She doesn't like the idea of using her own hands to end things. That would be cowardly she thinks. But she can entertain the idea of a mistake. She looks down over the precipice on which she stands. It's too dark to see the ground, a yawning abyss lying below where her toes curl over the edge of the castle's battlements. Occasionally the view is obscured from her gaze by the fluttering hem of her nightgown.

One slip on the ice-slick stones and she'll be sent tumbling down, down, down. If fate decided that was the course of things – she leaps to another battlement – who was she to argue? Although, even if she did fall, there was no guarantee she'd meet her end. The castle wasn't as tall as a cliff and she'd survived that just fine. Albeit with help.

Her leaping turns into a dance, pirouetting on the most precarious edges she can find. She hums a tune that sounds wrong from a person's throat, meant instead for a full band of players to reach its full potential. One day her funeral dirge will find its musicians she's sure.

Tiny flakes of snow hang in the air all around, some settling on her skin. She can distantly feel the wetness soaking into her shoulders and hair. She doesn't feel cold. Her eyes slip shut as she moves, only increasing the danger. Somehow, though she almost eagerly imagines the consequences of a miscalculation, she knows such a thing won't come to pass.

How long has she lived in her castle? She's touched every stone hundreds of thousands of times. To forget where her next footfall needs to land would be like forgetting her fingers stretched out at the end of her arm.

"Chloé!?"

Her eyes snap open, still frozen on one leg. She locks gazes with the distressed young man standing below her. It takes a moment to register this is Jean-Jacques. She straightens her posture blithely and smiles at him. "Good evening, Jean-Jacques."

"Whatever are you doing?" He wrings his hands in a manner almost comical. "You'll catch a cold!"

"A cold?" She raises an eyebrow in amused condescension. "My, you say such adorable things. I hardly notice the climate these days, and my constitution is strong even for a vampire."

Jean-Jacques sighs and shakes his head. Then he reaches his hand up to her. Chloé stares at it, contemplating how he waits for her to reach back. The meaning of it escapes her. It makes her heart give a violent, painful lurch. She shifts one foot behind the other where she stands, feeling the cool void beneath her heel. It would be so easy to let it tug her down. It would only take one step. Jean-Jacques isn't about to stop her.

She can't take it, that truly final step. This isn't how it's supposed to end. She's known this all along.

Bypassing Jean-Jacques's outstretched hand she jumps to wrap her arms around his neck and burrow her face into the juncture of his shoulder instead. Automatically his hands are cradling her close, without a single conscious thought. Something about that is sad.

"You're freezing!" He squawks as he pulls her even closer, smothering her in the tightness of his arms.

"You worry too much."

"I don't!" His breath is hot and desperate in her ear.

Chloé's cheeks heat with some mixture of shame and pathetically yearnful happiness. She shouldn't have provoked such a reaction from him to begin with but to hear and feel something so aching is nutritious and sweet. She wants more. More than he can give and more than she deserves.

He's carrying her inside. She doesn't really care, too busy hiding her face beneath his chin. He smells nice, clean. Chloé wonders if he washed himself recently, though he's still in his dayclothes. She almost wants to ruin it, to bite into his neck until he becomes raw and filthy.

While her mind is distracted it seems only moments before he's releasing her, depositing her on the edge of their bed. Suddenly, as Jean-Jacques leaves her side and turns his attention to the fireplace, she does feel the cold and the wet and the blood retreating from the surface of her skin. A delayed physiological response, or perhaps a psychosomatic one.

Chloé falls backwards with a huff, the stiff mattress barely depressing beneath her small weight. The wooden panel above her head is a rather dull thing to focus her attention upon. As she stares unblinkingly at it her vision begins to blur, the deep brown remaining almost unchanged.

"Chloé."

A fuzzy figure invades her field of vision. She blinks a few times and Jean-Jacques comes into focus, leaning over her.

"What is it?" she says.

"We must get you into something dry."

"Must we?" she murmurs to be difficult, stretching her limbs like a lazy cat. She'd be perfectly happy to fall asleep as she is and she'd prefer Jean-Jacques agreed with her, prefer he stopped worrying about unnecessary things and come back within reach.

"I can practically see through your nightgown," Jean-Jacques states firmly.

Chloé looks down at herself on instinct, surprised that Jean-Jacques speaks true. It is clinging to her with great wrinkled patches turning partially translucent.

