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Compromises

Who: Dilandau Albatou, Mina Barrett
Where: Mina's house
When: Day 98
Summary: Mina needs to eat and Dilandau needs to heal fast. Can the powers she offer be too good to be true?
Warnings: Self-injury, blood drinking.

Had anyone seen Dilandau heading towards Mina's house early on the 98th day they might have thought the scowl on his face meant he was in another of his bad moods. In truth it was an attempt to hide his trepidation at the exchange he was about to make with the blood-drinking demon for his good health.

The price for her service was steep. He had to sacrifice three pints of blood and then drink one pint of hers, which ought to heal him completely. The foreign measurements meant little to him, but after playing around with some glasses from the bar and some water he was sure that was nearly two almuds of blood. She claimed he wouldn't need medical intervention if he gave up that much, but he knew perfectly well that after draining that much from his veins he'd be too weak to stop her if she decided to take everything left too.

Due to this, he'd been preparing himself for the last few days. He'd eaten plenty of red meat to promote healthy blood and had slept as well as he'd been able. His knife was razor sharp in order to open his arm with the least amount of scarring, as was his sword in case he needed to decapitate the woman he was meeting. The pint glasses were in a bag so that both he and she could be sure no one was taking too much. Short of taking a helper to watch over the deal, he was as ready for this exchange as he could be.

It was a risk, he knew, to trust something so far out of his own experience, but he had little choice. With his ribs still half-healed he was useless, unable to hunt, unable to fight, unable to so much as run if something tried to attack him. His awareness of his own vulnerability left him stressed enough that he was unable to relax and the constant pain frayed his already-thin temper to the point where he was in danger of turning what few allies he had left against him. He had no real choice.

And so when he reached her house he stood to attention, smoothed out his expression and knocked firmly on the door, hoping that vampires couldn't smell fear.

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Mina was in a curious mood herself. She couldn't quite call herself happy. But things had been rather...fortuitous as of late. She was especially pleased that Martha Jones had returned. It felt like a sign that things in general might be looking up. Perhaps she might succeed where Mina had failed. Perhaps she might save these people from themselves.

When she heard the knock at the door, she was sitting at her kitchen table, sorting through some of her notes. It took her a moment to remember. Dilandau. Yes. They had some business, didn't they?

Standing up, Mina pulled on the blazer of her three-piece, pinstriped suit. She took care to pull her cuffs through the sleeves and straighten her tie before she leisurely walked to the door, adjusting the angle of her fedora before she opened it.

He met her eyes, examining her for silent threats as he nodded a greeting. Her formal attire put him somewhat at ease, as it looked styled enough not to be something she'd want to dirty. His own clothing was far less formal, simply a shirt he'd found in the wardrobes and his uniform pants.

"Are you ready to carry out our deal yet?" It came out stiff from stress he'd been holding onto for far too long.

"I am," she replied, stepping aside and dismissing the notion of pleasantries.

In a strange way, he reminded her very much of a Kindred. His curt mannerisms were those of someone too busy to be bothered with mortal things like feelings and respect. The older a Kindred, the less polite they could be.

Not count those stuck in the 1700s, of course.

She gestured to the kitchen. "In here."

Had he been in the frame of mind to pay attention to such things he'd have been glad to interact with someone who could take directness without bristling over the spare miets they expected to be lost on pointless courtesies. Military life left him with little patience for mouth-flapping fripperies.

He walked past her and took the same seat he'd sat in last time he'd visited. Very deliberately, he set his bag on the table and lined up a pint glass, a half-pint glass and the knife he intended to use.

"What are we meant to do?"

"I told you," Mina said, walking into the kitchen after him. "You may extract your blood any way you wish." And she wouldn't point out that the easiest way was with a needle. It seemed cruel, somehow. And while she had no great love for this man, she was acting as a doctor right now. And she took her oaths most seriously.

She started to clear off her notes from the kitchen table. She didn't want them getting splattered.

He tracked her movements around the room with his eyes while keeping still enough not to jar his ribs, a habit picked up over the last few weeks. He wanted to make sure that she wasn't picking up anything threatening before he began his preparations.

Once he was sure she was simply tidying up he unbuttoned his shirt and folded it into the bag, leaving him in his bandages. He loosely secured a tourniquet just above his elbow and set his arm over the pint glasses.

