WHEN THE AGENTS finally leave his house, the storm has abated. There's not enough information and too many what-ifs to calm him. There's a chance Nyx and Stanton will go straight to the Bureau. By the time the sun comes up, they'll be arrested and thrown into the mages' idea of a prison. Milton told him once that it's built far away, somewhere snowy and hidden.

The old man had said, prisoners die from the cold before their sentence is up. No one leaves the Bureau's hands alive.

Except Lucas and Asha got away. And that's why Kane is glaring at Reid from where they sit on the bathroom floor.

Reid's not healing. The bullet wound to his right shoulder is sluggishly bleeding, and he's bared from the waist up, giving a good glimpse of the way his skin has taken on a sweaty pallor that, if he were human, would be worrying.

Kane whispers angrily, "You just fucked Lucas and Asha."

Reid's weak breath rattles in his chest. His fingers worry the fabric of his sweatshirt. He's fidgeting, and that's never a good sign. "Haven't gone that far, actually. Maybe tonight." He smirks at the way Kane's expression shadows further at the implication. "Do you think Asha would be into that? All the possibilities—"

The whack to Reid's arm is light, despite what he deserves. The moron fakes a sob, and Kane whispers harshly, "Seriously, idiot, this isn't a fucking joke. They could be back any minute. They'll kill him. Lucas acts like an asshole, but he's my friend, and I won't let them take him."

The house is quiet except for the pattering of light rain against the window near the bathtub. Rowan volunteered to race upstairs and recount the events to the hiding fugitives in Milton's office. Rowan seemed suspiciously ecstatic at the idea.

And Hannah's in the kitchen, wiping up the blood Reid had smeared on the tile and cabinetry. Kane caught a glimpse of Kiernan reluctantly cleaning the shards of glass in the corridor from a shattered picture during Kane's fight with Nyx.

She's insane, and not in a good way. She'd given him a roundhouse to the sternum that had his vision speckling black. He'd never admit it, but that phone call from Gabriel was a godsend, or Kane would have had his drunken-ass handed to him.

"No," Reid says with certainty. "Madeline Glena is desperate enough to go to the vampires for her daughter's safe return. Nyx came on her own, without backup, to find information on her sister. She was going to kill us. They're not going to want this to get out. Imagine the headlines. The questions. It would be a media circus."

Kane tries to keep up. "If Francine is Madeline Glena's daughter..."

Reid hums. "Why is the chief of the Bureau's daughter being cared for by a human politician and his family?"

At Kane's wary nod, Reid elaborates, "My guess. Francine's father was naughty, and Francine Teller is Madeline Glena's lovechild. But that's just a theory. What we do know is that Azrael's aware of Madeline's dark secret, and now he's blackmailing her, either with social ruin or the threat of her daughter's life."

Kane has to literally close his stupid mouth that's fallen open in shock. This idiot in front of him looks the same: mussed blonde hair, familiar blue eyes, and that crooked smile that promises nothing good. But this Reid is making sense. That's not right. He should be fucking everything up, not saving their asses.

Reid must not have noticed Kane's gawking or did and decides to be coy for once, because he lays the back of his head against the vanity and says tiredly, "I'm hoping we can use this once Azrael is gone.

"We'll promise to keep this Francine business and whatever else we find private, and in exchange, Madeline Glena will call off her witch hunt for Lucas and Asha. They'll be free to live normally. They have been. But at least they won't have to look over their shoulders anymore. Think that'll work?"

"Yeah," Kane says, feeling winded. "Shit, it might, yeah." That does make sense. And Kane's mildly unsettled that Reid has figured this all out while Kane's been left lagging behind trying to understand, but the idiot was already two steps ahead.

"Kenneth," Reid says softly.

Kane's frown deepens, and his heart hastens with worry for the sudden despondence behind Reid's eyes. "What is it?"

"Azrael and Rowan..."

"I know," Kane assures tightly. He doesn't want to hear more about that. He knows what Azrael is capable of. Reid knows. Hannah's been suffering dreams of Francine enduring the same torture for over a week.

"She's pregnant."

Kane's lungs constrict, his breath burning. He looks down at his lap, where his fingers lie. He hasn't washed off the blood. The sight doesn't sicken him like it should. He feels an urge to touch his dry lips and can't blame it on the bourbon, because the stress of the last hour has made him sadly stone-sober.

