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Would the bartender’s bottle-opener be sharp enough to scrape their eyes out? Probably not, even if it is shaped like a dagger. It was still a comfort to imagine they could stop the images flashing through their mind’s eye like a projector screen stuck on loop. They didn’t even see it in chronological order, which was a pain, as though they aren’t capable enough to sort their own fucking brain out.
A grave. Blue and red lights. Blood so dark in the night it looked like tar dripping from the steering wheel. David in his mourning suit, his eulogy script crumpled in his fist. Gabe on a stretcher. All out of fucking order.
Get a grip.
Tank had never actually trusted their brain with anything high-level but, like, default stuff? The stuff brains were supposed to do automatically like function? They’d been under the impression brains knew innately how to deal with trauma - namely, not think about it at all - but apparently their brain specifically was fucked and decided sitting like a douche in a bloodclub, still in their funeral wear, and rewinding the last month in the wrong order was the best coping mechanism. Yep. You’re doing great, brain. Keep fucking trying.
A table somewhere at the back cheered and clinked their glasses so hard Tank expected to hear some shatter. Shatter like Gabe’s windscreen when that drunk driver T-boned him—
Tank licked the salt off their hand, downed the tequila shot - fifth one so far, they should slow down - and bit the lime slice. They manage about two seconds before wincing at the sour burn but they don't stop sucking at it. They don’t hold their hand up like any normal person would, instead dropping their hands onto the bar hard enough to thump and ache a little and letting their teeth hold the lime. They don’t want to be comfortable tonight.
The bartender slides up to gesture at the cluster of empty glasses. Tank nods and another appears. Christ, they hope they remembered their wallet this time. There’s already two clubs on this street they are blacklisted from, and this one has the best drinks.
Could always pay in a different currency, s’ppose. Tank mused.
The bartender isn’t a vamp, but there are plenty hanging around. One of them will foot Tank’s bill for a drink of their own. Hell, they might offer it even without the money. Tonight’s feeling like the kinda night they want to get out of their head and into their body. Fangs, they’ve learned, are a great way to do that.
Tank spits the drained lime slice onto the napkin with the others.
What would a Gabe think of it? Probably call it some messed up grounding technique they should replace with something that feels good in their body, not bad.
Well, Gabe’s six feet under now so it means fuck all anyways.
Tank takes their salt, shot, and lime again.
Get a grip. Get a grip!
They could’ve stayed at the pack grounds after the funeral. David wouldn’t be there. He’d excused himself before even Tank had ditched, accepting all the condolences and we’re here for you’s and apologies dropped on him. He’s probably drinking himself into the ground up in his stupid flat, and Asher will go and be sad with him and they’ll drown their sorrows together and maybe Milo and Marie will drop off food for him in the morning to make sure he takes care of himself…
Tank doesn’t want to be a part of that right now. Let David get his support without Tank ruining it. He lost his dad. What the hell did Tank lose? An Alpha? Yeah, well, they had one back in Washington and they sure as shit didn’t need any fucking hugs when they’d left and never seen her again. Isn’t this just some darker parallel? They’ll never speak to their old Alpha again, and now it’s the same with Gabe.
It’s no different.
The table cheers and clink glasses too hard again, this time something does shatter and a wave of ear-scratching laughter rises. Tank waves the bartender away when she points for another drink and spins on their lumpy stall to face the club.
It’s all moody and dim and a little cliche with all the red and blacks, really playing into their reputation of being a vamp hotspot.
The loud table’s full of people a little younger than Tank, probably DAMN students way too excited to be risking a vamp club. There’s at least two of the bloodsuckers inconspicuously circling the table, sniffing out whichever idiot has the scent they’ve caught. Tank glares, settling into watching until the kids either use their brain cells and leave or the vamps get bold. There’s rules in these clubs. If Tank picks a fight ‘cause one of them got feisty, they wouldn’t get shit for it. Not officially anyway. But they’d get a couple looks from the other vampires for ruining some fun. Nothing a bit of their own blood won’t smooth over.
There’s a duo sharing a human between them in the corner, all having a swell time. Another vamp standing directly in the middle of the room devouring some guy’s neck and being noisy about it.
Maybe they’re the kind of pained sounds Gabe made when he was bleeding out— Killed on impact. Gabe was gone before he could even feel it.
Get. A. Grip.
“Get a grip you fucking piece of shit bastard bitch mother of fucking hell.” Tank mutters, thumb and forefinger rubbing hard over their hairline.
“Well, aren't you precious?”
Tank smothers a flinch but can’t stop themselves from tensing every muscle in their body as the rush of wind that comes with vamp speed quickly fades. The man next to them has a smile fittingly wide for the pure joy clinging to his voice. He sprawls on the stall beside them, limbs wide and relaxed, facing Tank head on and staring. His grey eyes are bright.
Tank knows instantly he’s no good.
They swing around to face him. “D’you want something?”
“Do you always swear so much?” He laughs.
“I like swearing. You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why?” He leans forward, sounding fascinated.
Tank squints at his smile, as high up as they’ll look so he doesn’t trance them. “Because people usually get the idea pretty fucking quickly of what mood I’m in. Answer.”
“Demanding!” He sing-songs, kicking his feet and Tank’s stomach twists at how unbothered he is. “I approve–”
“–I don’t need your approval–”
“–Tell me, I’ve seen you here before haven’t I? It’s not your first time in a bloodclub, you’re doing all the right things! All the smart things. Not looking me in the eyes, cutting yourself off before tipsy becomes vulnerable drunkenness, facing me so you’re at a better angle to defend or fight…Caught some trouble before?”
