fakebrain: (two verses)
[personal profile] fakebrain
I Want Your Body (To Feed Off Of)
Author: [livejournal.com profile] sharon_hate
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The following events are entirely fictional.
Notes: A lot of purposely cliche elements here, so don't get huffy. Title based on the Samantha Fox song, "Touch Me (I Want Your Body)".

Pete gets sucked into an alternate dimension where everything is a total cliché, and holy shit. There are real fucking vampires here, dude. What the fuck.

I Want Your Body (To Feed Off Of)

"Are you working for Beckett?" He hisses at himself.

Pete edges his way away from the brick wall, mouth hanging open and taking deep, labored breaths. He’s kind of at a lost for what to do. The vampire counterpart just glowers at him from the entrance of the alleyway, purposely blocking the only exit Pete had.

The twisted expression on the vampire’s face explains it all: he's angry and he's confused. That's how the passenger-side window of Jeanae's Nova got punched out, and, incidentally, how he ended up with his hand in a splint for five weeks. Pete knows the chances of him walking away uninjured are slim to nil.

"No, no," he shakes his head and furiously gestures with his hands. "I'm not. I'm just-- I just got here," explains Pete desperately. Twisting his neck around, he starts to motion towards the tipped over trash cans and full bags of garbage. “From over there, and. And.” He stops entirely.

The only thing he’s succeeded in doing, is making himself sound absolutely deranged. As if picking up on his thought, the vampire version of himself lifts an eyebrow and remarks dryly, "Do you live in a cardboard box or something?"

As a last attempt, he blurts out, “You’re me.” The countenance of the vampire darkens almost instantly. "No, really! You think I'm you, but you're not, you’re me."

"I think I’ve let you babble on long enough now," he bares his fangs, and shit, they look real. Not at all like the plastic caps Pete, himself, had insisted on wearing all that week. They had always looked a little fake to him, not quite authentic enough, but as he stares straight at a genuine set, he can’t imagine anyone ever making a copy as terrifying as the real thing.

"No, no, wait!" Pete cries, offering himself in mock-surrender. Stuttering, he forces himself to recall anything (really, anything) that could possibly save him. “What if you smell me or something? I might have made that up, but I kind of thought so, and like. I swear, I should smell like honest,” he offers frantically. Inside, his heart is pounding like crazy and his throat is starting to close up.

He timidly raises his eyes to meet his vampire self, summoning any and all submissive vibes. It’s not the best time to start playing alpha.

After a long moment, the vampire narrows his eyes and says, “You smell like Patrick.”

Unconsciously, he lets a breath out. Patrick, you’re not even here and somehow you’ve still managed to save my ass, Pete thinks.

“I, yes,” he chokes, “Patrick—he’s, I have a Patrick like you do.” His fingers itch to reach out and shake the truth into the vampire. Possibly, it might go over badly, so he forcedly clenches them at his sides. “I told you, I came through the wall. I think it was like a wormhole or something,” he makes several grand gestures to illustrate his point. “Well, not really, but.”

Knowing that he might just continue giving the opportunity, vampire Pete strides the short distance and roughly shoves the real Pete against the brick wall, successful cutting off his speech. His skull roughly knocks back against the brick, eliciting a sharp crack from the impact. The opportunity to cringe doesn’t present itself.

The heavy hand circling his throat tightens and his eyes begin to tear from the lack of oxygen. Pete starts to cough and choke, his feet kicking uselessly at the wall behind him and at the vampire’s shins.

"Did Beckett send you?" the vampire asks once again. Mouth set and eyes dark, the counterpart breathes heavily against Pete’s face and fuck, he thinks he might actually die. Attempting to respond, Pete shakes his head as much as he's allowing himself.

Slowly, he wets his lips and continues, “I’m going to take you back to the warehouse and Patrick will figure this out.”

Without another word, the vampire uncurls his fingers and lets Pete fall to the damp ground. Pete gasps sharply and pulls himself to his knees, hacking painfully at the asphalt. The other Pete steps away quickly and takes long, resolute strides towards the mouth of the alley.

After managing to stifle his coughs, the real Pete picks himself up. Rubbing tentatively at the finger shaped bruises already beginning to show on his neck, he awkwardly limps after the vampire and pointedly ignores the pain in his knee. His head is still spinning and he hardly remembers how to walk properly, but he manages to console himself with the fact that he’ll see Patrick soon.

