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Reply to Lucy

Added to the Roswell Slash Archive September 6, 2001

Title: "Stolen"
Author/pseudonym: Lucy
Fandom: The Forsaken.
Pairing: Sean/Nick.
Rating: R.
Status: Ficlet.
E-mail address for feedback:
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warning: There be darkness in this; not for the faint of heart or those disturbed by the discussion of blood-lust. (And you would be interested in this fandom because. . .?)

        He stood in the hallway, fluorescent light too bright and everything far too disinfectant-clean. His voice wouldn't seem to work, on the first try, and it was bizarre that, despite the bustle of white coats and noiseless shoes, no-one seemed to notice him standing there, Sean in his arms, bone-white and limp as a rag doll.

        Finally, he managed to call for help.

* * *

        "Fucking have to stop doing this."

        He heard the muttered voice before his eyes opened and he knew where he was. There wasn't anywhere else that he would be, of course; Nick always took care of him, even when things went too far. The smell was too familiar, anyway, to pretend he was anywhere else. All hospitals, no matter where they were, smelled the same, like death and disinfectant.

        "You always say that," Sean said. Nick was at the window, back to the bed, staring out at the sunset.

        "This time I mean it."

        "You always say that, too." Sean sighed. He didn't want to have this conversation again, because it always ended up the same way, and the guilt never made any difference - not to him, anyway. Guilt was like regret, coming too late to make any difference. "We just have to be more careful."

        Nick wore regret as his mantle. "You always say that," he said, faintly, without heat.

        Sean held out a hand towards him, knowing that Nick knew, even though he wouldn't look at him. He knew the way he'd known that Sean was awake, a second before Sean knew it himself.

        "How long do you think we're going to be able to do this?" Nick asked, unmoving. He was stone, marble, trying to fight the one person he'd never been able to resist. "Do you know how much they had to pump back into you, this time? How long before someone figures it out?"

        "They won't figure it out," Sean said, wearily. His mouth was pasty and dry and his body felt thick and heavy, the way it always did when he first woke up. "They won't figure it out because they don't want to know. They don't want to believe it."

        "I could tell them."

        "You could show them, and they still wouldn't believe it." Sean lifted his hand, again, with effort. "Come here, Nick."

        It seemed to take forever, but Nick finally turned away from the window. Sean was startled to see the tracks of wetness on his face, pale streaks over paler cheeks.

        "Jesus," he swore, under his breath. "I didn't think you could still - "

        "I can," Nick said, simply. "It hurts, but I can."

        "Maybe that means it's not too - "

        "Don't." Nick perched on the edge of the hospital bed, playing with the frayed edge of the thermal blanket that covered Sean, eyes downcast. "I'm serious, okay? We have to stop doing this. I'm getting too fucking close - "

        "You wouldn't," Sean said, firmly. "You'd bring me over before you'd let me die." He smiled, trying to get Nick to raise his eyes. "Right?"

        Nick just nodded. "Yeah," he said, wearily, and rubbed his hands over his eyes. "Fuck, I'm tired."

        Sean slid over to the edge of the bed, his spine making contact with the cool chrome railing. "Get in."

        "They won't let me stay."

        "I'd like to see them try to make you leave," Sean retorted. He patted the white sheet beside him, still warm from his heat. "Come on."

        Reluctantly, Nick lay down on his side, facing Sean. Sean reached out a hand and slid it into Nick's hair, pulling him close, close enough for their lips to touch and open against each other. He was hot against Nick's cool tongue, and he wondered what he tasted like to Nick - if he tasted like disinfectant and stale water, or if Nick tasted nothing but the promise of what would come. Maybe that's all he ever tasted, anyway.

        His fingers fumbled inside Nick's shirt, pulling out the silver-beaded chain and dog tags, and then the glinting razor, edges covered with the rubber sheath that protected Nick's skin, and his shirt. Sean's eyes glinted and he smiled right at Nick, kissing the implement of his destruction, the blade that gave life - his life - to Nick, night after night. Even though no-one asked the questions they didn't want answered, it was far easier to explain those straight-edged wounds than it would have been two puncture marks, evenly spaced and of a certain size.

        "Not here," Nick hissed, but Sean could see the need in his eyes.

        He was right, though; they might not believe it, even if they saw it with their own eyes, but that didn't mean that letting Nick feed on him in a county hospital room was a good idea. "Okay," he agreed. "Sleep with me?"

        Nick nodded his head, and closed his eyes.

        Sean tucked the chain safely back inside Nick's shirt, and slipped his arms around his lover. "Not now," he promised, kissing Nick on the mouth, "but soon."

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