Tank’s brain buffers, because it really can’t do anything right, and they blink at the vamp’s grin. His fangs are out. It’s a good smile.
He barks a laugh. “Too much?”
No. Tank can handle much more than some basic fucking observations even if it is a new feeling to have someone notice so much about them so quickly. “Fuck off.” Then they ask, because if their brain is going to fail them it may as well fail them properly, “What’s your name?”
More teeth show. A winning smile. “Quinn Fox, the pleasure is all mine.”
He offers his hand, smooth and unmarred, and Tank takes it. Instead of shaking their hand, Quinn uses the upward motion to drag it to his mouth and press a kiss to their knuckles.
Tank buffers again, that little spinny circle going round and round in their head. Tonight was a fight-night not…this? Although, fighting with this guy might turn out to be fun. Maybe I should get this one to pay for the drinks.
“No need to introduce yourself, of course. Oh, the look on your face! It’s my favourite kind of reaction. You’re doing well, keep going.”
The gleeful tone drops into something smooth and daring. Tank wants to meet the challenge. Show this Quinn Fox exactly what they’re good for and knock that damn smile off his face, maybe punch a few teeth down his throat while they’re at it. That would distract them.
The table of students quiets, and then starts packing up. Probably realised how out of depth they are, hanging around so late. Tank’s glad. They weren’t going to wait around forever and play guardian angel.
They feel for their phone in their pocket. No one’s tried to call them, what harm would it do the pack, then, if Tank gets in some trouble no one knows about? What they don’t know won’t hurt them. “Are you looking for a drink?”
Quinn sighs a happy sound so soft it's almost lost in the bar’s noise. He ducks forwards to rest his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands. For a split second they have eye contact before Tank jerks their gaze to the empty shot glasses, heart thumping. Fuck, that’s all he’d have needed to trance them, get them pliant and drain them dry in some alley. But he didn’t.
Their chest tightens. It feels like a missed opportunity, that Quinn didn’t do it, didn’t take responsibility for their life. It wouldn’t be the worst way to go, not today. The bite stings but it’s not bad, the actual bloodsucking is an addicting sensation. Really, if Tank were to die then tonight wouldn’t be a bad time for it and having a pretty vamp like Quinn be the one to do it would be okay. Tank would still fight it, sure, but half the fun is knowing they’re beat. They don’t get to feel loss often.
“Why, are you offering?”
“Pick up my bill and I might be.”
Quinn laughs. It’s sudden and sharp and not a pretty sound but it still suits him. Yeah, Tank could do a lot worse than this one. “My, you are something. Very well.” He waves a card at the bartender like it was in his hand the whole time. “We’ll take this somewhere else, yes? You don’t seem like the type to enjoy public vulnerability, am I right?”
Tank nods. For once, they wish they didn’t care about their chances of survival, wish they could let Quinn drink from them here and risk the attention of multiple vampires. Instead all they can hear is Gabe telling them to find things in life that make it worth living. Well, here they are. Tank doesn’t think this is what he’d had in mind.
Quinn pays for them and Tank’s already heading for the door.
Tank doesn’t head for their place, doesn’t ask Quinn to take them to his. They round the corner of the club down a thin street that hardly counted as anything more than a walkway. Even if they want to survive, they wouldn’t mind being forced to stop. For today at least. They could pass out and readily not wake up to deal with their grief, or David’s or Asher’s or Milo’s or anyone's. The fantasy of their imagined death by Quinn’s hand sticks in their head.
If they’re going to die, it’ll be on their terms.
They lean their back against the rough brick, far enough down the street that the lampposts at either end don’t reach them. No one can see.
In their periphery Quinn watches them situate themself, a curious expression painted over his smile. He doesn’t ask to go somewhere else, doesn’t question Tank at all. He just accepts it and Tank’s grateful for it.
They consider their body. They tap fingers against the pulse in their wrist. It would be the easiest place to bite, least invasive, but it leaves their hands sore and stiff. Not a bad thing, usually, but with the pack having such a shift in power they’re vulnerable, and other groups might get cocky. Tank should be able to fight if they need to defend Shaw territory.
If it was a vamp they were in bed with, they’d offer their thighs. That’s always good. But they’re not pulling their trousers down in some alley.
That leaves their neck. It’s their least favourite for no other reason than it’s so close to their throat. It’d be so easy for a vamp to close their jaw and bite through their windpipe, leave them choking on blood. They don’t like that it’s a more intense sensation, too intimate, too close for some stranger vampire to have. But they have to be able to fight, if they live, and so they need their arms and legs.
“Here.” Tank says, pointing to the left side of their neck and tilting their head. “Do it low down.”
Quinn strolls forward until he takes up most of Tank’s vision. He’s the same height with his curly hair, the perfect height to bite their neck.
For a long moment he does nothing. Tank wonders what he’s waiting for, peering at him sidelong. “Well?”
All at once his hand is shoving Tank’s head further aside so it stretches their neck uncomfortably, enough to feel the tendons straining against their skin while the other grasps their shoulder to keep them balanced.
Tank grunts debating if they really are going to die and whether it’s worth fighting it.
Quinn’s breath coasts lukewarm over their throat, his breathing completely even. Not many vampires keep their cool when food’s waved under their nose. He must be old. “You really are precious…” He presses open kisses just above where their shoulder meets neck, over and over again on the same spot. He’ll bite there. It’s going to hurt.
Tank hears Gabe telling them about life being capable of good things as well as bad things, and thinks this might not be what he meant, but it’s still good.