There was a moment of hesitation as he worked himself up to cut himself. He knew, once he did this, that there was no turning back. He glanced over at her again, watching her warily before finally picking up his knife and pressing the blade gently into the vein at the crook of his elbow.

He hissed sharply and the glass began to fill.

Once she finished tidying up, Mina turned to watch him. Her eyebrows quirked slightly. It was quite the contradiction, wasn't it? A man who was afraid of needles cut himself quite easily.

"You've been to war," she observed, walking over to settle into her own chair, across the table from him.

He huffed a laugh at that observation.

"Did you think I wore that uniform for fun? I was raised in the army. I've won wars."

And lost battles, by the look of the long scar down his left cheek. His gaze flickered regularly between her and his glass as he took the chance to make sure she realised it'd be a bad idea to try and trick him.

"They call me a prodigy of war. I was made squadron leader of the Dragonslayers before my fifteenth birthday after I beheaded a Cesarian general on the battlefield. Most men are lucky if they can finish impressing their sergeant enough to be allowed to be cannon fodder at fifteen."

"Mmm."

She leaned back in her seat, steepling her fingers. It was an old pirate's trick she'd picked up along the way. It was supposed to make one look commanding. By showing off wealth. In her case, her many rings. At this point, it was an old habit. She didn't think of it much. But at the moment, her mind was drifting back to many old ways.

"I was a soldier in the King's army once," she remarked absently. "Quite the accomplishment, considering the fact that I was a girl. No one realized it, of course. Otherwise, I would have been tossed."

His main impression of the rings were that she'd have a hefty hit if she ever decided to punch someone. Like with the armoured gloves of his uniform, a bit of metal could go a long way in a fight.

"Why? Are you from one of those lands where women are meant to be decorative?" It was the case in some neighbouring countries, but not in the Empire. There, anyone who could be of use was obliged to be of use.

Mina chuckled softly. "Indeed, I am. Had to dress up like a boy to get my post. I'm told things are changing in my world, but I have yet to see much evidence of it."

She leaned her head to one side. "I take it things are a bit different where you come from?"

That was encouraging.

"In other countries they make a distinction, but we're more practical in the Empire. Unless they're designing guymelefs differently outside of the border you don't need-"

He paused for a brief second to alter his sentence from the small crudity he was about to utter-

"More than four limbs to pilot them."

His gaze was drifting from her to his glass more often as it filled. It was discomfiting to have to sit there and not try to stifle the flow, especially as so much had bled out already.

"The units are segregated to cut down on pregnancies, but we fight on the fronts together. Can I have some water?"

With a soft noise, Mina stood up, walking over to the sink to fill a glass for him.

"I had to dress like a boy," she murmured, perhaps more to herself than to him. "If I had been discovered, I would have been dead. Or worse yet. Pregnant." She made a face.

Mina returned to him, setting the glass down on the table. "Drink slowly."

He took a sip and placed the glass down, so that he wouldn't give into the temptation to start gulping.

"You don't look much like a boy, even in men's clothes." He picked up the glass, sipped, then put it down again. "I bet there were still a few who wanted you to warm their bed with no women around."

He grimaced slightly at the thought. Those sort of questions to him had stopped quickly after he'd gained a reputation for disproportionately hostile responses, but he'd still been glad to grow taller than most men so young. He sipped his water again and frowned over at her.

"How did you manage to bathe?"

Under normal circumstances, Mina would have shot someone in the face for asking about her bathing habits. But she had broached the subject first.

She laughed.

"I think it's adorable that you're under the impression that English soldiers bathed," she replied, sinking back into her chair again. "That was the least of my problems. And anyway, women back then were so pathetic that it never would have occurred to any of them that one would try to join the army."

He didn't bother to try to hide his grimace as he imagined the smell of an unwashed army.

"If my men didn't shower daily I'd have had them whipped for daring to disgrace my unit and the Empire. Of course, a floating fortress had facilities for it in the barracks, but even if we'd been infantry I'd have expected them to stay clean."

He looked down again and was shocked to see his glass was a few drops away from the pint mark. He narrowed his eyes and watched for the exact moment when his blood hit the line before moving his arm to the half-pint. A small trail of blood lay on the table between the glasses, unnoticed by him.

Mina grimaced. Both at the waste of blood and at the mess. Thankfully, she'd moved the more important papers out of the way.

She'd worry about the rest later.

