Chapter Text
Chapter 1 – My old aches become new again, my old friends become exes again
~
“Now, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, wolf.”
It’s not the worst greeting Patrick has received in his life, but he can’t say it’s his favorite either, not by a long shot. Still, it draws a smile on his lips because of the person it comes from.
“It’s surprisingly nice to see you too, Weekes,” Patrick answers their guest as he moves aside to let him in. He’s alone in greeting their visitor, since Pete is still out on clan business with Travie. Given the exchange they’re having, it’s probably best this way. “And I have a name, you daft leech.”
Dallon responds to those words with a resounding laugh, head shaking slowly. “Fair enough, Patrick.”
“Oh, so we go from ‘wolf’ to ‘Patrick’, do we?” Patrick teases him with just a hint of skepticism in his voice.
“Would you prefer ‘Mrs. Wentz’?” Dallon doesn’t even hesitate with his answer, which tells Patrick he’s probably been hoping for a chance to work the teasing title into their conversation.
“Would you prefer to sleep outside in the sun?” Patrick counters with a cocked eyebrow, and yet, the smile persists.
“God, I wish I’d found you before Wentz did,” Dallons comments with a playful wink.
“I’m not a fucking collectible,” Patrick points out with an eloquent glare, which immediately prompts the vampire to laugh.
“He did buy you, though, didn’t he?” Dallon’s tone is mostly teasing, there’s clearly no malice behind it, which is the only reason Patrick doesn’t respond with claws across Dallon’s ridiculously handsome face. Before Patrick can reply at all, however, he adds, “I’m just joking, I know the reason you got here is far less important than the reason you stayed.”
Well, look at that, Dallon isn’t quite done surprising him, it seems.
“It’s insane, the moment I’m convinced I want to punch you, you say shit like that,” Patrick huffs, and there’s a smile working its way back onto his lips, which only grows when Dallon simply laughs in response.
It’s been two months since the High Council, since Dallon surprised everyone present – especially Patrick – and single-handedly convinced the council to pass a law that forbids the killing of werewolves. Single-handedly-ish, since he had the significant help of the pack saving the vampires present, of course. Still, Patrick hasn’t forgotten that werewolves owe him a debt of gratitude. He has a feeling Dallon hasn’t forgotten either.
“Let’s go, the others are waiting in the living room.”
Even though this is the first time Dallon visits them – his initial visit was delayed –, they decided against a formal affair. They figured a friendly, informal get together would probably convey the idea of friendship better than a stuffy, official dinner. They will have dinner, of course, but like they did with the Ways, they plan on making it a spontaneous event, rather than a strictly regulated, assigned-seats kind of deal. It worked out well enough with the Ways, after all, and given the unrest and instability that has been spreading in most vampire districts after the High Council, this alliance – and possibly even friendship – is of crucial importance.
The moment they walk into the living room, everyone present turns to look at them, but it’s William who comes up to them first, and offers Weekes a bright smile. “It’s good to see you, Dallon.”
“Oh good, I thought I was about to receive a dreaded Beckett nickname,” Dallon jokes with a wide grin.
“Don’t be silly, you already have one,” William counters with a shrug, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Mikey helped me come up with it.”
“Of course he did,” Patrick interjects with a roll of his eyes.
Dallon seems torn between the urge to ask about it, and the knowledge that he probably shouldn’t. Thankfully, Gabe steps in before he has time to make a decision. “I want it on record that I don’t feel comfortable with the nickname, however accurate it might be,” he states with a chuckle, than hands Dallon a glass of blood and wine.
“Y’all really want me to ask, don’t you?” Dallon laughs as he gladly accepts the offer, and walks further into the room, clearly put at ease by the relaxed and friendly greeting he’s received from the clan so far.
“I wouldn’t tell you even if you asked,” William informs him with a playful smirk. “You gotta earn it.”
