Birthday

Aimée sits at her desk, head resting in her palm, watching the pendulum of her longcase clock swinging back and forth, the weights that keep it in motion hanging low and swaying slightly. She has been for a while now, her mind entirely elsewhere, and it is not until the clock begins ringing out that she realises just how lost in her thoughts she got. She blinks, and frowns—right, the weights are too low again, it needs winding. After the fourth strike, silence returns to the office, save for the clock's soft counting of the seconds, and then the sound of Aimée's footsteps joins it as she rises to her feet and crosses the room to its side, lifting the latch on one of the side panels and retrieving the winding key stowed away beneath the gears within. She opens the glass door protecting the clock's face, sets the key in its centre, and twists, hard. The heavy resistance of the clock's weights pulls against the internal mechanisms, but gradually with a rhythmic clicking they lift as the gears within grind together, the tension building with each twist of the key. Normally one of her servants would attend to this during their morning rounds, but in recent weeks she decided to take it upon herself, the menial task becoming something of a comfort to her.

Just as she lifts the weights back to a satisfactory height and removes the key, her door swings open, and a familiar figure leans against its frame, crossing her arms and looking at her expectantly. "You sent for me?" Drift says.

"Drift!" Aimée exclaims, closing the glass door over the clock's face and stowing the key back inside its heart, then striding over to her side and coaxing her into the room with a hand to the small of her back. "I did, I did—right on time, please, come in and make yourself comfortable."

Drift sighs and allows herself to be drawn in, waiting for Aimée as she closes the door behind them. "What is it that you want that couldn't have been communicated in writing?" she says, narrowing her eyes as Aimée turns back to face her. "I'll say it now—if you're going to try get me to feed on you then I will be leaving, it has scarcely been ten days since the last."

Aimée laughs, her eyes crinkling mischievously as she gestures for Drift to take a seat. "Well, it's my birthday today, Drift."

Drift does not move to sit down, her eyes fixed on Aimée, watching her move towards the cabinets beneath her bookshelves. "Is it indeed?" she says, slowly. "Then I suppose I must wish you many happy returns of the day. That could have been in writing, though."

"It could," Aimée concurs, crouching down and perusing the vast collection within of crystalline bottles filled with wines, spirits and, knowing Aimée, who knows what else. Sure enough, when she straightens upright again, she has in one hand a bottle of incredibly expensive looking brandy, and in the other a very small, dark bottle that Drift sincerely doubts is intended for anyone to drink. "But, I have been thinking. Won't you join me for a drink, Drift?"

Drift breathes out a chuckle and shakes her head. "Will each tally of the years make you bolder than the last? I've no intention of joining you in bed tonight no matter the occasion, Aimée."

Aimée flashes a grin at her, and makes her way to the centre table, setting both of the bottles down and selecting a glass from underneath. "Then indulge me in conversation, at the very least?"

"Fine," Drift says with a roll of the eyes, moving to the sofa and sitting down on the edge of the cushion, not quite settling into the seat. "What, pray tell, have you been thinking about?"

Aimée drops herself into the armchair opposite, propping up against the arm and setting her chin into her palm, her eyes returning to the clock in the corner. "Time," she answers, simply.

Drift frowns, glancing at the clock and back at Aimée. "Time..?"

"Mm," Aimée hums, not taking her eyes away from it, "With every tick of the clock, I get older and older."

Drift's eyebrows shoot up and she laughs. "You're worried about getting old? Aimée, there's not even a wrinkle on your face yet!"

Aimée's dark eyes meet hers again, an intensity to them that catches Drift by surprise. "And yours shall never have any."

An unpleasant tightness squeezes Drift's chest, and she frowns. "I... suppose that's true, but you've a long life ahead of you yet Aimée—and what does my undeath have to do with anything?"

Aimée does not answer, instead she leans forwards and pulls the stopper from the bottle of brandy and pours herself a drink, holding the glass and swirling it absently in her hand, staring into the golden liquid. "I've dedicated my life to you, Drift," she says, lifting her gaze, "But time marches on. Soon enough, you will have more to object in our union than just our genders."

Drift purses her lips, a scowl fixing its way onto her face as she chews over exactly how to respond. "...You... place me in a rhetorical trap, where if I argue with you it suggests feelings for you I assure you I do not possess," she sighs, "But fine—I resent the implication that I should be so shallow as to be dissuaded by a woman's ageing, of all things."

Aimée smiles at her, "Perhaps not. But even so, you have all of eternity ahead of you, Drift, and before long the difference in our mortality is going to show. It might only be the one year now, but next year it will be two, then three, four, five years out of sync, a decade, a lifetime."

