Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Light filtered through the blinds in hazy golden beams, striping across the bedding and warming Lance Sweets’s bare shoulder. He took a deep breath as the drowsy haze of sleep slowly lifted from his mind.

Monday morning.

He’d always despised the first morning of the week, having to get up and go to work and leave the weekend behind, and yet, right now, he found he didn’t really mind waking up in the slightest.

Because the light wasn’t what had roused him from his slumber.

 No, what had pulled him gently from his dreams was the press of cool lips against his neck, soft and smooth like velvet. The caress trailed along his collarbone, then dipped to the curve of his shoulder and returned again, tracing a path that made his skin tingle wherever those lips deigned to land.

A quiet, contented hum escaped him as Carlisle’s hand slid over his shoulder and down his arm, only to snake over his midriff, drawing him closer against a solid chest.

Two years.

It had been two years since the case that had introduced them. Two chaotic, miraculous years since Carlisle Cullen had walked into his life and somehow never left. Two years since they’d been mated. And yet, the thrill hadn’t dulled in the least. Every brush of Carlisle’s fingers, every subtle smile, every glance from those beautiful golden eyes still gave Lance butterflies every single time.

He let out a happy sigh and rolled into his lover, slightly turning onto his back and exposing more of his neck to Carlisle’s tender affections. The vampire seemed happy to continue his path of feathery kisses and moved with him, mouthing his way down to the hollow of Lance’s throat.

It was a lazy movement, deliberate, and Lance moaned softly when Carlisle’s lips hovered over his pulse point. And then he nipped there, gently, with just the barest hint of teeth, teasing, never breaking the skin. The sound that escaped Lance was somewhere between a moan and a gasp, a wordless plea for more.

Carlisle chuckled lowly.

“It’s time to wake up,” he murmured, his voice low and amused, an addictive vibration that rumbled against Lance’s skin.

Lance didn’t open his eyes. “Don’t want to.”

He could feel the smile form on Carlisle’s mouth where it touched his neck, before another kiss was pressed to the same spot.

“You never want to,” his lover replied fondly. “Your inability to wake up without assistance is hardly a surprise.”

Lance cracked one eye open and turned his head, grinning. “And yet, I get the feeling you rather like helping me wake.”

The vampire didn’t deny it. Instead, he shifted, lifting a hand to gently tilt Lance’s face toward his own. Lance followed gladly and their lips met in a kiss that was unhurried and warm. It was gentle, a soft stolen moment in the here-and-now, and yet also a promise of undying affection for the centuries to come.

It was perfect.

The world outside their little cocoon didn’t matter. Not right now. Not with Carlisle’s hands sliding over him like he was something sacred, something to be treasured.

He sighed again and melted into it, his fingers curling into Carlisle’s shirt, wondering what right it had to exist in between them and deny him the feeling of his lover’s smooth skin against his own.

He was very much awake by now and ready to start the day, preferably with a light morning … ahem, workout. Pulling his vampire closer, he deepened the kiss, swiping his tongue over those maddening lips, seeking admission. And Carlisle responded beautifully, moving over him to cage him to the mattrass.

For a Monday, this morning was starting off rather splendidly.

However, just as Lance was about to make his move to drive his mate wild enough to devour his already conveniently naked body, Carlisle pulled back, a sly smirk on his face. He brushed a casual thumb along Lance’s jaw.

“I made breakfast,” he intoned lightly, “Are you planning on getting out of bed any time soon?”

Lance raised an eyebrow. Breakfast? Sure, he could eat.

And he had just the perfect snack in mind.

“Eggs and bacon are overrated. I’d rather have me some vampire instead.”

He gave his lover a coy smile.

Carlisle huffed a laugh, but his grin turned mischievous. A finger trailed over Lance’s chest as golden eyes roamed over his body, drinking in the sight before them.

There was that look again.

That expression on his lover’s face, like he was gazing at the most precious, most valuable thing in the world, and, at the same time, at the sexiest creature alive. Lance felt like he would never get used to the way Carlisle looked at him. That combination of sheer love and desire in his eyes never ceased to take his breath away.

The vampire’s hand brushed lower, towards his very present morning wood that was more than a little interested at the proceedings, and Lance shuddered in anticipation.

“I would absolutely love to devour you for breakfast,” Carlisle told him in between pressing kisses to his skin. “I would thoroughly enjoy taking you apart, piece by piece.”

Lance groaned.

He knew that tone.

“Why do I feel like there is a ‘but’ coming?”

Carlisle’s smirk grew.

“But … you are supposed to pick up Christine this morning. So you should probably be getting up real soon.”

Right.

Christine.

He had promised to pick up his goddaughter and take her to daycare so that Booth and Brennan could go to the book signing event of Brennan’s latest thriller.

He huffed dramatically and dropped his head back onto the pillow.

“Argh, you’re cruel.”

Carlisle laughed, rich and free. “You’re the one who agreed to it.”

“You could have reminded me before getting me all hot and bothered with no intention of following through,” Lance muttered mutinously, reaching lazily to swat at his lover chest in protest.

Carlisle caught his wrist mid-swing and pinned it gently against the mattress, leaning down until his lips hovered near Lance’s ear.

“Stop being such a seductive minx,” he whispered, taking a playful nip at the shell, before rising, looking somehow entirely unruffled.

He even had the audacity to wink!

Lance sent him a foul look and – very maturely – stuck out his tongue as Carlisle left the room. Then, with a yawn, he stretched out across the warm sheets.

A lot had changed over the past two years.

Carlisle had been alternating weeks between Washington and Forks so far, unwilling to drag his family away from the lives they had built there, but also unwilling to ask Lance to give up his career and his job with the FBI to come live with them in a small town. After a year of them effectively living together fifty percent of the time in the small apartment, Lance had decided he wanted a bigger space. So, together they’d rented a new  place closer to the suburbs, but with a good traffic connection into the city center for both of their jobs.

The vampire had gotten a second parttime job in the city at Georgetown University Hospital to work when he was in D.C.. The staff there hadn’t been too thrilled at first at being told a fang of all things was joining their team, but after discovering what said vampire could do with his gift, further dissent had died down very fast. The opportunities his ability granted were just too much of a boon to let slip through their fingers.

It wasn’t like Carlisle needed the money, he could just as easily choose not to work at all when he was in the city,  but he liked to keep busy and helping people was just in his nature. It was his calling. Sitting on a couch doing nothing while there where people out there he could be saving would have driven him stir crazy in mere hours.

Carlisle had also been on call for the FBI to consult on any fang-related cases for the past two years, but Lance was very glad to know that particular side job would be coming to an end soon.  After all, in most of these cases they’d ended up having to take out the vampire perpetrator permanently, as they hadn’t been able to reason with them in any way,  and Carlisle had always been the one to carry the burden of the execution.

Lance knew how much it pained his lover to take a life, any life, no matter how necessary and justified, so after the third major vamp case in less than two years, he had ridden up the Hoover Building elevator to the big boy floor and had told them in no uncertain terms that enough was enough. He’d prepared a passionate speech on just how much it cost his mate, emotionally and physically, to serve as the FBI’s go-to vampire hitman and that this wasn’t what Carlisle had signed up for. At the very least, it wasn’t something he should have to bear alone.

To his surprise, he hadn’t even really needed to argue much at all. Most of the higher-ups had already met Carlisle by then. They liked him. Respected him even. But, they’d said, there simply weren’t any alternative options at the moment.

So Lance had decided to make one.

He’d been granted permission to engage with the FBI think tank and, not soon after, the idea of a mixed vampire-human taskforce had been born. It had been a silly suggestion at first, a quip about putting together a team of vampire and human superheroes to take on the bloodthirsty villains, but it had quickly grown into a serious full-fledged initiative. After all, why shouldn’t they create a team like that? Was it really that much of a stretch? Carlisle worked together with humans just fine, so why wouldn’t other vampires be able to do the same? One of the think tank members had hesitantly offered a few suggestions on potential ways the team could be run and things had spiraled from there.

Now, six months of blood, sweat and … well, no tears just yet, later, the blueprint for the taskforce was complete, recruitment was underway, and the promise of a sustainable solution felt well within reach. The name was still up in the air as they hadn’t been able to agree on anything that didn’t sound utterly laughable.  V-Force was too childish, F.V.U., an acronym that stood for Federal Vampire Unit, sounded like a disease, F.B.V.I. (Federal Bureau of Vampire investigations) was too much of a mouthful and Lance had personally vetoed “Fang Squad”, because … just no.

But the bones of the unit were solid.

And since Lance had been the driving force behind the whole thing, he’d been assigned the job of assessing the potential candidates for a spot on the team. He knew that, within the FBI, the new taskforce was largely seen as a stepping stone to higher ground, so the interest was enormous. Unfortunately, that also meant that not everyone who’d applied – honestly not even a quarter of the candidates really – was suitable for the position.

So he had a lot of applications to filter through. But if things went well, the taskforce would be operational soon, and Carlisle would no longer have to play judge, jury and executioner. He’d certainly be appreciated as a consultant, but no longer be expected to play a crucial part in every investigation.

Another thing that had changed drastically was the Jeffersonian team dynamics. Angela and Hodgins were parents now to a beautiful baby boy, named Michael Vincent. And to the shocked astonishment of everyone involved, Booth and Brennan had begotten a child as well, Christine, currently a sweet one-year old bundle of joy that Lance was the proud godfather of.

It had, of course, been no surprise to anyone that Booth and Brennan had finally gotten that sexual tension of their chests, but the rather permanent results of that steam-filled night were something no one had seen coming. Not even Lance.

Especially not Lance, to be honest. He was glad for his friends, of course, but had worried about involving a child in the mix while the new dynamic between her parents hadn’t even had the time to settle yet.

However, things had turned out perfectly fine.

Booth and Brennan had taken some time to grow into their new relationship and into their unexpected parent roles, but they seemed to be managing just fine now. They’d even gotten engaged a few months ago with a wedding date set for the end of this summer.

An yet, despite all the changes, some things had also stayed very much the same. Booth’s reliance on his ‘gut feeling’, Brennan’s overly rational approach to anything, including child-rearing, Hodgins’s many, sometimes asinine, but awesome experiments, … and Lance being just as head over heels for Carlisle as he had been two years ago, probably even more so. And Carlisle was just as bad.

It had become increasingly clear that humans could feel a mate bond just a keenly as any vampire did and Lance thanked whatever God was out there that he’d brought Carlisle into his life. He simply couldn’t imagine any other future anymore than one where the man stood by his side forever. They enjoyed every second they managed to spend together and Lance always missed him terribly when he was spending time with his family in Forks.

The next few weeks, however, were going to be a treat. The Cullen kids had decided to take a trip to visit the Denali coven up North. Apparently, bears were coming out of their hibernation this month and Tanja had challenged Emmet and Jasper to a competition. Of course, none of the others were wanting to miss that, so they had all decided to go and they’d be staying there for a few weeks.

As much as Carlisle enjoyed spending time with his Denali friends, he had decided he’d rather sit this, obviously very competitive, game of chase out and spend that time with his lover instead. So rather than traveling back to an empty house in Forks at the end of this week, Carlisle would be staying for the next week too. And then the three weeks after that as well.

In fact, the two of them were going to be taking a short trip together sometime next month. Lance had planned a few days off at the request of his lover and had been told Carlisle would arrange everything. He didn’t even know where they were going. Knowing his mate, it could be anything, from a remote cabin where they would make sweet love all day, to a luxury spa resort where Lance would get pampered to high heaven.

Whatever it would be, he was already decidedly looking forward to it.

“Get out of bed, Lancelot, or you’ll be late!” Carlisle’s  voice sounded from somewhere in the apartment.

Lance grinned at his lover’s rebuke and was very tempted to yell back to come and make him, but decided against it at the last moment. It was getting late and Carlisle would have to leave for his shift at the hospital soon.

With a mournful sigh, he dragged himself from his comfy bed and padded to the closet to find something to wear. He pulled out a fresh shirt and pants.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, pulling him toward the kitchen like a magnet.

Even after they’d gotten together, Carlisle had never stopped his courting habit of brewing Lance his daily dose of caffeine to take with him to work and Lance adored him for it as much as his colleagues envied him.

The coffee beans were manually ground by a small store near Dupont Circle and the shop had some of the most divine coffee varieties he'd ever tasted. They weren’t cheap, but, by god, they had incredible stuff.

Carlisle was always the one buying the coffee, but Lance didn’t mind in the slightest, enjoying the ritual of being surprised from time to time by yet another heavenly taste of brew in his mug. And he was, of course, not above bragging to his coworkers about it from time to time either.

He made his way towards the kitchen, still adjusting his tie with practiced hands. His travel mug was already waiting on the counter, filled to the brim, and Carlisle was plating his breakfast.

Lance grinned at the sight.

“You’re spoiling me,” he said as he settled at the table.

Carlisle leaned down to press a kiss to his temple. “You’re worth spoiling.”

“You big romantic sap,” Lance mumbled back shyly, before digging into the eggs and toast.

“Any candidate interviews today?” his lover asked as he slid his coat on.

“Not sure. I want to go through a few more files before I invite anyone else in for a talk. The last invitee was a bit of a disaster, so I’d like a few more options first.”

And wasn’t that the understatement of the century.

The last candidate he’d interviewed, for a technical support role on the team, had been a perfect match on paper … until he’d opened his mouth during the assessment and it had turned out he had no idea what he was actually interviewing for. He had seen the open position and had applied for it, assuming it would be an easy position on a new taskforce with a pay raise. It hadn’t clicked he would actually be expected to deal with vampires on a daily basis and hearing that he would had made him almost lose his lunch there and then. His skills were impressive for sure, but his inability to even string a sentence together that included the word ‘vampire’ without stumbling made his candidacy rather moot.

“I should be able to get caught up on that today though, “ Lance continued, “Unless Booth drops a new case in my lap, of course.” He shrugged. “But it’s his day off, so I think I’m safe.”

Carlisle smiled and smoothed Lance's tie. “Then good luck with that. I’ll see you tonight."

Lance caught his hand and tugged him in for a quick kiss. “Looking forward to it.”

As the door closed behind his lover, Lance took another sip of his coffee, savoring the strong blend on his tongue. The sun was already shining through the window in the kitchen and it looked like they were going to be enjoying some beautifully mild spring weather.

As it stood, the day was already shaping up rather nicely.

He had admin work to catch up on, a daycare run to make, and a gaggle of hopeful agents to assess. And then he’d come home to his lover and spend another lovely evening in his arms.

Just perfect.

Grabbing his mug and keys, he headed out the door, already picturing his goddaughter’s bubbly smile.

Yep, he thought brightly, today was going to be a great day.

Chapter Text

After dropping of Christine at her current daycare, Lance made his way to his office, saying good morning to the colleagues he encountered along the way.

Patterson’s sarcastic remark of “For fuck’s sake, Sweets, I could smell your coffee the moment you entered the fucking building. Do you really have to rub it in our faces every single day?” was met by a cheerful “Yup, and with great pleasure.”

The grouchy analyst rolled his eyes and continued down the hall, muttering a few insults under his breath. Lance didn’t take any of it seriously. Patterson was an alright guy. And while foul-mouthed, he rarely ever meant anything derogatory he said. It was just his way of communicating.

Well, what passed for communication anyway.

Lance smirked and turned a corner. He really was in a great mood today.

Christine had been a little angel when he’d picked her up, babbling nonsensical sounds while waving around her stuffed giraffe and staring at him intensely, like she was explaining all the answers to the universe to him. She really was the most adorable kid ever.

Idly, he wondered just how long this daycare would last before Brennan managed to get herself – and by extension, Christine – booted from the place. The Jeffersonian daycare had put up with her constant hovering for little over a month before she’d gotten into a philosophical argument with the staff over early childhood education principles and the daycare manager had drawn the line.

No more Brennan drama for them.

Three other nurseries had suffered the same fate, regretfully refusing to look after Christine anymore because they just didn’t want to deal with her mother.

The last one hadn’t even lasted a week.

The current place seemed to be made out of sterner stuff as they were still going strong at three weeks, but Lance knew it was only a matter of time before something happened that would be the drop that spilled over the entire bucket. He’d have to have been blind not to notice the relief in the staff’s faces when they’d seen him step out of the car with Christine, rather than Brennan.

Bets were already being placed.

Lance knew Hodgins had money on less than a month, while Angela – after making a great big stink that Hodgins shouldn’t be betting on their friends – had confided in him later that she had fifty bucks on more than a month, but less than six weeks. Cam had stayed out of the betting as far as he knew, but almost the entire contingent of lab personnel had gotten involved in the pool at some point.  And maybe, just maybe, he might have placed a teensy tiny bet himself.

Just as a social experiment, of course.  

After all, it would have been odd to be one of the only people acquainted with Brennan not to take part, right?

His bet was seven weeks.

He entered his office and shrugged of his jacket, neatly hanging it on the coat rack. As he turned towards his desk, he raised a surprised eyebrow at the stack of files – taskforce candidate profiles — that sat like a paper mountain waiting to be conquered.

He could have sworn it wasn’t this high when he’d left on Friday.

He checked his watch. Seven thirty. And he had until one in the afternoon before he had his first appointment of the day. Good, that should give him ample time to get through a few of them.

Settling in behind his desk and taking a sip from his mug, he picked the top file on the stack, checking the cover tag, only to spot a familiar name.

Junior agent James Aubrey.

He blinked.

Well, that was unexpected.

He’d worked with Aubrey on a case before and, so far, his impression of the young agent was pretty favorable. The case had been nothing outlandish, just your run-of-the-mill political scandal turned murder, but Aubrey had been the one to discover the final piece of information – the husband’s affair – that had cracked the case wide open. 

He leaned back in his chair, flipping the folder open and scanning through the agent’s profile and case history.

Aubrey seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. He was smart, quick on his feet and driven almost to a fault. And very eager to prove himself.

He could be brash, though, and had a habit of trusting his instincts before the evidence. A bit like Booth in that gut-feeling, full-steam-ahead kind of way. However, that might actually not be a bad thing in a supernatural taskforce. When dealing with vampires, instinct could sometimes be just as valuable a tool as logic.

He thumbed through Aubrey’s personnel file, noting a few commendations and a short but solid career history. He’d also handled sensitive assignments before without cracking under pressure and had shown himself capable of thinking outside the box during several cases.

All in all, a very promising start.

Lance jotted a quick note in the margin of the file.

PRO’s: Driven, intelligent, good under pressure.

He hesitated, before also adding open-minded to the list.

Aubrey had met Carlisle once, about six months ago, when they'd involved the vampire in the disappearance and suspected murder-by-fang of that hedge fund mogul. It had turned out that the allegedly dead man had not been murdered at all, but had, in fact, met his mate and had left everything behind to become a vampire and be with her.

All in all, a relatively happy ending to what could have been a nightmare case. 

But anyway, Aubrey had been nervous, visibly so, when introduced to Carlisle, but not hostile. In fact, he’d been the first to reach out and shake the vampire’s hand, something that had naturally endeared him to Lance quite a bit. He also knew Aubrey had actually read a few of Lance’s published papers on vampire behavior and social structures, as the agent had brought up a few points mentioned in the studies to discuss with Carlisle during the case.

He tapped his pen against the folder, considering.

Open-mindedness was not a universal trait among agents. Lance had seen too many of them already who barely kept their discomfort in check during briefings that involved the supernatural. Some had tried to hide it behind a wall of professionalism; others hadn’t even bothered. The taskforce wouldn’t have room for either type. They were already facing some backlash within the Bureau for even attempting to employ vampires – not everyone was thrilled at the idea of having to work with fangs after all – so they really didn’t need people inside the team with that same attitude making things worse.

So the fact that Aubrey was wary, but willing to push his preconceptions aside and learn more about vampires, was certainly a point in his favor.

However, Aubrey was also very young.

Lance didn’t particularly like to differentiate based on age – God knows he’d spent enough time being underestimated himself – but he couldn’t help but worry about Aubrey’s experience level in the field. Apart from a few cases, he’d done very little actual field work. And this taskforce wasn’t theoretical.

They’d be tracking and subduing real threats. And that meant active combat sometimes. With fanged opponents. Sure, the brunt of the combat would be faced by the vampire members of the team, but that didn’t meant the human members didn’t have to be prepared to get their hands dirty sometimes either. It wasn’t unheard of for vampires to have human sidekicks after all. Lance knew that particular little fact from personal experience.

So more field experience would certainly have been a plus. Right now, it was difficult to tell how Aubrey would react in a crisis scenario where he was put on the spot by a dangerous opponent. Could he handle such a situation? Could he be trusted not to panic and to cover his teammates backs in a fight?

On the other hand, it might be a good idea to pair up Aubrey with an older, more experienced field agent, as it would give them a better mix of experience and new ideas. And they could provide training to hone better reflexes and reduce field jitters.

The thought certainly had merit.

He made a few more notes.

CONS: Young, limited field experience. Partner with senior agent? More training?

Then he continued reading.

There were a few other relevant aspects that pointed to Aubrey being a decent candidate for the team. A one year psychology minor, buried in Aubrey’s academic history. Volunteer work with a crisis hotline in college. A series of notations in his performance reviews that emphasized his ability to de-escalate tense situations. A decent de-escalation could be the difference between a fight to the death and a relatively peaceful resolution, so any experience in that was a plus. And apparently Aubrey also spoke Mandarin and a smattering of Russian.

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

He slapped a yellow post-it on the folder, marking it a strong contender, and added it to a very slim pile.

Only two other files had made it there so far. Seven were in the “maybe” stack, and the rejection pile was beginning to look like a poorly constructed paper skyscraper.

Lance sighed and rubbed his temples.

He was glad the program had garnered so much interest, but honestly, most of the applicants seemed to view it as a promotion leading to bigger and better positions rather than what it really was: a high-stakes commitment that required a strong drive, emotional maturity, and a moral compass sturdy enough to navigate a minefield of gray areas.

People only interested in what the taskforce could bring them in the future were not what they needed. Members would be involved in dangerous situations more often than not and would need to be able to truly, one hundred percent, rely on each other. And that meant they needed people who’d want to do this long-term, a few years at the very least. They needed to be able to bond. Trust each other with their lives. A revolving door of people taking the job, only to move on to the next opportunity as soon as it presented itself, was not conducive to fostering such a connection. They needed people who were in this because they truly want to make a difference.

Ambition wasn’t what was going to make this team thrive. Conviction was.

They also needed people who’d work well in a team. Lance wanted to try and match the candidates based on their characters and their likes and dislikes, both on a personal and a professional level, to create a better chance at all of the members getting along, but he also wanted to combine a few specific skill sets that would be useful to the team.

So finding the right people was turning out to be a challenge to say the least.

Well, at least he had three strong contenders so far. And there might be others hidden in the stack of unread records on his desk.

He looked over at the precariously balancing pile and grimaced. A lot more files to go through.

Not for the first time, Lance wished he had Carlisle’s vampiric speed. He could really have used that particular ability right about now to speed-read his way through all of the candidacies.

He looked at the next file on the stack and opened it.

Martin Collowen, sixty years old, linguist and interpreter, and set to retire in a few years.

Lance blinked. “Really?”

No field experience. No appropriate physical training. The man couldn’t even pass the standard field fitness test, let alone be a part of active operations.  He had … well, nothing relevant.

The file went directly to the reject pile without a second glance.

The next binder was more promising: an ex-marine, late-thirties with a tough résumé and years of impressive deep cover work.

Lance was about half-way through the list of cases the man was involved in, when a  sharp knock at the door startled him.

“Come in!” he called.

A senior agent stepped inside.

Karl Dorsey, a gruff, weathered man with salt-and-pepper hair and a voice like gravel, likely due to him smoking at least two packs a day on a good day. He’d been with the Bureau for over twenty years. A good man, if a bit stubborn, and, after a rather embarrassing incident with him discharging his service weapon in a crowded train-station in pursuit of a suspect, also a (forced) regular patient of Lance’s.

“Sweets,” Dorsey said, not bothering with a greeting, “you’re needed on a murder scene.”

Lance straightened in his chair. It was rare for agents other than Booth to require him to be a part of a murder case from the very start. Usually he was asked to consult after they had gotten at least the bare bones of the investigation started.

Unless, of course …

“Vampire-related?”

Dorsey gave a curt nod. “Body turned up in the Anacostia river. Bite marks all over. Boss wants you and Cullen on it.”

Lance sighed wryly. Of course they did.

Really, the timing of this killer was just perfect. If he could have been so kind as to keep his murderous tendencies under control for just a few more months, or even weeks, then Carlisle wouldn’t have had to be involved anymore and the taskforce would have been operational enough to take the case themselves.

Ah well, nothing for it. He’d call his lover and hopefully this case wasn’t too much of a doozy.

“Jeffersonian’s already been looped in,” Dorsey added. “They’ve got their V-team on it.”

Lance managed a faint smile.

The V-team was what the Bureau had taken to calling Brennan’s team – well, technically Cam’s team, but no one was going to correct Brennan on that to her face – of squints. Being part of the very first successful vampire case had earned them the reputation of being bad-ass science freaks who could solve anything and had hands-on experience with fangs, something that the Jeffersonian brass considered quite a feather in their cap. Never mind that not a single member of said brass had ever played a part of any of the vampire cases so far.

Dorsey scratched his head, suddenly awkward. “Also… boss wants Booth on this one.”

Lance blinked. “Booth’s off today.”

“I know.” Dorsey looked genuinely uncomfortable now. “Been the guy’s first day off in months too, but orders are orders. They want him to keep the squints in check.” Then, under his breath, he added a quiet “Probably don’t want them hogging the glory when this case gets solved.”

Lance had to purse his lips together to stop a chuckle from escaping.

No one had forgotten that faithful press conference two years ago when the Director had tried to claim the credit for “neutralizing the vampire threat” and had been eviscerated by the very journalists he’d been hoping to impress. It hadn’t been the last time they’d tried to pin such successes onto their own chests, but so far, their attempts had been met with lukewarm responses from the press rather than the roaring approval they had been aiming for.

“You want me to send someone to pick him up?” the agent continued, unaware that his slip had not gone unheard.

Lance shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll go get him myself. He’ll probably take it better from me.”

Dorsey nodded gruffly. “Appreciate it. I’ll text you the address.” He turned to leave, then paused. “If this case is fang-related, don’t get yourself killed, a’ight? I’m three weeks from being released from mandatory counseling, and I don’t want to start over with a new shrink.”

That actually made Lance chuckle.

The words might sound callous, but coming from the agent in question, it was basically as close to concern as the man could get.

“Will do,” he told him solemnly.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Lance pulled out his phone and dialed his lover.

Carlisle picked up on the first ring.

“Already on my way, love” he answered the question Lance hadn’t even been able to ask yet, his voice smooth and a bit amused.

Lance blinked. “You are? Wait … how did you …?”

“Alice,” was the simple answer he got.

He huffed a  laugh.

Of course Alice had seen her father getting called in. Sometimes it really was convenient to have a psychic in the family. 

“I’ve arranged coverage at the hospital,” Carlisle continued, “I’ll pick you up at the Hoover.”

“Thanks, I’ll meet you up front,” Lance agreed, before his mood turned somewhat sour. “You know, you really shouldn’t have to keep bailing us out. The taskforce will be operational soon. This shouldn’t even be your problem anymore.”

Carlisle chuckled softly, fondly.

“Don’t worry about it, love. I know you’re doing you best to take this off my shoulders. We’ll just consider this a farewell tour.”

Lance perked up at that. A final case together sounded good.

He smiled, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad I get to see you today. Even under murdery circumstances and with a watery corpse in the background.”

“Oh, my love, you always know how to charm a man,” Carlisle deadpanned, making Lance laugh.

They ended the call with a quick ‘love you’.

Lance gathered his notes, checked his phone for the crime scene address, and stood.

Another day, another body, but at least he’d be spending it with his beloved.

He grinned, grabbed his jacket, and headed out.

Chapter Text

The bell above the bookstore door gave a soft chime as Lance and Carlisle stepped inside, and they were immediately engulfed by the muffled hum of dozens of voices.

The store was packed.

Shelves had been pushed back to create a narrow corridor of space, where a long line of people stood clutching crisp new copies of Blood and Bones, Brennan’s latest bestselling – and anthropologically sound – thriller. It seemed like everyone and their mother wanted an autographed copy.

Lance looked around, observing the crowd with a critical gaze, while trying to determine whether it would be better to just push through the mass of bodies or to try and find a way around it.

He glanced at his lover beside him.

“Do you think they’ll let us pass if we ask politely?”

Carlisle snorted and leaned closer to make sure his answer wasn’t overheard by any of the queuing fans.

“From the way some of them are already looking at us like we are enemy soldiers trying to usurp their spot in the trenches, I’d wager they won’t.”

Lance guffawed as the vampire gave him a mischievous wink.

Spotting a rolling ladder against the bookshelf next to them, Carlisle climbed a few steps to be able to peer over the heads of everyone standing in between them and their target.

“Booth is standing with Brennan at her table,” he confirmed as he stepped back down, “So we’ll have to brave the horde regardless, I’m afraid.”

Great. Looks like they were going to be angering some people.

Slowly, they started pushing their way forward through the thick line, murmured apologies trailing in their wake.

“Hey!” someone called out. “Get in line like everyone else!”

“Yeah, no cutting!”

“We were here first!”

Sweets winced and fished his badge from his pocket, holding it up in front of him.

“Official FBI business, sorry.”

It did seem to calm tempers somewhat and the shouting stopped, but curious whispering took its place almost instantly. Sweets caught a few snippets, some logical assumptions, others … not so much.

“FBI? You think he’s here for Dr. Brennan?”

“Are they going to arrest her?”

“Maybe someone died and they need her help.”

“Or maybe someone in this shop is, like, …  a terrorist or something!”

Lance rolled his eyes.

Really? A terrorist?

And the FBI would send two measly agents to deal with such a major threat?

Very believable.

He glanced sideways. Carlisle’s eyes sparkled with amusement, no doubt hearing every single theory being spouted, his lips curling into a faintly amused smirk that made Lance’s heart skip just a tiny beat.

God, his lover really was so gosh darn handsome, especially when he smiled.

He looked as effortlessly elegant as ever, with his usual crisp style and his golden-blond hair perfectly in place. And those eyes!

A walking marble statue of some Greek god. Still, serene, unreadable unless he chose otherwise.

He’d be Aesculapius perhaps, god of medicine. That would be fitting.

Although gods were usually depicted with less clothing than this.

Lance quickly shook his head to get rid of the rather impure mental images that quickly followed that particular train of thought.

Honestly, what was with him today? Could he not get his mind out of the gutter for even a few hours?

Focus, Sweets, he scolded himself silently.

They made it to the front of the queue, where a signing table had been set up. Booth stood off to the side, clearly acting as moral support as well as crowd control. The moment he caught sight of them, his expression quickly shifted from surprise into something suspiciously close to relief.

“Sweets? What are you doing here?” he called out as he stepped forward.

Brennan, also spotting them as she looked up from penning her so-mannieth signature, piped up. “There was really no need to come here, Dr. Sweets. I already have signed copies of my book ready for you in my office.”

Lance grinned at her.

“While I’m very grateful for that, unfortunately, that’s not why I’m here.”  

He turned to Booth and lowered his voice, glancing at the crowd. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally spread any rumors or cause a panic in the shop.

“A body turned up in the Anacostia. Bite marks. Looks fang-related.”

Booth perked up like a bloodhound catching a scent. “So we’re on a case?”

Lance blinked.

Was that… hope?

He’d expected annoyance, perhaps even anger at being disturbed during his first day off in months. Instead, Booth seems almost …eager.

He nodded, equally surprised and entertained. “Looks like it. Boss wants you on it.”

Before Booth could say anything else, Brennan stood up from behind the table. “If we have a case, then I’m coming too,” she announced firmly and with the same finality she used when declaring the age of a femur. “You might need my help.”

Booth turned to her in alarm. “Whoa, Bones, you don’t have to do that. There’s not even a skeleton yet. No bones to examine, just a mushy corpse.”

Lance winced.

Booth wasn’t exactly being subtle with his words, or quiet, and the crowd was getting restless. He already heard murmurs behind him, questioning what was going on. Whispers of “there’s a dead body somewhere” reached his ears.

Carlisle had heard them too, as he quickly cautioned Booth to lower his voice.

“I can still contribute,” Brennan argued, already reaching for her bag, “We can plan another signing some other day.”

That only seemed to make the agent more determined to get her to stay and Lance wondered what the hell that was all about.

“But what about your fans?” Booth gestured dramatically to the long queue, his voice laced with faux concern. “You can’t just abandon them, not when they’re all here to meet you, Bones. To hear your insights, to see the brilliance in person.”

Brennan hesitated, visibly torn.

As much as he didn’t get why it was so imperative that Brennan stayed and finished the signing event, Lance had to admire Booth’s strategy. Stroking Brennan’s ego was often more effective than any logical argument, especially since Brennan considered logic to always be on her side regardless of the topic.

“You think they’d be disappointed if I left?”

“Of course they would be!” Booth confirmed, voice dripping sincerity “They’ve waited so long for this. You’re their hero.”

Her spine straightened. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. I cannot abandon my readers. Please let Cam know I will join the investigation once I’m done here.”

Booth gave her a smile so relieved it could’ve been used to paint heart-shaped fluffy clouds.

“Yeah, sure, I’m sure she’ll understand,” he nodded eagerly.

“Good luck, darling,” Brennan said, kissing his cheek before sitting back down. “You can always send me pictures if there are any bones. I can still be of help, even from here.”

Lance bit back a grin as Booth grabbed his sleeve and practically yanked him away from the table and toward the exit, Carlisle quickly falling into step beside them. 

As they pushed through the crowd, Booth leaned over and muttered, “If one more person calls me Agent Andy, I swear to God I’m gonna punch someone.”

Lance snorted audible as the penny finally dropped.

This was why Booth had been so eager to leave, and so insistent that Brennan stayed to finish the signing, rather than postpone it for another day. He was desperate to get away from his – or rather Agent Andy’s – fangirls.

The poor man look mightily uncomfortable with the whole thing.

“You do realize Brennan based him on you, right?”

Booth sent him a withering glare.

“He’s a womanizer with emotional issues.”

Booth not being a womanizer, Lance could agree with. 

Booth not having emotional issues, however, …

With great difficulty, he suppressed the snarky retort on his lips, and tried to do some smooth-talking instead, in an attempt to unruffle the agent’s feathers.

“Well, it’s only natural that readers recognize you as agent Andy, you know. You are the personification of everything the character stands for.”

That got a disbelieving look. “What’s that? An FBI agent? We have a whole building of them, Sweets.”

“Someone who’s strong. Decisive. A natural leader. And deeply committed to justice,” Lance added helpfully, watching as Booth’s scowl slowly eased into something more pensive.

The agent cocked an eyebrow, straightening a bit, clearly liking the image that was being painted.

“You really think so?”

It was quite ironic that Booth was now being mollified by the same ego-massaging tactics that he’d successfully used on his soon-to-be wife not even five minutes ago.

“Absolutely.” Lance nodded solemnly, then smirked when he noticed Carlisle give him an amused side glance, of course having seen right through him.

He winked and playfully bumped his shoulder into his lover’s arm.

They had almost cleared the thickest part of the queue and the door was coming into view, when suddenly …

“Wait a second!” someone shrieked behind them. “O my God! That’s Dr. Graves and his vampire boyfriend!”

Lance froze mid-step, turning just in time to see a young woman pointing excitedly in their direction. The entire room seemed to pivot as one.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence.

Then the whispers exploded into a cacophony of shouts.

“They’re real?”

“I knew Alistair was based on someone!”

“O my God, you guys are soooo cute!”

“I love your dynamic in the books!”

“Are you really a vampire? And a vampire hunter too?”

“Can I see your fangs?”

The last few questions were aimed at Carlisle, who just regarded the crowd with polite amusement.

Lance had no idea how to react.

Dr. Graves was a character in Brennan’s books that was very obviously based on Lance himself, a young psychologist that the main character, Kathy Reichs, often clashed with. The similarities didn’t end there, as Dr. Graves was also in a steady – and steamy – relationship with a vampire, Alistair, although Alistair was more of an action hero figure than Carlisle. He’d been a soldier that had fought under Lincoln during the civil war and had, even after being turned, kept serving his country in his own way by hunting other vampires and bringing justice to their victims.

Lance … kind of panicked.

He’d read Brennan’s new book before it came out. He knew exactly how spicy she’d made Graves and Alistair’s scenes. And now all of these fans — many of them women wielding sharpies like weapons — were looking at him appraisingly like he’d stepped straight from the pages of the novel itself.

And then there were the looks they were sending Carlisle.

Good heavens, the man was taken already, BY HIM, so they had no right to ogle him like that.

Lance really did not want to get caught up in the middle of a horde of groupies drooling and fangirling over his lover. And he most certainly did not want to end up being fangirled over himself.

He grabbed Carlisle’s hand and made for the door as fast as politely possible, trying to smile and nod as he moved. “We’d love to stay and chat,” he apologized insincerely, “but duty calls … you know how it is.”

More shouting.

“Agent Andy! Can I take a selfie with you?”

“Dr. Graves, is Alistair really that… talented?”

“Did you really meet during a murder case?”

They never made it to the door, as rabid fans swarmed to block off their escape route.

They were trapped.

Booth bellowed, “Make way! Federal agents coming through!”

It did nothing.

This bloodthirsty mob had just realized they had both Agent Andy and Dr. Graves and Alistair at their mercy and they were almost in raptures because of it. Question after question was being shouted from all sides.

Brennan, from her position at the front, was trying to get back the attention of her fans, but Lance knew her efforts would be futile.

Why would the crowd content themselves with the author, when they could get at the people her characters were based on?

The real deal, so to speak.

The horde surged inward like piranhas, and the trio quickly found themselves boxed in entirely by eager faces and arms clutching books and phones and notepads.

Someone slid a hand up Lance’s arm, eying him appreciatingly.

He turned scarlet. “Uh … I … Excuse me …What …”

Carlisle’s hand shot out, putting a quick stop to the unsolicited touch and tugging Lance against his chest.

“Don’t touch my mate,” he said coldly, a quiet growl curling around the words.

Lance blinked, a bit stunned by the possessive edge in Carlisle’s voice. It was rare to hear that note from his lover and he figured it had slipped out quite unintended, but by God, it sent pleasant shivers down his spine.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

The women around them actually swooned.

“He’s even hotter in person,” someone whispered, fanning herself with the book in her hands.

“I need an Alistair in my life,” another sighed.

“Do you think he’d bite me if I asked nicely?”

The questions kept coming rapid-fire now. Several of them, way too many, were disturbingly specific about their love life. Not content with the scenes in Brennan’s book, they wanted more. And they wanted all of the details.

Lance swallowed as he realized just how deep in trouble they were, surrounded by enemies, outnumbered and with no way out.

“We’ll never get out of here alive”, he muttered glumly.

Carlisle chuckled in his ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll turn you if you perish bravely fighting in this battle.”

“Not. Helping,” Lance hissed, clinging to his lover’s sleeve like a lifeline and trying to twist away as another hand reached out to touch him.

Booth looked ready to throttle, or shoot, someone. “Back off! Or we’re calling for backup! I mean it!”

Lance wasn’t sure what was more mortifying: that they might actually need backup to escape a bookstore, or that this would absolutely become one of those urban legends whispered about around FBI water coolers for the next few decades.

He sighed.

“God, we are never going to live this down, are we?”

Carlisle leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“Not if I have anything to say about it, Dr. Graves.”

Chapter Text

The crime scene lay sprawled out on the grassy banks of the Anacostia River, a strange juxtaposition of natural serenity and gory death.

Lance stepped out of his car, with Booth and Carlisle following closely behind, and immediately regretted taking a deep breath. The air was thick with the putrid stench of rotting flesh, cloying and dense. His stomach gave a warning twist and he turned his head away sharply, gagging. Even Carlisle, ever composed, made a face before schooling his features into practiced neutrality. Lance couldn’t even imagine what that smell must be like to the vampire’s superior senses.

Likely unbearable.

The scene was buzzing with activity as the evidence processing was already in full swing. FBI techs moved in a controlled chaos, snapping photos, placing evidence markers, and bagging whatever could prove useful. A dozen conversations crackled over radios. The body, or rather the bloated hump of flesh that had once been a person, had been pulled from the water and lay partially unwrapped on the remnants of the blue tarp it had originally been concealed in. The plastic clung wetly to the corpse, as did the remnants of a torn piece of red cloth that barely covered the girl’s chest. The fabric obviously used to be a dress, but it was ripped and stained beyond repair.

Lance swallowed thickly and desperately tried to breath shallow enough not to smell the horrific odor permeating the entire scene.  

It didn’t help much.

Cam was crouched near the body, examining it with clinical detachment. When she looked up and saw them, she called out.

“Took you long enough. What happened, stop for brunch on the way?”

Booth muttered something uncharitable under his breath and shot her a glare.

Since he seemed little inclined to offer any explanation, Carlisle took it upon himself to fill her in.

“We had a little ... run-in with some overly enthusiastic fans at Brennan’s book signing.”

Amusement flickered across Cam’s features. “Let me guess. They all wanted to meet agent Andy?”

“Something like that,” Carlisle hedged, even as Booth groused, louder this time, “Don’t even start.”

Cam raised her hands in mock surrender but couldn’t quite hide her grin, and Lance had to suppress a giggle. His nerves were still frayed from the bookstore mob, but the sheer absurdity of the situation kept bubbling up in the back of his mind. It felt like they had barely escaped that shop with their lives and sanities intact.

Okay, maybe that was just a touch overdramatic.

Still, it had taken them at least an hour before they had been able to extract themselves from the situation and it had taken them lots of negotiation, giving in and posing for pictures and handing out autographs. They hadn’t actually had to call in reinforcements, thank god for that, but it’d been a close call.

Fangirls could be freaking scary.

Booth, clearly eager to shift focus, crossed his arms. “Just tell me what we have here.”

Cam stood, still valiantly trying to mask her smile.

“Victim is a Caucasian female, somewhere between twelve and eighteen. Based on decomp, I'd say she's been in the water about a week. She was wrapped in a tarp, secured with rope. Fortunately for us, that kept most river wildlife from damaging the body.”

Carlisle knelt beside the victim, accepting the pair of gloves a tech offered and pulling them on.

Suddenly, a loud splash startled Lance, followed by a triumphant shout. A diver surfaced from the murky river water, yanking off his mask to reveal a grinning Hodgins. “Got something!”

Lance blinked, then shook his head bemusedly.

Of course Hodgins was diving. Why was he even surprised? Where there was muck, there was Hodgins.

Two other divers emerged behind him, dragging something heavy in between them. Once lifted upon the shore, it became clear it was one of those reusable plastic shopping bags, weighed down with rocks. A length of rope trailed from the handles where they were tied together.

Cam raised an eyebrow, then held up the end of the rope still attached to the tarp. “Ten bucks says this matches that one,” she said, gesturing at the evidence the divers had just deposited there.

Carlisle nodded. “Likely what kept the body submerged. Looks like the rope snapped under pressure.”

Hodgins waded to shore, shedding his gear and shaking out his hair like a dog.

“Between the heavy rain storms in the area and the gasses from decomp, it makes sense. The river stirred it up just enough to snap under the added pressure. And it was dumb luck the body got snagged in the reeds. Otherwise, we’d be looking at a floater halfway to Chesapeake Bay.”

Booth gave him a pointed look. “We don’t need a weather report, Hodgins.”

Hodgins opened his mouth to reply, then cocked his head, reconsidering. Then he tried again.

“Well, someone’s testy today. What took you guys so long anyway? We’ve been here for ages.”

Cam cut in swiftly. “Don’t ask.”

Booth growled.

Actually growled.

Like a vampire would.

Lance saw Carlisle raise a pointed eyebrow at the sound and had to promptly fake a violent coughing fit to hide his laughter.

“Sorry, it’s the smell,” he offered lamely, and very unconvincingly apparently, because Booth glared, grinding his teeth together in annoyance and raising a pointed finger in his direction.

“Not. A. Word.” he threatened.

Lance placatingly held up his hands and mimed zipping his lips shut.

He wouldn’t have to say anything anyway.

He’d already caught Carlisle leaning toward Hodgins to whisper something to him. And whatever it was, it made scientist’s eyes widen before he stifled a laugh and nodded. The bookstore incident would be all over the Jeffersonian by the end of the day. Perhaps even within the hour. Although Lance couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

As annoying as it would be to be the subject of the Jeffersonian gossip mill again, Booth being subjected to that same fate was just too funny. The man would, no doubt, be complaining about it for days and his exasperated grumblings would be well worth the price of Lance’s own embarrassment.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But at the very least, Lance would be taking great pleasure in “slipping up” and calling Booth Agent Andy every now and then for the next few days.

He turned his attention back to the body as Carlisle and Cam listed their preliminary findings.

“Extensive bruising here,” the vampire started, indicating the wrists and ankles. “Likely bound at some point.”

“Defensive wounds on the hands and arms,” Cam added. “And bruising along her shoulders and back. She was beaten.”

Lance felt a tightness in his chest. A girl so young ... and the terror she must have felt in those final moments. He clenched his fists by his sides.

Carlisle pointed to the neck. “Massive trauma here. Her throat’s been torn out. Given the discoloration and the extent of the damage, she bled out quickly.”

Booth swore under his breath. “Any chance an rabid animal did this?”

But Cam shook her head. “Sorry, not likely.”

She raised a bit of red fabric to point to another wound on the girl’s shoulder, clearly humanoid in nature.

Booth threw his hands up.

“Great. Another fang case.”

Lance understood the frustration. Thing had seemed somehow so much simpler before vampires had come out of the coffin. When a murder investigation didn’t involve supernatural species or taskforces to deal with how bloody unkillable they were.

But it was what it was.

Vampires were real. And it wasn’t all bad. He shot an involuntary glance at his lover. Some things were very good even.

And at least they now knew what was out there. Cases like this would have been deemed animal attacks years ago and would probably have never been solved. Now, however, they could actually help build towards initiatives that could deal with their crazy reality. To make the world a safer place, one step at the time.

Cam turned and raised her voice. “Let’s bag it all up, people. We’re taking everything back to the lab.” Then, quieter, “Let’s find out who this girl was, and who did this to her.”

They had a murder to solve.

Chapter Text

The hum of fluorescent lighting above the autopsy room, a persistent buzz like a mosquito too close to his ear, was something Carlisle had learned to tune out. He knew the lamps and fixtures used were just the same as the ones in the hospital O.R., and yet somehow it still felt different.

People on his table at the hospital still had hope.

This poor girl, however, she had nothing left.

The sterile scent of ethanol and surgical gloves did little to mask the clinging odor of decay that lingered around her.

The victim laid out in front of him was still so young, only just into her teens, and every time he let his gaze settle on her bloated, discolored form, he felt that familiar ache in his chest.

He had never been able to get used to this part.

And he dearly hoped he never would.

“Decomposition suggests a time of death somewhere between four and ten days ago,” Cam said, voice clinical, steady. She had just gotten rid of the torn remnants of the red dress and was now cataloguing the victim’s injuries. “There’s too much water damage for anything more specific.”

“Actually, I found something that could help with that,” Hodgins piped up from where he was peering through a microscope at the table behind them.

“Come take a look.”   

Cam tossed a glance over her shoulder. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here, Hodgins,” she pointed out holding up her gloved hands covered in blood and other juices.

“Right, well, I found … “ He turned his monitor so that Carlisle and Cam could see what was on it without leaving their table. “… these little beauties.”

The image on the screen looked like a skinny maggot with big eyes, something in between a pale worm with a comically inflated head and a recently hatched frogspawn.

Carlisle made a silent note that Hodgins’s idea of beauty left some things to be desired.

“Some sort of larvae?” he asked.

“Yep, erythemis simplicicollis, to be precise. Eastern pondhawk. It’s a dragonfly native to the region, especially common along the Anacostia. Females lay their eggs on floating surfaces , sticks, reeds... or in this case, bodies.”

Cam raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you’re now going to tell us how these …” She made a disgusted face. “… beauties are in any way going to help us determine a time of death?”

Hodgins grinned. “The little guys I found have literally just hatched. They’re still in the prolarval stage.”

For some reason that seemed to be a reason for great excitement.

Hodgins brought up the live feed from under his scope to his monitor. The critters were wriggling around on the small metal tray he had put them on.

Cam looked faintly repulsed.

“See the undeveloped gill tufts?” Hodgins continued, “This stage only lasts a few hours. Which means they emerged sometime this morning.”

Carlisle caught on to where this was going. “I take it they have a set hatching period?”

“Exactly!”

After some furious typing on his keyboard, Hodgins pulled up a chart of the registered river temperatures over the past month.

“So, get this, the water temperature’s been hovering around twenty degrees Celsius or sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit all week. At that rate, Erythemis eggs take a maximum of … drumroll please …” A hapless tech near them obliged, drumming his fingers onto his desk without even looking up from his work. Probably so used to Hodgins’s theatrics by now it barely even registered anymore. “… seven days to hatch.”

“Which would give us a time of death,” Cam nodded, “However, that is assuming that the eggs were deposited on the body at the exact time she was put into the water. They could just as easily have been transferred when she came floating up.”

Hodgins wagged a finger at them. “Ah, but that’s the best part. We know for certain that they were already there when our victim was dumped.”

He stilled for a dramatic pause.

Cam was quickly running out of patience.

“Out with it, Dr. Hodgins. We don’t have all day.”

“The eggs and larvae weren’t on the body. They were on the rope that was still fully submerged in the water, tied to the shopping bag on the bottom of the river. Dragonflies don’t lay eggs under water, so that means the eggs must have been deposited on the rope just before the body was sunk.”

Carlisle frowned. “Wouldn’t the eggs and the larvae perish if they were submerged for so long?”

“Nope. The eggs have this gelatinous outer coating that helps them stick. Keeps them from drowning too. And they’re tough little suckers. Even the larvae can survive without oxygen for hours while they transition into their next stage of development. Aren’t they amazing?”

Hodgins was almost cooing at his microscope.

Cam’s face told Carlisle just how amazing she found the little critters, an opinion he honestly found himself sharing, but he did have to admit they had given them very useful information. 

They now knew for certain that this poor girl had been dumped in the river seven days ago, which put the window of death firmly on sometime last Monday. 

“Nice work, Dr. Hodgins,” he said quietly.

Hodgins grinned, brushing invisible lint from his lab coat. “What can I say? King of the lab.”

Carlisle smiled despite himself. King of the lab indeed.

He turned back to Cam, who was now giving a closer look at the wounds on her neck. Tilting the girl’s head gently, she exposed the ragged tear where her throat had been.

“Classic puncture and tear. Her jugular was entirely severed. With this much damage, she would have bled out in less than a minute.”

Carlisle nodded, leaning in and carefully lifting the flab of loose skin barely covering what was left of her trachea.

“The angle is consistent with a feeding from behind.” He pointed to the direction of the tear. “The killer was much taller than her and likely pinned her to his chest as he ripped into her neck, tearing her skin back- and upwards.”

They moved on to the abrasions on her wrists.

“Lacerations,” Cam observed, “and friction marks.”

“Like rope burns,” Carlisle added quietly. 

“Exactly like rope burn,” Hodgins confirmed. I found fibers in one of the cuts on her arms that match the same type of cord that was used to tied down the tarp.”

The theory that she had been tied up and restrained before her death seemed to become more and more likely.

However, that begged the question: why?

A vampire would have been easily able to subdue her, so why had she been bound?

Carlisle examined the girl’s wrists again, slowly moving up her arms and onto her shoulders. “Something doesn’t add up. Some of these bruises are old, a few days before her death at least, perhaps even older. Others are more recent, likely from around the time of death.”

“Bruises in different stages of healing and rope burns? I’m not liking where this is going,” Cam voiced softly. 

“Could be domestic abuse,” Hodgins suggested, looking up from his microscope.

But Cam shook her head.

“No other signs of prolonged mistreatment. It’s more likely she was held by her killer for some time before the murder.” She pointed to another, fainter, bite mark on the girl’s shoulder. “Look here, look at the edges of the mark. See that?”

Following her finger, Carlisle realized with a sinking dread that she was right. Even as bloated as Kelly’s skin was right now, it was clear that the healing process had already set in before her death. This bite must have been inflicted at least a full week before she was killed.

He did not like where this was going either.