That ought to be good.

Patrick can’t stop staring at him. A little of it is amazement, but most is skepticism. He blinks owlishly from behind his thick-rimmed frames and purses his mouth thoughtfully. Pete’s a little afraid to move; it feels a lot like he’s being appraised before being sent to the slaughter. Taking a small step forward, Patrick calculatingly begins to lift his palm to Pete’s cheek. When he does make contact, though, he gasps audibly and pulls back quickly, like he’d been burnt or something.

"Wow," the alternate Patrick says lightly, blinking.

"Uh, yeah," Pete agrees with him. Out of his peripheral, he can see the vampire stand forebodingly in the doorway. If before he felt like prey, then well. "Hey, where are Joe and Andy?" he asks slowly, purposely avoiding his counterpart’s cold stare. It’s pretty easy to imagine, and that alone almost sends a chill down his spine.

Flippantly, Patrick replies with, “Oh, you know Andy,” and gestures vaguely towards the hallway, “he's training or something.” His eyes are still fixed on Pete.

A brief, tense moment forms between the two, where Patrick starts to raise his hand up to Pete again, but stops midway. A gaze flits past his blue eyes and he determinedly lifts his fingers back up to Pete’s face. “And Joe. He's-- I don't know, off.”

"Right," Pete says warily, desperately trying to ignore Patrick's careful touch. Distantly, he’s aware of just how hard Vampire Pete is scowling at him and how he crosses and uncrosses his arms.

"Pete," Patrick voices, turning his back on Pete and briefly facing the vampire. “Could you go and get Andy for me? I’m sure he knows some like, spooky spell to fix this.”

The real Pete doesn’t bother to turn his attention towards the vampire, just lets the grunt and fast, heavy footsteps speak for themselves. The fingers on his cheeks seem to press with more intent suddenly.

Patrick looks back at him, eyes shimmering happily. The scientist bites his lower lip and then divulges, a little giddily, “You’re so warm.”

His fingers travel away from his cheeks and down to his neck. A frown erupts on his face as he inspects the long blue and purple marks around his throat, but that passes soon enough as his fingertips move to his jugular and pause. Patrick breaks out into a large grin at the once-familiar thump-thump, gigging slightly.

“God, I never thought I'd feel this again,” he admits quietly.

Moving his hand to the tilt of Pete’s chin, he tugs at his lower jaw and leans in close. It startles Pete a little, but when he realizes Patrick is inspecting for fangs, he allows it. He can’t stop his fast and frequent blinking, though.

Of course, the fangs aren’t there and that elicits another airy, appreciative laugh. All he finds are Pete’s usual horsey teeth. As far as he can remember, no one has ever been so elated at their sight before.

Patrick slowly pulls away and lets his hands fall to his sides. He continues to watch Pete, though, and Pete watches back with building unease.

After a long moment, he wet his lips and gives Pete a significant look. Both their cheeks color, Pete can’t say for why, and Patrick brings his hand awkwardly to the back of his neck.

“You're so alive,” Patrick stammers out suddenly, breath quick. "It’s just. Your eyes, your skin, everything," he gushes, huffing laughter dizzily.

Pete blinks and looks away, down at his muddy shoes. “Thanks,” he accepts awkwardly, “You’re pretty alive yourself.” As an afterthought, he adds, “That must be tough to maintain here.”

Patrick smiles at him shyly, tilting his head down and looking up at him over the top of his frames. He takes a very small, very purposeful, step forward. Already they were already pretty close. When Patrick had stepped away earlier, it wasn’t by much. Pete knows certainly that his vampire self wouldn't appreciate it much, judging by his earlier scowls and by the possessive way he stared at Patrick.

Hesitantly, Patrick asks, “Can I?” and licks at his bottom lip. Pete can barely manage a, “Hu--” before Patrick reacts and pulls himself flush against Pete’s chest. Wrapping one arm around Pete’s neck and precariously placing his free hand at the center of his chest (right over his heart), Patrick urges forward and presses against his mouth sweetly.

Having been prepared for a moment such as this for the greater part of the millennium, Pete opens up on instinct. Patrick hums with quiet contentedness and reacts accordingly. Swiping his tongue over Pete’s lower lip, he desperately presses further in.

Understandably, Pete tries to savor it as much as possible; the pressure, his taste, Patrick’s soft mouth. It’s something he’s wanted for a long time, even if it isn’t exactly with the right person.