A mean smirk tugs at her lips. "Naughty boy. I thought I raised a gentleman."

Jean-Jacques looms a little closer, resting an arm on the sheets beside her head as he looks her in the eye, sincere, pure and completely devoid of ulterior motive. "I do not wish for you to catch a cold."

She wants to push him down.

She turns her head aside petulantly. "Fetch me something else to wear then."

There's a shift of weight as Jean-Jacques removes himself from the mattress. Chloé finds herself staring at the four-poster bed's curtains now. They're a soft red, somehow sunbleached despite how very rare the sun is. If the light in her dead world could even be called a sun.

She remembers a different set of curtains used to hang in place of the red ones. They had flowers on them. She misses flowers. It's been too long since she's seen any that aren't an unbearable blue. She never will again.

Jean-Jacques returns, his shadow darkening her periphery. It takes a second before she deigns to side-eye him, face blank. Chloé is aware she's being a pain but that's by design. She likes how Jean-Jacques puts up with it.

"I see you've done as I asked," she says mildly, eyes skating over the fabric draped over his forearm.

"I need you to stand up."

She considers his words languidly, wondering how far she wants to push him. She's feeling a little annoyed with him, though she's not entirely certain why. And it's always entertaining when Jean-Jacques gives her instructions, somehow still so submissive even when he's making demands. Nonetheless, wasting more time lounging is liable to get herself lifted bodily from the bed and that wouldn't be fun at all.

She stands up with a yawn, getting toe-to-toe with him and bumping her chest into his front. "Get on with it then."

Jean-Jacques doesn't hesitate to tug her nightgown over her head and, contrary to her plan to inconvenience him, her body automatically reacts to make it easier to accomplish. Habits honed over decades of accepting his help dressing are hard to break. She doesn't even get the opportunity to torment him as he helps her into the dry one because he's too quick, and, once his hands are upon her, disturbing him quickly becomes rather less appealing.

When the white dress is settled comfortably on her shoulders she frowns, noticing that Jean-Jacques is still holding something. "What is that?"

"Stockings," he answers blandly.

She nearly groans in irritation. "I have no need of them."

"I request you put them on anyway. Indulge my impulse please."

"I refuse." Chloé plops down onto the bed and sticks a leg out slightly, pulling her skirt's hem up subtly. "Do it yourself if it means so much to you."

Without further comment Jean-Jacques is on his knees in front of her. Cute.

He moves slowly, starting with a caress of her ankle then starting to inch her skirt upwards, hand sliding along her bare leg all the while. He draws it out, giving Chloé plenty of time to protest but only succeeding in building tension. Once he has the nightgown bunched all the way up by the top of her thighs he pauses and waits, looking up at her expectantly.

She grabs hold of the fabric, keeping it from slipping back down to cover her. "Do feel free to continue. Rake," she addends impetuously, the insult completely devoid of weight or venom.

Jean-Jacques's lip quirks minutely and warmth blooms in Chloé's chest without her leave. She hasn't time to sit with the feeling because next thing Jean-Jacques is gently gripping her leg and pulling it toward himself. Gingerly he brings a stocking up and rolls it over her toes, his fingers tickling the sole of her foot as he meticulously pulls it over her skin. He's slower than usual, when he helps her with such things. Every inch seems to take an age, forcing Chloé to sit in the moment, all her attention fixed squarely on Jean-Jacques.

His hands are so big and yet he's barely touching her. Only that which strictly needs to make contact with her does, the action simultaneously sweet and exasperating in its tenderness. She tracks his movements with her eyes, occasionally feeling the slight tremble in his hands as he covers more of her white skin with whiter cotton. Even under the sound of the fire crackling she fancies she can hear him breathing and the steady thump of his heart.

When finally he reaches the end, some breadth above her knee, he easily ties a garter in place to keep the hose from falling down. Chloé is honestly a little surprised he doesn't fumble it at all with how quickly and delicately he manages it. Still, he has to go through the motions all over again with her opposite leg. Obligingly she holds it out to him when he releases the first one.

And it goes quite precisely as it had with the first. Jean-Jacques takes his time the entire way, apparently unconcerned about kneeling on the thin rug for such an extended period. Chloé idly wonders if his knees will be at all bruised. Unlikely, considering he's a vampire. Really, he seems to be taking even longer with the second leg, completely fixated on it.

When he's finished he doesn't get up immediately either. He leans his arms on her thighs and looks up at her from between her legs instead. Unable to resist, Chloé pets his head, delighted at how he leans into the touch. She can practically see his tail wagging.