Dallon chuckles at that and takes a sip from his glass; it doesn’t escape Patrick that he hesitates just a second before doing so, the ingrained mistrust all old vampires inevitably develop in order to stay alive clearly coming to the surface. And yet, he drinks after just a moment, in a show of trust that they’ve somehow earned.
Andy, who hasn’t spoken so far, addresses him a sympathetic smile, but it’s Joe who speaks, clearly voicing what both werewolves are thinking. “We didn’t get a chance to meet in Vegas, I’m Joe, and this is Andy,” he pauses, and even though Dallon probably already knows this, he seems to appreciate the introduction, and responds with a genuine smile and a nod. “It’s nice to meet another friend-shaped vampire.”
Dallon can’t help a small laugh at that, but it’s light and genuinely amused, not mocking. “I’ll admit, I’ve never heard it phrased like that,” he comments, then takes another small sip from his glass. “I like it, and I’m very happy to meet you in person, although your shadows were very lovely.”
Joe smiles at those words, at the implied gratefulness for what the werewolves did back in Nevada.
Right then, a noise from the hall distracts them, and a handful of seconds later, Pete and Travie are walking into the room. They’re laughing about something, and the good humor carries into the greeting Pete extends to Dallon.
“Weekes, about time you showed your face around here.” Pete walks over to their guest and gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Unless you’ve been hitting on Patrick again, then your face might need rearranging.”
Dallon doesn’t seem inclined to take that threat seriously, probably because Pete speaks it with a wide grin on his face, as if he already knows the answer but won’t let it bother him.
“I was hitting on him the moment he opened the door, of course,” Dallons admits with an unashamed smirk. “But in my defense, I thought they were lying about you surviving whatever the hell you shot yourself and Urie with.”
That simple and seemingly harmless comment, spoken in such a playful and off-handed manner, is enough to remind Patrick of how close he actually got to losing Pete. The memory stings Patrick unexpectedly, his heart dropping for a moment to the bottom of his chest; he does his best to stop the feeling from showing on his face, which remains schooled in a quiet smile. Good thing he’s gotten better at poker.
Pete, however, must have felt it through their bond, because he glances at his mate almost apologetically. It’s just a flash, and it’s gone by the time he turns to Dallon again, but it’s enough for Patrick to steer his mind away from it, from the pain and the anguish of those weeks, which still lie incredibly close to the surface of his thoughts.
This is not the time nor place for it, but he has to admit he’s surprised it still affects him that much, even after months.
As he forces his thoughts back to the here and now, he realizes Dallon’s jab wasn’t an innocent joke or a blunder, it was most likely a deliberate shot at the secret they just will not give up – the deadly content of the bullet. Other Regents have tried to figure that out, either by asking out-right or sending someone to gather intel, so it’s not surprising that it’s at the forefront of Dallon’s mind too.
Patrick feels his defenses slowly build themselves back up, and only now sees that, while Dallon’s flirting had no effect on him, his charming, friendly manner – aided by Patrick’s gratefulness for his role in stopping the killing of werewolves – did lull Patrick into dangerous territory without him realizing it. Dallon might be an ally now, possibly even a friend, but that does not mean he can’t be ruthless, if it serves him. No one gets to the Regent seat without some bloodshed, not even Pete, and certainly not Dallon Weekes. And it’s far too early into their alliance to trust him with a secret like the osmium bullet. Patrick doesn’t think he’ll ever feel ready to share it with anyone, if he has to be honest.
“Well, sorry to disappoint you, I’m still alive and kicking,” Pete counters with a confident smile. “And kicking harder than ever, I might add.”
“Yes, I’ve heard… born vampire, last of your kind.” Dallon’s words are still amicable, but there is an edge to his smile, a carefulness that is not easily missed.
“That we know of,” Travie corrects him with evident delight, as if instilling that doubt is his new favorite past time.
It is.
“Alright, enough poking each other,” William declares with a roll of his eyes; it’s enough to disperse the vague hint of tension that started to form, and to bring the conversation back to easier, friendlier tones. “Dinner’s waiting.”
