anikabooker

[anikabooker]

The shack ain’t like the one she used to live in down the street from Anika back in Boston. But it’s not like Anika had been living in a castle either. Her family home was the best she ever got — then it was motels, cars, tents in the woods. Life hadn’t been kind to either of them.

But Althea seemed to be holding it together, and that almost gave Anika enough nerve to say it.

I’m leaving you for the second time, Baines.

The first one was so long ago. And with everything that came after (death, death, death and more death), did they even remember? Salt tears, and bitter kisses, the way it felt like the world had split in half.

Her hands stayed buried in her pockets, shoulders tight, rocking heel to toe like maybe the ground might swallow her before she had to say it out loud. "Gotta tell you something, Baines." She could already see Althea’s face before the woman even turned. Could practically hear the joke waiting in her mouth. Some sarcastic jab ripped straight out of Anika’s own chest. You got cancer or something, Booker? She could picture it — the crooked smile with that chipped tooth, the playfulness she’d always hated for being too damn easy. Not cancer, Baines.

"I’m leaving." she said.

Rip the fucking band-aid off, Anika.

closed starter for: @anikabooker where: some cabins on the northside

They're pretty rundown, if Althea is gonna be real honest with herself. Like, fixer upper level. But it's quiet enough, and it's not smack dab in the middle of werewolf running territory, either. It's probably for the best, though, a shack like this is a steal. She thumbs at her chin and looks up at Anika -- a quiet place to talk, away from people, away from expectation.

She sniffs, and goes to the cooler she'd dumped near the front porch - no electricity yet in the damn place, and she's honestly considering not even forking that over. She's made do on the road with fire and candles before, it ain't no different.

But she grabs a beer and hands it off to her friend, the can dripping ice and water down onto the dirt and grass. "Figure it'd be easier to talk out here. Got it a few weeks after that fancy ass party." And now she's fully in debt, but whatever. She'll make it work. Odds and ends jobs around town will help her make the payments, and she can take whatever money she gets from the vampires she offs.

[anikabooker]

closed — @romythorne

She felt smaller now, with a shaky hand wrapped tight around the paintbrush, barely anything on the canvas that didn’t look like it belonged to a toddler. Blue, orange, and green bled into one another, muddied shapes where eyes stared back at her in that familiar light— like a photograph she might’ve kept in a wallet.

But Anika never kept anything for long. Never settled anywhere long enough to unpack her bags.

Looking around her now — at the bits and pieces that made Port Liery what it was, at faces passing by, the familiar windows across the street, she was reminded how much this place had given her. And how much it had taken. Here, she’d met Romy. And here, her art had meaning again.

Her voice cracked sharp into the silence, deflecting before it could get heavy. "That look like anyone would give a shit and a half for, Thorne?" Because why else would she be busting her ass, with one good hand, if not to cash out? Romy was always there, hovering, spilling encouragement over her head and shoulders like some overly-attached mother at a high school pep rally. "Now show me yours. You’re the student here, remember? I’m supposed to be your crippled teacher."

[anikabooker]

How long will you give me, he asked, already knowing the answer. However long you need, she wanted to say. She wasn’t in a rush to escape to another fucking motel, where another four moldy walls would suffocate them — where he’d lock himself away during the day, fighting for his sanity, almost losing it every morning until the sun went down again and he saw her face. Then his eyes would light up, and she could feel the cogs inside his head turning back into place.

They’d lie in bed all night, limbs tangled, breathing each other in. Or he’d take her somewhere she’d never been before, some secret gem hidden in the bleeding heart of this dead-ass city. His city. His home.

And maybe hers, too. Because Reid was her home. She’d wait for him, however long he needed.

"I don't have anyone." A quick and easy lie, because someone like her was supposed to die alone. Anika wasn't supposed to be loved, missed, or mourned. She'd let the words slip between shoving shoes and socks all in one bag, trying to fit whatever she could, without looking at his face. He’d call it a lie. Because there was Lara. There had always been Lara, no matter how much Anika hated to admit it. Lara, who rubbed the blood and dirty off her body in the shower, when she couldn't stand on her feet. Lara, who came down to the underworld and dragged her out of her own hell. He’d seen it with his own eyes — how she walked because of Lara.

And there were others: Romy. Aurelia. Liam. Allie. Faces she wished she could forget as easily as she spoke.

The zipper nearly ripped under her hand, harsh and final. "You sound like you're my fucking prisoner. Like I dangled a treat and you came crawling out of your little cage to chase it." She yanked the bag over her shoulder and turned for the door. Better dump it in the car now, before he changed his mind.

"What are you gonna tell them?" Her neck tilted his way, words cutting as she clattered down the stairs toward the stolen car. "Indulge my fucking curiosity for once, Halstead." He was a damn good liar himself, wasn't he? He'd made up some shit, whatever was fucking easier to swallow, whatever would make it fucking easier to sleep at night.

Always so to the point. Always so late after the fact. Anika doesn't slow pace for anything, not herself, not him. No one. Even in her slight pause, her gaze is a thousand paces too fast, speaking in ways that translate to impatience, and expectation and disappointment and the doubt that Reid can never shake. He looks to that packed bag, to the empty shell of a motel room, to the unmade bed, and the towel on the floor back to her, jaw tightening because the walls get smaller with every agonising line of an impending argument.