Drift sinks back into the sofa, elbow resting on the arm, her head upon her fist, and holds Aimée's gaze with narrowed eyes. "Where are you going with this, Aimée?"

Aimée just smiles at her, and sips her brandy.

Drift's eyes flick to the clock, the tightness in her chest twisting further, an unpleasant ice forming at the base of her spine. Aimée has set her glass back down when she looks back, her dark eyes watching her intently. Drift swallows. "You can't... ask that of me, Aimée."

"I didn't ask anything," Aimée says, faux confusion spreading onto her face.

Drift's brow twitches, and she exhales slowly. "Aimée."

"I've no idea what you could possibly be referring to Drift! I'm merely reflecting upon my own cruel mortality, doomed either to slowly wither away with the years, or be taken early by some great sickness in the night." Her eyes sparkle, crinkled and smug. "Unless you know of a way to prevent this?"

"No," Drift replies drily with an unamused glare, "I can't say I know of any solutions that don't involve granting a dangerous serial killer an array of abilities specifically catered towards murder. On that note," Drift snorts to herself, "It's incredibly optimistic of you not to include dying to your own poison on that list."

A broad grin spreads onto Aimée's face. "How right you are, Drift!" She picks up the small, dark blue vial and rotates it in the light, the evening glow glinting off its ridged, hexagonal surface. "This is prussic acid, you know. I'm sure you remember it?"

"Cyanide," Drift breathes, her heart rate spiking and a wash of ice cold dread flooding her body. "What the hell are you doing with that, Aimée?"

"Why, it's a cough medicine!" Aimée says, bright and innocent, her hand closing around the small vial.

Drift scowls at her. "You know that's not what I meant. Yes, I remember it—I remember that it does nothing to me."

Aimée just smiles, and unstops the bottle.

Drift is on her feet instantly, scrambling across the table to wrest the vial out of Aimée's hands—but she isn't quick enough. The lip of the vial is against Aimée's tongue before Drift's hand encloses around her wrist, and within seconds Aimée is coughing and heaving for air, the harsh chemical eagerly starving every inch it touches of the oxygen it needs and sending her body into shock.

Aimée retches violently and her face scrunches up, "Hoogh. Hoh. I... I was going..." she pants heavily, "To put it... in my brandy, but you forced my hand a little there." She laughs with a hysterical edge. "My, what a... a kick it has! Barely a sip and I feel breathless already! Ohh, Drift," she coughs another laugh, giggling with deranged delight, "Can you hear... my heart? Do you think that's excitement, or fear? I have no idea!"

Drift hunches over her, one hand tightly grasping Aimée's wrist, her eyes fixed on the dark vial in her hand, her other hand on Aimée's knee to support herself. An acrid, nutty scent hangs in the air. "What have you done."

Aimée giggles between laboured breaths. "You have I imagine... roughly fifteen minutes, Drift. Then I shall collapse, and... not long after, my heart shall give."

Drift's head shakes, eyes wide. "You're lying, you—you're—this isn't funny. What did you really take?"

"I would... never... lie to you, Drift. You can smell it, can't you? Fifteen minutes, or all of eternity." She lifts her free hand to Drift's cheek, stroking it gently. "It's your choice."

"My choice?!" Drift yells, jerking her head away and curling back her lips, sharp fangs flashing beneath. She yanks the vial out of her hand. "My choice?!" she repeats, incredulous, and considers for a moment throwing the thing across the room. She slams it down on the table instead and whirls back on Aimée, her hand grabbing her face by the chin, her carefully dulled nails digging into her cheeks, vision blurring red with tears. "You know full well that there is no choice for me here!"

Aimée's chest rises and falls, trying desperately to stave off the slow strangle of suffocation taking her body. She wheezes a laugh. "There is always a choice, Drift. And I... am making mine. Either... I spend eternity in lockstep with you, or I spend it in hell, and I shall not... wither away slowly, if it is to be the latter."

Drift inhales shakily, tears streaking down her cheeks. "But you have so much life, Aimée! And I—I am dead. My existence is a cold imitation of the warm vibrance you have, it is only in your warm blood I find any semblance of humanity."

Aimée brushes her knuckles against Drift's hand, making no move to remove herself from her grasp, "Not any longer. I already... feel myself growing cold, my sweet."

"No," Drift sobs, her own body cold as ice, the twisting in her chest agonisingly painful and her stomach burning with nauseous dread, "No, no—why? Why would you do this?"