“By all means, lead the way,” Dallon agrees, seemingly happy enough to follow the other vampire’s lead and move away from more delicate topics.
And yet, Patrick knows there’s no chance in hell he’s willing to drop the matter entirely.
~
Dinner turns out to be a pleasant affair, with Dallon making a rather unequivocable statement by sitting between Pete and Patrick – and for once, it has nothing to do with his flirting. Placing himself between the Regent and his mate is yet another show of friendship, as vampire customs dictate, a move that seems to mollify Pete a little bit.
By the time they call it a night, Patrick feels like maybe they didn’t start off on the worst foot, even though there are certainly crinkles they need to work out. It’s not surprising, really – if there’s one thing Patrick has learnt in the eleven months since he first arrived at the house, it’s that vampire politics are hell to navigate, and he basically married into vampire royalty. Things are even more complicated now that everyone knows about Pete’s true nature, and being the unofficial liaison between werewolves and vampires does not make Patrick’s position any easier. Sure, being the Alpha of the biggest surviving pack and the actual mate to a Regent vampire, it felt natural that the role should fall to him, but that doesn’t mean Patrick doesn’t feel the pressure.
Sometimes it’s all he feels.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Pete points out as he joins Patrick on the bed, his features only partially illuminated by the light on Patrick’s nightstand, the only one still on.
“What thing?” Patrick’s already lying under the bed sheets, but he turns onto his side to face his mate when Pete slides into bed next to him.
“Getting lost in your head.” There’s a trace of reproach in Pete’s tone, but it’s so faint it could just as easily be pure concern.
“Nah, I’m just thinking about how hot Dallon looked tonight,” Patrick deflects shamelessly, his grin only half-hearted.
“Funny,” Pete deadpans with a playful glare, lying on his side as well so that he’s facing the werewolf. “What is it?”
Patrick looks at him then, the vampire’s pale features half-draped in darkness but his eyes bright and attentive, ready to catch any sign of distress. Patrick considers lying, but only for half a second, because he knows Pete would see through it in a heartbeat. So he lets go of his natural reticence and speaks.
“He’s a charming son of a bitch,” Patrick admits with a defeated sigh. “He was in the house five minutes, and he had everyone wrapped around his finger. Including me.”
“Well, he earned some pretty solid goodwill with his stunt at the Council,” Pete reasons with a slow nod, and Patrick finds himself releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“I know, but it’s more than that,” Patrick admits, looking down for a moment. “He has a way of making you feel like you’re his favorite person, and I nearly fell for it.”
“Nearly.” Pete’s remark is aimed at reassuring him, it’s clear, and yet it doesn’t quite succeed.
“It just feels… dangerous. What if he’s after the bullet?”
It’s Patrick’s main fear, that Dallon is putting on a show for the sole purpose of finding out what was strong enough to kill Urie. What could be strong enough to kill Pete. It’s hard to forget what happened to born vampires, that it was regular vampires who thought they were too dangerous to keep existing, and ultimately eliminated them.
“I don’t think he is,” Pete claims quietly after a few seconds.
“He brought it up within three minutes of you being there,” Patrick points out with a skeptical look.
“I think he’s just piqued he can’t figure it out,” Pete reasons, his tone calm, unaffected. “He likes knowing things and he hates feeling at a disadvantage.” That sounds like Dallon, from what Patrick has seen of him – he seems like the type who likes being in control at all times. “Plus, I think he wanted to be the one to end Urie.”
“I mean, he kind of was, he ripped off Urie’s head,” Patrick points out.
They’ve been over the night of the High Council a million times, by now Pete is aware of pretty much everything that happened while he was wounded and unconscious. Including the fact that while Urie was succumbing to his wound, Dallon decided not to take any chances, and just tore Urie’s head clean off. Considering what they later discovered about Dallon and how he lost his beloved to Urie’s cruel whims, the act seems more than justified, if a little gruesome.
