Beckett Caulfield was an upstanding citizen. He paid all his taxes and his utility bills; he always made complete stops at every stop sign, at every right-turn-on-red; he had never once J-walked in his entire life. The most rebellious thing he'd ever done was get that piercing in his right ear, and that had been mostly peer pressure.
All this is to say that Beck had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
He'd already half-lied to Iman earlier—this wasn't an errand, not really—so he felt bad enough as it was. Now, he crouched underneath the kitchen window, out of the back patio's earshot, trying to figure out how to break into Julien's townhouse.
Beck wasn't an idiot; he knew if he rung the doorbell and Julien truly was there that all he'd get was a door slammed shut in his face. Julien cared for Iman, not for Beck. The only way Beck would get the answers he needed was if he gave Julien no other option but to answer.
Beck sighed, shifting his weight. The kitchen light was on, and Beck could hear the quiet rush of a running faucet briefly before it shut off again. He fumbled around in the brush, looking for a suitably-sized stone. This was how you did it, right? Throw a stone at the glass, make your way through the hole, pray a broken shard didn't end up lodged in your abdomen?
He found a rock, weighing it his hand as he glanced at the patio door. He could break it, roll through before Julien had a chance to move—
A shadow stretched around the corner of the house. Beck gasped, jumping to his feet and disappearing around the other corner, hiding behind the AC unit.
He poked his head around just as a familiar person approached the patio door. He was tall, with inky hair and eyes and clothes, an obvious scowl on his face like he had no desire to be there. Beck had seen him once before at Julien's housewarming, though he couldn't place his name until the man promptly slid open the door—Beck sighed—stepped inside, and was greeted with a sharp, "Fritz!"
Beck pressed himself against the wall, listening in even as he scolded himself for listening in.
Julien: "You said you were going back to Baltimore."
"I did go back to Baltimore," said a somewhat strange, velvety voice Beck inferred belonged to Fritz. "But I came back, because I'm not done being pissed off at you."
"Save the theatrics, Fritz."
"Save the theatrics? Right, okay. Because the fact Sera's got you wrapped around her little finger again is nothing but theatrics."
"Do you see Sera anywhere here? No? See, so how is it that we're so attached?"
A ragged exhale, followed by a loud clink. "As if that changes the fact that you—Jules, are you expecting someone?"
Beck froze. They couldn't know he was there, could they? Had he misstepped, made a noise without realizing it?
"Expecting someone?" repeated Julien. "No?"
"Hm. One sec," said Fritz, and before Beck could even think to move, the patio door slid open and there was a blur of motion and someone's hand was around his throat.
"It's the Caulfield guy!" called Fritz, peering into Beck's face with an eerie curiosity, his dark eyebrows knitted. Beck gasped, clawing at Fritz's hand, to no avail. "What are you doing here?"
Julien appeared in the background, one hand braced against the door. Even from a distance, Beck thought the vampire looked much better than when he'd seen him last. Julien's face was flushed pink, his posture straight, his eyes gleaming and alert. Whatever illness had followed him before was gone, and with such efficacy that Beck might have imagined it entirely.
"C-Caulfield?" Julien blurted, his face satiated with shock. After a beat of hesitation, he waved Fritz off. "Wait. Let him go, Fritz. I—let him go. Jesus."
Fritz released him, and Beck coughed, shrinking away. He'd known Julien was a vampire, but this guy, too? Though he knew he was not, spending so much time around these people was beginning to make him think he was the last remaining normal person on Earth.
Beck leaned against the brick, catching his breath, blinking the stars away from his vision. He was hyperaware of the two vampires watching him, their gazes like a prickle across the back of his neck.
"Caulfield," Julien said then. His voice was unnervingly gentle, like a stone worn away by water and wind. "Im sent you, didn't she?"
Beck straightened, shaking his head. "No, actually she doesn't know I'm here at all."
Fritz and Julien exchanged a look Beck didn't know the precise meaning for. Before either of them could speak, Beck cleared his throat. "About Iman, um—" He fiddled with his shirt collar. "Can we talk?"
Beck sat at Julien's island, a cup of coffee between his hands—Julien hadn't listened to him when he'd insisted he was fine, really—and a cat weaving between his legs. Beck kept his gaze trained down at Ringo's silver-white form, not letting his eyes shift right, where he knew Fritz sat staring at him, or up, where he knew Julien stood, staring at him.
They were waiting for him to say something; he had come here, after all, to say something. So why was his throat so dry?
There was frustration, anger, sitting in the base of Beck's stomach. Iman had worried over Julien for months now, called him, texted him, glared at her vacant phone screen until she gave herself a headache. Beck's efforts could only do so much; what Iman needed, really, was for Julien to just talk to her.
Beck had thought maybe that Julien was out of town for a while, that he would be back soon. That his phone was broken or dead and there was some other reason he couldn't talk to her. Now that Beck saw him here—healthy and thriving—it more angered than relieved him. Julien was here all along while Iman suffered. What right did he have to ignore her like this?
In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to throw a punch at Julien's face. Perhaps the feel of Julien's bones beneath his knuckles would make it easier to speak again.
