Revelation in the Light of Day

Aaand the last of the chapters I have. From now on, this AU is on a kind of hiatus because even though I know where I'm going with it (more or less), I can't seem to get down to writing; not with the six or so things I have started.
Word count: ~2400
previous chapter: [x]
(Yes, title ripped from Florence+the Machine because I love them to bits, especially after the concert they gave last Saturday that I had the gargantuan luck of seeing.♥)

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   Morning comes all too early, sharp rays of sun cutting through the cool air of the flat. Magnus blinks, slowly straightening his aching neck, vertebrae popping into place and stiff muscles stretching painfully. He shivers, feeling cold in his sleepwear – a wife beater and shorts – save for the place where Chris’ head rests in his lap. His hand is still twined in the blonde hair, dirty and tangled around his fingers.

   An annoyed huff makes him snap his head up to Margaret standing there in front of them with arms crossed and an expression of worry mixed with exasperation on her tired face. Magnus’ heart jumps.

   “Been standing ‘ere for long?” he rasps, voice sleep-rough. He raises his free hand to rub his eyes, the other pressing lightly to Chris’ scalp. The man shifts slightly and Magnus remembers he’s nearly naked under the blanket he threw over him several hours ago and probably as dirty as his hair except for the wounds Magnus made sure to clean thoroughly. Or did he? Sudden panic overtakes him with the need to see if the injuries aren’t infected.

   “No, actually we came in minutes ago. Thanks for the call.” Margie looks at him and smiles faintly. “We cleaned the bathroom and got his stuff from the van. May I?” – she gestures vaguely towards Chris, and Magnus nods automatically as she pulls the blanket away from the sleeping man. She sucks in a deep breath, then sighs in relief.

   “Is it okay?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious. Stitching was never a part of any first aid course he attended and he based his work on medical drama shows and sheer improvisation. Margaret’s fingers hover a few millimetres over the wound as she inspects it carefully.

   “Yes,” she replies. “It’s going to scar badly, but if we’re lucky – if he’s lucky, because I swear I’m going to rip his throat out if he doesn’t explain himself soon – he’ll be alright. Must’ve bled a lot…”

   “I had him drink a glass of juice, but he needs more.” Magnus looks down on Chris, noting the unnatural paleness of his skin.

   “Blair is preparing breakfast upstairs. Wake him, we’ll bring the food.” Margaret pats his knee before rising to her feet and walking out, leaving Magnus to deal with the unconscious Chris.

It takes a bit of shuffling to get out from under him and a lot of persistence to wake him from the deep slumber. As the blue eyes crack open, Magnus sighs in relief and smiles fondly. Chris replies with a grin of his own that only drops as his hand moves to Magnus’ face and the motion stirs the wound in his shoulder. In a matter of seconds it takes the recollection of last night and everything before it to come back to him, a stern, controlled expression with a hint of anxiety replaces the smile.

   The sudden change is so unlike Chris that Magnus’ own worry deepens.

   “You need to eat,” he says, carefully helping Chris to sit straight. “I don’t know how you made it up to here, but you must have lost a lot of blood, so unless you want me to drag you to the hospital and plug you an IV myself, you’re eating.”

   “Yessir.” Chris slurs and reclines against the pillows. Once again, an uncomfortable silence falls on them as Magnus watches his friend warily and Chris looks everywhere but at him.

It is then that the doors swing open and a thunderstorm barges in, carrying a platter of food smelling far too good for the mood. Blair sets the tray down on the coffee table with a clank and directs her fury at Chris.

   "Common sense would have me wait until you are fed and have rest a little before questioning, but I’m too mad with you to be sensible. You’re explaining yourself, right now, and if you pass out during the interrogation, you know what we are capable of.” Her left hand is on her hip, while she gestures animatedly with the right, finishing by pointing one finger at suddenly very small Chris. Magnus has never seen her this angry, nor this intimidating. He makes a note to himself to never cross her without a good cause.

   “Are you…” Chris stutters, shooting a glance at Magnus. “Are you sure? I don’t think this is a good idea to…” he trails off. A dark suspicion wells up in Magnus’ chest, colouring his worry with slowly rising anger.