He clenches his hands. Rowan's pregnant? She's so fragile and small. There's an ache in Kane's heart that feels a lot like failure.

Reid breaks the stretching silence by softly whispering, "I don't know for certain, but the way she reacted when Kiernan claimed..."

He has tears in his eyes when Kane looks up, and they stare at each other for a silent moment, sharing the weight of the horror they're speaking of on the bathroom floor.

Reid says softly, "I, uh, think I'm in love with her."

"You hardly know her."

Reid smiles sadly. "You hardly know Hannah."

"Yeah," Kane concedes with a shaky sigh.

He has to resist looking at his hands and tries to find the will to rise, go to the sink, and clean off the blood, but he can't because there's a gnawing ache in his gut that he's never felt before but knows. Just as he knows, without needing to ask through whatever has been connecting them since last night, Reid is feeling the same hunger.

The only recourse to this fucked-up situation is that Reid looks just as embarrassed. The idiot gnaws at his bottom lip for a few awkward beats of Kane's rapid heart, hastening at the sight of those damn fangs.

Reid whispers, as if they're sharing a secret, "Should we get back in the bathtub?"

Kane looks at the tub warily. It's been scrubbed with every cleaning solution underneath the kitchen sink, but it retains a rosy hue from hours of copious amounts of blood staining the porcelain.

After a pensive moment, Kane looks back at Reid, and there's a boyish vulnerability in his blue eyes. Kane's floundering on what to say and how to proceed. He wishes he was still drunk on the bourbon. But then Reid wouldn't be able to take his blood.

Face flaring hot, Kane whispers slowly, "Do you want to go in the tub?"

"I don't know." Reid flushes red from his neck down to his blood-smeared chest.

"Well, I don't know either."

They blink at each other. Reid's fingers worry the fabric of the sweatshirt he holds against his shallowly rising stomach. It's obvious that Reid's trying to calm his breath and hold Kane's gaze without giving away the insecurity that's clear in the darkened blue of his eyes. Realizing that he's also doing the same, Kane's nerves rise, twisting deep in his gut unpleasantly.

After acting like a coward for what feels like an eternity but, in retrospect, is probably a few minutes, Kane inhales deeply and knows he's going to have to be the one to take the initiative to get this shitshow going. "Let's just do it right here."

Reid smiles warily. "Okay."

The idiot doesn't move.

"What are you waiting for?" Kane growls to conceal the shake that would have surely overtaken his voice. He's trembling, not with anger but with unsettling anticipation. "Come on. You need to heal. I don't want to hang out on the bathroom floor with you all night."

The lack of Reid's familiar wry reply raises the tension. Reid begins to tentatively shift closer, his blue eyes darkening. And to conceal his need to react to the predation, Kane moves backwards until his shoulders hit the edge of the bathtub.

He might be sober, but he's not entirely steady, and he doesn't want to eat the tile when Reid decides to get his crap together and take what Kane's offering.

Looking down, Kane takes in Reid's fingers that grasp his wrist in a hold that nearly hurts. No, the tight pressure does hurt, but Kane's coursing adrenaline masks the ache.

Kane conceals his shaky exhale with an incredulous snort, but his fingers have a slight tremble that he'll blame on his exhaustion all the way to his grave. There's no way he's feeling something close to fear from this idiot.

The full-body shudder that accompanies staring into Reid's darkened eyes has Kane's glare deepening. The fingers encircling his wrist slip away, leaving an ache in their wake.

"Sorry," Reid says quietly. "I thought you were—"

Kane interrupts coldly, "What?"

Reid dares to smile sheepishly. "I know you wouldn't."

"Wouldn't?" Kane breathes.

"Try to get away."

Kane can feel his chest constricting and his lungs burning, but he doesn't let the reaction show on his face. There's something in the wording, try, and the purring timbre to Reid's tone that has Kane's instincts on edge. If Reid were any other vampire, he'd have Kane's blade at his throat.

Inhaling, Kane shoves away the inner voice telling him to fight, and with tense muscles, he reaches out and seizes Reid's wrists in a harsh grip.

Reid's sweater slips from his grasp.

