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Hostia Immaculata

"All right, Angie. What news from the lab?" Pearse was quieter, now, perhaps a bit slower, since he'd started the medication. But he still had the same steadiness, the same implacable sense of purpose. Mike wished he felt as certain.

"I think I have our answer, finally. I've been working on a solution that would neutralize the Code V remains and prevent regeneration." She pushed her hair back out of her face. "I've been working with the blood samples we took from Hoyle, and this afternoon I found an alkaloid that destroyed the blood immediately upon contact. It needs further testing -- tomorrow I want to use the safe room, and try to regenerate a specimen that's been alkaloid-treated."

"That could be dangerous." Vaughan frowned at her. The set of his shoulders changed slightly, tensing with unacknowledged worry.

"It could," she admitted. She smiled sadly. "But it's something we need to do, if we want to ever be able to neutralize them permanently." Mike watched her, wondering how she could stand it. He had used his one chance to revive Jack, even knowing what a bad idea that was. She had the means at her disposal to bring her husband back, and yet she was working tirelessly to destroy those means.

Pearse nodded. "We'll try it tomorrow. We'll have people on hand to take care of it, if the treatment fails." He sighed, the exhaustion momentarily visible on his face. "Go home. We can test the alkaloid in the morning."

It ought to have felt like a victory, Mike thought. But somehow none of them looked as though they were going off to celebrate.

*

Mike slept badly, and by the time he got to work the others were already there. Vaughan had two of his troops in the safe room with Angie, and was pacing back and forth watching her prepare the experiment. He looked up when Mike walked into the observation room.

"You look ragged."

"Bad dreams." Mike shrugged. "You're not exactly the soul of composure yourself."

Vaughan turned away. "I don't like it. It's a bad idea to try to bring them back, even when you don't expect it to work."

Mike took a deep breath at the implied criticism, and let it out slowly. Vaughan was right; he had no excuse for what he'd done. Even if it had had beneficial side effects, he'd done it without thinking of anything except Kirsty's safety, and he'd set another leech free in the process.

In the safe room, Angie looked up from her preparations. "I'm ready whenever you are," she said. She looked grim, her mouth set in a hard line. She had spread the treated ashes of one of the leeches across the table in the center of the room, and she held a vial of Hoyle's blood in one gloved hand.

Pearse flipped the switch by the microphone. "Go ahead. And good luck."

Angie gave them one more tight little smile before uncapping the vial. It had taken very little of Jacob's blood to revive Jack -- no more than a few spoonfuls. Mike watched her upend the vial, pouring its entire contents out into the specimen's remains. He held his breath as the resulting mess began to bubble and hiss, and Angie stepped back from the table.

But there was no swirling wind, no unearthly light. The chemical reaction continued for a few seconds, and then slowly fizzled out.

"Congratulations, Angie," Pearse offered. "Excellent work."

"We don't know if it's completely effective yet," she pointed out. "I'll want to examine the material in the lab and make sure it's actually inert." She smiled. "But it looks encouraging, doesn't it?"

*

They spent the afternoon in the lab, after examination of the specimen under the microscope revealed no recognizable blood cells and exposure to sunlight produced no reaction. Mike and Vaughan took canisters out of cold storage and poured in enough of the alkaloid solution to neutralize them, while Angie brewed up more of the treatment.

By the end of the day, it was beginning to look as though they had something to celebrate. They had treated almost half the specimens in storage by the time Pearse came down to the lab to break the news.

"We have a case on our hands." He was watching Mike as he said it. "I think you'd better come up and have a look."

"We'll be right there." Angie nodded, and they put away the equipment in silence. Mike felt cold, a vague dread settling at the pit of his stomach. He followed the others up to the briefing room reluctantly, more certain with every step that he would be sorry when he got there.

"I'm sorry about this," Pearse said to him, and started the video clip.

It was surveillance footage, from the security camera monitoring a bank machine. A young dark-haired woman walked up to the machine and began a transaction. Mike began to feel sick as soon as he recognized Kirsty. She punched in numbers on the keypad, then paused, startled, and turned around. Something pushed her back against the machine, panic in her face. Her mouth moved -- it looked, Mike thought, like she was pleading. She clawed at her unseen assailant, and then her head twisted sharply to the right. She shook, and dropped to the pavement.

Mike was out the door before the lights came back up. He sat on the steps outside, the last of the sunlight slowly fading, and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Kirsty. God, Kirsty. For this to happen now, of all times, when she finally understood that she needed to back off. When she should finally have been safe. He exhaled hot smoke into the cool evening air.

"You want to go out for a drink?" Vaughan had come up beside him, far too silent for such a big man.