"How long will you give me?" He won't set a benchmark or a timer. He could say a day, a week or a month. Anika will always dictate the constraints of these terms, because if she doesn't, then he'll come back to the motel one day, and she'll be gone. And it'd be because he took too long. He can't do that. So she has to set the time; he'll have to meet it. He can't win unless she lets him.

Reid shakes his head at her accusation, breathing out a laugh of disbelief because she's so fucking quick to put words in his mouth. "You think you get it?" She doesn't. "I'm not even asking you to. I'm telling you I need to talk to some people — and really, so should you." Because there's Lara, who is important to Anika even if she says shit about it being otherwise. You were going to run to Lara when we fought, you were going to hide at her house, because I upset you. And she thinks Lara isn't something she can count on; someone who would want to hear she's skipping town?

Anika's heart isn't this cold, even if she wants everyone to believe it to be. Reid's seen the sun beating in her chest; seen in her eyes when they burn him with that stare.

She's anything but cold, underneath it all. "I told you, before." With her back pressed against metal, and her legs wrapped around his waist. "I'd go with you, Booker." A reminder, because it'll be good for both of them. "Wherever you want. But I have to find a way to make peace with my family, at least. Give me that."

[anikabooker]

"Then talk."

She wanted to hear whatever he had to say. Because last time they talked, it wasn’t a conversation — it was a fucking verbal sparring match. He’d seen the way she crumbled on the floor by the door, when her father shoved that ugly truth down her throat and made her swallow it whole. Every fucking corner of this place reminded her of loss. So did Boston. So she left that too. Every place she’d ever been held a piece of her, a part she’d grieved. What else was left here for her? Only death.

There was a time when she’d greeted the bitch gladly. He’d known her then — when death was a relief, the light at the end of the tunnel. When there was nothing left but revenge, and the lengths she’d go to get it. But they had each other now, didn’t they? He held her when she woke up drenched in sweat, haunted by nightmares. Held her even when she told him not to. Held her when she kicked and screamed. She couldn’t leave without him, could she? He’d grown on her, like a limb. He’d grown roots somewhere deep inside her.

"How long do you need?"

Her eyes met his once she turned to face him fully, no longer busying herself with silly shit. She couldn’t avoid that look on his face forever.

"Don’t look at me like that." A beat. "Like you’ve got a life here, and I don’t. Like you’re not really sure what to fucking do. You don’t want to stay, but you don’t want to go. I get it."

Did she? No — not really. Because running was in her nature. It was fucking hereditary — to leave everything behind. And something told her he’d need just the right amount of time. Before her father bit the dust. It always happened like that, didn’t it? Life had a cruel fucking way of sneaking up on you. And she had it all planned out already. To leave. To get the fuck out. Before her heart broke.

Reid tries not to make it obvious on his face that she doesn't need a loaded gun; he wonders if in her haste, she's even put the safety on. But he's not dumb enough of a guy to let her know he's thinking that — not unless he wants one unloaded in his chest. This is too rushed, and he knows it. Anika knows it. This isn't a matter of getting out of dodge or running from their histories. Reid has pieces of his old life that he can't just cut out without saying something first.

He needs those conversations, for him, for them. So Anika isn't something he grows to resent for convincing him to finally rip up his dead roots and find some other dark place to skulk in. Somewhere that doesn't know his name, or has anything that might come out of the darkness and take from him.

Halstead bites his tongue for as long as he can, gently sliding his hand under the hand that Anika's got closing the bag. He's softly easing her whitening knuckles from the zipper. Reid closes it the rest of the way in one swift motion, and then lifts his eyes back to hers.

"No, but I want to talk about it." Second thoughts aren't all it is, and he remembers the moment she'd asked him to leave with her — up against a shipping container down at the docks where he'd had Anika pinned; a position where his judgment had agreed so carelessly because sweat and shallow breaths would have had him consenting to near enough anything. Reid doesn't want her doing anything, alone. Least of all, walking out the door without him.

He lets go of her bag, and allows the beginning of regrettable things fall from his mouth. He's masking irritation, but not well enough that it doesn't come off as frustrated. Fuck sake, Anika. "I don't need you reminding me how independent you are. I know." He has to add, before she might pull that fucking gun on him. "I have to talk to people. Even if my sisters don't want anything to do with me, after everything. I have to —" She doesn't need the damn list. "I have loose ends to close, Booker. Give me some time. Okay?"

[anikabooker]

Fuck. They really were happy.

Somewhere in their fucking miserable shit of an existence, they’d found peace. Even in death, where bloodlust ruled every impulse, and the stench of decay wrapped around them like cloak, there was peace.

She’d never looked at it that way before. Maybe because, for a decade, she wouldn’t even let nasty fucking creatures breathe near her before they bit the bullet. No, she never gave them a second of her time. But Anika was staring at Lara now, almost unblinking, like the woman had just said something fucking astonishing.

"Good for you, yeah?" Was it? Anika didn’t know. But there was something different about Lara, looking at her now, really seeing her for the first time, and she noticed. Reid didn’t look like that, did he? Happy? No. Sometimes dead was just dead.

Mossy hues dipped down the tight shoes on her feet, where one of her toes was already turning purple. "'Cause I’m still breathing, and I'll hate to miss the chance to shove a fucking hors d’oeuvre in someone’s ass — ‘cause that’s a special skill I picked up training with my one good hand.” Ha. Ha. Joke. Almost.

She grins up at Anika - "She's playing catch up on shit. Netflix, books, movies, whatever." A shrug. "Least I can do is indulge her." She adjust the mask, tries to not think about the itching pain that slithers its way up into her eye. She also tries not to think about the way Anika has her own scars from the last few months, and the way if she were her that she'd not rest until the woman who did it was dead and buried. Or turned to dust.