As Cam proceeded with opening the victim’s chest through a Y-incision and then began removing the girl’s stomach, Carlisle looked away instinctively. Not out of squeamishness. That particular feeling had faded centuries ago. But this victim, this young girl, could have been anyone. A student. A daughter. A bright future snuffed out in violence and fear. And it made him sick to think of the life she might have gone on to live, had it not been taken from her so violently.

He really didn’t like working these cases. Sure, he thoroughly enjoyed the firm camaraderie and even friendships that had grown from his affiliation with the Jeffersonian and the FBI and he loved working with this particular team, and with his lover of course, but he strongly disliked working with the dead.

He always got attached to the victims, taking their deaths personally. And he hated this feeling of being powerless, of being unable to do anything about their dark fates. It did bring a small measure of peace when they were able to bring their killers to justice, of course, but justice didn’t change the fact that these people were gone for good, leaving behind families and loved ones, and a future they would never live to see.

Carlisle had to admit he was incredibly grateful Lance was spearheading the effort to create the vampire taskforce, so that he would not have to deal with these cases anymore, or at least not as intensively as he did now.

He was a doctor. He wanted to heal people, not burry them.

He forced his eyes back to the table. He had a job to do.

“Stomach contents suggest a recent meal,” Cam murmured. “She was fed shortly before death.”

Carlisle frowned. “Odd behavior for a killer. Perhaps her death was an accident? Someone losing control? Or a twisted sense of ritual? A last meal before the execution, so to speak.”

Cam shrugged in a ‘who knows’ gesture and poured the stomach contents into a jar, before handing it to Hodgins

“Yikes. Luckily for us, it seems this kid had never heard of chewing her food. I might be able to figure out what she last ate,” he said, already turning back to his station.

Just then, Angela arrived with Brennan close behind, swiping their cards and stepping up onto the platform.

“Please tell me you’re done with the gut-churning part,” Angela groaned.

“Almost,” Cam responded dryly.

Brennan jumped right in. “I’ve been reviewing the x-rays. There are microfractures and chipping on the cervical vertebrae. Something with fangs bit her, hard enough to reach and chip the bone.”

Carlisle inclined his head in agreement. “Which is consistent with our findings. Death by vampire.”

Angela was eying the slimy reddish sludge on Hodgins’s desk with revulsion. “God, that is so disgusting.”

Cam chose that moment to abruptly change the subject. “So... how did the book signing go?”

Carlisle gave her a sideway glance.

Someone was fishing.

Probably hoping for more details on the fan fiasco.

Brennan sniffed. “It devolved into chaos. My readers seemed far more interested in Agent Andy and Dr. Graves’s personal lives than the forensic methodology. It’s disheartening, really. The beautiful and intricate science that actually solves the case was being completely ignored in favor of some basic love stories that were only ever meant as background information and side plots to fluff up the storyline.”

Carlisle said nothing, but his lip curled in amusement. While the science behind the book’s narrative was certainly impressive, he sincerely doubted the readers considered the love stories as anything other than main plot, demoting the science to the side fluff position.

He saw Hodgins smirking behind his work station and Cam quickly turning away to grab another scalpel in an attempt to hide her smile.

Angela, however, was not even bothering to hide her amusement. She snorted audibly.

“Yeah, maybe that’s because your sex scenes are hot enough to steam up every glass surface in a two mile radius.”

“Speaking of,” Hodgins chimed in far too innocently, turning to face Carlisle directly “Have you read the book yet?”

Carlisle resisted the urge to smirk. He knew exactly what was coming.

But he played dumb.

“I’ve gotten started on it, yes. Why?” he posed nonchalantly.

Hodgins’s grin widened. “Gotten to page 206 yet?”

And there it was.

Page 206. Chapter 28.

The infamous spicy chapter.

He looked up from his work, arching a brow. “I take it some earth-shattering twist is revealed on that page?”

Angela guffawed somewhere to his right. “That’s one way of putting it,” she muttered wryly.

Cam, without missing a beat, interfered with a curt “Keep it professional, guys. We’re examining a murder victim here.”

“Right, right,” Hodgins relented with a smug smile. “Better not to tell anyway. I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

But Angela was apparently not willing to be sidetracked.

“Oh, please! I know Carlisle and Sweets proofread the manuscript. So he knows exactly what we’re referring to,” she accused, pointing a finger in his direction. “And that scene is way too specific to be made-up out of the blue. So I want to know how much of it is fiction, and how much of it comes from …” She stepped closer, moving into Carlisle’s personal space and lowered her voice suggestively. “… personal experience.”

Carlisle simply hummed, amused. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Hodgins barked a laugh at Angela’s disgruntled face at that non-answer.

“Ugh. Tease,” she complained.

Cam shook her head and muttered something about children in lab coats.

Brennan, who’d been studying the larvae Hodgins had found, piped up, entirely unbothered, and casually spilled the beans.

“I wanted to ensure the emotional tone and physical movements were accurate. And since I obviously lack the male organ to try and gain my own experience, Dr. Sweets and Dr. Cullen were kind enough to provide me with some reference material.”

Cam let out a scandalized sound. Angela froze, utterly baffled that Brennan had so offhandedly confirmed all of her suspicions. Hodgins blinked and then immediately burst out laughing.

“Wait, am I to understand you actually got Sweets of all people to tell you about their sex life … and you took notes?” Cam questioned, flabbergasted.

“Of course, detailed ones,” Brennan confirmed, “Although, most of the useful information came from Dr. Cullen, if I’m honest. Sweets seemed a bit distracted the whole time.”

Hodgins gave Carlisle a wink. “So you took the lead, huh? Three guesses who’s the top in your relationship then.”

Angela fell into a fit of hysterical giggles.

“O my god, I would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” she wheezed out.

Carlisle smiled.

The ribbing didn’t bother him. If anything, it helped ground him, distracted him from the grim reality lying in front of him on the cold metal lab table.

And they all meant well.

Then, unable to help himself, he found himself speaking up to Angela’s comment.

“You should have been a fly on the wall for what happened after that conversation.”

Three pairs of wide eyes were looking at him now.

He smirked and casually turned back to the case at hand. “Hodgins, have you swabbed under her fingernails yet?”

“Oh, hell no, buddy!” Angela all but shrieked, “You do not get to say something like that and then change the subject!”

But Carlisle shook his head and pressed his lips together in a universal sign of ‘I’m not saying anything more’.

Angela threw her hands up, even as Brennan asked when she could have the bones for examination. Hodgins was holding his stomach, valiantly trying not to bellow his laughter through the room at his wife’s antics.

Then, Angela’s tablet beeped.

The mood shifted instantly.

She checked her notifications and her face turned serious.

“I got a hit,” she said, “I managed to create an enhanced image of what our victim looked like before she went into the water and I’ve been running it through the missing persons database. Our victim is Kelly Young. Sixteen. Reported missing in January after she didn’t come home from a party.”

She turned the screen around. A vibrant girl with short, messy hair and a mischievous smile stared up at them, holding a birthday cake with sixteen candles.

Cam exhaled softly. “I’ll call Booth.”

All hilarity had faded quicker than snow in august now that they were once more confronted with the dark reality of the dead girl on their autopsy table.

Sixteen years old.

Still a child.

With her dark-haired pixie cut, she could have passed for Alice’s sister.

And missing since January.

That meant she had been missing for more than a month before she was murdered and dumped in the river.

Where had she been? Had she been in her murderer’s clutches for so long?

Had she suffered all that time?

Carlisle looked down at the body again, then back to the photo, imprinting that smile in his mind.

And he made a quiet vow.

They would bring her justice.

He swore they would.

Chapter Text

Lance followed Booth into the softly lit family room of the FBI’s interview suite, the weight of grief heavy in the air. A tissue box sat already half-empty on the table between them and the couple opposite, their postures crumpled, devastated. The woman clung to her husband, sobbing into his shoulder. Her pale, drawn face was framed by a curtain of dark pixie-cut hair, a painful mirror of the girl whose photograph was still fresh in Lance's mind.

Kelly Young had clearly inherited her mother’s features: same high cheekbones and slender face, same curve to her lips. But she also had her father’s expressive eyes.

He swallowed thickly.

Booth, ever direct but with his roughened sympathy worn openly today, cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Young, thank you for coming in. We know this isn’t easy.”

The father nodded, jaw clenched tight. “We just… we never gave up hope. It’s been two months, and we still believed...” His voice cracked. “And now....”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. Everyone in the room knew what he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Their little girl was gone.

And so was their hope.

Lance's heart ached.

He sat silently for a moment, watching them grieve. Their despair was palpable and it settled in his chest like a physical weight. Christine wasn’t even his child and he already wouldn’t know what to do with himself if anything happened to her, let alone something this horrifying. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how Booth must feel during a case like this.

Carlisle stood just behind them, still as a statue and silent, arms folded over his chest and his face carefully impassive, doing his best to not to draw any attention to himself.

They had discussed this beforehand. Booth had introduced him briefly as “Dr. Cullen, a consultant,” but the vampire would keep to the shadows for the rest of the conversation. They didn’t want to risk upsetting the grieving parents should they find out a vampire was in the same room as them, after just being told their daughter was likely murdered by one.

Booth tried to start the conversation off gently, offering Mrs. Young another tissue.

“Can you tell us about the night Kelly disappeared?”

Mrs. Young hiccupped through a sob. “She went to … a party at … at one of her friends’ houses. She said … she said she wouldn’t … wouldn’t even be out late.”

She barely managed to get the words out before dissolving into sobs once more.

Her husband took over.

“She was supposed to be home by eleven. When she wasn’t, we tried calling her, and texting. But we got nothing back. We called her friends, but none of them had seen her leave. Her boyfriend was still hanging around, so they assumed she was still there somewhere too. Amy, her best friend, said she’d look for her, but she called back an hour later saying that she couldn’t find her and asking if she was home yet.”

Lance made a note of the timeline. The parents raised the first alarm around eleven p.m. because Kelly wasn’t home by then and the friends confirmed around midnight that she was definitively no longer at the party after actively searching for her. That meant she had last been seen before eleven. Possibly even earlier as she could have left before that without her friends noticing. 

“Did she have any enemies? Anyone she was arguing with or who might have wanted to harm her?” Booth asked.

Both parents shook their heads.

“Enemies?” Mrs. Young blurted out, “She’s sixteen. What enemies could she possibly have? She was always so sweet to everyone.”

Mr. Young held his wife close as she blew her nose in a tissue.

“No, she didn’t have any big fights that we know of,” he clarified. “She was outgoing, always surrounded by her many friends. Only …”

Lance picked up on the hesitation. “Only what?”

Mr. Young’s face hardened.

“She had a boyfriend. Mark Ellison. They met at a party six months before she disappeared and she was smitten with him. He was a year older then her and it was always Mark this and Mark that. She couldn’t stop talking about him.”

Lance shared a look with Booth. The tone in Kelly’s father’s voice was not difficult to pick up on.

“You disapproved of him?” Booth guessed.

Mr. Young clenched his jaw.

“He was a bad influence. And Kelly was too lost in her rose-tinted cloud to see it. Mark was causing trouble from the moment they met. Always dragging her into the wrong crowd, convincing her to do things she never would have done on her own. We know she saw him at the party and then, after she went missing, not a peep from him. He didn’t even call us to ask for updates on her case.”

Lance's brows furrowed.

That was indeed rather odd. His girl went missing all of a sudden and he didn’t even seem to worry about her in the slightest? Hardly the behavior of a distraught boyfriend.

The name was familiar. Lance had seen it pop up it in the case notes from the original report two months ago. The parents had mentioned him then too, but the agent in charge had dismissed it as typical teen rebellion. He’d included in his report that he assumed Kelly was just hitting her rebellious phase and had run off with her boyfriend to spite her parents for their disapproval. He’d believed she’d turn up in a few days when reality turned out to be less romantic than she’d expected.

The case hadn’t been treated seriously until a week later, when she still hadn’t returned. Mark Ellison hadn’t even been questioned yet, even now.

An icy anger twisted in Lance’s stomach at the callousness of the agent who’d handled the case back then. If they'd taken it seriously from the beginning, then perhaps Kelly could have been found earlier, before she’d lost her life.

He made a note to interrogate the boyfriend as soon as possible.

It was a far leap from a lover’s spat between teenagers to death by vampire and a watery grave, but even if this boyfriend had nothing to do with her death, he might still have been the last person to see her before she’d disappeared. And he might have information that could lead to her actual killer.

Lance had left Booth to do the questioning so far, but he knew it was time for him to get involved now.

He cleared his throat, drawing the parents' attention onto himself and very carefully attempted to bring up the topic of vampires.

“Did Kelly ever talk about having any interest in the supernatural?” he posed delicately, keeping his tone soft.

Mrs. Young looked up at that, her red-rimmed eyes wide. “The supernatural?”

Lance pushed ahead.

“Vampires,” he clarified, “Did she have any connection to them? Did she know anyone who was a vampire? Or mentioned anyone who knew one?”

The parents exchanged a glance. Then Mr. Young sighed.

“No, she didn’t know any vampires. But … she was obsessed with them,” he admitted. “She read all those books about brooding vampire heroes. Had posters all over her room.”

“She was part of those online fan forums,” Mrs. Young added bitterly. “Fanfiction. Chatrooms. She believed it was all so very romantic. We thought it was just a phase. But Mark, he encouraged it. He liked that stuff too. It’s part of why we hated him so much.”

“Vampires aren’t heroes,” Mr. Young snapped. “They’re monsters.”

Lance suppressed a flicker of defensiveness. Carlisle, after all, was standing just a feet away.

Not all fangs were inherently evil, nor were all vampires soulless killers. Plenty of them had never really had a choice in what they’d become and had just had to make the best out of a bad situation. It was a topic rife with nuance.

But he held his tongue.

No one here needed that debate right now, least of all the grieving parents of a murdered child.

Then Mr. Young’s eyes narrowed, understanding dawning.

“Is that what this is about?” he asked. “Are you saying… are you saying our daughter was killed by a vampire?”

Lance hesitated, then nodded. They could not withhold this information from the parents either way. They deserved to know.

“We’re still investigating, but yes. Evidence suggests that a vampire was involved.”

Mrs. Young gave a low, keening cry, pressing her hands to the side of her head as if she wanted to crush her own skull in between them, before pounding them on the table.

“This is our fault!” she sobbed, “We should never have allowed her obsession to continue!”

It was heartbreaking.

Lance reached out to grasp her hand.

“Mrs. Young, this is in no way your fault,” he tried to soothe her, knowing, though, that there was very little that could take away this feeling of helpless despair and guilt she must be feeling.

“Kelly was a teenager and you are right that she would have grown out of this phase. But someone took her before that could happen. There is nothing you could have done differently. Had you taken away her books, had you forbidden her from accessing those forums, she just would have found other ways to go online. It might have pushed her even deeper into her obsession. You supported her, made sure she knew she could come to you with anything. This is not your fault. The one who took her, they are at fault, no one else.”

As expected, it did nothing to ease the mother’s pain.

“So that’s it, then,” Mr. Young sneered, his voice harsh with anger. “Nothing more will happen. We burry our child and the murderer gets to go free. Because he’s a vampire, nothing can be done and he’ll just get away with it.”

Booth was already responding, assuring them that this was not the case, when he was interrupted mid-sentence by Carlisle stepping forward.

Lance looked up to see his lover standing ramrod straight behind him, his eyes burning with anger.

“No,” he spoke. His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but it cut through the room like a knife made of ice. “He will not get away with this.”

The temperature seemed to drop and Lance felt a shiver run down his spine. He had the feeling Carlisle’s more animalistic side was barely being contained underneath the surface at the moment. The vampire’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes told a different story. Lance had only ever once before seen him this upset and that was when Lance himself had been taken by a fang.

Fury radiated off his lover in waves.

“There are ways to kill a vampire.” Carlisle continued coldly, “And your daughter's death will not go unanswered.”

Mr. Young regarded him for a moment, taken aback by his sudden involvement, but realization seemed to dawn quickly.

He rose from his chair abruptly.

“You're one of them,” he spat out.

Carlisle met his eyes without flinching.

“I am a vampire. But I am not one of them.” His voice held steel. “I believe all life is sacred. Humans are not cattle, they are people. I do not kill and I despise those who still purposefully do so when there are alternatives available. Especially those who prey on children. Even among vampires, such an act is considered abhorrent.”

He leaned closer, gaze unwavering.

“Vampires cannot be killed by humans. But they can be killed by one of their own.”

Mrs. Young’s penny seemed to drop just a little faster than her husband’s at what Carlisle was saying here. She looked up at him and her face morphed from fear into determination. Meeting his eyes, she spoke only four words.

“Then make him suffer.”

Carlisle inclined his head solemnly.

“If I find him, he will not survive.”

Lance swallowed.

He knew Carlisle meant every word he just said. So caught up in the parent’s grief, he had all but sworn to execute the vampire who’d killed their daughter.

And that worried him greatly.

Because it meant Carlisle would be taking another life. And, no matter how deserved the kill would be, the guilt would eat at him afterwards, when instinct and emotions had faded and rationality took over once more.   

Booth seemed to be thinking along the same lines, as he stood and quickly ended the conversation.

“That’s enough for now,” he told the Young’s, “Once again, we are very sorry for your loss. We will, of course, keep you updated on our investigation as soon as we can.”

As he shepherded them out of the room, he shot Lance a worried look, as if to say ‘What the hell was that?’

Lance waited until Booth and the Young’s were out of earshot before turning to Carlisle, placing a hand on his arm. Carlisle was taking deep breaths, eyes closed, something he knew was a coping mechanism for the vampire. He knew his lover would be counting the seconds as he breathed in and then out again in a steady rhythm.

“Are you okay?” he ventured softly.

Carlisle opened his eyes, features softening as a flash of shame crossed his expression.

“I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”

Lance regarded him, sliding his hand further up his lover’s arm and lifting the other to cup his cheek. Carlisle leaned into the touch, exhaling softly and reaching out to pull him closer.

Lance allowed it.

He knew his mate needed this right now. And they were alone anyway.

“You rarely get worked up like that,” he voiced as Carlisle inhaled his scent and leaned his forehead against his.

That got a small, humorless smile. “She reminded me of Alice. The hair. Her light.”

Lance understood what his lover was saying. Kelly did share a passing resemblance to the bubbly future-telling Cullen girl. And while Alice and her siblings were vampires and near indestructible, that would not stop Carlisle from seeing the parallels and imagining the worst in his mind.

It was normal. He was their father. And he loved them dearly.

“The pain the Young’s must feel right now … I cannot even begin to imagine. If anything were to ever happen to any one of my children … God, I’ve never been so glad to know how difficult it is to kill a vampire, because it means my kids will be safer than most.”

Lance squeezed his arm gently. “I get it. Cases involving kids are always the worst. And you don’t have to carry this alone. We have the best and brightest on our side.”

Carlisle managed a strained smile at that. “I take it you mean the Jeffersonian squints by that? You better not let them know you said that or they’ll let it go to their head.”

Lance hummed. “Especially Hodgins.” Then he grinned. “Our esteemed and beloved self-proclaimed king of the lab.”

A huffed chuckle. “Indeed.”

Carlisle’s shoulders lost some of their tension.

He nodded, pulling his composure firmly back into place.

“I should let you get back to work. Will you let me know when you find the boyfriend? I’d like to be there for the interrogation.”

“You’ll be the first call I make,” Lance promised.

They walked together to the elevator and, after a quick glance around to check they weren’t being observed, Carlisle leaned down to brush a soft kiss against Lance’s lips.

“I love you,” he murmured.

As often as Lance had heard his lover say those words to him by now, they still resonated in his brain every time they were uttered.

“Love you too.”

He watched as the closing doors hid his lover from view, then turned and made his way back to his office. After that heavy conversation, he would much rather take a break for a moment while Booth chased after the boyfriend, but he still had work to do.

As he sat behind his desk, he glanced at the clock.

12:58 p.m.

Goodness, was it afternoon already?

He had a patient scheduled at one. Perhaps he could go and grab some lunch afterwards.

Yeah, that sounded good.

Maybe he could take some time then to get rid of the heaviness on his chest too.

Chapter Text

Sitting alone in his usual booth at the Royal Diner, Lance absentmindedly stirred the straw in his nearly empty soda. His plate of fries was only half-finished, as was his burger. He’d figured he’d be hungry at this point – after all, he hadn’t really eaten since breakfast – but now that the food was actually in front of him, he found he couldn’t really stomach all that much. The emotionally heavy interview with Kelly’s parents was still fresh in his mind, as was Carlisle’s solemn vow. And then things had only gotten worse when Cam had let them know she’d found evidence of repeated sexual assault on the poor girl.

He took another bite, chewing mechanically, letting the buzz of the diner hum around him. It was comfortingly ordinary. Greasy smells, the clatter of silverware, snippets of casual conversation, with the hostess, Linda, occasionally yelling out someone’s order to the cook.

It was a far cry from the desperation and grief that had hung heavily around the Youngs earlier that day, and Lance was glad for it. He’d needed a break. The day had started out so well this morning, only to lead to chaos and bereaved parents sobbing into each other’s shoulders.

Carlisle waking him up ever so gently already seemed days ago instead of mere hours.

He had just decided he was going to leave his fries and order a shake instead, to fortify himself for whatever else this day was going to bring, when two very familiar figures slid into the booth opposite him like mischievous bookends.

“Heya, Sweets,” Angela greeted him sunnily, propping her elbows on the table.

“Mind if we join you?” Hodgins added, already helping himself to one of the fries without waiting for a reply.

Lance raised an eyebrow.

So much for the quiet moment of reflection. Then again, perhaps a bit of a distraction would be good for him.

He sat up straighter, trying not to seem as emotionally exhausted as he felt.

“Sure, have a seat,” he told them dryly. “Don’t let the fact that you’ve already done that stop you.”

Angela smiled sweetly, entirely unbothered. “So… how’s the case going? Find the mystery boyfriend yet?”

Lance wiped his mouth with a napkin and shook his head.

“Booth’s following up on it, but nothing so far. He’ll let me know when something turns up.”

Angela nodded solemnly. “I’m sure he will.”

Her tone was casual. Too casual.

Lance narrowed his eyes.

Why was he getting the feeling she wasn’t just here for an update on the case, or even food?

He eyed them suspiciously as Angela perused the menu with a nonchalant air. Never mind that she had been ordering the same dish here for years now and probably knew the menu by heart to boot.

They were up to something.

Angela was too bubbly, even for her standards. And Hodgins was just sitting there, looking at him and grinning like he’d just uncovered a new species of glow-in-the-dark fungus.

Lance gave it a beat. Ate another fry. Took another sip.

Then, sure enough ...

“So…” Angela leaned forward with a teasing gleam in her eyes. “How does it feel to be book famous?”

There it was.

Lance groaned internally, knowing exactly what she was referring to.

"I assume this is about the bookshop... incident," he said, resigned.

Hodgins’s grin was quickly reaching epic proportions.

"You assume correctly," he chimed in, stealing another fry and looking way too pleased with himself. "The story is everywhere, man. Details keep getting juicier by the hour."

Lance closed his eyes briefly.

Oh God, who knew how badly the story had escalated already.

“Latest version says the three of you were mobbed by a horde of crazed fans,” Hodgins continued with obvious delight, as if knowing what direction his thoughts were going in. “Some say you had to beat the lusty women off with sticks. Others say your fangirls tore your clothes clean off your body in the chaos and Carlisle responded by devouring you there and then to show everyone you were his.”

“Which, for the record,” Angela piped up, “I think would’ve made a great visual.”

Lance blinked. "Seriously?"

So this was his life now. Reduced to erotica fan fiction of himself.

Angela giggled hysterically at the face he must have made, but Hodgins wasn’t done yet.

“Say, did some busty blonde really faint into Booth’s arms, only to smush his face into her bosom when he tried to rouse her?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lance gave a long-suffering sigh. “Why is it that every time something even remotely ridiculous happens that involves me, it grows into a full-blown epic saga?”

Angela was barely keeping herself upright at the moment. “It’s your own fault, Sweets. You make such an adorable protagonist.”

He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.

In truth, he wasn’t all too surprised at the news. He'd expected the rumor mill to feast on the chaos. He’d braced for it, deciding in advance to weather the storm with as much dignity as he could muster and telling himself that Booth being an equally large part of the gossip would make it worth his own embarrassment.

Now, though?

Yeah, he wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

This was a lot. And it would only get worse before it got better. He could already imagine Brennan’s deadpan commentary making things a thousand times worse when she was pressed for details.

Oh well, he tried to console himself,  the next piece of juicy gossip would be coming along soon enough and then people would forget all about their silly little adventure at the bookshop.

At least, he hoped so.

Except, Angela did not seem particularly inclined to let him off the hook just yet.

She leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling and a conspiratory smile on her lips.

“So… did you guys really do that thing?”

He blinked. Huh? Was this still about the bookshop?

“What thing?”

Angela didn’t miss a beat. "Page 206."

And just like that, Lance’s ears went scarlet.

Oh, that thing.

He really should have seen that coming.

Of course Angela would want to know about the juicy scenes, especially that particular titbit.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to deflect. "I’ve told you before, Miss Montenegro, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell."

Angela was not having it.

"You obviously told Brennan," she accused.

"Which I now deeply regret," Lance mumbled darkly.

Hodgins leaned in, curiosity in his gaze. "So, why did you tell her?"

Lance groaned and slumped a bit in his seat.

“She kept asking, okay?” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “She said she needed it for accuracy. For science. She needed more authentic material for the love scenes in her next book. She wanted realism. Details. And, just in case you haven’t noticed, she freaking relentless.”

Angela cackled. “So you did do the thing.”

“I didn’t say that,” Lance insisted, flustered. “All I said was that she had questions. Very personal questions. She even took notes.”

Carlisle had found the whole ordeal hilarious, of course. Living with five eternal horny teenagers, four of them mated, had long since obliterated any lingering embarrassment over sex. Lance, on the other hand, had not yet achieved vampire-level composure in that regard and had nearly expired from sheer mortification.

While he had to admit that the scenes she’d written with the information they’d provided had turned out very steamy indeed, he still considered that particular night one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.

Worse than the bookshop even.

It was bad enough he'd been persuaded into sharing his sex life with Brennan of all people, but even worse that she had actually decided to use that specific thing they did.

Her offhand remark that she might prevail on their services again sometime in the future still fuelled his nightmares.

Angela, however, looked like she was having the time of her life and Hodgins appeared ready to start sketching diagrams, just to rile him up even more.

Deciding he’d had enough, Lance tried a pivot. “Where is Brennan, anyway? I figured she’d be on her lunch break by now.”

Angela gave him the stink eye for changing the subject, but Hodgins, surprisingly for once deciding not to tease him any further, answered the question, clearly much to Angela’s dismay.

“You haven’t heard then?”

Lance frowned. “Heard what?”

“Christine …” Hodgins announced, clutching his hands to his heart and acting all scandalized, “that sweet poor innocent babe … showed her vampire side and bit another kid at day-care.” Then he grinned. “So now, Brennan’s on a warpath.”

Lance blinked again. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” Angela sighed, finally dropping the sex topic entirely. “She’s convinced the day-care staff are framing her child. Apparently Christine is incapable of aggression because her logical upbringing would override any primitive impulses. She believes it’s either a classic case of mistaken identity, a conspiracy, or possibly even a slander campaign against a clearly superior child. And she is determined to find proof.”

Lance winced and shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah, that definitively sounds like Brennan. Poor kid.”

“Poor kid? How about poor day-care,” Hodgins corrected. Then, with a sly smile: “So … want to up your bet?”

Angela gasped, scandalized. “Hodgins! I told you, you shouldn’t bet on our friends!”

Hodgins just shot her a mocking look. “Oh? So that wasn’t you who placed a bet through Wendell? Seriously, Angie, you picked the worst liar in history to cover for you. Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out in a heartbeat?

Angela blushed furiously, spluttering a bit before subsiding, knowing full well she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Lance smirked at her, relishing with a touch of sadistic delight that she was now the one embarrassed. 

“I’m staying where I am,” he told Hodgins. “Chances of me wining this thing are getting slimmer by the second. I gave the day-care seven weeks. Looks like they’ll be folding in less than four.”

After all, if there were already such severe issues now, then there was no way they’d be holding out for four more weeks.

"I’m still in the game," Angela pointed out. "More than a month, less than six weeks. Come on, day-care, hold strong! Just one more week."

“Remind me,” Lance said, sipping the last of his soda, “how much is in the pool now?”

Hodgins smirked and inspected his nails with faux nonchalance, cleaning them on his shirt and admiring them. “Oh, nothing spectacular. Last I counted, it was just over five hundred bucks.”

Lance almost choked on his drink. "Five hundred? Seriously? How on earth did we get at that number?"

"It’s gone interdepartmental," the scientist grinned wolfishly, "Everyone and their mother is placing bets. Everyone who's ever interacted with Brennan in the slightest. Hell, even the night auditor Micah’s in."

Lance burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. The absurdity of the whole thing, a day-care betting pool in the midst of a heavy murder investigation, it felt so oddly normal. A return to a different kind of chaos. A lighter kind.

"I swear, the Jeffersonian is the most absurd workplace in the country."

Rather than dignifying that with an answer, Hodgins promptly took to stealing the last few fries on Lance’s plate, while Angela looked fondly smug.

Lance was just about to retaliate with mock indignation when his phone rang. He checked the caller ID.

Booth.

“Yeah?”

“We’ve got him,” Booth’s voice sounded from the other end. “The boyfriend’s in holding.”

Lance straightened, the humor draining just slightly from his posture.

Time to get back to business.

“I’m on my way.”

He ended the call, grabbed his jacket, and tossed a few bills on the table.

“Boyfriend’s been found,” he told his friends.

“That was quick,” Angela remarked, before smiling. “Good luck with the interrogation.”

Just as he was about to walk through the door he heard her yell after him.

“And tell Agent Andy we said hi!”

Lance groaned, but smiled.

And resolved himself to do exactly that.

Chapter Text

Lance stood outside Interrogation Room One, arms folded as he peered through the one-way mirror at the man inside.

After running a check on the name Kelly’s parents had provided, it had quickly turned out that the boyfriend didn’t seem to exist. The name he’d been going with was a fake. That had already been strike one and had sent alarm bells going off. Armed with a picture the parents were able to give him, Booth had run it through the federal criminal database and, surprise, surprise, he’d gotten a hit almost right away.

The boyfriend’s real name was Eric Declan. He was twenty four years old, rather than the seventeen he’d been claiming to Kelly.

That was strike two.

A full grown adult masquerading as a teenager to seduce another teenager was not a good look.

And then there was his rap sheet, long enough to wrap a Christmas present with. Eric Declan was a scam artist, although the term ‘artist’ seemed very much undeserved. He’d been caught several times and had even done some time in juvie and six months in a minimum security prison for fraud. His record read like a manual for bottom-feeder manipulation.

His usual target? Teenage girls.

Pretending to be younger than he was, Declan roamed teenage parties to find himself a target, whom he’d then sweettalk into starting a relationship with him. He’d be the doting boyfriend, showering them with affection, sharing all the same interests and hobbies. And then, when they were well and truly smitten, he’d con them into stealing money from their parents to give to him, before disappearing, leaving the girls heartbroken and with furious parents when they discovered the theft.

Except, given how often he’d been caught already, Lance had the feeling Declan wasn’t even all too successful at his pathetic gig.

He watched the man in the room with careful calculation. Declan was slouched in his seat, putting on a practiced air of bored confidence, but Lance could see the flicker of nerves in the way he kept rubbing his palms against his jeans.

Trying to look cool. Trying too hard.

And failing.

Lance had seen his type before, false confidence slathered over fear like cheap aftershave, but with a cesspool of twitchy anxiety underneath. 

Declan was pretending to lounge in his chair, but his eyes kept darting to the corners of the room like he expected someone to come bursting through the walls at any time.

Probably not a stretch, considering who was watching him from behind the mirror.

Carlisle’s quiet posture stood beside Lance, studying Declan with an unreadable gaze. He seemed much calmer now, almost back to his normal self, although Lance could still spot the subtle tension in the way his lover held himself. Still, it was a far cry better than the rigid statue he’d been when the Youngs had left.

Booth cracked his knuckles. "Ready, Sweets? How are we paying this? Good cop, bad cop? Ego stroking? What do you think?"

Despite the situation, Lance had to hold back a sudden smile.

Booth asking him for his input on how to handle a suspect was starting to happen more and more frequently lately, which he considered as a good sign that the agent was finally learning to respect him as an equal.

It made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but it certainly warmed his heart a little. Sure, Booth still didn’t put much stock in his “psychobabble”, as he so eloquently put it, but Lance also no longer had to fight tooth and nail to get his opinions heard.

It was a definite win in his book.

"Let’s start with bad cop, silent cop,” he said, “I want to see how he reacts before I commit to a role.”

Booth nodded and rolled his shoulders as if he was entering a boxing ring.

“Alright, let’s see if our teen Cassanova can keep his story straight."

They entered together without much ceremony, simply walking in and taking their seats across from Declan without a word.

Declan sat up straighter, plastering on a smirk that was about as convincing as a child caught with chocolate all over his face denying he’d eaten the cake, and immediately tried to take control of the situation.

“About time you boys came to see me! I’ve been here for hours!”

Hardly. Forty minutes at most.

“I ain’t done nothing wrong, and you’re keeping me here against my will and that’s illegal kidnapping!”

Well, he certainly was full of bluster.

"Okay, cool it, Declan," Booth said bluntly, dropping the file onto the table with a satisfying thud. "You weren’t kidnapped, you were arrested."

"Arrested for what?" Declan muttered, “I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

The words were clipped, a bit arrogant even.

"And yet here you are," Lance replied with a pleasant smile, pulling the file towards himself and flipping it open, pretending to read through it without another word.

Booth started right in, listing Declan’s rap sheet like he was reading off a grocery list. Fraud. Two counts. One convicted. Three charges of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. False identity and impersonation. Attempted theft. Pretty colorful rap sheet."

"Mistakes," Declan shrugged. "I was a kid. I’m on the straight and narrow now."

"You’re twenty-four," Booth countered evenly. "Not exactly ancient, but you're definitely not a kid anymore. And certainly not seventeen, like you wanted certain people to believe."

Declan gave a half-hearted smirk. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Lance studied the suspect’s posture. His shoulders had tensed. Avoidance of eye contact. Defensive body language. A slight tightening of the mouth. All classic signs.

Declan was lying through his teeth.

"So you didn’t know Kelly Young?" Lance asked softly, trying to hold eye-contact.

"Never heard of her."

Lie.

The way Declan blinked a half-second too slow, before averting his eyes, the nervous tap of his finger against the table. Declan didn’t just have his tells, he had a whole orchestra screaming out.

"That’s interesting," Booth all but purred. "Because we have a photo of you with her. Her parents gave it to us.” He tossed the picture on the table. “You two look rather cozy."

Declan shifted in his chair, his bravado was fading quickly.

"You're not very good at this, you know," Lance told him casually, tilting his head. "You twitch when you lie."

Booth leaned in. "Want to rethink that answer before we add obstruction to your already impressive list?"

Declan faltered, then threw up his hands. "Okay, okay! I knew her, alright? We were... seeing each other. But I had nothing to do with her going off the grid like that. I didn’t even see her the night she went missing."

Another twitch, another blatant lie.

Lance observed him for a moment, contemplating how to handle this.

Then he made his decision.

Bad cop, condescending cop, it was.

"You’re such a lousy liar," he said matter-of-factly. "I mean, truly, if you were any good, you wouldn’t keep getting caught. You’re on the same level as a particularly dim-witted five-year-old."

As anxious as Declan was, he was more likely to just stop talking altogether than to tell them anything useful. And he was not a novice to the court system. It likely wouldn’t take much longer before he started asking for a lawyer. It actually surprised Lance that he hadn’t already, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Needling Declan to get under his skin had two purposes. One: it would throw him off kilter and make him more likely to slip up. And two: it might make him angry. Angry enough to lose his inhibitions and reveal more than he otherwise would have.

Judging from Declan’s outraged face, it was already working.

"Excuse me?" he bristled.

"It makes sense that you go after teenage girls," Lance continued, letting his voice drop to a deliberately condescending tone. "They’re so much easier to manipulate. Less experience. More likely to believe your crap. Adults would see through you in a heartbeat.”

Declan’s face went red, his jaw clenched tightly, but he said nothing.

Lance pushed a bit further.

“I mean, come on, seducing a high schooler with a fake name and a fake age? That doesn’t take brains. You go after teenagers because you couldn’t pull a real con if your life depended on it."

While his words were meant specifically to get Declan worked up, Lance realized that he wasn’t even really lying about anything. After all, Declan did stick to easily manipulated targets and even then, he’d been caught countless of times before. The only reason he hadn’t spent more time in jail, was because the parents of his victims usually choose not to disrupt their and their daughters’ lives to press charges.

“You really should have chosen a different career, buddy, ‘cause you clearly don’t have the intelligence it takes for this one.”

That struck a nerve. Declan's face darkened and he reared up, slamming a hand on the table.

"Hey, I’m not some idiot, you asshole! I am a lot smarter than you think!”

Well, getting him angry certainly worked like a charm.

Now it was time to see what they could get from him in this state.

Before Lance could start off with phase two of his plan, Declan beat him to the punch by, in his very next sentence, completely disproving his claim of being smart by spouting off something that was not only very obviously a lie, but also a very stupid thing to say to a cop when you’re already being investigated.

“I got people working for me. A whole network! They all look up to me for leadership."

Booth scoffed loudly and Lance had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking.

Really now? A whole crew?

"Sure you do," Booth muttered dryly. "Let me guess, they wear matching rings and meet at midnight in the woods to sing kumbaya and exchange success stories?"

Declan puffed out his chest. "I’m serious! Keeping me locked up is a bad idea. They don’t like it when I go missing. Makes them nervous, you know. And you don’t want to make them nervous."

The line was so laughably action-hero tough that it seemed wholly out of place coming from Declan’s mouth. Lance wondered if he’d perhaps heard that phrase on TV or something.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. This guy was actually doubling down on the delusion. He wasn’t even a convincing liar, let alone a good one, and now he was trying to cosplay as a criminal mastermind? Really?

And in front of two FBI agents too?

The idiot was incriminating himself by boasting of a network of scammers that likely didn’t even exist.

Then again, Lance wasn’t complaining. Gift horses and mouths and all that.

He played along.

"Oh," he murmured, raising an eyebrow. "And these people of yours, how many are there exactly?"

Declan grinned, emboldened, fully leaning into his newest con now.  “Dozens! All of them loyal to a fault. And I run things. Got connections too.”

Lance was getting a headache from constantly having to hold back his eyes from rolling around in his sockets like out-of-control pinballs. He was getting more and more convinced that this man could not possibly have been involved in the murder of Kelly Young. He just wasn’t smart enough to be involved in any way and get away with it for so long. Besides, he also didn’t seem like the type that could stomach a cold-blooded murder and then methodically dispose of the body. Hell, he probably didn’t even know what “methodically” meant.

However, he clearly knew something. And they needed to find out what that was.

Lance caught the disbelieving look Booth shot him, before turning back to the suspect. He was clearly sharing the same opinion.

“So these … underlings of yours, do they happen to have names? Or just numbers to easily tell them apart in your imagination?” the older agent pushed.

Declan sneered. “Go ahead, don’t believe me. You’ll change your mind soon enough when … unfortunate things start happening until I’m released. I’ve got a bit of everything on my crew. People who know exactly how to apply pressure. ”

And then he went a step further.

“Even got a few fangs on the payroll. They’re loyal. Fierce. You mess with me, you mess with them. And you really don’t want to know what they’re capable of when they’re angry."

Booth couldn’t hide his derisive snort, quickly followed by an actual incredulous bark of laughter.

But Lance’s mind was already ticking over.

Vampires.

Kelly had been obsessed with them. Her parents had mentioned Declan had played into that fantasy. Maybe this wasn’t just empty bravado. Maybe there was a kernel of truth hidden in the lie.

“These vampires, do they defer to you as their leader?” he prodded.

Booth, however, was having none of it. “You’re full of crap, Declan, no fang would want to have anything to do with the likes of you. They’d have you for breakfast!”

Declan just regarded him haughtily and Lance got the distinct feeling that what was going to come out of the suspect’s mouth next was going to trump everything else already said during this interrogation.

He was right.

“Just because you don’t know how to handle fangs, doesn’t mean others don’t either. And I actually happen to be rather good at handling them. They love me. It’s like … animal magnetism or something. I guess you could say I’m somewhat of a vampire whisperer.”

Lance blanched.

A.

Vampire.

Whisperer.

He had no idea what to say to that.

What could he even say?

How did one respond to something so outrageous that it made the lizard people infiltrating the government conspiracy look like a reasonable theory.

He really just, bold as brass, claimed to be a freaking vampire whisperer.

Booth was looking at Declan as if he’d grown horns and a second head and Lance couldn’t exactly blame him. He honestly wasn’t really sure where to go from here.

Should he capitalize on the vampire angle by revealing Kelly was killed by one? Should he call Declan’s bluff? Or perhaps he should play into this, pretend to be fascinated and stroke his ego? That angle had worked before with fang-lovers.

In the few long seconds it took him to figure out a response, however, Booth had run out of patience with their bragging suspect.

"You know what," the agent said, leaning back in his chair abruptly. "That’s it. I’m done with your crap."

He turned to the mirror behind them. "Hey, Cullen! Get your ass in here and deal with this idiot."

Lance blinked, wondering what Booth was doing.

It didn’t take long for Carlisle to enter the room with a smooth, quiet grace, his face impassive.

Unsure what his friend had in mind with this inclusion, Lance remained quiet, waiting to see how this would play out.

Booth turned back to Declan. “Well, vampire whisperer,” he told him, gesturing wildly to Carlisle, “Here’s a vampire, so do your thing. Show us how much his kind loves you.”

Lance got it at once.

So that was Booth’s angle. Bad cop, condescending cop and now, vampire attack dog.

This could work.

He leaned back in his chair, intent on watching the show for now and very interested in seeing how Declan would respond to this development.

The man didn’t seem to be taking the bait just yet, raising an eyebrow and clearly not believing Booth for even a second.

“Really? You really think I’d fall for that?”

He scoffed disdainfully.

Carlisle seemed to have realized now what his role was supposed to be and Lance watched the subtle transformation take place. The vampire’s features sharpened, his lips curling into a cold, unfriendly smile. Lance traced his form with quiet admiration. The way he moved, controlled and deliberate, the way he held himself, Carlisle radiated confidence. And power.

And, right now, malice.

He truly was an excellent actor. If Lance didn’t know any better, he’d certainly believe he was staring death itself in the face if Carlisle were to look at him like that.

But he did know better. And , admittedly, seeing his lover like that, might be just a teensy tiny bit of a turn-on. Maybe he should suggest role-play in the bedroom at some point?

Certainly a thought worth exploring.

“Really, agent Booth, this is quiet a nice surprise,” the vampire told Booth mildly, sounding a little bored even, only to turn his gaze onto Declan, who visibly tensed. “I’m not usually allowed to participate in interrogations anymore. Not after I … accidentally … broke the last suspect.”

Booth muttered something under his breath, just loud enough for Lance – and, by design, the suspect – to hear.

“Broke him? That’s putting it mildly.”

Lance stayed silent, observing.

This was a different kind of interrogation. The kind that bordered just a little bit on psychological torture. The kind that turned posturing men into puddles. Booth was setting Carlisle up to be the monster. Let Declan feel the teeth at his throat.

The legality of such an approach could be questioned, but, then again, they had ample evidence to take Declan down for plenty of other charges, even if they left out the whole thing with Kelly. They didn’t need another nail in his coffin.

What they needed right now was information.

And this was how they were going to get it.

Declan was still not buying it, but was less sure of himself now.

“Yeah, nice try. I’m not that easily intimidated,” he blustered, but Lance could see the uneasy behind his eyes.

Carlisle stepped forward, resting both palms on the table and leaning in just a smidgen. Just enough to subtly loom over the suspect. His smile sharpened and his lips pulled up. Lance could see the flash of fang even from where he was sitting, so Declan must have gotten quite a nice front-row view of them.

The man paled and leapt out of his chair like it had electrocuted him.

"Oh shit! Oh my god! He’s real! That’s a real one! Holy shite!"

He was doing an admirable job of trying to get away from the vampire as far as the small interrogation room allowed, which meant he was practically hugging the wall behind him.

Booth just folded his arms on the table.

"Weren’t you just saying something about fangs loving you? Go ahead. Whisper."

"You… you’re not serious," Declan stammered, “Call him off! You’re the government, you can’t do this! You can’t let him eat me!”

Booth just hummed noncommittally. “I’m only going on the information you yourself provided, Declan. You’re a vampire whisperer, so that means you’re probably more at ease around one of his kind than around us, right? We’re just giving you the opportunity to talk to someone you feel more comfortable with.”

Toss in some plausible deniability.

The ‘we aren’t responsible if things go wrong, because we were just going off what you told us’ defense.

Smart.

It would make Declan think twice about what he said next.

Lance decided to stoke the fire.  

“Agent Booth, perhaps we should leave the room for a moment while the interrogation continues? I really don’t want to lose my lunch again like last time.”

Booth gave him a look. “Suck it up, kid, at least your suit didn’t get splattered. Do you have any idea how difficult blood comes off? I had to throw mine out.”

“NO! Don’t leave me in here with that thing!”

Declan was frantic now.

“I’m not a real vampire whisperer, okay! I made that up! I can’t even get a dog to listen. He’ll kill me!”

So not a fang-lover after all, it seemed. Not exactly a surprise at this point.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” he promised, “Full disclosure, I swear! Just call him off!”

Booth gave a short wave with his hand and Carlisle stepped back instantly, sneering and with a disgruntled expression, muttering a mutinous “spoilsport” in Booth’s direction, before taking a spot leaning against the one-way mirror, glaring ominously.

Lance fought the urge to wink at his lover. Doing so would certainly ruin the whole performance.

Declan very gingerly retook his seat, twitchy and pale, his eyes never leaving the vampire in the room.

"Talk," Booth snapped.

This time there was no hesitation. No pretense or attempted manipulation. Declan seemed more than happy to be speaking the whole truth at last.

"You’re right, I did see Kelly at the party. That night she disappeared. We had a fight, but that’s all! I never touched her. I didn’t do anything to her at all!"

"What was the fight about?" Booth pressed.

"She found out I was lying, okay? I’d told her that I actually knew a vampire. And that he wanted to meet her. She was all for it. She was super into anything to do with fangs. Then, at the party, I told her he needed money to travel. Five grand. That’s when she figured it out. She went batshit crazy on me. Called me every name under the sun and dumped me there and then. She was so pissed she got into a car and drove off immediately after."

That caught Lance’s attention.

"Her car?" he questioned.

"I guess. She drove it to the party."

Lance frowned. That didn’t line up. Kelly didn’t own a car. She didn’t even have a full license yet, only a learner’s permit.

"License plate?" Booth asked.

"I didn’t look," Declan admitted, voice small now. “It was a black car, I think.”

"Where did she go?"

"I don’t know, man! She and that other chick left and then I went back to the party. I got drunk. Tried picking up another girl. It didn’t work out and I left around two a.m."

Lance froze.

That other chick.

Kelly didn’t leave the party alone.

“That other girl you saw?” he questioned, “They left together? Do you know who she was?”

But he shook his head. “No, I’d never seen her before and I didn’t really pay attention. She was just a random black girl. Not my type.”

Booth stared him down a moment longer, then stood.

"You know what happens now, don’t you? You go to prison. Fraud, sure. But also pedophilia. Kelly was sixteen, a minor."

Decan gaped. "What? But I never… We didn’t go that far!"

"Doesn’t matter," Booth snapped back. "You lied about your age. You led her on. You kissed her. That’s a sexual act with a minor."

Declan slumped in his chair, pale and defeated, as if he’d finally realized the extend of the trouble he was in. He didn’t make another sound as they left the room, leaving him to wallow in his misery.

Outside, in the hallway, Lance exhaled slowly.

"Well," he said, voice low. "That was illuminating."

The man had the IQ of a potato, but at least he had been somewhat useful.

Someone had left with Kelly that night.

Now they just had to figure out who that was.

"Agreed," Booth said. "Let’s find out whose car she was driving. That’s our next lead."

He turned to Carlisle.

“And Cullen? Good show.”

Lance turned his head to hide his smirk, as Carlisle inclined his head in silent thanks.

Booth really had been warming up to Carlisle over the past two years.

He just wouldn’t ever admit that little fact out loud.

Ah well, baby steps.

For now, they had a car – and its mystery driver – to find.

Chapter Text

Lance rubbed at his temples, trying in vain to will the dull ache behind his eyes away as he stared down at the open file in front of him. The fluorescent lighting overhead buzzed with just enough inconsistency to irritate his nerves.

It had been a long day, to say the least.

Angela’s digital wizardry had worked wonders again. She’d gone to work collecting video and photos from Facebook and other social media platforms from people who’d been there at the party when Kelly disappeared, hoping to find any indication of the girl who’d left with her that night. The angelatron had proved its mettle once more and, after hours of meticulous scanning, a grainy image had popped up that gave them exactly what they needed. A candid shot snapped in the background of someone’s Instagram story, showing Kelly Young, unmistakably, climbing into a dark sedan. Just a sliver of a license plate was visible, but combined with the make and model, Booth had been able to track it down quickly.

And that was when things had gotten even darker.

The car was registered to the Hernandez household, a lovely family of four. Noah Hernandez, his wife Emily and their two beautiful children Michelle, seventeen, and Thomas, twelve.

A family that had been frantically searching for their missing daughter since January.

According to the report, Michelle Hernandez had taken her mom’s sedan to go visit the library and had never returned. She had disappeared without a trace on the exact same night Kelly had.

The cases had not been linked at the time, as Michelle had no known connection to Kelly. They went to different schools, had no mutual friends, different social circles, different hobbies and their paths had not, in any way, intersected as far as the police could see. The car Michele had been driving had never been found either and with no credible leads, the case had gone cold fast.

But now, everything pointed to a joint disappearance.

A sweep of Kelly’s chat history had showed she’d arranged to go to the party with a new friend she’d met through one of those vampire fan forums. A friend named “Emlovesfangs_17”. It had not taken Angela long to tie the user name to Michelle Hernandez.

Although the girl had been careful to delete all browser history pertaining to the forum, likely to keep her parents from finding out, she had saved the password to her account in her google password manager. Once you knew what to look for, getting in hadn’t been hard.

The girls had chatted extensively in the weeks before their disappearance. Michelle had confided in Kelly that she felt stuck, that she felt like a boring goody-two-shoes and wanted to do something crazy for once in her life. So Kelly had convinced her to lie to her parents and to join her for a night of loud music, drinking and fun.

Michelle’s parents had no idea their straight-laced studious daughter was even a part of that forum at all, or that she had gone to any type of social gathering. She’d told them she would be out late doing research for a school project and they’d had no reason to doubt her words.

But, instead, she’d gone to that party. And had never come back.

Lance felt his chest tighten with dread.

He’d seen enough to know what this pattern usually meant. Two girls, both gone on the same night and last seen together. One of them already confirmed dead by vampire attack. The other still missing. And it had been two months already.

He didn’t want to admit it aloud, but the odds of finding Michelle alive were not in their favor.

He tried to shake off the heavy feeling and focus instead on the task at hand. He had promised himself he would get further down the candidate list for the human side of the taskforce. He’d made a bit of progress today, but not nearly as much as he’d hoped.

He flipped open the next profile in the stack.

Candidate #27: Dana Kapoor.

Female. Thirty-seven. Former military intelligence, with a degree in forensic psychology. After leaving the army, she’d worked for a private security firm, mostly dealing with threat assessment, before joining the Bureau. She’d attached a detailed motivation letter. She’d lost her brother during a vampire attack five years ago and had vowed to prevent others from suffering the same fate.

Pros: Exceptional background in behavioral analysis. Familiar with chain-of-command structures. Personal stake in the work. Stable.

Cons: Slight potential for emotional bias

This one was rather promising.

Lance underlined her name and chucked her file on the – still pitifully small – strong contender’s stack.

Next.

Candidate #28: Jeremy Banks.

