InsaneJournal

Who: Peter Vincent
What: Sorting through his collection and attempting to work through some vampire-related issues.
Where: Peter’s flat at the Complex
When: Wednesday, July 4th, around 9 PM
Warnings: Peter being his usual foul-mouthed self, and being Moody McBrooderson
Status: Complete, Narrative



Battle-axe, French, circa 14th century CE. It was a bulky and unwieldy weapon, and not one that Peter was very skilled with himself. Peter marked the weapon off in his notebook, and lifted the heavy axe with both hands. Leaning over the side of the couch, he propped it up against the wall, careful not the gouge the paint. Then he reached for the next. Hatchet, steel head, silver-plated, custom-made three years ago. Better than the battle-axe, but still not his weapon of choice. The hatchet too was checked off and laid aside. Opal necklace, circa 1920 CE, allegedly haunted. He hadn’t seen any signs of spirits since purchasing the piece, nor any worse luck than normal. He’d been planning to give it to Ginger for her birthday come September. He left the necklace in its little glass display case and carried it carefully across the room to set on the kitchen counter with the other jewelry.

Peter leaned heavily against the cabinets, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes. He didn’t want to think anymore. He was exhausted from thinking. Taking a deep breath, he squinted past his fingers. There was a bottle of Midori on the counter, waiting to be opened still. Another half-finished bottle was tucked between the couch cushions back in the living room. Peter opened up the new one and took a couple swigs straight from the bottle, setting it down heavily.

His hands were shaking a little as he drifted back over to the couch and the waiting pile of assorted artifacts, his chest tight. He could feel his heart pounding steadily in his chest, almost painful. He really should get some rest; he hadn’t slept in almost two days and was well on his way into three. His eyes were burning and dry from lack of sleep. Peter reclaimed the clear spot on the couch and reached for the next item.

Crucifixion nail, iron, … He paused, turning the tiny weapon over in his hands. They still unsteady now, just as they had been months ago when he pointed it at the monster who had managed to invade his sanctuary. “Aw, is that an itsy bitsy widdle sticky for me?” Peter’s fingers tightened around the little bolt, and the coldness of the iron faded back from the heat of his palm. With his free hand, he tugged his Midori free from the cushions next to his leg and gulped some down, the melon liqueur burning sweet in his parched mouth.

He was so out of his depth here. He was too accustomed to having it all laid out, so clear and simple. Back home, he knew vampires. Maybe he still needed strong encouragement and stronger liquor to work up the nerve to face them, but at least he knew exactly what he was dealing with.

He set the nail with the others and reached for a new item. Iron dagger, 1.5 ft from hilt to tip, protective sigils carved into the hilt, custom-made five years ago.

Here was different. Here there were vampires he knew only as story characters, and vampires from other worlds that he knew nothing about and had no way to learn about them save through the stories they came from, if there was even that.

“You confuse the fuck out of me…”

“I know I do. But like I say, open book. Ask away. From a distance if you want to.”

Lexi was… an enigma, was probably the best word, Peter could think of right now. He wished he knew what she wanted from him. She seemed sincere, but candy-coated appearances were one of the most useful weapons a vampire could have. Lure him in, make him trust, maybe get an invitation into his home, and then… He’d seen it happen before. With centuries to practice such a ruse, it was certain to be flawless. They took pleasure in it, enjoyed the game as much as any actor did, drawing their audience, their prey, in until they held them in palm of their clawed, cold, hands.

But that would only happen if he let his guard down, so he would just have to make sure he kept it up.

Rose trusted her, and hadn’t gotten eaten yet, so that was a good sign. The very thought shook him more than he’d like to admit, but he couldn’t help but hope Lexi was telling the truth. He liked her. Or, he liked the person she put herself out as being. Girl knew how to party. And the idea that she might be able to help him deal with… whatever was going on with him, that was reassuring as well, despite the fact that he couldn‘t even tell if he could trust her. The little flashes of burning skin, the painful shortness of breath in the middle of the night, the moments when his heartbeat felt off kilter… he still didn’t know if it was just in his head, or if something was really wrong with him. He wondered if it might have been a bad idea, telling her about it. He hoped, at the very least, she wouldn’t exploit that confessed weakness, that he hadn’t just handed her a weapon, even if she didn’t have any answers for him.