But Beck only hung his head, stretching down to drag a hand across Ringo's coat. Though many people assumed him to be for reasons beyond his control, he was not a violent person. Fist fights and weapons intimidated him; he liked quiet, simple things like antique books and tea in the evening.
Beck swirled his coffee around, watching the dark liquid jump above the mug's lip and slip back down again. "I think you owe Iman an explanation," he began. "She's worried ceaselessly about you—thought you were dead in the ground, maybe, a stake in your heart—and yet here you are, just peachy. How the hell is that fair to her?"
He lifted his gaze in time to see Julien sigh, moving a strand of his hair back from his face. "It isn't fair to her, Caulfield. It isn't, not at all—and I'm sorry. But there was something I had to deal with."
Beside Beck, Fritz scoffed and gave a grand roll of his eyes. Beck noticed Julien's gaze zip to Fritz momentarily, but neither vampire said a word more.
So Beck spoke. "Pardon my French," he said, "but that's bullshit, Julien."
Julien blinked. "Sorry?"
"It didn't matter what Iman was going through. Her dad died; she was lying in bed, crying for hours, couldn't even get her to eat for a while—and she was still thinking of you. Something you had to deal with? Right. You couldn't have taken one second?" The words were flowing out of his mouth without his volition, as if some obscure dam had finally caved within him. "One second, Julien, to call her and let her know you were okay? Jesus."
"Caulfield—"
"Are you okay?"
Now both Fritz and Julien looked at him incredulously. Ringo meowed where the silence rested, as if he, too, were confused at Beck's sudden concern.
Beck pushed his coffee away, his appetite gone. "I mean, you look fine—you look good. But something's off about you. I know we haven't known each other long, and we probably would never have met at all if not for Immy, but I feel like the person I'm talking to right now is not the Julien I met."
Fritz sighed. "Jules?" he said, one expectant eyebrow risen in his friend's direction. Beck was unsure just what that eyebrow was expecting, and quite frankly, he was unsure if he even wanted to know.
Julien turned, leaning his hip against the island, his eyes focused on the living room and not on the people surrounding him. He was silent for a while, gnawing at his lip, his fingers tapping one by one across his elbow in a distinct rhythm. Beck's mind wandered to a dark place as he looked at Julien here: the stiff shoulders, the brownish-black hair that just barely graced the nape of his neck, the long, near girlish eyelashes. Would this be the man Iman married, if he weren't here? Was Beck but an interruption, an interim love until Iman realized who she truly wanted?
But she said yes.
Beck swallowed the thoughts, though it hurt going down.
But she said yes.
"I'm fine," said Julien then, drawing both Fritz's and Beck's immediate attention. "Neither you nor Iman need to worry about me, okay? Besides, judging by that ring on your finger, you both have other things to focus on."
Beck clenched and unclenched his fist, watching the way the light caught against the silver ring on his left hand. "If you think Iman will get married without you there," he said, "then you're even more of an idiot than I thought you were."
Fritz huffed, getting to his feet. "Okay, this is a joke. If you're not gonna tell him, Jules, then I—I don't know, okay? I just don't. You're lying to everyone, but worse, you're lying to yourself."
A sharp look in Fritz's direction. "I've already had this conversation with you, Fritz! I know what I'm doing. This isn't just for me anymore, if it ever was, you know—it's for Iman's sake—"
It was as Fritz said, "That's what you keep telling yourself," as Julien recoiled with hurt flashing across his face, that Beck saw it. Julien flailed an arm, his teeth bared, his shirt lifting to reveal an inch above his jeans' waistline. That was when Beck saw it: some sort of insignia burned into the skin that he didn't remember being there, three flames encased within a circle.
Fritz and Julien were almost screaming at each other; Beck stopped them both. "What is that?"
Julien frowned, shrinking back. "What's what?"
"Don't act dumb. That thing on your ribs. What is that, Julien?"
Fritz got up from his barstool. "Here we go," he said with a sigh, then swept Ringo in his arms and left the room without so much as another word.
"Is that—" Every part of Beck's sense warred against it. It would mean—no, he didn't want to think about what it meant. Iman had told him before: There's a girl Julien used to be in love with, or maybe still is in love with, knowing him. She runs one of the biggest vampire clans in the city. Don't make that face at me; those are real things. And she won't stop until she has him at her side.
Beck shook his head. He knew what it meant to join those things—a clan, as Iman had called them. He knew what you had to do. "Is that a brand?"
"Caulfield—Beck. Beck, I can explain."
"No," he said, jumping to his feet, shoving the barstool away from him as if it were an explosive. He remembered Julien reeling on Iman's bathroom floor, shivering, so against the very thought of hurting a human that he would rather starve than drink from Beck's wrist. He'd never do it again—that was what he had promised Iman. That's what he had made her believe. "No," Beck said again. He checked his pockets, made sure he had his keys, his wallet, his phone—because God knows he was never coming back here again. "Oh, you can explain, can you? Iman trusted you. I trusted you, even. Julien, what the hell are you—God, what are you doing?"
"Please don't walk out, Beck." Julien was pleading, both his hands outstretched. "Please listen to me."
Julien took a step toward him, but Beck flinched away.
"Stay the hell away from us," he snapped, and he was gone.