State of Grace - Part 4 (A Dark Shadows Story)

[lovesrain44]

She shook her head. "And after I had asked him to be kinder to you." With her face set in straight lines, she looked at the playing piece as it lay in the palm of her hand. "Willie, you know I don't like to interfere when it's none of my business, but I think that you should—"

 

"No, Vicki, don't." His head snapped up, shocked that she'd said something in the first place, and he held up his hands to her. "Don't say it. Don't say anything else to him, huh?"

 

"But Willie, I can see it in your face. He's been driving you hard with everything he's got you doing at the Old House, and you've been driving yourself even harder, trying to meet his very high expectations."

 

"Vicki—"

 

"You need to tell him to back off, Willie. You need to do it, before he runs you right into the ground." Her lips were firm, her chin jutting out. "Nobody deserves that, not even you."

 

Tell Barnabas to back off? Had she lost her mind? He didn't want Barnabas to back off, he wanted—

 

He slammed the door shut on this thought with a click, hard enough to send a shard of pain right up the back of his skull. Closing his eyes against the sight of her pale, smooth face, he took a deep breath. "It's not that I don't appreciate what you're tryin' to do, okay?" Now opening his eyes, looking at his feet. "I do, I really do. But you've got to just leave it, okay? Barnabas an' me, well, we'll work it out."

 

"And how will you do that?"

 

Barnabas will make the decisions, an' I'll just do what he tells me. That's how we'll work it out.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up at her, at the steady gaze of concern in her brown eyes.

 

"Willie, I—"

 

With one hand, he peeled her fingers from him and stepped backwards till he was in the doorway. Startled, she stood there as he fumbled behind him for the doorknob. "I told you to leave it," he said, turning the knob, "I understan' what you're saying, but you just gotta leave it. Otherwise you'll just make it worse."

 

"But, Willie—"

 

"Promise me. Promise me you won't say anythin' else to him about me. Please?" He couldn't imagine what the ramifications of a lecture from Miss Winters would be. Especially now.

 

She must have seen something in his face, must have felt his desperation. Slowly she nodded.

 

"Okay, Willie, okay. But only as long as things are going well. I can't promise I'll keep silent forever."

 

Ducking his head, he slipped out into the rain and closed the front door behind him. The truck was a welcome haven as he slid into the front seat and started the engine. He locked the door and hung his hands on the steering wheel. Waited while the heater kicked in and the thumping of his heart slowed down. Breathing stilled to normal levels, and the stinging of tears of frustration behind his eyes died away. Then, wheeling down the drive of Collinwood, he headed in the direction of Bangor, wondering why she was like that. Why she was kind and acted liked she cared. From the sounds of things, she'd even spoken to Barnabas, though he'd not caught any trace that it made any difference. In Barnabas' mind, kindness was not for the likes of the serving class, of which the vampire most definitely considered him.

 

Though if that were true, it flew in the face of the gentleness with which Barnabas had touched him last night. Or the soft, slow strokes across his back while the vampire had held him after he'd taken him. Used him.

 

Willie shook his head, locking his eyes on the road, wishing he had more to occupy him besides keeping to the speed limit and watching for slick spots where the oils in the pavement hadn't quite been washed away. But this stretch of road had been cleared by a recent rain and there were no slick spots, nothing to keep his mind from slipping to the echo of his heartbeat as he lingered there in solid arms. Solid, vampire arms, corded, iron-cold muscle beneath fine, dark wool, and the scent of burning wax filling his lungs as he breathed. And beneath that, the faint, faraway odor of dust, from a deep, secret place where the air, never stirring, leaves the remains of time to layer, year after year. And the marble-cool feel of Barnabas' neck as he pressed his forehead against it, just as the passion in his gut faded with shivery rage. Tucked close, and calmed with slow hands as the vampire said, Stay, I have you.

 

Suddenly, as the acid in his stomach burned its way up his throat, Willie slammed on the brakes at the same time he snapped the wheel to the right so hard that it bounced back in his hands. Tires, with no weight to hold them down, skidded across the road and tumbled the truck off the shoulder and into the gravel. The second the truck came to a standstill, the engine died, knocking its way down as though protesting its own end, and Willie threw open the door. Tumbled down the metal step to the ground, knees in the mud, hair hanging over his eyes as he waited for his stomach to empty out.