"We didn't have showers back then," she told him. "The wealthy had bathtubs. The rest of us made the best of what we could get. Sinks and natural water sources."

"How many years did it take until you regained your sense of smell?"

He'd heard about such things in lesser, less advanced countries and it still filled him with a faint sense of disgust.

Thinking about disgusting concepts, his pint of blood was glistening rather too near him. He pushed it towards her with the tips of his fingers, trying not to notice that it was still warm from his body heat.

"Do what you have to with that. You'll need the glass to measure out what you'll be giving back to me."

She chuckled, taking the pint glass and standing up. In the kitchen, there were several bottles that she'd set aside for just such an occasion. Carefully, with scientific precision, she started to pour the blood into one of the bottles.

"As it happens," she said, "I've never had a particularly acute sense of smell. And at any rate, that's simply the way things were, back when I was young. You sort of...got used to it."

Her phrase rang true with him and his recent experiences in the Cape.

"It's strange how many things that are seemingly just the way they are aren't universal at all."

He turned his gaze back to the filling glass. The blood was still flowing swiftly and his hand was growing colder. His head was starting to spin. He took a long drink of his water and propped his forehead on his hand, his elbow braced on the table.

When the level of the blood approached the marker on the glass he grabbed the ends of the tourniquet in his free hand and between his teeth and tugged sharply, cutting off the blood flow. The blood sputtered, spattered and slowly came to a trickling halt. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his blurring eyes.

"That's half now, and half in a week when I've rested."

"As agreed," she said. Although she felt he was a bit of a worrier. A perfectly healthy male could lose three pints without suffering much damage other than a little dizziness.

Then again, he did have his odd fear of needles.

When she finished pouring out her glass, she walked back over to the table. She allowed her face to change. The Beast, they called it. It wasn't a terribly dramatic change. Outwardly, all that changed were her teeth. But there was suddenly something extra predatory about her aura.

Swiftly, she used her fang to cut through the delicate flesh of her wrist. Blood began to flow freely. She directed it into the glass.

That change in her aura immediately had him on edge. He'd allowed the conversation to lull him into forgetting that he was sitting in a room with a predator. He sat up straight, his hand floating just over his swordhilt, his feet braced to spring out of his chair, watching her expression intently.

Although Mina was very much aware of his change in posture, she ignored it. That was for the best, she thought. She allowed her fangs to retract and the Beast vanished, returning her aura to its previous state. And she concentrated all of her energy on bleeding into the glass.

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead already," she murmured.

He didn't relax, even when he felt the danger pass. He kept his gaze firmly trained on her face rather than on the filling glass.

"That's not reassuring."

It added to the impotent rage that was forever stewing in the pit of his stomach in Kore, to know that she was yet another demon who was too powerful for him to touch.

"My apologies," she murmured.

The glass was full before too long. She licked the excess blood off of her wrist, closing the wound. It was all a very neat and tidy process on her end, really.

When she was satisfied that she wasn't going to get anything on her suit, she leaned back in her seat, sliding the glass over to him. "Bottoms up."

He finally looked away at her to the glass he was supposed to be drinking. Suddenly, it seemed like a large amount of liquid to be consuming.

It was warm when he picked it up and it stank of iron. He grimaced, a wave of nausea sweeping through him over what he was about to do.

He took a deep breath, raised the glass to his lips and gulped the liquid down as fast as he could manage. His attempt not to notice the particulars failed; the taste coated his tongue.

Politely, Mina averted her eyes. People tended to get very squeamish about blood-drinking. She supposed she couldn't blame them. Once upon a time, she'd been rather disgusted by it herself. Time and Anne had brought her understanding. Enlightenment.

She would never, ever go back.

"You should start feeling your ribs ease in a few moments," she told him.

He quickly glugged down the the rest of the water she'd given him in order to wash out the taste from his mouth. By the time he finished smacking his lips he realised that breathing was far easier.

He smiled, and it didn't hurt. He quickly raised his hands to his face to feel and no, there were no pains from any of the bruises that lingered. He quickly stood and unwound the bandages around his torso. His beautiful skin was completely unmarred again.

"You are magnificent!" He grinned at her widely, filled with an unfamiliar flush of appreciation. "Do you have a mirror?" He raised his arms and craned from side to side, finally stretching the muscles he'd been coddling for the last few weeks.

