immortalized | up all night

from here.

I apologize, I have been warned that I lay my heart out a little too graciously in the open... { it could have been perhaps something if a kindhearted jab, or a genuine compliment. unfortunately, it hadn't been, but it is simply one of those things Ambrose knows is impossible to change about himself now. dying really makes you fear missed opportunities and regrets, you know! }

But I would give a dishonest impression if I didn't admit that your humble way of reacting is a terrible enabler of this habit of mine. { it's almost cruel that they're interacting over a distance and not face to face, but Ambrose can genuinely imagine the nonverbal cues that give Newt away as they do. they're absolutely charming. }

I rather hoped.

Tell me, when can I cook for my kindhearted wizard? I am feeling much better, and I can't think of anything I would like to do more this evening.

No.

I mean

I didn't mean that as an insult or reason to apologize. Gracious, I'm making a mess of things. It's just very new to me. I can't I'm usually used to such forward remarks in such a fond manner. People usually find me rather annoying and not particularly charming.

Oh. I'm sorry. I don't mean to... [Now he's apologizing for his own actions even though he doesn't have a reason to apologize. What a hopeless foo.]

This evening?

I

Well

I'm not doing anything tonight, no.

{ from here. }

{ Ambrose isn't classically one who frets — not in the way a person imagines hysterics, frantic animations, and being grossly inconsolable. Ambrose is not immune to his feelings — have you met him? — but his fear is a very still, unmoving thing. what wrenches him deeper is the worry that he is being selfish. when selfishness creates a habitat for one's danger, it sends his heart plummeting through the depths of his gut.

but Will is still sensible as ever. equal risk. better outcome...

he can't help but marvel at the idea in the silent expanse of his apartment: he is worth that much? }

It's a strangely lovely thing, sometimes. Usually the nights are very quiet. { outside of the nights at the theatre, on the nights away from the noise-filled streets. New York never sleeps, isn't that right? but something about the night always feels suspended. }

As if I'm waiting to hear from you again. { even Ambrose's voice is tremblingly quiet as he sits on the floor in his living room, books across the polished hardwood slats, a wireless speaker not far away and still on from recent use, a notebook filled with a chaotic myriad of things written in penmanship that flows like water to preserve his inspirations.

all sitting still, left abandoned and silenced, as he looks at his phone, with Will on speaker. so that his voice can fill the space Ambrose dwells in. }

Tell me how you're doing?

{ from here.

I believe highly that experience puts upon a person a moral duty. To know a thing that another does not, can either help that person, or come to harm them. In the end, what tips the scale is one's selfishness with that knowledge.

I don't believe that deception is exclusive to an older sire. In fact, it would be impossible to be turned by anything other, unless we are speaking on the foundation maturity of human years before the death. { wherein, that is a different discussion, and at least Ambrose is self aware enough to not outwardly admit that the idea of a vampire being made so young is so troubling, that the idea of them being a sire sounds foolish in his ears.

but he loves Armand, from the deepest well in his heart, he would never forsake him. but has he never thought of this circumstance surrounding him? of course he has. }

I believe the purpose of siring is important...but easily squandered. I've met too many vampires conceived by sires unfit to make that decision, or who had chosen minds who were much vulnerable in mortality. Manipulation, selfishness, deceit...can grow in any climate.

{ Ambrose has never asked much, and when catching a glimpse of a detail, Armand has never been quick to elaborate. impenetrable, that mind. Ambrose has never forced it.

he may come to regret this, but... } You know my sire was all of these things. What was yours like?

[ The sound is a bit weak. Will frowns and presses futilely on his own volume button before realizing it's because they've each put the other on speaker.

Will thinks of the echo of two voices in an empty room and feels his throat tighten. ]

Uh. [ He needs to make the sound to convince himself he can speak. Will swallows and keenly feels the empty seat next to him as he heads for the highway. ] Better.