 

But there was nothing. He'd not eaten since the day before when he'd sat with Wesley Dale and there was nothing to come up.

 

A car whistled past, not stopping and Willie looked up through the sweaty mat of his hair, realizing how he must look, crouched on the ground with the door of his truck flung wide to let in the rain.

 

Either throw up or get up, Loomis, but don't waste time sashaying between the two.

 

Acid still burned, feeling like he'd swallowed a broken battery, and he swallowed, wincing as the sour flavor of his stomach bubbled up anyway. There was nothing for it but to get up, and, pushing his hands in the mud, he managed this, but only barely, his head singing with lightness as the blood rushed from it.

 

He staggered back to the truck, heart pounding still, the grit from his feet sounding loud against the floor mat as he settled himself on the bench seat. Knowing what the problem was, but not able to face it.

 

An icy wind was working its way through the open door and Willie made himself reach out to close it, catching a glimpse of himself in the long rearview mirror. White, like a snake turned belly up in the sun, hair scattered over his eyes, flecked with mud like he hadn't washed in weeks.

 

You look like a junkie in need of a fix.

 

With a sudden, hard movement, he pushed the hair out of his eyes and made himself start the engine. He had to get a move on, after all. Knowing as he did so that he was like a junkie in need of a fix. A fix that he'd warned himself about ages ago.

 

You knew you'd get trapped if you ever went there. But you did anyway, an' now he's set you free from that, so why you fightin' it? Huh, Loomis, tell me that.

 

He kicked the clutch into gear, feeling the shimmy of tires against the gravel as he guided the truck back to the pavement. Allowed the miles passing behind him to calm him as he took one breath after another and tried not to think. Not about anything. It worked for a while, but when he reached the outskirts of Bangor, and he was forced to pay attention to traffic and other cars, the reality of his situation was hard to ignore.

 

You have to learn to let go of this, Loomis. Just let go. After all, it's not like Barnabas is going to let you hang on.

 

And that, of course, was the worst of it.

 

*

 

Driving back with a load of drywall and plastering supplies tucked beneath a tarp made the truck heavy and slow. But he used this to his advantage, taking the back roads and keeping his eyes peeled for Wesley's truck. Once in Collinsport, he drove around for an hour without seeing him until, quite low on gas, he had to pull into a station to fill up the tank.

 

The rain was intermittent as he fumbled with the gas cap, finding its way down his jacket collar as the gusts lifted up the corners of the tarp. The chill of the afternoon was just moving on three o'clock and he had enough time to get back to the Old House, unload, and start working. Make enough headway into the project of Naomi's room to look respectable. He hoped.

 

As he was walking inside the small building to pay, he caught Wesley's truck belching its way down the cross street. Slamming his money on the counter and grabbing the change, he ignored the strange looks he got as he raced out to the truck and started the engine. Then, gunning it, he shrieked his tires into the street and followed the diesel fumes down the street.

 

Wesley's truck pulled into a garage, one that Willie had passed often, but that he'd never gone to. Any repairs to the truck that he could not manage himself were done by the garage that the Collins family used, on the other side of the tracks. On the right side of the tracks. This garage, with peeling paint and the stale smell of old oil, was not someplace anyone in the Collins family would favor. He pulled in between Wesley's truck and a small dumpster, catching the lingering, tart smell of something rotting, and, turning off the engine, checked to make sure he had some cash on him. Paying Wesley back was high on the list of things he was supposed to do today, and he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. He slid out of the truck and made his way to the open garage doors. The afternoon gloom made caves of the dark-swathed repair bays.

 

"Whaddya want?" came a voice from inside of one.

 

"Um, I'm looking for Wesley? Wesley Dale?"

