Chapter Text
Every sorry star in Copia’s sky finally aligns the night he stumbles across you.
He’s fresh out of Haemos on Broad Street, the ashen taste of disinterest polluting his mouth and some horrendous synthetic earworm stuck in his head. Feeling old and stiff in his three-piece suit—both from the reception it received back at the club, and from the Biblical deluge that caught him unawares. He thought a walk would clear his mind, settle his half-empty stomach, but now he’s five blocks away from his car, practically swimming through the city’s arts district. The golden window with an awning stretched overhead represents only a temporary reprieve from the unexpected storm…
…until he glances through the window and sees the biggest, sweetest pair of eyes blinking back at him.
You stand up straight. He nearly bolts. Your cheeks go pink as you clock the kohl smudged around his eyes; his dead heart knocks briefly against his ribs as he devours the sight of your hair. The world takes a breath, even if he can’t, and when you duck your head and back away from the window, he finds himself rising onto his toes to steal another glimpse of you between the letters painted on the glass. Everything about you screams human—from the vitality of your skin, to the shy light in your eyes, to the sheen left on your lower lip after you bite it with teeth so pathetic and blunt and adorable that he—
“Hey there!” The bell above the nearby door jangles, the noise muffled by the driving wind. A fellow vampire, pale and lean, sticks his head outside and demands, “Are you going to come in? I’m about ready to close up, but you can wait out the rain if you want.”
Any other night, Copia would demur and beat a hasty retreat back to his car. He’s seldom felt truly embraced or wanted, either by his own brothers or by the wider fraternity of his kind. At least when he chooses the path of loneliness, he knows exactly where it will lead.
But some madness compels him to accept the offer. To edge his way inside the shop with an awkward flurry of thanks, to stand dripping on the welcome mat while he takes in the selection of high-end enrichment activities and nutritional supplements and bedding, all of it geared toward keeping pet humans.
… It’s a pet shop.
Satan preserve him, it’s a fucking pet shop.
And there you are. Dressed to match the owner, in a pale blue camp shirt and khakis, an apron tied on top. You’re back to organizing a display of care manuals on a table in the window, books with titles like Feeding for Flavor and Nocturnal in One Night: Circadian Rhythms and Your New Pet, and he knows then that hunger isn’t clouding his judgment, that you’re just plain beautiful. The kind of woman who can still infuse life into the dregs of his soul, so petite that you only come up to his chin, blood so sweet that he can smell your perfume from across the room—iris and violet and a plum note so full and fresh, you must’ve eaten one for supper.
Your eyes flick toward his again, before you seem to catch yourself and resume arranging the books. His head pounds as he ignores his surfacing, primal instincts—to lure you to his side with pretty promises, to play the role of velvet predator.
Not that it’s ever worked for him before.
“Feel free to look around. We still need to mop the floors.” At some point the shopkeeper slipped behind the front counter, and he’s now preoccupied with the cash register as he prints out the nightly receipt. His German accent, slight when he shouts, grows thicker as he lapses into thought.
Copia springs into motion as if ordered to do so, aware that staring at another vamp’s food is considered rude at best, an invitation to violence at worst. Though his skin crawls, he forces himself to browse the wares—vitamin cocktails that promise optimum oxygen saturation, trivia games that don’t include references more than a century old, a wall full of collars that he should not be imagining buckled around your pretty neck, no, absolutely not. The Ministry keeps its little feeding flock, of course, but he’s always been strangely reluctant to let himself grow attached to any particular human. To live in close quarters, to risk offending or alienating them. He’d rather find himself alienated, rather take what he can get from the willing humans at the blood bars, offer them credit toward their tabs and call it a fair trade.
In all his restless centuries, he’s never felt the desire to take a pet.
Now, though… he wonders why.
“Once you’re done with the display, herzchen, can you grab the mop?” the vampire mumbles.
“Of course, Mr. Adler.” Your voice is mercifully quiet. You don’t even look up from your work, focused on creating an attractive little pyramid of books.
“And turn on the radio while you’re at it.” Adler gestures with his pen toward a back room. “It’s almost four a.m. Sanguine Jazz starts soon.”
Copia’s curiosity transforms into acid-bright envy. You must belong to the shopkeeper. So he roots himself to the spot, he most assuredly does not follow you with his eyes as you abandon the window, hair bouncing, Converse-clad feet skipping between the puddles of water he’s left everywhere.
That is, until you approach him.
Just as he’s ready to end this masochistic exercise, to thank the shopkeeper for his kindness and trudge home to his empty coffin, Copia smells the fresh tang of plum skins. Your voice teases his ear, somehow throaty and breathless at the same time. “Um… pardon me, sir. You’re standing in front of the books.”
Copia rallies. He finally notices the bookshelves in front of him, the warmth radiating from his side. Turning, he looks down at you… and when you offer him an apologetic smile, he begins to reconsider his stance on courting violence. The pulse in your neck flutters, his fangs ache to descend, and he knows his voice comes out even more nasal than usual as he takes a step back. “Ah… f-forgive me, signorina.”
“Oh, it’s all right. I just miscounted, I need another book, I…” Your voice comes out in brief bursts, only to trail off—as if you’re trying to complete your thoughts before fear can silence you, only to fail every time. “I was told to make up a display for the window, you see.”
“Infatti, I couldn’t help but notice.” Copia spares a thought for the shopkeeper, and finds himself surprised to see Adler hard at work calculating the till.
If you were his, Copia would never let you out of his line of sight. Never let you speak to a hungry stranger. You’re far too precious a lamb to let wander far, knowing that some other bloodsucker may… well.
Start thinking along the same lines that Copia himself is thinking.
Reaching past him, you select a book titled Common Human Ailments and How to Cure Them. Folding it against your chest, you play your fingers along the edge as you offer, “But if you need something for your companion feedee… I’d be happy to help you find it?”
Companion feedee. That’s it, that’s the newfangled term. “Oh, I’m just, ah…” Copia faces the window, only to realize that the storm has passed. “I was taking shelter from the rain. I don’t have a… companion.”
You swallow, and he isn’t entirely sure why. “Oh, I see.”
“But, if I may…” This night has been one disaster after another, but maybe he can at least end it on a high note. It’s not as if he’ll ever see you again. “If I may say so… you’re a very thoughtful worker. Your master is a lucky man.”
“Master?” Brow furrowing, you take a turn to glance at the desk. “You mean Mr. Adler?”
“Do I?” Copia wonders, something like hope swelling in his chest.
“Oh, I just work here.” Moving the book aside, you reveal the badge clipped onto your apron. It contains your name, nothing more. “I don’t have a…”
You go silent, as if realizing you may be sharing too much. Copia has no idea what spirit inspires him to ask, but he follows its leading. “A… vampire companion? I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with the modern terms.”
“No, that’s…” Apparently Adler got tired of waiting, because the sweet strains of a jazz orchestra begin to play up front on someone’s phone. He can see the music in your eyes, somehow, see the way they glimmer at the sound. “That’s right.”
“I see.” Copia barely manages to get these words out, but the rest come far too fast. “I wondered, because I didn’t think it was legal to adopt humans out of pet shops anymore, you know? I mean, when I saw you in here…”
“It isn’t.” Your cheeks and throat are now so pink he’s convinced he could figure out your blood type if he licked you. “But if… if you’re looking to connect with someone, there’s the Humane Society, or the apps…”
“But you don’t have an owner,” he verifies, suddenly conscious of the weight of his clothes, the fact that his hair is still dripping water into his eyes.
“No,” you almost whisper. “No, I don’t have an… owner.”
With that, Copia makes the most impulsive decision of his unlife. “Would you like one?”