"Surprise! Vampires act just as human as you." She pokes at her shoulder, just one singular, gentle prod. "But she's gotta go on her apology tour, and there's people here that I need to talk to with the clan. We're happy, but.. honestly, it might be the last time I drag her to one of these. They're exhausting."

Lara waits, though, and studies Anika. "What about you - why are you here, if you don't want to be?"

[anikabooker]

When he spoke, Anika was already halfway done packing. How much did she even have to take, anyway? One bag. A few essentials tossed in there — some clothes, whatever hadn’t burned in that fire. She was still grieving the loss of her leather jacket. His own worn out one was on top of her pile now. Blondie's fault she didn’t have one anymore, so — fuck you, Halstead, that’s mine now.

Anika didn’t have a sentimental bone in her body. Reid, though had boxes stacked in storage like the past was a lifeline. Forty years’ worth of crap. Cowboy hats. Photos with her dad. She zipped past the last one in the drawer without hesitation. She was not taking a damn picture of that bastard. He can rot, for all she cared.

The gun was cocked and loaded, swiftly tucked into the back waistband of her jeans — easy reach if needed. Who knew what kind of assholes would stand in the headlights of her car like a fucking tree in the middle of the road? She swore she’d drive right over them; the ones who took from her, and the ones who took from him. Anika wasn’t scared of either. There was already a list of people they knew would come looking once they were gone.

It’d be a lie to say the gala had made her decide. She’d thought about it before — when Book had crawled out of the grave and come knocking on her door. A part of her had known she wouldn’t be able to handle it. His death. The grief that came with it. She had enough grief in her to last a lifetime, so much it spilled over like an overflowing sink. There had to be something else out there for her. Not just this rot. Not the mud she’d been sinking in for years — thinking she was moving, but never getting anywhere.

The zipper stuttered where it met resistance. "What? Having second thoughts? I can do this on my own, you know." She wasn't talking about the bag.

For: @anikabooker

Anika, let's talk about this.

He doesn't think he said that — not in those exact words. But the memories of the Conclave are still fresh; the way his stomach had sunk when he'd lost sight of her for too long. Repeatedly considered that they might have been better off not avoiding each other, and dealt with the consequences of that. Reid had weaved through the mass of bodies at the gala following the death of some witch. Sign enough that they had to get the hell out of there. He'd found little relief in wrapping his arm around her waist, and lacked care in the way he'd dragged her away from cigarettes and balconies.

He'd apologise for the behaviour later. A hand had laced in hers a few moments later; a promise that they could fight about it outside, when Reid had been convinced they were on the home straight. Rose and Lis were okay, he knew that because they weren't there. But he doesn't have time to check on every face he gives half a shit about.

And Cam — Cam would figure it out. Don't get killed, man. If he knew what was good for him, maybe he'd fucked off with his bite-friendly girl and they'd made a better night of it. Fuck. Gabe. Aria. Colt. Reid had to keep his feet moving, left, right, otherwise he might've blown.

He remembers asking her if she were okay, when the cold air had greeted them. A hand against her face to brush away hairs that'd come loose.

Halstead blinks, and he's back to watching Anika pack a bag. They're boxed in by the motel walls, and Reid's trying not to allow his developed claustrophobia to make him say something he'll regret later. He doesn't know what to say anymore. Maybe they need this: a clean break. Maybe they're running.

Anika? Stop.

What about Book?

What about a sire who will never let me go?

With a sigh, Reid keeps the snap out of his tone, wrestles for something softer. He reaches for her packing, and helps her better fold the items, silent. Not acknowledging that one hand must be frustratingly difficult, but she makes it work. "Booker, can you just — slow down?"

[anikabooker]

She'd always hated asking for help. Still did. Even before she knew what bleeding out on a grimy bathroom floor felt like. She hated the idea that she might’ve ever needed anyone. But the truth was, Anika needed Lara. And Reid. And her fucking asshole of a father.

Maybe if she’d admitted that sooner, she wouldn’t be missing a hand right now.

"Yeah, right?" What the fuck did she know about fashion, anyway? Anika knew weapons, and the way blood looked when it bloomed across a chest, but the lace felt nice. "So you were rich, rich? What happened? Parents tossed you aside when you bit the bullet and came back knocking?" She’d heard the story before, straight from Reid’s mouth. How his own parents wouldn’t let their undead son near them. How warm, safe homes turned cold the second death got involved. Anika hadn’t died, but she still felt every bit as abandoned, too.

The hunter caught sight of Reid then, right as Birdie said his name, across the room. Their eyes lingered, just for a second or two. Long enough for her to know: he was here, close. "Do I have another fucking choice?" she said, with a quiet breath. "I'm not letting that bitch win."

Then, almost as an afterthought, like it didn’t matter, when it obviously did: "Yeah. He’s around here somewhere." She didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t, really. Not without giving away too much. She only hoped Birdie could put two and two together without asking questions.

"Well that's reassuring," laughs Birdie, haflway between nerves and sarcasm as Anika continues.

At the dress she smirks, redoubling on fronting confidence now that the initial burl of the conversation's ground down. "Yeah," Birdie makes a show of looking her up and down, "well, she picked a good one."