 

There was a sound of something scraping against the floor, and Willie moved into the darker light of the garage. Beyond a jacked-up town car, he saw Wesley leaning against the wall with a can in his hand. Just as he pulled open the top, someone said, "Hey, Dale, there's someone here to see you." Wesley turned, and Willie could see the glint of gold and red on the can as the foam raced over the top, and all at once realizing it for what it was, backed slowly out of the garage. He heard the strangled mutter that Wesley made as Willie turned and walked back to his truck. Heard the footsteps quickly behind him and cringed as he felt the sudden hand on his shoulder to stop him and turn him around.

 

"You need help?" Willie heard someone call. Wesley turned his head. "Leave it be, Butcher," he snapped.

 

Then he turned back to Willie, eyes flat, green stones, no smile on his face. His cap, grease stained as always, quickly became dappled with rain.

 

"What do you want, Loomis?"

 

Ignoring the scent the beer foam had left on Wesley, Willie reached into his pocket. "Here," he said, holding out three dollars. "My boss, he—"

 

"What's that for?"

 

"My boss said to pay you back for the meal you got me the other day, he—"

 

"For Chrissakes, Loomis, I don't want your damn money." Wesley batted the dollars out of Willie's fingers with the back of his hand. Then he turned and stalked back into the garage, removing his cap to swipe at his forehead with his sleeve as he went. Willie heard the rumble of voices from inside, and it told himself that it didn't matter. That the nerve endings slowly coming to life in the proximity of Wesley's vague friendship would recover. And if they didn't, well, so much the better.

 

He bent to pick up the money from where they had fallen into a puddle, the rainbow surface of which was pocked with chunks of asphalt. Shaking the money, not knowing how he was going to explain this to Barnabas. That was the more important problem, he told himself this, the muscles along the back of his thighs beginning to shiver as he stood up. Maybe he could lie and say he gave the money back, and Barnabas would never know. Maybe—

 

"Loomis."

 

Willie jerked upright, the money damp in his hand, to watch Wesley Dale stalking across the parking lot toward him, tightlipped, shoulders hunched. He stopped in front of Willie and lifted up his hat to run his fingers through his hair, as black as the asphalt beneath their feet, and then put his hat back on. He was silent for a moment as the rain fell, like hesitant questions, around them.

 

Tightening his fingers on the money, Willie lifted the bills, catching Wesley's eye, though he didn't take them.

 

"Last night," Wesley began, "I mentioned that I'd popped for lunch, you know, just making conversation. Monica had a cow, and when Curt protested that you seemed like a nice enough guy, and then Laura piped in that it was none of Monica's business and I could buy lunch for everyone up at Collinwood if I wanted to. And then there was, of course, an argument."

 

This was his way of an explanation, if not also an apology, Willie could tell. Wesley's eyes tilted downward at the corners as they tailed over him, in the same way he would appraise the condition of a truck, stuck in the mud. "Reckon your boss gave you a bit of grief over it too, eh? Like Mr. High and Mighty doesn't have enough to do but worry over the price of a lunch between two hard working men?"

 

Willie nodded, wanting to agree, feeling none of the usual good-natured amusement as he had the last time Wesley made disparaging remarks about Barnabas, but wanting to accept the apology just the same. Even if a bit of grief didn't even begin to describe the events of the night before, the lecture, the beating, the—

 

He forced his mind away, looking up at Wesley, who looked down at him from beneath the brim of his cap, green eyes watchful. Found his hand was shaking as he held it out. And Wesley, missing nothing.

 

"Alright, give me the freaking money, Loomis," said Wesley, taking it. Then, pulling out his wallet and tucking the bills inside, he sighed as he remarked, "Boss man ought to realize that he's gotta give a guy some walking room. Otherwise, he'll find himself with an empty harness and no one to clean up after him."

 

Putting his wallet back in his pocket, Wesley looked up and smiled, "But, according to them, they're perfect as saints and their shit don't stink. Am I right, or am I right?"

 

Wesley might be able to cheer himself up with a secret beer every now or then, or a sarcastic remark about bosses, but it couldn't reach him. Not today, not with the inside of his chest feeling like it had been scraped raw with a digging knife. He shook his head, tried smiling to look like he was agreeing, and took a step back.

