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Edmund gripped the sword like a lifeline, praying to whatever deities that may be listening that Zhivago didn’t sense the fear radiating off of him. The vampire in question was currently eying him from across the roof of the building with that ironic smile he always wore on his face before ripping open someone’s arteries. Edmund rather hoped that Vladimir Von Helson had only sent him to negotiate, but truthfully he knew that it was a vain wish, especially considering the events that had taken place just six months ago. At any rate, their idea of negotiation usually involved more claws and fangs than he was accustomed to outside of bed.

Despite the ready sword and the fact that an apparently gunless Zhivago was before him, he didn’t really want a fight. For one, the weather was putting him at a severe disadvantage. That vampire could defy physics all he wanted to, but Edmund couldn’t get a damned bit of traction in this slush. Furthermore, the wounds from their last major confrontation still bothered him greatly. True, they didn’t bleed anymore when he moved, but how he ached and how they itched.







“I can assume you know why I’m here, no?” The vampire asked, his voice strangely soft and calm for someone with such a mad look in his eyes. He walked steadily forward, nonchalant about the snow and ice. Edmund instinctively took a step back, slipping a little and cursing as he did so. He must not show any weakness that could be exploited. Zhivago chuckled slightly.

“I suppose I should assume it is for the same reason of your last visits.” Edmund said as resolutely as he could. That ever-present smile on the other’s face grew wider.

“I do so hope your stance on this whole situation has changed, but alas, I know better.” He languorously advanced further, too close for comfort but not too close to get a good swing at him if the need arose. Edmund had the feeling that the need was going to arise before long. At least he could observe the man better at this distance, and that was something he wasn’t entirely unfond of.

“Zhivago, you mustn’t think that I wish for us to battle. If you’ve come to talk about the matter, then I would be more than happy for us to come to an agreement of sorts.” He smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, but the vampire just scowled. “Please do think this over. I don’t think that I would like damaging your face any further.”

“Then don’t aim there…and you seemed very willing to damage my face before. Hit first, in fact.” Growling faintly, he traced an altogether too familiar X on his forehead with one finger while staring at the actual one almost proudly. “Well, I don’t care if I fight you or not, really.” Oh, well there was an answer that Edmund quite liked. “But….”

“Yes?” Zhivago shrugged despondently.

“Oh, just Vladimir. You have no idea of the trouble my master puts me through on his whims. He’s not so very fond of verbal negotiation, but very fond of torture, so I’m afraid that I shall just have to kill you unless you tell me where Damian is.” Oh damn, that was an answer that Edmund quite hated. “Shame, I like you despite your humanity and poor taste in comrades. Also, you don’t smell terrible like most humans.” Well, that was…odd, but this situation as a whole was going to require some quick thinking to avoid it degenerating into violence. A frantic silence followed before Edmund could think of something, anything to say.

“Ah, thank you, I think... Listen, you don’t have to follow what that Von Helson says to the letter, if you don’t wish to. There are plenty of alternatives to combat, and –damn!”


He must have said something wrong, though Edmund knew not what exactly. Zhivago’s eyes changed from gray to shining gold, and his whole demeanor changed. His body lost its feline languidness, replaced by a fierce tension that could be broken in an instant. His hair was wild, his fingers were more akin to talons, and Edmund became all too aware of how sharp and big those fangs were. He retreated a bit, and this time he didn’t care when he skidded on the ice.

“I seem to have troubled you.” There was no way he couldn’t sense the fear now. If the vampire couldn’t detect it as animals do, then it was all too evident in the way his voice cracked, though he tried so hard to sound reassuring and confident. “I meant no offense towards you and your master and profession, and if I have slighted you in anyway, I apologize sincerely. I –I do respect you, and though we’re, ah, on opposite sides of this matter, I don’t wish to wound you physically or emotionally. Please, please,” don’tkillmedon’tkillmedon’tkillme “relax. Whatever I have done, I regret it and would recant it in a heartbeat.”

He observed him for any change this terror-driven speech might bring, though honestly he didn’t think it would make much of a difference. Only twice before had he been able to soothe this turbulent man, and one of them ended in a clash anyway over some imagined slight. Gods, but his heart was beating so fast! It was a wonder that it didn’t explode. He might put on a good façade of undaunted courage in the face of adversary, but faces lie. He was petrified each time he was forced to come into contact with this strange and mercurial creature, petrified and strangely attracted.


