[Fic] daylight could be so violent (Biggles Series - W. E. Johns)
- Fandom: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
- Pairing: James "Biggles" Bigglesworth & Erich von Stalhein
- Tags: AU - Vampires
- Word-Count: 3023
- Status: Complete
- First Published: 2024-11-01
- Disclaimer: I do not own Biggles Series - W. E. Johns and make no profit from this—it is solely a hobby for fun, with no financial compensation.
Summary:
By the time Bigglesworth arrived at the german aerodrome where he was to spy, he had already turned into a vampire. It was an unfortunate complication; for, as a vampire, he could naturally not fly during the day, nor could he achieve any spying during the daylight hours, and walking around at night all the time was bound to get suspicious. He counted himself lucky that he managed to engineer so as to take the last leg of the trip entirely in the night, and then Algy had allowed Biggles a few sips of his blood, which neatly tidied him over until he got to his final location at long last.
Notes:
- For Philomytha.
title from No Light, No Light by Florence + the Machine
Work Text:
By the time Bigglesworth arrived at the german aerodrome where he was to spy, he had already turned into a vampire. It was an unfortunate complication; for, as a vampire, he could naturally not fly during the day, nor could he achieve any spying during the daylight hours, and walking around at night all the time was bound to get suspicious. He counted himself lucky that he managed to engineer so as to take the last leg of the trip entirely in the night, and then Algy had allowed Biggles a few sips of his blood, which neatly tidied him over until he got to his final location at long last.
The journey had been long but fairly easy, all things considered, if one discoutned the part where he was bit by a man whom he'd presumed to merely be drunk but who had, in fact, been a walker of the night.
And so now Biggles was, too.
The Count didn't seem particualy pleased to see him, but Biggles assumed that to be due to the late hour, and hopefully not all because of him. After they'd exchanged the usual pleasantries—made more difficult by the fact that Biggles was not fluent in German and doubtlessly missed some context here or there, but then again, flying in war times was a specific kind of context by itself, so he ought not to lose too much—Biggles made his way out in one piece, holding his hand over his mouth, a hunger burning in his throat and low in his stomach. He kept his head down as he walked, speeding to get to his room and his luggage, and as he stepped outside he nearly walked right into a man.
He was tall and thin and dark, and had the most beatufiul eyes Biggles had ever seen—and he smlled divine. Mouth watering, Biggles took a gingerly step toward the stranger, hardly notcing the cane until he almost stumbled on it. "My apologies," said Biggles, lisping just the slightest bit around his new fangs.
The stranger stared at him with a hard, suspicious gaze. "Ah," he said, "the Englishman," and Biggles shivered. Swayed. Biting his lower lip, he ducked his head and nodded, shutting his eyes against the sensation of lead pooling in the pit of his stomach, for he had the suspcion he could not be trusted to stay in the company of this handsome, attractive man—for Biggles was a new vampire and knew hardly a thing about, and he had a war to fight, a mission to complete, and now he somehoe had to make sure nobody realized his true—albeit new—nature. Which meant he needed some way to make sure he could keep inside during the day.
Frowning at the thought, Biggles' shoulders drooped. "You seem quite unsettled," the man said. "Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein," he then introduced himself, still sounding very seriousy, indeed. Biggles merely nodded, for he could not speak around the lump in his throat; it was both a sensation of agonising hunger, and a fear for his future, for he could think of no way to avoid the sun that was now deadly. "Regretting your betrayal, then?" von Stalhein asked, and Biggles shuddered at the dangerous lilt the tone had assumed.
"No, I merely," Biggles said, and then could not finish. For the ahce in his throat grew greater still, and he could hear the pounding of von Stalhein's heart, the movement of blood through the veins, the expansion of the lungs—even the noise of blinking was startingly loud, and he raised his head, nodded, determined he should leave. "It's an honor meeting you," he said, and took a step forth. And—stumbled.
An arm curled around his midriff, and Biggles gulped as the deafening noise of a heart pounding only got louder, consuming more and more of his ability to think. "You've been in the sun for too long," von Stalhein declared, and Biggles laughed wetly.
"No," he admitted, "It's rather the opposite of a problem."