 

"Th-thanks for taking the money, you won't—"

 

"Hey, buddy," said Wesley, stopping him. "Everything okay?"

 

Closing his eyes, he shook his head, then realized he'd just indicated that no, everything was not okay. Snapping his eyes open, he looked straight at Wesley. "Everything's fine," he said with as much clearness as he could muster. "Just got a lot to do and everything. Got a lot on my mind, and all?"

 

Wesley nodded at this. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Like that back in there—" he began, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bay.

 

Willie shrugged. "Hey, I didn't see anythin'."

 

A moment of silence, and then Wesley nodded. "Thanks."

 

Behind Wesley, a few men were working in the garage, poking underneath jacked up cars, wheeling tires around, and no one was paying the two of them any attention at all. Wesley turned to look back at them for a moment, just watching, the rain flickering down on the brim of his cap. Then he returned his gaze to Willie.

 

"You know," began Wesley, as if he had all the time in the world, "I have a beer every now and then, nothing to get excited about, but if Laura were to find out, she'd hate me for the rest of her life." He shrugged. "Hell, that's only fair. When she told me to stop drinking, I hated her."

 

It was like the meal they had eaten together in the diner, with Wesley sharing something personal, only this time Willie didn't have anything to do with his hands. He could only stand there in the parking lot of a run-down garage and listen and wait until Wesley talked himself out. Not really ready for it, but Wesley had been nothing but kind, and so Willie set himself to listen. He'd done as much for Barnabas, whose stories had been far more boring than Wesley's could ever be, so why not for Wesley?

 

"Yeah?" Willie asked, to show he was listening, to show he was there for however long it took.

 

"Yeah, I was mad. Y'see, she saved me from myself, when I couldn't. And wouldn't that make you hate somebody real bad?"

 

Willie looked at him, his body feeling a sudden chill, as if the temperature had dropped enough degrees to turn the rain to falling ice. Once again searching for some sign on Wesley's face that would tell him how the other man had gotten into his head like that.

 

"Yeah," he replied. "I-I guess so, but . . . but why?" he asked. Wanting to hear the answer with the clarity that Wesley Dale seemed to possess without knowing it.

 

"Why indeed?" asked Wesley, looking at him. His expression said that he had the information that Willie needed, but there was a hesitation in his eyes that said that maybe Willie might not understand it. "Here's how it is," he said at length. "I mean, you think, you're in quicksand, right? So what should you care if it's the devil himself who yanks you up?" He paused as if to let this sink in. "You're still saved, it's still a state of grace. Right?"

 

"But—" Willie could not even begin to finish his sentence. It had been the devil himself who had saved him, and though he knew that Wesley was talking about his own life, it was as if he had been at Willie's side since the night when all of this had begun. Had followed him through every encounter, every simmering embrace, had been there for everything, right up to the moment where Barnabas had tilted his head back, looked down his nose at Willie, and ended it.

 

Wesley was studying the asphalt beneath his feet as the bigger raindrops began to fall and the wind made a sudden dash across the paved yard. "Sometimes," he said finally, looking up. He spoke slowly as if imparting something he was only now discovering, "Sometimes you have to forgive yourself for failing and move on."

 

Willie could only stare at him, not understanding.

 

"And, what's more, you've got to forgive the devil for being right," said Wesley, continuing, as if warming to his subject, oblivious to Willie's confusion. "That's how I felt about Laura, anyway. She was the devil, and I had to get past that."

 

There was a shout from the garage, and Wesley jerked his head around and nodded. Then he turned back around to slap Willie good-naturedly on the shoulder. "There's my oil change. Maybe she won't burn so much on the highway, eh?"

 

Willie nodded back, stifling the urge to rub the place where Wesley had smacked him. Wondering how Wesley could give him the answer he'd been searching for since last night, all unawares. Talking about his beloved Laura and his drinking problem, but coming up with a soothing balm to begin to fill and heal the scraped places in Willie's heart.

 

"So listen, Loomis, they do a great breakfast at that diner, you ever been?"