Mike tossed the cigarette away. "Yeah, all right." He let Vaughan pull him to his feet, the dry warmth of Vaughan's hand in his own providing an anchor, however tenuous, to the world of the living.

The pub Vaughan drove them to was one Mike didn't know, but it suited his mood: dark and half-empty, filthy and battered with neglect. They sat at a table in the back corner, staring at each other in silence for the first few minutes.

When their pints arrived, Vaughan said, "You should try to eat something."

Mike nodded. "I know." He took a sip of his lager, wincing as his stomach lurched. "I can't, though."

"That happens sometimes, after trauma." Vaughan watched him steadily. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"What's to say?" Mike laughed bitterly. "I loved her. I fucked things up badly enough that she came after me, instead of getting out. And I couldn't protect her."

Vaughan took a drink. "Don't blame yourself for this. You couldn't have known she'd still be a target. The rest of us have been doing this much longer than you have, and we still let her walk out with no warning, no guards, no surveillance." Was that guilt in his voice? Mike couldn't tell. "They're bastards. But we're going to get them."

Mike forced down more of the beer, not pointing out that it could easily have been the leech that he released who did it. If Vaughan was going to be tactful enough not to bring that up, Mike would just be grateful for the reprieve.

He set his mug down too hard, and realized he was fighting tears. "She didn't deserve it," he choked.

"I know," Vaughan said quietly. "It always seems to be the ones who don't deserve it that get it, though."

"She was -- she was doing good things in the world, you know? She was a primary school teacher, until I dragged her into this mess."

"You didn't drag her, mate." Vaughan was stable, a solid dark anchor that kept him tied to reality. "If anyone dragged her, it was Jack."

"Yeah." More beer. Maybe this would be easier if he weren't so sober. "That bastard." Mike looked up. "Do you think it was him?"

"That killed her? Good question." He noticed that Vaughan didn't look at him to answer. Probably thought it was true, then. "It's possible it was just random."

"Please. I'm not stupid, Vaughan. They don't work that way."

Vaughan shrugged. "You wanted to hear it was possible, though, didn't you?"

"Yeah." He looked down. "I guess I did."

*

"You all right by yourself?" Vaughan asked as they pulled up in front of Mike's building.

Mike nodded. "I can make it from here to the door, thanks."

Vaughan almost smiled. "Take care of yourself. Get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning." His hand on Mike's shoulder was warm and reassuring, and Mike managed a little smile in return.

"Thanks. G'night." He let himself out of the car and walked -- carefully, slowly, but in a straight line -- to the front door.

The door closed behind him with a quiet, final click. It took three tries before his lager-numbed fingers would turn the lock properly. He left his keys, his coat, and his gun by the door -- there would be time enough to clean up in the morning.

Frances was right, he thought as he made his way to the bedroom. He really should unpack some of these boxes -- the place didn't look lived-in at all. Of course, it didn't seem like he'd done much living since Jack's stag night anyway. He'd been sleepwalking through a nightmare since the first time he heard of Code V.

He stripped off his clothes, dropping them where he stood, and crawled into bed in his boxers. Every night he hoped that when he woke up it would have all been a nightmare, tonight more than ever, but every night it seemed less likely than the night before. The room spun slowly when he closed his eyes.

He was half asleep when somebody slid into bed beside him, cool flesh pressed up against him in the dark. Mike panicked, struggling to get up, and felt strong hands close around his wrists.

"Take it easy, mate," Jack purred in his ear, dragging him close again. "Just a friendly visit, nothing to get bent out of shape about."

"A friendly visit, on the night after Kirsty was killed?"

Jack pressed his face to Mike's shoulder, and Mike could feel him smile. "That was a shame, wasn't it?"

"You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with it?" Mike struggled in Jack's grip, and Jack rolled half on top of him, pinning him to the bed.

"I can give you whatever answer you want, Mike. I can tell you it wasn't my decision, and I didn't do it. Or I can tell you I killed her, so I could have you all to myself. What do you want to hear?"

"I want the truth, you prick."

"You've already decided what you believe." Jack was sliding slowly down his body as he spoke, the words murmured into Mike's stomach. "Why don't I just tell you that, and save some time?"

Mike could hear his own breathing, shaky and loud in the dark room. "Jack, what the fuck are you doing?"

Again he could feel Jack's smile. "What does it feel like?" Jack's weight was on his legs, Jack's face rubbing sensually against his thigh, pushing at the cotton of his boxers.

"Jack, stop." The way his voice broke, Mike realized, did little to make him sound serious. "I don't want this."

"But you will." Jack's mouth was cool and wet against his inner thigh.

"No!" Pain, sharp and vicious, and then a second later, something warm and sweet blossoming from the bite, the tension and the will to fight melting away. "Aaah...."