Despite the pained wince on his face, Reid's pliant to Kane's tugging and allows himself to be maneuvered over Kane's lap.

Reid remains on his knees, not settling his weight; his lower half is lifted, which Kane is grateful for.

In retrospect, Kane could have had Reid's knee slide between his legs to make it less awkward and risk his thigh being sat on, but he's not going to chance having his unwilling reaction to the bite be felt. Kane will never live it down. Reid will run his mouth and tease him forever.

But Reid doesn't appear to be bothered by the position, looking down with a slight tilt to his head and a curious glint to his blue eyes that holds an animal quality. Knowing Reid's hunting is extremely unsettling this close.

Kane's not going to think about the context of why they're so close right now; they've accidentally cuddled and even showered together during the worst nights when Reid was out of his head and Kane couldn't leave him alone.

This is the same. Nothing's different.

That's Kane's mantra as he lets go of Reid's wrists and mentally struggles with whether it'll be weirder to keep his palms flat against the tile or to take some control over what's coming and lay his hands somewhere on Reid that's preferably not bare skin to keep himself grounded.

But then Reid screws up any hope of this being cursory by grasping Kane's wrist and lifting the hand while holding Kane's gaze. Reid must feel, fuck hear, the flutter of Kane's rapid pulse and the way it beats revealingly faster at Reid's cold touch.

There's a curse that dies in his throat before it ever reaches his tongue, which presses against the back of his teeth. Reid's shoulder bleeds rivulets of crimson, and it beckons Kane's gaze to follow the drips down, all the way to the lean muscles of Reid's stomach that rise with shallow breaths.

The urge to bring his mouth to the blood is almost too much, and instinctively, his tongue sweeps his bottom lip, tasting an iron tang from the deep split in his skin there.

Reid laughs low and knowingly.

The sound snaps Kane back to reality, and he rears back, as if to escape his own demented thoughts. The back of his head hits the bathtub, nostrils flaring, and his chest rises with fast breaths. His eyes are wide, and he can only imagine that his irises are blown tellingly.

The crooked smile that Reid gives him doesn't help his rising panic.

And the way Reid lays a palm on the edge of the tub beside Kane's resting head, deliberately slow, doesn't help either.

The same sensation that invades Kane before a fight is coiling his muscles, but he's not primed for violence; another yearning has hot adrenaline pumping hot through his veins.

"You want this," Reid says with a trembling breath.

Kane flushes. "Just get it over with."

He refuses to look away, even when the grip on his wrist tightens and his own fingers are brought to his mouth.

And he refuses to look away when they slide between his unresisting lips and settle on his tongue, and the invading tang of irony, sweetness, and blood is dizzying.

"This is your choice," Reid says, and the hoarse timbre of his low, velvety tone seems to come from everywhere, overwhelming every sense that Kane possesses that might shake some rationality into his rapidly hazing thoughts. "This time, it's your choice."

This wasn't like last night. That tasted like tangy, stomach-retching blood. This tastes not exactly good; it holds a sweetness of life. His veins thrum uncomfortably hot. His skin is feverish.

Reid's fingers encircling Kane's wrist loosen, not restraining, merely holding and giving his words substance to let the choice he's offered known, even though Kane's already gone.

His heart races and his head is dizzy, but his tongue has no such notions as it begins to tentatively swipe over the callouses of his rough skin, the taste of the sweet blood worth the flush to his cheeks.

"Turn your head," Reid coaxes gruffly.

Soft fingertips pet the pulsepoint of Kane's throat, shivering and enticing him to obey.

There's a shudder that carries the urge to resist Reid's soft murmurs that are demanding his compliance with a velvety timbre, only for the burn in Kane's stomach to overshadow everything that isn't the blood that's deceptively piquant against his tongue.

He feels pain in his racing heart when an ache for Milton's presence invades his muddled thoughts. And Kane feels a despondence akin to if he were lost on a battlefield with a hundred foes dead at his feet, and he's alone, falling, losing himself to the blood and violence.

But there's no one to save him from the cold palm that clutches his throat and applies a gentle squeezing pressure to beckon his attention.

"Kenneth," Reid purrs.

When Kane looks up, blinking through damp lashes, he's miserable to be staring into the hungry eyes of a vampire on the cusp of pouncing instead of the familiar blue of his idiot.