 

Willie shook his head no. Either he grabbed a bite at the coffee shop where Maggie had once worked or he hustled up coffee and biscuits at the Old House. He'd never thought of going anywhere just for breakfast, unless he was on the road.

 

"We otta do that sometime, you know, like Friday?"

 

"Friday?" Willie asked, his mind still wrapping its way around the idea of forgiving the devil.

 

"Yeah, before I do my rounds, gotta stoke up for the weekend drunks, doncha know." He gave a snort of laughter. "You know, those idiots who don't know their limits?"

 

Willie couldn't quite see how this was funny, but it was making Wesley smile at his own humor, and the green lights brighten in his eyes. So in return, Willie smiled back, nodding.

 

"So, say, eight o'clock?" Wesley asked, in a way that said he knew the answer was already yes.

 

"O-okay," Willie replied, not sure how a conversation that had been quickly racing toward an argument could end up with a casual breakfast invitation.

 

"Eight o'clock." Though with the time being that specific, he knew he'd be up hours before, just to make sure he didn't miss it.

 

"Great," said Wesley now, turning away. Then he stopped. "If you get there before me, save me a seat at the counter, right? Service is faster there, ya know?"

 

Willie jerked his head in a quick nod, watching Wesley go, seeing the flash of the door as he opened it and stepped inside with his garage friends. The ones who he could take a drink of beer with on the sly, who he knew wouldn't say anything. He had to know that Willie wouldn't say anything. Not to anyone, not ever.

 

Getting back in the truck, he turned on the engine, his muscles relaxing only when he was back on the road again, headed toward the Old House. Was what Wesley had said true? In a way it was, because Barnabas had been right to put a stop to everything, but that didn't mean he wasn't the devil. But Wesley had also said that he had to get past the fact that it had been the devil who had saved him from himself. Though why Barnabas had done this, Willie did not know, would never know, even if he speculated until the 12th of Never. The look on the vampire's face when he'd come down the stairs to give Willie the playing piece had given away nothing. Perhaps that was the key, because the stern blankness there had surely been hiding something, something that was probably not anger. Otherwise the vampire's fury would have been as clear as noonday.

 

Not that you'll be idiot enough to ask, Looms. Right?

 

God, how he hoped so.

 

The heater kicked in as he took the turn into the Collins' estate and guided the truck over the main road, his mind feeling its way through the confused maze left behind by Wesley's comments. Barnabas had been right, but just because he'd been right this one time, had stepped in to stop what Willie could not, did not really change anything. Not about Barnabas, and not about himself. Especially not about himself. Or did it?

 

He'd never been really good at resisting temptation, from flimsy jewel cases to doors hung ajar, if it was slightly open, he'd slip in and take what he wanted. Except now, this time, the choice he would have made, had he been able, had been taken out of his hands. Leaving him feeling like his feet had been kicked out from under him. And that was what he had to get past. That, and the simmer of desire still lingering deep inside of him. But though the temptation would still be there, it was not his to resist.

 

Pulling onto the gravel drive up to the Old House, he took it slow, savoring the heat, not relishing the job of carting large, bulky armfuls of drywall up the long flight of stairs. Having to watch to make sure he didn't knock anything over in the process. And having to come up with a good reason as to why he was going to have to replace the plaster instead of restore it.

 

The man in Bangor had not been optimistic, not when he'd heard all the details of the condition and age of the plaster. A double thickness of drywall had been his recommendation to maintain the dimensions of the room. Then he'd suggested that Willie put in extra wide cornice work to cover the gap. But what had sounded perfectly reasonable an hour away from the Old House in the safe confines of a building supply shop, stood on considerably shakier legs only two feet from the back door.

 

And Willie knew that the real test of Barnabas' resolve would come when the vampire discovered that Willie's promise of repairing the plaster turned out to be a lie. He would be furious, there was no doubt about that, and the consequences predictable.

 

Do you actually want to test him, Loomis?

 

No, he did not.