Patrick mewls against him. The hand he was pressing over Pete’s heart falls to his waist and Patrick’s long fingers start to inch of under the dirty hoodie, pressing flat against his toned stomach. Pete sighs and presses closer to him, only--

Only there’s a very familiar nagging in the back of his mind. It makes his stomach cramp and his sense of guilt bubble over. Pete sighs again, a different, heavier kind of sigh, and tries to snap out of the daze that’s taken over him.

“Wait, wait, no,” he proclaims stiltedly, attempting to push the shorter man away. Both seem incredibly frazzled. “Look, you-- we can’t do this. What about Pete?”

Patrick furrows his eyebrows confusedly and asks loudly, “What about him!”

He takes the opportunity to sidle back up on Pete and run his hands over his chest and shoulders. As much as he would like to, Pete doesn’t put up much of a fight and allows himself to be swayed by the touches and also by the way Patrick looks up at him – determined expression, red mouth. Chest to chest, Pete lets his head fall back against the wall and breathes as shakily as he can.

With forced aloofness, Patrick starts, “He says he's too dangerous for me. But it's his loss, though, right?” Weaving his fingers through Pete's hair, he leans up and nuzzles at his neck. “You're him, though. Only you're alive, and you're warm,” he says resolutely. When he speaks, Patrick’s lips brush against his throat.

“You say that, but you don’t want me. I know you don’t. You still want him,” Pete says, mind certain, but his voice wavers in the middle. As retaliation, Patrick presses his open mouth against his skin and starts to suck at his pulse. “And, shit. My Patrick…”

This dimension's Patrick stills and pulls away slow and deliberate. “Your Patrick?” he asks, blinking.

“Well, yeah,” Pete balks. “My Patrick. He’s not—He doesn’t feel like that for me, I’ve tried,” he admits difficultly. Pete looks away, then continues, “I know he would hate me if I let this happen.” Vampire Pete would hate him if he let it happen, more importantly. Like enough to actually kill him, not just stare him down from the hall.

“He doesn't want you?” Patrick questions, clearly astonished at the declaration. His bewilderment is incredibly flattering, if a little naïve of him. “But you're normal,” he argues, fisting Pete's hoodie and looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I’m alive and all, but it’s not like I’m any less fucked up than your Pete,” he clarifies bluntly, wrapping his arm around Patrick’s shoulder and neck comfortingly, pulling him close to his side. And Patrick just looks up at him through his eyelashes, before darting his focus away towards the bare warehouse walls.

Quietly, Pete adds, “Hey, you don't really want me anyway. You want him, I can tell.”

They both stand silently, Pete rubbing circles with his fingers into the back of Patrick’s neck. Taking a deep, shuddery breath, Patrick offers suddenly, “He won't let me save him.”

It’s obvious how distressed he is by that, how scared he is all the time.

“It's because he cares so much,” Pete states, pulling away to face Patrick. The only reason he sounds so sure of his words, is because he knows from experience. He grabs at Patrick’s forearm and lets his hand slide down until he cups their hands together innocently. "Don't give up on me yet, okay?”

The words snap Patrick out of his abstraction and he says quickly, sincerely, “I would never.”

“It's a good thing I have you, Patrick Stumph,” laughs Pete softly, dropping his hand just in time for heavy foot steps in the next hall.

“Hey,” vampire Pete grumbles darkly, stomping his way into the room with Andy trailing behind him. He looks intensely disturbed and cross (more than earlier even), but the others give it any sort of acknowledgment, so Pete has to assume it’s just his usual demeanor.

Andy lifts the book up over his head and declares triumphantly, “I'm here, and I've got a magic book.” Casting the real Pete a significant look, he appends, “We'll figure this shit out.”

"So you have all the same people on your side?" Andy asks idly, turning the manuscript’s tattered pages carefully. The book is very old and very magic and must be treated delicately, even if it is being totally useless at the moment. Pete sighs fitfully.

"Yeah, pretty much," he says distractedly, too busy pointedly ignoring his undead self and the dirty looks he's sending his way the entire night. The worst part is that he's starting to get why everyone thinks he's such a douchebag. "I've got a Beckett, only he's not evil or anything, just colorful."

So far, Pete hasn’t divulged much about where he comes from; just that he lives in a slightly different version of their world. He fails to mention at all the band's mega success or that their world, to him, is just the cheesy plot to a music video. Pete thinks it might give them a complex.