Which isn't...an ideal measure for me right now. [ He swallows and takes closer stock of the truly important things - nausea, how he's perceiving temperature. How much he'd cracked his window when he first woke up, and how he rolls it up against the chill now. ]

But I'm not... I feel-- clear. J-just, um. Distracted. Sorry, I'm not--

[ His voice loses some of the little power it had collected. ] There's a reason I wanted to call someone.

You speak in circles. I can't be sure if it's to avoid offense, or to avoid misrepresenting your own opinion - of which you're unsure. [ Ambrose isn't at all like Armand's sire, and yet today the differences from his ancient Master don't feel so much like failings as they have in the past. Where Marius could be strict, Ambrose is merely curious and concerned - where Marius could be frightening, Ambrose will bend and question and learn.

But perhaps the starkest difference is that Ambrose is no intentional leader, and yet Armand finds himself wanting to follow him regardless. ]

How many vampires have you met, Ambrose? How many have you watched rot as a result of poorly-chosen masters?

[ And then just like that, Ambrose is bold. Armand isn't started into responding - but the startle helps with the decision to respond. ]

My sire was unlike all other men. He rescued me when I was too young to be given the blood. He kept me warm and entertained and educated - until it was time for me to join him. Did we both beg our sires for that gift? Did we both want nothing more than to stay with them forever, when we had only a mortal's concept of such a thing?

So is this thermos on the counter yours?

I'll just put it back in the fridge then? [ he says while handling BLOOD because there is BLOOD IN THIS THERMOS ]

{ from here. }

They were beautiful and I was mesmerized by their talents. I was helpless against my own heart. And perhaps a little more alarmed than most. I am shy to admit that I had spent a notable amount of my earlier life visiting such establishments with services of flesh and sensuality, but I was never there to engage, and the options provided at the time were not palatable for me. { can't say that he saw many men up in the brothels in early-Victorian England. Ambrose might have caught sight of more promiscuous men in the very backstage he resided in, than any club or bar. }

I cannot help the weakness I have for beauty, though. They were rather exquisite, life was flowing out of them in abundance.

However, the music was quite dreadful. { he can objectively appreciate any genre in the art form, but...choppy techno remixes of existing songs are just...a bane on his existence. }

{ Will sounds...fractured. scattered. slowly pulling the separated pieces back together, trying to shut out the sudden gaps in him. Ambrose doesn't have the old natural response to feel his heartbeat tick up, but...he swears something slowly constricts in his chest, winding in like a serpent, a concern that builds gradually.

it's almost worse than a sudden pang of adrenaline. }

That's all right. { Ambrose moves to lay carefully down onto the floor, pulling his phone up to rest against his unmoving chest, just under his relaxed hands. he will feel it from the device when Will speaks, though, vibrations rumbling through the bones and the hollow spaces. } I just want to be here with you.

{ Ambrose stares at the ceiling, with the tops of these tall north-facing windows just in view, that let in some ambient light, white and red and yellow. he isn't a doctor, or a psychologist, but he feels awareness and care for Will buzzing just over his growing worry. he isn't sure what he wants to ask is a potentially dangerous one, or the splint that Will needs. all he can do is ask. } What is the last thing you do remember?

Strangely, on this subject, I am not uncertain, despite how little I can speak on on the subject of vampirism. You know me, dear — I simply speak in circles.

Not as many as I am sure you have met in your many more years on this earth. But I have met them. More like bad romances than successful upbringings. I wished I had been the only one, for I wouldn't wish that disappointment and heartbreak on my very enemy.

{ it is absolutely a possible fact that one can make a mistake. as much as one can think that they have a clear mind, have weighed all the factors, scrutinized the details, it is still possible to make a poor choice.

I did. I was told I meant the world to him. I was told he would make an angel of me, that we would spend eternity together without sadness or punishment for sin. Bliss. Paradise. A place where nothing of this 'mortal rot' could reach us. I was alone, I wanted death. You will see I was given only one of those things, in the end. Mine did not stay with me forever. I was taken from him, and he has never returned for me.