Mina nodded her head toward the front entry wall. "In the hall," she said. She didn't know where the silly notion of vampires not having reflections had really come from. But she certainly had one and was often pleased to stare at it.

She liked to blame that on the Queen.

He took his time to admire himself in the mirror, turning his head this way and that (though avoiding looking at the scarred side for too long). He was himself again, his beautiful, fearsome, untouchable self.

The joy welling up at being healthy again transmuting itself inside him, becoming sincere gratitude for his healer. She was a good woman- no- she was nothing less than his equal, if not more.

That was a place he'd never assigned to anyone in his life. He turned and walked back into the kitchen, staring at her with wondering eyes. When he reached her he knelt and gazed up at her with an uncharacteristic sincerity.

"My lady, I will bring you the rest of the blood by the end of this week, but if you wish it at any time before then, tell me and it will be yours."

Ah, the effects of ghouling. Mina rarely indulged in such an art. Frankly, she found it to be more trouble than it was worth. But at the moment, living in this hostile place, surrounded by the most dreadful people, she had to admit her ego was soothingly stroked by the whole thing.

She wouldn't abuse it, of course. But that didn't mean she wouldn't enjoy it.

"The end of the week will be sufficient," she said, feeling very high and mighty.

"What vessel should I bring it to you in, my lady?" A pint glass seemed inappropriate. For her, it ought to presented in a finely carved bottle, so she could keep it on her table as he once kept his best vino, to be savoured when the time called for something sweet.

Mina chuckled, standing up and walking into the kitchen, to fetch him one of her many bottles. "This will suffice," she replied, tossing it over to him. "And none of this 'my lady' nonsense," she added.

Her laughter fizzled in him, making him feel oddly giddy. He caught the bottle and tucked it carefully into his bag so that it wouldn't break.

"Shall I call you Doctor? That's the title you laboured to earn, after all."

Now that he was standing where he'd previously sat he could see the mess he'd made of her kitchen. He wiped up the spilt blood with his bandages, tucked them into the bag and put his shirt back on.

"Let me wash these glasses. I shouldn't leave mess in your house after you've been so generous to me."

Common decency dictated she ought to stop him. But the kitchen really was a mess. And again, Mina was deriving some satisfaction from this respect, after three months of disrespect.

"Doctor will do," she said.

"Doctor it is, then."

He tidied efficiently, with the thoroughness of a soldier who'd learnt from long years of experience that doing a job sloppily meant doing a job twice. In short order the glasses and his knife had been washed, the table cleaned and various little imperfections wiped. He paused expectantly, waiting to hear her verdict on whether his work was sufficient.

Goodness. He was an eager puppy.

There was never any surefire way to predict just how ghouling would impact a person's personality. Mina herself was of the opinion that it just drew out a dormant part of oneself. At least in the presence of the regent. She had to admit to some surprise in this case, however. She'd expected something a little more militant and a little less.

...cute.

"Thank you," she said, nodding in approval.

That praise filled him with the same sort of glee he'd last felt at being promoted to a guymelef pilot. It was with some trouble that he bit down on the grin that was threatening to spread over his face, as he didn't wish to lose all of his dignity completely.

"Do you need me to do anything else for you today?" He'd originally planned to run until he fell over once he was healed, but that now paled into unimportance compared to repaying some of his gratitude.

Mina briefly considered inventing some tasks for him. But really, that was an abuse and she wasn't like that, generally. Tempting although it could sometimes become.

"I think that will suffice," she said. "Do tell me if there are any relapses or unpleasant side effects."

Other than the obvious...

"I will, Doctor Barrett." It felt insufficient to acknowledge her with his usual dip of his chin. He lifted his hand to his chest and inclined forward into a small bow. It was a courtly gesture, arising from somewhere he didn't remember. Perhaps he'd seen someone perform it on one of those dull diplomatic trips.

He picked up his bag and readied to go, though not without shooting her further looks, just in case she changed her mind about there being nothing to do.

"Shall I leave you now?"

"I imagine you have things to attend to," she said, bowing her head slightly. Mina wasn't the sort to curtsy and the bowing just felt awfully silly to her, really.

Oh, this one was going to be trouble, wasn't he?

"Then I'll return this bottle to you. Don't wait to call for me." He turned, though not without one last look to burn her image into his memory.

As he walked out of the door he was already planning on reasons to come and visit again soon.

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