition agents lie," she says, tucking everything behind a coy smile.
He sits up and only now seems to realize where he is. Her bedroom. He looks over at her and she sees the exact moment he registers how she's dressed. She's not exactly scandalous, but she's in a lacy nightgown with a neckline that dips teasingly low.
His eyes fixate for a moment too long before he jerks them away to some rest at a point on the far wall. He clears his throat. She wonders how good a glimpse he got, with his human vision. As for her, she can see the flush that pinks the tips of his ears perfectly well.
She can't help but smile. It's flattering to know she can still make him blush. The desire to tease him, just a little, is too good to resist. She dips her voice low and alluring. "Not that I object to your presence, Daffodil, but I usually prefer to be awake when a man finds himself in my bed." She props her chin on the heel of her hand, hoods her eyes. "Not to mention an active participant."
He swallows, the motion causing her focus to dip to his throat. But then he collects himself, meets her seduction with professionalism. His gaze doesn't stray from her face. "I'm sorry, Nelli. I didn't mean to fall asleep. I came in to check on you, look over the perimeter. It won't happen again."
Her playing dissolves in the face of his sincerity. "Really," she says, telegraphing the motion as she reaches out to touch his elbow. He doesn’t object or move away, even as his eyes track the gesture. "It's all right, Greg, just unexpected." Her words are gentle.
He huffs a laugh. "Yeah, for me, too. I sat down, was only gonna rest my eyes for a second." He shakes his head. "You'd think I'd be used to these hours by now, huh?" His grin is crooked, trying to inject some levity into the situation.
The fact is, he looks exhausted. Dark circles shadow the skin under his eyes and the lines seem to rest heavier at the edges of his mouth. There's a weariness, a stiffness to his movements, as if he's sore.
Concern crinkles her brow. "You shouldn't be this tired." Ghouls were typically active during parts of the day, alongside keeping up with a Kindred's nocturnal schedule. "Are you feeling all right?" He looks away guiltily, fingers fidgeting. Nelli's gaze narrows. "Gregory."
He avoids her eyes. "I, uh, I haven't been taking it." His voice is low. Terse.
"What?" The word bites out.
He curls inward. "I haven't been taking it, okay? Your blood. I haven't been drinking it."
Nelli's instinctual reaction is insult, indignation. How could he? Was her blood not the pinnacle of taste? Something a lot like rejection stings at her. Her fingers grip the sheets, white knuckled. She isn't immune to her clan failings, but she's working to let them have their moment, before forcing past it. The affront fades and calm settles in afterwards. Only then, does she speak.
"Do you want to explain to me why?"
He rubs his face again. "Fuck, this isn’t how I expected to have this conversation.”
She laughs, humorless. “Well, we’re having it now.”
“Can we- can we turn a fucking light on?” he asks, voice strained.
He’s stalling, but she acquiesces, leaning over to click on the bedside lamp. It flares bright against her heightened senses. She closes her eyes for a moment, letting them readjust before blinking them back open. “Better?” she asks.
He nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Nelli settles against the headboard next to him and waits him out. It doesn't take long. It's clear he's gathering his thoughts. He inhales, quick, and breaks the quiet.
“I wanted..." His hands flex. "I wanted you to know that I wasn't doing this, working for you because- because you were making me. I know we had a deal when we started this, that I was in a bind and you helped me out, but things are different now." He looks up at her, hazel eyes dark with intensity. "I'm doing this because I want to."
Oh. She blinks. "Greg." His name is soft off her lips.
He runs a hand through his hair. "And yeah maybe- maybe it was stupid move, because I'm not as quick or as strong and we're at war, but I needed to know. I needed you to know."
“How long have you been going without?” she asks.
He picks at a loose thread on his jacket. “A few months.”
Her eyebrows raise. It was impressive, if foolish. He's not been under her sway, working solely under his own power for months.
His head tilts back, thumping against the dark mahogany headboard. “God, it was awful at first, Nelli. I- I wanted it so bad. Shaking all over, thirsty like I’d never get water again. Took everything I had not to crawl over and drink it."
Even more remarkable, to resist when all it would have taken was a single slip in willpower and he'd have given in to what was right in his reach.
"You put yourself at risk for this," she realizes. Fear feels like an abrupt sliver of ice in her chest. "Ib took you and you weren't-" He had been human, fragile and susceptible.
Greg winces. "Yeah. That- that was a bad call on my part. I should have known better. Didn't think she'd cuff me to the fucking car and I didn't want to risk losing a hand when I can't grow it back."