"Yeah you and me singing the same fucking song. I used to go to shit like this all the time, way back when, but... you know. Not in a while." It's not the same as Soleil, either; fancy dress might have wormed its way back into her life months ago - Anika's seen her dressed to the nines, but not like this, not without Kore's glamour and not with the dreadful ordeal of giving a shit etched onto her brow like the ink patterns burned into her skin.

She bites nervously at her bottom lip. "You just here to be here? Did uh, Halstead come?"

[anikabooker]

If something's too much—

He knew the answer before she could speak it. Steal it from her lips, like always. Because it was almost laughable, wasn’t it? How they had too much of all the wrong things, and far too little of what mattered.

Too few touches, where trembling hands met scarred skin, their bodies moving like a sloppy dance neither of them knew the steps to. Too few kisses, never enough to taste, just brushes of something that could’ve meant more. They’d been too drunk, too angry, too hateful, too greedy, too hungry, too… lonely.

There was too much hate, and too much red.

Too little truth.

So she kept her hand there, on the left side of his chest, where a heartbeat used to be and hoped he knew that every touch was starved. That there wasn’t a measure big enough to satisfy the void he’d left inside her. Anika could devour him because of that emptiness. The emptiness she was never taught, never learned how to fill.

Teach me how to be anything but me. Teach me how to love. How to feel my insides with you, you, you— She wanted to say, wanted to beg, on her knees, desperate for him.

And as if on command, he did. He made her — his. In his hands, she burned to ash and came back someone else. Because all she’d ever known was love from violence. Men like the one who scarred her. Men like her father, leaving holes in drywall. Men who tained every good thing until it turned black. Men who were Adam, and Eve, and the snake, and the tree. Her paradise had burned a long time ago.

But Reid held her with all the gentleness monstrous hands could summon, and looked up at her like she was holy. Like she was carved from porcelain, molded into something near perfect.

Choked noises left gasping, glittering mouths, wet with desire, and bounced off the motel walls. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted someone this badly. There was a dark, starving part of her that needed to make him come undone. To be the reason. To watch his face twist in pleasure — to see him lose it. To hear the sounds he made when he begged.

They were ruining the sheets. He was an artwork framed in her hunger, lit by flickering shadows. And she whispered his name again, and again against his neck where her nose had buried itself, breathing in his scent until there was nothing else to breathe.

She didn’t need air. She needed him — in her lungs, in her blood, in every shattered thought. He was the room, and the walls, and the bed. Her mouth into his own, pleaded tto keep going. To never stop. Her thighs burned where they gripped his hips, slick heat, skin dragging against skin in messy, beautiful rhythm. Nails left trails down his chest, blunt crescents that stung and then faded. Reid moved beneath her like a man starved and certain this would be his last meal. Their bodies fit like puzzle pieces broken at the edges. Nothing clean. All desperation.

In the silence, the lengthened string of time allows them to be basal instincts. Tracing flesh, hungering to press fingers in the dips to see where Anika might become something else, for him. To know how to make her thighs quake, to understand the swallow in her throat when it bobs; to translate everything she tries to shove down and to relish in those noises she might never be able to contain. Her hand pulling at the last thread of his sanity is enough to tear the control asunder.

There's a vrrph of fabric splitting, ruined underwear, both his and hers that fall to the wayside. Her chest exposed, bra dips off the mattress. Hands that settle on her waist because she's warm, burning underneath his touch. Searing his sensibilities until he knows nothing else but how to devour what has been given freely to him. Beastly, or honest? Both, maybe. His want is obvious in their exposure. How couldn't it be? There's every kind of starvation between them. Months of depravity and hatred morphed into yearning and want. It's dark and twisted and explosive in the only way they've ever known how to be.

Reid knows he's asked the difficult question; he smiles because he can taste the way it spun off of his tongue, and stole itself a place on Anika's. He finds a way to navigate the swamp and quicksand of his mind that wants to drag him down, and away from this escape. The only way this'll happen is if he guides her through it. Muscle memory that has to recall what softness is, has to remind himself that there are new fires and new sensations that incite verocity in him that Anika won't understand. But he coaxes her down, gentle, encouraging, until he knows what real warmth is; he almost groans.

Halstead's mouth opens, as if to ask if she's okay—

Booker beats him to the punch, and he stops — ceases his hips that threaten to roll. And she speaks. His eyes fly upwards to mossy forest of hers, no longer looking at how close they're pressed or how buried he is in her. Why the fuck would you say —

"Anika." It comes out rougher than he means it to, a mix of shock, surprise and tension that she's told him a little late that there's an anxiety weaving itself out of the throes of the lust he'd swore he'd let himself see. Is he that out of practice? Reid doesn't move, stills himself inside her, like an inch twitched is the end of them. His fingers stay tight on her hips where she sits on him. What is he supposed to say to that? It's not about sexy, anymore. They're past that. There's blood, and grit and horrific crimes precariously weighed between them. More death, and less limbs, a slew of scars that speak nasty tales — affairs between hearts that do not know how to work; broken things with different cures. But she still finds a way to crumble vulnerable walls, and he's itching to build something the honourable way, without leaving cracks. A redeemer with no hope of succeeding. Reid had thought he could be the one calming her into it, but he's no longer sure: "If something's too much..."

Is that the right thing? Reid had made the move, both followed hers, and led. Now they're here, and — fuck.

It's dick move or dick move.

Reid moves a hand from her thigh, and drags her mouth down to his. It's not to erase or ignore her confession; it's an opening for her to talk about it later or to pull away and stop it all. It's a promise he doesn't want to be like that; not that motherfucker that she talks about, but something else. Halstead has thought himself a monster, but she's made him feel less like one, telling him of hers.