"Hey, where's Joe?" he asks, craning his neck around. He's on the couch next to Patrick, his arms stretched along the back, fingering the kitschy floral pattern; if he were to uncurl his fingers, they would graze Patrick's shoulder. V-Pete watches from an old Lazy Boy chair adjacent to them, once again looking incredibly sullen and surly.

"He's breaking in his demon bong," Patrick says thoughtfully, meeting Pete’s eyes with a small smile.

Pete replies simply, "That sounds dirty."

"It kind of is," chimes in Andy, a placid expression fixed on his face. He continues to slowly turn the pages of the book, pouring over the small hand-written print. "He nabbed it straight out of the claws of a soldier demon, two miles past the gates of Hades. Fought like hell to get it back up here—decapitated a few and had to smite some things."

"Cool," Pete nods, obviously impressed. "I'll have to tell my Joe that."

"Hey," Andy snaps his fingers, bringing their attention to him. Jabbing his index finger at the page, he says, "Found something." Pete quickly scrambles off the couch, tripping over Patrick’s feet and skitters over to Andy at the coffee table. He’s all ears.

Andy pulls the book away from Pete, trying to protect its ancient papyrus paper from his harsh breathing and prodding fingers. "Okay, okay,” he shoos him away. “It says we have to do this under a full moon. Also, we have to summon a time spirit."

"Your words or theirs?" Vampire Pete remarks snidely, rapping his fingers along the arm of his chair.

Andy just raises an eyebrow and calmly replies, "Mine."

It's at that point that Pete tosses Patrick a crooked smile (more like a grimace), that can easily be translated to: ‘Pete’s a dick’. He’s seen it enough times from his band mates and friends to be well versed in its meaning. It’s the first time he’s ever done it, though.

Patrick just smiles easily back at him and casts his Pete a sidelong glance.

"Anyway," continues Andy affectedly. "That's tomorrow night luckily, so you won't be stuck here forever or anything." Pete responds with an enthusiastic thumbs up. "In the meantime--"

"You'll be staying in my room," V-Pete interrupts, smiling derisively at regular Pete. Whether it's intentional or not, he licks at his pointed incisors and it's suitably frightening. He tries his best not to react, and nod accordingly, then shuffles his way back to his claimed spot next to Patrick.

Flopping down, he sinks into the overly plush cushions. And really, it’s out of habit that he does this, lets his head loll onto Patrick’s shoulder. There’s the low rumbling of a growl, though, that instantly prompts to sit back up. No one else reacts, so he acts like he didn’t, either.

Later that night, or morning rather, Pete stumbles his way down into the vampire’s basement bedroom. It’s bare mostly, probably due to his counterpart’s destructive tendencies. The group of hunters lacks the patience and money to clean up after his most likely frequent tantrums.

"Listen, Pete," the vampire tells him, looking at him dangerously. There’s nothing non-threatening about his current character. "Leave Patrick alone, okay?"

"Right, whatever you say," Pete breathes, bringing his hands up in submission. He inches his way back from his double. "I'm not trying to step on any toes."

"Good," he says, turning his back on Pete, and gracefully climbs into his coffin-locker. After a moment alone, Pete kneels down onto the makeshift bed on the floor (courtesy of Patrick) and curls into the blankets. They smell like Patrick still, and he misses home suddenly with a sharp pang. He doesn’t feel asleep till 12 in the afternoon. It’s even harder for him to fall asleep when it’s light out.

"It's cold!" whines Pete, crawling further into the same hoodie he's been wearing for the past two days. It’s worn and stretched in the shoulders and elbows and the laundry scent faded away long ago. Andy chuckles softly at him, but otherwise doesn’t look up from the swirling, geometric drawings he’s marking on the asphalt with white chalk.

"Stop complaining!" the other Pete rolls his eyes. The vampire huffs for a second, then stares straight up into the sky. If there are any stars out, he can’t see them; too many yellow-glowing light posts to make out the tell-tale twinkling. "It's weird tonight," he notes, casting Patrick a significant look.

The moon is full and heavy like it's supposed to be. It looks the same as it always has, except now it maybe seems more important. Regular Pete’s about to point it out to Patrick, when he’s interrupted by an outburst from his counterpart.

"Fuck," curses V-Pete, slipping into predator mode faster than Pete’s able to understand what's happening. His face hardens into a sneer and his muscles tense beneath his jacket. "It's Beckett."