 

Still there was nothing for it but to unload the supplies and haul them up to Naomi's room. A task that took four trips, with the rain pelting down, leaving inky black streaks on the drywall and his arms feeling as if they'd been pulled from their sockets. The slabs of drywall weren't heavy, but they were incredibly bulky, requiring a wide stretch of his shoulders with the effort of carrying them instead of dragging them. He'd tried that in the kitchen, where the edges of the drywall left white smears that though could be easily ignored in the kitchen, would be somewhat harder to explain in the hallway or on the carpet that covered the stairs.

 

When he finished unloading all the supplies, he took off his jacket and shook out the rain before hanging it on the back of a chair in the kitchen. The work, which had distracted him until now, as he looped his apron over his head and tied it on, suddenly became a less potent shield. It was too close to sunset to hide the fact that his hands were shaking as he lit a candelabra to take with him. Or that his heart was thumping as he dragged a little table he'd found in one of the other rooms to Naomi's room to put the candelabra on. His body, wound up, not from exhaustion or hunger, pulsed with the pure tension of waiting for the darkness to thicken on the other side of the window panes.

 

Willie stood in the middle of Naomi's room, with stacks of drywall and rolls of tape all neatly lined up against the wall, hanging in the shadows cast by the single light source as the rain began to come down harder, bringing a sweep of chill to encircle him. He'd told Barnabas that he knew of a way to restore the walls, which was what the vampire was expecting Willie to do. Yet there was no way to do it. In fact, the remainder of the walls would have to come down before he even began the repairs, and, when Barnabas arrived, it would look like he had done no work at all. His mind went round and round. He could make the wrong decision or he could make no decision. Either way he was screwed. Barnabas was a man of his word in more ways than one.

 

From behind him came the even tread of footsteps in the hallway; his heart slammed into his throat as he whirled in time to see Barnabas, the edges of his shoulders cutting a sharp line in the darkness, come through the door. The vampire stopped three strides into the room, looking around him, eyes glinting in the candlelight and missing nothing.

 

"It looks the same in here as it did yesterday, Willie. Why is that?"

 

Fighting the surge of adrenaline that raced through his system, Willie licked his suddenly dry lips and swallowed. "The man in the shop," he said, "told me that because most of the wall had come down that it was better to replace than repair."

 

"So why haven't you begun?"

 

"I-I was waiting for you to give the go ahead."

 

Barnabas looked around the room, at the drywall stacked up against the walls and the rolls of tape and the buckets of plaster. Then he looked at Willie with dark eyes. "That is a falsehood," he said with even, measured tones. "You've purchased the supplies, obviously you've already decided the course of action you would take."

 

Willie's stomach took a mad, lurching dive as he sank back on his heels, feeling his shoulders sag. Feeling the spareness of the distance between him and whatever punishment Barnabas would deem appropriate for this breech of conduct with acid-cold certainty.

 

"Barnabas, I—"

 

"Spare me your excuses," interrupted the vampire, holding up his hand. He walked over to the remaining patch of wall. Willie could see that his eyes, keen in the darkness, were looking at the string of yellow flowers and ivy no bigger than two hand spans long, all that remained of the hand painted trim. Beneath that, the blue paint, faded by the years, glowed with the pale hue of a sunrise sky. Barnabas reached out a hand to touch it, but even he must have seen that even one touch might jar the entire piece of plaster and send it tumbling to the floor, destroying the only remaining evidence of the graceful beauty that had once encompassed Naomi's sitting room. His hand remained inches from the surface of the wall, hovering there for only a second before he let it fall to his side once more.

 

"Tell me again what the man in Bangor said," Barnabas instructed, his voice odd and tight.

 

"He-he said in the state it was in, you couldn't repair it, but you could replace it." He waited for Barnabas to say something or to ask about whether Willie had asked the most competent person for this information, but Barnabas remained silent and focused on the wall.

 

"He said if I would bring him some chips of the paint," Willie continued, never moving his eyes from the vampire. Waiting for the moment when he would turn. "He said could duplicate the color exactly. An' then," Willie stopped to swallow and take a breath, knowing that this would be the biggest hurdle for Barnabas, "if I take the piece of wall in, he has a die cutter that could make me a template that's an exact copy of the pattern you got there. Course, that'd destroy the original plaster an' all."