"Mmmm." Jack's mouth worked against his skin, slow and decadent, as though he was savoring the taste. His grip on Mike's hands loosened.

"If I let go of you now, you're not going to fight me, are you?" He licked at the last traces of Mike's blood, and Mike shivered.

"No," Mike whispered, "I -- aah --" he arched up against Jack, who was nuzzling at his half-hard prick -- "I won't fight."
"Good." Jack let go of his hands and dragged his boxers down, off his hips; Mike found himself helping, kicking them off, reaching for Jack. Their mouths collided awkwardly, and Jack's tongue in his mouth tasted of blood, his blood, and Mike couldn't quite bring himself to be disgusted.

He had wrapped his arms around Jack before he even realized he was going to do it, and Jack ground his hips against Mike's, his prick hard, demanding. It was like drowning, this kiss, tangled in Jack's limbs, in his mouth, crushed under his weight.

"Please," he murmured into Jack's hair, unsure what he was asking.

"Yes," Jack answered, and pushed him down the bed. "Do it. I want you to. God, Mike, you make me feel so alive."

Mike could half-remember why this was a bad idea, but much more important, more pressing, was the fact that Jack was here, that Jack wanted to be with him, that Jack wanted him. Jack's prick was strangely cool in his mouth, smooth and almost tasteless, and he took it as deep as he could manage. And Jack was talking to him, stroking his hair, running gentle fingertips over his face.

"So good, Mike, so good...yes, like that...I want you, Mike...want you...let me fuck you...."

"Yes," he answered helplessly. His mouth felt bruised and tender, his whole body boneless and liquid. His own arousal felt distant, abstract, less important than doing what would make Jack happy.

He let Jack push him down on his back, spread his legs and kneel between them. "Open up for me," Jack told him. "Relax, and let me in." It was easy, once Jack suggested it, like being in a dream, like being drugged. One slow push, and Jack's prick slid into his arse, and he let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Oh God, Jack." It hurt, but not the way he was expecting it to -- his body was fine, but his heart felt like it would break.

"Yes. Yes. So good to be with you." Jack leaned in over him, thrusting slowly. "I've missed you. I never wanted us to be enemies, Mike. That was never what I wanted." His breath ghosted across Mike's skin, and Mike reached up to hold him close. "This is so much better, isn't it?"

Mike squeezed his eyes shut; one hot tear trailed down his temple into his hair. "Yes. Much better." He rocked up into Jack's stroke, shutting out the rest of the world.

"I want you to be happy, Mike. I want to make you happy." Jack increased his pace gradually as he spoke, his rhythm steady, implacable. "I want you to feel good. And I can, can't I? I can make you come without even touching your cock. Can't I?"

Jack's lips brushed his throat, and at the second bite, Mike moaned. He felt like he was floating, the pulse of blood in his throat echoing the thrust of Jack's prick in his arse. Time came unstrung; it could have been two minutes or two hours that they stayed there, locked together in a fluid, primal circuit. When Mike came at last, it was a slow, warm uncoiling, spiraling outward from the base of his prick, and he could barely hear himself whimpering Jack's name.

A few more slow, hard thrusts and then Jack was shuddering over him, into him, his eyes unfocused and his bloody lips bared in a snarl. He pulled out carefully, then leaned down and licked the cooling puddle of come from Mike's belly.

"Not quite as nourishing as blood," he smiled, "but similar enough that we can keep it down. And I do like the way you taste."

Mike managed a little smile. "Thanks."

Jack crawled up the bed to lie next to him, grinning. "My pleasure. Can I stay here today?"

"Of course you can stay. You think I'd kick you out after that?"

"You never know, do you?" Jack draped an arm across his chest, settling into the pillows. "Mike. Come with me when I leave. Please?"

Mike met his eyes, feeling the ache in his heart return. "Yeah," he said finally. "When you leave, I'll go with you. Now let's get some sleep. I've had a long day." He settled in beside Jack, lying awake and watching him drift off into a sleep that looked almost like death. The haze through which he'd been moving all night seemed to dissipate slowly; the nightmare was back, but now he had participated in it.

The heavy curtains kept the room mostly dark, but a faint refracted light seeped in at the edges as the sun rose. Carefully, quietly, Mike slid out from under the covers, easing Jack's arm off him tenderly. He blinked back tears, watching his friend's face, relaxed and unguarded in sleep. His throat tightened.

He found what he was looking for by the front door. It had never felt heavier or colder in his hand. But his grip was steady, his aim true as he held it, brought it back to the bedroom, pointed it at Jack's heart. Now. It had to be now, before the tears blurred his vision too much.

He squeezed the trigger.

*

"Hi. It's Mike.

"Right, I know.

"Yeah, well, something came up.

"Jack. He showed up here last night.

"Yeah. You can pick him up now."