Male. Twenty-nine. Self-identified freelance paranormal investigator who sometimes tagged along on federal cases. Or rather, stalked the agents on federal cases. No formal law enforcement training. An incomplete degree in philosophy. Most of his so-called ‘resume’ was padded with references to online conspiracy forums and amateur podcast appearances.

Lance wondered how his file had even managed to get into the pile.

Banks was in no way officially connected with the Bureau. Although, it would not surprise him in the slightest if the man had somehow either convinced or perhaps even paid someone to drop his candidacy onto the stack.

Lance scoffed.

As if this guy would ever be considered as a viable candidate for even a millisecond.

He was at best a charlatan, at worst a deliberate risk to operational security.

Lance scribbled a quick note in the margin: "Nope."

He didn’t even want to know how Banks had found out they were recruiting at all. They had not exactly shouted their intentions from the rooftops, if only to keep the general public from causing an uproar when it became known that the government was actually officially going to be employing vampires.

Dropping his pen, he leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose while tossing a sideway glance at the remaining stack. He was slowly but surely putting a dent in it. Eyeballing it a bit, he guessed there were about fifteen to twenty more files to go through.

Not bad.

He had four strong contenders at this point.

Once he’d gotten through the entire stack, hopefully he’d have a few more and then he could start meeting the candidates and matching them together.

If they then managed to find a decent vampire or two to fit the team, they were almost ready to roll. They’d have a team capable of preventing more tragedies like Kelly.

However, vampire candidacies had been underwhelming so far, to say the least. Not many fangs had responded to the job listing and those that had were rather … unique.

So he still had some work to do on that part.

He was just starting in on the next file when there was a soft knock at the door. He looked up, heart skipping slightly as Carlisle stepped inside.

“Hello, love” the vampire spoke, voice warm but laced with a hint of concern, “It’s getting late, so I thought I’d pick you up.”

Lance blinked at the clock on his desk. 8:14 p.m.

Damn, he hadn’t realized it had gotten so late already.

“Have you eaten yet?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but his stomach beat him to it with a loud, undeniable growl.

Carlisle smiled. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Lance grinned sheepishly. “You know me. Time doesn’t exist when I’m knee-deep in corpses and paperwork.”

The vampire stepped closer, reaching for Lance’s jacket on the coat rack.

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you have me, is it not,” he teased with a smug lilt in his tone. “Let’s stop for some take out on the way home. How does Wong Fu’s sound?”

Lance immediately perked up at that.

Since meeting Carlisle, the vampire had been insistent on getting him some healthier eating habits, so take-out had been reduced to a minimum. His lover often made home-cooked meals, even going as far as to teach Lance how to cook for himself to tide him over on the days Carlisle wasn’t in the city.

It felt like ages since Lance had tasted that delicious sweet and sour goodness from his favorite Asian restaurant and his mouth watered at the prospect.

“You spoil me rotten,” he grinned at his lover as he accepted his jacked from him and slung it over his shoulder.

Carlisle raised an elegant brow. “And I have told you before, Lancelot, you …” he countered smoothly, grabbing Lance’s hand and lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles, “…deserve to be spoiled.”

As they left the office and walked down the hall toward the elevator, a few straggling colleagues called out casual greetings or goodnights in passing. The two of them leaving the building together had become a common sight and Carlisle’s presence no longer inspired distrust or fear from the people working on this floor.

It hadn’t in quite a while now.

There’d been hesitation at first, whispers and side-eyes, and in some cases even open hostility, when the news of their relationship had spread. But after a few months, familiarity had softened suspicion. People had come to know the soft-hearted vampire doctor somewhat. And they’d realized he was more than just a fang. He was simply Carlisle.

Kind. And polite. And entirely harmless.

At this point, most people were, if not friendly, then at least tolerant of his presence.

They stood waiting for the elevator, chatting quietly about the case. Carlisle had brought with him the odd results of Hodgins’ analysis of Kelly’s stomach contents. Hodgins had hoped to find a specific last meal, something they might be able to trace in any way, like, for example, take-out from a fast food place or something. But no such luck. In fact, his findings had been downright bizarre. Beef, beetroot, spinach, lentils, pumpkin seeds, chickpeas, dark chocolate, and shellfish. All things that were not usually eaten together. It was an odd amalgam at best.

So odd, even, that it seemed deliberate.

Lance couldn’t help but notice that they were all food items high in iron and something about that didn’t sit entirely right with him. There was something there, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on just yet. He couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that there was an important clue just beneath the surface he was missing.

Carlisle went from the stomach analysis to a droll story about Brennan getting into an argument with Cam over something insignificant and Lance pushed the thought away for now. He’d go over the more detailed report tomorrow and it would hopefully come to him then. For now he decided to just enjoy his lover’s amusing tale.

They were standing close together, not touching, nor being intimate – they were still at work after all – but certainly more in each other’s personal space than mere colleague would be, when a voice behind them suddenly piped up.

“Well, well, look what we have here. Poofter one and two. Really, Sweets, I guess the Bureau doesn’t pay you enough if you gotta take it up the ass from some prissy fag to get by.”

Lance turned slowly, eyebrow raised at the, quite frankly, childish taunt.

The voice belonged to Peter Mallard, a fresh recruit. Barely two weeks in and already a walking HR liability.

Brash, obnoxious and quite full of himself.

He’d already gotten on the wrong side of a few people due to his loud mouth and even louder (and very much unasked for) opinions.

And now it seemed Mallard was also very much a bigot.

Lance had heard a few rumors here and there of things the new guy had supposedly said behind his back, but hadn’t actually experienced anything first-hand.

Unfortunately, it looked like that was about to change.

He considered his options. Engage? Lecture?

No, better to treat it like the immature bullcrap it was.

He turned back to Carlisle, who was looking at the newcomer speculatively, no doubt wondering what was wrong with this idiot.

“Ignore the kiddo,” he advised lightly, “He hasn’t matured enough to make actual conversation yet and is still stuck in the brabbling nonsense phase of his development.”

Carlisle’s lips twitched, amused. Mallard’s face turned an angry shade of red, but he seemed somewhat dumb-stuck at the rebuttal.

The elevator dinged open and Lance and Carlisle stepped inside without another word, completely ignoring Mallard further.

As the doors closed, Lance caught one last glimpse of the recruit’s furious expression.

Oh boy, Mallard could be the type to make trouble, especially now that his obviously fragile ego had been dented by the unexpected clapback.

Then again, Lance could handle the likes of Mallard. He was hardly an uncertain defenseless newbie anymore. If Mallard wanted trouble, he’d deal with it as it came up. But it certainly wasn’t worth ruining his night over.

He turned to Carlisle with a grin.

“So, we should totally practice me taking it up the ass later, right? Y’know, just to make sure I can make rent?”

Carlisle’s golden eyes glittered with mirth.

“I’d be delighted to help you rehearse.” He leaned closer. “Thoroughly.”

Lance laughed, feeling some of the day’s tension bleed away.

He might not have been able to have vampire for breakfast that morning, but dinner was certainly starting to look like a decent alternative.

Now that was something worth looking forward to.

Chapter Text

Mikael Reese stood in the Hoover Building lobby, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders squared in a freshly pressed jacket he hadn’t worn before today. The material still felt stiff against his arms, the collar a little too snug. He stood motionless near a wall, red eyes hidden behind his ever-present sunglasses. He’d combed his dark hair and looked more presentable than he had in a long time.

Up until four years ago, Reese had been a soldier. He’d served in the US military as an extraction specialist, performing missions in unstable and dangerous territories all over the world. And he had been very good at what he did.

Until that one fateful day that had changed everything. The day his life had gone to complete shit.

He and his team had been infiltrating an abandoned compound in Iraq that, according to their information, was being used to hold US citizens prisoner. Their intel hadn’t been wrong per se, just … incomplete.

It turned out the compound was also where a vampire liked to spend his time toying with his prey. The hostages had been dead long before Reese and his team had even breached the front door and so had the insurgents.

So when the team had barely entered the building, the fang had turned his sights onto them.

Vampires had only just become a known entity to the world at that time, and Reese’s team, as capable as they were, had been completely unable to fight off this new threat. They’d immediately called a retreat, but it had been too late. Two of his men were killed in seconds. And then the fang had latched onto Reese’s neck.

He had no clear memory of what had happened next. All he remembered was the pain. The excruciating searing agony crawling through his limbs and devouring his insides like acid. It had seemed to last forever. Until it had stopped abruptly.

And so had his heart.

He hadn’t even immediately registered just what had happened. When he’d opened his eyes, he’d been alone, disoriented, and very, very thirsty. He’d crawled to a nearby puddle of water to drink and only when he’d seen his reflection in the murky water, with violent red eyes, had he truly realized what he had become.

And that he hadn’t been thirsty for water at all.

He’d managed to find his way back to the military base they’d been staying at, but they,  upon seeing his eyes, had received him with a hailstorm of bullets. It hadn’t done him any harm, but it’d made it very clear he was not welcome.

So, not knowing what else to do, he had fled and wandered around for some time, hunting insurgents to slake his hunger.

Eventually, when he’d gotten his bloodlust somewhat under control, he had been able to travel back to the US, disguising himself and hiding his eyes. He’d tried going home, but his beloved wife of five years had screamed bloody murder upon seeing him and had tried to flee in fear, only to accidentally lock herself inside the house with him in her panic.

Reese had tried to reason with her, had tried to make her see that he was still himself, still the man she had loved, and still the man that loved her deeply, but she had sobbed and cried hysterically, shrieking that he was a demon and she wanted nothing to do with him.

His parents and brother had been much of the same, slamming the door in his face and shouting obscenities. His father had told him through the closed door that his son had died in combat and that whatever was standing on his doorstep now was just the monster that had taken over his corpse.

That, more than anything, had broken him.

He’d left without another word and had taken to wandering around, traversing the different states and never staying in one place for too long. The establishment of blood banks had been a welcome development and Reese had ceased hunting entirely if he could avoid it. It was too easy to lose himself in the thrill of the chase and fall upon entirely innocent people. So he just didn’t want to risk it.

When he’d first read the newspaper articles, about two years ago, that the FBI was working with vampires to stop others of their kind from killing innocent victims, he had been … skeptical to say the least. Nevertheless, he had travelled to Washington regardless, just out of curiosity. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do and Washington was as good a direction as anything.

While he hadn’t been able to truly prove there was any real truth to the articles, there had been a few logical assumptions in there that did make a lot of sense. The most notable one being that the human FBI agents would never have been able to kill the fang terrorizing the city.

And then he’d started hearing other rumors floating about. A vampire was said to be working at a bank and another one was a clerk at the blood bank on 34^th street. They were sedentary and had apparently built a life here. And then there was also supposed to be a vampire doctor in the Georgetown Hospital, but Reese hadn’t bothered checking out that particular claim.

A fang doctor was about as ludicrous as a pious demon.

However, now that he was here in the city anyway, he’d decided to stick around for a while. A metropole this large was easy to disappear in and people barely looked at him twice most of the time. He’d been working odd jobs here and there, hiding his eyes behind tinted glasses as much as he could. It wasn’t really about the money. He didn’t need much, just something to pay the rent on his small apartment.

Things had been okay for a while now.

It was a lonely existence, and mostly he felt like he was just drifting aimlessly, but he’d been managing.

One day at the time.

Until he’d come across a rather odd flyer at the blook bank, a call for vampires to join the FBI and be part of a new interspecies taskforce to deal with supernatural crimes.

Of course, he’d assumed it to be a prank at first, but the employees there had assured him it was real. A “real agent” had come and dropped of the flyers.

Their words had hardly convinced him of the verity of the offer – after all, if something sounded too good to be true, it usually wasn’t – but after a while of considering whether he should go and check it out or not, he had ultimately decided why the hell not.

It wasn’t like things could get any worse in his life at this point.

So he had used his latest paycheck to buy himself a cheap but decent shirt and suit jacket and had called in for an interview appointment. The woman on the phone had been very professional and had given him a date and time to show up downtown and instructions to make himself known at the reception.

And now, probably against better judgement, here he was, waiting for someone to come and escort him upstairs.

He rolled the edge of his sleeve between two fingers, a soldier’s tick he hadn’t quite shaken.

Something about being back in a government building twisted his gut. He’d walked into places like this before, when he’d been human, when he’d been a respected member of Uncle Sam’s loyal troops.  

Now he was … something else entirely, something to wary of. He could feel it in the way people stared from behind the front desk, their glances a mixture of curiosity and unease.

They all knew what he was. He could hear the uptick in the receptionist’s heartbeat the moment she’d read his name and checked it against the appointment list. She hadn’t said much, just pointed him to the waiting area, but the scent of her discomfort had lingered.

Once again, he wondered whether perhaps coming here had been a bad idea after all.

He didn’t have to wait long before a heavily armed security guard appeared, calling out for him to follow.

Reese had to swallow a bitter chuckle.

The rifle slung across the man’s chest looked very shiny and clean, but ultimately useless. Bullets wouldn’t stop him. He wisely kept that to himself. He could hear the steady increase in the guard’s pulse, so reminding him of just how utterly defenseless he’d be against a vampire, likely wouldn’t serve to endear himself in the slightest. The man’s scent was already sharp with adrenaline.

He just followed silently.

They took the stairs, going up two floors, before the guard led him to what looked like an interrogation room. Grey walls on three sides and an obvious one-way mirror on the fourth, with a metal table in the middle and three simple chairs. Sterile, cold and devoid of any comfort. A small camera was blinking in the corner.

Reese gave the space a cursory glance, then moved to the chair, but didn’t sit. Instead, he chose to lean against the wall, restless.

He’d been in the room for two seconds and he already wanted to leave.

Why had he come here again?

Not long after the sound of voices and footsteps filtered through his ears. One of the voices belonged the same guard who’d brought him here, but the other was unfamiliar.

The recruiter? Or perhaps rather a clerk or assistant? He sounded young.

"He’s been docile so far,” the guard said.

"Ah, yes, thank you," came the reply. The tone was dry and a bit clipped. No doubt the newcomer was nervous about this interview.

However, when the door pushed open and the man entered the room, his heart was surprisingly steady.

Reese had been right in his initial assessment that he was young, in his twenties probably, slim, and with short dark and slightly curly hair that had been neatly combed but not styled. He was dressed in a simple suit with a dark blue tie that was just a tiny bit crooked.

All in all, he looked professional and Reese wondered what his role in the interview would be.

The man extended his hand without hesitation.

"Dr. Lance Sweets," he said. "Thank you for coming."

Reese hesitated just a fraction of a second, before accepting the handshake.

The man’s skin was warm, the grip firm but not aggressive.

The gesture surprised Reese. Most humans didn’t feel comfortable enough to offer any kind of physical contact to a vampire, let alone intentionally reach out to shake their hand.

Perhaps the doctor had done so out of habit?

Yet, he had not flinched as Reese’s cold skin had touched his own.

"Mikael Reese.”

Dr. Sweets gestured to take a seat and settled in the chair across from him, the metal table the only barrier between them. Still very little signs of unease were showing on the doctor’s part. 

"Apologies for the bleak setting. I know this room is far from hospitable, but it’s one of the only spaces far enough away from the main offices to conduct these meetings. Protocol, unfortunately. Safety and all that.”

Reese gave a wry smile at that. "You think I’m gonna go feral."

"I believe it’s more a case of better being prepared for the worst and surprised by the best than the other way around," Sweets countered mildly.

Fair enough.

Reese couldn’t blame them. His kind weren’t exactly known for their self-control.

"So," Sweets continued, flipping open a file and a notepad on the table, "As a psychologist and lead recruiter for the taskforce, I’m trying to find candidates who are not just qualified, but genuinely suited to working in a high-risk, interspecies environments. I will also be one of the only people you will have contact with until – and if – we decide to move you to the next step."

Reese arched a brow.

Psychologist, he could believe. But lead recruiter? The guy looked like he barely shaved.

Then again, he figured, even if it wasn’t true, it mattered very little. The FBI must have a reason for the deception.

Tapping his pen against his notebook, Sweets leaned back in his chair, seemingly entirely relaxed, before continuing

“First, I’d like to ask you a few questions to get to know you better before we dig a little deeper. If that’s alright?”

Reese shrugged slightly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

After a quick nod, Sweets immediately got down to business. He launched into a long list of questions, focusing mostly on his human life: military service, training, special skills, personal life, the works.

Reese tried to give short and concise answers, getting the feeling they’d be here all day if Sweets was going to go over his entire life in such detail. He talked about his extraction missions, black ops, unstable regions. He didn’t embellish anything, didn’t see the need to. His file was probably thicker than most. And he doubted his accomplishments before his turning would matter much anyway.

They never did to anyone else.

When the conversation turned toward his transformation, he felt the familiar tightness form in his chest.

"Can you tell me about your turning," Sweets asked softly. His tone was still professional, but there was a gentleness to it that Reese hadn’t expected.

He inhaled slowly, letting the memories crawl to the surface. "It was a mess. My team got ambushed. One of those things got the drop on me. Those of my men who survived the initial attack ran for their lives and I was left for dead. Hell, I thought I was dead. Until I wasn’t."

Sweets nodded, listening intently. His pen moved quietly across the page.

"What happened after?"

"Woke up feeling like someone poured acid down my throat and no clue how the hell I was still alive. Saw my eyes in a puddle. That’s when it hit me I wasn’t human anymore.”

Sweets did not reply to that immediately and the silence that hung between them was heavy for a moment. But not uncomfortable. Reese appreciated that the shrink didn’t offer any meaningless platitudes. Just waited, watching, gave him time.

Then: “That must have been incredibly jarring.”

Reese snorted. ‘Jarring’ was pretty much the understatement of the century.

“I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t even go back to base. They opened fire on sight.”

Sweets made a note, then looked up. “So what did you do after that?”

“Wandered around for a while. Hid.”

Wallowed in his misery. But he didn’t admit that part out loud.

"Any particular abilities you’ve discovered since turning? Gifts?"

Reese frowned. He knew some vampires could do things others couldn’t, but wasn’t gifted himself. He wondered if that had been a requirement for this job.

He shook his head. "Not that I know of. Just... stronger. Faster. The usual things."

Something in his tone must have tipped off the shrink of his thoughts, because he quickly went to reassure him.

"That’s perfectly fine," he said with a smile. "We’re not specifically looking for vampires with a useful gift. It’s just a standard inquiry."

After jotting down another note, more questions followed and Reese had to admit the human was pretty thorough, following up on most answers with even deeper questions elaborating on them. Some were about his mental health, some about how he coped with loneliness, guilt, survival.

Reese gave honest answers. He saw no point in lying anyway.

Then, as he’d been expecting, the shrink broached the topic of feeding.

"So, how do you choose to sustain yourself? Do you make use of a blood bank? Or do you prefer to work with donors?

Reese blinked at that.

Donors?  He hadn’t even been aware that was a possibility at all.

Who in their right mind would personally donate to a vampire? Suicidal folks?

With his curiosity peeked, rather than answer the question, he decided to ask about it.

“Is that even a thing? Donors, I mean?”

Sweets nodded, but then also made a so-and-so gesture.

"It happens, yes, although I’ll admit it’s rather rare. Not many vampires have enough control not to harm their donor. But I do know someone who donates regularly."

Reese tilted his head. "And they’re still breathing?"

That got a quirky upturn of the man’s lips. "Healthy as ever."

That was new.

So it was possible to feed without killing. Unless of course, Sweets was lying about this. Then again, Reese couldn’t for the world figure out what the shrink stood to gain from such a lie.

He made a mental note to look into that later. He wondered if the fang they were donating to actually took from their veins or if the donors just … bled into a cup and then served it like ruby-red wine.

His throat burned at the image that rose unbidden in his mind at the thought.

He shook his head abruptly, trying to shake the tantalizing thought of drinking warm juicy blood straight from the neck once more, and violently pushed the familiar thirst down.

He would not go down that path again.

"I use the blood bank," he said eventually. "Been doing that since I got back to the States."

Sweets jotted something down, humming thoughtfully to himself.

Reese wondered if the shrink had picked up on his wording.

Since I got back to the States.

The doctor hadn’t asked yet what he had done for blood before that.

Reese had killed. Repeatedly.

He’d hunted people. Insurgents. Criminals.

His mouth thinned at the memories.

There were bad people, mostly, but that didn’t make it right.

He regarded the shrink for a moment as the man made more notes, tapping his pen against his lips, no doubt thinking of his next volley of questions.

Then, on a whim, he decided to push the issue. He suddenly desperately wanted to know how the, so far seemingly unflappable, human would react to that particularly gory little tidbit.

"You didn’t ask about my food sources before that,” he voiced, staring at the human intently, “Before I came back here."

Sweets looks up from his notes and met his gaze, his expression unreadable.

Reese let the silence hang.

"You were alone,” the shrink spoke eventually, “In enemy territory, cut off from everyone you knew and cared for and with no idea what was happening to you. No guidance, no one to help you cope in what must have been the most traumatic period in your life. I can only assume things … happened."

He human’s voice was firm but not unkind

"They did."

Sweets didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just nodded again without averting his gaze.

“I know the thirst can be … very difficult to control,” he allowed, “Especially in the first few months, if not years, after turning. But, from what I’m seeing, I don’t believe you to be the type that kills indiscriminately and just for sport. You feel remorse. That much is obvious.”

Reese broke eye-contact first.

This was rather unexpected.

Sweets was staring him in the face, calmly discussing his initial feeding frenzy, his heart not straying a single beat from its calm rhythm. He had to hand it to the doctor, the man was as cool as a cucumber and Reese was having trouble reading him. He seemed either completely unaware of the danger a vampire could pose, entirely crazy, or impossibly brave. Potentially all three. Perhaps him being the lead recruiter wasn’t such a far-fetched story after all. After all, the man seemed to have nerves of steel.

Reese said nothing, but he felt his muscles relax, just the slightest, despite himself.

With that, Sweets apparently considered the topic closed, as he shifted gears and moved on to the next one without hesitation.

"Now that I know a bit more of who you are, why don’t tell me why you are interested in joining the taskforce?"

That one actually made him pause.

Why had he applied for this job?

Well, a bit out of curiosity, certainly, wondering what the actual purpose of this supposed taskforce would be. But that hadn’t been all, now had it?

Reese was a soldier at heart. He’d been a soldier since enlisting at eighteen, so the military was all he’d ever known. Following orders, saving people, serving his country. It was what he did.

And he’d been damn good at it.

But now? He had nothing.

The military wouldn’t accept him now. Hell, since becoming a vampire, no one accepted him anymore. Not even his wife or his own family.

In truth, he had very little to live for at the moment and he was … lost. Aimless. A soldier without a war.

He was lonely.

He wanted, no, he craved a purpose. More than anything. More than blood even. To be able to do something that mattered once again. Something to make his chest feel less hollow.

He hesitated for a moment, pondering how much, if anything, he should say about his true motivations.

Eventually, he decided to walk the middle road. He’d be honest, but also wouldn’t reveal anything too personal.

"At first? Curiosity, mostly. Didn’t think it was real. But also, I’ve always been proud to serve my country. It’s all I know. Since I was turned, all of that has been taken from me. This...” He gestured vaguely. “...drifting? It’s not for me. I want to be useful, do something that matters again.”

Sweets nodded, visibly satisfied with that answer. It was the first time Reese could actually discern any kind of reaction from the man’s face. So either he was letting down his guard, or he was really, really pleased, so much so that the emotion had broken through his poker face.

"Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Reese.”

He clicked his pen open and shut a couple of times in what seemed like an unconscious action, staring at his notes for a moment.

It struck Reese as odd. The shrink had been so utterly collected throughout the conversation so far, yet now he was suddenly fidgety?

Had something in his answer caused this?

Before he could think more of it, Sweets took up his questioning once more.

“Alright, I’m going to give you a scenario. Let’s say we have a hostage situation. Vampire aggressor, human civilians involved. How would you proceed?"

Reese leaned forward, his earlier observation forgotten.

This, at least, was familiar territory. Strategy. Tactics. Rescue ops. He could handle that.

He was good at that.

So he launched into the strategy he would use to extract the hostage, asking a few clarifying questions about the situation and amending his plan where needed based on the response he got.

The words came easy.

Secure the perimeter. Evaluate entrances. Heat signatures, scent, sound. If there was an opening for negotiation, use it to buy time. If not, breach and neutralize.

The shrink nodded along. He was no longer writing anything down, just listening intently.

Reese was about midway through his plan when he got distracted by raised voices in the hall.

"Sir, you can’t go in there!"

Then a surprised yelp. Footsteps running in the other direction.

Reese’s senses flared and he tensed, falling silent mid-sentence.

Something was wrong.

Not even a second later, he was proven right.

The door slammed open and another vampire came storming in, tall and blond, his eyes gleaming red with a yellowish sheen.

The newcomer glanced at Reese for a moment, curling his lips into a condescending sneer, just wide enough to reveal fangs peeking out, but then his eyes locked on the human in the room.

“So this is the puny human who seeks to turn vampires against each other.”

His voice was smooth, but laced with derision.

Sweets, who had jumped up at the brusque entrance, stood motionless, staring at the intruder, mouth agape.

“Do you honestly think our proud race can be domesticated?” the vampire continued, “Tamed? Like animals?”

Reese tensed.

This was not good.

If the vampire chose to attack in these close quarters, there was no way the human would be able to get away without assistance.

“Our kind our not lapdogs, we cannot be contained.”

The blond’s voice had dropped to a low growl.

“And people like you need to be put in their place.”

The fang’s entire body tensed, preparing to lunge.

Sweets stuttered.

Reese didn’t think. He moved.

In an instant, he was between Sweets and the fang, slamming into the attacker and shoving him hard enough to send him crashing into the far wall with bone-breaking force.

Plaster cracked.

The blond got up slowly, brushing himself off and glaring daggers.

“Step aside, boy. This does not concern you.”

Reese didn’t budge.

Without taking his eyes off the enemy, he used his arm to push Sweets further backwards and towards the door, angling his body to remain in between the two of them as a shield.

“Doc, get out of here,” he barked over his shoulder.

He’d keep the fang busy long enough for the human to make his escape. Hopefully, he had the presence of mind to run and to keep running. Reese wasn’t sure just how long he could delay the other vampire. He had no idea how strong he was, or how experienced, and that made the fight too unpredictable.

Sweets didn’t move.

“GO!” Reese repeated, sharp, forceful.

If it came to a fight, the man would be a hindrance as long as he was in the room.

He crouched lower, baring his fangs.

He’d do what he could to keep the doctor safe.

A beat passed. Then another.

Suddenly, the other vampire straightened and then … smiled?

His demeanor shifted entirely, as did his expression, going from angry and hostile, ready to lunge at any moment, to polite amusement in a single beat.

The fang’s eyes lifted to look over Reese’s shoulder to the human behind him and a playful smirk appeared.

"You know, Booth’s not going to like we broke his interrogation room," he said mildly, glancing back at the obvious crack in the wall.

The words made no sense to Reese, and neither did the sudden mood switch, so he chose not respond. Nor did he rise from his defensive crouch. This might be some kind of trick, a mind game to make him lose his edge so that the fang could get past him.

To his utter surprise, though, the shrink behind him actually chuckled.

“He’ll just have to put it on the taskforce’s tab."

Reese stared.

What the hell was going on here?

He sensed Sweets stepping closer behind him, his heart still continuing its calm cadence, no trace of acrid fear in his scent, and a gentle hand was laid on Reese’s arm.

“Thank you for your swift defense,” the man said kindly, “But I assure you I have absolutely nothing to fear from this particular fang.”

Nothing to fear? After that display they just witnessed?

Reese narrowed his eyes.

Something was very much off here and he was not liking it.

Did the shrink know this vampire? Was this some kind of sick game for them?

He rose from his defensive position slowly, still tense, just in case.

The blond fang offered a polite half-bow. “My name is Carlisle Cullen. I’ve been working with the government for a few years now. It’s a pleasure to meet you. That was quite the defense.”

Reese didn’t respond immediately, still eying the other vampire suspiciously.

If the Cullen guy was working with the government, then why the theatrics? Why the pretend fight? What purpose did it serve?

Then, a thought occurred to him.

Was this some kind of test?

Sweets took the lead once more, quickly confirming Reese’s suspicions.

“Every candidate that we interview for a position on the team is tested in some way to gauge their instinctual reactions in a moment of crisis. This isn’t just the vampire candidates, for the record, but everyone. Well, at least those who seem like a good fit anyway.” 

Reese let his gaze flick from the vampire to the human and back.

Testing the viable candidates wasn’t an illogical thing to do.  He’d seen the same done in the military. He could understand they needed to be certain the members of their new taskforce could handle themselves in difficult situations.

Still, being the subject of such a test … irked him. He was never one for mind-games and disliked being part of one now, no matter how justifiable it was.

The Cullen guy seemed to guess where his mind was going as he added some more context.

“For us, vampires, there’s the additional point that our kind are predators and in large part guided by our instincts. So we need to make sure those instincts aren’t to round on the weakest target in a moment of panic.”

Sweets huffed at that. “Or on your teammates. You’d be surprised how many candidates decided to turn on me the moment Carlisle showed up.”

“Needless to say,” Cullen continued, “we cannot rely on people like that.”

The two of them seemed like a well-oiled machine, taking over from each other with an ease that could only have come from practice. Reese wondered how long the shrink and the vampire had been working together. It would certainly explain why Sweets had been so unruffled at having to talk to a fang.

“You, however,” Sweets took over again, “have passed with flying colors. You maintained a level head and your first reaction was to protect, rather than to freeze, or worse. This shoots you straight up  into our top contenders for the position.”

Well, that was nice to hear at least.

Slowly, Reese allowed his tensed muscles to uncoil.

He still wasn’t happy with how they had turned him into a guinea pig for their experiment, but he did understand the necessity. Vampires could be unpredictable and some were master manipulators. A split-second instinctual reaction, however, could give a good view of what kind of person they were dealing with, as the vampire in question wouldn’t be able to think about his response and thus tailor it to suit his needs. It was a smart move, likely even one he’d have made himself had he been in their shoes.

So he pushed his disgruntled unease aside. He’d get over it.

Just as he was about to make a comment on this little show, he found himself distracted by Cullen’s eyes.  

To his astonishment, one of the red irises seemed to... crack, break apart, before disintegrating entirely, revealing an odd golden color beneath.

He stared.

What the hell?

Sweets seemed to notice it too.

“Your eyes are showing,” he chuckled.

Cullen blinked, and as he did so, the other iris fell apart too, leaving only gold in its wake. He reached up to wipe the remnants of red from his eyes.

 “Guess the prototype still needs some work.”

Prototype?

Reese was lost again and he really did not like that feeling.

Was this another test?

Apparently, he needed to work on his poker face as, once again, the other vampire seemed to be able to read him like a book.

“A friend of ours is working on a prototype for colored contact lenses for vampires. Normal contacts are made out of a material that is too frail to withstand vampire eyes. Since we don’t have working tear ducts anymore, our eyes are too dry and the thin membrane tears very quickly. Hence, him trying to find a material that will work.”

Reese immediately saw the value in that. He’d tried the same thing before, putting in colored contacts to hide his eyes, to fool people into thinking he was human, but it hadn’t worked at all. The contacts had torn within the first ten minutes and he’d only managed to cause a panic as his eyes had gone from a muddy brown to fierce red in a literal blink and instantly people had scattered in fear.

“Turns out we aren’t quite there yet,” Sweets remarked drily.

Reese frowned.

The failing contacts explained the breaking irises, but still not the gold. Why were his eyes that color? He’d never seen any other vampire with eyes like that before.

He decided to just bluntly ask, hoping that tactic would get him some direct answers for once.

“What’s with the gold?”

The other vampire didn’t seem offended by the question in the slightest.

“It’s because of my alternative diet,” he explained, “After I was turned, I chose not to sustain myself with human blood, but to hunt animals instead. I don’t know why, but my eyes quickly turned this color rather than the usual red and have remained this way.”

Animal blood.

Was that even possible?

Then again, why wouldn’t it be? Reese had never heard of vampires who chose to live that way and, with the existence of blood banks, they didn’t have to either. Blood was available even without killing.

But blood banks hadn’t existed even five years ago. Hell, as far as humans knew, vampires hadn’t even existed back then. So for those older than that, it was either killing humans or starving.

Unless there had been alternative. Animals. But if there was an alternative, why wasn’t that knowledge more widespread? Why weren’t more vampires doing it? As much as the idea of eating rats in a back alley revolted him, the thought of just having to keep killing for centuries did even more so.

He asked as much.

Cullen’s shoulders came up in a half-shrug. “The knowledge that it is possible is not that obscure, it’s just that most vampires either choose not to do it, or lack the control to stick to it. Animal blood does not fill us up like human blood does. It is not enough to sate us entirely, so the hunger always remains, even if it is manageable with some discipline. My son once compared it with eating cheap tofu. It fills your stomach but it does not have same nutrition real meat would have.”

Son? That was an interesting little tidbit. That meant this blond fang probably hadn’t been a vampire for all that long either if he had mortal children still around. Yet, he seemed older than his years.

He filed the thought away for later.

“They call it vegetarianism for vampires,” Sweets piped up.

It still all sounded rather wild to Reese’s ears. He’d never passed by a dog or any other animal on the street and thought ‘well, that smells delicious’.

Quite the opposite, really.

”So you eat nothing but animals? No human blood whatsoever?”

The Cullen fang raised his hands in a so-and-so gesture.

“I hunt animals most of the time, but I do partake in human blood every two months or so. I’d prefer not to, but unfortunately the nature of my gift requires it.”

He did not elaborate further than that and Reese didn’t push. If he had been gifted himself, he wouldn’t have wanted to share what it was with just anyone either.

Cullen regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.

“If you’re interested in this way of life, we can talk sometime if you’d like?” he offered, “Regardless of the outcome of this interview.”

It might not be the worst idea to hear him out, Reese pondered. If anything, it would be nice to have some social contact with someone he knew wouldn’t run of screaming any time soon. Or try to attack him. And this ‘vegetarianism’ did actually sound pretty interesting.

He nodded, not fully committing just yet. This could wait until later.

First, he wanted to know what would happen next, now that he had passed their test.

Sweets smiled brightly and motioned for him to sit again. "Now, we can get down to business. Let’s take you through what this job would actually entail and see if you’re still interested in working with us."

As the shrink retook his own seat, Cullen passed closely behind him, moving to the other chair beside the man. His hand briefly brushed over the human’s shoulder.

Sweets didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to react at all. Once again, Reese wondered how he seemed so at ease with the vampire at his unprotected back. The touch had carried a familiarity to it. It was unforced, natural, as if this was something that occurred regularly.

A flash of jealousy shot through him.

By his own admission, Cullen had worked for the government for a few years now. Reese assumed he’d been working with the shrink for at least some of those years. And somewhere down the line, trust must have formed between them, a trust that allowed them to work so well together.

If he took this job, would he be able to find the same connection? Would he be working with people that would come to accept his presence, his touch, one day? Perhaps even welcome it?

Reese pushed his maudlin thoughts away and focused on the present, as Sweets smoothly picked up the thread of their previous conversation.

“Alright, let’s take a look at what your responsibilities would be on the team, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Reese wasn’t sure what he’d expected walking into that interrogation room, but it hadn’t been this. He was still processing the whole damn thing.

After the “test”, Sweets had explained in detail what the job would entail and it was basically a crime-solving intervention team with a license to operate in any jurisdiction it was needed in. Cases could be anything from solving murders to retrieving people kidnapped by fangs to catching underground blood smuggling rings.

Anything that involved vampires in any way.

Their main base of operations would be Washinton, but he would go wherever the case took him. It wasn’t that different from being a soldier, really, just with a supernatural enemy, rather than human insurgents.

More and more, he was beginning to think this might actually be something he’d enjoy. Something he’d be good at.

And apparently, the human shrink and his vampire ‘consultant’ had thought the same, because they had actually offered him the job. A real job. Not one where he’d the FBI’s dirty little secret or where he’d be expected to stay on a leash and bark on command, but an actual position on a diverse but equal team, with government clearance and everything. The pay offered was nothing to sneeze at either and it would certainly beat washing dishes in a dive joint somewhere until he got kicked out for being a fang.

Admittedly, Reese hadn’t been expecting the young psychologist to be able to make any type of offer like that by himself, and had blurted out as such. After all, he knew just as well as anyone ever associated with any kind of government structure that their bureaucracy was a nightmare to deal with.

But Sweets had just rolled his eyes, telling him in a clipped tone that he was the one leading this project and that, as such, he had carte blanche to deal with candidates and make offers as he saw fit.

He’d appeared rather annoyed at Reese’s assumption, so Reese had wisely shut his mouth after that. Cullen, on the other hand, had seemed amused by the whole thing and had tried to hide a faint smile behind his hand. Sweets’s clipped “Don’t you dare start” at him had only made the smile grow.

And that led them to where he was now, walking down the corridor beside Sweets and Cullen, as they escorted him to the elevators.

Reese let his eyes roam over the sterile walls, while the sounds around him washed over him. The humming of the light fixtures, people conversing, the tapping of fingers on keyboards, a coffee machine running. Somewhere a woman was complaining about someone named Mallard.

It was strange, being here like this, being treated like just any other job applicant. Not as someone to be feared, or something to be loathed, but as an actual person.

He was distracted from his reverie when Cullen spoke up.

“For the record, you’ll be the one telling Booth about his interrogation room,” he said, casting Sweets a sidelong glance that might’ve been dry amusement.

Sweets scoffed and bumped his shoulder against the blond’s arm. “As if! It’s your fault anyway for being so easily beatable.”

Reese’s attention sharpened at that. The human seemed at ease around the vampire, but that didn’t mean insulting him, even in jest, was a good idea.

What if the fang took it the wrong way?

Cullen raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Easily beatable, huh? Want to test that theory sometime, you puny little human?”

Reese tensed and he straightened, attention darting between the two of them.

That didn’t sound like a joke.

The vampire’s expression seemed playful, but that didn’t always mean anything. Again, some fangs were master manipulators.

But Sweets just laughed, entirely unbothered at the threat and waving a hand dismissively. “Hard pass. I’m not in the mood to get tossed around on the mat today and getting my fragile human ego dented as well as my body, thank you very much.”

Cullen smirked. “It would be entertaining. For me.”

Sweets just gave him another nudge in response.

There was a look passed between them then. Subtle, maybe, but Reese caught it. And suddenly a dozen or so odd things from the past hour clicked into place.

These two weren’t just colleagues.

The ease of their movements around each other. The shared glances. The way they conversed with each other, warm, familiar, easy. The casual touches that neither of them seemed to think twice about.

They had to be close, even outside of work. Simple colleagues could be comfortable around each other, but not this comfortable.

They were friends.

Maybe they’d known each other before Cullen was turned, maybe they’d been close pals. And perhaps Sweets hadn’t been willing to turn his back on his buddy afterwards.

The thought made Reese’s chest ache a little with something he didn’t quite want to name. Perhaps Cullen’s friends and family had refused to abandon him, like Reese’s family had. Hell, his own mother hadn’t even wanted to look at him anymore.

He debated asking, but the words stuck in his throat.

Did he really want to hear the answer? Did he really want to hear how others had done for Cullen what his own family had refused?

It wasn’t any of his business anyway.

Besides, if they thought he was poking around in their private lives, they might just rescind the offer they’d just made.

No, better to stay silent.

They reached the elevator.

Sweets turned to him with that ever-present professional-but-genuine expression and offered his hand again.

"Thanks for coming in, Mr. Reese."

Reese shook his hand. Cold skin against warm.

Then Cullen stepped forward and extended his own, which Reese took after only a moment of hesitation. The blond vampire reached into his pocket and fished out a card, offering it with a kind smile.

“If you ever wish to talk, about anything, regardless of whether you take the job or not, feel free to reach out.”

That threw him a bit of kilter.

Feel free to reach out.

As if they weren’t two predators, capable of tearing each other to pieces, but casual acquaintances. Or even potential friends. He scanned the other vampire’s face, looking for any trace of insincerity, but finding none.

Reese flipped over the card. It was plain, simple.

A phone icon, a number. And above that, a name: Dr. Carlisle Cullen.

He looked up, unable to hide his surprise. “You’re a doctor?” His eyes shot to Sweets and back. “Are you a shrink too, like him?”

It would certainly explain how the two men knew each other. They looked about the same age, so maybe they had even studied together.

But Cullen shook his head. “Not a psychologist. I’m a surgeon. I work at Georgetown Hospital.”

Reese blinked.

A surgeon.

A vampire surgeon.

What the ever-loving fuck?

“You work… in a hospital?” he managed, not caring how utterly incredulous he sounded.

An amused nod.

“With patients? Injured, bleeding, human patients?”

Cullen smiled faintly, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d gotten that reaction, and shared a knowing look with his human colleague. “I do.”

Reese had no idea what to say.

How was this even possible?

Even behind unbroken skin, the smell of blood was so incredibly tempting all the damn time. And then this fang claimed to actually willingly spend time in a hospital, surrounded by warm, walking juice boxes that were right there, just begging to be tasted.

And as a surgeon no less?

With tools cutting into soft flesh and blood spilling over his fingers?

He’d heard rumors of a fanged doctor months ago, but he’d dismissed them as false straight out of hand, because … it was just impossible. Right?

“How?”

Cullen’s gaze softened. “I’ve trained myself. It wasn’t easy, but I learned to resist the smell and sight of blood to the point where it barely even bothers me anymore.”

Reese stared.

In all of his life, especially since becoming a vampire, he had never heard anything that was so incredibly unbelievable as this. Part of him wanted to call bullshit. No way this was true.

But another part of him, perhaps even a bigger part, wanted it to be true. Wanted to believe that this level of control was possible. Because it meant it was something he might reach someday for himself.

He knew he was no slouch in the discipline department. He could sit in a room full of humans all day without attacking. But bleeding humans? That was something else entirely. He hadn’t actually gone for anyone’s throat over a papercut in over two years now, but still, it took everything he had to just get up and leave the room at those moments.

He realized that, if he took this job, there might be times when his human teammates bled and he was fairly certain he’d be able to leave the situation before he snapped. But he couldn’t imagine dragging himself through a whole hospital of bloody injuries over and over again every single day.

Cullen gestured to the card. “If you want to talk about the vegetarian lifestyle sometime, give me a call. It’s not for everyone, but… it might be for you.”

Reese looked down at the card, rubbing his thumb over the raised lettering.

Maybe, just maybe, he actually would.

The elevator dinged. Time to go.

He stepped inside and turned to face them. “Thanks. Both of you. For …well …” He gestured vaguely. “everything, I guess. And for the offer.”

“Take care, Mr. Reese,” Sweets said, his voice sincere, “And I really hope to hear from you soon.”

Cullen just gave him a polite nod.

The doors slid shut.

As the elevator began to descend, Reese leaned back against the wall and exhaled slowly.

He’d come in expecting a scam. Or a trap. A bureaucratic dead end at best.

Instead, he’d found a surprisingly genuine, and generous, offer for a job.

A job that could give him the very purpose he’d been longing for. A chance to be useful. Maybe even something resembling a place where he could belong.

It all just felt so surreal.

He wasn’t ready to say yes, not just yet. But he wasn’t ready to say no, either.

He looked down at the cards in his hand.

Maybe, for once, this was the start of something worth sticking around for.

Maybe this job wouldn’t turn out to be too good to be true after all.

And hell, even if it did turn out to be a disaster, what did he really have to lose anyway?

He had some serious thinking to do.

Chapter Text

“Alright, Daniel, that’s where we’ll stop for today,” Lance said gently, folding his hands over his notepad and smiling to the man on the sofa across from him. “You did great today. I know facing the exposure therapy scenarios hasn’t been easy, but you already handled this one a lot better than last week. You should be proud.”

Agent Daniel Morison looked down at his hands, fidgeting slightly, nowhere near as convinced of his great work. “I looked at a picture. And I still panicked.”

The senior FBI field tech struggled with a rather unusual, but not unheard of, phobia. He was absolutely terrified of pigeons. Big, small, sitting quietly or flying about, any variation of the bird in his vicinity caused him to freeze in an irrational burst of fear. Even a mere image or a sound was enough to set him off.

It was a fear he’d developed in his early years at the Bureau but that had worsened over time and was now so bad it was starting to impact his work. However, Morison was determined to actually do something about it. He’d come to Lance about two months ago and, after the first few sessions, they had started with exposure therapy. It had not been easy, but they had slowly worked up from listening to the sound without panicking to looking at pictures of the bird and Lance was happy with the progress the man had made so far.

“You did panic, but only a little,” Lance countered, “and you did not toss the picture away from you this time. The changes might be subtle, but you are getting better with each session. Fear doesn’t vanish just like that. It takes time and work. And the fact that you're here, taking steps to confront it instead of letting it control your life, that’s the real victory.”

Morison nodded, shoulders easing slightly, though the anxiety still clung to him like a second skin.

“Thanks, Doc. I just… I’ve already been warned twice. I really don’t want to lose this job. I can’t afford to freeze up every time a p… “ He stuttered a bit over the word. “pigeon flaps by.”

Lance smiled again, softer this time. “We’ll keep at it. Between now and our next session, I want you to spend some time journaling. Not just the fear, but how you felt before and after. Emotions, physical responses, even dreams if you have them. Understanding the cycle will help us break it.”

Morison stood, visibly more relaxed than when he’d arrived. “Right. Okay. I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Lance said, shaking his hand. “See you next week.”

After the door clicked shut behind Morison, Lance exhaled and leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the ceiling for a moment. There was always something satisfying about solving cases and bringing a murderer to justice, but there was still a quieter, deeper fulfillment in helping someone reclaim a part of themselves.

He thought of Morison’s face when he’d talked how much his fears impacted his daily life. That tightly wound desperation, the need to fix it before it became unfixable. The agent was fighting. And Lance was glad he could be part of that fight, that he could help the man overcome his phobia and come out victorious on the other end, stronger than ever.

It felt good, knowing someone was getting better because of his help.

He understood why Carlisle enjoyed his job so much, why it drew him in like a moth to a flame. His lover was such a gentle soul and he thrived on every person he could help, every smile he drew from an injured child whose wounds he’d healed, every happy tear of a family member who’d just received news their loved one would be okay.

Carlisle was pretty much the personification of what Lance had always imagined an angel to be.

God, he loved that man.

He reached for his notes, quickly documenting the session, then stood to file them away in his locked cabinet. He shut the drawer with a satisfying click, shrugged on his jacket, and headed for the door, humming a tune.

First the interview with Mikael Reese had gone splendidly this morning and now Morison was showing excellent progress. Despite Kelly’s case stalling a bit, it was turning out to be quite a good day so far.

As he closed the door behind him, his thoughts unconsciously drifted back to his lover.

They’d made plans for a short holiday in a few weeks and Lance still didn’t know where they were going. Carlisle had arranged it all and was being ridiculously secretive about it. All Lance had been able to get out of him so far was: “Make sure to pack for outdoor activities.”

So probably somewhere remote where they could go hiking then, Lance thought with a grin.

Last time they’d done a trip like that, it had been camping. Actual, literal camping, with a tent and everything.

And Carlisle, of course, had looked unfairly breathtaking under the moonlight. Pale skin almost glowing, golden eyes gentle and bright. They’d made love beneath the stars that night. Lance vividly remembered the scent of pine, the press of Carlisle’s lips, how utterly ethereal his lover looked with the moon hovering above him like a halo.

As much as Lance was a city boy through and through and not very outdoorsy on his own, he would certainly not mind a repeat of said vacation. Especially not if the love-making was included.

His heart skipped a few beats as the memories surfaced and he found himself smiling like a loon.

He was so damn lucky.

That smile, unfortunately, was noticed.

“Well, someone’s in a good mood,” a snide voice remarked behind him.

Lance didn’t have to turn around. He knew that nasal sarcasm.

Great, he thought sardonically, Peter Mallard was at it again.

The man really couldn’t help himself. He was like the stereotypical high-school bully, picking on those he thought would make easy targets.

Knowing that any type of strong reaction would only spur such bully types on, Lance took a breath, counted to three, and turned with a pleasant expression, pretending to have completely missed the sarcasm.

“Good afternoon, junior agent Mallard. Something I can help you with?”

Mallard smirked, eyes darting around at the small cluster of agents gathered near the elevators.

Oh boy, just his luck. Many people were heading to lunch at this hour. And that meant Mallard had an audience.

Bullies loved audiences. The bigger, the better.

Lance could already see the smug glint in the man’s eyes, the subtle puff of his chest.

Mallard was clearly under the impression that this was a perfect opportunity to raise his status by “putting the loser in his place”.

Lance schooled his face into neutrality, though inside, he was rolling his eyes.

Whatever Mallard was planning, this confrontation was not going to go as he was no doubt intending. He could already tell that much.

He was not a newbie anymore. He knew how to handle himself, both verbally and physically. He might still get embarrassed like hell when things like the bookshop fiasco happened, or when discussing his sex life with Brennan, but in a one-on-one confrontation he was more than confident he could handle the brash idiot.

The puffy agent was in no way a threat.

Mallard took a step closer. “Just saying, it’s kind of disgusting having to share an elevator with a poof like you.”

Lance shrugged lightly. “You’re welcome to take the next one.”

That earned him a flicker of surprise, followed by irritation. That was clearly not the response Mallard had been aiming for.

Unfortunately, rather than deescalating, the man doubled down.

“You should be the one waiting,” he spat back, “Let your betters go first.”

Lance tilted his head, pretending to think it over for a moment.

“Well, if we’re ranking by seniority or field experience, I’m afraid that still puts you right here with me. Quite certainly behind me, actually.”

A few nearby agents exchanged glances. Some looked uncomfortable. Others amused. Mallard’s scowl deepened. The nonchalant responses were getting to him, as were the disproving glances from some of the people around him. He’d likely expected Lance to be bawling by now and the crowd cheering him on.

Yeah, not happening.

This was a government building, not a first grade school playground.

Before Mallard could speak again, a familiar voice sounded from down the hall. “Sweets!”

Lance turned to see Booth heading toward him, casual and cheerful, completely unaware of the starting altercation that had been going on.

“You heading to lunch?” Booth asked.

“Yeah,” Lance replied smoothly. “Wanna join?”

Before Booth could answer, Mallard barked a laugh.

“Join you? Why would a guy like Booth want to ruin his lunch hanging out with you?”

Booth’s brow creased. “Excuse me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Even he was quickly catching on now that something wasn’t quite right here.

Lance turned to him, keeping his tone casual. “Agent Mallard seems to be having an issue with my relationship with someone of my own gender.”

Booth blinked once. Then his face darkened and he rounded on the young agent.

“Why the hell would you have a problem with that? It’s none of your damn business who other people choose to date.”

Mallard scoffed.

Any sane person would at least be a little nervous to face an angry Booth, but Mallard just seemed to take the older agent’s defense as a sign of weakness on Lance’s part and decided to up the ante.

“So typical. Poofters always need someone else to fight their battles for them. Sissies like him don’t belong in the government.” He turned back to Lance now. “You should take your filthy perversities elsewhere.”

Lance saw the tension coil in Booth’s frame. He knew that look. Someone was going to get punched if he didn’t intervene.

He cleared his throat and caught Booth’s eye, giving him a pointed look and a small shake of his head.

Easy now.

Booth inhaled deeply, jaw clenched. His hand twitched, but remained by his side.

Then: “You know what, Mallard, not that long ago, I’d have knocked your lights out for that remark. And, don’t get me wrong, I still really, really want to exactly that right now. But I’m not going to. I’m better than that. Besides, Sweets doesn’t need a knight in shining armor. He’s more than capable of handling the likes of you himself.”

Something warm spread in Lance’s chest.

First Booth had been asking more and more often for his advice lately on handling suspects and now this? The older man had certainly come a long way from treating him like a child to seeing him as an actual adult, knowledgeable in his own field and capable of making his own choices.

Booth’s knee-jerk reaction would always be to shield others. He was the eternal protector. It was just in his nature. And yet, now he was standing back because he understood this wasn’t his fight. Because he was learning to trust Lance could win his own battles.

That meant more than Lance could put into words.

A brief image flashed across his mind, a memory of first time he’d ever beaten Booth on the mat during sparring at the Hoover gym. Booth had been speechless, but also more than a little proud. He hadn’t said anything in so many words, of course – because God forbid he actually spoke his feelings for once – and he’d groused about losing, but his eyes had betrayed him.

Mallard, however, was just not getting the hint.