 

Willie watched as Barnabas seemed to contemplate this, the whole of his body completely still. Then, he tipped his head to one side and looked down at his hand, as if seeing something there. Then he said, "Take the remains of this wall to him." He turned to look at Willie. "If he fails, I will kill him." Nodding, he kept his eyes on the vampire, hoping that the whirl of black fear did not show. If Barnabas was willing to kill for that kind of error, he naturally would have no compunction about doing the same to the person who had suggested the action in the first place.

 

"And you," snapped Barnabas now turning away from the wall. "Did you return the money to Wesley Dale as I instructed?"

 

Mouth open to gulp in the suddenly thinning air, his mind raced to recall if he had. "Y-yes," he stammered as the memory came to him.

 

"You do not seem quite sure, Willie," said Barnabas, eyeing him with a sharp glitter.

 

"Y-yes," said Willie, forcing the firmness into his reply. "I gave it to him this afternoon." That at least was true, and if the rest of the conversation between him and Wesley was now rising in the front of his mind at the least opportune time, at least Barnabas couldn't read his mind. Would never know the friendship that Wesley had shown him, and Wesley would never be a candidate for body number two in the secret room. Barnabas turned fully toward him and, easing his way around the leaning stacks of drywall, moved closer to where Willie stood. Willie fought the urge to back up at the same time his body tightened up with wanting. Unable to stop his body from reacting when the vampire moved like that, advancing quickly, without warning. Sleek, like a panther on the prowl.

 

"And Miss Winters," Barnabas was saying, and Willie brought his mind to the reality of a question being asked that would require an answer. "Did you pay a call on her today?"

 

"Yes, Barnabas," he replied, knowing he was certain of that much.

 

"Did you give her the playing piece?"

 

"Yes, Barnabas."

 

"What did you tell her?"

 

"I told her that I had found it, and that I'd forgotten to give it back, just like you said."

 

"And what did she say?"

 

Victoria Winters had said a great deal when he'd given her the playing piece. Leaving even more unsaid at his own insistence, though he hardly felt that Barnabas would want to hear any of it, let alone discover that such a conversation had taken place.

 

"She said thank you, an' then asked where I found it. I told her underneath the stove." He couldn't remember if that was what he told her exactly, but it sounded good and that was what mattered.

 

Barnabas looked away from him, eyes locked on the wall where the plaster still hung, his expression hard, eyes narrow as though contemplating the space between him and the plaster, the last vestiges of the woman whose room it had been. Willie felt his stomach do a slow roll as Barnabas turned back to him, his expression turning dark and hard, and in that one panic-filled moment, Willie knew that Barnabas' promise had been a lie. His hands gripped at each other as the sweat across the back of his neck turned to ice crystals and his lungs struggled for air. The vampire's eyes tracked over him like a hunter assaying a net, then narrowed, glittering in the flutter of candlelight.

 

"B-Barnabas—" began Willie.

 

"Be silent, Willie," said Barnabas, walking nearer with slow, silent steps until he was only a mere foot away, the chill of his body cutting through the dusty air of the room.

 

"B-but, Barnabas, you s-said—"

 

He saw the backhand coming and couldn't duck in time, taking the brunt of it with his jaw, feeling like a pile driver had slammed into him. Leaving his head ringing and the taste of copper in his mouth. He lifted his hand to his lips and it came away with blood. Looked up, his face stiff, to see the vampire looking at him, hawk-faced, eyes hooded. Saw the flair of the vampire's nostrils as the scent of blood blossomed in the dampness. His heart sank.

 

"I said, be silent," came the hiss. "And be warned, Willie," the vampire said now, tipping his head, casting his eyes completely in shadow, though two sparks of fire glittered there. "Or did you think I had not noticed that you were playing the master? Ordering supplies and making decisions?"

 

Willie struggled to reply, his mouth working as all the air in his body suddenly deserted him. "N-no, that's not—" He stopped, the whirling in his head struggling against the freezing tide that raced through him. "No," he said, finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

"Then you will cease to behave as if you were, do you understand?"