I can make the best out of this incredible gift I've been given, such as to cherish you and having found you, but those things I sought to have absolved still remain. And for the price I paid for it, it still hurts.

As mortals, we think forever means strength, security. I have begun to think mortality is such a wonderful thing because the briefness of their experiences is necessary. I fear not just anything can last forever, no matter how wonderful it may sound. I don't believe most souls can withstand living for so long. And I don't know that just any vampire can successfully make that choice for another.

Oh, dear, did I leave that at home again?

Fortunate I had my fill before leaving tonight.

Thank you for being so considerate, Merlin. Imagine if you had mistaken it for something else. { if you think Ambrose is trying to be funny... he...he really isn't. he really is taking this all at face value. }

If I knew I could make you absolutely besotted by me by undressing and sliding up sensually onto your lap, I would have done it ages ago. How did I not know this sooner? [It's terribly hard to probably tell if he's joking or being serious. It's probably a mix of both, actually.]

It's really hard to tease you about these kind of things when you're so bloody earnest about it. There's just no fun in it.

Honestly, strip clubs aren't really my thing. The music and atmosphere aren't really my thing. Call me old fashioned I suppose.

[ There's something in Ambrose's voice that always lets Will have a moment, just a single moment, of absolute quiet. Ambrose has many unearthly qualities, lots of little fractures in his image or presence that set him apart as otherworldly, but Will's never chalked up this to his vampirism. It's some innate softness that Ambrose possessed already and will maybe possess forever - the sense that whoever he's talking to is the only thing he's focused on, in that moment. Will feels caught by him, but not in a trap - caught as if from mid-fall.

Cushioned. ]

Um. I was on my way... Way back to my office. I'd just gotten a call from Jack about--

[ Photographs, not his, never his. Will doesn't take photos, just looks at them. He remembers the email he'd opened up when he'd touched his laptop, that he'd been thinking he should go over to the Bureau to look at evidence... ]

I need to go to work, [ he says, nonsensically. It takes him several long seconds to realize how ridiculous that statement sounds, and yet the frustrated guilt that crashes up in its wake isn't any relief. ]

[ Armand is accustomed to the delay in these texts. It's the quirk of this modern way of speaking - to spill sentences at a time, and yet have an artificial separation between paragraphs. It's unlike spoken word and written novels all at once, a beast unto itself.

And after those first two texts, Armand is feeling quite certain that his own sire is unique. Marius adored him, and he adored Marius. It's as simple as that - has to be. He remembers finally seeing him again after centuries of being left alone, after Marius' assumed death, and how the anger had coalesced into something hard and clear.

Armand had thought it like a diamond, as he'd hugged his sire for the first time in centuries.

Now, he reads Ambrose's texts and is, perhaps, weak in this moment of missing his old Master, because he reads and he thinks he sees a mirror. ]

We had strikingly similar sires, then. The difference is that mine did not betray me as yours did. He has not diminished my love for him. [ Are these words still true, of course, is a matter Armand will have to wrestle with as he moves on through this world, newly awakened to the idea of being able to construct his own opinions. ]

Many aged vampires perish by their own hands. Eternity is not for everyone. Of all the things the Children of Darkness told lies for, the concept of being picky with who to give the Dark Gift to was wise. Vampires as old as I are rare - and yet ones your age are nearly rarer still, now that everyone has slowed down in passing on their gifts.

It seems you and I may be in agreement, that we won't pass ours on.

Oh. I could bring it out to you, if that's better?