“Sure. Let the little sissy handle it himself. That should be entertaining! What’s he gonna do? Hit me with his purse?”

He looked around the crowd as if expecting laughter. There wasn’t any.

This had long gone past the territory of very uncomfortable and straight into full-out unacceptable behavior. Neither his words, nor his actions were getting him any of the desired plaudits. Quite the opposite really. Even those who had been smirking along at Lance’s expense at first were now looking at Mallard like he had audibly farted in the middle of Sunday mass.

He tried again.

“What? No words now? Maybe I should be talking to your boyfriend instead. Or maybe I should just knock a few of his teeth out. See if he’s man enough at least to hit back or if he’d cower and hide like you.”

Okay, that was enough.

Lance’s expression didn’t change, but inside, something clicked as anger sparked.

He could have handled him bitching about his sexuality, he could have handled the personal attacks, but this was going too far. Carlisle wasn’t even here to defend himself and yet Mallard found it necessary to drag him into this. To threaten him. It wasn’t like he could actually do anything against the vampire, but that wasn’t the point here. The point was that he made those remarks in the first place.

He’d tried indifference. He’d tried civility. Time for something else.

He abruptly realized the elevator should have been here a long time ago by now, but none of the people waiting had made any moves to get in. They were all just standing there, watching the confrontation unfold.

Perfect.

As much as bullies loved an audience, that same audience could also be used against them.

Typically, there were only two ways to make a bully let go of his prey.

One way was to give in, to let him have his fun and be the meek little puppet he could toy with until he grew tired of the non-resistance and found another victim to torment.

Yeah, no way in hell Lance was going to take that route.

So, that left the second option: biting back. And doing it in such a way that the bully was publicly and undeniably proven wrong and was humiliated in the process for good measure.

Lance had read Mallard’s profile. After all, after a recent suicide within the Bureau, he’d been asked to go over all incoming new hires to make sure they would be able to handle the high-stress environment. Mallard’s file and education history had been nothing impressive. Political science degree. Decent grades with some volunteer work at the last presidential election. Not a high achiever at the FBI academy, but not bad either. Pretty normal stuff.

However, what had made him a guaranteed shoe-in for a junior position at the Bureau was the position his father held. Mallard senior was one of the higher-ups at the Bureau. High enough to warrant a corner office on the big-boy floor in the Hoover Building. High enough that his son’s behavior would reflect very badly on him if Mallard junior pulled something stupid enough that made him the talk of the building in an unflattering way.

So, if Lance wanted Mallard to back off for good, he’d need to put him in his place publicly enough that the story would reach his father and would very much embarrass said father.

A plan formed.

Time to go on the offensive.

“You know, Peter,” he said, voice mild, “it’s kind of rich for you to accuse others of not fighting their own battles. After all, the only reason you’re here at all is because of your daddy’s influence.”

That hit home immediately. Mallard’s face turned red. “You saying I didn’t earn this job?”

“Well, if the shoe fits, right? I mean, your résumé so far is not exactly remarkable. You barely even passed the final academy exam. Not exactly field legend material.”

Mallard took a threatening step forward, getting up into his personal space and puffing up his chest like a rooster about to do battle. He poked a finger into Lance’s chest.

“You better watch your mouth, faggot. I could flatten you in a second.”

Well, that had taken even less effort than expected.

Lance’s goal here had been to rile the braggard up and goad him into a fight, a fight on Lance’s own terms, of course. And it had worked like a charm. A single sentence had been enough.

 It was almost a disappointment, really.

He arched a brow. “Is that so? How about you put your money where your potty mouth is? Hoover gym, on the mat. Freestyle fight. Let’s say, fifteen minutes from now?”

Gasps and murmurs rose around them.

Mallard didn’t hesitate, almost shouting his acceptance with glee. “You’re on!”

People were trying to intervene now.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on!” someone began, “This is hardly a fair fight. Mallard, you’re a field agent, fighting a shrink. Where’s the honor in that?”

But Mallard didn’t seem to care. He looked downright giddy at the prospect of crushing ‘the fag’ under his feet.

Lance held back a scoff.

As if.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not so much anymore, Booth wasn’t among those voicing their concerns and trying to stop the fight.

He just stepped forward and patted Lance’s shoulder.

“I’ll be there, buddy,” he said with a faint smirk, “I want to see you bury this guy’s face into the mat.”

Lance grinned.

Mallard might be an field agent with some training behind his belt, but Lance had been practicing rigorously for two years now.

After that fateful kidnapping-by-fang that had almost cost him and Angela their lives, he had sworn he’d never be defenseless ever again. He’d taken up both shooting practice and physical training. As soon as he’d started improving, Carlisle had even offered to train him himself. And while the Bureau’s instructors had taught him how to fight, Carlisle had taught him how to win, especially against an opponent bigger and stronger than himself, using any means necessary. To see the weak point and strike.

Mallard, however, he was certain was all bark.

“I’m calling Brennan that I’ll be late to our lunch.” Booth muttered, “No way in hell am I missing this.”

Lance turned to Mallard once more.

“I’m going to grab my exercise clothes,” he told him lightly, “I’ll see you in the gym.”

With that, he turned on his heels, heading towards his office for his gym bag. He’d brought it in this morning as he’d been hoping to get in some exercise before he went home for the night.

Looks like he was going to get his wish.

Mallard couldn’t resist a final dig, shouting after him.

“Yeah right, we all know you won’t be showing up in fifteen minutes, you pussy! You’re probably pissing your pants already!”

Lance ignored him entirely.

He had a battle to prepare for.

Chapter Text

Stretching out his arms and legs, Lance stood on the mat in the Hoover building’s gym, warming up in slow, controlled motions. The fabric of his exercise clothes was soft and familiar against his skin as he methodically worked loose his muscles.

He wasn’t nervous.

Not exactly.

More determined.

This fight could go one of two ways. Either he put Mallard down and the braggard would likely leave him be for the rest of his career here, or he would lose and Mallard would torment him with it for an eternity.

Either way, he knew it had to be done. Leaving things as they were to protect the status quo would only serve to make Mallard escalate further, which would basically lead to the same result than if he  lost the match anyway. This way, he would at least know he had done his best.

Besides, he was rather confident of his chances. Adrenaline simmered quietly in his veins.

He did a few more stretches to pass the time.

Mallard had yet to arrive. A quick glance at the clock showed that he had two more minutes before he was officially late.

Booth was pacing nearby like a restless coach, occasionally bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Look, Sweets,” he said, jerking his chin toward the center of the mat. “Mallard’s a rusher. A full-throttle, no-brakes kind of guy. You need to take him down fast. Don’t drag it out. The longer this goes on, the more likely he lands a cheap shot.”

Lance nodded, smiling faintly and taking the advice in stride. He knew Booth wasn’t trying to be condescending. He’d seen Lance spar, he knew how good he had become. This wasn’t about trying to teach him anything, this was just his way of pumping him up for the fight. Lance could see it in his body language.

Arms crossed, a ball of nervous energy, but with a sparkle in his eyes that spoke volumes.

The agent was worried, of course, but also very much eager to see the outcome of this match. Lance pondered that this was the first real time Booth was actually standing firmly in his corner rather than trying to physically take on the fight himself so Lance didn’t have to.

He grinned.

“So basically: duck, pivot, strike fast, and make sure I don’t get pancaked.”

“That’s the idea,” Booth confirmed, “You got your agility working for you, so use it.”

That was the plan.

“I feel like I should be slapping you on the shoulder with a white glove and saying, ‘If I die, avenge me,’” Lance quipped. “You’re basically my second in this Victorian pistol duel.”

Booth smirked widely at that and made finger guns, pretending to fire at someone.

“Boom. Consider it done.”

Then he adjusted his tie and preened. “I think I’d make quite a roguish nobleman, don’t you think?”

Lance guffawed.

“I fail to see the comparison,” a female voice interrupted matter-of-factly.

Brennan came walking up to them. She’d already been underway to the diner when Booth had called and had, of course, immediately changed course and made straight for the Hoover. She’d claimed she wanted to see the fight as research material for her next book, but Lance knew she was just worried. She’d arrived a few minutes ago and, eager for something useful to do while they waited, had volunteered to get him some water. Hydration was important for a good muscle balance.

She handed over the filled water bottle and Lance politely took a sip. It wouldn’t do to not follow her good advice, after all.

“Duels were typically fought over either the affections of a woman or to defend her honor. Or, in some other cases, it was used to settle or avenge a perceived familial slight,” she continued, “This is more of a… corrective action in a professional environment.”

Booth turned to her. “Mallard insulted Sweets AND his lover. Cullen might not be a woman, but Sweets is definitively defending both of their honors here, wouldn’t you say?”

Lance blushed involuntarily, an impromptu image springing to mind of himself with an old-fashioned gun and Carlisle swooning in his arms. He nearly choked on his own spit.

Was it bad that he suddenly really wanted to see what his lover looked like in era-appropriate clothing?

Brennan tilted her head. “Hmm. You have a point,” she conceded, “Though historically, duels often ended in death for one or both parties. Let’s not replicate that part.”

Lance found he just couldn’t stop smiling.

This was his team. His friends. Weird, dysfunctional, brilliant, and fiercely loyal.

Despite the upcoming fight, he kind of felt on top of the world.

A handful of people who had witnessed the events at the elevators had also taken the time out of their lunch break apparently to come and see how the grand finale went. They had even brought a few others here and there. All in all, about ten people or so were standing around, talking quietly with each other or observing with a mix of concern and curiosity in their expressions.

It was more than Lance had expected.

He’d known when he issued the challenge that at least a few people would be following them up to see how things played out. He’d even counted on that. He needed witnesses, after all, to carry word of his – hopefully – victory to the others. Without at least a few eye-witness accounts the rumor mill wouldn’t reach high enough to get to daddy dearest.

But still, he’d expected perhaps four or five people at the most. It seemed, however, that most of the elevator bystanders were here. Either they were all sick and tired of Mallard and wanted to see him knocked down a few pegs or they were all here to see Lance getting his ass kicked.

Lance could only hope it was the former.

The hushed murmurs made for a light buzz in the room.

Lance noticed a small group huddling close together and passing something around. Of course, money was a exchanging hands. It wouldn’t be the Hoover without at least a little bit of juvenile behavior. He idly wondered how his chances were being estimated in the bet.

He spotted Ellie Harper approaching the mat. Harper was a senior agent who’d been one of his first sparring partners back when he’d started training. It had been difficult to find people willing to spar because they’d been worried about angering ‘the fang’ if they punched a bit too hard, but Harper had taken him under her wing regardless, claiming the big bad fanged teddy bear didn’t scare her.

Lance still loved her for that. He gave her a wave.

“Heard what happened,” she called out, giving him a cheerful thumbs-up. “Give him hell, kiddo!”

Three agents who had been whispering worriedly amongst each other, suddenly seemed to split apart and one man, an agent he vaguely recognized from passing him in the hallways and the same one who had spoken up earlier at the elevators, stepped forward. He cleared his throat awkwardly, apparently the spokesperson for the other two.

“Are you sure about this, kid?” he asked in a muted tone, while his compatriots nodded along behind him, “Mallard is strong, and he fights dirty. We all know things get said in the heat of the moment, but this isn’t a game. Mallard could seriously hurt you. No one would think any less of you if you backed out.”

Oh, Lance sincerely doubted that.

Harper quickly jumped to his defense.

“Oh, buzz of Higgs. I’ve seen the kid train. He ain’t made of glass, you know. He’s got this.”

“Dr. Sweets is actually very capable,” Brennan added in her two cents, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “He’s been training extensively. In fact, in my opinion, his reflexes have improved beyond normal expectation.”

Lance fought a grin. The faith was certainly appreciated.

The agent – Higgs – shot her an odd look, likely wondering how a bone scientist could possibly know what normal expectation in a training scenario would be, but he didn’t attempt to engage. Instead, he addressed Lance once more.

“Look, I get that you want to prove yourself, but it’s not just you you should be thinking about here. God knows what that fang of yours will do if you get hurt. If he loses his shit, he could be coming after all of us.”

Really? That was what they were worried about? Carlisle losing his shit?

His lover was far more controlled than they gave him credit for. He might be a vampire, and, admittedly, incredibly protective, but this wasn’t his fight. And he would understand that.

Lance chose to settle things this way. Even if he lost, Carlisle would accept that. He’d be mad, of course, and then he’d heal his injuries and pamper and hover around him for days. But he would not lose his shit.

The man was much more refined than that, thank you very much.

Before Lance could voice his thoughts, the noise level in the room rose considerably with the arrival of one annoyingly loud booming voice, that immediately overtopped everyone else’s.

Mallard had arrived.

“Look at this crowd!” he called out, almost ecstatic, “All here to see a sissy get his just deserts. Don’t blink, folks, this’ll be quick!”

He came strutting in, loud and cocksure, and almost four minutes late to boot. His presence rippled through the room like a bad smell.

The hushed whispers quieted quickly as people turned to stare at the brash field agent, who was all but crowing in glee at the thought of being able to beat up an, in their eyes considerably weaker, opponent.

The unease amongst the spectators was palpable.

Lance rolled his eyes. Mallard certainly had a flair for dramatics.

“Well, do you intend to actually fight or just bore us all to death with your inane self-congratulation?”

That got a tense chuckle from a few people.

Mallard’s face darkened, jaw clenching visibly. He stomped onto the mat, practically bristling with ego.

Booth stepped into the center. “Alright, gentlemen. First one to pin the other to the mat wins. No cheap shots. No going below the belt. Are we clear?”

Both men nodded.

Booth raised his arm. 

“Alright, on my mark.”

Lance tensed, tuning out the onlookers slowly surrounding the mat. Onlookers who were clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing, but too fascinated to leave or look away. Their worried mutterings faded into the background.

Here we go.

The arm dropped abruptly.

Mallard charged like a freight train.

But Lance was ready.

He slid to the side with practiced ease, evading the bull-rush. Mallard spun around, annoyed, only to find Lance several feet away already and out of reach of his fists.

Brennan was already shouting encouragements from the sidelines. A bit hard to tune her out, with how loud she was being.

Lance circled, watching closely, like Carlisle had taught him. Watching for tells. Muscles tensing, fingers twitching, eyes narrowing, every little thing could be a clue as to how and when an opponent would strike next.

There. A small twitch of Mallard’s hand.

He braced himself.

Mallard lunged, this time changing direction at the very last moment to try and catch Lance with a fist as he dodged.

Not fast enough.

Expecting the trick, Lance pivoted sharply, sweeping the oncoming fist aside with a forearm, redirecting it from its path to the side of his face and onto a path into thin air.

Mallard’s momentum carried him forward … and off balance.

With a low sweep of his leg, Lance caught his opponent’s ankles.

Cursing up a storm, Mallard crashed to the mat, but managed to roll with the fall and was back on his feet quickly.

More curses followed.

Now Mallard was angry.

Good. Angry people lost focus.

“Still wanna keep going?” Lance needled, keeping his face impassive, but standing tall. “What’ll people say if you get beat by a poofter?”

Mallard snarled and spat out a string of expletives, most of them combined with very unflattering adjectives describing Lance’s character and sexuality.

“Booooooo!” Brennan shouted loudly from somewhere behind him. “Name-calling is bad sportsmanship!”

She wasn’t the only one with that opinion. The mutters that had been easy to ignore at first, were getting louder now. A few jeers rose up, disparaging Mallard for his behavior.

Booth’s mutter of “Bones, not helping,” was just loud enough for Lance to hear, but her affronted response was less subtle and very audible to all.

“He’s being a sore loser, Booth!”

Mallard was grinding his teeth together so violently, Lance worried he might actually chip a tooth.

This fight was clearly not going the way he wanted. Even if he managed to best Lance now, public opinion had already turned against him. Word of his deplorable behavior earlier had likely already spread and when this was over, his actions during the match would join the rumor mill just as quickly.

People were not going to like him much after this.

Well, even less than before, that was.

“Beat me?” Mallard spit out, “How could you possibly beat me? You’re not even fighting! You’re just dancing around like a fucking fairy!”

Lance didn’t engage. Mallard was only trying to use the same tactics against him, trying to get him angry, so he let the insults fly straight over his head.

Besides, his “dancing” was keeping him out of reach of those fists, so he had no intention of stopping.

However, he would have to change his strategy soon.

Up until now he had been baiting his opponent, gauging his reflexes and cataloguing his tells. But he would need to finish this sooner rather than later.

Booth was right. The longer this dragged out, the more chance for Mallard to get in a lucky shot. And now that Mallard was angry, he was letting his rage blind him, which made his attacks less effective, but also made him more unpredictable.

And that could be dangerous.

They circled again, and after a few steps, Lance feinted left.

However, rather than react defensively, Mallard swung his fist at him.

Interesting.

The punch did not even come close to landing, as Lance was still well out of reach, but it was an odd move to say the least. Most would have pulled their arms closer to defend their most vulnerable body parts or would have jumped back to try and evade.

He feinted again, going for the other side this time, and, once again, Mallard kicked out, rather than pulling back.

It seemed like the agent had very little defensive moves in his repertoire, relying solely on a good offense to drive his opponent back.

However, that meant that, if Lance could get past those fists, the man’s torso would be wide open.

A strategy formed.

He feinted again and then once more, close together.

His moves were clearly being seen as taunts, as Mallard was getting more and more worked up by them.

Just a little more ...

Third time was the charm.

Lance made a bluff to the left and Mallard took the bait, charging head-on.

Rather than evade the attack, Lance surged directly into it, bolting forwards, using his arms to redirect the blows away from him, and slipping under Mallard’s fists. Leaning into his momentum, he rammed his shoulder straight into Mallard’s gut.

A choked gasp sounded as the air was violently forced from the man’s lungs and Mallard staggered back.

Before he could recover, Lance pushed through, once again swiping Mallard’s now wildly swinging fists aside and executing a daring move by throwing his full weight against his opponent. His arms circled around the man, preventing him from using his own. He hooked a foot behind Mallard’s knee.

And shoved.

Mallard tipped backwards and went down like a sack of bricks.

Lance followed him down, going with the movement to roll over him and putting his opponent into a tight headlock.

Mallard flailed, choked, but was given no quarter.

A beat passed, then another.

The man tapped out.

“Match!” Booth barked, victory in his voice.

Lance released him.

Mallard rolled over, coughing and wheezing, completely red in the face.

For a beat there was total silence.

Then chaos reigned. The small crowd erupted in cheers. Brennan was jumping up and down, roaring battle cries in his direction. Booth gave a whoop and promptly surged forward to clap him on the back hard enough to almost push him off balance.

“Atta boy!” the agent shouted loudly and almost directly into his ear.

Lance winced and felt his cheeks flush hotly from his ears right down to the base of his neck.

This kind of reaction was not what he’d been expecting.

He’d meant the fight as a way to deflate Mallard’s ego and to get him to shut up, but hadn’t realized what it would do for his own reputation. He had been counting on a few people watching the fight and then spreading the story that Mallard behaved deplorably and still lost. Now, however, he realized the story being told would likely be as much about him as it would be about Mallard.

God knew what rumors would be flying around the building by the end of the day.

Probably tales of an epic battle.

On the bright side, it might just make people forget all about the whole bookstore incident.

Ellie Harper whistled loudly. “Told you! Kid’s got fire!”

Mallard sat up, face scarlet. Whether from anger or embarrassment, Lance couldn’t tell.

But to his credit, the man didn’t argue. Just nodded once, tightly, admitting defeat without outright acknowledging it.

Booth turned towards him. “Looks like you learned an important lesson here today, pal. Don’t judge a book by its cover. And don’t be a homophobic jackass.”

Mallard scowled, but didn’t respond.

The agent wasn’t done. “I’m serious, Mallard, if I ever hear even the slightest whisper that you’ve been spouting any of this bigoted bullshit ever again, I will personally make sure you will never step foot inside this building ever again.”

That only made Mallard’s sneer deepen.

“You can’t throw me out of the Bureau. You don’t have that power,” he shot back.

Lance agreed that Booth didn’t really have that kind of power on his own, but then again, there was very little the man couldn’t get done if he set his mind to it. He had built enough connections over the years to at least be a credible threat to Mallard’s position, daddy’s protection be damned.

And who knows, when the news of today’s events inevitably reached the higher levels, his father might just take disciplinary action himself.

“Wanna test that theory?” Booth replied coolly. “Go ahead. Try me. See what happens.”

Mallard opened his mouth to reply but then, wisely, thought better of it at the last moment. He kept silent.

Harper stepped up to congratulate Lance personally, shaking his hand with gusto. “Good match, Sweets. It was high time someone took that insufferable ass down a few pegs.” She lowered her voice a little then, leaning in and rubbing her fingers together in a universal money sign. “And you just earned me a decent extra few bucks.”

Well, that didn’t actually surprise him in the slightest. Knowing Harper, she wasn’t just one of the betters, but actually the instigator of the whole thing. He rolled his eyes at her.

She turned to Mallard next, gloating. “You really picked the worst possible guy to try and fuck around with, didn’t you? He might look a skinny runt, but he’s been busting his ass in here for years now and it shows.”

Brennan piped up at that. “Well, he’s had great motivation. Even more since he got his new teacher.”

Well, what do you know, Brennan was actually making a decent and socially acceptable inside joke.

Eying Mallard speculatively now, Booth spoke up as well. “Yeah, that’s what I don’t get. I mean, did it never occur to you his boyfriend might actually be training him himself?”

Mallard frowned. “That prissy ponce? The fuck does he know about fighting? He doesn’t look like much.”

Booth’s eyes widened and he suddenly bore a great likeness to a kid on Christmas morning. Lance had a feeling he knew what was coming.

“Ooooh, this is good. This is just priceless!”, the older agent chortled, “You really don’t know, do you? You have no clue who he is?”

Lance sighed, resigned.

Yep, Booth was going to love being the bearer of some juicy news.

For someone who’d been so against their relationship in the beginning, Booth sure loved throwing the vampire’s fang-ness in people’s faces these days. Especially people he didn’t like all that much. Lance didn’t exactly condone the behavior – his lover was not a prop to use and threaten people with – but he had to admit, in this case, the more childish part of him wanted to see Mallard’s face when the realization sunk in.

And, he reasoned, considering how protective Carlisle could be, he probably wouldn’t mind in this particular instance.

He said nothing, letting it play out.

Mallard was slowly rising to his feet now, looking around a bit uncomfortably, no doubt noticing the weird looks people were giving him.

In Lance’s opinion, the looks were more than justified. He’d realized Mallard didn’t know about Carlisle when he’d unironically threatened the vampire in the hallway, but it hadn’t really sunk in just how dense Mallard would had to have been not to realize sooner.

Everyone knew about the fang who walked the Hoover halls without even needing a visitor’s badge anymore. And with a security clearance to boot. Seriously, it would have been one of the first things Mallard was briefed about when entering the Bureau.

How on earth had he managed to work here for two whole weeks and not find out Carlisle was the fang they had told him about?

“Why? Is he, like, retired military or something?”

Nope, the penny still wasn’t dropping.

Just as Booth was about to deliver his punchline, Brennan, to his immense annoyance, beat him to it.

“Oh no,” she chimed in sweetly, “Carlisle’s not military. He’s a vampire.”

And didn’t that throw Mallard for a loop.

His mouth opened and closed, but no sound seemed to come out.

Then, with a disbelieving stare, “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” Booth said, pitching in once more before Brennan could. “Why do you think Sweets is in charge of the fang squad? He’s the only one who can keep them in line.”

Well, that was more than a little bit misrepresenting things.

Lance wasn’t exactly in charge of the taskforce. He was the instigator of the whole thing, but had no intention of actually leading it once it once it was operational. He didn’t have the necessary experience for that. And he wasn’t really setting it up on his own either. Sure, he was leading the effort and taking on the brunt of the work, but he did have plenty of help as well.

The people at the think tank for one, who’d helped draw out a workable blueprint, the recruitment team who’d pitched the new open positions within and outside the Bureau, the legal team who made sure the new positions were airtight and legally defendable nation-wide. And then, of course, there was Carlisle.

Besides, he wasn’t keeping anyone in line. The vampire candidates – well, one candidate at this point – for the team were perfectly capable of doing that themselves. Otherwise, they would never even have been considered for the position in the first place.

Nonetheless, Booth’s words had Mallard turn an impressive shade of pale.

For once, Lance didn’t feel the need to rectify the man in his assumptions. It could only help cure Mallard’s unfortunate disposition to be a royal arse if he was just a little bit terrified of him.

He grinned. “Well, it certainly helps that I have a live specimen at home to use as a study subject in taming their kind.”

Harper burst out laughing.

“Oh, I am so telling him you said that!”

Lance shrugged. He was going to be telling his lover all about this whole thing tonight anyway, so it wasn’t like that was much of a threat. Besides, Carlisle would probably find it hilarious.

The aftermath of the battle was rather anticlimactic.

No angels descended from heaven to crown him with laurels of victory, no trumpets sounded, no one hoisted him onto their shoulders to be heralded through the building.

Okay, admittedly, he wouldn’t even have wanted that if the possibility had presented itself, because … well, just hell no.

After the first cheers had died out, people had just started leaving the gym, talking amongst themselves. Lance knew that they would spread the story, so his goal had been accomplished. It would take a very long time before Mallard would be able to look anyone in the eyes and not get judgmental looks back. Judgment because he lost, after bragging so extensively about being unbeatable, but more than that, judgement for the way he had acted here today.

Mallard, for his part, still stood staring at him, a look on his face that Lance could only describe as constipated. Like he wasn’t sure what to believe, if anything, about the whole my-boyfriend-is-a-vampire thing.

Lance didn’t care much what conclusions Mallard eventually drew. As long as he learned to keep his head down and not be a butthole to everyone.

However, he was fairly certain they’d heard the last out of the braggard for a long while. And he wasn’t particularly unhappy with that result. They really didn’t need people like Mallard stirring up trouble within the ranks. Especially not now that the taskforce was going to become a reality soon. They were going to have enough suspicious and uncertain eyes placed on them as it was.

He put the thought out of his mind. They’d deal with that if it came up.

Now that the fight was over, Lance suddenly found himself quite ravenous.

He turned back to his friends with a grin. “Well, I could really use some lunch right about now.”

“Amen to that!” Booth quickly concurred, in high spirits, before turning to Brennan to treat her to an embellished blow-by-blow retelling of the fight, as if she hadn’t been there to see the whole thing for herself.

“Did you see how he went just … BAM with his shoulder, straight into the guy’s gut! And then KAPOW, knocking his fists aside just like that and then …”

Brennan had apparently already tuned him out, as she paid him no mind and made a passing remark how she had never realized observing such violent display of alpha male behavior in a controlled setting could cause such an appetite. She was starving.

“I wonder if there is some biological mechanism at work here,” she continued to ponder, mostly to herself.

And just like that, the three of them walked out together, leaving Mallard behind on the mat, pondering his life choices.

Lance didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

Lance leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. His office was quiet, the rustle of papers and the occasional murmur of voices outside in the hallway the only thing disturbing the silence. Across from him, perched on the guest seat of the sofa with all the casual poise only he seemed to be able to manage, Carlisle was silently leafing through a taskforce candidate file. Although he hadn’t turned a page in several minutes, deep in thought.

The Kelly Young case had stalled. Completely.

After the interrogation of the boyfriend and the discovery of the other missing teen, not much more has been unearthed. Most evidence in Kelly’s case had been destroyed by prolonged water exposure and the pieces they had managed to find had not gotten the team much further.

The shopping bag that had been filled with rocks and used to weight Kelly’s body down in the river, was a regular reusable bag from a popular grocery chain. No prints or anything useful had been found that could lead to its owner. The blue tarp used to wrap her body in was industrial strength, but, unfortunately, also very common. The killer could have taken it from any construction site anywhere in the city. And there was a lot of construction currently ongoing.

All in all, it was, unfortunately, quickly becoming clear that the killer knew what they were doing.

Lance sighed, letting the breath escape slowly through his nose. At least he had something else to keep him occupied.

He had finally managed to get through all of the candidacies for the open positions and had compiled a list of six of the strongest contenders. After another interview round, he’d narrowed it down to five, one of them dropping from the list due to some red flags they’d displayed during the conversation, that Lance couldn’t ignore.

So now he had choose which of the remaining five hopeful agents would be making the team and which wouldn’t. Making an overview with their pros and cons was supposed to make it easier to make his final decision, but so far, he was still deliberating.

Isaac Trahan, senior field agent:
PROS: physically very fit, experienced, background in special forces, experience leading his own team, driven, able to think on his feet, not easily shaken and used to working in high-stress crisis circumstances,
CONS: stubborn, type A leadership, not used to having his orders questioned
PERSONAL NOTES: likes playing or watching sports, volunteer coach at a school’s little league baseball team, currently divorced with no kids

Ed Forester, senior agent:
PROS: intelligent, experience doing deep cover field work, deep sense of justice and willing to get his hands dirty to achieve it, physically fit, accomplished in hand-to-hand combat, driven
CONS: unused to working in a team, workaholic to an unhealthy degree
PERSONAL NOTES: no known hobbies, currently single but with a daughter from a previous relationship

Evelyn Bishop, junior agent:
PROS: IT degree, very accomplished behind her keyboard, experience with the dark web and how to navigate it, up to date with the latest technological advancements for field work
CONS: no field experience, temperamental and a bit quick to anger, not used to working in a team but willing to learn
PERSONAL NOTES: likes PC gaming and playing D&D, currently in a steady relationship

Agent Dana Kapoor, junior agent:
PROS: former military intelligence, degree in forensic psychology, smart, open-minded, quick and out-of-the box thinker
CONS: eager to prove herself to the point of taking risks and going out on her own to prove she’s right
PERSONAL NOTES: likes cats, working out in the gym and traveling, currently married to her high school sweetheart

James Aubrey, junior agent:
PROS: smart, open-minded, minor psychology degree, proven to be reliable and discreet during sensitive cases, eager to learn and prove himself, works well with others
CONS: not much actual field experience
PERSONAL NOTES: likes baseball, playing D&D, reading and poetry, currently single

Lance had been debating on how to split the team and had settled on two field agents and one agent with a more technical and IT background to be able to be the support on cover ops. In that regard, Bishop seemed to be the obvious choice as she was the only one with (more than) decent computer skills.

But then the other two, those were proving to be more difficult to pick.

He glanced up from his laptop screen at his lover. The vampire hadn’t moved in a while, remaining unnaturally still as he stared unseeingly at the page in front of him as if it held the secrets of life itself.

Lance knew his lover well enough to know exactly what he was thinking about. He knew how frustrated Carlisle felt at not being able to help the case move ahead. He’d promised Kelly’s parents their daughter would be given justice, but, so far, there was very little justice in sight.

And now with another girl still missing … Carlisle worried.

He wasn’t the only one, of course, but he was the type to pull the blame onto himself, to shoulder the world’s burdens so that others didn’t have too.

Lance cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, trying to coax some movement into his lover, “anything interesting in that particular file?”

Carlisle looked up, a bit dazed. “Hmm, what?”

“Must be quite a thrilling tale on that page, considering you have been staring at it for ten minutes at least.”

The vampire shook his head, then offered a faint smile. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you a word about it if my life depended on it. I was a bit … distracted.”

Lance gave him a pointed look. “So I’ve noticed.”

Another faint tugging of Carlisle’s lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Time for a distraction maneuver.

“How about, rather than sitting there on your but, you start pulling your weight and help me get through some actual work?”

That got a more genuine smile.

Better.

“Using me to slack off yourself? My, my, Dr. Sweets, isn’t that abuse of power? Did your recent win go to your head already?”

Lance pretended to think that over.

“Well, technically, since you are advising on the taskforce and I’m the lead on this project, you work for me. So foisting work on you would be called delegating, I believe.”

Carlisle snorted. “My sincerest apologies, oh benevolent boss, please enlighten me how I can be of service.” His voice was dripping with amused sarcasm.

Much better

Lance grinned. “Well, you could start by helping me decide who we’re going to pick for the team. We have three juniors and two seniors to choose from and I’m not entirely sure how to handle this.”

Shifting in his seat to fully face him, Carlisle leaned back and crossed his legs, attention now focused on the task at hand. 

“Bishop is an easy choice. She’s the only one with a strong IT background, and we both agreed a technical expert was non-negotiable,” he started, mirroring Lance’s earlier thoughts. “As for the others …” he trailed off, expression thoughtful.

Lance nodded. “Exactly. Four strong contenders for two spots. I’ve been going over their profiles and interview notes again.” He tapped his pen against the side of his desk. “I keep coming back to the idea of balance. Experience and flexibility. Seniors would bring field-tested instinct, but are often set in their ways. Let’s not forget they will be dealing with vampires on a daily basis, so a certain level of open-minded adaptability will be needed. Not to mention the gray areas they will be facing, both legal and moral. Juniors on the other hand, lack the needed experience but could bring more new ideas and a fresh outlook on things.”

Carlisle smiled knowingly. “You sound like you’ve already decided.”

“I’m leaning toward a junior-senior pair, yeah,” Lance admitted. “I mean, seniors are more grounded, sure, but they’re also more likely to push back against… unconventional methods. Especially when cases involve suspects with moral compasses but fangs nonetheless.”

Carlisle’s expression turned serious, the shadows under his eyes deepening subtly. “And we can’t afford internal friction. There is enough push-back as it is already.”

Wasn’t that the truth.

Carlisle’s presence had long become normal to the people working here in the Washinton branch and the interest in the new taskforce was genuine. After having faced a few cases with out of control fangs, most people understood the necessity of the new, mixed, team, even if they weren’t all entirely comfortable at the thought of more vampires running around their building freely.

However, the other branches, located in different states, had already made their discomfort known. They thought this was a massively bad idea that could only end in bloodshed and lives lost. Some whispers had already risen that higher-ups in other states were looking to overthrow Washington leadership after things inevitable went awry and take the position for themselves. The first few cases, more likely the first few years, of the team’s existence would be followed closely and analyzed under a microscope.

They really couldn’t afford to have issues, either within the taskforce or between the taskforce and the Bureau, while under such close observation.

“Right, hence my desire to mix up the team a bit. They could learn from each other and keep each other in line if needed.”

Carlisle gave him an amused smile and motioned with his hand, tapping a finger to his lips.

With a start, Lance realized he had been chewing on his ballpoint pen again. He made a face and went to retrieve his fountain pen from his bag, the one Carlisle had gotten him as one of his first courting gifts. The metal cap was much fancier – and sturdier – than anything else he had in his office, so at least he couldn’t chew through that. To keep it from his mouth, he started tapping it against his fingers instead.

“So, one grouchy senior, one bright-eyed junior it is,” the vampire continued, “That leaves only the question which ones.”

The crux of the matter.

“Well, continuing in the vein of avoiding internal struggles, I’ve been thinking of trying to match similar personalities, or at least personalities that won’t clash too badly, as well as combine complementary skill sets.”

Lance regarded his lover, wondering what his thoughts on this would be.

He knew it was a bit of an odd move. It wasn’t always possible to match personalities as people were often just too different. And personal differences didn’t necessarily mean they wouldn’t get along professionally. Lance also knew that if the team changed over the years, they wouldn’t always be able to pick a replacement who shared the same opinions and traits.

It’s just that he really wanted the people on this initial team to get along. They needed to be able to work together seamlessly, to be able to lay their lives in each other’s hands. And the better they liked each other, the closer the team would be.

Carlisle nodded along. “I get where you’re coming from, but we shouldn’t make the mistake of choosing carbon copies of each other to fill the spots. Without diversity there will likely also be less interaction and less inclination to step out of each other’s comfort zone to learn new things.”

That was a good point.

Besides, in light of the candidates they currently had, it seemed that most of them already shared at least a few personal preferences.

Perhaps it would be better to focus only on skills at first and then see where that got them.

“Okay, let’s look solely at abilities then. Personally, I’m leaning away from Ed Forester. Guy’s got the impressive résumé of a badass spy thriller. Deep cover ops, lone wolf, iron resolve. But he doesn’t play all that well with others.”

Carlisle nodded slowly. “I agree. Some of his evaluations center around his tendency to be a lone operator, and in a team like this, that could be liability.” His eyes landed on the other senior file on the table. “So Trahan, then?”

“Probably.” Lance pulled Isaac Trahan’s profile closer. “He’s got the field experience and knows how to lead a team. He’s worked crisis zones and his evaluations have been steadily positive so far. He’s adaptable, which is certainly a plus.”

“And for the junior?” Carlisle asked, rising to grab Lance’s notes from the table and flipping through them. “Kapoor and Aubrey’s files are rather similar. Both have a background in analytics and psychology, although Kapoor a bit more so. Forensic psych studies, I see.”

Lance tasted metal on his tongue and forcefully put his pen down, annoyed at himself.

“God, I’m going to make a horrible vampire someday,” he muttered sourly, “I can’t even keep a freaking pen out of my mouth and the damn thing tastes horrible. No doubt I’m going to be chewing on everything I can get my hands on once I have fangs.”

Carlisle didn’t even bother hiding his amusement, chuckling and migrating to the other side of the desk to stand behind his lover’s chair, his hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

A kiss was pressed into Lance’s hair.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, love,” the vampire murmured softly, followed by a short pause. Then, in a wry tone, “But I’ll make sure to ask the kids to hide away the valuable goods, just in case.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Fine mate you are. Aren’t you supposed to reassure me or something?”

He felt his lover’s smile more than he saw it, before those lips brushed over his scalp once more. “I am reassuring you, aren’t I? I’m making sure you know you can nibble to your heart’s content.”

Sure, very helpful.

Well, at least Carlisle was back in a decent enough mood to crack jokes, Lance pondered wryly.

He’d take the win.

He flipped open both junior files and laid them side by side on his desk. The accompanying photographs of both candidates looking up at them. 

“Both have comparable skills and experience levels, so nothing sticks out for either agent on that front,” he mused, while Carlisle gently moved his hands up and down his shoulders, circling around his shoulder blades with his thumbs.

That felt rather nice.

“Kapoor does have a few notes in her evaluation history of insubordination,” the vampire remarked, “Do you know what that’s about?”

Lance hummed. “She’s been reprimanded a few times for poor behavior. Apparently she doesn’t take well to being told she’s wrong. She’s gone out by herself a few times, talking to suspects and witnesses on her own, to prove herself right.”

“And was she? Right, I mean?”

“Yeppp,” he let the P pop for effect, “On all three counts even. Seems she has surprisingly good gut-feeling instincts.”

Carlisle paused in his ministrations. “On the one hand, that’s not a bad skill to have on our team, but on the other hand … going out alone to confront a vampire, just to prove you’re right?”

Lance saw the issue as well. “Yeah, that’s not going to end well, is it?”

In bloodshed and a funeral probably.

“Does Aubrey have any obvious drawbacks?” the vampire asked, moving to lean on Lance’s desk and pulling the file towards him.

“Not that I can see,” Lance admitted, as his lover thumbed through the file. “He’s still pretty green, but going off of the cases he’s worked so far, he seems bright, honest, and a team player. Also, he seems fairly emotionally aware and eager to learn. You’ve met him before, during that hedge-fund fang case, remember?”

Carlisle’s expression softened. “I remember. He was a bit like you when we first met. His heart was racing, but he was curious, and brave, enough to approach me and ask questions regardless.”

Like you when we first met.

Lance felt some heat rise to his cheeks.

He really had been like that, hadn’t he?

Heart pounding, palms sweating, one step away from a nervous breakdown at the very thought of sitting in a room alone with the big bad vampire that now shared his bed. He’d been professional, he’d done his job, and quite admirably so, if he did say so himself, but he had been more than a little uncomfortable at first.

How things had changed.

“There is also the added bonus that Aubrey seems to share a few personal interests with both Bishop and Trahan, which would tie in nicely with your view to have them match on a more personal level,” Carlisle continued slowly.

However, he was frowning and his expression was pensive.

“But … there is something on your mind,” Lance prodded, looking up at his lover.

“It’s just a minor remark, really, but Aubrey seemed … well, naive is not the right word here, but perhaps more … idealistic?” Carlisle made a vague gesture with his hand. “I’m just a bit worried how he’ll handle cases with so many grey areas.”

Lance considered that. His lover did have a point. Idealism was good, but when confronted with too many harsh realities it did tend to wither. On the other hand, such open-minded belief in justice and the good in the world might be what kept a team confronted with gruesome crime scenes from breaking under the strain.

“Yeah, I get where you’re coming from,” he admitted, “But, in a way, that could work for us. He’ll bring heart to the team. And when paired with Trahan, who’s solid and grounded, we might get the best of both worlds.”

Carlisle gave a quiet nod, thinking that through, and then another, more certain one. “That could work. Trahan could keep Aubrey with both feet on the ground, while Aubrey would offset Trahan’s seriousness with his optimism and open worldviews. Like you said: balance.”

“Exactly. Ying and yang, basically.”

Carlisle smiled, closing the file and putting it back on Lance’s desk. “Then I believe it’s settled. Bishop, Trahan and Aubrey. They’ll be the pilot team.”

“Well, if the brass agrees with our choice, that is,” Lance cautioned, but he grinned regardless.

They did it.

If the director agreed with the selection, then the human side of the team was complete.

Another big step in the right direction.

Scribbling a note on a colored Post-it, he marked the files and bundled them to hand over to the higher-ups tomorrow.

Now that this part was, hopefully, finished, all they needed now was one or preferably two vampires to join the team.

Lance let himself relax into his chair for a moment, his gaze wandering to his notes on the vampire candidates laying on the far end of his desk.

Carlisle followed his gaze. “You’re thinking about Reese,” he surmised.

“Yeah,” Lance nodded, leaning forward to reach for the papers, before Carlisle gallantly slid them towards him, “Do you think he’ll be taking us up on the offer?”

His lover gave him a small, almost wistful smile. “I truly hope so. He seemed a great fit. Controlled, competent, principled and determined to hold onto his humanity as much as he can. He might be exactly what we need. And to be honest, I think this job could be exactly what he needs as well.”

Lance couldn’t refute that.

Reese had handled himself with impressive composure, considering the provocations they’d tested him with. A few minor tells here and there, a clench of the jaw, a glance too sharp where the predator underneath reared its head, but overall, the man had been measured. Alert, but not paranoid. Defensive, but not aggressively so.

After the interview, Lance had dug deeply into the man’s past, pulling up each and every file he could find about him, and what he’d found had only solidified his initial impression of the vampire.

Reese was a soldier through and through, but had lost his purpose after being turned. Not just that, the man had lost pretty much everything he held dear in one single devastating blow. And yet, he had not caved, had refused to become the monster everyone now expected him to be. Carlisle was right in saying Reese might need this job as much as they needed a vampire like him on the team.

And he had been an incredibly good candidate.

Although, for the sake of honesty, Lance had to admit he was also the only decent candidate that had applied so far.

Most vampires he’d interviewed so far were all relatively young, wanting to stay integrated in society, but unfortunately also inexperienced and still too dependent on their instincts to be reliable.

One of the candidates, a woman, had said all the right things and, despite not having any background in law-enforcement or any type of combat, she had actually seemed a great fit. Combat could be taught, after all.

And, considering there weren’t many vampires willing to work with the government in the first place, they didn’t exactly have a wide range of profiles to pick from, so background and training just weren’t a priority.

What was far more important in Lance’s eyes was that the vampire in question had a good mindset and a strong desire to do good, was willing to learn, and could be trusted not to be a danger to their teammates.

And this particular candidate had seemed to fall squarely into that category.

Until Lance had clicked his pen four times, giving Carlisle the signal to start their standard test, and things had gone pear-shaped very quickly.

Rather than act in defense, the woman had frozen for a good few seconds and had then promptly turned on Lance herself. Carlisle had not been happy in the least and had quickly put her in a headlock to keep her from doing any harm.

When asked why she had chosen to attack, she’d admitted she hadn’t known what to do, so, in her panic, she’d picked the side of whom she considered most likely to win the fight, as to not become a target herself.

After that, realization had sunk in that this had probably been a test and she had failed spectacularly. To her credit, she had apologized, sheepishly and in a very small voice, and had left without another word, unable to look either of them in the eye.

Needless to say, knowing how she’d react in a crisis situation, she was very much not in the running for the job anymore.

Still, she was hardly the worst candidate they’d had.

The absolute craziest interviews he’d witnessed so far was with a vampire who, unironically, called himself Balthasar the Bloody.

The name alone had not inspired much confidence and the interview itself had not been any better either.

When Lance had first entered the room, the first impression he’d gotten was hardly a good one.

The vampire had been sitting slouched back in the chair and with his feet propped up on the table. Not exactly a professional attitude to start with.

Upon noticing Lance, the fang had called out in a lazy drawl that they had kept him waiting long enough and they would have to do better in the future if they wanted any chance of working with him.

Lance had almost been aghast enough to end the interview there and then, but against better judgement, he’d decided to give the fang a second chance.

Bad idea.

Because things had not gotten better in the slightest.

The vampire had been rude and dismissive of any sort of rules he’d be held to or conditions he’d have to meet and, during the conversation, it had quickly become clear that Baltasar had some … requirements if he was to take the job.

In simple terms, he wanted an army of blood props. He wanted to be the one to lead the team and he wanted to be the one to pick his own people. He wanted at least twenty agents on his “team”, mostly women if possible, but if not, no problem, he wasn’t that picky. As long as they were juicy enough, because he wasn’t going to be drinking cold blood from a bag.

The implication he would be feeding of his teammates had been very thinly veiled and Lance had felt his stomach turn on the spot.

The fang’s attitude was eerily reminiscent of the cult fang they’d taken down during his very first vampire case.

So Lance had decided to end the interview there, rather than listen to any more of this idiot’s delusions. Carlisle, upon hearing Lance’s words, and probably his rising heartbeat too, had entered the room immediately, just in case the vampire turned nasty.

And he had.

Just … not in the way they had expected.

Rather than attack, he had turned smug, leaning back and telling them with a large smirk that he would not be leaving and they were going to give him exactly what he wanted. When told, in no uncertain terms, that they would most certainly not be doing that, the smirk had only grown.

And then the fang had revealed his master plan.

If his demands were not met, he would be going straight to the Volturi with information on this vampire squad that they were building, insinuating that the ruling coven would not be happy at the FBI’s attempt to turn fangs against each other.

They might just come over here and deal with you themselves, he had stated, quite gleefully.

Lance had been entirely flabbergasted at the fang’s audacity, and Carlisle had been much the same. He’d shot him a glance that pretty much said it all. Was this guy actually for real?

The worst part was that the fang’s plan had actually had some merit. After all, if the Volturi got involved, things could go very badly very fast.

However, there was one rather massive flaw in that particular bluff.

The Volturi already knew about the taskforce.

Lance and Carlisle had discussed it at length and had eventually decided that, with Aro seemingly having a soft spot for the both of them, it would be best to write to them asking for permission first.

After all, one vampire occasionally working with the government was one thing, but to create a whole taskforce with the sole purpose of keeping fangs in line might be something else entirely. And they had not wanted to risk angering the most powerful coven in the world.

So, considering the Volturi weren’t modern enough yet to have a working e-mail address, they had drafted a letter that Carlisle had personally neatly penned down, explaining the situation and their motivation for the new team. They had been honest, but had tried to spin it as a positive thing for the ruling brothers, and had included a fair bit of ego stroking here and there as well.

Then they had posted the letter, not really sure what the answer would be, if they ever even received one. But surprisingly, it had taken only two weeks before a response arrived. A short note in elegant script stating they had permission and to keep them updated on the results when the taskforce became operational.

It had been a largely impersonal letter, with the only personal note coming at the end where Aro had referred to the Volturi pin Lance had received a year ago as a sign of their protection. The subtle jibe that it might come in handy if Lance was going to mingle with vampires more often had not been lost on them.

It had been a warning, but also a blanketed permission. It meant Lance was allowed to use the pin as he saw fit to keep potentially hostile individuals in line.

And now this indomitable Baltasar was threatening them with the very same royals that had granted him that permission.

The fang’s face as Lance had pulled out his badge, with the elaborate Volturi pin clipped right above the shield, and had slapped it onto the table, had been priceless.

It had gone from confusion to surprise as he’d finally noticed the signet, then to wide-eyed shock and then, ultimately, fear.

He’d blustered at first, claiming the pin couldn’t possibly be real, but every fang knew the Volturi crest was only worn by those either in the coven, or favored by it.  And wearing it when you were not in either of those categories was an instant death sentence if the coven ever found out.

So either Lance was lying or he wasn’t.

If he was, he was already marked for death as soon as Baltasar walked out of here with the knowledge he had that pin.

If he wasn’t, however, then Baltasar was on thin ice after his not so subtle threats.

Wisely, the fang had decided not to risk it and had left with his tail between his legs.

Looking back on it now, it was actually kind of funny the way the oh-so-mighty warrior had scampered off like a kicked dog, but at the time Lance had felt his heart rattling in his throat at how badly this could have gone and Carlisle had been incredibly protective for the rest of the day, refusing to stray from his side for even a minute.

“Let’s just hope Reese calls,” he said eventually, hiding a grimace at the memory and turning his attention to his laptop to start drafting his report on their decision for the team members.

They fell into a brief, companionable silence. Carlisle was idly turning Lance’s fountain pen between his fingers now, gaze distant as he watched it spin.

Then, quietly, “Would it be nepotism if I suggested someone for the taskforce?”

Lance raised an eyebrow at that.

“I’d say that depends on the candidate,” he stated carefully.

If the recommendation led to an actual viable candidacy of a suitable vampire, then it wouldn’t really be nepotism as the person in question would likely have gotten in even without the recommendation.

“Who are we talking about?”

“Do you remember the stories I told you about my old friend Garrett?” Carlisle asked.

Lance did.

Garret was the patriotic soldier who’d been turned during the American revolution in the 1700’s. A vampire who never shied away from a fight and had been involved in pretty much every conflict on American soil ever since. He’d even bragged to Carlisle at one point that he’d gotten this close to sinking his fangs into General Custer before the man had been killed in the Little Bighorn battle.  

He leaned forward, intrigued. “Yeah, I remember. The hot-headed patriot, right?”

He wondered where Carlisle was going with this.

From the stories he’s been told, Garrett would be a bit too … quick-tempered to work in a team in a high-stress environment. While experience in combat was always a plus, this much experience might be overdoing it a bit. After all, if at all possible, it would always be better to deescalate rather than fight. And he had the feeling Garrett would just love the fighting part a bit too much.

“I think this would suit him,” Carlisle continued. “He’s a lot like Reese. A soldier without a war. American history has been full of strife in the first two centuries since he was turned, but things have calmed drastically the last century or so. And I know Garrett is struggling with that. He’s restless. Bored even. I worry about him sometimes. He needs purpose.”

Lance hesitated. “You think he can handle this? Not just the work, but the collaboration? The rules? Isn’t he a bit … uhm …” He trailed of.

How to put this without sounding condescending or insulting someone his lover considered a dear friend?

 “A loose cannon?” Carlisle finished for him, a wry smirk on his face.

Lance grimaced.

Well, he wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but …

He nodded, a bit bashful. “Yeah, something like that. No offence, love,” he tried to soften the sentiment.  

But Carlisle merely smiled.

“None taken, I’m not blind to his faults. I know he is intense, to say the least.”

He turned his gaze back to the pen he was still holding and gently put it down.

“But he’s also incredibly loyal,” he continued softly, “Give him a battle worth fighting, a team to stand beside, and he’ll give you everything he has. As temperamental as he is, a cannon in the hands of a capable gunman can still be a great asset.”

While that was certainly true, it could also just as easily blow up in said gunman’s face if handled incorrectly.

“I think part of the reason why Garrett was always so eager to rush headfirst into any historical battle is because he didn’t have any battle to call his own anymore,” Carlisle admitted, “He feels useless. I know he does, because he’s told me as much before. I believe this taskforce might bring him the excitement he needs to thrive, but in a controlled environment. A miniature battle for justice, one case at the time, where he can actually contribute something, where he can mean something.”

Lance considered that.

He did sound a lot like Reese in that aspect. A man who’d lost part of himself when being turned and was now looking for a new purpose to fill that void. On the one hand, he still had his reservations about how Garrett would handle the job without losing himself in the excitement. If he jumped the gun, so to speak, in a situation, he could accidentally put himself and his teammates at risk. On the other hand, if he truly was as loyal as Carlisle painted him to be, then the desire to keep his team safe might overrule any desire to brawl.

A cannon in the hands of the right gunman.