As he watched, it did have an effect, though he didn’t quite know what to think of it. The white-haired man remained edgy, true, but something about him seemed gentler now, almost…vulnerable? Zhivago as vulnerable was a hard concept for Edmund to wrap his brain around- the man had been known to survive falls from the Clock Tower- and yet now he couldn’t help but think of him so now. Perhaps it was the way he shuddered almost imperceptibly or perhaps it was his look of pained bewilderment or that his eyes returned to slate grey as Edmund admitted his respect. Had he even heard those words said to him in his life? With a sudden stab of pity, Edmund realized that he probably hadn’t. Why else would he look so lost?

“You…respect me?”

“Zhivago,” He began, and then suddenly realized that he had no clue as to what his personal name might actually be. He had only ever heard Zhivago addressed by the name of his coven, never even by his surname. “Have you a name? Besides the name Zhivago, I mean.”

“Y-yes…” The vampire looked distrustful, ill at ease. He probably would rather run than talk. To be honest, Edmund knew the feeling.

“What is it?” Edmund asked. “I’d like to know, please.”

“Why?” The vampire said sharply, wrath ready to return in any minute and no doubt doubly so. “Why do you care what I’m called?” Edmund smiled, hopefully reassuringly.

“I just do. Must there be a reason? There are many Zhivagos, and I would like to know which one you are.” That look of wariness didn’t dissipate one bit. Damn.

“Yura. Yura Andreyevitch.” So he did have a name after all and a fine one at that. Pretty really. Edmund wondered why he didn’t insist on being called that, but then realized that Vladimir probably wanted to dehumanize his disposable hero as much as possible. “What are you up to? Is this some sort of trick?”

“Not at all, Yura, not at all. I am just curious about you, that’s all. I know that- yes?” Zhivago – Yura, he mentally corrected himself. That’s his name. – strode closer, three feet, two feet, till he was close enough to touch, and as Edmund uneasily realized, close enough so that he was within striking distance of those claws. Their eyes met for just an agonizing moment before Yura looked awkwardly down, no doubt struggling to find something to say. Unspoken words begged Edmund to be said, but he didn’t know how. The one thing he wanted most now was to make this temperamental man right again. It was strange –he had, after all, been threatening to kill him just a few minutes previous. Edmund hadn’t a clue what to do, whether to say something or be silent or to do nothing at all. The last one seemed the simplest, and simplicity was everything.

“Edmund,” Yura said, his whisper sending a shiver down Edmund’s spine. The man rested one hand on his chest, neither pushing him away nor pulling them closer, but in that moment Edmund could have died from want of him. “Edmund. Edmund Wesley.”

“…Yes, Yura?” He sounded a bit too eager than what was probably considered proper.

“You’ve been…kind to me often, patient. Perhaps too much.” He bit back a wry grin. “I haven’t a clue why exactly. I’ve been told that I’m the sort of person who can do the most for society by being dead, but…you seem to have grown fond of me anyway. I suppose, I suppose that I’m fond of you as well. Quite.”






“I,” He began, suddenly realizing that he now had a very handsome man pressed against him in such a delicious way. He stifled an undignified gasp at this sudden and very much wanted revelation. “I’m rather more than fond of you, I admit.”

“Would explain a few things then. Why you haven’t run away yet like a logical person would. Or why you’re about to kiss me.” Kiss? He hadn’t ever serious thought that he would ever get to have a rational conversation that didn’t involve the Von Helsons, let alone kiss him. Of course, he also used to think that he’d never meet a real vampire, and here was one before him right now, homicidal, damaged, and so very entrancing.

His lips were cold. It was a lot more surprising for Edmund that it should have been, but after a confused moment he remembered what Yura was. Some part of him wondered if this is what kissing a corpse felt like. Another part of him wondered if it made him a necrophiliac if he was thoroughly enjoying this. An additional part wondered if the other two parts would kindly stop pondering unerotic matters and focus on the fact that he was kissing a very handsome, very willing man.