So, dick move, whispered against her lips and pressed between her legs: "Stop talking, Booker."

[anikabooker]

She didn’t care enough to ask about the damn matches. Fuck, she was already done with that conversation the second she swiped his cigarette to light her own.

Her head leaned back just enough, eyes flicking up to meet his, wearing a look louder than any words — Why are you still talking?

She had that kind of face. Pretty, but always with a twist like she was about to roll her eyes straight through your skull. "Yeah," she said, voice flat. "You stalking me or something?" No real threat there, just that sly edge of mockery. Daring him to mess with her. He didn’t look like he had the guts for it. So why not have a little fun?

"You a little stalker, huh?"

It was a bizarre thing, recognizing someone only as they heckled you mercilessly. Nothing significant, but she was a face he’d seen before. The Aviary. Enough to know she was likely a fellow hunter.

“I just prefer matches,” he says, as every single match starts to fizzle out in the sudden wind coasting through the balcony air. “Damnit. Hold on.” He’s on his fifth attempt when she takes the cigarette out of his mouth to light her own. There’s a moment as his mind catches up to his own failure, her solution, and the lack of cigarette in his mouth now. After a beat, he reached over and carefully took his cigarette back. “Good solution. You, uh… you come by the Aviary pretty frequently, don’t you?”

[anikabooker]

"Well, fuck me, why don’t you say that any fucking louder?" she spat. As if the whole damn world didn’t already know. Most of those assholes out there had seen it firsthand, gawked at the piece of her they’d ripped away. Her throat burned for something heavy and sharp, something to drown that thirst for violence and revenge. That bitch was going to pay. One way or another. If not here, then somewhere else; months, years from now. But she would pay.

Her eyes burned with something dark and cold. Paranoia and fear washed away, replaced by pure, raw anger. "I can take care of myself, got that?" Her body trembled, but her voice didn’t waver. "I don’t walk around screaming your bullshit."

Did he really have to bring up that night? Like the walls weren’t already closing in, like the very air in this room wasn’t a walking, breathing fucking reminder. The music pressed in, and laughter rang out, too bright and too close. Her chest felt tight, like the ceiling was coming down in slow motion. A hand shot out and latched onto Liam’s arm, where nails dug into his skin without thinking. "I just need you to shut up, okay?" a desperate kind of hiss. "You’re not pissing me off, but everything else is." She blinked. "I just need some air."

"No." Liam repeated, eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced towards her. He didn't believe her. But it wasn't as if he was going to stop her from hanging out with who she wanted. He wouldn't. But he would keep an eye on her. "I'm not glued to your hip." He then motioned towards the two feet of space between them. "You don't want to get kidnapped again, do you?" It came out harsher than what he meant it to. His jaw clenched in frustration as he tore his gaze from her.

His eyes searched the crowd for Romy, although, he hadn't laid eyes on her yet. Fuck, between the two girls, Liam was going to be driven mad. Liam didn't want anything to happen to either of them, and he was trying to behave. He was. But the tone of voice Anika used towards him was already growing irritating. They were friends. They were. So why the fuck was she acting like he wasn't supposed to be by her side?

"I wasn't even going to come here, Anika. So no. I have nothing better to do than to be near you. To make sure nothing like what happened last time happens again." He was aware that she most likely had other friends. People that could look after her. But he didn't know who they were, nor could he really trust them.

"Just... fuck. I don't know. Ignore me, if you are really that pissed that I'm near you." Fuck, he needed a drink.

[anikabooker]

Why the fuck did he let this happen? She’d focus on the rest of it later. The questions scratching at the back of her skull like rats in the walls. Right now, all she wanted was for him to be inside. For that look to be gone from his face. That pathetic, crumbling expression that made her feel like he was already miles away. Alone in his own head, trapped somewhere she couldn't reach him. Somewhere he couldn't even look at her.

What kind of freak fucking accident was this? What, he tripped and fell on his fucking fangs?

She thought about his hunger. The way it’d shifted since they were last in each other’s lives. How nothing but human blood satisfied him now. They never really talked about his feeding habits. But she knew the way he got when he starved. Fragile. Almost human in his vulnerability, when nightmares crawled up his spine and cracked open his sleep. He’d sleep when he was hungry. And he’d wake up a fucking beast.

Anika gave him a moment. Let her eyes trace over him, once, twice checking for blood, bullet wounds, scars that hadn't quite healed. Then her gaze locked with his. She let him breathe. Let them breathe. Gave him just enough space before the hard part started. "What happened?" she asked, voice softer now. "Did he attack you?" She flinched at the thought. At the word brother, twisted around someone who might’ve tried to kill him. Or maybe now, they were closer than before. Now, they shared blood.

"Did you—" voice caught in her dry throat. She was suddenly afraid the wrong queston might send him spiriling. Might push him further away. So, she tried again: "Talk to me, okay? I'm not going anywhere." No truth was uglier than her lies. And they’d already been through enough dishonesty to last a fucking lifetime.

She says it, and his neck twitches in displeasure.

Yeah.