Aimée lifts her arms and encloses them around Drift, embracing her and forcing Drift to hover awkwardly against the chair lest she be pulled into her lap. "Because I love you," she murmurs into Drift's ear.

"This is an incredibly cruel way to express it," Drift spits back, a tremble taking her body.

Aimée strokes her hair and kisses her cheek. "Love is cruel, Drift."

"Not like this." Drift's face twists. "I don't even have time to make it gentle, Aimée."

Aimée giggles. "I've always wanted... to feel your teeth sinking into me, Drift. To die, cradled in your arms."

"You're a sick, depraved woman Aimée and I hate you," Drift growls, thick droplets of blood falling from her eyes. She hooks an arm underneath Aimée's legs and grabs her waist with the other, lifting her effortlessly and taking her place in the chair, eliciting a deranged giggle from the dying woman who melts into her lap, as if her breathing isn't growing ever more ragged and her pulse not bounding faster and faster.

"I hate you," Drift repeats, one hand coming to cradle Aimée's head and the other wrapping around and clutching her tightly against her, her face dropping wetly onto Aimée's shoulder. "How could you make me do it like this, Aimée," she sobs.

Aimée's body shakes with laughter—and with weakness, her head pounding and her face flooded with the red of her heart desperately trying to get oxygen around her failing body. "You... still have a choice... Drift."

"Like hell I do," Drift snarls, her face lifting and her tears falling onto Aimée's neck, rivulets of crimson already making their way down her front, soaking into the white fabric. Aimée does not respond, just continues to heave with ragged, laboured breaths, and Drift shakily inhales her own.

She hooks her finger into the knot at her neck and all but rips it open, then presses her lips gently to Aimée's throat, jugular thrumming desperately beneath her kiss, and she swallows back a sob that causes another thick deluge of red to well out of her eyes. "This is going to hurt," she mutters. Not as a warning—rather, a bitter, angry statement. She sniffs, and her lips part, fangs grazing against the soft, white flesh of Aimée's throat, hovering for but one trembling moment.

Aimée pants against her, her body seeming to grow heavier against Drift by the second, a feeling normally so comforting filling her with nothing but ice cold panic. She plunges her teeth in with a vile pop, drowned out by the gurgling, strangled, agonised sound erupting from Aimée's throat, quickly dying down into wet, pathetic whimpers, Aimée clinging to Drift as her already frantic heart floods Drift's mouth with her blood, her body jerking involuntarily and causing Drift's teeth to tear the wound wider.

And, oh, she's as intoxicating and delicious as ever—the ravenous, insatiable pit of hunger within her eager to drink her in, and the part of her she tries to keep buried deep stirs with excitement at the knowledge that she is going to make Aimée's heart finally stop, that she no longer needs to hold back, her teeth aching with violence and her blunted fingers digging into her desperately, wishing nothing more than to rend her in two and sink her teeth directly into her heart. But an agonising panic twists inside her own. She's making a mess. The convulsions wracking Aimée's body make it impossible for her not to, and with every swallow of her blood a sob wracks Drift's own body.

It doesn't take long for Aimée's heart to stumble and stagger, anemic as she is, the wild suffocated pumping of her heart only speeding up the process and Drift doing nothing to stem its flow. The hands clutching onto Drift's shoulders tremble and begin to grow slack, her struggling pulse growing ever weaker. Drift tears herself away from Aimée's throat, Aimée's blood and her tears dripping from her chin, bloody bile bubbling in her throat at the sight of the mess before her: Aimée's head lolling to one side as she barely even breathes, a horrific mess of crimson gore down her front.

Drift lifts her own wrist to her mouth and bites down, a white hot pain that's all too familiar shooting through her, and she woodenly places her wrist against Aimée's neck.

She holds there lamely for a moment, a sort of static filling her mind, suddenly feeling as if she's looking at things through a window, not really able to understand what she's looking at. The air is thick with the smell of blood, and her wrist is burning. The bitter, acrid taste of woodrot coats the back of her throat. The scent of mildew begins to mix with the iron. It's so cold.

And then the reality that Aimée is dying hits her again and a flood of panic courses through her. She grabs her forearm and begins to squeeze, desperately trying to mix her cursed blood with Aimée's. "Shit," she chokes out, "Shit, shit—fuck! Please, please work. God, I've never done this before, Aimée! Why would you do this?!"

Aimée's body begins to twitch and spasm, and Drift has no way of knowing if it's because she was fast enough or if these are her dying throes. She wraps her arms around her and sobs, sinking into the chair and clutching her tight, fingers carding through her hair, face buried into her bloodsoaked shirt, Aimée's cold, heavy body shuddering and shaking against her.