   “What are you hiding from me?”, he cuts in, before Margie says quietly from the doorway, “It was a bad idea, now it’s even worse, but better worse than the worst. We’ve been keeping it secret for too long anyways, and somehow I doubt whatever you’re about to tell us is going to change things for the better.” She walks up behind the couch and places a soft hand on Chris’ uninjured shoulder. “Let’s get it over with.”

   “What, you’re… criminals or something? Drug dealers? Smugglers?” Magnus fixes his gaze on Blair, then turns his head to Margaret before setting eyes on Chris, who finally looks up, staring at him incredulously, shock clear in his features.

   “Magnus- God, no, don’t jump to conclusions, we’re not outlaws or anything.” He almost laughs saying this. “Well, in a sense, maybe. See, you’re going to question our sanity after you hear it… We’re hunters.”

For a long while Magnus can’t understand. “Hunters? And that’s what you’re getting so riled about?” – he looks at Blair, whose gaze is still trained expectantly on Chris. “Are you poaching?”

   “It’s nothing illegal,” explains Margaret. “Mainly because no authority has any idea of the profession. We hunt no animals and no people; what we do is save them.”

   “From what?”

   “Can I be poetic? Okay.” She smirks, yet the expression holds a bitter edge. “Our prey are the creatures modern society dismisses as non-existent, believing them to only live in tales, myths and nightmares; you wouldn’t believe what shit you can come across if you know what to look for. We mainly moved into this city because it has big fat fairy tale backstory, thick with monsters you wouldn’t like to come across. You’re a policeman; you sure as hell noticed plethora of cases hardly explainable with common sense.” She smiles weakly, seeing recognition on Magnus’ face. “Long story short, we get rid of the pests neither Darwin nor Linnaeus ever dreamt about, but the Grimm brothers seemed to know all too well. We do it part-time, one may put it, but Chris here is a full-blown hunter by day and by night, so we kind of teamed up a couple of years ago. Now he went off and apparently found himself a fair game that led him on a merry chase, huh?”

With that, she presses down on Chris’ shoulder, prompting him to elaborate. He sighs, rubbing his face, and looks at Magnus.

   “I know how this sounds, mate, but you have to believe us. We’re not crazy – not the nuthouse-type crazy, anyways – we’ve seen many things, we’ve fought them, we survived. That’s what we do, and I’m sorry you only learn of this now, but it’s dangerous and I don’t want you in danger, okay? I just – I never wanted you to be part of this, damnit. You deserve better.” He groans and buries his face in his hands, growing angry at himself. “Why is all this shit happening just now, when I wanted to quit.”

   Heavy silence settles in the room, weighing down on their shoulders. Finally, Chris raises his head once again, and says, “I tried to keep you out of harm’s way, Magnus, but I can’t. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

   At this, Magnus stands up abruptly and walks towards the balcony window, trying desperately to organize his thoughts. He rakes his fingers through his hair, looking at the clear sky outside.

   “You wanted to keep me safe? Chris, do you listen to yourself?” – his voice is quiet, but far from collected. He turns and shakes his head lightly before continuing. “I am not a child, I’m a fucking policeman, if anyone can protect himself it’s me. Didn’t it perhaps cross your mind that I had a better chance at that if I knew what danger I am in? Or you thought you could always save me like a lady in distress?” He snorts, humourless. “I trusted you all along; you could at least reciprocate rather than go all mother hen over me. How can I even know if you’re not making all this hunter crap up to ‘protect’ me from something bigger and scarier?”

   “He’s not,” interrupts Blair. “That would make him crazy. But no, he’s just an idiot for trying to be heroic and taking it all on himself.” She sighs and looks at Magnus. “Look, we’re sorry too. We could’ve told you, but there never was the need to do so.”

   “And I’d say it’s high time we finally learned what happened to you these past two weeks, Chris,” urges Margaret. “Magnus, you okay?”

   “What? Yeah, quite so,” he responds automatically, nodding before sitting in the armchair and mimicking Chris’ position of face hidden in his hands. What the hell happened and why isn’t he calling the hospital to report three cases for the psych ward? Or four, come to think of it? He looks up when Chris finally starts talking.