"Christ,” Pete screeches, half-burying his face in his hands. The only thing that he had really been concerned about since arriving, were his own terrifying qualities (Vampire Pete had yet to come to terms with the other Pete and would terrorize him in subtle ways whenever possible) and the always imminent threat of Beckett had slipped his mind.

"He's not in today," muttered Patrick, who had also suddenly and easily slipped into the defensive. They were all on defense actually, except Pete, who stood off to the side rather lamely.

The Dandies didn't drop down on them suddenly like Pete imagined they would. They strolled in, quite elegantly, with William heading the pack. It was a very serious moment and he tried not to make it worse by giggling at Brendon's place in the second row, or at his bowler hat.

"Peter," William called out, hands clenched tightly around his cane. He didn’t specify which he was speaking to… Pete wasn't even sure if he had been noticed or not, but he decided to remain silent either way. “Come out, Peter.”

Instead, though, of responding verbally, the vampire hunters instantly charge, each going breaking into their own small battles. Pete's counterpart made straight for Beckett, while Andy and Joe stabbed and sliced at the henchman. Patrick, as far as Pete could see, was off taking on the fledglings, launching sharp projectiles at them.

He sees this as an opportunity and Pete, knowing most were distracted with the fight, crept off into the night. He made his way through the parking lot easily enough, racing from behind abandoned car to abandoned car. The only life he comes across are the moths that float gauzily around his face, wings occasionally flapping against his cheeks.

It’s after that, as he tries to slip his way down the empty streets, that begins to feel the weight off eyes following him – a skill that was recently honed by his arrival; Vampire Pete refused to let a minute pass without casting a least one menacing look at him.

The back of his neck prickles and, before he can even disregard the fleeting feeling as paranoia, a surprisingly frigid arm wraps around his throat.

"Pete Wentz, I know that's not you," a familiar voice coos to him, "You're far too warm to be him.” There's a sharp crack (the sound of a blunt instrument colliding with his skull) and then everything sort of goes black.

He wakes up on a pile of pillows. It might be nice, if not for the ache that convinces him his head must be split open, or for the blood that had dripped down onto his face while he was unconscious. When he gets his awareness back, his first instinct is to check his neck for any puncture marks and thankfully, there are none.

"That's so typical," a voice says cynically. Pete looks up and is surprised to see Brendon Urie sitting on a bar stool watching him, hat tipped jauntily on his head. "Because we happen to live off of blood and we've viciously knocked you out, you automatically assume we've taken your blood."

Pete frowns, "Well, it would make sense."

Brendon sighs dramatically and considers it, "Yes, maybe." There's only one window in the room; it's small and rectangle, and placed high near the ceiling. From this, Pete gathers he's in a basement somewhere, and it's obviously only been a few hours, judging by the still dark sky. "I should probably go get William. I think he's done with the real Pete by now."

"What?" Pete cries, eyes widening. They were the one thing he had been unconcerned with. This was the type of situation they dealt with regularly… Surely they would have escaped, they’re professionals.

"Yeah, he's in the main hall with him right now. They're discussing something very important," Brendon leans in and smugly informs him. The fluorescent lighting flickers at odd intervals causing Brendon's fangs to glimmer dangerously at Pete.

"Oh..." Pete says uncomfortably, starting to eye the room.

"I'll be right back," he hops off the stool and walks towards the steel door right behind him. "Don't think about leaving, either. William will have a fit after he catches you," he says certainly. Pete doesn’t let the phrasing slip past him and nods accordingly.

Brendon scoots out of the room with a small wave of his hand, the door grating closed right after. Pete sighs and looks around the empty room; there isn’t much besides the pillows he’s still resting on. Pete can't think of anything else the room could possibly be used for, judging by its accoutrements, other than briefly storing hostages.

It’s only a few minutes before the door opens again, but this time, it’s William Beckett sauntering in. He’s very much the fop Pete expected, suit not having been sullied at all during the fight. He slowly makes his way towards Pete, who still sits on the floor, his shoes very intentionally clicking against the concrete flooring.

“I don’t know how you got here, Peter,” William begins, looking him over calculatingly, “And I don’t think you know, either.”

He takes several more steps forward, until he stands, looming over Pete's position on the ground. His brown hair falls over his face and it's all very lovely and sinister.