His fingers are forcefully tugged from his mouth.

And Kane moves to pull Reid's fingers from where they curl threateningly around his neck, the cold metal of Reid's ring startling against his febrile skin.

But before he can, the palm around his throat slips up to become fingers resting loosely against his chin. A soft thumb grazes his lower lip. The pressure applied to coax Kane to tilt his head to the side is slight, but he obeys with a stuttered breath.

Reid nears, settling his weight onto Kane's thighs, and warm breath puffs against the curve of his throat.

Kane's hands rise, trembling fingers splaying against Reid's lower back, rough callouses catching on welted skin.

He has a snap of clarity.

Kane's fingers find Reid's hair and yank. Their gazes meet. And the sight of Reid's fangs peeking from his panting mouth nearly has Kane forgetting why he's shaking with rage.

He doesn't waste his breath demanding answers and instead lays his forearm over Reid's upper back and forces the idiot up, half-draped over Kane's shoulder, uncaring that Reid's stomach hits the edge of the bathtub hard enough to have him wheeze slightly or that he's practically inside the damn thing.

Reid's back is a painting of violence, marring splashes of black, purple, and blue with thick welts that extend all the way up to the nape of his neck. The idiot had complained when Kane told him to keep his shirt off and purposefully kept his front in Kane's view.

Reid must have forgotten to keep up the act once they'd fallen deep. He almost got away with it too; if he'd taken Kane's blood, the wounds would have healed and Kane would be none the wiser.

Azrael didn't do this. There are thick welts that match the scars Reid wore until last night. He was hit with a belt, Kane's certain, but he hears himself snarl through gritted teeth anyway, "What the fuck happened to your back?"

Reid's holding the edge of the bathtub, and Kane can hear the subtle squeaks of porcelain slipping against sweaty palms. "I'm... I need..." He tosses an arm back and lays a hand on the top of Kane's head, tugging the hair there with gentle desperation. "After. After, Kenneth."

It's too late for any semblance of calm; Kane's ears are ringing. He's not stupid. He might not be sharp enough to follow Reid's manipulative thought process in the kitchen. But he can put the twisted puzzle together.

He saw Reid this morning shirtless because they'd been arguing about Kiernan as they got dressed. He'd noticed the lack of scars and felt relieved that they were gone from Reid's back, and he thought, maybe, that it could mean they're starting anew and forgetting all that shit.

While slowly taking in the places Reid's skin broke and speckles of dried blood lay over intense bruising, Kane is doing the opposite of forgetting. He's shaking.

Kane says, deceptively calm, "You're going into that tub face first if you don't talk to me right now."

There's a beat of silence, and then Reid admits quietly, "I hit myself."

Kane has to close his eyes to keep back the rush of anger he feels at Reid's lie. There's no way the idiot did this much damage by himself; the angles of the welts are obviously from someone else's cruel hand.

"Why?" Kane asks, and he exhales shakily. He's close to tears.

"I...like it."

Another lie. Kane's eyes open, blinking away wetness. "No, you don't. Stop lying."

"Actually..." Reid says, breath quick. "It's rude to shame someone's fetish." He curses at the cruel pinch to the back of his thigh. And the jerk of his knee grazes Kane's side. "Fuc—ow!"

"Didn't you like that?" Kane retorts cruelly. That was, admittedly, really hard. Probably hurt terribly. He does it again, in the same spot, because he's angry. "Huh? It doesn't seem like you're enjoying yourself."

After Reid's done tugging Kane's hair hard enough to earn the idiot another hard pinch, he slumps and whispers shakily, "Screw you."

"Quiet."

Reid listens, for once.

Slowly, Kane flattens his palm over the back of Reid's thigh and hears the sharp hiss of pain the touch garners. Through the fabric of Reid's joggers, Kane can feel more welts.

Kane whispers with a tremble of anger, "Here?"

Reid mumbles, "Yes." There is a faint tapping of Reid's bleeding shoulder dripping and hitting the bathtub. He says with an edge, "My ass too. Can you let me go, please, or are you going to pull my pants down?"