There's no need to confess anything further, she knows. And there's no room for the true guilt to settle on his soul, because she cannot see how his half-raised-humanity is burning the edges of his spirit. Charring all those righteous things from who he is — was. Unravelling the last shreds of a hunter's morals and replacing it with the instinctive violence of a bloodsucker. This is merely the sight of knowing he's going to lose Booker a second time, and the monster inside of him wants to do nothing but claw at her and tell her she's nothing if not hi—

Reid's eyes slowly draw to the left, following the scent of liquor, and the sudden burst of noise as drunkards stumble and chuckle. His lip twitches in an unfed hunger, brought to the surface by anger, irritation, and frustration that McCormick's on his side of the dark, and it's because of some reckless accident.

He doesn't know how he's supposed to handle it yet.

"Okay." Reid snaps his gaze back to her, head tips towards the creak in the wood where she's holding it tight. He follows after her, foot kicking the door shut behind him. Halstead doesn't have anything else to say; he knows what he's done.

So does she. He'd laugh, because their roles have flipped now — what next? He's always asked her that; expected her to calculate her next step because he knows she's not thought about it. Catch her out, because he'd thought it were good practice.

He has to say something.

It gets worse. "He was a brother. A good guy. It's where I was last night." A puffed breath he doesn't need to have, "I needed to make sure he wasn't going to... you know," a wave of his hand, and a tongue that pushed hard on canines. "... lose it."

[anikabooker]

She knew better than to push with Lara. The two of them were too much alike. Stubborn as fuck.

The vampire might not have been ashamed of her scars, but Anika figured the color didn’t match her shoes or something fucking ridiculous. It was a fucking gala, she’d remind her, where people dressed fancy and drank even fancier.

To Anika, it was just a gilded fucking hell.

She’d caught sight of that blonde bitch, and it took everything not to rip her rotting heart straight out of her chest. Liam had grabbed her by the arm with everything he had. Nearly left a purple bruise on ivory skin.

"Bridger-fucking-what?" There was a grimace on her face that said everything. What the fuck even was that? Sounded like the kind of shit her sisters would’ve watched. Then told her all about it while she pretended to listen. "For two vampires, you’re both pathetic." She expected the cheesy shit from Lara. But Birdie? Fuck.

In a simpler world, Anika might’ve stayed home too. Even if that motel didn’t really count as home — Reid did. "Why not go do that then?" she asked. "Why are you here, when you don’t want to be? Fuck these people. You’re like… happy now, yeah? Go be that."

"Don't need to. Gonna anyways." She offers a half sort-of-smile to Anika, and scratches lightly at the itching around some of the scarring on her cheek. Around's good enough, at least he hadn't abandoned her. That would be when she fucking kills him, if he ever tries it. But he seems like he's got a good head on his shoulders. Enough to bear the brunt of Anika.

Like her.

Damn, though. Fucking relatable. Lara adjusts more of the fabric on her arms and around her waist as a somewhat nervous tic. She doesn't look at Anika, either. They're both uncomfortable. "Trust, I'd rather be back in the apartment with Birdie watching her react to Bridgerton or whatever else gushy shit we can find on Netflix."

[anikabooker]

You left me.

"I was a child."

In a way, she always would be. Stuck in that house, hiding under her bed while her sisters were getting devoured. Mentally, she’d never left. "I was a fucking child." Children didn’t leave their parents. It was always the other way around. She hadn’t even known what being abandoned really meant until they were all gone.

Her fist flew to his face without a second thought. Knuckles crashed into his nose with a sickening crack, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet. Blood spattered, and she barely felt the pain at first, just the shock of contact. Fuck, the bruise across her knuckles bloomed like a deadly flower.

A constant reminder now, everytime eyes dipped down to it, that she had hurt her father. Boken his nose probably. Not that she didn't hear the bones crack back into place, as it healed with the speed of light. He’d fed recently, she figured. Wouldn't risk coming here bloodthirsty. At least he’d managed that much — the bare fucking minimum. Anika didn’t believe he was good for much beyond hurting her, but showing up here half-starved and feral? Yeah, that wouldn't have been a shocker, either. Congratulations. Father of the goddamn year.

Guilt didn’t live in her anymore. He hadn’t cared for her, so she sure as hell wasn’t going to care for him. Tit for tat. "I don't care." It was a lie, but if she said it enough maybe one day it would be true. "Maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking psycho, mom wouldn’t have left your ass." voice like a merciless whip.

Maybe then none of this would’ve happened. Maybe her mother wouldn’t have remarried, maybe they wouldn’t have moved. Maybe sundays wouldn’t have been the only day she got to see her father. If he’d just stuck around, got his shit together, and protected them that night.

What if she’d had more than sundays? What if he’d taught her not to hide under the bed while her sisters screamed? What if he’d taught her to fight?

But she’d learned that the hard way. When it was kill or be killed. When living wasn’t really living anymore, just surviving. "I don’t remember anything good about you," she spat. "I don’t remember what life was like before it turned into this."

And it had been a mistake, thinking that once she found him again, the world might feel lighter. That the darkness would lift. That he’d take her hand. That he’d apologize, for everything he’d done, for everything he hadn’t done. That they’d cry together. That she’d tell him she hadn’t cried in years. That crying wasn’t safe. That closing your eyes meant you might never wake up.

Instead—

"I hate you."

A long, empty beat.

"Get the fuck away from me."

Maybe all of what she says is true, and if she has to believe those things to make it easier if he doesn't make it out of this foolhardy attempt at revenge, then he supposes it wouldn't matter because he wouldn't be around to hear it. It's a shit consolation prize, but he was never meant to be the kind of father whose kids were proud of him. He got married young because he was steeped in war and death, and it's what everyone else in his family and unit did. Shit was different when you could die at any moment.