"You can get off the floor now, Jean-Jacques."

He hums, closing his eyes. "Are you warm?"

"I suppose so," she shrugs non-committally. "Is that what you wanted?"

"I'd also like to know why you were out in the elements this night."

Chloé's expression shutters harshly and she removes herself from him immediately. She releases his hair and pushes him away with her foot, ignoring the wounded face he makes. She stands, turns her back to him and walks to the middle of the room, where there is the most empty space on all sides.

"Why?" She repeats in a whisper. "A foolish question." She spreads her arms wide theatrically, perhaps a little overdramtically. "I wanted to feel alive."

A lie. The perfect opposite of the truth. She wanted to feel dead.

How desperately she yearns to feel more than just the Reaper's fingertips. Nothing could be kinder than the cold, impartial scythe finally, finally freeing her from suffering, from hurting everyone, from destroying everything. Just a taste of that addictive sensation was a ridiculous, petty indulgence.

"If you wanted to feel alive you should have said so."

She can hear Jean-Jacques moving around behind her. Doesn't bother looking even as his footsteps move closer, impossibly light while he's wearing boots. His arms wrap around her shoulders from behind and his head comes to rest on top of hers. He must be bent at an awkward angle. And suddenly she can smell him more strongly than she should. She knows he's undone his shirt and his neck is unobstructed.

"That's just unfair," she mutters.

"I apologise for my impertinence." He doesn't sound remorseful in the least.

Chloé falls quiet for a bit, standing within Jean-Jacques's arms. He makes no attempt to prompt her further, simply waiting, content to flaunt the temptation of his collarbones behind her. Shameless. Though he holds no air of excitement. This isn't blood being offered in passion. It's... she's not sure. Comfort perhaps.

"Give me your hand," she says eventually, although she does not wait for a response before grabbing hold of one of the hands draped over her.

Chloé picks it up in both of her hands and studies the back of it, massaging her fingers over Jean-Jacques's skin. His pale blue veins stand out from his skin, bulging out just enough that she can feel their ridges even around his knuckles. He has long fingers, the tips more squareish and less round than hers. They're very angular, the phalanges impressively defined. There's a rough, worn quality to his hand somehow despite its overall softness. The shape itself belies how hard he works, slightly knobbly if one looks closely enough.

She turns his hand over to instead peer down at his palm. It's so big. She places her own hand on top of it, trying to line up the bottom of their palms. The tips of her fingers barely extend past the base of his. How strange. When did that happen?

She slides her hand up further, inserting her fingers into the gaps between his, forcing them apart until she can intertwine with him. It takes a little for Jean-Jacques to catch up and curl his fingers over the back of her hand. He gets there eventually.

Chloé flips his hand once again and pulls it up towards her lips. She kisses along his veins slowly, focusing on the feeling, the sound, the scent of his blood travelling through him. He's always had such sweet, honest blood.

She's aware his neck is still begging to be pierced but ignores it. Instead she moves her lips up to the base of his index finger. This feels right.

When she sinks her teeth in she nicks her own finger where it's linked with his. She doesn't much care for the taste of her own blood and fingers certainly aren't ideal for drinking from, but it's nice.

After a few tiny mouthfuls she stops, having gotten all she wanted. Chloé extracts her teeth and admires the little holes in Jean-Jacques's skin while they last. He'll heal in seconds.

Then he moves for the first time in what must be an age. Jean-Jacques gently pulls their entwined hands up, above her head. He licks at the remnants of their mixed blood, his tongue hot and wet, leaving behind saliva that quickly turns cold against the open air. He drops their hands back in front of her when he has sufficiently cleaned them, huddling closer to her back at the same time.

"Next time you want to feel alive, I want to know," he whispers into her hair.

"If I asked you to join me on the battlements next time, would you?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

Chloé turns slightly in his hold and looks up at him. "Join me on the battlements."

He jerks almost imperceptibly but is quick to recover, nodding once. "Whatever you desire."

Something fond and pitiful settles in Chloé's stomach. "Good."

It is with reluctance that she pries her hand from Jean-Jacques's, then she starts to head back up to the top of the tower they reside in. She doesn't look back to see if Jean-Jacques is following. She knows he is, and it wouldn't change anything if he wasn't.