“I still don’t think we should be too worried,” Pete considers as he scoots closer. “But if it makes you feel better, we can ask Mikey to come over,” he continues with a small shrug. “He knows Dallon better than any of us, they knew each other long before we sent him into Dallon’s bed.”
“Don’t you think it’ll be awkward?”
“That’s Mikey’s problem,” Pete answers with a grin, then adds, “Besides, it might be a good distraction so Dallon stops hitting on you.”
“I don’t think he’s actually hitting on me, I think he’s just committed to the bit,” Patrick objects with a roll of his eyes.
“Don’t underestimate how hot you are, little wolf,” Pete reminds him with a wink, hand playfully running up Patrick’s side and tickling him softly.
Patrick squirms away as he grabs Pete’s wrist, effectively stopping him. His glare, however, is far less convincing than his grip. “Do not tickle me.”
“Or what?” Pete taunts him shamelessly, his other hand sneaking closer. Patrick darts to grip that one too.
“Do you really wanna find out?” Patrick asks with an eloquent look, although his lips are still trying to curve into a grin.
“No, not really,” Pete admits, leaning closer so that his lips brush Patrick’s as he speaks. “I’d rather just kiss you until you forget Dallon even exists.”
Patrick smiles at those words, his hold on Pete’s wrists releasing as he scoots closer once more. “Dallon who?”
Pete laughs silently, and this time his hand settles on Patrick’s hip. “Good wolf.”
Patrick’s responding laugh gets lost in the kiss they share, slow and unhurried, and yet still carrying a trace of playfulness. And Patrick is more than happy to set his worries aside for a few hours.
~~
Dallon wakes up from a confusing nightmare with a start, and the unfamiliar surroundings only fuel his rattled response further; his fangs extend as he sits up, and his eyes scan the room in search of possible threats. It takes a solid ten seconds before his mind clears enough for him to remember where he is. And, especially, that there’s no danger.
Wentz and his clan might be secretive little shits at times, but at this point there’s very little doubt about them being a potentially solid ally. And Wentz isn’t the type to sneak into his room and murder him in his sleep – Dallon knows that if they ever ended up on opposite sides, the born vampire would face him in a fair fight. Or shoot him with whatever crap was in that damn bullet they’re so jealous of.
He runs a hand over his face as his emotions slowly subside and he gets back in control of his own racing mind. Maybe he shouldn’t have come on his own. But then again, he hasn’t really allowed himself to get close to anyone else, not since losing Nora. What would have been the point? To give Urie someone else to kill just to torment him? It just seemed pointless at best and masochistic at worst. Sure, his clan is loyal to him, in the same way soldiers are loyal to a general they respect, and his second-in-command is devoted to a fault. But love? Family? Friendship? Those things haven’t been on the table for a long time, for him.
Absurdly enough, his tired mind jumps from that thought to a surprising face emerging from the fog of his nightmare. Uh, odd that he would be the one to come up in his miserable ramblings. Maybe it’s chance, or maybe it’s because he’s the closest thing he’s had to a friend in a very long time. Which is pretty fucking depressing, considering Mikey only reappeared in his life because he was after intel. And a good fuck. Those two tend to go hand in hand with him.
“Get a grip, Weekes,” he mutters to himself as he stands from the bed, all hope of further sleep abandoned.
Maybe he should take a walk to clear his thoughts. After all, when Wentz presented him with the guest room, he also told Dallon he’s free to roam the house, if he wishes to do so.
It’s a significant show of trust, one Dallon genuinely appreciates, and it almost makes him feel guilty for immediately bringing up the damn bullet when Pete arrived. Almost. He can’t quite let that go, he spent so much time trying and failing to find a way to kill Urie that knowing a solution was seemingly within easy reach just infuriates him. He failed over and over again, until all he was left with were anger and bitterness and a feeling of complete and utter helplessness. And then along came Wentz with his silly little gun, and ended centuries of torment like it was nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing, since it almost killed him too. But ultimately, it didn’t. Because of the witch. Because of Patrick.