That didn't make him a good father though. He was younger than Anika is now when they had their firstborn and if he's not good enough now, there was no way he could have been good enough then. It was proven in the way that they packed up and left him in the middle of the night, leaving him surrounded by broken drywall and a fury he could only take out on himself.

He still tried. Went to meetings, tried to ditch the alcohol, learned how to communicate with calm words instead of violent fists. Understood that there was a name for the demons that haunted him, that had haunted his father and brothers and uncles too. Two steps forward, one step back, but he showed up with his pride in his hands and a well-rehearsed apology on his tongue. They could have cut him out. They'd moved on without him and were better for it, but they allowed him space, and he told himself he didn't need more.

The memories of finding them are seared into his memory, plaguing him whether his eyes were open or not. He knows what high caliber bullets can do to a body, but this had been far beyond that. He had seen improvised explosives, held the guts inside the abdomen of a fellow soldier while he shouted for medics, watched as a .50 cal exploded a teenager's torso like a watermelon. None of it prepared him for what he had walked into.

Over the years, time and sheer will had dulled the jagged edges from that night, though never fully gone. Now, with his emotions amplified, there is a flood of pure feeling that encapsulates every part of him.

"You left me." His voice cracks and it's the worst possible characterization of what had transpired, but it's the only way he knows how to explain why his heart has been a stone since before it stopped beating. It was his wife's decision to leave and no one would argue that it hadn't been his fault in the first place, but that had been the first crack. Then they had died, and they left him again. None of it was Anika's choice, and he's not trying to blame her, though he's sure it probably comes out that way. "You were gone. Dead. They thought... they thought I tore you apart with my hands, said I was so angry about being replaced that I ripped your sister's head off."

Book braces himself, one hand on the wall next to the doorway. The pain never disappears, and it's the first time in years that he has willingly sliced that wound open again. His fingers dig into the concrete and he flinches as it starts to crumble under his grip.

"On the count of murder in the first degree of Gabriela Martinez-Hyde, we the jury find the defendant guilty. On the count of murder in the first degree of Winston Hyde, we the jury find the defendant guilty. On the count of murder in the first degree of Paola Booker, we the jury find the defendant guilty. On the count of murder in the first degree of Erica Booker, we the jury find the defendant guilty." His voice shakes as he recounts the words that have defined the last decade and a half of his life, but he forces himself to continue. "On the count of murder in the first degree of Anika Booker, we the jury find the defendant guilty."

It doesn't hurt any less now, even though his name has officially been cleared, when Anika is clearly standing in front of him now, alive and breathtaking in her fury. No one had believed him when it mattered.

"I'm already dead, Ani," he says quietly. By all descriptors of the word, he died back in that squalid basement. "My whole life, I've been a monster. You really want me to stick around to be worse?" He has no illusions of grand self-control or that Catholic guilt will be enough for him to fight against a vampire's nature. He's already gorged himself on blood, finding flimsy moral excuses to try and ignore the way that every instinct is now primed for the smell of copper and life. "I already hurt you so much..." He knows he is doing it again, but at least this would be one clean cut that would finally be able to heal.

Book takes a deep breath and hangs his head. "I'm not going in there intending to die." It's not a lie. He wants to live long enough to watch that smug smirk fall off that bitch's face. "But I don't know how to live like this. It ain't living, and I'm-" He shakes his head. "I don't want you to remember me like this." Selfish to the end.

[anikabooker]

Her trembling fingers fished the last cancer stick out of his pack without so much as a thanks. Didn’t even bother looking at him after — just jammed it between her lips and stared at him expectantly, like he didn’t have anything better to do tonight than light her goddamn cigarette.

Did he think this stupid dress had pockets? What the hell was she supposed to do, tuck a lighter in her bra and hope it didn’t catch?

"Matches?" she scoffed, finally cutting him a glance.

So much for luck. Felt like she’d just been shot into a fucking time machine straight to 1845.

His face was becoming less and less wobbly now that she’d leaned in for the light — sharp around the edges, clear enough to recognize. The damn match sputtered, blown sideways by the wind. "Lighters that fucking expensive nowadays, huh?"

Anika narrowed her eyes at him, trying to place where she knew him from. Shooting range. The only pair of eyes at that place that didn’t drill into the empty space where her left hand used to be. Her lips curled tight around the cigarette, jaw tense as she watched him strike match after match, every one snuffed out by the wind. "I'm turning to dust over here." A hand shot out and plucked the fag straight from his mouth. Then pressed the lit cherry to the tip of hers, watching her own catch and flare.

Finlay looks over at the newcomer, and almost instantly clocks the signs of panic rolling off her. White-knuckled grip on the balcony, rapid breaths, that wild look in her eye… a twin to the nerves he feels twisting into a knot deep in his chest. There’s an energy buzzing under his skin that rarely breaks through, and the cigarette in hand has only done its part to in softening the edges.

She asks, and he’s got the pick back in his hand in just a moment. “You’re in luck. I haven’t completely blown through them yet tonight,” he says, voice as level as ever, and offers one out to her. “I’ve only got matches to light, though, I’m afraid.” He extends the matchbook out to her only partially — an invitation to take it herself, or to let him handle it. (The look in his eye sets him off just enough to be wary of putting a hand in her space without warning.)

[anikabooker]

It wasn’t Birdie’s head she wanted to stick on a spike. "Not yours." They’d built something like an understanding. That kind of thing happened when you butchered the same bastard side by side — you didn’t walk away clean after that.