 

For a moment, he was frozen in place, mouth falling open as the taste of blood slipped between his teeth. He had to swallow it down, and his empty stomach rebelled, sending up a shiver of discomfort. Even he could smell the tang of salt, surely Barnabas could as well. Yet except for the single blow, the vampire made no move toward him.

 

"Well?" Barnabas demanded.

 

As he licked a trace of blood from his lip, and the taste of salt and copper sprang to life, he looked around the room. At the supplies laid all about. At the drywall and rolls of tape, and the toolbox with its hammer and nails. This room had seemed such a simple project when he'd begun, and even now, belied none of the tension it had created.

 

"I only wanted—" he began, stopping when he realized that he could not remember what he'd thought at the time he'd begun the project. That it would be an easy job? No, that didn't seem right.

 

"Wanted what, Willie?" said Barnabas, the grit of tightness in his voice. The vampire's hands were fists, and Willie knew that he was probably only seconds away being hit hard enough to sail through the air to crash through the stack of drywall on the far side of the room.

 

"Wanted—" He looked up, searching for something in Barnabas' face that would let him know what he should say. Something that would assuage the vampire, but what his mind stumbled across and held onto was a lie. The vampire's expression revealed nothing but impatience, and Willie knew that he had to say it and move on.

 

"Wanted to do the job right. Not just patch it up, like I thought I could do, but make it new." His heart hammered in his chest as if it would drill its way through his ribs, and still Barnabas was listening. He thought he even imagined that the fists were relaxing and that the candlelight was making headway in Barnabas' eyes. "You know, like Naomi Collins could come in at any time an' have a seat."

 

With the heel of his palm, he wiped away the blood that was drying into flakes across his lower lip, and then wiped his hand on his pants. And knew that it wasn't a lie, not really. The special satisfaction of finishing a project, whether it was a piece of wooden furniture or a room that someone might live in, was something he'd never spoken of before to Barnabas. Saying it now, here in this room, felt like he was laying his throat open for a switchblade held by a rather exacting hand. He ignored the sweat across his forehead, hoping that it would be lost in the shadows, though he knew the smell of his anxiety was like a bright flag in the darkness to the vampire's sense of smell.

 

Barnabas lifted his head, and Willie again sucked in a lungful of air, wanting it to be over quickly if Barnabas was going to smack him, wanting to take back every word he'd just said. The vampire wouldn't like the idea of Willie taking liberties with the memory of his mother, and through apprehension narrow eyes, Willie watched the vampire watching him. Looking at him as if he'd never seen him before. Something flickered behind the brown eyes, dark like the polished plane of secret wood, and then stilled. Perfectly still, as if even the storm-surge of deep winter could not disturb the calmness there.

 

"My mother," said the vampire, appearing not to notice as Willie's mouth dropped open at the even tone, "never really liked the blue. Perhaps you could find a pale lilac instead." Now Barnabas turned to look at the remaining walls, eyes half-hooded as if far away in thought. "She did love lilacs so."

 

Willie watched as the vampire slowly turned and walked to the door, not missing a beat as he stepped around the toolbox on the floor. Then he paused at the door, casting a final glance at the stack of drywall. And then at Willie, with a gaze sharp as teeth. "You will, of course, bring the final color choice for my approval."

 

Nodding quickly, shock running through him like ice cold water, Willie could only mutter, "Sure, Barnabas, anythin' you say—"

 

But the vampire was gone, near silent footsteps marking his passage as he went down the stairs. And Willie, turning to the job at hand, felt the rush of relief, like the first sweep of spring, burst inside his head. All was as it had been, even if that existence was more like a nightmare than anything else. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm as he listened for the front door to open and close. And then, when it did, he picked up a hammer and walked over to the remaining patch of plaster. The yellow flowers bloomed even now, faded but bravely, lasting through the years as a testament to the care with which the room had originally been created. And like that original craftsman, Willie knew he would take the same care, taking his work slow, so that the results would withstand the test of years. Someday, he would be gone, to be sure, but his work would still be there.

~fin



Master Fic Post