Lance would refrain from giving judgement until he’d met him personally, but it couldn’t do any harm to just talk to the guy and see where it went.

“Alright. Let’s set him up for an interview. No guarantees he’ll make the team, but I’ll give him a shot. If he’s anything like Reese, they might get along great. That’s worth testing.”

Carlisle smiled, gratitude evident in his expression. As was relief. He really had been worried about asking Lance for this, it seemed. 

“Thank you, Lancelot.”

Lance waved it off with a grin.

It wasn’t that much of a favor, really. It wasn’t like his lover was asking for a guaranteed spot on the new division, only a chance to see if this could work out.

“No problem,” he told him lightly. Then, after a beat or two: “Besides, he can’t possibly be worse than Balthasar the Bloody.”

A huffed guffaw escaped his lover. “Good heavens, no. Nothing could be worse than that man. It honestly surprised me he wasn’t asking for a throne and a cape as well as part of his requirements.”

They laughed together at the image that thought provoked, before Carlisle turned to him once more with a fond smile.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he started, reaching out to brush a stray curl from Lance’s forehead.  

Lance went with the movement, reaching up to grasp the outstretched hand and pressing a kiss to its palm.

“Oh boy,” he joked, “Any more immortal warriors to throw my way?”

The vampire chuckled. “No. Just… I’ve been thinking about the name.”

“The name?” Lance repeated, blinking, a bit caught off guard by the change of topic.

“For the taskforce.”

Oh, that name.

He groaned dramatically, leaning back in his chair. “Ugh, join the club, I’ve been going in circles for weeks. Everything I’ve heard so far sounds either like a Marvel team of misfits, an STD or a failed biotech start-up. If it’s even pronounceable at all.”

“I might have something in mind.” Carlisle hedged carefully.

Well, it’s not like they had anything else at this point, so any advice would be more than welcome.

Lance spread his arms wide, as if making himself an easy target to shoot.

“Go ahead,” he teased, “dazzle me with your brilliance.”

The vampire’s eyes glinted.

“Well, I would only need to take off my ring and step into the sun to do that literally, if you’d like.”

Sparkly jokes, really?

Snorting, Lance rolled his eyes. “That was terrible joke.”

But Carlisle leaned forward with a sly smirk. “And yet, you’re smiling, are you not?”

Lance could only shake his head fondly.

Turning serious once more, Carlisle continued.

“We agreed to go for an acronym, right? What would think about V-CAT? Vampire Criminal Activity Taskforce.”

Lance froze for a moment. Then blinked.

V-CAT.

He rolled the name around in his mouth.

“That’s … actually not bad.”

It was easily pronounceable and sounded professional. And the wording clearly identified it as an actual investigative unit and not just an elite hit squad.

Carlisle smirked faintly, and maybe also a little smugly.

“You like it?”

“V-CAT,” Lance repeated aloud. “Yeah, I like it. Criminal Activity Taskforce kind of implies that the team will be dealing with a whole array of crimes and will thus have a different kind of investigative permit then other FBI branches, and, at the same time, it’s professional enough to carry weight.”

The smug look on the vampire’s face grew and he mockingly brushed some non-existent lint from his clothes. “So, are you dazzled by my brilliance?”

Lance tossed him a look. “Don’t go crowing just yet, loverboy, it still has to pass the real test.”

Carlisle raised an eyebrow at that. “The bosses’ approval?”

“Nope!” Lance denied sunnily, “The Jeffersonian approval. If Angela doesn’t laugh, Booth can pronounce it and Hodgins doesn’t turn it into a conspiracy theory, only then are we golden.”

Carlisle chuckled freely, admitting defeat.

“You’re right, my love. That particular test will be the true crucible.”

They laughed together and Lance basked in the knowledge he stood one step closer to achieving his goal: freeing his lover from the burden he’d been carrying for all of them.

He grinned.

V-CAT was on the rise.

Chapter Text

The car hummed steadily underneath them as the city blurred past the windows, gray beneath an overcast sky. Carlisle sat in the passenger seat of Lance’s sedan, scrolling through the images Booth had forwarded.

Photos of a new crime scene.

They’d gotten a call that morning. Charred remains had been found still smoking inside the rusted skeleton of an old oil barrel.

No other information had been available yet, so, after receiving the address, they had both prepared for the worst and headed out.

The pictures had been sent only a few minutes ago and already Carlisle dreaded seeing the scene in person.

From what he could tell the barrel and its grim contents were sitting under an overpass. Several objects messily scattered around in the background indicated a homeless encampment, or potentially a drug den. The photographs of the remains were unclear, showing only a mass of unrecognizable charred flesh against blackened metal.

Lance’s fingers were tapping against the steering wheel in a nervous rhythm.

“Do you think it’s related?” he asked, his voice a bit pinched.

Carlisle’s thumb paused mid-scroll and he looked up to see his lover determinately keeping his eyes on the road.  He could guess what Lance was thinking.

They had one girl still missing and now suddenly a new body was found within two weeks of the previous one?

Not a good look.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “There’s nothing to indicate a vampire yet.”

He flicked to the next image. “Then again, there’s not much I can tell from these photos. The body is completely burned. If there was a vampire involved, we likely won’t know for certain until we can do the autopsy.”

“Burned bodies are always a gamble,” Lance muttered, making a face. “Sometimes they’re a wealth of information with plenty of clues fused right into the corpse by the heat. Other times, you get ash and guesswork, with any potential evidence burned to a crisp and completely useless.”

Carlisle nodded, taking one more look at the gruesome photo’s before slipping the phone into his coat pocket.

“This murder could actually be entirely unrelated to our fang case,” he speculated softly. “The location where the body was found seems to be a well-frequented spot for homeless people. It seems odd for a vampire, who so meticulously disposed of Kelly’s body before, to have suddenly gotten careless and having killed in front of witnesses.”

That seemed to give Lance pause.

“Yeah, I agree, that would be odd,” he concurred, “It seems a bit too messy.”

Then, softer, “God, I really hope it’s just a random run-of-the-mill human murderer this time.”

The implied “and not another victim of the fanged killer they were already chasing”, was unspoken, but still very much present.

Carlisle couldn’t argue with that.

As bad as the murder of any person was, he couldn’t stop himself from praying it wasn’t Michelle in that barrel.

Lance turned off the main road, the car rattling slightly as the pavement gave way to a dirt path.

Carlisle recognized the scent that came through the air vents of the car even before the scene came into view.

Burned flesh, thick and oily.

It turned his stomach.

They parked a ways back and finished the approach on foot, Carlisle’s shoes crunching over broken glass and grit. Yellow police tape flapped lazily in the breeze.

He ducked under it alongside his lover. The agent guarding the perimeter didn’t even ask for their credentials, just nodding in recognition and waving them through.

Immediately, his senses were overwhelmed by the signs of poverty.

Old oil barrels, black with soot, stood scattered under the bridge like silent sentinels. Some of them held nothing but ash, while others were stocked with fresh wood, ready to be lit and provide a smattering of warmth for the people obviously living here.

A few makeshift tents had been cobbled together with old blankets, cardboard, and plastic tarps. Two sleeping bags lay nestled inside one of them, and another three were a few feet ahead near the wall.

Nearby, a dented metal shopping cart leaned against the wall, holding a handful of meagre possessions: a rusted thermos, some ratty towels, a well-used skillet, an old radio missing its antenna and a torn copy of a James Patterson novel.

The ground was littered with empty bottles and even a few used needles. Carlisle’s enhanced sight caught the tiny specks of dried blood on the instruments.

It was glaringly obvious this place wasn’t just used by homeless people seeking shelter, but also by drug addicts looking for a place to chase their next high.

His heart ached for the people who were having to live in these conditions.

At the center of the scene, one barrel was situated that stood out from the rest.

The final resting place of the poor murdered soul.

It was blackened inside and out and warped, the upper edges of it bending inwards as if the metal had just barely resisted melting entirely.

It was clear the fire that had raged in it had been much hotter than anything the other barrels had ever had to endure.

Courtesy of some sort of fire accelerant, most likely.

From the greasy smell, Carlisle would be inclined to guess motor oil.

Brennan hovered beside the barrel with her usual intensity, squinting into its mouth and trying to reach inside of it, while Hodgins meticulously collected soot samples from its outer edge. Techs were scouring the area for evidence, cataloguing every sliver of trash, every used needle.

Booth waved them over to where he was standing to the side, conversing with two men. Homeless folk.

One was older, wiry and gruff, with skin like leather and a crooked nose that had probably been broken more than once. The other leaned heavily on a makeshift crutch, his left leg ending just below the knee. He looked younger, but also like life had aged him hard.

Carlisle theorized he might be an amputee whose hospital costs drove him out of his home, or potentially a veteran who’d gotten injured in the line of duty and had been unable to adjust to civilian life afterwards. Unfortunately, neither of these possibilities were uncommon.

Booth introduced them.

“This is Hank Blasick ,” he gestured to the older one, “and Martin – Marty – Ressler. They’ve been living in this area for a while and are the ones who found the body.”

Carlisle caught the subtle change in tone when Booth mentioned they had been living here. The agent seemed concerned, his voice deepening in pitch just the slightest bit, as his eyes flicked to the sleeping bags on the dirty ground.

Marty nodded, “There’s usually more of us, but after the raid last night, folks scattered and were too afraid to come back just yet.”

“And with good reason apparently,” the other one added gruffly, gesturing to where Brennan was still trying to get a better view of the remains, “When we got back this morning, we found that thing, still smoking in the damn barrel.”

Lance looked up. “Raid? You mean by the police?”

Booth took over, saving the men from having to tell their story a second time.

“Yeah. Place got raided by the DEA. I checked with dispatch and according to them, an anonymous tip was called in last night around nine thirty about a drug deal going on under this bridge. DEA swooped in soon after. No active users or dealers were found, but the people living here were chased of.”

Booth disapproval of such methods was thinly veiled.

“We got told that sticking around would get us arrested, so everyone ran. We didn’t come back ‘til morning,” Marty said. His voice was soft, almost apologetic.

The implications hit Carlisle immediately.

This meant the killer had ample opportunity to come here after the police left, kill the victim or perhaps bring their already lifeless body, stuff them into the barrel and set it on fire to let it burn into the night.

But how had they known the place would be deserted on this particular night?

Had it been a crime of opportunity?

Or had they known about the raid?

Another possibility rose.

Had they perhaps called in the tip themselves to get rid of potential witnesses and to ensure they would be undisturbed during their despicable crime?

He voiced his thoughts and Booth nodded grimly

“I was thinking the same thing. Chasing of anyone living here, would have given the killer hours alone to carry out the murder.”

Carlisle felt a knot form in his chest.

He’d initially assumed it was unlikely this murder was related to Kelly’s case due to the nature of the crime scene and its potential for witnesses. It had just seemed too sloppy to be the work of the same killer who had already proven themselves to be methodical.

Now though?

Calling in a bogus tip to clear out the location to ensure undisturbed access to dispose of a body was straying dangerously close to something Kelly’s killer could have done.

He shot a glance at the blackened barrel.

Was that Michelle in there?

Lance turned to the men. “Do you know if everyone who normally sleeps here is accounted for?”

Hank shrugged. “No clue. Everyone ran in different directions. We won’t know until people start creeping back.”

Booth thanked them and motioned toward a nearby uniformed officer. “He’ll take you to a shelter. Get you a hot meal and a clean bed for a few days at least.”

The men exchanged a glance and Carlisle could already tell they wouldn’t be staying there long. Many homeless didn’t. Too much structure, too many rules. Too crowded.

Still, they offered polite thanks and turned to walk, or in Marty’s case, limp away.

However, as Carlisle went to follow Booth towards the body, Hank’s gravelly voice called after him

“Hey, blondie!”

Carlisle turned, a bit non-plussed, to see the man watching him speculatively.

He gave him a once-over, then smirked. “Not often we see your kind helping cops.”

Carlisle blinked.

Hank had spotted him as a vampire with surprising ease. It wasn’t often people made the connection that quickly, especially since he lacked the tell-tale red in his eyes.

He offered a measured smile. “I’ve been working with the Bureau for a while now.”

A non-specific answer at best, but he wanted to see where this was heading before offering anything more.

The man nodded, a bit disinterested as if it was of little consequence to him, but then, to everyone’s surprise, he followed up with a casual “You hungry? I’ll let you take a sip for twenty bucks and a sandwich.”

Carlisle froze, entirely taken aback. “Excuse me?”

Booth and Lance, having turned back to follow the exchange, now stood gaping at the man, jaws slack with disbelief.

Lance quickly stepped forward. “That’s a really dangerous thing to offer, Mr. Blasick.”

Hank just shrugged.

“Done it before. There’s a lady fang who comes by sometimes. Brings us a decent meal. Pays good, too. Enough to get us food for a few days. And she brings us blankets and firewood in the winter  months, so I don’t mind her taking a few shots.”

Booth’s eyes narrowed, his interest peaked and clearly thinking of their current case.

“A female vampire? Do you know her name? What’s she look like?”

Hank’s mouth immediately closed like a steel trap. “Not saying. She’s kind to us and she don’t hurt nobody, so I ain’t turning her in.”

Booth turned to Marty for help, but the younger man just shook his head and shifted his position defensively, leaning harder on his crutch. He was unwilling to betray his friend, or the vampire, it appeared.

Carlisle’s eyes were drawn involuntarily to where the man was unconsciously adjusting his old coat, pulling the sleeves further down over his wrists.

He couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn he glimpsed the healed, but scarred, remnants of puncture marks peeking out from under the fabric.

Rather than talking to Booth any longer, the two men turned to leave, with Hank giving Carlisle one last look over his shoulder.

“Offer stands, fang. You know where to find us.”

Carlisle exhaled slowly as the men followed the officer up the road to the car to be driven to the shelter.

That was … unexpected.

Booth rounded on him almost instantly.

“Are you kidding me? I can’t believe they would just offer you their blood. Just like that.”

Going from his expression, the agent was obviously expecting him to agree.

Except, as twisted as it may sound, he did understand.

Selling their blood got them food and money and gave them a nice trip to cloud nine to boot.

And the woman vampire was clearly not hurting them. Not yet anyway.

So, it wasn’t that surprising they would keep doing it, even with other fangs.

Although the thought they could someday make the offer to someone with less scruples was worrying.

He faced Booth.

“It’s dangerous, yes. But I understand their motivation,” he admitted softly.

Booth gave him an incredulous look.

“Our saliva works as a drug, remember?” Carlisle reminded him, "It has an euphoric effect.”

Lance nodded, catching on. “It’s an addiction like any other. The bite makes them feel good. Warm, comfy. It’s an escape from reality.”

Booth grimaced. “Okay, I get that. But it’s still insane.”

“Any kind of drug can be dangerous,” the shrink nuanced softly, “Heroine can be just as deadly as any fang. However, if there’s trust between parties, the biting doesn’t necessarily have to be.”

Carlisle caught the glance his lover gave him. Warm and fond.

No doubt he was thinking about the times Carlisle had fed from him.

It hadn’t happened often in the two years they’d been together. Carlisle always felt uncomfortable feeding on his lover. He didn’t like imposing his … monstrous desires onto his mate. Lance had never complained, had even offered at several occasions, but it made him feel guilty to take from him regardless. It wasn’t proper.

Lance was his mate.

He shouldn’t have to put up with such a thing.

Unfortunately, Booth had noticed the silent look as well. He scowled and muttered a cross “I don’t want to know.”

Carlisle stifled a smile.

The overprotective agent had come a long way since their first meeting. He’d even dare to call him a friend by now. But there were still lines he struggled not to see crossed, especially when it came to Lance.

Topics like drinking his blood, let alone turning him in the future, still appeared to make the man more than a little squeamish and in those cases, he seemed to prefer just ignoring Carlisle was a vampire at all.

Although, Carlisle amended silently with a wry smile, Booth seemed to have no issues using his vampirism when it suited him, to scare of suspects and the like.

He suspected Booth would always be protective of the friend whom he considered his duty to keep safe, but at least he was trying to keep his overeager big brother vibes contained.

The complaints from his lover about the man’s antics had become less and less lately, so Carlisle took that as a good sign.

To smooth things over, he changed the subject. “Has Dr. Brennan been able to determine anything about the victim yet?”

Booth shook his head and grunted, perhaps a little relieved not having to continue the uncomfortable line of conversation.

“Let’s go find out,” he said, before striding over to where Brennan was now trying to turn the barrel onto its side to get better access to the remains.

Lance shot Carlisle a playful, but sweet smile behind Booth’s back, amused by the man’s gruff response to the biting topic.

And Carlisle found himself wondering, not for the first time, how he had ever managed to deserve a mate like Lance. Kind, driven, intelligent. Very passionate, but also playful and full of life and wonder. And willing to put up with his darker parts. Not to mention very easy on the eyes, with a crooked grin that made the world feel brighter every single time it was aimed in his direction.

As they reach Brennan, she was grumbling to herself, trying to reach inside the barrel as best as she could, a flashlight clenched between her teeth.

She looked frustrated.

She took the light from her mouth as she saw them approach and immediately made her displeasure known.

“The body’s wedged too deep,” she groused. “I can barely see anything like this. The victim is female, judging by the facial structure, but I can’t say anything more until we get her back to the lab and out of this barrel.”

Hodgins rubbed his hands together, almost gleefully, already daydreaming aloud about getting to use the big steel-cutting saw to take apart the metal container.

Booth rolled his eyes.

“Any idea if it’s a fang kill?” he pressed.

“Not until I get the bones out,” Brennan replied curtly.

“Alrighty then,” Booth said as he clapped his hands sharply. “Let’s pack it up then. We’re taking everything.”

Carlisle watched the team begin to mobilize, silently admiring how methodical they worked.

Once they got the body back to the lab, Brennan could hopefully rule out this victim was Michelle.

God, he really hoped she could.

The sterile smell of disinfectant, while doing little to actually mask the acrid tang of burned flesh still lingering in the air, prickled in Carlisle’s nose, as he stood near the examination table.

The remains had been removed from their rusted prison and what little remained of the woman this burned-out husk of a body had once been had been laid out carefully on the cold, gleaming surface.

Scorched flesh and fused together limbs had made it difficult to examine the body, so, since the tissue was so badly damaged anyway, it had been removed altogether. The team had used a combination of enzymatic baths, dermestid beetles and gentle mechanical separation for some of the more delicate areas to strip away the remaining tissue without damaging the integrity of the bones.

It was gruesome, yes, but necessary.

Now, the victim’s bones lay bare and clean, neatly positioned on the pristine slab as if her skeleton had just laid down for a nap.

An eternal one.

He knew Wendell, currently in his last year before achieving his doctorate, was sifting through the discarded remnants of burnt flesh in Hodgin’s lab, looking for any small bones they might have missed and other potential evidence.

Hodgins had piled the chopped-up pieces of the barrel onto a cart and had wheeled it out as well, eager to start his search for any trace residues that might have survived the fire.

Now that Brennan had better access to the bones, she was finally able to confidently make a few more determinations about the victim.

"The subpubic angle and sciatic notch confirm the victim is female," she said, breaking the silence as she turned the pelvis in her hands. “Epiphyseal fusion suggests late adolescence.”

A teenager.

Like Michelle.

A knot formed in Carlisle’s stomach. He took a slow breath.

He was only an observer for now, here only in an advisory role and not allowed to handle the evidence himself, until they could determine whether or not this girl’s death bore the telltale signs of being a fang-related case that warranted his official involvement.

But the likelihood of that was starting to grow by the second.

He was fairly certain they’d be calling in the Hernandez family soon to deliver the devastating news.

“Slight deformity to the spinal column, potentially due to a mild form of scoliosis,” Brennan continued, gliding her fingers over the vertebrae, unaware of his mental turmoil.

She moved to the skull, examining the facial structures.

Then: “Caucasian.”

Carlisle exhaled sharply.

Caucasian.

Michelle was of mixed race. Her father was Hispanic, while her mother was black. Not Caucasian.

This wasn’t her.

The relief he felt was short-lived.

This may not be Michelle, but that only meant someone else just lost their daughter.

One family spared. Another one doomed.

He closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer out for this poor girl’s soul.

Brennan’s fingers paused as they hovered over the femur. She leaned in closer, dragging her magnifying camera over to enhance the marks she’d found.

“There are scrape marks here... bone chipping. Could indicate bite trauma.”

That was his cue.

Carlisle stepped forward. “May I?” he asked, quietly.

Brennan merely nodded and moved aside.

He leaned in, eyes locking onto the spot Brennan had indicated. The femur bore a row of irregular depressions, two of them deeper than the others, angled inward.

Even if the chipping hadn’t been enough of a clue already, the half-moon shape of the mark certainly would have been.

Fangs.

He sighed and concurred the findings.

The predator who taken Kelly hadn’t stopped at one victim.

He met Brennan’s gaze.

She said nothing, but her eyes were sharp, her gaze knowing.

She had been getting more and more observant over the past years to the emotions of other people around her. Motherhood – and Booth – had softened her edges, taught her empathy and emotional growth without diluting her brilliance.

Carlisle admired that in her.

Admittedly, she could still be very dense in certain situations, but she was getting better.

He knew Lance considered her a prime example of how the existence of close relationships in someone’s life could shape a person’s psyche even outside their formative years.

With the threshold now crossed, he moved beside her as they began a more thorough survey of the bones together.

“Multiple breaks in the radius and ulna,” Brennan said. “Also in the femurs and tibias. Compression fractures. No discoloration. These were inflicted post-mortem.”

“Likely from when she was stuffed into the barrel,” Carlisle murmured. “The body would have had to be folded unnaturally.”

“It’s the most logical assumption,” Brennan agreed. “It’s a good thing she was already gone when this occurred. For this amount of damage to be inflicted, the killer must have really stomped on her.”

She was dead before the fire started.

Thank god for that small mercy at least.

“She does have defensive wounds, though,” Carlisle pointed out. “Fractured metacarpals. Chipping along the ulnar border of the right arm.” He picked up a set of phalanges from her left hand. “And look here, see that?”

Brennan leaned closer. “Signs of bone regeneration,” she stated as she saw what he meant. “She broke her hand, but the fracture was already beginning to heal. The injury must have been caused at least three weeks ago, judging from the amount of new osseous tissue present.”

Carlisle nodded gravely. “Same as with Kelly. She was held captive for a while before her death.”

He saw her face pinch and her left eye twitch violently for a brief second, as if she was trying very hard to keep her face neutral. To not to show any emotion. She drew in a deep breath and quickly regained her composure.

However, as much as she was trying to hide it, she was affected by this case.

More than usual.

He wondered if she was thinking about Christine.

She turned her attention back to the bones and turned on her Dictaphone, meticulously going down the list of injuries once more for the sake of her records. As she did so, Carlisle decided to take a closer look at the bite mark.

Something had been niggling at his mind from the moment he’d laid eyes on it.

It took him a moment, but then it clicked. This mark seemed … awfully small compared to the wounds on Kelly’s body.

He gently picked up the femur, measuring the space between the two deepest indentations between his thumb and index finger.

The spacing was off.

Kelly’s killer had been tall, attacking her from behind, and with a wide mouth, the fangs at least four centimeter apart. 

These marks, however, barely had three and a half centimeter in between them.

He felt an icy pit begin to open in his stomach.

“Dr. Brennan, do you have that dental mold Angela made of Kelly’s injuries on hand?”

She paused her dictation and turned to her workstation computer, nodding.

“Of course.”

Typing at the keys, she pulled up the enlarged partial reconstruction onto the screen. With a few more taps she hovered the image over a new scan of the current victim’s wounds.

The comparison was stark.

“They’re not a match,” she concluded immediately.

No, they were not. Not even close.

“These ones are smaller,” she added, her expression darkening as the realization sank in. “A different bite radius. This wasn’t the same vampire.”

Carlisle drew back, lips pressing into a grim line. “We’re dealing with two.”

Two different killers, but with the same M.O.

Which immediately brought up the question whether the two of them were working together or if the similarities between the cases were perhaps entirely coincidental. Although, the latter seemed very unlikely.

Same victim typography, same cause of death after prolonged captivity, same methodical care in getting rid of the bodies. Too many things matched up.

There was such a thing as too coincidental.

The ice in his gut expanded.

Brennan gave him a dark look, clearly also very unhappy at the conclusion they had just been forced to draw.

“I’ll call Angela,” she muttered, subdued, “She can take the skull for facial reconstruction now.”

He figured her calling the artist right this instant was more about her needing a moment to compose herself than anything.

However, before she could reach for her phone, Angela was already walking into the room, Hodgins and Wendell close on her heels. Hodgins was visibly buzzing with excitement, bouncing on his feet and practically shoving Wendell forward like an over-eager show-and-tell partner.

“Wendell found something,” he announced triumphantly.

Wendell looked immediately uneasy when he spotted Carlisle. He offered no greeting, although that wasn’t exactly new. He never did. His eyes flicked to Carlisle’s face before darting away and fixing decidedly on Brennan.

Carlisle gave no outward reaction.

Out of all the interns, Wendell was the only one who still seemed openly wary, or sometimes even downright afraid of him.

Vincent Nigel-Murray was always as eager to spout of his random facts to Carlisle as he was to everyone else. Especially after almost dying after a sniper had mistaken him for Booth and had put a hole in his chest. It had been sheer coincidence that Carlisle had been there to pick up Lance for lunch. He’d heard the shot echo through the lab and had dashed in to help, not knowing who he’d find lying in a pool of their own blood. He’d been just in time to stop the bleeding and heal the worst of the wound before Vincent’s heart could give out under the strain. The British intern had survived and had always made a point to share some piece of knowledge with him whenever they ran into each other afterwards. Carlisle had noticed he was being treated to obscure little facts that Vincent seemed to share with no one else. A small, Nigel-Murray-esque way of expressing gratitude. He rather liked the young Brit.

Daisy Wick, of course, being Lance’s ex-fiancé and still a dear friend, knew Carlisle much better than the other interns and was on quite friendly terms with him. Clark Edison seemed to greatly enjoy talking history with someone who had actually lived through some of it. Arastoo Vaziri was more reserved in general, but had also been accepting the few times they had interacted.

Colin Fisher was another matter entirely, as he had all but offered the vampire his life in that darkly acerbic way Carlisle had come to recognize as pretty typical of the human. The man seemed to be in a constant state of functioning depression, where he was resigned to keep existing but also wouldn’t mind ceasing to do so. Fisher apparently reasoned that, as far as ways of dying went, death by fang seemed pretty neat, compared to the more “traditional” methods like guns, nooses or trains, and so he’d offered Carlisle his life casually and out of nowhere during a random conversation, with the same detached nonchalance as if he was offering to borrow someone his pen.

The young man’s dark outlook on life had unsettled Carlisle somewhat at first, but once he had gotten used to the sarcastic and morbid humor, he’d found him to be quite a clever conversationalist.

Wendell, however, had never so much as spoken a word directly to him in two years and seemed to shy away from interacting or even standing too close.

He knew the story behind that.

Angela had told him a while ago how Wendell had lost someone to fangs. A dear friend. Almost a girlfriend.

So Carlisle didn’t blame him for his silence. He understood where the young man was coming from and didn’t take it personally.

Wendell cleared his throat and addressed Brennan. “When I was going through the … erhm … charred meat slush, I found this.”

He held up a petri dish. On it lay a blackened object.

At first, Carlisle couldn’t immediately place it.

It seemed to have been entirely flat and round at some point, and while the inner part still seemed to be relatively so, the edges had melted and deformed. A crack ran down the middle.

“It’s composite clay poker chip,” Wendell clarified. “It must have been embedded in the muscle tissue. Probably fused there during the fire.”

“It could have fallen in while the killer was stuffing the body into the barrel,” Hodgins jumped in. “And get this,” he nudged his friend and colleague excitedly, “Go on, show’em, Wendell!”

Shooting Hodgins a quick grin, Wendell carefully turned the chip over with tweezers, revealing a faint, distorted, but still visible logo on the reverse side.

Angela stepped forward and held up her tablet. “I enhanced the image and was able to find the original logo.”

It was a stylized silhouette of a woman seated provocatively atop a poker chip, a pair of dice floating just behind her. In elegant script, the words “Red Velvet Lounge” curled above the image.

Hodgins pointed at the screen. “It’s a gentlemen’s club in Annapolis.”

Angela tapped again. The club’s homepage appeared, images of seductively smiling and scantily clad young women, exotic dancers and suggestive taglines plastered all over.

And in the background of several pictures, poker tables were visible. Littered with the same black and silver chips.

Brennan voiced what Carlisle had been thinking.

“This could mean either the victim or their killer visited that club shortly before her death.”

However, she was also cautious, reminding them the chip might also have been part of the trash laying around in the area where the body was found. It could have been already present in the barrel before the body was dumped. 

Hodgins snorted. “Not likely.”

He pointed at the deformed playing token. “That’s a hundred-dollar chip, right there. You think something worth a hundred bucks would sit unclaimed in an alley barrel for more than five minutes around there? Someone would’ve cashed that in faster than you can say ‘easy money.’”

Carlisle found himself agreeing with that sentiment.

It was much more probable the item was transferred either during the murder or while the body was being disposed of. With how brutally the killer had treated the victim, it wasn’t that unlikely it had slipped out of their pocket when they were breaking her bones trying to fit her inside her metal coffin.

“Even if it turns out entirely unrelated, it’s still a lead,” he offered logically, “And we don’t exactly have many of those at the moment.”

Brennan inclined her head in agreement. “I’ll let Booth know.”

 Hodgins crowed in victory, clapping Wendell on the back.

“Look at that! Wendell Bray, King of the Lab!”

Wendell grinned and muttered a teasing “Looks like you got some real competition now, Hodge.”

Carlisle couldn’t help but chuckle at the byplay, quietly appreciative of the moment of levity.

Brennan had reached for her phone and was already calling Booth. As the line connected, she glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh, Angela, you can take the skull now.”

The artist accepted the tray Carlisle had helpfully prepared for her with both hands, cradling it gently.

“Let’s find out who you were, sweetheart,” she murmured softly, before exiting the lab, Wendell and Hodgins trailing behind, still exchanging barbs.

Carlisle remained by the table, gazing thoughtfully at the currently still unknown victim.

Maybe now, this new piece of evidence would finally get them somewhere.

With a little luck, the club could lead them to finding out what happened to these poor girls.

And to their killers.

Chapter Text

Checking out the club for leads had not gone as expected.

In fact, it had left Booth quite irate.

The day had not been going well in the first place, but the complete and utter refusal of the establishment’s proprietor to be of any use had only cemented his bad mood.

Since the victim’s skull had been entirely intact, it had not taken Angela long to make a facial reconstruction and the smiling face of Harley Donovan was currently looking up at him from where her missing person’s photo was lying on the table. She had been eighteen, just seven months shy of graduating high-school, when she had disappeared without a trace. Almost two months before Kelly and Michelle and in a completely different area in a neighboring city. She’d left to walk the dog late at night in a relatively safe neighborhood and had never returned.

Harley had been a decent student, a bit of a loner, but with a small but strong group of friends. Her mother had died of cancer when she was little, and her father – and later her stepmother – had raised her ever since. She was pretty, with long blond hair that fell over her shoulders and a beautiful smile.

At least, she had been pretty, before the fire had stripped her of almost everything that identified her as human.

The discovery they now had two fangs murdering teenagers had not gone over well with anyone. Especially not Booth. It had left a sour taste in his mouth and a rage simmering in his blood.

Admittedly, he’d been a bit of a dick to Carlisle afterwards. He’d said some things he probably shouldn’t have and had lumped in a whole species with these two asshole killers. Booth knew he was wrong to do so. It wasn’t fair to the kind doctor who’d spend his life helping others. Yet the man had just taken it in stride and had said nothing in defense as Booth ranted. Sweets had been the one to call him out and take him to task, followed closely by Brennan.

He probably really should apologize to the vampire at some point.

Maybe when this damn case was over.

For now, he reasoned, they had bigger fish to fry.

Sweets had been quick to confirm what Brennan and Cullen had already hinted at in their report.

Even if they were dealing with two different killers, the similarities were just too great to ignore. First Harley and then Kelly and Michelle had all been nabbed when they’d been out alone and always at night, which indicated either a target of opportunity or perhaps even stalking. Also, both currently found victims had been alive for quite a while after their disappearance, before being killed by a vampire and disposed of like discarded toys.

At Sweets’s suggestion, Angela had run a search on cold cases nationwide and, to all of their shared horror, four more murders and six unsolved disappearances had popped up with a similar M.O spread over two states and three years. Always teenage girls, here one moment, gone the next, only to turn up dead months later, most of them bearing signs of sexual assault, with evidence of vampiric involvement, but no other leads.

No usable traces, no clues, nothing.

Investigations had quickly turned as cold as the victims and the cases had remained unsolved.

The thought of one serial killer had quickly been shot down, as even from the autopsy photos from those cases it was obvious that, while the bite marks on two of the victims matched each other, none of the others did, pointing to a different fang in almost each case.

Every answer they’d found so far seemed to lead only to more questions and it was maddening.

Quite frankly, it was driving Booth up the wall.

The poker chip on Harley Donovan was the only lead they had, so he’d been determined to make it count.

Only, it hadn’t. 

Since Sweets had patient appointments and Booth hadn’t wanted to scare off any potential witnesses by bringing a fang into the club, he had taken Brennan with him to see if they could find anything to point into their killers’ direction.

However, the club owner, Alexei Petrenko, a balding, but well-build and impeccably, although gaudily, dressed man in his forties with a district Slavic accent, had been less than cooperative, refusing to say much of anything, except that all of his girls and activities were legal. He had denied them permission to look around the club for clues and had also bluntly refused to let them access the security camera footage, citing privacy reasons.

Booth had blustered and even threatened to return with a warrant, but Petrenko had not budged. Even Brennan had done her best, needling in that distinct way of hers that usually seemed to infuriate people. Petrenko had been less than impressed, crossing his arms and pointing them at the door.

Bones had been ready to go to war, but Booth had cut the conversation short right there.

They weren’t getting anywhere anyway and he had the feeling that something very fishy was going on with this club. Petrenko’s odd insistence that all his girls were legal had sounded an alarm bell in his head.

It was such an odd thing to insist on.

Almost as if the man had reason to think that the FBI suspected him of using not-so-legal girls in his club.

And why would he think that at all, when they had not insinuated anything of the sort?

Unless it was an unconscious slip-up from a guilty mind.

Kelly and Harley had been alive for months before ending up as vampire chew. Was this where they had been during that time? Had they been trafficked as unwilling exotic dancers for perverted minds?

This train of thought had also led him to the hopeful conclusion that Michelle might still be alive. If she’d indeed been trafficked, then there was even a chance she was being kept somewhere in this very club.

The wheels had been turning in Booth’s head non-stop since the odd statement and his gut was screaming at him there was more, much more, the man wasn’t saying, but he had not dared to confront Petrenko with his suspicions. They had nothing tangible yet and without a warrant they wouldn’t even get to search the property. And if Petrenko really was involved in the sex trafficking of minors, tipping him off that they knew something might push him into doing something drastic to get rid of the evidence, including any potential girls he was holding.

They needed to be very certain before they made their move.

A warrant would also greatly help as they could then legally tear the place inside out and possibly uncover all kinds of dirt they could use to put pressure until Petrenko led them to the girls.

However, Caroline Julian was not being helpful.

At all.

“Look, I’m sorry, Chérie, but I can’t get you a search warrant on a vague suspicion,” she spoke bluntly,  “Petrenko is a well-known man with many connections – very high-up connections I might add – and any attempt to bully him into allowing access to his property is only going to get you harassment charges.”

The entire team, including Cullen, had convened in Angela’s office, as had become their habit lately, sitting or standing scattered about. Caroline was currently occupying a spot near Angela’s desk, where she stood with her arms crossed and a very unamused look on her face. Her currently dyed bright red hair only accentuated her disgruntled expression.

“But we have evidence linking Petrenko to the crime scene,” Brennan countered hotly, obviously fighting her temper.

Booth knew his partner was as rational as they came, but had a fierce temper on her regardless. The mere thought this girl could have been Christine if she was a few years older, had been enough to have her foaming at the mouth. Not many people ever got to see that side of her, but it certainly did exist.

Caroline tsk’d and waved her hand around vaguely. “Circumstantial at best. That single poker chip could have gotten onto the crime scene in a million different ways. No judge is going to accept that as due cause.”

“Come one, Caroline,” Booth tried, “We have two dead girls already and this is our only lead.”

He was getting a bit desperate. This was not going well and without that warrant their hands would be tied with steel cables thick enough even a fang wouldn’t be able to break them.

Caroline’s face softened slightly at his tone, but she held firm.

“I’m sorry, Seeley, I don’t have another choice. I cannot give you your warrant. Not with what you currently have. Now, if you were to give me a smoking gun, a piece of undeniably evidence of any wrongdoing on Petrenko’s part, then I will sign that warrant in a heartbeat. But as it stands, you’ve got nothing.”

A smoking gun.

That was what they needed. But they had no way of getting it without that damned warrant.

He cursed, loud enough to startle Sweets standing right beside him.

How on earth were they supposed to bring justice when the justice system itself was working against them?

“So, basically, you want evidence of foul play before we are allowed to look for evidence of foul play?” Hodgins piped up, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Sure, very logical.”

Caroline pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t give me that bull, Hodgins, you know damn well I like this whole situation about as much as you do.”

Hodgins visibly rolled his eyes, but kept silent regardless.

The next retort came from someone, Booth had not been expecting.

“I have a question,” Carlisle spoke up softly from where he was standing behind Sweets.

The vampire rarely opened his mouth when Booth argued with people from different departments  like Caroline. The arguments, admittedly, happened more often than Booth would like, especially during fang cases, but Carlisle had always kept in the background when they did. It was likely a habit the man had cultivated over centuries of trying not to stand out.

“Booth is not allowed to search Petrenko’s club in his official capacity as an FBI agent. However, I am not an agent.”

Caroline shook her head. “Sorry, Cherie, that’s not going to work either. You might not be an agent, but you are an officially recognized consultant on the Bureau’s payroll. That’s affiliated enough to get us sued if caught and any evidence you might have found by then discarded as inadmissible.”

So, no dice. Booth had to admit it was a nice try, thought.

Carlisle remained pensive.

“Then how does that work for undercover ops?” he questioned, “Agents pretending not to be agents collect evidence that is perfectly admissible, even without a warrant.”

“That’s different,” Caroline explained, her tone softening further. It was obvious she had a soft spot for the vampire doctor. She always did have a thing for goody-two-shoes. “If a suspect willingly gives up information, even to an undercover officer under false pretenses, that leads to their arrest, then that counts as them having waived their right to remain silent and having given a confession.”

Sweets straightened at that.

“Wait, doesn’t that mean …”

Carlisle nodded at him. “Yes, I was thinking the same thing. It might give us an in.”

Great, they were at it again.

Finishing each other’s thoughts like they were telepathically conjoined.

Booth suppressed the urge to gag at them.

Sweets and the fang had gotten increasingly close ever since this whole mate thing had started. Booth had thought Sweets and Daisy Wick had been bad, but this? This was way worse than the shrink’s relationship with the bossy intern had ever been. The two men were never inappropriate at work, or at least not where Booth could see it, which was, admittedly, an improvement to Daisy, but they were just so saccharinely sweet to each other all the damn time.

It felt like watching a cheesy hallmark movie on steroids.

Always smiling and touching and giving each other these big doe-eyed looks.

Booth knew he was hardly the most observant person when it came to matters of the heart, but they were being so painfully obvious about it even he couldn’t possibly miss it.

Granted, Carlisle was not a bad guy. He clearly adored Sweets and the kid was happier than Booth had ever seen him.

But finishing each other’s sentences?

Reading each other’s thoughts from just an expression?

Seriously?

Come on, how much more cliché could they get?

He rolled his eyes.

Did he and Brennan look like that to the others?

Surely not.

“Okay, enough,” he cut in, “not all of us have the advantage of being mind-readers, so mind telling us regular folk what’s so bloody exiting to you?”

Sweets had the good grace to at least look a bit abashed at the rebuke, while Cullen merely smiled.

“Sorry,” the shrink offered sheepishly, “It’s just that Caroline has just given us the solution on a silver platter.”

“She did?” Angela asked at the same time as Caroline said “I did?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty obvious really,” he continued, “We can’t get a warrant without concrete proof, so all we need to do is find that. And we can’t do it point-blank, but if Petrenko was to spill some damning secrets to – let’s say – a like-minded individual, then we are totally allowed to use that as grounds for an actual warrant and throw the book at him.”

Something clicked in Booth’s mind.

A sting operation.

Send in an undercover spy to get what they need and then, BAM, they could hang Petrenko with his own words.

Not a bad idea.

Only, there were a few problems with that solution.

“And who, exactly, is supposed to be this like-minded individual? He already knows who I am, so that’s a no go.”

Hodgins raised his hand.

“I could do it. I mean, whenever we’re staging murder scenario’s in the lab, I’m already always playing the creep anyway.”

Oh no, not happening.

“And if things go wrong?” Booth shot back immediately. “No offence, Hodgins, but you’re not a trained field operative. If your cover is blown, you could get in real trouble.”

Predictably, Sweets was the next one to volunteer.

“I’m trained enough to take care of myself in case I’m found out,” he offered, “And I’m a psychologist, I know how to get inside people’s mind. I might actually be able to get him to spill all sorts of things.”

As much as Booth hated to admit it, Sweets had a point. He was pretty good at self-defense – his most recent take-down of the Mallard kid was just the latest proof of that – and he did have an uncanny gift to get suspects to let their guard down.

But this wouldn’t be a cuffed suspect in a secure interrogation room. This would be real-life and real-time situation and they had no idea what he’d be walking into. All the training in the world couldn’t stop a bullet if it came to that.

Still, it might be their best shot.

He was just about to voice his thoughts, when Carlisle spoke up first.

However, the vampire was not in favor of the plan.

And he had a good reason.

Something all of them had lost sight off in the heat of the argument.

“No, you are not going in there alone.”

Immediately Sweets went to protest, but Carlisle held up his hand to stop him.

“I know you are capable of pulling this off, Lance, however, there is one thing you haven’t accounted for.”

Sweets raised an eyebrow at that, as did Booth.

“Our victims were killed by vampires,” Carlisle pointed out succinctly.

Booth felt his stomach drop.

Of course.

Even if Petrenko was involved in trafficking these girls, that didn’t take away the fact that both Kelly and Harley and all of the other girls as well, had been killed by bloodsuckers. And if fangs were involved in this, or were perhaps even on Petrenko’s payroll, then that made it way too dangerous to send in a lone human operative.

There went that idea.

Unless …

“Would you be willing to take Sweets’s place?”

Bones. Cutting to the heart of the matter without preamble, as usual.

Carlisle nodded slowly, looking thoughtful.

“I’m afraid we have little other choice. We need information, but none of you would be able to handle a vampire opponent, should it come to that. I am the only logical option.”

Angela, however, was quick to point out another flaw.

“Logical option, yeah, agreed. But if there’s more than one fang hanging around there, it could get dangerous for you too, right? Are we sure this is the way to go?”

Caroline cleared her throat awkwardly and both Hodgins and Angela jumped, clearly having forgotten she was in the room at all.

“I’m just gonna leave you to it. This is something y’all need to work out by yourselves,” she said primly. “Look, when you have a plan, let me know. I don’t need any specifics, just get me what I need and I’ll get you what you need, are we clear?”

“Cristal,” Booth muttered as she turned and strode from the room without waiting for a response, her low heels making clicking noises on the linoleum floor.

He turned back to the vampire. “Angela is right, if you push too hard and he has fanged bodyguards, things could get hairy. Are you sure you can take more than one enemy by yourself?”

Carlisle looked pensive for a moment, then offered a compromise.

“There is too many variables to know whether or not I’d be able to overcome them in that case. But there is also a chance that none of the vampires involved so far have anything to do with Petrenko at all. Just because they were used as a convenient way to dispose of the girls, doesn’t necessarily mean they are on his payroll or even that they stuck around afterwards. So I suggest I go in there, and if I see there are others of my kind and things are too dangerous to continue, I’ll just leave. But I at least want to try.”

Booth found his respect for the vampire rise another few notches.

He knew Carlisle was perfectly capable of handling himself against a single opponent, but this was different. This was walking blindly into an unknown situation, where he could come to serious harm if things went sideways. And yet the man had not hesitated to agree to it regardless, selflessly pushing any thoughts for his own wellbeing aside for the sake of helping complete strangers.

He wondered if that was perhaps part of the reason Sweets adored him so much.

Speaking of Sweets, the shrink moved to stand closer to his lover, grabbing his hand and threading their fingers together in support.

“Are you sure about this, love?”

A decisive nod.

“Michelle is still out there. She might still be alive. And this could be our only chance at finding her, or any other girls like her. We owe it to them to do what we can to save them.”

“Alright, okay,” Sweets conceded, looking worried, “But we’ll take all possible precautions. And if you spot even a single vampire in that building, you will be leaving immediately, you hear me?”

Carlisle smiled at him.

“I will,” he promised gently, while pressing a kiss to Sweets’s knuckles, “You have my word.”

Hodgins took charge after that.

“Okay, so how do we play this? I mean, you’re right that there’s a lot of variables in this set-up, and we won’t be able to control them all, but we can at least take care of a few of them.”

“Yeah,” Angela added, “Like, first we need to do something about your eyes. If there’s other fangs involved, seeing your eyes might tip them off you’re not really a baddie.”

“Can’t he just pretend to be human?” Brennan questioned.

Things quickly evolved from there.

Having some of the smartest people in Washinton all together in one room had its advantages.

It didn’t take long for them to have ironed out a workable plan.

Since other vampires would be able to sniff out Carlisle was one of them within seconds, pretending to be human was not really an option, as it would paint him as deceitful at best and straight-up lying to get something from them and blow his cover immediately at worst.  And even if there weren’t any fangs around to identify him, if he went in as a vampire, it would still nicely cement his cover as a big bad rules-are-not-for-me kind of guy.

They also made up a believable backstory. Carlisle would become Damon, no last name given, a broody, temperamental vampire, new in town and already not impressed with the bustling city. He’d be entering the club with the excuse of waiting out the sun and potentially scouting out the place. They’d be equipping him with Hodgins’s newest version of the red contacts to create the right look.

Since it would be mid-day and the club usually didn’t start getting busy until evening, Carlisle would be taking a seat at the bar, making himself clearly visible to the staff there. And when inevitably addressed, he’d be gruff and disinterested, but eventually he’d start talking, as if out of sheer boredom, sticking to the prepared backstory and tossing in a hint here and there that the girls in the club weren’t to his taste. He preferred them “younger” and still “soft and juicy”.

Carlisle had made a face at that, but had assured Booth he could do this.

And Booth could only hope so. This might be their only shot.

In general, the vampire would behave in a way that would get Petrenko involved, leering at the girls and such. And when the club owner showed his face, “Damon” would imply he wanted better goods than what was available, perhaps even hint he knew Petrenko had some good stuff hidden away. Information that could have reached him by word of mouth, a friend-of-a-friend-knows-a-guy type of thing.

See how Petrenko would respond to that.

If he was trafficking girls, and with some of them already dead by fang, he might just take the bait.

Of course, it was a long shot, and it was quite possible that the man wouldn’t be inclined to give any information at all to a complete stranger. Especially not after getting a visit from the cops not even a day ago.

So, discussion turned to what to do in case that happened. A back-up plan of sorts.

That’s were thing got a bit … unsettling, to say the least.

“What if we let him kill someone that is inconveniencing Petrenko?” Sweets proposed, “Make him feel like he’s in Carlisle’s debt?”

He got nothing but odd looks at that suggestion.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Angela already asked before Booth could.

Sweets was looking contemplative, fiddling with a paperclip in his hand.

“What if …” he trailed off, before starting again, a bit more certain this time, “What if we send someone else in, someone who’s only goal is to annoy Petrenko enough to make themselves a target? And then Carlisle can swoop in and pretend to kill them, making Petrenko beholden to him. If there are no other fangs involved, and if we play this right, there would be no way for them to tell we’d be staging it.”

Booth felt a bit nauseous all of a sudden. He had a fair idea who would be offering himself up as a willing victim. There was only one person in this room who would so easily lay his life in the vampire’s hands. Bile rose in his throat.

“I could …”

“Absolutely not!” Booth cut him off before he could even finish making the offer.

Sweets gave him a look. “Booth, you don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

Surprisingly, it was Angela who immediately took Booth’s side.

“Yeah, I think we all know what you were going to say, honey, but that is a massively bad idea. I mean, sure, we all know and trust Carlisle, but if he’s playing the big bad vampire, then he won’t be pretending to just stab you with a fake knife. He’d need to go for your throat and make it look real.”

“I know that,” Sweets countered, frowning, “We can make it look real.”

“I don’t think the acting part is what they’re worried about, love,” Carlisle spoke up softly, his eyes coming up to rest briefly on Booth before flicking back to the shrink.

“They are right that I would need to bite you, and ostensible quite harshly so, to make it believable. I think you can understand why that makes them nervous, don’t you?”

Booth snorted at the understatement.

But hey, at least the vampire seemed to realize how utterly insane this idea was.

Sweets inclined his head in agreement. “Yeah, I can see that, but I trust you.” He turned to Booth. “Carlisle has exceptional control and he’s had me before, so it’s not like he’ll be completely caught unaware by how I taste.”

Booth felt his eyebrows shoot almost into his hairline at that turn of phrase.

Sweets’s eyes widened not a second later and his cheeks flushed scarlet.

“Okay, that came out sounding all wrong,” he muttered sheepishly.

You think?

Booth couldn’t have stopped the eyeroll if his life depended on it.

Hodgins barked a laugh, before grinning mischievously. “It sure did, buddy.” Then, turning serious once more: “But I gotta say, unintended sex jokes aside, I actually think this might be a great plan.”

“You do?”

“Are you effing serious?”

Angela’s voice rang out at the same time as Booth’s, and Hodgins immediately held up his hands in surrender.

“Hear me out, alright?” he appealed, “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s exactly what makes it so brilliant. It’s a move no one would suspect anyone with a sane mind to make, least of all someone associated with the police or any kind of government agency. It would firmly put Carlisle on the bad boy list and if they witness him willing to kill on a whim and without remorse, they might also assume him to be more likely to go for young girls, right? Hell, if they’re trafficking, they might even see him as their next flesh buyer.”

Flesh buyer.

The vulgar term sent a shiver down Booth’s spine.

Carlisle’s face turned pensive for a moment, before speaking up once more.

“Actually, you might not be far off with that. There’s another potential reason why all of the girls were killed by different vampires.”

All eyes turned to him.

“Remember the odd mixture of foods Hodgins found in Kelly’s stomach? Spinach, seafood, lentils, ….”

Booth felt something in his gut coil uneasily.

“Yeah, an odd mix,” Hodgins agreed, “but how does that explain the different killers?”

“All of these foods are high in iron, good to keep up a healthy level of red blood cells,” the vampire pointed out

The coil tightened.

Carlisle’s next words made it even worse.

“We already suspect Petrenko might be trafficking girls as unwilling sex workers, but what if it’s more than that?”

Booth’s eyes widened as realization dawned, almost at the same time as it did to Sweets.

“Wait, are you saying he’s trafficking the girls as walking blood bags?” the shrink blurted out.

Carlisle inclined his head, unease clearly visible in his expression.

“He might be. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? All the girls had a different killer, but all were taken in the same manner. Kelly even had bite marks on her body that had been healing at the time of her murder. If the person kidnapping them is putting them to work, forcibly renting them out to perform sexual acts, what’s to say he isn’t also selling them to fangs to feed from? He might even be deliberately catering to that specific clientele.”

It was a bleak picture being painted, but Booth found, to his revulsion, that it did make sense. It connected all the dots they had so far.

Brennan, who had been mostly silent so far, put in her two cents. “Booth, I think he’s right. We don’t have much evidence, but, as much as I don’t like making assumptions, what little we do have all seems to point in that theory’s direction.”

He knew she was right. As was Carlisle.

Which made it all the more pressing they found a way inside that club.

However, that didn’t take away the danger inherent to this plan they were discussing.

“So you believe that killing off Sweets might make them willing to talk shop with a random fang they’ve never seen before?”

“We don’t know, Booth,” Sweets admitted, “but it’s the best we have at the moment. If we play this right, Petrenko’s won’t suspect a trap.”