The climb seems to take longer than it should, the grey stone stairs never-ending. There are no decorations to make the trek more interesting, though the stairwell is amusingly constructed. It spirals upwards clockwise, such that it would provide an advantage in a swordfight to anyone on the higher ground. Assuming they were right-handed. As if a swordfight would ever take place in such a place. Still, it's a romantic thought. Chloé's always been fond of the notion of knights defending their castles.

When finally she emerges into the night air it's bitingly cold and blowing motes of snow that seem to be thickening. A layer of snow has formed over the ice Chloé was dancing on earlier.

She jumps up onto the corner of the tower wall and looks over the nothingness she rules over. The snow beneath her is melting into her stockings. She might be more liable to slip in these than when she was barefoot.

There's a muted thud and Jean-Jacques has landed beside her. She smiles bloodlessly and peers up at him sideways. She offers her hand to him. He places his own in hers. She grabs him and pulls, jumping backwards onto a separate battlement and dragging him along. He stumbles a little but she takes no time to help him correct that, trusts he'll find his footing purely because she asks it of him.

Chloé continues to lead Jean-Jacques, spinning beneath his arm, skipping around where he stands, jumping and twirling, taking both his hands then releasing them, erratic and fickle. He keeps up.

When he syncs to the rhythm in her head suddenly she's not the only one leading. Jean-Jacques is able to meet her beat for beat, a cat and mouse game of pulling each closer and then dancing to the edge their fingertips.

At some point Jean-Jacques dips Chloé's dangerously over the edge of the abyss and her blood starts rushing twice as hard through her veins. All that's keeping her tethered is his hand on her waist. He's quick to pull her back to relative safety but it's enough to get her riled.

Her eyes scorch red as she stops holding herself back. They're vampires, they can jump higher, move faster, court greater danger. So why shouldn't they?

Chloé leaps high, and without her needing to say so Jean-Jacques is beside her, so high in the air they might just meet the edge of Chloé's false world. They manage to link hands and do a funny little spin in the air before crashing back to earth, landing with enough force that Chloé's sure the stones crack a little beneath the snow.

Jean-Jacques grins at her, his face so boyish it nearly causes her heart to stop, and they keep dancing their inhuman dance. They move on the very edge of their toes, when their feet are on anything at all, compelled by a frantic, silent music. Chloé throws herself at Jean-Jacques as easily as she flings herself away from him, caught in a mad desire to do both and neither at once. He catches her, holds her, releases and drops her. Yet he always seems to be chasing after her, his hands finding hers with an undeniably steadfast dedication.

Chloé spins like a top through the air, so fast everything blurs to nothing. That concerns her little. She doesn't need to see to know where she's landing.

The ball of one foot alights perfectly on a precipice, peerlessly precarious. Before she can make another move there's a hand on her should and Jean-Jacques is once again her partner. He leads her for a while, they bound ridiculously around the walls, in a series of steps so uncouth and affectionate Chloé can't help but laugh.

To her surprise Jean-Jacques eventually removes himself from her, leaving her, for but a moment, instinctually bereft. He jumps to the opposite corner of the square tower in a single leap then stops, affecting a pose more at home in a ballroom than anything they had performed thus far, one hand in the air, his feet carefully positioned to face outwards.

Chloé copies his stance, amused. As he begins to take refined, dashing steps she mirrors him. It is a lot slower than what they'd been performing up to that point but somehow still rather wonderful in its own way. There is a certain entertainment in meticulously copying one another, never growing closer or farther apart, dancing with such exhilarating distance.

They maintain eye contact across the gap between them, so Chloé is immediately aware of a change in Jean-Jacques. There's a barely visible shift in his expression before he drops his gentlemanly stance and springs from the battlement he is on. Chloé is pushing off from her own in almost the exact same moment.

The two meet in the middle of the air, Jean-Jacques catching Chloé smoothly. They land delicately, surrounded by walls rather than atop them. Jean-Jacques does not put Chloé down.

"We'll have to change your clothes again," he says.

"And yours," Chloé adds. "Do take these stockings off me first, will you? I can feel water sloshing about inside of them."

"I shall diligently replace them."

"Diligently. I do wonder about your motives."

"I haven't any impure motives."

Chloé can see the red tint to his cheeks. If she were generous she could chalk it up to exertion. She's not feeling particularly generous. She tucks herself beneath his chin and allows him to carry her inside once again, considering plans to further torment him. Though she may find herself inclined to fall directly asleep instead.