   “I was… I’ve been after that djinn for some time now, and finally managed to pinpoint where was its lair, but the bastard fled. Kept moving for a week, I was sure he knew he had me on his tail, but when I finally got him, he was barely alive and being tortured by four vampires.” The girls pale, but don’t ask any questions, waiting for Chris to continue. He does after glancing nervously at Magnus and fiddling with his thumbs. When he speaks, his voice trembles – with anger or fear, Magnus can’t figure out.

   “They… They very nearly thanked me for setting them on the djinn’s track. Said he nicked their lambs. It only occurred to me later that they meant people they were feeding off, and just how fucked up that is? I mean, vampires kill their victims, but those apparently kept a herd of… of donors, and I figured they must live in a settlement rather than be vagabonds, probably there was more of ‘em since the rest had to stay and keep guard on the remaining humans – what they were saying sounded like there was a whole… seethe of the suckers. And at least four knew of me.” He pauses again, folding his hands together and taking several deep breaths. “So I went after them to kill off.”

   “What?” interposes Margaret, leaning over the couch to catch Chris’ eyes. “You went after four vamps alone?”

   “I’m here, am I not?” his smile is devoid of any mirth and disappears before a heartbeat. “I killed them. I couldn’t lead them here. Four leeches less, four lost tracks. It’s better than four monsters knowing where to find me. Us.” He looks at Magnus again, but drops his eyes to the ground immediately.

   “This is how you got those?” Magnus asks, gesturing to Chris’ wounds.

   “No. One of their… humans found me.”

   The ensuing silence is more demanding than a hailstorm of questions. Chris almost seems to shrink where he sits under their combined gazes.

   “He was waiting for me on the road outside town, pretending to be in need of help with his car. I was a complete moron, I suspected nothing. I stopped, got out of the van, and then he turned and lunged at me with a knife. He was too fast for a human, and too strong, but I managed to pin him to the ground. He knew I had killed the vamps, I don’t know how, some symbiotic vampire telepathy mojo or something, and told me he’d end me for killing his masters. He was squirming like a damn worm – looked like one, too, all thin and sickly pale like a corpse – and somehow knocked me off him, pulled a gun from somewhere and nearly got me in the heart, then cut me on the thigh while I was wrestling it from his hand.” Chris swallows heavily. “I had to kill him.”

   “You are an impossible idiot,” says Margaret, rounding the couch and flopping down on it next to Chris.    “How you survived this long is beyond me. What made you think setting a flock of vampires after you is a good idea?” She gestures to the food on the table. “Eat now. We’ll figure it out, somehow.”

   It is then that Chris’ focus returns to the tray set on the coffee table. There’s a pot of coffee, sliced tomatoes and cucumber, English muffins, bread and toasts along with butter, jam and honey and a selection of cheese and ham in amounts suited for perhaps eight people rather than four. He is famished and needs nutrition, yet the recent revelations and past days’ weight make him queasy. He watches as Blair and Magnus set the table, disposing the plates from the tray and pulling tableware from cupboards, and feels like he’s taking up too much space, fidgets, trying not to look like the spare, unnecessary one. Margaret’s hand on his forearm startles him. She has poured him another glass of juice and he feels grateful his hands have something to do, otherwise he’d start picking at the stitches that mar his thigh accusingly, dark and ugly against his pale skin; a stark reminder of his failure.

   Minutes later he nips idly at a toast long gone cold, not noticing that the honey is dripping down his fingers. He is broken out of his bitter reverie when Magnus reaches towards him and catches a drop of it threatening to fall down on the carpet and brings his hand to his mouth, licking away the sweetness. Chris’ gaze follows the motion on its own volition and he can’t help the way he watches Magnus’ lips wrap around his slender digits. His eyes snap up to meet the other’s when he realizes he’s staring and new guilt wells up in him, but he finds nothing but gentle amusement and worried care in his flat mate’s face.
  “Eat,” says Magnus softly, and only then Chris is able to swallow a proper bite of his toast, soon followed by the amount of food suitable for the hunger he woke up with.