And then she feels it—the pull of a new vampire.

Her hands fly to Aimée's face, lifting her head and staring into her dazed eyes. Aimée blinks at her slowly, and then a broad grin spreads onto her face, "Hi."

Drift just holds her there, breathing her own heavy, ragged breaths, tears streaming down her face. She can see the wound on her neck stitching itself closed beneath the thick coating of red.

Aimée laughs. "Wowee. It's so... bright! I don't know what I thought this would be like, but I'm hungry!"

Drift's bloodstained lips curl back to reveal gore covered teeth, and her hands drop from Aimée's face, flying instead to grasp her by the throat, lifting her slightly out of her lap, a strangled gurgle of surprise coming from Aimée. "You're a vile, horrible idiot is what you are and I should frankly come back here and stake you."

Aimée giggles—or well, as best she can while Drift crushes her windpipe, anyway. "You can't do that! It's my birthday," she chokes.

Drift's grip tightens. And then her hand falls, and her head drops onto Aimée's chest, a sob shaking through her body. "Idiot, idiot, idiot, stupid—why would you do that? You could have really truly died."

Aimée's arms wrap around her and she kisses her hair, resting her chin on her head. "I already told you, if I didn't act now, our lives would fall completely out of sync."

"You didn't even try to convince me," Drift says, muffled into her shirt.

Aimée chuckles. "Oh, Drift. My beautiful, stubborn Drift. It would take me a decade at least to convince you."

Drift sniffs loudly. "Well you'd have had ten more years of life."

"Ugh!" Aimée throws her head back. "More like ten years of slowly dying. I'd rather get it all out of the way now."

Drift huffs, then lifts her head and narrows her eyes at Aimée. "Ten more years of me feeding on you, however."

Aimée's eyes go wide. "Wait what? What? What do you mean?"

Drift's eyebrows quirk. "You're dead, Aimée."

Aimée's brows furrow and her eyes start to dart. "But—but can't I just fill up on blood for you?"

"I don't want your secondhand and lukewarm at best blood, Aimée," Drift says, her face scrunched up in disgust.

"But, but Drift," Aimée whines, grabbing Drift's shoulders and shaking her slightly.

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you tried to kill yourself!" Drift pushes her arms off of her. "And why the hell would you use cyanide and not something that would have given me more time? Good luck cleaning this mess up! I am not going to help!"

Aimée looks down sadly at the mess of gore all over her front and splattered onto her chair, then back up at Drift with big, shining eyes. "Because the cyanide wouldn't hurt you?"

"Oh don't try and act cute now," Drift says with a roll of her eyes, though her hands did move to support Aimée's waist as she leant back to look at herself.

Aimée grins and leans in. "You think I'm cute?"

"I think you're a deranged imbecile."

This close, Drift can see the way Aimée's pupils dilate as her eyes drop to her lips, and Drift's eyebrow twitches as heat starts rising to her face.

Aimée's head cocks slowly to the side. "Doesn't this mean I could feed on you, now?"

"No," Drift says, her voice coming out like she was the one who had a hand to her throat. Mischievous delight spreads onto Aimée's face, her smug, lopsided grin revealing her teeth to her. Drift clears her throat, then lifts her hand and pokes Aimée's distinctly human canine, "You don't have any fangs yet."

Aimée's tongue comes to inspect her teeth, and her face falls. "Oh." Then she frowns. "Wait, how am I supposed to feed at all, then?"

Drift grimaces. "I... think I'm supposed to slit my wrist for you. But not only do I not have any claws, I..." she swallows, and her hand drops to clutch her wrist, her own bite congealed and barely oozing, "I-I don't think I..."

"Hey, shh, shh," Aimée soothes, brushing back a sticky clump of hair and tucking it behind her ear, "I won't make you do something you don't wa-hhhhk—!"

Her sentence is cut abruptly short as Drift's hand returns to crushing her windpipe. "I don't have to stop myself from strangling you anymore when you say something beyond idiotic, because you just made me turn you."

Aimée wheezes and grins. "You got me there!"

Drift bares her fangs at her and growls, then releases her throat and sighs. "I'll spare you the Goldsmith treatment and collect some blood and meat for you."

Aimée grimaces. "Is it going to be rats?"

Drift stares at her flatly. "Well you can have the Goldsmith treatment if you'd prefer, after that I have every right not to help you."