Yeah, wouldn't want to waste good blood. [ If you think Merlin is trying to be brave in the face of some slight natural disgust at handling a thermos full of blood...he...really is. He doesn't want Ambrose to feel like he's a monster! Ambrose is lovely. But! Blood!! In his hands! ]

{ little pieces of Will's life that are familiar to Ambrose, things he can still vividly imagine as Will gives them out in his answer. the familiarity is a comfort; they have lived separately for months, gone without speaking for weeks at worst, while Will has slipped off a map from time to time. to think that nothing much has changed is somewhat is a reassurance.

but Ambrose thinks he would rather find out that he has instead missed a mountain of change, if it meant that Will was no longer suffering from his own mind, all by himself. }

Stay with me, Will. You're not going to endure this alone. { Ambrose feels like he has just been given the wheel of a ship, without a crew to navigate, and he's hitting the eye of a storm. he could appear relaxed here, lying on his living room floor in the silence of his apartment, hands up and resting on his chest, but he feels nothing but anxious tension. he can't go to Will, he can't fix his mind for him. he can only sit here, and wait.

and talk. }

Is that the last of what you remember? Before coming to? { Ambrose thinks he rather hates this, it feels like scrambling in the dark for something he doesn't know he is looking for. it's dreadful. he stares absolutely motionless at the ceiling for a terrible moment, struggling for something better.

he sits up slowly, turning to look out the window, the night tinted with the dark ambience of colorful neon. it had rained an hour ago, and the droplets collect up every color into little round gems across the glass. }

How are the dogs? { it is so painfully simple, it might almost sound stupid. not to Ambrose, and he hopes, not to Will. it's a very calculated and specific intention, coming from him. he hasn't been in Will's home for most of the year now, that little spot in the universe amidst a quietude that reminds Ambrose still of sleepy mornings. his chest aches to remember it, rising just at dusk and catching Will sitting silently on his porch. }

I find myself doubting that is something you would do in my company, and I would expect your fearlessness to accomplish many things. Displaying physiques aside, you are captivating with your clothes on still, regardless if you have a musical instrument in your hand.

I fear this isn't the first time I've been told that. I really am so terrible.

Call you old fashioned? { can Ambrose really help himself from laughing? } What does that make me then?

Whatever it is, I suppose it puts us in a similar boat. I would agree; if I would wish to admire men dancing sensually, lacking in clothes, I might opt for a different mood and tone. Ideally not a stranger, too.

But it was increasingly hard not to want to take a small bite out of them while I was there. I'm pleased for not getting myself banned for good.

I can't tell if you're putting yourself down or what, but I'm offended that you would think I wouldn't. I have exposed myself to lesser men than you. Besides, you say such honeyed words without even prompted. It's very hard not to be a bit mesmerized.

You're a natural charmer, you know. It's hard not to feel my heart flutter when you say such wonderful things about me. I do love being complimented.

[Ambrose must surely know that Cain is laughing.] Absolutely ancient. Though you have aged wonderfully, my darling.

We can arrange that you know. Perhaps not men, but tasteful music and ideally not a stranger. I don't know how much longer I have to be subtle and just flat out offer. Well, there it is.

And what do you know, biting has never been a problem for me.

[ He feels like a child being lead through a tantrum. And yet none of that is coming from Ambrose himself - his tone isn't condescending. Nor is it similar to most of the tones Will's head directed at himself over the years. No, Will's hearing his own internal fears narrated internally instead.

The tunneling concepts of such things distracts him, until Ambrose keeps speaking. Will snaps out of it enough to pay more attention to the road, too, and do more than just stay in autopilot as he starts following signs to the interstate. ]

The-- they're fine. They're... [ Ambrose isn't asking about the dogs. Will's intake of breath can't decide if it's a laugh or a sob. He feels a pulling in his cheeks and thinks his expression can't decide either. ] They miss you.