Brennan faced him. “I don’t like this plan either, but they are right. He could lead us directly to Michelle. She’s someone’s Christine, Booth.”

He felt his resolve falter.

Bones was right. Michelle’s parents were beside themselves with worry. Images rose of the Youngs’ anguished sobs as they received the news that their beloved baby girl was gone. Memories of the Donovans followed quickly and mercilessly.

How long did they have before Michele’s parents would suffer the same heart-shattering news?  Before their world imploded as their daughter lay on a cold steel table waiting to be identified and then buried?

Had it been Christine in this situation, Booth would have already offered his own still beating heart on a silver platter if that was what was needed to make this thing work.

But now Sweets was doing it in his stead.

“Carlisle is familiar with biting his donors,” Brennan continued, “He’s disciplined enough not to lose himself and he’s a superb actor. The risks are minimal compared to what we would gain when the ruse succeeds. ”

“Not to mention Sweets is his mate.” Hodgins cut in, “I’d say the risk of him hurting his bound mate is pretty much zero.”

“Accidents still happen, Hodgins.”

Booth knew he was losing the fight. Even Angela, who had been staunchly on his side at first, was slowly starting to turn her sails. When Hodgins brought up Michael Vincent and what she’d do to get him back, Booth knew he’d lost her support entirely.

And he couldn’t even blame her.

He looked up to see the vampire in question gazing at him with an unreadable expression. He knew the man well enough by now to know that that particular face usually didn’t mean he was ecstatic about something. He hadn’t said much during the discussion. In fact, he’d barely opened his mouth at all since the murder-the-shrink topic had come up, except to point out the final piece of the puzzle they’d been missing.

Booth suddenly found himself wondering if Cullen was as opposed to this idea as he was. He decided to ask.

“What’s your take on this?” he prodded. “You’ll be the one doing the killing, after all.”

Carlisle flinched, almost imperceptibly, before meeting his eyes once more.

Well, what do you know, the vampire was actually uncomfortable with the whole idea himself.

It should have made Booth happy that he had another ally in this, but he only felt more dread settling in his stomach.

“I don’t like this plan,” the doctor admitted quietly, “I don’t like the idea of harming my mate, even if it’s just playing pretend. It goes against every instinct I have.”

He paused and gestured Sweets not to interrupt when the man opened his mouth to speak.

“But I also agree this would give us the opportunity we need to find out more about this club. If they are clean, then seeing me kill a cop will have them immediately calling the police and running as far as they can in the other direction. If they are not, then this would place me firmly on their side in their eyes.” He used his fingers to make air-quotes at the words ‘their side’. “And once I have gained their trust, I can ask around more openly.”

Great, now he had no allies left.

Booth sighed, deeply unhappy with how this discussion was going.

He knew Carlisle wouldn’t intentionally hurt Sweets. Trust wasn’t even really the issue here. The man was absolutely besotted with his mate and Booth really did believe Carlisle would rather die than harm him.

But that didn’t mean accidents couldn’t happen.

What if he bit too deep and tore the fragile arteries beyond repair? Sure, he had his healing gift, but even that had its limits. Sweets could bleed out before the vampire even got the chance to start working his mojo.

There was just so much that could go wrong.

“We need information, Booth,” Sweets pretty much summed up the whole conundrum in one sentence. “We can’t keep waiting for a miraculous turning point in this case that may never come.”

He turned to the rest of the group.

“Carlisle and I might not be the most experienced in fieldwork, but we can do this.”

Then he tried to lighten the mood. “Besides, if someone plays his part right, we might not even need Plan B.” while playfully prodding Carlisle in his side, drawing a fond smile from the man before having his hands caught in an iron grip and gently being pulled closer so the vampire could wrap his arms around him.

Sweets seemed to be the only one not worrying about how this cover op could go wrong six ways from Sunday, but Booth knew his friend well enough to know he was just as nervous as the rest of them. He was just hiding it behind a bright smile and awkward jokes. Although he had a feeling the young shrink was more nervous about messing up his own part in their little two-man act than he was about getting slaughtered by his mate.

Looking at them now, standing there, perfectly at ease in each other’s arms, it really wasn’t difficult to see the bond between them.

Booth shot a furtive glace at his own soon-to-be wife.

What he had with Bones was something beyond anything he’d ever dared to dream off.

Admittedly, they’d had their difficulties getting here and their relationship hadn’t nearly been as smooth sailing as Sweets and Carlisle’s had. They’d been dancing around each other for so long and then suddenly there was the pregnancy and moving in together and then Christine was born and everything had gone so fast al of a sudden that, even now, it sometimes felt a bit overwhelming.

But he wouldn’t change it for the world.

He loved Temperance Brennan, loved her dearly. Her and the little girl they had created together.

When Sweets had fessed up about dating Carlisle, the vampire had described a life mate as having found the one person that every path in life you had ever taken had seemed to lead towards.

He hadn’t wanted to believe the words back then, hadn’t really understood them either.

He did now.

Ever since meeting Bones so many years ago, every step he’d taken, every road he’d walked, no matter how far away he’d gone, everything had always led back to her. He might not be vampire, but she was his mate. Always had been. The very thought of ever harming her made his stomach churn violently.

So if the vampire felt his mate bond with Sweets as keenly as Booth did his human version of it with Bones, then there was really no way he’d ever hurt the young man he’d given his heart to.

And if it led them to Michelle …

Booth took a deep breath, then nodded, mind made up.

“Alright, then we have a plan. I suggest we all head to bed now. Get some rest. Especially you two.” He pointed at the interspecies couple.

“Let’s just hope Petrenko is of the gullible sort and we can get enough for Caroline to get us a warrant without having to resort to murder.”

Let’s hope they were able to get anything from the dour club owner at all, he added silently in his mind.

Because if the current pattern was any indication, Michelle might not have very long left.

Chapter Text

Having agreed to a plan, the group had split for the night, agreeing to meet up at the Jeffersonian early in the morning to work out the final details before setting things in motion. However, rather than going home, Lance and Carlisle were promenading along the paved walking path along the Anacostia river, near the Tidal Basin. The sounds of the bustling city were dulled by the wide river to the point they were barely more than a background noise.

Despite it being only late March and barely even spring yet, the air still a bit crisp with the remnants of winter, they were far from the only couple out for an evening stroll. People were meandering along the popular path, hand in hand, talking softly, heads held closely together and stealing the occasional kiss here and there. Some were sitting on the benches or standing at the railing, overlooking the riverbanks. One couple was making faces and taking selfies with the river at their back, laughing at how silly they both looked in the suboptimal lighting of the street lanterns.

Lance shot a sideway glance at his lover.

Carlisle had been restless ever since leaving the lab.

Lance could hardly blame him. He himself was nervous too. A lot hinged on how well they were able to pull off their ruse tomorrow.

It had been why he’d suggested the walk in the first place, to calm their minds a bit before turning in for the night.

Lance couldn’t help but worry about potential vampiric involvement in the club. If there were other fangs present, Carlisle might be in danger when he walked in there alone. Doing this during the day did reduce the risk considerably, as most vampires tended to stick to the night to avoid being spotted out in the sun with their obviously inhuman sparkly skin, but still, it wasn’t impossible to run into them even at noon.

He'd voiced his thoughts a little earlier, assuming this was what was also on his lover’s mind, but the response had not been what he’d expected. Carlisle seemed to care very little about other vampires possibly loitering around and had brushed him off with a faint smile, confident that he’d either be able to handle them or he’d just leave the situation altogether.

Since that was clearly not what was making him so uneasy, Lance had been trying to figure out just why his lover had been looking so constipated and lost in thought since the plan had been drafted. He’d prodded and poked, trying to gauge his reaction.

Eventually Carlisle cracked.

“I’m worried about our plan B,” the vampire admitted softly.

Lance frowned.

“Why? You’re a superb actor, love, they’ll buy it hook, line and sinker.”

And it was true. Time and time again, with suspects and interviewees alike, Carlisle always managed to make them see exactly what he wanted them to see, a skill honed over centuries of pulling the wool over humans’ eyes.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” the man muttered quietly, so quietly that Lance wasn’t really certain his lover had meant for him to hear it at all.

He fell silent after that, apparently not in a mood to share more.

Lance wasn’t having any of it. Something was clearly bothering his lover to the point of making him all broody. This wasn’t just a case of some pre-performance stage jitters.

“Carlisle, please talk to me. What is really bothering you about this operation?” he pried, knowing full well the man would cave eventually as long as he kept pushing.

He was right. Carlisle sighed and yielded.

“It’s just … I’m afraid I’ll hurt you by accident,” the vampire admitted, “And even if I don’t, I’m still worried how this will affect you.”

Affect him? Affect him how?

“What do you mean?”

Then a penny dropped.

“Wait, are you worried about scaring me, rather than the thugs we’re trying to convince?”

He barked a laugh, quite thoroughly amused at the absurdity of that thought.

“I’m not that easily frightened, you know. Besides, I’ve seen your angry vamp face many times before by now, and no offence, love, but it’s not that bad,” he tried to joke.

Carlisle was not laughing.

“This will be different, Lancelot,” he countered gravely, “During the interviews I only pretend to lunge at you briefly, before returning my attention back to the candidate to see if their reaction needs handling. It’s only a few moments and it’s just an angry look you’re getting. But tomorrow things will go much further than that. I will be murdering you, Lancelot. You’ll scream and cry and fight for your life and eventually you’ll die by my hand. I know we both know we’re just putting on an act, but it will feel terrifyingly real, especially to you. And I’m … ” he trailed off, hesitating for a beat, before continuing, “I’m afraid it will make you look at me differently.”

That stopped Lance dead in his tracks.

Look at him differently.

Different how?

Did Carlisle think he would love him any less after being pretend-killed by him? That he’d be afraid of him? Perhaps even leave him?

His hand shot out, grabbing his lover by his arm and halting his stride. Carlisle was no longer meeting his gaze.

It seemed even a four hundred year old vampire wasn’t immune to having some insecurities.

“Carlisle, how could I ever look at you any different than I do now?” he asked, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, “I love you. I trust you. More than anyone. I would gladly put my life, my very soul, into your hands, knowing, without a shred of doubt, that it will be perfectly safe there. Even in the off-chance that you do end up hurting me a bit tomorrow, I would never hold it against you, because I know you would never do so on purpose. I know you. It’s just … not in your nature.”

A faint smile curled around the vampire’s lips.

“Are you profiling me now, Dr. Sweets?”

The attempt at a joke fell somewhat flat.

Lance shook his head. “No need, as I said, I know you. You are one of the kindest people one could ever meet. You’ve spent every day of your immortal life going against what you are to help complete strangers. Now, tell me again how I could possibly look at you with anything other than sheer adoration?”

In the soft glow of the streetlight near them, Carlisle’s eyes were like liquid pools of honeyed amber, the corners of his mouth turned up into that soft, lopsided smile that always made Lance’s heart beat just a touch faster.

Good God, those eyes.

He felt like he could just wander around in them and get lost for an eternity.

Carlisle saw him. Truly saw all of him. His strengths, his flaws, his capabilities and insecurities, his hard work, his potential and most importantly he saw him for who he truly was. No hyperboles and no underestimation. Just him. Despite the incredible age difference between them, Carlisle saw him as someone worthy. Someone to cherish.

How could Lance possibly ever love him less over a little potential, and entirely accidental, physical hurt?

Emboldened by what he saw reflected in those golden orbs, Lance decided to push a little further. Reaching for Carlisle’s hand, he fiddled with the bulky ring on his finger, suddenly a bit nervous.

There was something that had been playing on his mind for quite a while now and he felt now was the perfect time to bring it up. Honestly, he felt it was the only time he could bring it up. A speak now or forever hold your peace kind of thing.

“I think you should feed from me tonight.”

Carlisle smiled gently.

“I hunted this weekend, love, I’m alright,” while lifting Lance’s hand to his lips and pressing a tender kiss onto his wrist, right over the delicate network of veins running just underneath the skin.

Great, but that wasn’t what he’d meant.

He tried again.

“I know. Let me rephrase this: I want you to bite me. And not my wrist this time.”

Carlisle froze, lips still pressed to Lance’s pulse point.

Then he straightened, his posture tense.

“Lancelot, I understand you are wanting to help, but what you are offering here, while incredibly generous, is also very dangerous. Even with Elijah, who is so used to the feeding, I very, very rarely ever feed directly from his jugular.”

Lance couldn’t stop the vicious flash of satisfaction at that confession.

Intellectually, he knew nothing would ever happen between Carlisle and his friend and donor, but he still had to admit that the thought of his lover so intimately feeding from another man had roused his jealousy more than once. So to know this wasn’t something the vampire would be replicating with Elijah, or at least not often, brought a sliver of primal satisfaction.

It only made him more determined to get his lover to agree.

“And yet, tomorrow, that is exactly what the bad guys will expect you to do.”

Carlisle‘s face darkened. “I know. I’m still trying to come up with ways that don’t require me to latch onto your throat. ”

“But if there aren’t any,” Lance needled, “would it not be better to make sure I at least know what to expect?”

Carlisle hesitated.

Lance wasn’t sure why his lover was being so headstrong about this.

When the idea had popped into his mind during the discussion, it hadn’t even occurred to him to be worried about having Carlisle at his throat. The vampire had fed from him before, just not from his neck, only his wrist. Hell, he’d been wanting to try something similar for over a year now, but just hadn’t gotten around to asking, so the thought didn’t exactly scare him.

Although, that had not been the reason why he had come up with this idea, mind you. At that moment in the lab he’d just wanted to create the perfect set-up that would get them the intel they needed.

From the information he’d managed to gather from a few different sources, Petrenko was a man who valued actions over words. Talking the talk wasn’t likely going to convince him, so Carlisle would have to walk the walk too.

And that meant showing his teeth.

Literally.

But now that his, perhaps hairbrained, idea had been turned into an actual plan, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

He wasn’t afraid, not in the least. But he would have preferred exploring this with Carlisle in a different setting first, preferably safely cocooned within their bedroom walls. Which is what had prompted him to make the offer now, to experience it before it was turned into an interrogation tactic.

Only to be denied by his lover.

And Lance couldn’t for the world understand why.

“Does it hurt? Is that why you’re so against it?”

The vampire shook his head. “No, I’ll make sure it doesn’t. It’ll be just like feeding from your wrist.”

Good, that meant heavenly bliss surging through his veins.

But Carlisle seemed far from convinced.

“So …” Lance prodded, “what else is there?”

Then, another thought occurred to him.

He hadn’t even considered this before, but Carlisle had always been reluctant to feed from him at all. He had done so only a handful of times in the two years they’d been together, even though Lance had offered repeatedly. He’d always chalked it up to the vampire being his careful self and not wanting to take from anyone but the donors he was used to and, honestly, he hadn’t wanted to push his lover on his reasons. But now, he was starting to think it might be more than just safety precautions.

What if Carlisle genuinely didn’t like his blood?

The thought hurt more than he had ever thought possible.

“Is it me?” he managed to force out, “Am I not … tasty to you?”

Carlisle eyes widened.

“What? Lancelot, what are you talking about? Why would you even …?” Then he must have caught the look on his lover’s face. His mouth opened and closed a few times before anything else came out. Then, eventually: “Of course you’re … God, just “tasty” couldn’t ever do you justice.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. 

“Look, Elijah is incredible in terms of blood. There is no denying that. But you … I cannot even begin to describe what it is like to have your blood on my tongue. It’s intoxicating to a dangerous degree. It’s like a wine of the finest vintage gliding down my throat, like sheer nectar of the gods.”

The words made no sense. If he tasted so good, then why would Carlisle not take what was offered?

“But there is still something wrong isn’t there?” he pushed. “Something that’s holding you back?”

Carlisle sighed, but held his gaze, his tone firm.

“You are my mate, Lancelot, not my dinner. My love for you is not, and never will be, contingent on what you can offer me in return.”

Wait, what?

Lance’s brain froze for a moment.

Was that why Carlisle was so hesitant to feed from him?

Because he feared it would be an imposition?

Because he feared Lance would feel pressured into it?

“Carlisle, …”

The vampire was no longer looking at him now, turning away instead to gaze over the water, resting his hands on the railing, as if he didn’t quite know what else to do with them.

“Carlisle, look at me, love,” Lance tried again.

A side glance.

It would have to do.

“I’m not asking you to feed because I feel obliged to do so. I’m asking because I want you to. I want to know what it is like. To lay my life in your hands, to give myself to you completely.”

Carlisle turned, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now. I’ve always wanted to try it, but was never quite brave enough to ask that of you. I know you prefer to feed only from your donors and I didn’t want to impose myself on you like that. But with our plans tomorrow, I want you to show me what it should be like. And I thought it might help you realize I’m not afraid of you. Not ever.”

Carlisle was on him in the blink of an eye, gently cradling his jaw in one hand, while caressing his cheek with the other. His eyes were wide with pure unadulterated wonder.

“Are you serious?” His voice sounded so incredulous it almost physically hurt. “You would truly offer me such a thing? Freely and without hesitation?”

And there they were.

Lance was finally getting through to him, it seemed.

He wondered how he hadn’t seen this before.

How had he been so blind?

Two years and he had never noticed how his lover felt he had no right to take what was already freely offered. That this was why he had always been so hesitant to feed from his mate, even from his wrist. Not because of safety, or because of taste, but because he genuinely believed Lance would only offer him this out of obligation.

“Of course,” he breathed, meeting Carlisle’s gaze and leaning into his hands.

Of course he would.

It really was a simple as that.

He loved this man, this vampire. All of him. Every aspect, even the darker ones. And he wanted to be his in every way. The very thought of his blood being what kept his lover strong, was enough to send a wave of giddy desire through him.

Suddenly they were kissing.

He hadn’t quite registered moving, but Carlisle’s lips were now gliding against his own with a tenderness born from sheer devotion. Eyes fluttering closed, he surrendered into the kiss. Hands coming up to grasp at Carlisle’s coat, pulling him closer, and rising up against him to overcome the slight hight difference between them.

When the vampire finally pulled back, leaning their foreheads together as if he wasn’t ready to break their connection just yet, Lance was breathless.

“I love you,” Carlisle murmured softly into the cool air between them. “God, I love you. So much. You are everything. My everything.”

Lance, deciding that a kiss could show his lover much more that his words ever could, pulled their lips together once more.

Only this time, tender quickly turned into heated.

Soon they were making out like it was their last day on this earth, clinging to each other desperately. Lance felt the cold metal of the river railing press against his back, the rust on it probably staining his coat but he couldn’t care less. Right now, nothing else mattered but the man in his arms.

It took everything he had to restrain himself enough to pull away.

“We should head home. You will be feeding from me, tonight,” he told his lover, a bit out of breath but his tone brooking no argument.

“But first, I want to make love to you.”

They barely made it inside before clothes were being shed.

Lance’s coat and suit jacket landed in a heap near the door as it was still closing, with Carlisle’s blazer soon following, being tossed carelessly aside. Impatient hands made quick work of the buttons on their shirts, pulling at fabric in a desperate need to get to the skin underneath. More than a few of them would need reattaching later.

Neither of them cared.

Deciding to be assertive, Lance shoved his lover into the wall, holding him there as he went to work on Carlisle’s belt buckle.

It was laughable, really, the idea that Lance could possibly hold him there by sheer force, but Carlisle seemed more than content to let him take the lead this time, allowing himself to be manhandled. His head fell back against the wall and a low moan escaped him as Lance’s hand brushed against his erection through his pants.

The belt came off quickly and soon Lance was sliding his hand underneath the fabric, relishing in the way lover tensed and gasped at the touch.

“Lance…” The name was lost in another moan when his hand grasped the member more firmly, mouthing along the edge of the vampire’s jaw.

As willing as Carlisle had been to follow his lead so far, it seemed his patience was starting to run thin now. Surging forward, he caged Lance against the opposite wall, their mouths colliding once more, tongues battling wildly for dominance as hands roamed over any skin they could find. Without ever breaking their kiss, Carlisle shrugged out of his open shirt and then turned all attention that wasn’t already on making sure their lips met as often as possible, onto getting rid of Lance’s clothing, sliding the shirt off his shoulders and making quick work of divesting him of his pants – both pairs – as well, hooking his fingers under the waistband to pull the garments over his hips and letting gravity do the rest, freeing Lance’s straining erection from the confines of the cloth.

Lance kicked his legs to get rid of the fabric as it pooled around his feet, only to gasp in surprise as his lover’s mouth moved from his lips to that particular spot right underneath his ear that make tiny stars explode in his vision.

He felt his knees weaken and his legs turn to jelly, hands clutching at his lover’s shoulders, as he tilted his head back for easier access.

Oh God … that felt …

“Bed,” he eventually managed to utter in a shuddering breath, “Now.”

Carlisle wasted no time complying. One moment Lance felt the stone wall against his back, the next he was tumbling down onto the soft duvet on their bed, with Carlisle crawling over him, ghosting kisses over his chest. Somehow, the vampire had also managed to get rid of his pants and underpants in one fell swoop during the move, his cock standing proudly as he continued trailing his lips over Lance’s torso.

Perfect.

Lance had plans with that.

Tugging at his lover’s hair, he brought his face up to his own, distracting him with more sweet kisses until he was ready to make his move. When Carlisle planted his hand onto the bed to support his weight, right next to Lance’s shoulder, Lance took action. In a maneuver that wouldn’t be out of place in a wrestling match, he hooked his leg around the vampire’s waist and shoved Carlisle’s hand aside, making him lose his balance. Rolling with the movement, Lance deftly switched their positions, ending up on top. Going one step further, he grasped his lover’s wrists and forced them down on the bed.

Carlisle did not resist, an amused smile resting on his lips.

“Someone’s assertive today,” he murmured, pretending to weakly try and lift his arms.

They both knew he could lift Lance clean off of him if he wanted to. The fact that he didn’t, that he let his human mate control him like that, sent another thrill of excitement running over Lance’s spine.

He leaned down to nibble at his lover’s ear, playfully running his tongue over the shell and pulling the earlobe in between his teeth. He knew the vampire loved that, could feel it in the way Carlisle’s breath quickened and he all but mewled at the sensation.

“Let me spoil you tonight,” he murmured as he released the lobe just long enough to get the words out before lowering his lips onto his mate’s skin once more, slowly working his way from his ear down to the hollow of his throat.

Carlisle was making all sorts of noises that went straight to Lance’s nether regions.

As if he needed any more encouragement.

Already he was almost painfully hard, beads of precum glistening at the tip as his cock throbbed with need. He wanted nothing more than to lower his body and take both of their members in hand, moving in sync with his lover and letting the heat swell into an explosion of extasy.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

He would take his pleasure only when he had made his point.

And that was to show his kind, self-sacrificing vampire just how much he loved him, how much he desired him.

All of him.

He mouthed down his lover’s chest, flicking his tongue over a nipple and moving lower, until a shuddering gasp told him Carlisle had realized exactly what he was planning.

In between his ministration, he ventured a glance upwards. Carlisle’s eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly as he drew breath unevenly. His hands hadn’t moved from where Lance had pinned them to the mattrass.

God, what a sight he made.

Daisy had once compared him to a marble statue, a masterpiece from the finest renaissance sculptors. And that description was only based on what she could see that wasn’t covered by the man’s clothes. Underneath lay a piece of art even Michelangelo would have trouble committing to stone.

Flicking his gaze back down, lest he lost himself in his revery of his lover’s body, he continued his downward path, trailing his lips lower until he was brushing up against Carlisle’s erection.

A low moan, followed by a desperate “Lancelot …” told him exactly how badly his lover was affected by his teasing. He decided to fix his eyes on Carlisle’s face as he licked a long line from the base to the tip.

The sounds that fell from the vampire’s lips were simply divine.

“Lancelot … please …”

One hand came up to tangle in dark curls, hips rose up from the bed in a desperate thrust into thin air.

“Lance …”

Taking pity, he took his lover into his mouth.

The reaction was instantaneous. Carlisle’s back arched off the bed, a guttural cry tearing from his throat as Lance took him deeper, tightening his lips around the shaft.

When he felt the tip brush against the back of his throat, he stilled for a moment, taking a beat to get used to the feeling and suppressing his gag-reflex. Carlisle trembled underneath him and Lance knew it took everything his lover had to remain still until Lance was ready to continue.

It didn’t take him long.

It had been strange, doing this the first few times in the beginning of their relationship, but, at the risk of sounding like he was tooting his own horn – pun not intended – he’d gotten rather good at it, if Carlisle’s very vocal attestations were any indication.

Relaxing his throat, he swallowed around his lover, drawing another low groan from him.

Then he started moving.

Carefully bobbing his head up and down, running his tongue over the shaft as he did so, he used his hand to wrap firmly around the base. Carlisle was a bit too well endowed to fit the whole length into his mouth, so after a bit of experimenting he had discovered his lover liked it best if he focused his attention on what he could fit and just kept a tight hold on the base.

So that’s exactly what he did.

Up and down, up and down, in a slow, steady rhythm designed to drive his mate mad with want.

“Lancelot … Oh God, Lance …”

It was working perfectly

Carlisle was irregularly thrusting upward into his mouth, Lance’s name tumbling from his lips like a prayer.

Soon the mantra took on a warning edge. He was getting close.

Lance had no intention of stopping.

Quickening his pace, he hummed, feeling the vibrations in his throat.

Another sound of pure desperation from his lover.

Almost there.

He took a breath through his nose and lowered his mouth over the throbbing member as far as he could, taking him far deeper than usual, his throat flexing around the shaft as it tried to adapt.

It was enough to send his lover careening over the edge.

Fingers tightened on Lance’s scalp, hips stuttered. His cock pulsed, once, twice, and with a breathless shout, the vampire spilled his seed down Lance’s throat.

Lance stilled, swallowing and leisurely running his tongue over the tip as he slowly pulled away. 

Carlisle was panting, one arm draped over his forehead while the other hand lay limply on the mattrass. Dazedly, he stared up at the ceiling like he’d just experienced a vision of religious rapture.

It always amused Lance to see his lover draw in air as if he needed it, inhaling and exhaling heavily after an exertion like this as if out of breath, while he knew his kind didn’t even really need to breathe at all. It was a surprisingly human habit that Carlisle had never seemed to have shaken, even after four hundred years. Lance didn’t mind. It made it all the more satisfying to watch him come back down to earth after a mind-blowing round of sex.

He grinned as his lover slowly became lucid enough to meet his gaze.

Carlisle reached to tug at his arm and Lance followed gladly, curling up beside him and nestling his head in the crook of his neck. His own cock was begging for attention, but that could wait. He knew Carlisle would be up for round two soon enough. Vampire stamina really was a blessing in the bedroom.

He pressed a kiss onto his lover’s shoulder. “I love you,” he murmured softly, knowing the vampire would hear without any issue. “All of you, even the parts you don’t seem to like very much yourself.”

Carlisle’s shifted and propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at him with faint smile.

“I can’t hide much from you, can I?” he questioned wryly, before turning serious once more. “I have come to accept what I am a long time ago, love. As I’ve told you before, I made peace with myself. But that doesn’t mean I don’t often worry about how those closest to me perceive me. Despite the acceptance I have found with many people, I still am, and will always remain, a predator to them. I have seen people I called friends turn on me, frightened at even the slightest glimpse of the monster underneath my skin. And I know many more would do the same when confronted, in no uncertain terms, with what I truly am. Do you think Booth would not reach for his weapon on sheer instinct should I ever growl at him like I mean it? Do you think Angela would not flinch away?”

Lance said nothing. The question was rhetorical anyway. Carlisle wasn’t looking for confirmation, he was simply stating a fact. And as much as Lance wanted to deny the claim, he knew he couldn’t. His lover was right. Most people would panic when seeing Carlisle looking truly angry at them with his fangs visible. Even Booth, having known the vampire for two years, would not be able to suppress his first fight-or-flight response at such a sight.

Hell, wasn’t that the exact reason why they’d played that angle before during interrogations? To frighten their suspects into spilling their secrets?

“I know it’s natural for humans to react that way,” Carlisle continued quietly, “They would do the exact same thing if a roaring tiger came running at them. I understand. And I’m used to it. To be honest, I doesn’t even bother me all that much anymore. I don’t particularly mind frightening suspects that are unwilling to cooperate. Most of them kind of deserve a good scare anyway. But to see you, of all people, do the same thing. To see you look at me with fear in your eyes. That would kill me, Lance. I never want you to fear me.”

He sounded so defeated, so broken at the very though.

Lance’s heart ached.

He reached up to caress his lover’s face.

“Hence why you are so worried about our plan B tomorrow,” he stated, finally understanding now where his lover was coming from. “Is that also why you have been hesitant to feed from me even when I offer?”

Carlisle hesitated, before cradling Lance’s hand against his own cheek. “I just don’t want you to look at me and see a monster, even if it’s just for a moment. And I don’t want you to think the blood is something that is expected of you. Because it’s not.”

Lance shook his head, adamant. “You’re not a monster, Carlisle. You never could be. If plan B turns out to be necessary tomorrow, then I’ll walk into that club knowing we will be putting up an Oscar-worthy performance, and that you would never turn on me in real life. Darling, you would rather offer up your own heart to whatever god would take it, before harming me. I know that.”

That got a faint smile. “An Anubis reference, huh? How literary of you.”

Lance resisted the urge to swat at him and hit him with a witty retort, as he usually would have. He knew Carlisle was just trying to distract him with humor. But they needed to get this of their chests first.

“As for the blood, what on earth would made you think I was only offering out of obligation?”

Carlisle did not reply, just kept looking at him like he was gazing at an invaluable treasure.

“Do you think Elijah does it out of obligation too?” Lance continued, trying to make his lover see what he was trying to say. “We offer our blood because we want to, love, not because we have to.”

He trailed a finger over the vampire’s cheek. “Besides, it feels good when you feed. Hell, it feels fantastic.”

Carlisle nodded. “I know. The saliva …”

Lance didn’t let him finish, shaking his head. “The opiate effect of your saliva is only part of it, love. It’s more than that. Or, at least, it is for me. There’s this incredible feeling of giving, of providing you with something you need. It’s difficult to explain, but it was never just about the euphoria your bite causes.”

He decided to go for full disclosure.

“Actually, to be perfectly honest, the thought of you thriving on my blood is kind of a turn-on.”

That got an odd look.

“I’m serious, Carlisle, it feels good to know a part of me is responsible for keeping up your strength. I like knowing that my blood is helping you. It’s like … well, sort of like putting my own mark on you. A way of saying you’re mine as much as I am yours. I like that.”

Carlisle blinked. Then blinked again.

And then his lips curled into a smile so stupendously fond, it made Lance’s insides melt.

“And here I was worrying about you being inconvenienced by my bloodlust, when it was you lusting after it all along.”

Lance grinned.

That was one way of putting it. Although he could hardly deny it, so he didn’t even bother trying.

“Maybe your possessive vampiric instinct is rubbing off on me,” he teased back, knowing the worst had passed now.

Carlisle would still worry about tomorrow, unavoidably so, but his fears of scaring his mate away with their performance would hopefully remain in check now. Perhaps after he had actually fed, after he’d seen how Lance would react to it, they might even die down completely. Although that wasn’t very likely. Insecurities built over the centuries would not fade in just mere hours. They were something Lance intended to take his time chipping away at until not a trace of them remained.

“You are a marvel, Lancelot,” the vampire continued, brushing a dark curl from Lance’s forehead with his hand, “And I am so exceedingly lucky to have you by my side.”

“That sentiment goes both ways, love,” Lance countered easily, turning his face to brush his lips over the extended appendage.

It was all the invitation Carlisle needed to lean down and capture his mouth in another kiss.

Slow. Gentle.

As if he was pouring all of his love into it for Lance to feel.

It made his toes curl.

His erection, which had flagged a bit during their conversation, now stirred with renewed interest.

It didn’t take long for Carlisle to notice it too.

The vampire chuckled, throwing his leg over Lance’s hip and moving to straddle him.

“Allow me to take care of that for you,” he muttered in a sultry tone, while his hands roamed over Lance’s torso, steadily creeping lower and lower.

Lance groaned at the sensation, but swiftly reached out to grab Carlisle’s hand as it wrapped around his cock, shaking his head. A hand-job, while certainly fun, was not going to satisfy him tonight.

“Will you take me?” he asked instead.

Carlisle increased the pressure on the straining member in his grip, slowly stroking up and down, completely ignoring the attempt to stop him, even as his own manhood was swiftly rising to attention.

“If that is what you desire,” he drawled, teasingly gliding his thumb over the moist head.

A breathless gasp escaped Lance.

“Oh, yes, I desire. Very much so,” he managed, barely, before his brain shut down entirely when Carlisle moved over him, his fingers trailing past his erection and further down to gently press at his entrance.

He wasn’t sure what had come out of his mouth past that point, but it couldn’t possibly have been anything intelligent, or even intelligible for that matter. All he could recall was a profound sense of “more” and “Carlisle”, as his lover carefully, tenderly, prepared him and then claimed him as his own once more.

They moved in tandem as the pleasure built and time seemed to cease to exist entirely. It could have been hours or it could have been mere minutes. Either way, it felt like he was being tortured with the most delightful torment, overwhelmed by the feeling of being filled to the point of bursting and the desperately longing for that sweet release.

They climaxed almost simultaneously, each other’s names on their lips, Carlisle closely following Lance over the edge.

When it was over, they laid side by side, Lance trembling and out of breath, his heart going a mile a minute, as Carlisle cradled him into his arms, curling around him as if he wanted to protect him from the dark world outside.

“God, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how bloody amazing that feels,” Lance muttered, more to himself than anything.

Carlisle let out a breathless chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Oh, it was. But Lance wasn’t going to confirm or deny that. He wouldn’t want to inflate his lover’s ego, after all.

Instead, he just grinned.

He still had something else to look forward to.

Part of him wondered what was wrong with him that he was so eagerly anticipating opening his carotid artery for a vampire to snack from, but another, probably more insane part, of himself, dunked that thought straight into the rubbish bin. He already knew why he wanted this. And it wasn’t the feeding part that exited him so.

He turned onto his back, facing his lover.

“So,” he started, sending the vampire a salacious smirk, “how about a little midnight snack?”

Carlisle shook his head fondly.

“You still want me to feed then?”

His tone was soft, and still a tiny bit incredulous, but no longer worried, no longer as reluctant as he had been.

“Yeah, I do.” Then, with a grin, “You’ve had my body already, so you should definitely also take my blood, just to make sure all of you is bathed in my … noble essence.”

Carlisle guffawed at that. “Your noble essence, huh? I hate to burst your bubble, love, but you didn’t sound anywhere near noble when you were repeatedly screaming my name just now.”

“Oh, tosh,” Lance shot back, flapping a hand as if to wave away the argument, “I’m noble whatever I’m doing. I am the reincarnation of Lancelot du Lac, aren’t I? Most virtuous of round table knights?”

That drew another chuckle from his lover.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Carlisle muttered, amused. “But you certainly are my knight in shining armor,” he then added softly with a besotted smile.

Fair enough, Lance thought brightly. He’d take being Carlisle’s metaphorical knight over being a medieval sword wielder in heavy armor any day.

He reached to run his hand through his lover’s hair, only to make a face as he felt the sticky residue of the man’s hair care products rather than the softness of his blond locks.

“I know, love, I need a shower,” Carlisle told him, “I didn’t exactly have time for that yet, between us coming home and you jumping my bones immediately.”

Lance raised his shoulder in a nonchalant half-shrug.

Totally worth it, in his opinion.

Then another thought surfaced. Maybe they could shower together.

Hmm, the thought of rubbing soapy bubbles all over his lover’s delectable body certainly appealed to him.

Carlisle gave him a look. “Oh, I know that glint in your eyes, love. Don’t you think you’ve had enough for today? I wouldn’t want to be the reason you can hardly walk tomorrow.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll be the one with difficulties walking,” Lance shot back without missing a beat, making the vampire laugh.

“Let’s keep that for tomorrow, shall we? Something to look forward to when we celebrate out successful mission.”

Ugh, typical Carlisle, always the voice of reason.

He wasn’t wrong per se, but still. It would have been nice, regardless.

Lance sighed dramatically.

“Very well, if you insist on being reasonable.” He dragged out the last word as if it was a particularly distasteful slur, before settling more comfortably on his pillow, raising the back of his hand to his forehead in a mock-swoon. “I’ll just have to restrain my poor self then. How ever will I survive until then?”

“You’ll manage,” was his lover’s deadpan response.

Lance couldn’t stop the giggle from bubbling up even if he tried.

He had barely gotten his chuckling under control, when the mood shifted and Carlisle leaned forward, rubbing his nose against Lance’s, before nuzzling down his cheek, moving over him to cage him to the bed, arms coming to rest on both side of his head.

“So, are you mocking me now, sir knight?”

Lance immediately knew where this was going.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he defended himself with a scandalized gasp, “I’ll have you know I am a gentleman and I would never …” The sentence was cut off by a surprised moan, as Carlisle chose that moment to softly drag his fangs over Lance’s skin.

Oh God.

There were actually doing this.

Finally.

He’d imagined this so many times. Imagined, when Carlisle’s mouth was trailing down the line of his throat, what it would be like to feel his fangs sink in, to lay himself bare in yet another way to his lover.

The anticipation alone was exhilarating.

His body melted into the bed, whatever negligible lingering nerves he might have had about this, giving way to raw sensation. He let his head fall back, exposing the pulsing vein in clear invitation.

His breath caught as he felt Carlisle’s pause over his pulse point, just the barest hint of teeth nipping at his neck. He wanted to speak, to say something witty, or perhaps urge his lover on, but his words wouldn’t cooperate.

And then it happened.

Carlisle’s fangs sank into him, the sharpness of the bite melting almost instantly into a sensation that went way beyond pleasure. Lance’s entire body arched into it, a shudder wracking through him as euphoria exploded through his senses.

“Oh …”

It was nothing like any other bite on his wrist he had ever experienced, or even dreamed about. This was … warmth, connection, and intimacy rolled into one overwhelming experience. Carlisle was taking from him in the most intimate way possible, was drinking him in, consuming him.

All of him.

Waves of bliss washed over him, blurring the lines between reality and something far more primal.

He gave himself over completely, surrendering to the sensations that rippled through his body as he felt the blood being pulled from his vein. His hands gripped at Carlisle’s shoulders as if to anchor himself.

His lover’s presence was everywhere, comforting, intense, and protective all at once.

It filled his heart and mind with a trust so profound it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

This was what it truly meant to let go.

And it was beautiful.

Chapter Text

“Okay, let’s go over the plan one more time,” Booth addressed them. “Cullen, you start.”

The hum of the FBI surveillance van blended with the quiet tension inside as it rumbled through the streets of Washington. The interior was a tight, utilitarian space, crammed with humming computers, monitors flickering with camera feeds, and rows of blinking lights from various recording devices. Wires snaked across the walls like restless vines. A lone tech with a headset was fiddling with the buttons on what looked like a sound system.

Booth sat opposite Carlisle and Lance, his jaw set, bouncing his knee up and down in a nervous rhythm.

The vampire dutifully started reciting his role in their little operation, listing off his tasks in chronological order.

It sounded rehearsed.

And it was.

This was the third time already since this morning Booth had made them go over the whole thing in detail.

Laying a gentle hand on his lover’s arm, Lance cut him of mid-sentence, while giving the agent opposite them a pointed look.

“We know our roles by heart, Booth. Going over them one more time isn’t going to make us remember them any more or less than we already do.”

Booth grimaced, but relented.

Lance knew the man was uncomfortable with the parts both of them were going to play, but his jittery behavior wasn’t exactly making things less tense.

They would be fine.

Carlisle would keep an eye out for other vampires and would only go ahead with the plan if there weren’t any around. And, worst case scenario, if they had to go for their plan B and things went sideways anyway, the vampire would get them out of there in a heartbeat.

Although, Lance had to admit he was just a little nervous about this whole sting too.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting the wire beneath his jacket for the third time.

He’d played roles before, trying to get under their suspects’ skin, but there was a lot more at stake now than a simple confession. If he slipped up, Michelle’s life and that of any other girls in Petrenko’s grasp might be at risk.

He felt a gentle hand on his knee.

Carlisle was gazing at him with a faint smile and immediately his spirits lifted.

Lance still felt the remnants of pleasure from yesterday’s activities linger in his body and he was ever so glad he’d decided to have that particular conversation with his lover.

Their honest heart-to-heart and subsequent experiment had brought them even closer together.

To be perfectly honest, he hadn’t considered it possible for them to be even more entangled with each other than they’d already been, but nevertheless it was clear from the way Carlisle looked at him now that something had shifted in their relationship. Another boundary had been crossed, a wall broken down that was holding them back.

Lance felt it too. Like there’d been a line in the sand he hadn’t even known existed, that had now finally been washed away by the tide.

He smiled back.

Booth made a disgruntled noise. “Could you two not do that right now?”

Lance’s smile turned into a smirk.

“Do what?” he queried innocently.

Carlisle’s hand tightened on his knee and he saw the vampire fight a smile from the corner of his eye.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about, Sweets,” Booth groused, “Stop doing that lovey-dovey doe-eyed crap. You’re giving me the creeps.”

A small snort that could have been mistaken for a cough sounded from where Carlisle valiantly tried to hide his amusement. Lance didn’t even bother.

He grinned widely and claimed to have no idea what Booth was talking about.

The responding glare he got was well worth it.

Ever the diplomat, Carlisle smoothly changed the subject.

“Actually, I have a favor to ask of you,” he told the agent.

At the man’s questioning look, he gently pulled his daylight right from his finger and held it out to Booth, the material gleaming slightly in the palm of his hand.

“I need you to keep this safe for me until I return.”

Booth left eyebrow shot up in surprise.

“Don’t you need that to go out in the sun?” he questioned.

Carlisle shook his head. “As I’ve told you before, the sun isn’t harmful to my kind. It just makes us incredibly visible, something most of us rather try to avoid.”

“Right,” Booth posed hesitantly, “You sparkle in the light.”

Lance knew Booth still had trouble believing that particular part of vampire physiology. He’d never seen it in action before, so he probably had no frame of reference as to what “sparkling” really entailed.

It had actually taken Lance a while to get used to as well.

In fiction, vampires either burned in the sun like crazy of even spontaneously burst into flames as soon as a single ray of sun touched their skin.

But sparkling?

That was new.

Lance hadn’t quite known what to expect the first time his lover had showed him what he truly looked like without his ring, but it had taken his breath away. Carlisle had stood there, unmoving as Lance drank in the sight of him. His skin had looked like it was imbedded with thousands of tiny diamonds that glinted and shimmered, reflecting the light in all directions.

It was beautiful.

But also, very, very distracting, so Lance understood why his lover never took his ring off outside his shifts at the hospital.

“If I’m going pretend I’m entering the club to escape the sun, it would be rather odd for me not to show the tell-tale signs of exposure as I do so. If they’re familiar with vampires, they’ll expect my skin to react to the light if I happen to pass by a window or something.”

Booth reached out to accept the ring, turning it over between his fingers.

“It’s some kind of crest, right?” he asked as he studied the design on the bezel.

Carlisle nodded. “It’s my family insignia. It’s all I have left of my human heritage.”

There was an odd tone of nostalgia in the vampire’s voice.

Carlisle had told Lance about his troubled relationship with his father, how they had butted heads from the moment Carlisle could talk. How nothing he ever did was good enough. And yet, when he’d been turned, the new vampire had snuck inside his father’s home and had stolen a small effigy with the crest to keep with him, a reminder of the man he had once been, of the bloodline he had once been set to continue. When Aro had offered Carlisle his sun ring decades later, he’d chosen to fashion it as a signet to include the heraldry in its design.

The emblem itself was shaped as a lion, roaring on top of a banner of three-piece clovers, with a raised hand hovering over its head. Over time, it had come to embody everything Carlisle strived to be. The lion signified strength, while the hand symbolized faith, sincerity, and loyalty. The clovers were, ironically, a hint that all these qualities were eternal.

Lance doubted the original creator of the crest had had that particular idea in mind when he’d designed it, but it was quite funny nonetheless that it now literally represented its wearer’s own immortality.

Every member of the Cullen family carried it in some way. It was engraved on bracelets, watches, a necklace, … Each sibling had their own version of it and they wore it proudly.

“You sure you want to give it to me for safekeeping?” Booth queried, looking a bit uncomfortable now.

But Carlisle nodded.

“I don’t want to put it in my pocket and potentially lose it during this operation. Besides, while I doubt Petrenko would know what the ring means or which coven it represents, I’d still rather not take any chances. If he does have vampires on his payroll, I don’t want any of them getting even a glimpse of anything that could lead to my family.”

Lance dearly hoped Booth realized the significance of what Carlisle was asking. That ring was priceless to him, both because of what it could do and because of what it represented. He would not part with it easily, nor would he entrust it to just anyone.

Although, the agent did seem to have at least an inkling because he carefully stashed it in his breast pocket and patted it as if to make sure it wouldn’t fall straight through.

“Okay, yeah, you got it, I’ll keep it safe,” he said eventually.

The silence that fell after that, was broken only a short minute later by the tech taking of his headphones.

“Agent Booth, we’re almost there. Just three more blocks.”

“Alright, perhaps it would be best to stop and let me out here,” Carlisle suggested, “I’ll go on foot for the rest of the way. That way no potential cameras outside the club can pick up on me leaving the van.”

Booth nodded in agreement, his face set in grim line, the nervous bounce of his knee returning.

He passed the message to the driver.

It was time to get started.

“How do I look?” Carlisle asked as he inserted his colored contacts, looking up to reveal blood red irises.

During their previous tests, this new version had held out up to two hours before falling apart.  Hopefully this particular pair would prove their tests correct and not just the exceptions to the rule.

“Very menacing,” Lance told him, but followed up with a whispered “Still handsome, though”.

It was quiet enough that only his lover could hear.

As the van pulled onto the curb, Lance pulled the vampire closer before he could step out.

“Be careful, alright,” he muttered before pressing his lips to Carlisle’s for a brief moment, ignoring the tech’s raised eyebrow.

“For luck”, he tried to grin.

Carlisle gave him a fond smile, then a quick nod to Booth.

“I’ll wait at the end of the street until I see you’re in position.”

He opened the door and was gone in a flash.

The silence returned as the van resumed its journey, the only sound being the occasional tapping of fingers on the tech’s keyboard and Booth’s heel clicking against the floor in an uneven pattern.

“You think we’ll need plan B?” Booth asked eventually.

Lance shrugged.

He had no idea, but his gut told him they would.

And if they did, he was ready.

“We’ll see how it goes,” he responded, noncommittal.

It didn’t take them long to reach the spot they had settled on beforehand, a corner of a side street, looking out on the main road where the club was located, right next to an old building that was currently being renovated. It gave them a clear view of the club’s entrance, without having to park right in front of it and risk drawing attention.

The car might be disguised as a utility van, but a electricity company truck sitting directly in front of a strip club would probably still raise some eyebrows. The same truck next to a construction site, however, would not.

The tech – Jones, if Lance remembered correctly – had all of his monitors powered up now, live feeds of the street around them, the font façade of the club and its entrance, courtesy of the many camara’s in different locations on the van, were playing out in front of them.

Lance watched intently, searching for a sign of his mate.

Then …

“There!”

He pointed to the figure that had appeared at the edge of one of the camera’s vision.

Carlisle was keeping to the walls, seeking the shadow as much as he could.

“I see you,” his voice sounded through the speaker, “I’m going in.”

To limit the risk of other potential vampires in the club hearing the background noise in the van, they had opted to send Carlisle in with a wire to transmit sound, but without an earpiece. They could follow the conversation on his side, but couldn’t reach him themselves.

Lance couldn’t help but admire the way Carlisle’s clothes fit the form of his body like a glove as he moved over the screen with a sharp grace. To fit the part, he had foregone his usual slacks and dress shirts and had instead dressed in a casual jeans and a simple black t-shirt, topped off with a black leather jacket and sturdy boots. His hair was mussed and styled in a deliberate just-out-of-bed look. He looked every bit the devil-may-care bad boy he was meant to portray.

Giving a furtive glance around, Carlisle crossed the street towards the entrance, and, in doing so, walked directly into the sun.

Lance heard Booth’s sharp intake of breath just before the tech’s puzzled “What the heck?” sounded.

The vampire’s face and hands, every part of skin that was visible, was glittering as the light hit it.

“I think the camera’s malfunctioning,” Jones spoke hesitantly, “Something isn’t rendering right.”

Lance shook his head. “It’s not the camera. This is what he looks like in the sun.”

Booth gave him a disbelieving stare. “This is normal?”

“Completely normal,” Lance shot back with a wry smile, “I told you he sparkled.”

“Yeah, no kidding” the agent muttered, more to himself than anything.

They fell silent once more as Carlisle reached the entrance and slipped inside.

Here we go.

Sensual music trickled through the radio almost immediately.

Jones adjusted the sound levels, making sure that any speech would be filtered out to sound louder than the sultry melody.

They listened tensely as Carlisle took a seat at the bar, a chair scraping over the floor. A cheerful female voice asking what she could get him was cut of abruptly by a sharp intake of breath as the bartender obviously noticed his eyes.

A few stutters followed, after which she seemingly regained her composure somewhat.

“Erhm, I’m sorry, but as part of our club policy I must inform you we do not allow any bloodletting or biting on the premises.”

Carlisle scoffed. “Figured as much. Look, missy, I just wanted to get out of the bloody sun for a bit. Besides, I like my girls …” a short pause “…younger than what you have on display here.”

Lance could only imagine the leer Carlisle was giving her at that. He also noticed his lover had taken on a slight British accent.

“Right … of course,” was the uncomfortable response.

Neither of them said anything for a beat, before the girl tried to make some awkward small talk.

“So, you’re not from around here, right? Where you from?”

Ah, so that was why he’d gone for the accent. It was a good conversation starter.

Clever.

They followed along silently as Carlisle confirmed he was indeed not from here, but gave no more details than that, only adding a terse “Name’s Damon, by the way.”

To the bartender’s credit, she was very good at her job. She remained pleasant, introducing herself and Candice and offering to introduce him to some of their finest girls for a riveting private dance.

‘Damon’ once again reaffirmed that the cattle in the club were too old for him and he liked them fresher, then went a step further and asked the girl how old she was as she looked younger than most. More … tender.

The vampire’s voice was oozing suggestive intent and it made shivers run down Lance’s spine. And not in a good way.

Candice had clearly had enough of the conversation by now as she politely told him she was needed elsewhere and then her voice disappeared entirely. The muffled click of a door closing somewhere was barely audible.

Lance counted the seconds as the line remained silent after that. He visualized Carlisle sitting at the bar, slouched in his high seat and disinterestedly watching the girls dance from a distance.

Had his hints been enough to get Petrenko involved?

Would the bartender go to the back to complain to her boss about the rude, creepy fang at her bar?

For a long moment nothing seemed to happen.

Booth was restlessly muttering to himself. “Come on now, take the bait. Take the bait, you stupid bastard.”

Nothing.

Until …

“Looks like you gave my bartender quite a scare.”

An accented male voice.

Petrenko.

Lance let out a sharp breath.

They had the club owner’s attention now.

Phase one was complete.

Now for the next stage: get him to talk.

Carlisle scoffed audibly. “Women are so easily offended these days.”

A chuckle.

“That, they certainly are, my friend. However, in this day and age, I fear we must adapt and give them some leeway to keep them happy. Happy woman folk makes happy man folk, no?”

The Slavic accent was faint but still easily recognizable in the man’s speech. Lance wondered where the man was originally from. What little information he’d managed to compile about the man had been unclear about that.

“Happy man folk makes happy man folk,” Carlisle muttered back. “When I was young, women were malleable, eager to please. Now? Loud and brash. And demanding.”

Another chuckle.

“You sound like one with lots of experience. But surely not all women displease you so?”

Petrenko was in ego-stroking mode, it seemed. And he was fishing for information.

“Not all of them,” the vampire admitted, “Some have potential, but only before they are corrupted by society. When they’re still young and soft. Easier to teach. And so much … juicier.”

There, the seed was sown.

Now it was time to see how Petrenko reacted to it.

However, he wasn’t quite ready to take the bait yet, as he swiftly changed the subject.

“Can’t fault you for that logic,” he spoke easily, “And speaking of juice, is there anything I can offer you? I happen to have some blood bags set aside in the fridge for my immortal guests, if you’re interested?”