"Nooo, no, no, I'm sorry, I would love your help, Drift!" Aimée laughs, and then her eyes drop to Drift's lips again. "But, I can think of something I would enjoy more in the meantime."

"I don't think you deserve that," Drift huffs, turning her unpleasantly sticky face away from Aimée.

"Mm," Aimée hums, leaning in close and hooking a finger under Drift's chin, forcing her to meet her ravenous gaze, "But don't you think you deserve a treat after all that? Won't you let me make it up to you? It must feel so uncomfortable, covered in my gore like that."

Drift glowers at her. "I don't think you licking my face like a dog is going to be much more pleasant."

Aimée smiles at her and slides out of her lap, moving to straddle her instead, her hands propping herself up on either side of the chair over Drift's shoulders. She lowers her face close to Drift's throat, hovering close enough to tickle it with her breath. "You don't want to feel my tongue against your neck? My lips against yours?"

Drift swallows, her hips shifting underneath Aimée's weight, her heart pounding loudly in her ears—which, she realises with great displeasure, Aimée can now hear. Her hands twitch against Aimée's waist, somewhere she does not remember putting them. She doesn't remove them.

"Drift?" Aimée whispers, eliciting a shiver across Drift's body.

She exhales loudly through her nose. "I hate you."

Aimée lifts her head and grins at her. "That's not a no, Drift."

"No," Drift sighs, "It isn't."

That's all Aimée needs. Her hands grab the sides of Drift's face, and Aimée's lips crash into hers with an immediate, desperate moan, far too much tongue all at once. But, she doesn't hate it. Rather, she feels a thrill running up her spine as she realises neither of them are going to need to breathe, and a sudden, deep understanding as to why Aimée reacts the way she does when Drift feeds on her—the frantic, hungry desperation of her kisses and touches stirring within her an overwhelming need of her own, her hands sliding up Aimée's back and pressing her closer, Aimée's nails digging into the nape of her neck, locking their faces together so tightly Drift could almost think Aimée wants to climb inside her.

Aimée breaks away from her mouth and presses a kiss against her cheek, then her tongue, and begins to run it up the length of her jaw. Drift is surprised to feel a tingling sensation in its wake, uncertain whether it's just her imagination, or her not being as immune to their saliva as she thought. Regardless, she has to internally admit she was wrong—Aimée's tongue comes back and presses up against the soft skin beneath her chin, and goosebumps erupt across her body. It takes everything in her not to give her the satisfaction of her own moan as Aimée's pleased noises vibrate against her, the feeling of her ravenous want infectious and exhilarating.

Aimée returns to kissing her face, interspersed with the press of her tongue working its way across it, the itchy, sticky feeling of gore being replaced inch by inch by a faint tingle. Then she works her way down the side of her neck, and then finally... latches on with as much force as a puppy given an egg to hold—which is to say, none at all. She wiggles her jaw and presses her teeth against Drift's throat, gnawing pathetically, and then her tongue joins the wiggling, resulting in a bizarre, ticklish sensation that sends her into a fit of giggles, "Wh... what are you doing?"

Aimée's head rolls onto her shoulder, and her hand comes to trace the wet spot she's left on Drift's neck. "'M sulking," she grumbles.

This only makes her laugh harder, and despite how frustrated she is with the woman, she plants a kiss on her head. "You'll have your fangs in a few days," she says, a fond note to her voice. And then she mutters, "Not that you deserve them. I hope they take unusually long to come through."

"Noooo," Aimée whines, "I want to feed on you!"

"Yeah, yeah," Drift sighs and shakes her head. Then her arms tighten around her. "How... are you feeling? Dying isn't... easy."

Aimée hums. "Exhausted, utterly starving, but aside from that I'm fine, really. I was cradled in your arms, it was all I could have ever dreamed of."

Drift's eyes sting, and she heaves a shaky breath. "Well you owe me a new suit. There's no way I'm getting all this out of it."

"Mm.. Okay," Aimée mumbles, "Why'm... I sleepy? Thought vampires don't..?"

Drift laughs. "Not often, no. But you just died, Aimée. It's going to take a few feedings for your body to truly correct that." Her fingers make their way into Aimée's hair, scraping lightly at the back of her head, her chin coming to rest on its top. "I'm surprised it's trying with so little blood, but I suppose you should have a nap and we'll figure out what to do next afterwards."

"Okay," Aimée murmurs, closing her eyes and nestling into the crook of her neck.

The soft ticking of the clock is the only sound that remains in the room as Drift holds her there in her arms, waiting patiently for the new vampire to stir again. Periodically, a wash of tears wells up in her eyes, and she pulls her in closer.