Ambrose, I don't-- [ Back and forth, but it doesn't feel like going off-track to Will. He's following what he's been shown. Affection, away from work, talking about his home, proving that Ambrose isn't afraid of his continuing gaps from reality... ]

Work isn't helping. [ It comes out painfully small but sharp, shards of glass in his throat. Will can do nothing in the aftermath but swallow and try to make sure his voice will be clear once he knows what to do with it. ]

{ from here. }

{ oh. oh no. yup, Merlin is very correct about this impression. }

Oh dear, I apologize. I was...saying that to someone else in confidence. Or, that was the intention. { and that worked out well, didn't it? the worst part is, Ambrose assumes it's so obviously about Merlin, so as an explanation, he provides: }

If it helps, I was being a little hyperbolic. { 'a little,' also which, explains absolutely nothing. }

{ from here. }

This doesn't sound like a fantastic disaster waiting to happen or anything. { 'The Emperor's New Clothes' is contemporary to his original time, you know. oh, he seent it. }

[ This is the nice thing about Ambrose, the thing that makes it not just worthwhile but rewarding to talk to him - he's honest. When he's caught in something, he doesn't lie. Merlin exhales a bit shakily, but it's from surprise and uncertainty, not a lack of trust. ]

Should that help?

What sort of 'breaking' are you talking about? [ Merlin isn't so chaste that he has no reasonable idea, but it's definitely not a concept he's going to be the first to type out as a guess, thanks very much. ]

It's totally fine as long as I'm concentrating.

( so, a disaster waiting to happen. )

[ This message is left on Ambrose's voice mail, ready for him when he wakes up to greet the day— or rather, the night. Does the creature leaving the voice mail know about this expected discrepancy? A better question might be: how could he not? ]

Hello, Mister Sinclair. This is the man— [ not a man, of course, but how many little white lies can he stack up on his heavenly scales? surely at least one more ] —who sold you The Prophecy of Dante, the original by Byron from 1821. Which was a lovely choice! Did I tell you how I came across it? I was just about to leave the Commoner, which was a wonderful restaurant on Thames Street that sold—

[ It's probably fortunate for both of them, unlimited voicemail length be forgotten, that Aziraphale ends up distracted by a knock at his office door and decides perhaps he ought to wrap this up a bit more quickly. ] Well, we can discuss that another time. What I'm calling you about, sir, is that if you're finding yourself in need of more texts of the, well. The decidedly— [ The voice in the message drops, almost too low to be heard except for the ethereally clear quality which makes sure no syllable can truly be lost: ] —demonic inspired, I do have others in my shop.

Just. Try to see to it that you keep your diet in check. [ There's a chuckle, muffled by the fact that his smile can't quite keep in place perfectly the entire time. A vampire, really, in his shop! Being so polite! Oh, but aren't they always, the poor damned things? Aziraphale has always had a bit of a soft spot for them, especially the readers. ]

Anyway, Mister Sinclair, have a lovely evening whenever you awake, and keep in mind that the shop does still close at 8pm.

{ charmed. literally charmed — and thoroughly unexpected. Ambrose had been bemused and enchanted from the moment he had stepped into the majestic shop of the curious but delightful Mister Fell, until the moment the vampire regretfully departed (because it had been half an hour since the shop had closed for the evening), and finding a voicemail waiting him from the pleasant warden of rare books this many weeks later is an exciting late-arriving bloom on the branch. no joke: Ambrose listens to the message twice, so amused and heartened by the lengths given by another avid literature enthusiast that he thinks he must hear the excessive offer a second time.

...however.

it's two minutes past eight, when Ambrose lifts his phone up to his ear, the dial tone cooing rhythmically its song of effort to connect two disparate people. Ambrose hopes that perhaps Mister Fell hasn't packed up and gone home just yet... please still be in your shop, and ideally, close enough to the phone to hear the call coming in for you. }

up all night

tfln overflow; newtralize

This man is coming at Newt like a bullet train.

tfln overflow; the dog husband

tfln overflow; our favorite chaotic vampire boy

will's actually just two dogs in a plaid trench coat

no subject

heyooo

tfln; prohibitions

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tfln overflow; definitelynotmagic

tfln overflow; nymphic

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h-hewwo? mistuh vampiwe?

you could say this voicemail was — heaven sent 😎