Another disgusted scoff. “Cold blood from a bag? No thanks.”

“Oh, does your regular blood bank usually heat it for you? I wasn’t aware that was a thing.”

It sounded casual. Too casual. Petrenko was fishing again.

“Bold of you to assume I use a blood bank at all.”

The smug smirk was audible in the vampire’s voice.

A brief pause. “I see. Well, if you would be so kind as to refrain from taking from any of my staff. I’m rather short-handed as it is and I’d hate to have to replace them.”

Damn.

Lots of fishing, but clearly no biting from their oily suspect.

The rest of their conversation went along the same vein. Carlisle dropped a few hints here and there, but not too much to become noticeable, and Petrenko in turn kept prodding for more information on the vampire himself. He’d already managed to pry some of the backstory they’d prepared for ‘Damon’ out of him.

It was clear they were on the right track. And if they had time, they could have played the long con here, slowly gaining the man’s trust and worming their way into his good graces.

But, unfortunately, they didn’t have that time.

And neither did Michelle.

Lance gave Booth a pointed look, only to receive a resigned nod in response.

It was time for plan B.

Chapter Text

Petrenko hadn’t taken the bait so far.

Carlisle sat the bar, lounging in his seat and trying to project an image of bored nonchalance. The leather of his jacket collar felt strange against his skin. It had been decades since he’d worn something like this. Since the seventies really. He’d never really liked the style so he’d been very happy to stick to his dress shirts or sometimes soft-fabric t-shirts whenever he could.

Slowly, he’d been allowing himself to look more and more relaxed, conversing with the club owner more freely now, spinning the story of how Damon had found his way into the city, alluding to how old he was and how utterly disgusted with the world’s current “strict” morals.

Petrenko seemed to commiserate and often found subtle ways to compliment him. Carlisle knew the man was sounding him out, trying to judge just what kind of person he had in front of him. He’d also noticed Petrenko had subtly waved the dancers away, leaving them practically alone in the bar. Carlisle was the only client at this hour anyway, so it wasn’t like they were inconveniencing other guests by stopping the entertainment. He also took it as a good sign the club owner wanted to talk to him alone. Perhaps to discuss things that couldn’t be discussed in polite company, or with witnesses for that matter.

Objectively, things were going well. He was slowly establishing a connection and once he had that, it would be easier to gain the human’s trust.

Now, if only things would speed up a little, that’d be nice.

Carlisle didn’t know how long he had before his contacts started failing, so he did not want to cross the tested two hour time limit. He was already making a deliberate effort to blink as little as he could get away with without making his target uncomfortable to prevent the material from giving out prematurely.

Petrenko had just launched into a rather demeaning story about one of his dancers, when Carlisle spotted his mate enter the bar from the corner of his eye. His suit was deliberately ruffled, his tie crooked and he gave off a bit of a lax vibe with his appearance.

He sauntered up to the bar and took a stool a few seats away from him, without even  looking in his direction.

Petrenko gave the newcomer an odd look, almost annoyed, before excusing himself to go check on his new guest.

“I’ll be right back, my friend, I’ll just go see what he wants.”

He walked up to Lance.

“Anything I can get for you, pal?”

Lance smiled rather sleazily at him, not unlike an shady used car salesman that was about to sell his buyer a worthless piece of junk for way too much money.

“Well, I guess there’s someone here after all,” he said with a grin that was all teeth. “I was starting to think you weren’t open. I saw the closed sign on the door but your opening hours said you were open, so I thought I’d step in anyway.”

A closed sign on the door.

That hadn’t been there when Carlisle had arrived.

Petrenko must have instructed his staff to close the club for a reason. Another strong indication he’d wanted to keep this conversation private.

“Yeah, we are currently exceptionally closed for some maintenance. Apologies for the inconvenience.”

The lie rolled of Petrenko’s tongue easily, and Carlisle was starting to wonder if perhaps this wasn’t the first time he’d closed down the club to scout potential flesh buyers.

“I’ll get you a free drink voucher for your trouble,” the man offered smoothly, “Something to get you started next time you visit, eh?”

Lance shook his head. “Nah, I’m good, I’m not here for the drinks anyway. I need you to do me a favor.”

One of Petrenko’s bushy eyebrows rose at that.

“I need you to go get your boss for me. Alexei Petrenko. I have some information for him that I’m sure would interest him greatly.”

Lance was playing it clueless, pretending he had no idea it was the man himself already standing before him, setting himself up as not too very bright, but just clever enough to potentially be dangerous to Petrenko’s business.

Immediately, Carlisle saw the subtle changes in Petrenko’s body language. His face did not change from its pleasant expression, but his shoulders tightened just the slightest and his hand twitched.

He was guarded, hackles rising.

“No need, that would be me,” he responded, still jovial.

There was just the tiniest hint of steel in his voice. Carlisle wouldn’t even have noticed it if he wasn’t listening so intently while pretending to be bored out of his mind waiting for his conversation partner to return.

“Ah, so you’re the man of the hour!” Lance made an admirable impression of being faux delighted. “Real pleasure to meet you.”

Petrenko’s eyes narrowed. He was clearly getting suspicious now.

Good, that would make it easier for Lance to make a nuisance of himself.

And he started of strong.

“Say, I hear you got into some trouble with a few colleagues of mine?”

They had decided upon an approach together, but had agreed to leave the actual dialogue to chance. Lance had a set goal and he knew better than most how to get under people’s skin, so his words would be guided by the situation at hand and Petrenko’s responses.

So far, it was going well. Lance was only just warming up and Petrenko was already cautious.

“Colleagues? Who might that be? And, if I may be so bold, who are you, exactly? I don’t recall we’ve met?”

Carlisle had the feeling Petrenko already knew whom this new guest was referring to, but the man appeared intent on playing dumb.

“Just call me Swanson,” Lance replied lightly, “We haven’t met, but you made quite an impression on Agent Booth and his scientist lady friend.”

Another slight tensing of Petrenko’s shoulders, before he deliberately seemed to force them to relax.

“Oh?”

A noncommittal answer. Not outright denying he’d spoken to them, nor confirming it.

Petrenko was no fool. No doubt he’d be mincing his words now, trying to reveal as little as possible while milking his guest for information at the same time.

“Yep” Lance nodded, his tone changing from light and polite to something darker, “I’d like you paint you a little picture. Me, I’m but a lowly clerk at the Bureau. It’s a shitty job with shitty pay, but it does have its advantages. You see, those big, bold, important agents rarely notice people like me. They like to pretend like I don’t exist, like I’m not there at all when they’re talking shop. And that means I hear a lot of things I probably shouldn’t.”

Petrenko remained silent, not engaging other than a polite hum of agreement. He took a wine glass off one of the racks and pretended to be engrossed in shining it to perfection.

“Over the years, I’ve caught more a few interesting tidbits here and there. However, just this morning, I heard a very nice piece of juicy gossip.”

Another ambiguous sound that could signify either shock, agreement or disinterest at the same time.

Lance was starting to get annoyed with the lack of response, or at least he made it seem so, leaning forward on his arms on the bar and lowering his voice for some dramatic effect.

“It turns out this particular club … is under investigation.”

Petrenko looked up at that, feigning surprise.

 “Really now? Whatever for? I assure you I’m an honest business owner. Just because some puritan with a badge feels exotic dancers and some light gambling are a sin, doesn’t mean it’s against the law. I have all the necessary permits.”

Carlisle had to admit Petrenko was good at this. He played the non-plussed expression to perfection. And by painting Booth as a narrow-minded conservative with a personal bone to pick with the entertainment industry, he was making light of whatever accusations the man could make. After all, if the agent had his delicate sensibilities triggered by a little exposure to the womanly flesh, then anything that came out of his mouth could be considered as overblown or even personally vengeful and thus not believable.

It was a manipulation tactic as well as a covert way to fish for information.

The only problem was that Lance knew exactly where he was going with this.

And he played his role even better.

Completely ignoring the puritan comment, Lance lazily reached over the bar to grab at a bottle of spirits that stood just out of his reach, only to mutter in disappointment when Petrenko moved the bottle further away.

A flash of visible annoyance had crossed the club owner’s face, before he’d managed to school it into a neutrally pleasant expression again.

“Dancing might not be against the law,” Lance told him, a bit bluntly in retaliation for the denied drink, “but murder is. And it turns out you were quite a decent suspect for their latest murder case.”

Were a suspect.

Petrenko immediately seemed to pick up on the – deliberate on Lance’s part – use of past tense.

“I was?”

“Yep, Booth just loved you as a suspect,” Lance confirmed breezily, “He was ready to drag you in kicking and screaming. But since they had nothing concrete, bossman wouldn’t let him and now they’ve moved on to other theories.”

He plucked an yellow paper cocktail umbrella from a stand near him and started rolling it around between his fingers.

He met Petrenko’s gaze, holding eye contact.

“So I’ve been thinking … wouldn’t it be a real shame if something were to suddenly turn up that would put you straight into their headlights again?”

The man didn’t even blink.

“You can’t possibly think I have anything to do with a murder of any kind?” he questioned with a scandalized note in his voice.

Lance shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter what I think. Doesn’t even matter if you actually did something or not. All that matters is what the feds think you did. After all, for a man in your position, it would be mightily uncomfortable to be involved in such a scandal in any way, now wouldn’t it?”

Petrenko’s pleasant expression had faded entirely now.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

Lance gave him a grin that could only rightfully be described as shit-eating.

“No, of course, not, I’m just saying. If someone were to find, let’s say, a hair tie with some of the dead girl’s hair on it, or perhaps a panicked anonymous tip, that could see the feds swarming the place, turning every stone upside down. If you’re innocent, then surely that will come to light eventually, but how much bad press would you have suffered by then? How many clients would have left, never to return, if your club was believed to be a murder scene?”

Petrenko did not react other than giving Lance a blank look and Carlisle took the opportunity to start setting up the next part of their scheme.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he muttered to himself, “Of course he wants money to keep his mouth shut. How fucking original.”

He noticed Petrenko’s eyes flick to him for a second, the only indication he’d heard it, but did not dare look at him directly, pretending instead to be glaring at the bold blackmailer with an annoyed expression. As if the man’s presence here was grating on his nerves.

Lance still hadn’t looked in his direction and was completely ignoring his existence. This was by design. If he were to look over and spot Carlisle’s eyes, Petrenko would likely expect him to react badly to it, potentially even abandon his plan altogether to get away from the vampire before said vampire could become a threat. Now, however, they could play he was entirely blindsided when Carlisle attacked.

“It really would be such a shame if something like that were to happen, right?” Lance pressed, obviously angling for a stronger reaction than Petrenko was giving him.

The club owner just looked at him for a moment.

Then, flatly: “This is blackmail.”

Lance sucked in a theatrical breath.

“Blackmail is such a strong word. I prefer the term ‘mutual understanding with a financial component.’”

That was his cue.

They were almost there.

Now that the threat of blackmail had been explicitly voiced, Carlisle would soon be making his move.

He snorted audibly, loud enough to draw Petrenko’s gaze to him, and rolled his eyes.

“And what, pray tell, would this financial component entail?” Petrenko questioned as he turned his attention back to his unwanted guest.

Lance pretended to consider for a moment, tapping his chin in mock-thought, before naming his price. A ludicrously high one.

Petrenko immediately exploded at the number.

“Are you insane? Like hell! I’m not paying you a damn thing! Now, get the fuck out of my club!”

Lance stood from his bar stool, his expression smug, and leaned forward, trying to look intimidating.

“I’m afraid you have very little options here. I have no intention of staying a fucking office grunt for the rest of my life and that money would set me up quite nicely. Either you pay up, or you pay through the nose as your name and club get dragged through the mud. Your choice.”

At that point Carlisle spoke up, ostensibly having had enough of the young clerk’s bluster.

“God, you’re annoying. Why don’t you just shut the fuck up and get the fuck out?”

Lance barely even turned to him, tossing a blunt “Stay out of this, asshat” in his direction without sparing him even a glance.

This was it. The signal they’d agreed on.

Showtime.

Carlisle stood abruptly. His face twisting in anger now.

“Asshat? Don’t you dare speak to me like that, you filthy mongrel!”

Lance turned at that, already opening his mouth to toss back another insult when the words died on his lips as soft brown eyes met red ones.

“Oh shit …”

Immediately, he turned to run, knocking over the barstool in his haste to get away from the angry vampire.

He did not get far.

Carlisle lunged.

It took him only a few steps to reach the fleeing human, grabbing him by the shoulders and without hesitation – and before he could stop to think about what he was doing – he sank his fangs into the man’s neck.

His mate’s blood was like glazed honey on his tongue, soothing a never-ending ache, but he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it. Not in this situation.

Lance shrieked, kicking out as he was dragged backwards, back towards the bar and further away from the exit, tipping over another chair as he desperately fought to get free.

He screamed, pleas for mercy falling from his lips in between shrill cries of pain even as he kicked and clawed at whatever parts of the vampire he could reach.

“NO … No please … please stop … no … don’t kill me … don’t … don’t … please …”

His struggles soon weakened.

Carlisle had to forcibly remind himself they were only acting.

None of this was real.

Lance was playing his role so incredibly well it was difficult not to believe it.

Every fiber in his body was begging to stop this, to end the charade and check on his mate to make sure he was truly unharmed.

But he could not. Not when they were so close.

He hadn’t even really taken any blood at all, but Lance was sagging in his arms like he could barely stand on his feet anymore.

Carlisle roughly jerked him around, turning his back to Petrenko to avoid having to look in the man’s direction, worried his eyes would give away just how very much he was not enjoying this.

Lance convulsed in his grip a couple of more times, before, eventually, the fight drained from him entirely. His arms fell numbly to his side, his legs buckled.

The human slumped forwards, eyes closed, and went completely still.

If it weren’t for the steady, if elevated, beat of Lance’s heart, Carlisle would have surely believed him to have perished. He suppressed a shiver at he thought.

He could feel his mate’s chest move up and down in shallow movements in a conscious effort to appear as lifeless as possible. It was slight enough that to any uncritical human eye he would seem to have ceased breathing at all.

Finally, he released his human and let his body crumple onto the floor. The bite stood out horrendously on Lance’s pale skin, an angry red crescent moon of teeth imprinted on the column of his throat. A fine trail of blood ran down his neck and into his collar, staining it scarlet.

Looking up, he saw Petrenko stare at him with an unreadable expression.

He could image what he looked like right now, standing over a dead body, with blood still dripping from his fangs and down his chin. He licked his lips to clean them off before wiping his mouth with his sleeve for good measure.

Petrenko looked … oddly undisturbed at the motion.

“You said I couldn’t eat your staff,” Carlisle drawled, folding back into Damon’s snarky but suave personality, “Well, he ain’t staff. Besides, he got it coming.”

To his surprise, that actually got him a low chuckle.

“No, he wasn’t staff,” Petrenko graciously allowed, “and he was rather annoying.”

He eyed the motionless body with detached nonchalance and Carlisle knew without a doubt this wasn’t the first dead body the man had ever seen. He looked as if he was already calculating the best way to get rid of any evidence that could lead back to him.

“Although, I’m not all that pleased at having a corpse laying on my club floor,”  he said eventually.

Carlisle shrugged, pulling up one shoulder in a careless gesture.

“No big deal. There’s an underground station nearby, innit? Just toss him onto the tracks. It’ll look like a suicide. Problem solved.”

A sly smile formed on Petrenko’s face.

“You’re quite resourceful, I’ll admit,” he praised, making Carlisle’s skin crawl at the fake sincerity in his voice.

He was back to his flattering game, it seemed.

That could be a good sign.

“I like you,” the man continued, casually, “So how about we make ourselves a deal, shall we? You take that body out of here and get rid of it. Permanently. There’s a side door that leads into an alley with no camera’s, so if you’re fast and careful, you won’t be seen.”

Carlisle raised an eyebrow.

Apparently, Petrenko was already covering his bases.

By getting Carlisle to get rid of the body, he was taking one less risk at being caught with a corpse on his hands. And if the cops ever did find out the poor clerk had been at this club and had not left it alive, the oily club owner could always point to the big bad vampire as the one responsible. And surely the cops couldn’t expect him to try and intervene when there was a vampire involved, now could they?

It was a clever move.

Then again, Carlisle had come to expect nothing less. Petrenko was clearly not a newbie at this kind of thing.

“And what’s in it for me?” he shot back, allowing suspicion to lace his tone.

 Another smile, broader now.

“In return, I’ll get you some quality time with some …” Petrenko lowered his voice suggestively “… fresh girls. And at a discount even. I have quite a selection, so I’m sure you’ll find something that’ll please you.”

The implication was very thinly veiled.

“Now, there’s a thought.” Carlisle hedged, before smirking, “Just how fresh are we talking about here?”

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed,” was the only response he got.

He didn’t dare push any further lest he tipped the man off. This op was already going much better than he’d expected. After all, the deal he’d just been offered was exactly what they’d hoped to achieve.

A way to lead them to the missing girls.

To Michelle.

As ecstatic as he was at the offer, he kept himself in check, pretending to mull over the trade.

Then, he grinned “Well, why the hell not? Looks like you got yourself a deal, buddy.”

He bent down and scooped up Lance’s limp form, ostensibly tossing him over his shoulder in a careless manner.

“I’ll see you in a bit. Better make that discount a good one.”

Petrenko just smiled and showed him to the emergency exit from where he could leave.

“I look forward to your visit, my new fanged friend.”

The door hadn’t clicked entirely shut yet, before Carlisle took off running, keeping to the shadowy side streets and blurring past anything that could possibly have cameras fast enough the image would be nothing but a streak of white.

As fake as everything had been, he had no desire to actually be seen with a seemingly dead body in his arms.

God forbid one of his patients spotted him like that.

He stopped only when he was a good few blocks away from the club and in a deserted dead-end back alley where he carefully took his lover down from his shoulder and into his arms bridal style.

“Are you alright, my love?”

For a moment, his earlier fears of frightening his lover to the point of scaring him away for good returned.

What if Lance had suddenly realized he’d bitten of more than he could chew?

What if he felt unsafe after such a show of violence?

But when Lance opened his eyes to grin up at him, his eyes twinkled madly with mischief.

“We did it. We actually did it.”

Immediately Carlisle’s gaze softened.

God, he was so lucky to have such an amazing man as his mate.

Not only was the human completely unbothered by what he had just gone through, he was actually giddy with excitement at what they had pulled off.

No trace of fear in his eyes, not a hint of worry on his face.

So gosh darn lucky.

“We did, love,” Carlisle replied fondly, before gently setting his lover back down on his own two feet, bringing his hands up to his neck to check the bite mark he’d left.

Lance swatted his hand away playfully. “I’m fine, love, you can heal me in a bit. First, let’s let Booth know where we are so that he can pick us up, shall we?”

A quick check on Lance’s phone showed the name of the street they were currently in and repeating it out loud for the wire to pick up would be enough to have Booth wheeling in their direction soon.

Only then did Lance allow the vampire’s careful inspection of the wound.

Apart from where the fangs had dug deeper, the imprint of teeth was relatively shallow. They’d only broken the skin enough to draw blood.

Good.

Carlisle had tried to be as gentle as possible, but had feared he’d still done more harm than needed. It wasn’t always easy to regulate his strength, especially while still trying to make it look as real and vicious as he could.

The line between believable and too much was very thin in this case.

Lance’s thrashing about had, of course, acerbated the injury a bit, tearing at the edges, making the bite look sloppy and causing it to bleed more, but Carlisle had been able to keep a firm enough hold on his mate to ensure he didn’t accidentally do any real damage. He’d also stayed away from any major arteries for that same reason.

All in all, the wound looked far worse than it was, but he’d be more than glad to see it completely healed regardless.

After all, it must still have hurt to have been at the receiving end of it.

Guilt flared.

“I’m sorry. I hurt you, didn’t I?”

Lance grabbed the hand that was hovering over his neck and pressed a kiss to it, ignoring that Carlisle’s fingers were slightly coated with his own blood where he’d touched the wound.

“Hey now, none of that”, he rebuked gently, “We knew what we were getting into. Besides, it really wasn’t that bad. It was a bit of a shock at first, but it wasn’t really all that painful.”

Carlisle gave him a smile, but he knew it must not have been a very convincing one, because Lance gave him a pointed look.

Then, the human shrugged, suddenly nonchalant.

“Actually, it was kind of a letdown to be honest.”

What?

Carlisle felt his eyebrows shoot almost into his hairline at that.

Lance grinned at his expression.

“Yeah, I mean, I thought I’d get a glimpse of that dark and sexy Dracula vibe today, but alas! You should really step up you game, lover, because that was just a pathetic evil fang bite.”

His smile was radiant and just full of mischief.

And as guilty as he felt about harming his mate, Carlisle couldn’t stop the chuckle from escaping, his mood lifting.

“Dracula huh?” he questioned as he pulled his mate closer, “You might want to be careful what you wish for, love.”

Their lips brushed ever so briefly, before Carlisle pulled away.

This wasn’t the time nor place.

They were at work. And Booth was still listening in on their entire conversation through the wire.

He shot his mate a smile, before raising his hand once more to delicately brush his fingers over the wound, allowing his healing magic to seep into Lance’s skin. Immediately, the edges of the injury started to knit together.

Lance hummed appreciatively.

“Feels nice,” he said, closing his eyes to enjoy the sensation.

In less than a minute, there was nothing left of the bite other than some dried blood on his skin and a stained collar.

The cavalry chose that moment to arrive, pulling into the alley.

Booth jumped out of the back as soon as the car had come to a stop.

“You okay?” he asked swiftly, reaching for Lance and tilting his head to check for injuries.

Lance allowed him his scrutiny for a moment before batting his hands away.

“I’m fine, Booth, Carlisle already healed me.”

“Right, and you’re sure you’re okay? Not dizzy? You need to lay down or something?”

Carlisle had to turn away to hide his amusement at the amount of mother henning the agent was doing.

“I’m fine, Booth,” he heard his lover repeat, more sternly this time, but the man in question ignored the tone completely and continued fussing, much to Lance’s obvious annoyance.

To save his lover from any further embarrassment, Carlisle swiftly intervened.

“I’d say our ruse worked perfectly,” he said, drawing Booth’s attention onto him, “Petrenko even offered me his …” He made a disgusted face. “… selection of fresh girls.”

That got the agent back into work mode.

“Yeah, he did. We’re this close to hanging him with his own rope.”

He brought his thumb and pointer finger together to demonstrate just how close they were.

And yet, Carlisle had the feeling there was a ‘but’ coming.

Lance, apparently, though the same thing.

“So, does that mean we have enough for a warrant now?”

There was hesitation in the human’s voice, as if he was expecting a negative answer to that.

And he was right.

“Possibly, but even if it’s enough, I don’t think we should use it just yet.”

Carlisle frowned.

With how many girls were already dead, he’d assumed Booth would want to move in as quickly as possible. And they knew for certain now that Petrenko had illegal girls in his employ. His own words had alluded to that.

“Why not?” he asked.

Booth made a face.

“As much as I want to nail the bastard as soon as possible, if he’s not keeping the girls on club property, we might not find them with our search,” he cautioned, ”And without the girls, or any other conclusive evidence, we won’t be able to hold him for long. Twenty-four hours at most.”

Carlisle understood at once what he meant.

“And when he’s released, his first move might be to get rid of the girls entirely as a precaution,” he followed Booth’s obvious train of thought.

The agent gave a terse nod. “Exactly.”

“Right, it’s a risk we can’t afford,” Lance concluded, “So, we’re continuing the ruse then? Since Carlisle did manage to get a standing invitation, getting him in to get eyes on the girls would be the logical next step.”

Another nod.

“Yep.” Then he turned to Carlisle. “If you’re up for that, Cullen?”

His tone indicated he was asking to be polite, but wasn’t really expecting a no for an answer.

Carlisle didn’t mind. The worst part, in his opinion, harming his mate to gain the club owner’s trust, was over. So he’d be able to play his role for a while longer.

He inclined his head.

“Alright!” Booth exclaimed, clapping him on the back. “Then we continue tomorrow,” before turning to step back inside the van.

Sharing a small smile between them, Carlisle and Lance followed suit.

Looks like the show wasn’t over just yet.

And they had some preparations to make.

Chapter Text

As the glare of the early afternoon sun made diamonds out of his skin, Carlisle stepped through the black double doors and into the dim, stale air of the gentlemen’s club once again, only one day after gaining Petrenko’s trust.

Last night had been hell for all of them. Knowing that Michelle and lord knows how many other girls might be in here and not yet being able to make their move had been maddening. Carlisle had been fighting the prickling urge to simply come and tear this place apart and be done with it all day.

After their little performance yesterday, they’d spent the rest of the afternoon strategizing and working out how to play today’s rescue attempt. In the end, they’d decided to go for simplicity. Carlisle would go in and would ask for his reward. They were hoping Petrenko might be keeping the girls close by, on club property or at least somewhere near there.

Under Carlisle’s plain black T-shirt, a wire lay snug against his skin, stretched across his chest. The tiny camera hidden in one of his leather jacket studs was so expertly disguised that even his sharpened vision had struggled to spot it earlier. Booth’s techs had done their job well.

Out in the street, two vans sat innocuously parked, strike teams hidden inside, watching him in real time. Every step, every breath was being fed directly onto their screens.

Carlisle’s task was to get eyes on the girls. Once he could visually confirm their presence, Booth would give the order to move in.

Casually, he glanced around the club, cataloguing every detail without letting his eyes linger. His colored contacts tinted the already burgundy dominated space in a red mist, giving the – perhaps dramatic – impression the whole room was bathed in a haze of fresh blood.

It was only one in the afternoon and the place was deserted. Too early yet for patrons. The stages were empty. No girls were dancing, or even rehearsing. Just a solitary server wiping down tables near the main stage, the rag dragging lazy arcs through yesterday’s alcohol and grime.

Good.

The emptiness meant fewer witnesses. And thus more likelihood that Petrenko would take the bait and lead him to the girls.

That, and, of course, fewer people to get in the way when Booth’s team came crashing in.

He strolled to the bar, tilted his head slightly toward the camera, and gave it a lazy, arrogant smile, just a hint of fang peeking from his lips to sell the role.

The same bartender from the day before was behind the counter. She froze when she spotted him, eyes widening. She didn’t even bother pretending to finish wiping the glass in her hands, instead rushing through the door behind her without a word.

He allowed a faint sneer curl his lip at her reaction and took a seat in the same bare stool he’d occupied the day before

Petrenko didn’t keep him waiting.

The man appeared in the doorway with the self-assured gait of someone who believed the world bent to his convenience. Whether he’d been watching from the security room or the bartender had alerted him, Carlisle didn’t know, and honestly didn’t care.

The club owner grinned, all false warmth.

“Damon,” he greeted him by his fake name, as if the vampire were an old friend dropping by.

It made Carlisle’s skin crawl.

But he smirked in reply. “Read the paper this morning?”

To cement their cover story that Carlisle had killed the wannabe blackmailer and had tossed his body under a train, the local police department had released a short statement that a body had been found on the tracks, mangled beyond recognition, and that they were still in the process of identifying the victim. However, they had hinted that it seemed to be a relatively clear-cut case of suicide. No foul play involved. The press had run with the story and it had appeared in a short notice on page six of today’s newspaper.

The smile Petrenko gave him was answer enough, but his words sealed it.

“I did. Well done. Very tidy. Guess our annoying little friend was tired of being an office grunt after all.”

He chuckled at his own joke.

Carlisle let his lip twitch, the barest echo of approval.

Then, he leered. “Now, about that reward.”

Petrenko smiled, oily and obviously pleased with himself to have gotten a new customer.

“Of course, you’ve kept your end of the bargain, now I will gladly keep mine.”

He fished a phone from his pocket. An older model, Carlisle noticed, and the sim cart slot on the side was missing.

Probably a precaution should the device ever fall in the wrong hands.

The device lit up as Petrenko put in the code to unlock the screen.

“I have a wide range of… delightful options.”

He selected a picture folder and handed Carlisle the phone, encouraging him to swipe and see which one he liked best.

The photographs were nauseating.

Girls.

Young, underdressed, eyes red from crying, shoulders hunched in fear.

Carlisle kept his face perfectly neutral while disgust roiled in his gut.

“They can be fed from,” Petrenko said, like he was explaining cuts of meat, “but if you want to kill one, you gotta buy her first. A break the merch, buy the merch kind of thing.” He grinned. “Since you did me a favor, I’ll set you up for half price. Two fifty gets you full use for two whole hours. Lap dance, sex, feeding, whatever you want. Go wild. Just no killing.”

Carlisle felt sick at the nonchalant way the man was talking about these girls as if they were objects, toys to be used and discarded for their buyer’s pleasure. He kept himself busy swiping, going through the girls photographed in different positions. In some of them, they were even forced to pose for the camera.

Then he almost froze.

The next picture was Michelle.

She looked terrified, her mouth slightly open and lips twisted as if she was in the midst of saying something, perhaps begging for her freedom, her braces flashing faintly in the dim light of the photograph.

“This one,” he said, “She looks … nubile.”

The words tasted like ash.

Petrenko’s grin widened, vile and self-satisfied.

“Ah, excellent choice. She’s the youngest I currently have. A bit chubby, but that makes her all the more voluptuous, don’t you think? And …” He lowered his voice as if to share a little secret between friends. “… she’s still pure.”

He spoke as though that somehow increased her value to a potential buyer. As if the vampire might enjoy taking that first from her.

His tone made Carlisle want to tear his throat out on the spot.

Voluptuous.

Pure.

This was a child they were talking about.

“Is that so?”

Somehow, he managed to make his words come out to sound like perverted interest rather than a death threat.

“Oh yes, she’s not a classic beauty looks-wise, so she’s not chosen often and hasn’t been broken in yet. She’s quite the dancer though.”

Carlisle’s hands itched to act, to end this man’s existence right here and now.

God help him, he wanted more than anything to tear this disgusting piece of filth to shreds.

He forced himself to calm.

Michelle was alive. And by some miracle still unviolated.

Right now, that was all that really mattered.

They’d get her out of here soon.

Two hundred fifty dollars changed hands and soon Petrenko was leading him to a large back room with mirrored walls, a private bar, and gleaming poles. The air smelled faintly of sweat and expensive perfume gone stale.

“This is where our private parties are held,” the owner explained, a hint of smug pride in his voice. “Not even my staff is allowed in here when the room is in use to make sure my special clients have full privacy. Feel free to use the whole space to chase around your chosen girl if you so desire. I want you to enjoy her to the fullest.”

Carlisle said nothing, just forced a lecherous grin.

“Take a seat, make yourself at home. I’ll be right back with your nubile little treat.”

Petrenko walked to what seemed at first glance to be a solid wall with a keypad, only to disappeared behind a skillfully hidden door that opened at the right code being entered.

That must be where he kept the girls.

Carlisle had kept his eyes on Petrenko’s hands as he’d entered the code.

4 7 1 5 9

He’d passing that along to Booth in case the camera image hadn’t been clear enough to pick it up.

He settled uncomfortably in one of the burgundy velvet chairs near a dancing pole, subtly adjusting his jacket so the camera had an unobstructed view.

When Petrenko returned, he had Michelle in tow, one hand keeping a firm grip on her upper arm as he all but dragged her inside. She was trembling, barefoot and dressed in a skimpy dress that was too small and much too revealing for her. It barely concealed her underwear.

Her eyes locked onto Carlisle’s red ones and widened in horror. Immediately she tried to break from Petrenko’s grip to run away, back to where she’d come from. Petrenko was unperturbed and just yanked her forward roughly, shoving her in Carlisle’s direction.

She stood there, shaking like a leaf, moving her head side to side while mumbling almost incoherently. Most of her speech was too jumbled to understand, but the gist of it was clear.

Please don’t kill me.

Petrenko gave her another shove and fiddled with a remote. On cue, sultry, sensual music started to play. The kind that usually ended up on ‘seductive music for love-making’ playlists on Spotify and YouTube.

“Go on,” he told her, “Dance!”

She stood frozen until he barked at her again.

Squeezing her eyes shut, tears slipping free, she began to slowly sway to the melody.

Carlisle’s hands tightened around the plush chair arms.

Keep it together, he told himself sternly, while leaning back in his seat, aiming for a relaxed posture and keeping his smirk firmly plastered in place.

Now that he’d confirmed that Michelle – and likely the other girls as well – were on the property, Booth would be moving in soon. They might already be storming at the door right this instant.

Yet, no sound reached him that indicated any kind of commotion.

When Petrenko ordered Michelle to the pole, adding in a hint that her guest might not kill her if she pleased him enough, she obeyed, moving with a strange mix of awkwardness and surprising grace. She had a feel for rhythm and might actually have made a good dancer if she wasn’t being forced.

She hadn’t looked Carlisle in the eye since that first moment of recognition what he was.

He kept his gaze on her, seemingly enthralled.

He had to.

If he didn’t, he wasn’t certain he could remain calm enough not to lunge at the vile circus master running this despicable show.

“There’s a good girl,” Petrenko shouted at her encouragingly, obviously pleased at his guest’s enthusiasm. “Show him what you got.”

Then, he went a step further.

“Go on and give him a lap dance, sweetness. The man’s paid for you, so let’s give him some money’s worth.”

Michelle stilled.

“I …”

“Go on, girl!”

She crept forward, her arms folded over her chest protectively in a futile attempt to shield herself from the fate she was undoubtably imagining and dreading.

She stopped four feet away, and moved her hips without closing the distance, sliding her hands down over her body in an awkward attempt to copy what she had likely seen older dancers do in music videos and the like.

Carlisle forced an appreciative look and allowed his smirk to widen for a moment.

Meanwhile, he was wondering what on earth was taking Booth so long. They should have been inside by now. Was something wrong with the camera? Did they not see what was happening right in front of him?

He shifted his jacket subtly, once more adjusting the camera.

Petrenko was apparently losing patience with her reluctance to obey as he snapped at her again, ordering her to “give her guest a feel of her body”.

Carlisle cursed in his head.

They were running out of time before he’d be forced to actually let her perform a lap dance to keep his cover. Since he had no intention of allowing that to happen, he tried to stall for time.

“No, let her dance,” he countered, “I like watching. And I want to take my time with her.”

Petrenko was mollified at that and he subsided for now, only keeping a close eye on Michelle as she was entertaining her guest.

The song changed from its previous melody into something more upbeat and the club owner turned up the volume.

That’s when Carlisle finally heard it.

A crash, yelling, boots thudding on the ground. Booth had made his move.

Finally.

Relief flickered in his chest. They’d be here soon.

Petrenko made no indication at having heard the commotion over the music. Neither did Michelle.

However, as the man jeered again at Michelle to “show her worth”, lifting his arms in a mock dance, Carlisle spotted something metallic underneath Petrenko’s dark vest.

He froze.

He’d been to the shooting range with Lance often enough to recognize the but of a gun sticking out of a shoulder holster.

This complicated things.

A hostile firearm in the mix could lead to a shootout, with Michelle caught in the crosshairs.

He needed to get her into a position where he could protect her if it came to that.

Thinking fast, and without breaking character, he patted his lap.

“Come join me, lassy, I’m ready for that lap dance now.”

Michelle began crying harder, tears running down her cheeks like a salted waterfall.

“Please …” she begged, her voice barely audible.

Petrenko’s temper obviously flared at her non-compliance, but Carlisle intervened before the man could open his mouth.

He stood, crossing to her, keeping his movements languid, predatory. He took a fistful of her hair,  gently enough not to hurt, but firm enough to sell the act, and drew her closer to him, holding her in place.

Her tears turned to frightened gasps.

“Please … Please …”

God, he hated this. Hated the person he was portraying to be. He had sworn never to become a monster and yet to this girl, that was exactly what he was. He saw himself reflected in those big watery eyes and saw nothing but cruel intent and malice.

He wanted to ease her worry, to soothe her tears and let her know she would be alright. He needed to reassure her in some way. That she was safe with him. That he would only protect her, never harm. That he was not who she believed him to be.

On impulse, he leaned closer, ostensibly to smell her hair, nuzzling down the side of her head and keeping his face turned away from Petrenko’s line of sight.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured into her ear, voice too soft for any human but her to pick up over the music. “I’m working with the government. A rescue team’s coming. Just play along.”

A shuddering breath left her lips.

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could give her for now.

He couldn’t risk tipping of Petrenko and give him time to bolt.

He straightened, letting the leer return, and addressed the vile club owner once more.

“She smells divine. How much to buy her?”

Petrenko seemed pretty chuffed at that and named his price. A high one. And yet, one that was pitifully low considering it was a human life they were trading.

Carlisle pretended to consider it, then started haggling. Just to buy some more time and keep the slimeball busy. They were in the middle of coming to an agreement, when, finally, the door burst open.

Agents poured in, weapons raised, Booth in the lead, carrying an assault rifle rather than his usual hand-held piece.

Immediately, Carlisle moved, pulling Michelle behind him and putting himself in between her and Petrenko as a shield. If the man was dumb enough to start shooting, no stray bullet coming towards her would get past him. 

However, luckily for them – and Petrenko – the man wasn’t suicidal or stupid enough to take on an entire team of armed forces.

He surrendered immediately, already claiming things were not what they looked like.

Carlisle wondered how long it would take him to try and spin the whole thing on his vampire guest.

As one of the agents disarmed and cuffed the club owner, dragging him out immediately after, Booth kept his rifle aimed at the ground and turned to Michelle.

“Are you alright?” he asked her, his tone as gentle as if he was talking to his own daughter.

No response came from the frightened girl other than her ragged breaths. She seemed completely unable to get her voice to work.

So Carlisle answered for her, his gift quickly confirming what his eyes had already spotted. She was bruised and had a few scrapes and cuts on her arms, but no severe injuries.

“Physically, she is relatively unharmed.”

Booth shot him a look at his deliberate use of the word ‘physically’. They both knew that while her bodily injuries would be taken care of soon enough, it would take a long time to heal the mental scars this ordeal had left.

She still wasn’t looking anyone in the eye, especially Carlisle, keeping her gaze on the ground instead, desperately trying not to anger anyone into harming her.

Careful not to spook her even further, Carlisle slowly shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her bare shoulders, trying to give her at least some semblance of comfort. A pitiful buffer against the chill of the room and the many eyes trained on her. She shivered under his touch, but said nothing.

Then he turned back to Booth.

“There are other girls on the property, behind that door,” he pointed to the hidden entryway Petrenko had gone through to retrieve Michelle. “Code to the keypad is 4 7 1 5 9.”

Booth nodded to his team and they immediately went to check it out, some of them entering the code and cautiously moving in, while others headed towards the other doors in the room to secure the rest of the building.

Carlisle stayed where he was, as did Booth.

The agent gently took over Michelle, guiding her down to sit on the same plush seat Carlisle had occupied moments earlier. She went without protest, still refusing to look up.

“It’s alright, Michelle,” he soothed, his voice low, “It’s over. You’re safe now. That asshole won’t be able to hurt you ever again.”

Very hesitantly, as if she wasn’t quite ready to believe him, her head lifted.

“It’s okay,” Booth continued, “We’re with the FBI, see?” He pulled out his badge and held it for her to see. “You’re safe.”

Her shoulders shook. Then shook again.

And then the dam broke.

Heartbreaking sobs tore free from her throat, wails of desperate relief.

Folding in on herself, her knees pulling up to her chest and her arms wrapping around them, she wept.

It was over.

Chapter Text

Lance stood with his arms loosely folded, gaze fixed on Petrenko through the one-way mirror. The man sitting in interrogation room one was sweating heavily, his bulky frame hunched forward like he was bracing for a storm, but clinging to some illusion of composure, jaw tight, eyes darting to the door every few seconds as if willing his lawyer to materialize.

It had been the first thing out of the club owner’s mouth when he’d been read his Miranda rights.

“I want my lawyer.”

He hadn’t said another word after that.

But he was nervous. Very much so. And he should be.

They had him. 

No circumstantial, I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about deniable clues that were difficult to pin on him and easily explained away by a competent lawyer, but actual, undeniable, brutal evidence that would see him locked away for life.

Petrenko was done for.

And he knew it.

It should have been satisfying, seeing him cornered. Caught red-handed and reduced to this uncomfortable, twitchy mess. But Lance couldn’t quite get there. Not with Michelle’s terrified face burned into his mind.

She’d been just a kid. All of them were.

The image of her clutching her mother in the hospital, shaking so hard she could barely breathe, still knotted his stomach.

After a thorough sweep of the club, they had found five more girls behind the hidden door, locked in actual cages. Metal frames with steel bars and everything. They had looked relatively healthy, but were understandably terrified. Several of them carried bruises and two girls even had bite marks on their wrists, arms or shoulders. All of them had cried hysterically when the rescue team had finally been recognised as such.

They had immediately been transferred to the Georgetown hospital for treatment, while their parents had been notified. The specific corridor were the girls were being treated had all but echoed with wails of relief and broken sobs as they were reunited with their families after months of living a nightmare.

The result of the first examinations had already shown that most girls had been sexually assaulted. Michelle had been the only one miraculously having escaped such fate. Their statements had all been similar. They had been out alone, either walking or biking home from a party, taking a stroll, or even just walking home from school late when the after-school activities had kept them longer than expected, and were snatched from the street.

They didn’t remember much about the kidnapping itself, only that they woke tied up in the back of a van and with a horrible taste in their mouth. Lance had immediately assumed they’d been drugged as they also mentioned their sight being blurry for hours after waking. As a result, none of them could describe the men who had taken them well enough to make a police sketch. All they could tell, was that they’d been taken by people with masks.

They had been in the van for a while before stopping and being pulled out to be handed to two other men after money had exchanged hands. One of the men had been Petrenko. The other accomplice was currently still unidentified, but Booth was hoping to get the club owner to rat them out.

According to the girls’ testimonies, once in their new master’s hands they had been forced to perform private dances and sexual acts and even had to allow vampires to feed on them. Kelly was one of the girls who’d been fed on, but the vampire had gone too far and had killed her in his ardour for her blood.

Michelle had watched it happen.

So, when she had been told to dance for Carlisle and had spotted his red eyes, she had been so utterly terrified she was going to end up the same way Kelly had.

After consulting with his colleagues, Carlisle had decided that being in the presence of a vampire might be too traumatizing after everything the girls had gone through, so they had offered the victims and their parents the choice whether or not they wanted him to heal their injuries.

Two had chosen to be healed, the rest had not.

Lance had been in the room when Michelle had refused the offer. She’d kept her gaze on the floor, her voice small. The very thought of another vampire was enough to make her tremble.

He knew she wasn’t rejecting Carlisle the man, but Carlisle the idea. The red eyes, the too-sharp teeth, the vivid reminder of Kelly’s lifeless body. And he knew Carlisle understood.

But … he’d seen his eyes after being told of her choice. He’d watched his shoulders stiffen, the slight dip of his chin as if swallowing something that hurt. And he knew his lover was still carrying Michelle’s fear like a stone in his chest.

It had been the right call to keep up the cover.

When the sound and camera feed had cut out abruptly upon Carlisle entering the private party room, they had been blind and completely unable to tell whether or not the vampire had confirmed the girls were there. The loss of intel had forced them to wait as they couldn’t afford to risk moving in too soon and ruining their only chance at finding them.

But that didn’t make it easier to know Michelle had spent those long minutes convinced she was going to die.

By Carlisle’s hands.

And Lance hated that his lover had been forced to stand there, playing the villain, for the sake of their cover. He knew how much it cost him to see such fear reflected back at him. To see in her eyes all the others that had turned from him when they’d found out his true identity.

I never want you to fear me, Lance.

Carlisle’s words from their conversation days ago resurfaced.

He’d phrased it as not wanting Lance, his mate, specifically to be afraid of him, claiming that the rest of the world didn’t bother him all that much, but Lance knew that to be a lie.

How could it not bother him?

Carlisle had spent his entire life making up for what he’d become, throwing his everything into helping others. Only to be regarded with distrust regardless.

It must hurt. There was no way it didn’t.

Sure, Carlisle was fine using his fangs to rile up a suspect from time to time, perhaps even taking a measure of satisfaction when they spilled all their secrets and got caught in a lie that helped crack the case. Most of the people they’d used that particular tactic on were guilty anyway and Lance knew that helped put things in perspective for his lover.

But frightening an innocent girl, even to keep his cover?

That was something else altogether.

When the equipment had finally come back online, they’d moved instantly upon seeing Michelle’s terrified face on their screens, but the damage had already been done.

I never want you to fear me.

Yet Michelle had had no reason not to.

Beside him, Carlisle’s voice was quiet but steady, delivering a medical update straight from his hospital colleagues.

“Physically, they’re all expected to make a full recovery. But counseling will be… essential. It will take time for them to come to terms with what’s happened to them.”

Of course it would.

These kids had gone through hell. Eventually, their skins would stop showing any marks to remind them of the ordeal, but Lance understood better than most how long it took for the invisible wounds to even begin to heal.

Brennan made an agreeing sound from where she stood.

“Mental scars are a bit like bones. New tissue grows over a break, and often the bone even becomes stronger afterwards, but the damage will always remain visible, no matter how well it heals.”

A surprisingly astute comparison.

She had been glaring daggers at Petrenko for a while, but seemed to have realized she couldn’t exactly intimidate him when he couldn’t see her and had given up to go and lean against the back wall instead, as they listened to Carlisle’s report.

“Most of the girls will be kept for another two days or so for observation, just to be on the safe side, but they’ll be allowed to go home after,” the vampire continued. “All of them will have at least one parent stay with them overnight until then.”

Lance caught the wistful note in his lover’s voice. He knew how much he longed to be able to do more to help these kids, to erase their pain and take it upon himself if he could.

He shifted just enough for his arm to brush against Carlisle’s. He wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around the man and give him comfort, but knew he couldn’t. Not here. It was one thing to touch freely when they were alone in his office, or when at the Jeffersonian with only their friends as witnesses, but he doubted it’d be appreciated if they were caught here. It wouldn’t be professional. Especially with the lawyer set to arrive at any moment. If he saw them like that, he’d most certainly try and use it against them

So this subtle touch would have to do for now.

Carlisle glanced down at him, the smallest smile tugging at his lips before he leaned into the touch, just barely. A silent thank you.

He knew what Lance was trying to convey here.

Lance smiled back before turning his attention to Booth, who was muttering mutinously in Petrenko’s direction on the other side of the glass. The agent crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, leaning back on the balls of his feet, only to shift his position and cross his arms again in the span of less than two minutes.

He was clearly itching to get started on the vile club owner.

“Lawyer’s taking his sweet time,” he groused. “What’s the hold-up, traffic? A spa appointment?”

“Maybe they saw just how screwed their client was and ran off in the other direction?” Lance offered, trying to lighten the mood.

It got a wry grin from Booth.

“You know,” Lance continued, speculatively eying the man in the other room. “I’m quite curious how he’ll react when he sees me walk in. Should be a shock, considering I’m supposed to be bloodless and very dead under a train right now.”

He tried to picture the man’s face at the exact moment they walked in there. That undeniable flicker of surprise in Petrenko’s eyes when he realized Lance was very much alive and kicking. He wondered how the club owner would try to make sense of it. Would he realize the whole thing had been a set-up from the start? Or perhaps he’d think Lance had an identical twin or something?

In any case, it was going to be very satisfying.

Booth’s mouth curved in a grin. “Yeah, that ought to be fun.”

Brennan nodded in agreement. “What is it that Jack McClane said in that movie? Surprise, motherfucker?”

She tried to make a Bruce Willis impression that wasn’t quite on the mark, but was amusing nonetheless.

“John McClane, Bones, his name is John McClane,” Booth corrected, “And it’s Yippee-Ki-Yay, motherfucker. Please don’t butcher iconic movie lines. It’s heresy.”

Brennan shrugged. “Close enough.”

She turned to Carlisle. “Will you be joining the interrogation?”

Lance expected an immediate yes. Of course he would. Carlisle had been part of this whole case from the beginning and he deserved to be there when they ended it with a written confession from Petenko’s hand.

But the vampire shook his head. “No, I’ll sit this one out.”

Lance turned sharply.

What?

The refusal caught him off guard entirely.

He’d thought Carlisle would be chomping at the bit to look Petrenko in the eyes as the realization dawned how utterly screwed he was. Even if only to make up for the terror he’d had to cause Michelle to catch him.

“Why?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Carlisle’s eyes avoided his and landed on Petrenko through the glass. “Because I don’t trust myself not to lose my temper if I’m in the same room with him.”

The words were calm and measured, but Lance caught the quiet hum just underneath the surface.

Anger.

It simmered like smoldering embers in a fireplace that hadn’t died out just yet. Not quite burning, but hot enough to flare when poked with stick. Or, in this case, a club owner.

Carlisle wasn’t just struggling with the aftermath of the mission, or with his own insecurities.

He was angry.

Angry at the man who’d made all of this necessary. At the man who’d taken at least a dozen girls from their families and had forced them into sexual slavery. The man who’d directly caused the death of six of them, that they knew of.

Petrenko was everything Carlisle reviled.

Someone who preyed on innocents, who used others as puppets for his own gain and cared nothing for the hurt he caused. A predator in every sense of the word.

But they’d put a stop to him. That human-shaped piece of crap wouldn’t get to harm anyone else.

He leaned into his lover’s side once more, a little less subtle than before, offering him a soft smile. A gentle reminder that he wasn’t alone in this. That Lance understood. That he did not blame him for his anger.

Booth helped in a different, less subtle way, by loudly snorting.

“Well, if you want to rip his head off, I’m not stopping you.”

The crude remark actually drew a faint, but real smile from the vampire. Lance could see the tension in his shoulders loosen, just a fraction. He doubted Booth had deliberately intended for his impulsive quip to be a soothing balm to Carlisle’s temper, but the effect was there regardless. 

Lance knew it wasn’t so much the words that had done the trick, but more the easy camaraderie with which they’d been said.

Not even a year ago, the agent would never have made a joke like that. Not exactly worried Carlisle might take it as a serious invitation per se, but more uncomfortable to be joking with the vampire in general.

Now, though, things were different. Had been for a while now, even though Lance couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the change had taken place.

But he had noticed it. And so had Carlisle.

Booth hadn’t exactly been happy about the whole “pretend to kill the shrink” plan, but he’d given them his trust. He’d let them play their roles. And he still felt comfortable enough to tease Carlisle in spite of his earlier misgivings.

Booth might not say it outright, but he liked and trusted the fanged doctor more than he let on.

It mattered.

“As tempting as that sounds,” Carlisle retorted sardonically, “I think I’ll pass.”

Booth shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah, you’re right. Death’s too good for him.”

Brennan jumped in with her own joke. “Besides, he’d probably taste terrible too.”

She seemed exceedingly proud of her attempt and even more so that it actually got a fond smile from the vampire.

Booth gave her a smirk that seemed to say “Well, look at you, Bones, joking around like that”, followed by a smug look that clearly conveyed “I taught her that”.

Lance had to hide a grin at their byplay.

Honestly, these people were so easy to read once you got to know them. He wondered why he’d ever seen them as a challenge when they’d first been referred to him years ago.

Okay, maybe that was a lie. They still were a challenge sometimes.

A challenge on his nerves mostly.

Pleased with the reactions she got, Brennan decided to up the ante. “Ooh, maybe we should punish him like the Gaul tribes did adulterers, stripping him bare and sending him on a walk of shame throughout the entire city. He can walk all the way to his own prison cell.”

Booth immediately made a disgusted face. “Ew, Bones, that’s disgusting! No one wants to see that guy’s naked flabby but.”

Lance could only agree with that. He’d much rather see his lover’s naked but, thank you very much.

“No, if we’re talking punishments,” the agent continued, “I’d go for something like dropping him in the middle of the desert with no water.”

They quickly slipped into a darkly comic rhythm, throwing out increasingly outlandish, and lethal, punishments. Sending him to clean a herd of crocodiles’ teeth with a toothbrush. Dropping him in a large fish tank filled with piranhas. Tying him to a rocket and shooting him to the moon. Dipping him in honey and putting him on a Myrmecia ant hill.

That last one had been a suggestion from Brennan. Myrmecia, or bulldog ants, were considered one of the most dangerous ant species in the world and apparently some tribes in New Zealand had historically used the critters to administer the death penalty to the most vile of murderers.

Leave it to her to come up with a suggestion like that. She almost sounded like Hodgins.