"So tell me, Pete Wentz," and Pete just watches for the hint of fang that appears when he enunciates particular words. "Are you an ally to me, or a detriment?"

"A detriment!" Pete sputters automatically, and then explains quickly as Beckett's face twists into a scowl, "I mean, I can't really do anything. I'm a detriment to everyone."

Pete sniffs loudly and continues, "I couldn't really help you at all. If you need me to rig a disco ball out of Coke cans, I could probably help. Other Beckett could tell you that—”

“Other Beckett?” Williams interrupts, flicking the hair out of his eyes and back behind his shoulder. Pete catches onto the game quick enough.

“Um, yeah!” Pete crows, looking up at him slyly. "We have our very own Beckett, where I'm from. He's an amazing dude--he can't kill people or anything, but he still has all these like, minions." It's hardly an exaggeration.

"I'm not a vampire there?" he questions slowly, voice taking on a very deliberately easy tone. Beckett knows what he’s doing, so does Pete, and he allows it anyway. He trusts himself to steer the conversation in the direction he needs.

"No, you're in a band," he answers carefully. "You totally have a harem."

William bites his lip and reluctantly sighs, "I always wanted a harem." He cocks his hip and looks at Pete contemplatively; it's comforting to see such a familiar sight. "How many were in my harem?"

"Oh, loads. I was even in your harem for a while, but I had to leave due to contractual obligations," Pete tries to hold back from appearing too interested in the voices suddenly lingering just outside the room.

"Um, sir?" A head pokes in through the door.

"What?" Beckett hisses, though he doesn't turn away from Pete.

"They're gone," he explains simply, looking quite terrified.

"They're gone?" Pete and Beckett question simultaneously. "Explain to me how this happened?" William requests, voice thin and tenuous. Pete nods in agreement, also curious.

"They had allies," the messenger finally slips into the door. His suit is ragged in some places, and there's blood on his sleeve. Pete isn't sure whose blood it actually is, but he knows whose he hopes it is. "They were a group of hunters, from the desert. One of them was a bloodsucker."

"So the Cobras have finally made their presence known?" William asks, finally facing the nameless fledgling. He just nods lamely and stares deliberately at the floor. And as if suddenly remember Pete's attendance, William raises an eyebrow and sighs affectedly. "Just leave. Like you said, you’re not really of use to anyone."

Pete tries not to pout too much at Beckett’s words, instead concentrates on crawling forward onto his knees and pulling himself up. "Uh, thanks." Beckett just rolls his eyes and waves him off. Pete can't get out of the headquarters fast enough.

“Pete!” Patrick cries, jumping up and rushing over to him. Aside from being a little scraped and bruised, the gadget guy doesn’t look too worse for wear. Vampire Pete, on the other hand, looks absolutely haggard. He has a split lip, a possibly broken nose, and there are blotted blue bruises sprouting up all along his face. Haggard is absolutely appropriate. “We didn’t know where you were, or we would have come for you,” Patrick continues, running his hands over Pete’s face, smoothing down his hair and muttering at the blood that still sticks to his face.

“It’s okay, I was just with Beckett,” he answers easily, smiling reassuringly at Patrick. When he turns to face the others, he notices the additions, the Cobras Beckett was told about. Gabe and the usual suspects stand idly towards the back of the room. They all wear the same matching, garish purple jacket, but appear to all be in one piece. He nods awkwardly at them, not exactly sure how to greet them.

“You were alone with him?” the other Pete questions, stepping forward. It’s the first time Pete can say he was looked at with something other than animosity.

“Uh, yeah,” Pete grimaces, still eyeing the few from Cobra. “He let me go after he found out you all got away, and I explained how I pretty much fail at everything.”

“And he just let you go?” V-Pete squawks, shoving Patrick aside. The vampire grabs Pete by the neck and shoulder, roughly pulling his head aside to check for any puncture marks.

“Ow,” Pete whines, slapping the vampire’s hands away. “Yes, he did.” Vampire Pete just groans and backs away to his usual lurking spot, hands crossed over his chest. “So, like. It’s still night, can we get this done with? I kind of want to go home now.”

“The sooner, the better,” the vampire mutters darkly, stalking away from the group. He seems to be more brooding than usual.

“Alright,” Andy steps in, slapping his hands together in an upbeat fashion. There’s a cut just above his eyebrow, but it appears to have been stitched up prior to Pete’s arrival. “Let’s do this, once and for all.”