His fingers twined themselves in that luxurious white hair almost of their own accord, trailed along a serpentine scar, caressed a bare neck, cupped a uniquely lovely face. Edmund wondered if his heartbeat could be felt through his coat; it was racing so fast. Very soon, he decided that this kiss was altogether too chaste for his tastes. He pulled Yura closer, so unbearably close, and it was all he could do not to bruise those heavenly lips, but that didn’t mean he didn’t come close. This time he didn’t dare stifle any gasps…or whimpers for that matter.

Edmund enthusiastically plundered Yura’s mouth, hands not so much exploring as desperately conquering. For a fleeting second he wondered if perhaps he was being too rough, moving too fast, but then the other man was kissing him back just as hard and, oh god, was Yura purring or was that just his imagination? Even if it was, he hoped it would never stop. A clawed hand caressed his neck, and he lost himself.








Edmund couldn’t comprehend the pain. In fact, for a split second he couldn’t realize that he was in pain, only that something was very, very wrong and he didn’t like it one bit. It was only when he started to taste copper that he connected it to the vampire.

He panicked. Edmund should have stayed calm and rational, but staying calm and rational while a madman is attempting to bite off your tongue is something that can be said easily and never done. Zhivago was so annoyingly, so playfully, so ultimately in control of the whole situation after all. He fought back a howl of pain and humiliation as what seemed to be a thousand thoughts rampaged through his head. He could hardly think was all that thinking going on. What was he supposed to do? What the hell were you supposed to do when a vampire’s got a hold on your tongue? Get it out, that seemed the simplest course of action, and simplicity was everything.

Edmund arched abruptly backwards, and then immediately regretted it as those needlelike fangs further tore the skin of his tongue. He nearly gagged on the taste of his own blood and on the utter discomfort from the viselike grip. Though the pain had, for reasons unknown to Edmund, subsided somewhat from the initial shocking horror, the pressure alone was enough to cause tears. He hadn’t a clue what to do, only that he had to get away, far away from this demon with the minimal level of bodily damage and calm down. Thrashing around was out of the picture, he did know that, for it wasn’t worth the risk of bodily damage. Still, he hadn’t anything else he could do, and though he didn’t like the idea of torn muscles, he also didn’t like the idea of dying like this. He was too close to punch, and he was certain that if he got a handful of that white mane Zhivago would just bite down harder or something worse. The same went for trying to scratch out his eyes. He had no bones that could be broken without the use of a grenade and at any rate, he was in a poor position to attempt a proper kick, though he supposed he could just knee him-







“We have an analgesic in our saliva.” The vampire said, and a cattish expression came over him. “Shame too, I did so want to see you writhe in pain.”

“Why...no, ugh.” Stupid question. He attempted to pull away from the vampire with a look that could kill a normal human, but a taloned hand caught his arm before he could move far.

“Look, you’re crying. How very unbecoming.” Zhivago chuckled ever so infuriatingly slightly, and nuzzled Edmund’s neck. That earned him an admittedly weak jab in the solar plexus. “That doesn’t work against vampires, dear. Nn, so warm. How do you stand it?”

“You…you…” Those tears were more of aggravation than anything else.
Countless words of rage fought each other to be said, scores of insults more serious than the last, but his diatribe couldn’t seem to make it past his now sanguine lips. Ultimately, his epic slight was but an almost unheard rasp. “You are a monster.”

“Monster? Really?” Zhivago raised an eyebrow in mock incredulity, the deadly smile no doubt playing with his lips. “But I thought you liked pain, thought you were fond of me. Haven’t you realized by now that it and I are the exact same thing, or are you really that oblivious? Oh,” He whispered, and this time it made Edmund electric with bitterness instead of lust. “I would be very happy if all hunters were like you: devastatingly handsome and stupid as a wall, though I pray you aren’t as dumb as I think you are right now. It was only a nick, stop whining.”

“I cared. I cared about you. Damn it, I liked you and you’re still a psychopathic mass murderer trying to kill an innocent child after all.”

“Well, yes.” Zhivago stated matter-of-factly, as if Edmund had just said that he had a red tie or a scar. “A very nice kiss isn’t going to change that. You’re so very easily manipulated. A sad look, and then you forget everything about me. You could afford doing that, I guess, if you were a vampire, but you’re just human. About the negotiation-”

“Monster.”

“Masochist. Now, about our little Von Helson…”