A strange emotion twists in her chest at the thought of him trying to pull himself free, metal cutting into his skin. He could have bled out before Ib deigned to release him. "For fuck's sake, Greg." Her voice shakes.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry." He looks at her, imploring. "But I'm staying. I'm in this now because I'm choosing to be."
She shakes her head, hair slipping over her shoulder. "It's not safe for you, as a human."
"I know. Believe me, I get it." He blows out a breath. "I'm a liability otherwise. But I'm going into this eyes wide open, okay? If you still want me."
Of course, she still wants him. He's been... He's been her saving grace, her bedrock support. He's been there for her through Chaz, and rescuing Jasper, and all this political Camarilla bullshit, and she didn't even notice when he started metaphorically cheeking her vials of blood.
She needs to do better. She will do better. But first things first.
"The blood I've given you, what did you do with it?"
"It's, uh, it's at my apartment." His brow crinkles and she does her best not to notice how adorable it is. "It didn't seem right to throw it away, you know?"
"Where is it at in your apartment?" she asks. Having vampire Vitae unaccounted for seemed like asking for trouble.
"It's locked in a safe. It felt like a risk to just leave it out, especially with all the- the- what did you call it? Tremere shit?"
"Smart," she admits. "So you don't have any with you, then."
"Ah, no." He seems to reach the same conclusion she has. If he wan'ts to be her Ghoul, he needs her blood. He smiles, a little uneasy, a little amused. "Guess I'll have to get whatever's on tap, huh?"
"How dare you," she says mildly. "I am a fine vintage at the very least."
He laughs, a thread nerves in it. "Right, of course. My bad. You're that high class shit."
She sniffs. "The kind they don't even put the price on the menu, it's so expensive, Gregory. The highest of class."
"I'm sorry, all right, Jesus." He rolls his eyes. "Fuckin' blanks," he mutters under his breath, but there's something fond in it.
"Shall I get you a glass?" She shifts to slip out of bed to fetch one when he puts a hand out to stop her.
"I don't think I really need one at this point, do I?” he asks, rueful. “I'm not going anywhere."
She raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," he says, gaze unwavering. "I'm sure."
She settles back down. "All right. Preference?" she asks. And if she maneuvers to show herself off better, how lithe and graceful she is, her slender throat, her elegant wrist, well, sue her. She’s still a Toreador.
He scowls like he knows what she’s doing, but can’t mask the uptick in his pulse, the way his pupils dilate slightly. "No, I don't fucking have a preference on where I drink blood from you."
She shrugs, a little smug. "Suit yourself." And bites her wrist. There’s no rush of pleasure from her own fangs, more’s the pity, but they sink in easily. Vitae wells up when she urges it, dark red and thick as honey. It smells delicious, heady, floral. She offers it out to him.
To his credit, Greg’s hands tremble only for a moment before taking it. He cradles the joint gently, almost reverent. Glances up at her, one last flicker of hesitancy, before bringing his mouth down. His eyelashes flutter closed, the smallest sound curling in his throat as he drinks.
Her Beast grumbles at the loss, whispers that she shouldn't let this man's insolence slide, she should punish him, eat him. She soothes it with, “He’s far too pretty to let go to waste.” The Beast can’t argue with that and subsides. Besides, it’s true. Greg is particularly beautiful now, eyes closed in rapture, hair drifting loose into his face as he drinks. But he’s more than that, more than the pretty packaging — though she is rather fond of it. He’s capable and dry witted and loyal. She brushes his hair back, curls her fingers behind the shell of his ear.
Greg makes a low noise of protest when finally she pulls away, but doesn’t try to stop her, his grip relaxed. She licks the wound closed, catching a stray droplet of Vitae. He licks his own lips, stained with her blood, and brings the back of his hand up to wipe at his mouth. His breathing is loud in the small space between them.
“Fuck,” he says, succinct.
“Not without taking me to dinner first, dear Gregory,” she says with a smile. She sobers slightly. “Are you all right?”
He nods. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I forgot how-” he halts his words. Already she can see the effects taking place. He looks more energized, the tired lines around his eyes fading away. “Anyway,” he says brusquely. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I was going to, it just never seemed like the right time.”
She hums and crosses her legs under the covers, a soft susurrus of sound. “You’ll have to find a way to make it up to me.”
He laughs. “Yeah, all right. Fair enough. Jewelry? Wine?”
She smiles; terribly, dangerously tender. “I’m more of a flowers kind of girl.”