By the time the lawyer finally arrived, the mood had lifted considerably.

The man in the suit didn’t bother coming to greet the observing people, even if they were the arresting officers. Instead, he walked straight into the interrogation room. Petrenko’s posture changed the second the door closed, like a drowning man seeing a lifeboat.

Lance watched as the lawyer turned off the microphone from inside the room. The sound cut out abruptly. They could still see the two men behind the glass, but could no longer hear them.

It was standard procedure. They were required by law to give Petrenko privacy to speak with his legal counsel after all, and those meetings were supposed to be confidential.

So no listening in for them.

Except … Carlisle was a vampire. He had supernaturally good hearing. Hell, the man could hear a mouse scurry about from three rooms down the hall.

And he was standing there with his head slightly tilted and a somewhat smug smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

Booth gave him a suspicious look.

“Can you …?”

Rather than answer the question, Carlisle told them what they really wanted to know.

“It seems our late-coming lawyer is already aware of just what Petrenko has been arrested for. He’s currently trying to convince him that he’s in deep trouble and that his best bet to avoid life in prison would be to cut a deal. Give up his accomplices and make a plea for leniency.”

Booth harrumphed. “Well, at least he’s got some common sense.”

Brennan shushed him. “What else is he saying?”

Carlisle continued reciting the conversation in a low murmur.

“Petrenko is not liking that option and wants to know if there isn’t another way. He wants to claim extenuating circumstances. Pretend it was all his accomplices’ idea and he was forced into participating. He’s also floating the idea of claiming I was the one leading the whole operation and he was just too scared for his life to say no to a fang”

An attempt to shift the blame then. Not exactly unexpected.

Booth couldn’t stop a dry laugh from escaping at that. “Ha, fat chance! He’s not getting away with that.”

“Hmm, looks like his lawyer shares your opinion.” Carlisle smirked. “He’s explaining the facts of life to his client, it seems.”

Carlisle fell silent for a moment as they observed the lawyer trying to get his point across, gesticulating agitatedly.

“Petrenko seems to think he still has a bargaining chip up his sleeve.”

That drew a scoff from Booth. “Like what? He’ll give up his club crew in exchange for leniency? It’s only a matter of time before we get all of them anyway. Yeah, I don’t think so. No deal.”

Lance agreed it was not a deal worth making. A team was already going through every room in Petrenko’s club  with a fine-toothed comb. It was almost a guarantee they’d find something that would link Petrenko to his buddies. And the descriptions the girls had provided of the men who’d fed and watered them would go a long way in identifying the last remaining cogs in this trafficking scheme.

However, what did worry him were the people that had kidnapped the girls on Petrenko’s orders. Money had visibly exchanged hands, so it was quite possible that the man had hired outside help to get his hands on more meat for his shop. And if that was the case, they might actually need his help to get at them. Unless of course, the techs managed to find something that would point them in the right direction.

“Let’s not be too hasty to dismiss the idea,” Lance said, ignoring the incredulous look that statement got him from Booth. “Of course we’re not going to give Petrenko any leniency, but he doesn’t need to know that. Let him think there’s still a deal on the table. Makes it easier for him to dig his own grave.”

If they played it cool, Petrenko might actually reveal more than they would otherwise get from him. And by not confirming nor denying the possibility of any kind of agreement, Petrenko couldn’t claim false pretences in court when it turned out there was never any deal to begin with and the man had hung himself with his own words.

Brennan added in her own take. “And we wouldn’t even be lying. Just… failing to correct a false assumption.”

Booth’s grin turned wolfish, sharpening into something almost predatory, showing all of his teeth in a leer any vampire would be proud of.

“I like it.” He checked his watch. “Alright, time’s up. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

Lance’s pulse picked up as he followed Booth out, the observation room door swinging shut behind them. He quickly straightened and smoothed his tie. Carlisle stayed back with Brennan, but Lance knew they’d both be watching and following the interrogation like hawks.

Booth gave him a look and a small nod. Lance returned the gesture.

Ready.

Booth pushed the door open first. Petrenko didn’t so much as flinch at the agent’s entrance. But when Lance stepped in, the man’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open as though he’d seen a ghost.

And, in a way, he had.

For one delicious second Lance savored it.

Surprise, motherfucker, Brennan’s earlier words echoed in his mind.

Calmly, he walked over to the table, keeping his steps measured and his expression neutral as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

Petrenko stared at him, ignoring the thud of the thick folder that had just been dropped onto the metal table and Booth’s short introduction of them.

Lance held his gaze. A tiny, self-satisfied smirk tugged at his mouth.

Petrenko’s eyes flicked down, almost involuntarily, toward Lance’s neck, as if searching for bite wounds.

Perhaps he should have left his tie looser. Give the man a nice, unobstructed view of his unblemished skin.

When Petrenko’s eyes snapped back up, he looked more than a little unnerved.

Good.

Perhaps he now also realized blaming the fang wasn’t going to work, when said fang’s victims clearly didn’t stay dead.

The silence stretched until the lawyer cleared his throat.

“Rupert Kreuger,” he announced smoothly. “Counsel for Mr. Alexei Petrenko. I would like to state for the record that my client has already expressed his desire to cooperate fully with federal authorities.”

Of course he would.

The lawyer was clearly already trying to set the stage for his client’s confession in exchange for a deal.

This wasn’t willingness. It was desperation dressed up in legal language.

Lance leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on Petrenko. He barely even blinked. And the longer he stared, the more the man shifted, visibly uncomfortable.

Kreuger noticed and immediately bristled. “Dr. Sweets, I must insist you refrain from attempting to intimidate my client.”

Finally, Lance broke eye contact long enough to glance at the man, unimpressed.

Intimidation? Really? That was what he was going with here?

He slid the folder over, flipping it open. With a deliberate hand, he fanned the documents across the table until the lawyer had no choice but to look.

Dozens of pictures. Bruised faces, bite marks, cages. Medical documents detailing the extent of sexual assault. Photographs of the two dead bodies currently in their morgue. Kelly, lifeless, bloated, eyes vacant. Harley, a burned husk folded in unnatural angles. They hadn’t even included the pictures of the other four victims yet.

Lance didn’t glance down. He didn’t need to. He already knew every image by heart.

“Tell me, Mr. Kreuger,” he said quietly. “If what I’m doing is already intimidation, then what exactly would you call this?”

For just a moment, Kreuger’s mask slipped. Eyes widened and a flicker of disgust twisted his face before he smoothed it flat once again.

Interesting.

Looks like he hadn’t known the full scope of what his client had been up to. Defending criminals was one thing. Defending this was another.

“My client,” Kreuger repeated, voice stiff, “is willing to cooperate. But not if the FBI insists on such bullying tactics.”

Lance couldn’t stop his scoff from rising.

“If there’s one bully in this room, Mr. Kreuger,” He nodded towards Petrenko. “It’s him. Bullies just love to dish it out to the weak. Funny how they can’t stand having it handed back to them.”

“This name-calling is completely uncalled for,” Kreuger retorted coldly. He turned to Booth. “Agent Booth, please rein in your colleague. I would like to keep things professional here.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Booth’s jaw tightened. He leaned forward.

“You want professional?” He let the word hang, his voice dropping dangerously. “Then allow me to give you my professional opinion of your client’s professional activities.”

Then he outlined it all, count by count, like hammer blows on the table: kidnapping, fabrication and distribution of child pornography, sexual assault of minors, battery of minors, human trafficking, and, of course, multiple counts of premeditated murder.

The list was long and undeniable.

They had Petrenko caught red-handed. The camera image alone that Carlisle had provided them with would have any jury baying for blood.

Lance kept his eyes fixed on the man as Booth spoke, watching how his mouth tightened and his breathing hitched, how his eyes darted nervously toward Kreuger. He didn’t miss the way lawyer’s knuckles whitened on his pen either.

Petrenko was finished. And they all knew it

The truth was too solid, denial was never even an option.

Kreuger swallowed, then forced a mild smile. “My client may have made… some unfortunate choices. But he is willing to atone. He’s prepared to give up his accomplices in exchange for consideration.”

Silence.

Booth didn’t respond. Neither did Lance.

Kreuger pressed forward, voice hardening. “Let’s not beat around the bush here, shall we? We’d like to discuss a deal.”

There it was.

Lance and Booth exchanged a look.

Time to see just how much they could get from the man and what he would try to bargain with.

Booth folded his arms on the table, leaning forward slowly, pursing his lips together in thought and letting the silence drag out.

“If any deal is made at all,” he then said, carefully, “it’ll be after your client confesses. We don’t trade blind.”

Lance kept his eyes on Petrenko, hoping he’d take the bait without thinking too much on the wording.

If any deal is made at all.

A subtle indication there would more than probably be no deal whatsoever, but it also didn’t take the possibility off the table entirely. It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no, either.

Just enough rope.

Petrenko hesitated, then glanced at his lawyer. Kreuger gave the smallest of nods.

“I want a reduced sentence,” he said eventually, “Minimum-security. And witness protection when I get out.”

Lance had to hold in a snarky retort.

The gall of the man. Bargaining as if his crimes were some minor infraction.

Booth hummed noncommittally, not in any way agreeing or disagreeing. Lance said nothing at all.

The silence did its work.

Either Petrenko saw it as a tacit agreement or perhaps he’d realized he didn’t really have any other options, but in the end it mattered little. He started talking

He described the girls clinically, like objects. How he used them to entertain his “special guests”, for a fee, of course. He catered to anyone who was interested. Humans, vampires, he didn’t care as long as they paid. And when the merchandise was killed off, he simply disposed of the bodies, always in a different manner as to not draw too much attention.

However, he wasn’t the one kidnapping them. He’d never even given anyone the order to do so. He just bought them off a guy, a supplier as it were.

As if that distinction made him less of a monster.

He spoke about the girls as if they were cattle and even tried to justify his actions. At least he’d treated them well. He’d fed them, allowed them all the basic necessities like showers and frequent bathroom breaks. He’d even given them make up and pretty clothes to wear when they had guests to entertain.

And, as he reasoned, if he hadn’t bought them off the supplier, their fate might have been a lot worse as they could have fallen in much crueler hands than his.

The words turned Lance’s stomach. He could almost hear the cages rattling, smell the iron in the air and the dry concrete where they had been held.

Treated them well.

Good God.

The vile monster actually seemed to think this was a valid defense.

Kreuger cut in quickly. “Answer only what’s asked, Alexei. Don’t volunteer information.”

It was obvious from his face that he’d realized his client was not exactly endearing himself to the agents in the room by speaking about the girls in such a manner.

Petrenko fell silent, but the damage was already done.

Booth was furious.

“You disgust me,” he spat, his temper escalating. “How can you sit there and try and justify yourself in any way? You treated the girls well?” He slammed his fist on the table. “They were locked in actual cages for God’s sake! They were humiliated, beaten, preyed upon, assaulted, murdered! Is that what you call good treatment?”

His chair screeched against the floor as he shoved it back and took to pacing in the small space behind Lance’s seat, going from the wall to the door and back.

“Sure, they were fed, but only to keep them alive and useful to you for as long as possible. And then when you were done with them, they were discarded like broken toys, stripped of any humanity and burned beyond recognition or tossed in the river to rot.”

Petrenko said nothing, eyes impassive.

Lance decided to take over the questioning for now, to give Booth a moment to calm himself.

He leaned forward.

“Tell me about Kelly Young. How did she end up in the river?”

Kreuger jumped back in. “As you’ve seen, Dr. Sweets, my client is cooperating. This will be taken into account when …”

“Just answer the damn question,” Booth snapped, cutting him off without even looking in his direction.

After a beat, Petrenko spoke.

“I bought her from the same supplier, together with the black girl. She was a great dancer and very popular with the men. She gave off a bit of a rebel vibe. They liked that.”

He then went on to explain that most men had just wanted to look at her dance, or weren’t willing to pay for anything more, but some of them had actually forked over money to touch her sexually. One of them had even become a regular, coming by to enjoy her at least once a week.

“She was profitable, a great source of income.”

Booth’s fists clenched and unclenched compulsively and Lance could all but feel the fury radiate off him in waves. He looked ready to lunge at the vile man in front of them.

“Then why sell her to a vampire?” Lance pressed, hoping his friend could keep his rage under control. “If she was so profitable, why did you get rid of her?”

Petrenko actually looked put out at that. It was the first genuine emotion they’d seen on the man so far.

“I never intended for her to get killed. Why would I? She was my most popular girl!”

Lance said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“But then about two weeks ago, a fang stopped by. He paid for the full package. A lap dance, a feeding, and then a happy ending. He looked like a decent enough sort. Not twitchy or anything. Nothing to suggest he wouldn’t be able to control himself. And I’d leased her to a fang before, it’d never gone wrong so far.”

Decent? Lance thought bitterly.

In what twisted world could anyone manage to consider a vampire who preyed on underage teenagers in any way to be anywhere near a decent sort?

 Petrenko’s lip curled.

“But he killed her. Ripped out her throat and guzzled down her blood like a fucking margherita. That asshole hadn’t even properly paid for her yet, before leaving and sticking me with her corpse. He’d only paid to use her, not kill her. That costs extra. The fucker cheated me.”

Booth stopped his pacing abruptly, his face twisting in incandescent rage.

Lance knew he’d have to get something useful out of Petrenko soon, or he’d be forced to ask Booth to leave the room, lest he went for the man’s throat. If he did that, the lawyer could claim police brutality and breach of procedure and while it wouldn’t be enough to get the case against his client dismissed, it would certainly be held against them in court.

Faking a cough, he held his hand over his mouth to mask his lips and whispered a low “Carlisle, can you intervene if Booth loses his temper? We can’t have him attacking our suspect.”

He knew his voice was quiet enough for neither Booth nor Petrenko or his lawyer to hear it, but he hoped his lover would. With his vampiric speed, Carlisle might be able to rush in and stop Booth from reaching Petrenko should he attack.

A single knock sounded on the glass behind him. Carlisle had heard.

Booth noticed the noise too and sent him a suspicious glare, but at least the small distraction had eased the worst of his anger somewhat.

When Lance turned his attention back onto the two men in front of him, Kreuger looked rattled.

“And Harley Donovan?” he continued his questioning, “Was her death an accident too?”

He knew de dip of his voice betrayed his disgust, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He would try and remain mostly professional, but that was all the courtesy the vile man was getting from him.

Petrenko shook his head. “No, I sold her. A fang paid for her in full, so she was his to do whatever he wanted with. He had his fun with her and then killed her on the spot. Most fangs did when they bought one.”

Kreuger was looking just a little green now, but doing everything he could to hide it. Between clenched teeth, he hissed at his client to shut up, and to stop giving details.

Petrenko ignored him.

“They have no choice but to cut a deal. Otherwise, they’ll never find my supplier.”

His voice sounded not exactly smug, but more … self-assured. He thought he still had a hand to play with.

The worst part was that he actually did.

They needed to get at that flesh merchant or the kidnappings wouldn’t stop.

Ostensibly ignoring the mention of a deal, Lance latched on to the supplier part. “About that, how do you contact your … dealer?”

Petrenko shrugged.  “I don’t. He contacts me.”

“How?”

Another shrug, but it seemed somehow more calculated this time, as if he was projecting nonchalance.

“I keep a burner phone around just for that purpose. When he has something to sell, he sends me a text with a picture. It always comes at the same hour, like clockwork, so I know when to monitor the phone. Exactly sixty minutes later I get a call. If I miss it, he won’t call again and I lose the sale.”

That did not sound good.

It sounded like someone who knew what he was doing. And if Petrenko missed the call and the seller didn’t bother reaching out again, that meant he had other clients buying from him that he could to turn to.

“And if you do pick up?” Booth pressed.

“A voice gives me a time and place to be and a price. I go where I’m directed, I pay, I collect. That’s it.”

It seemed Petrenko had finally taken his lawyer’s advice to stop volunteering information. He answered their questions but nothing more than that. Or perhaps he was suddenly more sparse with his words because he knew they were discussing his only true bargaining chip.

Booth had calmed now that they were talking practicalities, having resumed his seat, but was still very much on edge. His jaw remained clenched as he pushed for more details.

“Describe him. What does he look like?”

Petrenko leaned back in his chair. “No idea.”

The nonchalance in his tone was getting more obvious. He knew he wasn’t giving them much to work with, throwing out just enough of a bone to make them want to cut a deal. The man was not stupid. Two could play that game, it seemed.

“There must be something you can tell about them,” Lance tried, wanting to see how far Petrenko would go without a legal agreement on paper.  

“There’s two of them, but I’ve never seen either of their faces. They’re always masked. And their voices are distorted. Not much I can give you, I’m afraid.”

Right.

Not much he could give them.

Not without a deal at least.

But he had given them another decent clue.

Masks and a voice changer, strict lines of contact, a methodical M.O.

This was starting to sound more and more like a tag team of professionals. Not only did they know what they were doing, they also took every precaution to remain anonymous and untouchable. They were careful. Organized. 

However, with Petrenko in FBI custody, they had a weak link.

Lance immediately resolved to talk to Booth about keeping the news of the club owner’s arrest as quiet as possible.

There had been only one dancer, a bar tender and two servers present in the club as well as one more guy who’d been in Petrenko’s office doing some accounting work when the team had burst in, and all of them had been arrested for now, but initial interrogations had not given any indication of them being involved in any way. They could be convinced to keep their mouth shut, perhaps even threatened with obstruction of justice if they didn’t. And they could put out a sign the club was closed for renovations to keep the clientele from asking questions.

With a little luck, they might be able to keep the news out of the press entirely. And in doing so, they’d keep it from the suppliers as well and potentially exploit the opportunity when a new sale was announced. If they intercepted the call, they had a way in.

All they needed for that to happen was to find that burner phone.

They were already going through every possession the man owned, but Lance doubted the device would just be laying around in between his daily beauty products.

And it was clear Petrenko was not going to just hand them his only trump card. Not without something in return.

The lawyer seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

“I believe this conversation is over for now, gentlemen. I request an hour recess to confer with my client.”

Booth scoffed, muttering a terse “Of course you do.”

The derision in his tone was thick enough to choke on.

He stood and Lance followed without a word.

The second the door shut, Booth turned.

“We need that phone. Fast. Otherwise we might actually have to bargain this bastard a deal.”

Lance was just about to agree, when Brennan’s head popped out of the observation room door. She was grinning ear to ear, eyes bright, and beckoning them.

Lance suddenly got the odd feeling Christmas was going to be coming early this year.

Her next words only strengthened that impression.

“I think you should hear this.”

They followed her in.

Inside, Carlisle stood, a smirk curling his lips and Lance could almost feel his smugness.

The room was silent. The sound from inside the interrogation room was muted once more, shut off by Kreuger to give them privacy.

But the vampire was still shamelessly listening in on their conversation with his sensitive ears.

The legality of what he was doing was questionable and would certainly never hold up in court. After all, they weren’t supposed to hear what was said in confidence, nor where they allowed to use anything they did hear.

However, any information they gained this way could always be officially “found out” during the investigation later. They simply never had to disclose that they’d known about certain things before the investigation had proven them.

“Anything of note we should know?” Booth asked, not even bothering to pretend he cared about any potential legal issues with this strategy.

“The phone you are looking for,” Carlisle said lightly, “is in a small safe. It’s under the floorboards under Petrenko’s desk in his club office. Kreuger asked him if that phone is somewhere safe as it’s his only leverage and Petrenko actually told him where it is. He’s now trying to convince him to go and retrieve it to keep it safe and out of FBI hands.”

He shot Booth a sly smile. “He’s promising a boatload of money to do so. But Kreuger isn’t all that happy about the offer. Something about career suicide if he’s found tampering with evidence.”

Lance snorted.

Career suicide was putting it mildly, really.

Complete and utter career implosion more like, and with a hefty fine and jail time on top probably.

But inside his head, his mind positively sung with glee.

They now knew where to find the phone.

It wouldn’t be difficult to subtly steer the team going through Petrenko’s properties towards the floorboards where they’d discover the safe and, by extension, the device. And then Petrenko’s deal would be out the window. His last bargaining chip gone with the wind.

He went to speak, but Carlisle held up a hand, a look of intense concentration appearing on his face.

“He’s lowered his voice even further, give me a second.”

He went silent for a moment, closing his eyes.

Then: “Fifteen Seventy-eight. Thirty-five. Fifty-three.”

Brennan gasped.

“Is that …?”

Carlisle nodded.

“The combination of the safe. Petrenko’s upping his offer. Twenty thousand dollars if Kreuger can get the phone from the safe and put it in a safety deposit box for safekeeping.”

Booth pumped his fist in the air in victory, a muted cry of “YES!” escaping him. 

Brennan was asking if the lawyer was going to be taking Petrenko up on his offer, but in the end, it didn’t really matter either way.

They already had what they needed.

Reaching for his phone, Booth quickly made a call, giving a few vague directions.

”The suspect hinted at a hidden phone,” Lance heard him say, “So look for places where he could have hidden stuff. Air vents, a safe behind a painting, anything. Make sure to check his desk for hidden compartments. And check under all the floorboards too, every last one of them.”

It was an obscure enough hint that it wasn’t obvious Booth knew exactly where to look, but it did send the techs in the direction of the desk and pulled their attention to the floor as well. It was only a matter of time before they “found” what they were unknowingly looking for. And once the safe was taken into evidence, they could simply open it with the code, while claiming they had it cracked by an expert.

“You know,” Brennan mused thoughtfully, “Vampire hearing is remarkably useful. Perhaps I should work this into my next novel.”

Lance grinned. “Careful now. Don’t give away all the trade secrets. I kind of like having the advantage and you never know our next suspect might be one of your readers.”

Then again, if she was focusing on Carlisle’s – or rather Alistair’s – ears in her next novel, maybe that would keep her attention away from certain other body parts of his.

Brennan actually paused, considering, then nodded.

“Prudent advice. I’ll continue to have my heroine rely on her trusted science to solve the case. After all, that’s what makes my books so good to begin with.”

Lance traded an amused look with his lover, both smiling.

Sure, it was the science that made them such bestsellers.

Certainly not agent Andy and his tender caressing hands and his big gun. Or Graves and Alistair’s tempestuous lovemaking.

He grinned as Carlisle mouthed a silent “Page 206” at him.

Things were definitely looking up now.

Petrenko was in custody. The phone would soon be in their hands. And the flesh merchant was within reach.

Perhaps they could save the next girl before she even disappeared.

Christmas really had come early.

Chapter Text

The conference room wasn’t much to look at. A standard Hoover Building décor, muted walls, polished table, government-issued chairs. It smelled faintly of coffee and paper.

Lance, however, had gone out of his way to soften the atmosphere.

The central table had been pushed aside to make room for a smaller one people could more closely sit around. A tray of sodas, coffee, and bottled water sat on it, together with a small assortment of cookies and chips that looked almost comically out of place in such a sterile room.

Carlisle found himself smiling faintly at the effort. Only Lance would think to disarm FBI agents with Oreos.

With Petrenko in holding and the phone under constant monitoring, there wasn’t much else they could do for their case, so Lance had moved ahead with his plans to start up the V-CAT team.

The three human taskforce members had arrived early. Very early. It was barely 10:45, while the meeting had been set to start at 11a.m.. And yet Aubrey, Bishop, and Trahan were already clustered together, congregated near the snack table and talking leisurely.

Punctuality was certainly a good trait to have, Carlisle thought rather wryly.

All seemed very eager to start their next career challenge.

Carlisle lingered by the wall, hands clasped loosely behind his back, observing.

They looked at ease, though their body language betrayed the tentative curiosity of people wanting to get to know each another. They were virtual strangers, only knowing each other in passing, sometimes not even that, but already testing the water, gauging each other’s rhythm.

Trying to assess the new dynamics.

Aubrey was the easiest to read, the youngest of the trio, dark-haired, dressed in a dark suit just slightly rumpled as if he hadn’t cared enough to fuss with the tailoring. Tall and radiating restless energy, shifting his weight, cracking an easy grin with an open, boyish expression that betrayed a desire to be liked.

Evelyne Bishop, by contrast, projected a dry, unflappable air, her auburn hair pulled into a messy pony-tail and a look that screamed “I’m not easily impressed”. Her slim-cut slacks and a cardigan looked like they had been chosen for comfort more than style and the large glasses perched on her nose seemed to both sharpen her face and yet give her a bit of an owlish look at the same time.

And then there was Isaac Trahan: dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, mid-forties, a compact build with a weathered face and eyes constantly assessing. He carried himself like a soldier even in a tidy suit.

Carlisle could hear the natural hesitations in their voices as they spoke, exchanging snippets of their careers and why they had applied for the team. A mix of eagerness and caution.

Reese hadn’t arrived yet, but Lance hadn’t seen the harm in starting a little earlier than planned. It gave the human members of the new team the opportunity to get the first introductions out of the way before the vampire joined them.

Eventually, Lance clapped his hands together lightly, drawing their attention.

“Well, I suppose since everyone’s too eager to wait until eleven, we might as well get started.”

Carlisle had to suppress his smile at the enthused undertone in his lover’s voice. Lance was as excited to kick off the meeting as the new team members were.

Aubrey grinned.

“Punctuality’s a virtue, right?” he offered, unknowingly echoing Carlisle earlier observation.

“Or desperation,” Bishop retorted wryly, earning a scandalized look from Aubrey and a snort from Trahan.

“Or a perhaps a little bit of both,” Lance agreed easily, before continuing his welcome speech.

“You, of course, already know who I am, so no introductions needed on that front. But for those who haven’t met him yet,” he turned and gestured to Carlisle, “this is Dr. Cullen, our current fanged consultant and, frankly, the person who inspired a good deal of this taskforce’s existence.”

Carlisle inclined his head politely, noting that none of the agents seemed bothered by his presence.

No bump in their heartbeats, no nervous glances.

All of them had nodded politely when entering the room and had made no effort to give him a wide berth.

Sure, Carlisle’s reputation as a pacifist had spread through most of the building floors by now and all of the agents must have seen him around at some point, but other than Aubrey none of them had actually met him face-to-face before. So them being so easily accepting was certainly a good sign for their adaptability on this taskforce. The big bad fang in their midst was merely another colleague in their eyes.

A very encouraging start.

He allowed himself a breath of relief. It was a sign that Lance’s taskforce could become exactly what it had always intended to be: a team where humans and vampires could work together without fear.

“This isn’t a preliminary briefing so much as a meet-and-greet,” Lance went on. “I figured rather than saddle you with a boring hours-long meeting and then toss you into the deep end, it’d be more fun for you to meet each other in a more informal setting before the actual work starts.” He offered an easy smile. “Consider it your chance to size each other up before the official grind starts.”

He then leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“And, for the record …” His mouth twitched. “This is also your last chance to back out before the real fun begins.”

It was phrased as a light-hearted joke, but Carlisle knew his lover was also half-serious about it. It would certainly suck to start the team up and then having to replace a member after a week because this wasn’t what they had been expecting after all.

Chuckles rippled through the room, genuine enough. No one looked even remotely tempted to take him up on the offer.

“You’re kidding, right?” Aubrey piped up. “I’m not passing this up.”

Evelyne tilted her head, lips twitching. “So… if we leave now, do we still get the snacks?”

Lance smirked back. “Nope, club members exclusive, I’m afraid.”

That drew more laughter, even from Trahan, though he disguised it as a polite cough. Carlisle felt his lips curve. Looked like Bishop was already establishing herself as the type to needle the edges, to draw others out.

“So, our currently final team member should be arriving soon, but feel free to help yourself to a drink and snacks already. Mingle, talk. You’ll be working closely together as from tomorrow, so you might as well take the chance to get to know each other better.”

They circled the table, Bishop and Trahan reaching for coffee, Aubrey for a soda and some Oreos with a muttered “I love these”, and they settled in.

Carlisle stayed where he was, content to observe. He felt Lance’s gaze land on him and let the warmth of it settle in his chest.

Conversation quickly drifted toward baseball when Aubrey noticed the Chicago Cubs pin on Bishop’s backpack. It was light, easy, the kind of talk people did when they weren’t quite sure yet where they stood with one another. But already there seemed to be some lighthearted teasing tossed around.

Just as Trahan made a remark about the team’s, in his opinion, very low chances of winning their upcoming game against the Louis Cardinals, Lance’s phone rang and Carlisle caught the receptionist’s voice on the other side of the line from across the room.

Reese had arrived.

Without hesitation, he offered to go and bring him up. That way his lover could stay to obverse the growing team dynamics, as he knew he was undoubtably doing.

Lance’s shot him an warm smile. “Great, thanks.”

Carlisle took the stairs down, his pace just shy of human possibility.

Admittedly, he was eager to see the other vampire again. He truly felt the man had a lot of potential and would be a great fit on the team. That, and he found he just liked the man personally. He’d gone through a lot in a short span of time and yet had not lost himself to his darker instincts.

When he reached the lobby, Reese was standing to the side in the waiting area, tall and brooding. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn during his first interview. A decent pair of jeans, a clean plain white button-up shirt, a suit jacket that seemed just a bit to snug around his biceps and dark sunglasses firmly in place to hide his eyes. His short dark hair was neatly combed and it looked like he had done his best to appear as professional as possible, his posture exuding both determination and nervousness at the same time.

“Mr. Reese,” he called out softly, drawing the other vampire’s attention.

Reese appeared surprised to see him. Even more so when Carlisle politely thanked the receptionist and got a shy, stuttered “you’re welcome” and a dreamy sigh in return.

The soldier was probably not used to seeing a vampire being treated so cordially.

“You always get to walk around unsupervised?” Reese asked when he reached him, confirming Carlisle’s suspicions.

“Of course. I have my own access badge, so I don’t need an escort to open doors for me.”

He didn’t miss the shadow of disbelief in Reese’s expression when he held his RFID to the scanner to open the stairwell door. As though the idea of a fang with full clearance defied expectation.

Of course, he was well aware that having a keycard was not really what the younger vampire was referring to, but he deliberately chose not to answer what he knew the man was actually asking.

Whether the people here trusted him enough to allow him to walk the building without a guard dog hovering over him.

He knew that, having been treated as Reese had, trust would be slow to build on his side and no words could speed up that process. It was something Reese would have to experience on his own. Carlisle had experienced more than his fair share of people turning on him because of what he was and was well acquainted with how much it stung. So he chose not to address it and to let the man come to his own conclusions over time.

He noted the visitor’s badge clipped to his jacket.

“We’ll get you your own access card later today,” he remarked, “That way, you won’t need to stop by the reception all the time.”

They took the stairs up together, but Reese remained mostly silent, just keeping in step with a pensive look on his face.

Carlisle decided to try and break the ice somewhat.

“I’m glad you chose to accept the offer. I think you’ll fit in here.”

Reese’s jaw tightened. “Not so sure about that,” he muttered, more to himself than anything, “But… I’ll do the best I can.”

The response actually made Carlisle smile. He had no doubt the young vampire would do exactly that. His utmost best. The feeling he’d already had when first meeting the soldier only intensified with each interaction. Reese was in dire need of a new purpose, something he could throw his all behind. Something worth existing for.

Carlisle knew what that was like.

He’d been there.

When he had only just been turned, he’d been lost too. Violently dragged from the only life he’d ever known and thrust into this new frightening immortal existence with these monstrous desires. He’d been adrift and desperate. Desperate enough even to try and end his own life.

Once he'd truly realized what he had become, he’d found a spot in the woods far away from the village where he’d grown up in. He’d kneeled in the dirt and prayed to God for forgiveness, desperately begging for salvation, while believing he wasn’t going to receive any regardless. He’d been certain he was going to end up in hell no matter what he did, so he might as well make sure he couldn’t endanger anyone else before the demons claimed him.

When he’d finished his prayer, he’d taken a deep breath and had driven the crude stake he’d fashioned from a sturdy oak branch straight into his own chest. Only to have the wood shatter on his unyielding skin. He’d waited for the sun to come up next, intending to step into its rays and burn to a crisp like he‘d believed all vampires did. That hadn’t exactly worked out either. Jumping off a cliff had come next, then drowning.

None of the methods he’d tried had taken, so eventually he’d just made peace with the fact he was now an eternal monster and had taken steps to mitigate the damage as much as he could, staying away from humans and setting himself up for a lonely existence as a hermit in the woods.

Until he’d come across an abandoned encampment when out hunting deer. There had been no sign of the humans who’d set up camp. The wood in the fire pit was still somewhat warm, but the travelers had gone. All that had been left was a satchel with a myriad of dried herbs and a book.

Carlisle, of course having been taught to read by his father, had opened the book out of sheer curiosity, but had quickly become entranced by it.

It was a book on medicine. On which herbs to use to cure diseases, and how to bandage wounds. It had sparked an interest the likes of which he had never felt before.

It had been the beginning of his story.

He’d ventured closer to human civilization after that, had even set up a business where he sold deer meat on the black market to get money to buy more books. His eyes had turned their golden hue by then, so he could move amongst people relatively easy without clueing them in on what he was.

Then, one day, he’d witnessed a young boy falling off his horse and he’d rushed to help without thinking twice about it. He’d managed to set the child’s broken arm and had stopped the bleeding of his leg where the horse had trampled him. The boy’s mother had been beside herself with worry and had profusely expressed her gratitude.

She had not looked at him in fear, but in awe.

It had been at that point that he’d truly realized his nature did not have to define him. That he could still dictate his own destiny. And things had spiraled from there. He had fully thrown himself into his studies, had travelled, seeking more knowledge and had eventually established himself as a doctor. Even thought people had never known what he was when he’d treated them, had never known who he truly was, it hadn’t mattered.

It had been his calling. His purpose in this life.

And now, perhaps Reese was about to find his own.

It was truly a shame they hadn’t been able to reach Garrett yet. Carlisle was certain him and Reese would get along well. Two fallen soldiers with a new lease at life.

Silence reigned again as they exited the stairwell into the hallway.

Reese still had not removed his sunglasses.

Carlisle understood why. The soldier was worried, if not terrified, of scaring off his new colleagues with the vibrant crimson. Of being told they’d made a mistake and there wouldn’t be a place for him on the team after all.

He’d been willing to remove his glasses before when it was just Lance interviewing him, but that was before he’d gotten invested in the whole thing. When it had been just been a far-fetched story that was likely going to end up a complete bust anyway. Now, though, it was something he stood to lose if things went wrong.

And it was clear he did not want this to go wrong.

“Will you be keeping those on?” Carlisle asked kindly, gesturing at the accessory. “It must be quite uncomfortable for you to wear them constantly.”

Reese hesitated. “Yeah, well, I’m used to it.”

It was a non-answer at best. An unconvincing deflection.

Carlisle laid a hand on his arm, halting the other vampire in his stride. The man tensed almost instantly.

“This team you’ll be working with, they know what you are, Mr. Reese,” he offered, keeping his voice low, trying to offer some reassurance, even though he knew it likely wouldn’t help much. “Your eyes won’t be a surprise to them. They knew what they were getting into and still chose to apply. You won’t find any horrified looks when you walk in.”

Reese looked away, not meeting his gaze.

“There’s a difference between knowing and seeing,” he muttered darkly, “And so far, the seeing part, has not yielded many positive results.”

Carlisle could not deny that.

He knew even his own golden eyes sometimes alarmed people when they made the connection with what he was. And he knew better than most what it was like to look at someone and see their fear escalating as they stared back in sheer horror.

It was never easy.

Bluntly stated, he hated it.

Hated to be the cause of such terror. Hated to gaze in someone’s eyes and see nothing but revulsion reflected back him. Hated when people looked at him and saw only a monster.

Which made it all the more important for Reese to understand that things could be different. That he needn’t be a hermit, destined to be alone forever and forced to stay away from people lest he faced their disgust and fear.

Elijah was not afraid of Carlisle.

Nor was Brennan. Or Angela. Hodgins, Cam, Daisy, Vincent Nigel-Murray, Fisher, all of his colleagues at the hospital and even Lance’s colleagues. Not even Booth was wary him anymore, not for a long time now.

He’d built actual bonds with so many people.

And then there was Lance.

Lance didn’t just not fear him. He loved him. Even knowing what he was, having seen what he could do, what he could become if he let his instincts rule him. Lance had witnessed him snarling and growling like an feral animal, had seen him lose his temper and almost choke a man to death. And yet he constantly looked at him with so much love in his eyes. He’d willingly bared his throat for him to feed in a display of complete and utter trust. He’d laid his life in his hands without hesitation, even when he knew they’d be staging his own brutally violent murder.

Admittedly, it was something Carlisle still struggled with sometimes. This acceptance he’d been given. After centuries of hiding what he was and then facing the backlash when vampires had been discovered, he still sometimes assumed, almost automatically, that people were afraid of him, no matter how accepting they might seem. That they’d turn on him the moment he stepped a toe out of line. And some people had. He’d lost several friends when they’d found out what he was. But he’d also kept quite a few. And those who’d stayed had done so unprompted, had defended him, had fought for him. Had made it clear he belonged.

Reese could find the same kind of friendship. Perhaps even within this newly minted team right here.

If he was willing to give them a chance.

Carlisle abruptly became aware of just how much he was projecting himself onto the young vampire.

Good heavens, he was quite maudlin today, wasn’t he?

Reese was not a lost lamb, needing a shepherd to guide him. Then again, Carlisle knew that he himself would have greatly appreciated a helping hand in those first few decades.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

He’d offer Reese his help should he express a desire to receive it, but would not force it onto him.

“I know,” he admitted eventually. “Many humans will see your eyes and jump to immediate conclusions. But it doesn’t always have to be that way. Some people are capable of seeing beyond the red. It’s the whole concept this taskforce is built on.”

Trying to lighten the mood, he went for a joke.

“Besides, if anyone on that team can’t handle your eyes, then this is clearly the wrong job for them. It would be like taking a job in a circus, only to realize they’re afraid of clowns.”

Admittedly, it wasn’t the best joke and it got him only a disbelieving look and a raised eyebrow, but it was better than the blank mask Reese had been wearing before.

“Not sure if I should be insulted or amused at being compared to a circus clown,” was the deadpan answer he received.

“Perhaps a poor metaphor,” Carlisle allowed with a light shrug, “but you see the point.”

Apparently, Reese did, as a faint smile curled his lips. The first one Carlisle had seen since meeting the man.

As misshapen as his joking comparison had been, it seemed to have worked regardless, and Carlisle was glad for it.

It was progress.

Slowly, Reese reached up to remove his sunglasses, revealing the vibrant irises their kind was so known for.

Carlisle smiled.

“Come, let’s go meet your team.”

When they entered the conference room, the human agents fell quiet, turning to watch the newcomer. Reese instantly stiffened under their scrutiny.

Fortunately, the awkward moment was quickly broken by Lance stepping forward, hand extended.

“Mr. Reese, glad you made it. Welcome aboard.”

“Yeah,” Reese muttered, eyes flicking warily to the others even as he accepted the offered handshake.

As Carlisle had been expecting, Aubrey was the first to engage. Getting up from his chair to follow Lance’s example, he offered his hand as well, an easy grin on his face, despite his heartrate picking up just the lightest notch.

“James Aubrey. Nice to meet you.”

“Reese,” came the curt reply.

Then Trahan followed, though he did not extend a hand to shake, instead sizing the vampire up with a critical eye.

“You military?”

Reese straightened slightly, probably quite unconsciously so.

“I was. Army. Extraction specialist.” He gave Trahan a quick once-over. “You?”

“Army too. Special Forces.”

Something unspoken passed between them. A look of measuring, weighing, and then a small, mutual nod. Reese’s shoulders eased a fraction.

Carlisle noted it with quiet relief. Soldiers apparently spoke a language the rest of them did not.

Bishop did not bother getting up from her seat, sipping her coffee with a sardonic smirk.

“Oh, great. Now we’ve got two jarheads. That’ll end well,” she deadpanned.

Aubrey snorted into his soda, while Trahan rolled his eyes. Reese seemed not entirely sure what to make of her, but his posture loosened further when she gave him a loose salute and introduced herself with not a trace of hostility.

“Evy Bishop. Don’t worry, I bark a lot but I don’t bite. Not usually anyway,” she winked at him.

With that absurd comment, given the situation, the tension broke entirely, a hint of a smile lightening Reese’s expression.

Carlisle could almost feel the atmosphere shift.

Soon the group was sharing stories again. Aubrey’s overeager enthusiasm, Bishop’s dry wit and barbed comments, Isaac’s more reserved but wry retorts. Reese just listened mostly, quiet but attentive, seemingly glad to be included at all.

Lance had been right that his chosen people matched well in personality.

Conversation flowed easily between them. Natural. Bouncing from one topic to the next. Career experiences, motivations, personal tales, funny anecdotes.

When Aubrey launched into a story about a botched surveillance op involving a delivery truck and a very angry dog, everyone laughed at his dramatics, even Reese.

Carlisle had retaken his position against the wall, apart from the group. He needn’t be involved in this. This was Lance’s stage, not his.

Instead, he just observed quietly as the team his beloved had created already started knitting together as if they had always been meant to do so.

An immense wave of pride overcame him.

His lover had worked tirelessly to bring these people together, to build something sustainable. He’d spent weeks going over every potential candidate, interviewing and profiling everyone that put in an application, ironing out the details between several different departments.

And even now, he was continuing his work, sneaking bits and pieces of information into the conversation, only to retreat afterward to watch the interplay unfold, subtly pushing the agents closer together without them even realizing it, orchestrating connection.

Carlisle saw it for what it was: a quiet symphony of psychology. Every inflection, every smile, calculated to put them at ease without seeming intentional. It was like watching a warlock weave his subtle magic to gain the desired result.

It was mesmerizing.

Lance caught his gaze and sent him playful wink in return.

Eventually, however, Aubrey seemed to catch onto what Lance was doing. Carlisle spotted a suspicious glance when the shrink dropped another tidbit to spark more interaction. He wondered if he should warn his mate. Then again, Lance had probably already noticed. And if he hadn’t, it might be interesting to see what Aubrey would do with his observation.

He remained quiet.

And he didn’t have to wait long.

After another nudge, Aubrey apparently decided to turn the tables on their stage master.

“So, Sweets, is the rumor true?” he asked with a mischievous grin, “Did you flatten Mallard the Braggard on the mats?”

Lance actually managed not to blush at the reminder.

“Well, we did have a little run-in, yes,” he admitted, aiming for a casual tone, no doubt already thinking of ways to downplay the whole thing. “Mallard had… some unflattering opinions on whom I associate with and was under the impression I’d be a soft target due to my personal choices. I simply corrected his false assumption.”

Carlisle stifled a smile at how much he sounded like Brennan in that moment. He’d clearly learned from the best.

“Corrected?” Bishop arched a brow. “Word is you ran circles around him and left him bawling.”

This time, Lance did color, all the way up to his ears. “A gross exaggeration, really.”

“Whatever you did,” Trahan interjected dryly, “the kid had it coming. Hell, I wish I’d had the chance to knock the ponce on his ass.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Bishop agreed with a nod, “God, he’s insufferable. I met him only once, but I had to resist the urge to punch his teeth out the whole time. You know, the guy actually tried to convince me to sleep with him because he surely was the best dick I’d ever have. He also tried to imply he could talk to his daddy and “help” me out of my “dead-end” job if I did some favors for him.”

Her voice dipped into a derisive drawl and she tossed her ponytail over her shoulder in an gesture of agitated annoyance.

“Dead end, my ass. Next time, I’m just gonna punch the bloody prick, consequences be damned.”

Aubrey laughed. “Yeah, he’s not the most fun person to be around. Although, from what I’ve heard he seems to have toned it down since his ass-whooping. Word is that his father tore him a new one afterwards too.” He gave Bishop a grin. “But you’d punch him, huh? You think you could beat him on the mat too? That’d be fun to watch.”

Her reaction was immediate.

“Oi, are you doubting my skill? Don’t be fooled by my skinny waist, I’m stronger than I look!”   

Carlisle knew for certain Aubrey hadn’t meant his comment as a critique on her strength, but rather as a dig at Mallard for potentially losing against a woman too after already being trounced by Lance, a poofter, as the braggard had so eloquently called him. But Bishop had apparently taken the comment personally. Perhaps this was a glimpse of her temperamental side that’d been described in her file. 

However, Aubrey seemed to handle it fairly well, holding up his hands in surrender and simply explaining what he’d really meant by his comment. Her temper subsided as quickly as it had come and soon they were back to joking around.

Although the strength thing did seem to linger a bit as Bishop challenged the young agent to an arm-wrestling contest not soon after. It seemed to be in good fun though and both parties were grinning as they agreed on a best-out-of-three game. Snacks were pushed aside, Lance offered to referee and the two squared off at the table, trading barbs as they went.

Carlisle watched the whole thing with mild amusement. He had the feeling a distinct sibling dynamic was speedily growing between them.

Trahan had kept out of the who’s-stronger-than-who discussion, but was now, surprisingly, acting as a gravelly-voiced cheerleader, egging them both on. The man seemed both mature and young at heart at the same time, which was probably a good thing when working with the younger agents.

Reese was still keeping mostly silent, just observing and not adding much to the conversation, but Carlisle had spotted more than a few quirks of his lips, which seemed to be as close to a smile as the man could get for now.

As Lance counted down and the match began, the vampire caught Carlisle’s gaze.

He left the group for a moment to take a spot next to him, leaning against the wall.

“You don’t seem to be joining in on the team bonding?”

It was phrased as an observation, but came out more as a question.

Carlisle shook his head. “That’s because I’m not part of the team. Once you guys are operational, I’ll be stepping back.”

That got him an odd look .

“We’re your replacements then?”

Reese’s voice had taken a cautious undertone, a bit of suspicion peeking through.

Carlisle suppressed a smile. Clearly it was going to take a while for the soldier to feel at ease in his new surroundings, especially if he remained this paranoid about everyone’s intentions.

“In a manner of speaking, you are,” he agreed easily, “Although it’s more a case of my position being made obsolete by the creation of the new team.”

Reese regarded him. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

The immediate snort escaped Carlisle before he could even think to stop it.

“Good heavens, no! I’m a doctor, not a cop. I’ve been working with the government more out of necessity than anything. They had no one else to turn to and I just wanted to help.”

He caught the quick flash of relief on the other vampire’s face.

Ah, so that’s where the suspicion had come from.

Reese was worried he’d be stepping on certain toes by usurping Carlisle’s position.

“This life isn’t for me, Mikael,” he tried to assure the man further. “I much prefer to heal the living rather than avenge the dead. So I’ll be more than happy to return to my usual profession full time.”

The soldier seemed to lose some of the tenseness that had crept back into his shoulders during their exchange.

“So that’s why the team was created then? Because you wanted out and they needed to replace you?”

“Something like that,” Carlisle admitted. “It was Lanc … ahem, Dr. Sweets’s idea actually. He knew how much this job weighed on me and he worked tirelessly to free me of that burden.”

Reese raised an eyebrow at that, studying him. He was clearly tempted to pry further and Carlisle could tell he was mostly curious about his close and easy connection with Lance. It was obvious in the man’s eyes whenever the human was mentioned.

It wasn’t surprising, given the horrible experiences the other vampire had had so far, with people he’d cared about deeply forsaking him after his turning. The wounds of that where still fresh. But Reese did not seem ready to ask such personal questions just yet, as he remained quiet.

Carlisle didn’t push. He knew the soldier would ask eventually. He’d come to him in his own time. When he was ready to hear the answers.

Silence fell as the two of them watched Aubrey get a very narrow victory in the first match, only for Bishop to immediately gear up for the next one, determined to get at least one win in. It wasn’t an uncomfortable stillness. Not like it had been when Reese had just arrived. More of a pensive one.

Eventually, as voices raised in laughter and Bishop crowed in victory of the second match, Reese spoke again.

“About that vegetarianism of yours …” He hesitated. “You said before that you drink animal blood mostly, but also human blood. Why not stick to just human blood entirely? Blood banks make it relatively easy to get it already and if you work at the hospital that should give you even easier access to it, doesn’t it?”

Carlisle met his gaze. He’d wondered when that topic would be coming up. Reese had seemed fairly interested before, so he’d assumed he’d be asking questions about it sooner or later.

“I chose to hunt animals, because blood banks weren’t exactly a thing yet when I was turned. And I didn’t know in the beginning that you could bite without killing or turning, so I just didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Reese was nodding along at the explanation, as if he had expected as much. Carlisle wondered if Reese had realized how old he was. Or at least that he was significantly older than he appeared.

“So how does that work? Do you just … “ He made a vague gesture. “… pick stray dogs from the street? Or squirrels from the park?”

Carlisle had to chuckle at that.

“Hardly,” he muttered dryly, before continuing his explanation, “I hunt animals in large forests and the like. Predators are generally more satisfying than herbivorous prey like deer, possibly because of their protein-based diet. Although I must admit I’m rather partial to deer myself.“

“Forests?” Reese retorted with raised eyebrows. “Not exactly a lot of those around here in the big city, are there?”

The deadpan inflection carried a mix of disbelief and interest and Carlisle was glad to see the soldier’s curiosity was slowly overriding his nervous apprehension.

“True enough,” he admitted lightly, “But I travel often to more forested areas and I also know a butcher in the city who keeps deer blood on hand for me. He specializes in venison, so it’s no trouble for him to keep the blood around when he’s done deboning the carcasses.”

A beat of silence.

Then, hesitantly: “Do you think he’d be interested in selling to me as well?”

Carlisle smiled. Looks like Reese was genuinely interested in giving the lifestyle a shot.

“I don’t see why not. I’ll give you the address later,” he promised, although he did offer a warning as well, “It’s not easy to stick to animal blood. It doesn’t have the same kick as human blood does. It takes discipline.” He paused. “Then again, as a soldier I think discipline is something you’re quite familiar with, is it not?”

Reese offered a faint smile at that. More and more of his tension seemed to be easing from his posture as they spoke.

“Yeah, I might know a thing or two about it,” was the soft response, before a shout of victory sounded from Aubrey as he finally managed to press Bishop’s arm to the table, signaling the end of their third match.

Two for Aubrey, one for Bishop.

Not bad.

“Looks like Aubrey won,” Carlisle observed, “Though that last one was a close call.”

Reese snorted, amused when Bishop immediately demanded a rematch, or that Aubrey take on Trahan next.  See how he fared against a jarhead.

Aubrey turned to where Reese and Carlisle were standing, his eyes landing on the soldier in a deliberate movement.

“I’ll do you one better,” he told Bishop, before calling out to them.

“Hey, Reese! Your turn! I wanna see how strong you really are.”

Reese froze.

“You want to … arm-wrestle … a vampire?”

His tone made it very clear how much he could not believe he just got asked that.

“Why not?” Aubrey grinned, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’m curious. And since I just won from Bishop here, I’m sure I can take you too.”

Sarcasm was dripping from the words and Bishop immediately started giggling.

“Uh huh, sure, you can take the vampire, pal. Totes believable.”

Trahan shook his head.

“Why do I feel like I’ll be leading a kindergarten rather than a team?”

But he was smiling nonetheless.

Carlisle, seeing the opportunity to push Reese back into the conversation with his new team mates, gave him a gentle nudge. “Go on. Go enjoy yourself. Bond with your team.”

The vampire shot him a glance that clearly said he wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but complied regardless.

Bishop ceded her seat and took the referee job, counting them down. At zero, Aubrey immediately gave everything he had.

Reese’s arm didn’t move an inch.

The agent’s face turned red with effort, puffing and wheezing, trying to get any movement at all in the appendage that stood as if mounted in a steel vice.

Then, after a few more seconds, Reese abruptly pressed Aubrey’s arm to the table in one smooth move.

Laughter erupted, good-natured and bright, while Aubrey mock-protested his defeat, grousing about leverage and inhuman muscles.

Trahan was next to ask for a match, curious about Reese’s strength and referring to his younger colleague as a wet noodle, to Aubrey’s great indignation. 

Lance joined Carlisle at the wall, shoulder brushing just the slightest.

“So, what do you think?” he asked quietly, “Did we choose right?”

Carlisle smiled.

“I think you did incredible,” he told his lover fondly.

There was no “we” in this endeavor.

Lance did this, had created this. Carlisle had been just a consultant, a mood board to bounce ideas off. But his lover had put in all the work.

Warmth bloomed deep within his chest.

Lance had done this for him.

To save him from having to take another life.

And now this team was coming together. Still exploring, testing boundaries, getting to know each other. But soon, they’d be a force to reckon with. A force for good.

V-CAT.