He’d have to find the answers himself. Maybe he could find something in the complex library, or in some of Sam’s texts. Or he could try asking Wesley; the ex-watcher was well-read and had studied similar subjects while working with Angel. If that failed… maybe Peter had missed something in his own texts, back home when he’d been looking. With his collection here now, with all his books, he could comb through every scrap of paper he had… after he’d finished sorting through everything, that was.

He set the current item aside and pulled a stack of manuscripts closer across the coffee table, taking the book off the top. Handwritten family Grimoire, Colonial American, four generations mother-to-daughter. Mostly herb-lore and lunar studies, brief mention of a werewolf by second writer.

And now there was Abraham Lincoln to deal with. Honest Abe, a fucking vampire. Fucking hell. And his vampire friend who’d just shown up as well. Peter had seen the board post. Not one, but two new vampires within a week. He really ought to mention them to Amy; she would want to know if she didn’t already. Two new vampires, ones that he knew nothing about save that they were from that shitty looking movie that he hadn’t had a chance to see yet. That movie and the book it was based on were his best chance at preparing himself for these new potential predators. He really ought to have picked that book up ages ago; he was slipping. He’d have to make a run out to the bookstore once the sun rose.

A string of sharp cracks on the street outside made Peter jump and drop the fragile leather-bound tome he was holding. “Fuck,” he whispered, shooting a glare over at the open window. He could smell gunpowder from the firecrackers drifting in on the breeze. A shrill whistle split the air, and he cringed a bit as it made his head throb. “I fucking hate Fourth of July,” he grumbled, and leaned over to gently lift the book - handwritten Bishop’s journal, Italian, written in Latin, circa 1740 CE - off the floor and set it next to him on the stack of old texts. He was going to need to get some new bookshelves and display cases. Actually, given the amount of crap he had, it might not be a bad idea to get a bigger apartment somewhere else… except that would mean leaving the safety of the complex. Furthermore, he had nowhere near the kind of cash to be able to do that. Maybe if he could sell off some of these antiques…

It would be so much easier if the vampires here were all just evil, and save him the headache. At least he wouldn’t be wondering. He knew Angel was gone, but he hadn’t been worried about that particular vampire. At least, not as much as the others. Being familiar with both shows he’d been in made that easier. Regardless, Angel was gone. That left Lexi, Katherine, Abraham Lincoln and his buddy at the least… He was sure there were other vampires hanging around, but he hadn’t caught their names.

Oh, and there was what’s-his-name, Mark. Mark from home, Amy and Charley’s douche bag friend… one of Jerry’s descendants. Kid seemed to have fallen off the grid, but that didn’t mean the Seal had taken him back. If he’d been human, surely he would have headed for the Complex where Amy was. Which meant most likely, he was still fang-faced, hanging back in the shadows. Or maybe he’d walked into a sunbeam like the moron he’d appeared to be during their brief and only meeting, back in Jerry’s nest back home, and made it so Peter had one less bloodsucker to worry about.

He should be so lucky.

Loose-leaf pages binder clipped together, detailed blueprints for 6-shot stake-gun, covered with notes, trying to figure out why the fucking thing jams up after three shots.

He couldn’t handle this. He’d thought, after Jerry, that he might be able to… he didn’t even know. Stop drinking so much? Get over everything? Stop having sleepless nights, endless nightmares? Move on, learn to live without jumping around shadows? And Charley had been there, in the beginning. Staying with him while his mum figured out their insurance plan and got a new place. Jerry was dead. Peter had seen him fry, heard him screaming as Charley drove the stake home. Peter had fucking felt it as the evil was torn out of his body, like venom drawn from a snakebite. And after the initial moment of panic, seeing Charley unmoving in the dirt…

But that was months ago now. And he’d been apart from the kid longer now than he’d had a chance to be with him. Could he even call Charley his best friend? He’d barely had a chance to know the kid… but it was enough. Charley had turned him around, within a few scant hours of meeting him. There was some kind of magic there. Even he didn’t see the kid again for decades, he knew that if Charley showed up one day and said jump, he wouldn’t even ask how high, he’d just start jumping. But Charley wasn’t here now, and Peter was starting to flounder again. He knew his limits, and without Charley there to drag him past them, he was drowning.

Pencil sketch on yellowed paper, approximately 30 years old, showing vampire clan insignia. Species: Mediterranean Subterranean… Peter’s hand stilled as he stared down at the faded design. He shuddered, and crumpled up the drawing, so dry and fragile with age that just bending it tore the paper, and threw it in the corner.