"Least not tonight." a dry, little tease. An attempt to calm the fuck down, as Birdie had put it. "Be a shame to mess up your nice outfit." Her eyes flicked over Birdie’s attire and yeah, that one definitely wasn’t borrowed.

Her own hand wandered, fingers catching on the lace at her hip. It felt nice, softer than anything she owned, but every time she caught herself in a mirror she half expected not to see herself there at all.

"Your girlfriend let me borrow one of hers." she said finally, still watching her fingers pick at the hem. "Not really my thing. But boots and flannel don’t exactly scream ‘gala,’ do they?"

Anika's wound tight as a powerline and seems just as dangerous as the current of her fury crackles outward at a simple question. The Birdie that Anika's known the longest isn't the one who stands by her. Isn't the one who doesn't give a shit what happened, who only cares about what she can get done with what Anika offers. It's the real one, the one who cares too much, more often than not.

"Jesus Christ, Anika, calm the fuck down," she grumbles in low tones, eyes furrowing, "I'm just checking in."

She has to remember, at the end of the day, that they're from two different and diametrically opposed worlds at this point. Common enemies have been dispatched. That leaves little but uncertainty.

She swerves the subject, then, shrugging. "You look nice," she finally says, tone a little defeated really.

[anikabooker]

No, she wasn’t that fucking stupid, was she? Had she gone through a lobotomy while Anika was away? Mossy hues flicked down to the phantom limb, and Anika could feel the questions crawling up Althea’s throat, then almost see her choke them back like they didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t obvious enough that she didn't lose this in a fair fight.

"How the fuck do you think I lost this?"

Althea had been nowhere to be found then, when the huntress stared down at the poison swirling in her flask, glimmering yellow rot of something that had already slipped into her veins by the time she realized her safest option was never safe at all. There was nothing safe about walking into the lion’s den. This was those fucker's town. Fuck, she's known that it’s been their fucking world since the first time child hands held a gun and called it purpose.

"We can’t win this, Althea. I’ve tried. And I lost." bitter, bitter, bitter. "But you’ve always been smarter than me. So maybe you’ve got a real shot."

Althea grimaces down at the glass in her hand, then just sets it down on the floor. Someone else can get it, she doesn't care. But her arms immediately go to cross over her chest, and she stares Anika down - a warning, for sure. But a warning with experience? Maybe. She studies her friend's features, gaze dipping down to her lack of hand.

She kind of wants to know who did that and if Anika's gonna fuck 'em up. Not something she'll ever ask, though. Just quietly wonder.

"You really think they'd let us in, watch us like fuckin' hawks, then poison us?" She grimaces at that. "No, they would. It'd be like a fuckin' game to them or some shit. The fuck is even up with the meeting, anyways?"

[anikabooker]

Paranoia gripped her by the throat. It settled heavy in her chest the moment the security guard’s hand found the knife strapped to her thigh. Then it planted roots, and grew, and grew; bigger, bigger, bigger. His death, slow and painful, played over and over again in her mind. They were gloating, all of them who'd settled hungry eyes on her mark and knew there was very little hunters could do at a place like that, especially after the masquerade. Especially after that damn night at the gallery. Fellowship parts put on display.

If she pressed a little harder into the stone railing, it would snap clean in half. Her knuckles had turned white, and those shoulders rigid as though she was trying to keep herself inside her own skin.

Breathe. The air on the balcony was a meager reprieve. Breathe. In. Out. But panic didn't leave. It only coiled tighter in her chest, where ribs struggled to expand, and vision dimmed at the edges. Breathe. Again.

Anika barely noticed the man at first, didn’t even realize she was making enough noise to draw anyone’s attention. But they were aware of each other now. Her chest still heaved, jagged and uneven, a stark contrast to his calm stillness. Cigarette between his fingers, and smoke curling into the night air; acid, and sharp, digging into her lungs like a hook.

She hadn’t come out here to talk. But maybe she wouldn’t throw him off the roof if he shared his cancer sticks.

"Got another one of those?"

who: open where: the conclave gala, outside on the balcony when: close to midnight

He’s had worse nights. He’s also had a lot better. Usually, a bad night involves a lot more violence, blood, and/or death. It felt oddly mundane for an event as supernaturally potent as this to instead involve just a lot of him really missing the fucking mark in conversation. Not everything tonight went poorly, but enough drastically so that he was decidedly not going to enjoy the memories of this in the morning.

It’s back to the balcony (again, for the surely-too-many-th time tonight) to find a spot away from the other attendees out here and break out the pack of cigarettes. He’s almost definitely sure this is against the law (he’s probably not far enough away), but he’ll be damned if he has to leave the building and deal with security again to get back in. It’s quiet enough over here, anyway, and he’s really trying to keep it away from anyone else.

He sticks the cigarette between his lips and strikes a match. He’s definitely drunk, but there’s enough coordination there to light it without burning himself. It’s a lungful of relief he inhales, washing away what the alcohol hadn’t touched. He inhales again, and splutters & coughs out smoke when he hears footsteps stop beside him, the cigarette quickly safeguarded between the fingers of his left hand.

At least he’s quick to get his breath back. “Can i get a minute to finish this?” Finlay asks, bobbing his left hand with the lit cigarette. “Then I’ll talk. It’ll be better for both of us.” He glances over at the person now next to him, wondering if they’ll grant him the smallest reprieve before he (probably) fucks up again.