"Now you're telling the truth," Kane says bitterly. He digs his fingers into the flesh of Reid's thigh, hoping he's hitting a sore spot, and only stops once Reid slaps the edge of the bathtub with a dry sob.

He pensively pinches the waistband of Reid's joggers. It's not hard to figure out who would have fed Reid's self-destruction and was probably eager to benefit.

Kane feels disassociated from his body, and he's an outside observer of the shake of violence that overtakes his fingers.

He's vaguely aware that Reid is subtly shifting to try and slip away from where he's hanging over the rim of the bathtub, but Kane's forearm keeping the idiot subdued remains firm, and he tightens his hold until the attempts stop.

There's no way they're having this conversation face-to-face when Reid can get in his head effortlessly. Kane knows the moment they meet gazes, he'll be lost to those stupid fangs again.

Kane whispers harshly, "You're not wearing a belt." The stiffening of Reid's body feels like a slap, as if he actually thought Kane was that dumb. "Lucas is."

"I asked him."

Kane snorts. "You asked him to beat you?"

"Yes," Reid breathes. He exhales shakily. "I thought....doing it might be some sort of messed-up exposure therapy."

Therapy. Kane laughs in disbelief. He's been trying to talk the idiot into going for years. His amusement dies quickly. "That's stupid."

Reid relaxes against the bathtub. "I know."

Kane knows that Reid is his own worst enemy. But that doesn't mean Lucas had no hand in stoking that flame of self-abuse.

"Afterwards..."

The grip of Reid's hold on the rim of the bathtub tightens, fingers squeaking faintly against the slick porcelain. "After?"

"Beating the fuck out of you. Did he..." Kane knows he's teetering on the edge. "I'll know if you're lying. Did he touch you?"

He's aware that Reid's a grown man who can find pleasure with whoever he wishes. But Kane knows how broken Reid is inside.

He doesn't even have a bank account. He's not capable of emotionally fighting off a predator like Lucas. He needs someone who's going to be calm, gentle, and warm and give him the things he's missing.

He doesn't need someone who's going to break him more than he already is.

There is a stretch of suffocating silence before Reid whispers, "He kissed me. I kissed him. That's all."

Kane's fingers twitch with an angry urge to shove Reid onto the floor, right onto his ass, and hope that the fall hurts the welts there. But the misery that's been churning within him since his talk with Hannah takes over. 

He pulls Reid off his shoulder and ignores the sharp inhale of pain the idiot gives when he's gathered in Kane's arms, probably upsetting the welts on his back from how tightly Kane's holding him, crushed against his chest.

The fucking bourbon has uncorked his stupid mouth, and he'd told her how afraid he was. She doesn't need to have more stress on her, not with everything that's been happening. He's snuffed his emotions for years, but she makes him want to feel. When she'd looked at him in that bed, teary-eyed, he wanted to confide in her. 

Fuck. He's gone soft. 

Milton would kick his ass, tell him to get his head straight because they're in a war, or maybe smile at him in that irritating, know-all way the old man always did when he thought Kane was being obtuse.

When Reid remains limp, breathing on his neck awkwardly and not hugging back, Kane's outrage begins to rise. He won't risk looking into Reid's eyes, not yet, but he's hanging over an abyss of murderous rage that wants nothing more than to stomp upstairs and kill Lucas horribly. 

He needs something, or he's going to lose his composure.

Kane doesn't loosen his hold, even though Reid has fallen quiet with fast breaths. He shifts so his thighs aren't crushed under Reid's weight. He ends up with the idiot, who's staying limp, between his sprawled legs, shifted sideways.

He rubs a hand up Reid's arm, the motion too hasty for comfort, but it helps him keep rational focus as he stares at the closed bathroom door, his steely gaze boring into the grooves of the wood.

"It's okay," Kane whispers gruffly.

Those words are enough. Reid takes in a stuttered breath, resting a cheek on Kane's shoulder, and his arms slip around Kane's middle, fingers clutching the back of his shirt, nervously, as if he's embarrassed, or maybe he thinks Kane's going to beat the crap out of him for being a total moron. 

He won't; he's not Lucas. The fuck. 

The only reason Kane isn't giving the man back one hundred times the pain with the buckle of his belt is because Hannah's words are echoing in his mind on repeat.

'You can't save him if he doesn't want to be.'