Dallon finds himself smiling softly at the memory of Patrick fending off an entire room of vampires so that the witch would take care of Pete instead of unsealing the doors. It was a bold move, and yet he remembers Patrick didn’t even hesitate, he truly was ready to fight off anyone who tried to interfere. It was brave and absolutely fucking insane, but it worked. And it was the moment Dallon decided he would find a way to help him. Help his cause. Help Nora’s cause. Because somewhere along the way, revenge and hatred consumed him so much that he lost sight of what she would have wanted, of what love was meant to look like. Patrick reminded him of that with his absolute, fierce devotion to his mate. No wonder Dallon has taken a strong liking to him.
And okay, fine, Dallon also actually thinks the werewolf’s criminally hot. But that’s beside the point, he would never actually try and step between him and Wentz – he likes all of his limbs fully attached, thank you very much – but it’s fun to fool around and tease him a bit. Besides, Wentz doesn’t seem to mind too much.
His wandering thoughts seem to have finally met a comfortable place to stop, and Dallon paces the room a couple of times, stretching a bit. He’s contemplating actually taking a walk around the house – it’s still a few hours until sunset, but there’s a storm outside, which means weak sunlight – but before he can decide, he feels something. A vibration, a sort of echoing hum that travels through the air, gradually growing louder and louder until it’s a disturbingly high-pitched whine.
What the hell?
He has no idea what this is, but it sounds like an alarm of some kind, which is not a great sign. So much for being in no danger. He throws on a t-shirt and walks out into the hallway, just as Joe emerges from the door opposite his.
“What is it?” Dallon makes sure his tone doesn’t betray the urgency he feels, although it takes quite the effort.
“Intruder alert, someone’s trying to get into the property,” Joe explains, and the werewolf doesn’t seem worried about hiding his own apprehension. A moment later, Andy emerges from the room as well, hand still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Uh, so the two of them are a thing, then. Cute.
“Well, whoever it is, it can’t be a vampire,” Dallon reasons as he suddenly remembers it’s still day out, which means the unexpected visitor must be some other type of creature, or a human.
“We’ll go check,” Joe declares with a glance at the other werewolf, who simply nods in return – it seems the adrenaline is doing a quick job of waking him up. “Stay put.”
Dallon rolls his eyes at those last two words, and the moment the werewolves head downstairs at a rushed pace, he joins them without hesitation. At Joe’s confused look, Dallon states, “I don’t like being told what to do.”
“Clearly,” Joe huffs with a chuckle. “Try and stay out of the sunlight, at least. We don’t want a diplomatic incident because we accidentally barbecued you.”
“I’ll do my best,” Dallon retorts with a grin, just as they reach the entrance hall. Sure, the sunlight might be dulled by the stormy clouds, but it’s certainly still lethal and he’s in no hurry to burn to a crisp. However, he definitely wants to see what the hell is happening, because from their reactions, he can guess this isn’t a common occurrence.
The alarm is blaring at this point, the sound mixed with the thunder from the storm still raging outside, and just as Joe approaches the door, Pete and Patrick also rush into the hall. Joe stops then, and gives way to the Regent, but stands behind him, ready to have his back. Andy does the same, as do Pete’s kindred as they finally reach the hall. William stands back with Dallon at the base of the stairs, safe from the sunlight.
There’s palpable tension in the air as Pete slowly approaches the door, but just as he’s about to open it, the doorbell rings.
The fucking doorbell rings.
What a polite intruder.
“Who the hell--” Pete mutters, visibly confused by the unexpected sound, and finally opens the door.
And there on the threshold, in full daylight, stands Ryan Ross, clothes drenched in rain.
What the actual fuck?
“I claim sanctuary.”
~