They don’t go back to the parking lot. They got away once; they’d rather not test the fates twice in the same night. Instead, they all go back the alley Pete crawled out of. He toes the brick wall, scuffing at the self-promotion some kid tagged there.

“This better work,” he grumbles, squinting up at the faraway lamp post.

“Seriously,” Vampire Pete replies. It’s his last ten minutes in the bizarre universe and Pete feels absolutely no trepidation at all about sending his own dirty looks the vampire’s way. They’re not nearly as effective, though.

Andy crouches low on the ground, one palm spread out on the floor to hold his balance and the other making swift chalk lines on the ground. Gabe, who had tagged along for the reason of there being nothing else to do, looks over Andy’s shoulder and seems suitably impressed.

Pointing a long finger at the sketch, he says, “Looks like a smiley face.”

The vegan glowers at him and makes several more harsh curving lines. “I’m not done yet,” he mutters darkly, tucking the chalk into his palm and smudging one of the marks. “Okay, okay. Now.”

Patrick tries to surreptitiously fit his palm into Pete’s, but the vampire notices and actually snarls. Pete pulls away quickly, properly chastised. It’s not as if they were going to start sexing, it was just meant to be comforting. Of all people, he should know how helpful that can be sometimes.

Well, no, actually. He probably doesn’t.

For once, Pete decides to just let it go. He turns to look at the redheaded scientist and offers him a crooked smile. Pete’s attempt to laser beam his thoughts into Patrick’s head fails mostly, but he suspects Patrick gets it anyway.

‘You have to give him lots and lots of hugs. He won’t ask you for them, so you’re going to have to get him in a corner and force yourself onto him. Good luck!’

He doubts Patrick has any problem with that.

“Are you ready?” Andy asks him excitedly. He views this experience mostly as a test of his black magic skills. If he mucks it up, then oh well. At least it wasn’t vampire Pete or someone important. The real Pete sort of understands.

“Yep,” he agrees and practically runs over to the chalk design.

Andy scoots back a little from his drawing, but still remains crouching down on the floor. His knees will be scraped slightly the next day, but he’s dealt with far worse. Leaning back on his haunches, he digs his hand into his cargo pocket and pulls out a small vile. The liquid inside it is murky and jaundice, bubbling towards the top.

Casting a weighty look at Pete, Andy pulls the cork off the top and swishes it around lightly. Vampire Pete wrinkles his nose and grimaces at the smell.

“This is why I hate being a super undead,” the vampire murmurs. Then, “None of you smell that?”

The collective shake their heads and shrug plainly. Pete laughs a little, which earns him a sneer from his alternate self. He takes it obligingly, though. Two minutes left.

With a flourish, Andy tosses the vile at the ground and it cracks with a shatter. Pete seems to be the only one who jumps at the noise, but in his defense, he thought Andy was just going to pour it. “There you go,” says the vegan helpfully, gesturing to the floor. The chalk markings have started to swirl around, moving quick and fast. The thin, careful lines around the edge start to glow.

Patrick presses himself closer to Pete’s side, wrapping his warm palm around his forearm. Vampire Pete looks two seconds away from ripping Pete’s face off. He might think it all terribly sweet, if he weren’t the one being physically threatened.

“Hey, ‘Trick,” Pete says and he can literally see his counterpart twitch in anger, “I’ll totally the remember all those fun times we had together.” He had meant it as a joke mostly, but the way Patrick laughs and grins back at him makes it not so much.

So in a move that requires equal parts daring and stupidity, Pete grabs Patrick by the shoulders and presses a sloppy kiss against his mouth. He can feel the redhead smiling into it and their teeth clink together, but it still makes his stomach jump. At least there’s one Patrick out there that doesn’t mind kissing him.

All the fun times are interrupted, though, by a sound he’ll later be able to identify as his own death rattle. He feels the vampire roughly grab him by his hoodie and forcibly drag him towards the glowing whirlpool. “Goodbye,” he growls and throws Pete down at the ground, hard. He reactively cringes, waiting for impact, but it doesn’t come.

As he plummets into a swirling oblivion, he thinks, “Wow, I’m an asshole.” Then, “I hope Andy got this right.”

AN: I wrote this many months ago for [livejournal.com profile] crash_it_yo as a comment fic. I know, right? It is pretty long. For me, anyway.

Comment please! It would be nice.
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J. Gomez

May 2009


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