Two revelations, both indicating that Red needs to run; but where should he run to?

Chapter Text

All told, Red didn’t have much in the way of ‘things’.

There were his banal possessions: about a week’s worth of clothes in varying stages of disrepair, three formal outfits that William had bought for him, and his razor. He couldn’t fit all of the clothes into his rucksack, so he left a few of the tattier items out. They were still perfectly serviceable: a small stain here or there, the fabric rough and piled, but overall, better than many of the clothes he’d worn when he had started eking out a living in Rome. He’d give them to a beggar after breakfast.

His personal effects were even more sparse, because he had to keep them hidden for so long; first in his boots, then under whatever he was using as a mattress. Now, they were laid out on his writing desk: two photographs. The first was of his sister and his mother from just before he shipped out, the second was of Janet, an old school friend of his. That wasn’t entirely accurate; he blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. They’d been on a few dates, before everything had changed. It had been on one of those dates that they’d watched Son of Dracula: she loved scary films. It was just before he left for Basic, and she’d joked that nothing he was afraid of could be as scary as what had been in the film. He smiled at the memory.

He kept the picture of his family, but decided to leave Janet’s picture behind.

Then there were the less personal things: some handkerchiefs with landmarks embroidered into them that he’d bought, thinking his mother might like them if he ever thought of a way to send them to her. A small, imperfect wooden carving of Romulus and Remus suckling at the she-wolf. A few postcards. They went into the rucksack, too.

The packing done—all told it took fifteen minutes, including the time he spent reflecting on his family, and silently debating whether to keep the photo of Janet—he went to bed.

He couldn’t sleep.

Not because his mind was wandering; it wasn’t. In fact, he found himself uncharacteristically able to stop himself from thinking over everything William had said. It was easy to keep his mind quiet. It was as though he could will himself to leave a thought be, and his mind obeyed.

The fact of the matter was that he simply wasn’t tired.

And it wasn’t the frustrated alertness that comes from being unable to fall asleep. He felt as though it was the middle of the day, he’d just had a whole pot of coffee, and he was excited to go out somewhere. Sleep just didn’t interest him.

He got out of bed.

He was bored.

He went back to William’s room, hoping to ask more questions, or just to talk to him about anything, or just to lie in bed with him and listen to the radio.

There was no answer to his knock on the door. He must have left. Gone to visit one of his strange friends. Friends who must be stranger than antique smugglers. Stranger even than a spy’s network of contacts.

Red swallowed, thinking that last part through. Had he been in danger, when he visited William’s friends? If they were vampires, surely they could have killed him? Vampires had to be dangerous, didn’t they? But he felt he could trust William—really, he had no choice, and William had always been so kind to him. Perhaps William hadn’t been a vampire for long, so he was still kind. Perhaps vampires were kind in general, and the stories were wrong. Red thought back to the huge villas with pale, skinny servants, to the peacocks crammed into that tiny room: vampires probably weren’t kind in general. The legends were there for a reason, weren’t they?

He didn’t want to think about this. It was too much for tonight. One thing at a time.

He went back to his room. He looked at the bed.

He couldn’t even think about trying to sleep again.

He was too alert. Too… wired.

His gaze fell to the novel on his bedside table. William had loaned it to him a month earlier: A Farewell to Arms, it was called. He read it mostly out of obligation, thinking William would be impressed if Red could discuss fine literature. He’d made it about a quarter of the way through, each page a struggle. But tonight he was feeling good, focused, and there wasn’t much else to do, so he sat in the armchair, turned on the reading light, and started again from where he’d left off.