He could almost hear the man's eyes narrowing in thought, and he certainly could feel it when hte man' inhaled sharply, spotting the fangs when Biggles bit his hand to stop himself from doing something rather unwise. Instead, he shut his eyes and tasted his own blood, and he felt another sharply indrawn breath against him, and then he was pulled upright without mercy. His head ached, and a spot of dizziness crept across his body, leaving him blinking in confusion for a second. It was long enough for von Stalheil to cart him off and then Biggles did not dare try to get away, for he could think of nothing better to do than follow the man.
This could not end well, he thought, and then the hunger took root in him and he ddin't much think of anything at all for a long moment. When he opened his eyes again, he was in a bedroom that smelled like von Stalhein, and then man was pushing him onto a chair. He took Biggles' head in hand and twisted it this way and that, and then he forced Biggles' mouth open and gazed at his teeth.
Biggles could not read von Stalhein's expression, and so he simply sat there with his head in von Stalhein's hands, and waited for judgment.
"You're starving yourself," said von Stalhein after anoterh long moment, and Biggles blinked. Shaking his head, he rolled his tongue to speak and von Stalhein shut Biggles' mouth with his hand. "How much blood have you had to drink in the last day?"
"I—a little," said Biggles, feeling a strange sense of shame in his belly. He stared into von Stalhein's eyes, and refused to cower, and von Stalhein frowned at him. Finally, it was Biggles who said, "I should like to leave now. I need my rest for tomorrow."
"You need blood," said von Stalhein, and Biggles flinched. Then he pulled his expression tight together and gazed silently at von Stalhein, and at last von Stalhein nodded. He pulled his sleeve up and held his arms in front of Biggles face, and Biggles could not look away. The veins nearly called to him, if he felt poetic, which he didn't much at the realiztion that he could not resist; that he would, in fact, bite von Stalhein.
And so then he did.
Von Stalhein's blood tasted like—sugar, thought Biggles. It filled his mouth like water, and he swallowed it greedily, feeling the wamrth spreading in his chest. "Were you already a vampire when you were recruited?" asked von Stalhein above him, hand on the back of Biggles had, keeping him in place and from biting too deep, from draining him too quickly.
Biggles made a protesting noise, the best he could with his mouth full, and von Stalhein sighed. "No matter, I suppose. We shall have to adjust our expectations of you, but there's no reason you can't still be of use," he stated, and Biggles sagged into his grip, a strange sort of relief course through him. It was, of course, because it meant his mission could still be completed, and he had no done all this in vain; much less been turned inot a vampire in vain, as the only reason he'd been where he'd been was because of the journey here.
At last, von Stalhein pulled him back and Biggles smacked his lips, licked them, tasting the blood still staining his tongue. He curled it around a fang, and gazed up at von Stalhein in waiting of the next move. "I took too much," Biggles said, then, for von Stalhein was paler and swaying a bit, and his grip was not quite so secure anymore. "I'm sorry," said Biggles, lowering his head.
Lookinga t him with a hard, seraching gaze, von Stalhein pulled him up, and Biggles went, steady on his fet in a way he hadn't been in days. He gulped when he looked into von Stalhein's eyes—they were stormy, like the sea, or dark clouds. Beatuiful. And even the newly acquired weakness of his limbs did not steal any handsomeness away. "I'll get you something to drink," declared Biggles, then, for it was quite clear that he could not leave von Stalhein like this, not after the enormous favor he had done Biggles.
Von Stalhein did not answer, taking a step and sitting sunteady on the chair just as Biggles vacated it. HOlding his head in his hands, he sat there adn looked quite a sorry sight, indeed, and Biggles hurried. He was new to the aerodrome, but he managed to acquire some water and biscuits via bribery—namely taking over somebody nightflying duties the following night, which he should be quite grateful for, truly—and hurried back to von Stalhein, irrationally worried he'd be too late. But he needn't have worked himself up so, he saw as he stepped back into the darkened room, the night silent around them and the weather still and pleasant, yet cool in that desert kind of way.
"Here," Biggles said, crouching before von Stalhein and holding up the water. Taking it in one hand, Biggles exhaled at the sight of a steady grip, and he stayed crouched before von Stalhein as the man sipped at the water, one hand still held to his head. "I haven't hurt you, have I?" asked Biggles, despising the fact that he had to.
But von Stalhein shook his head. "I will be fine," he said, and took a small bite from a biscuit when Biggles held it out. "You may go."
Frowning, Biggles stayed right where he was, his hand on von Stalhein's knee. Vomn Stlahein didn't shake him off, and Biggles wasn't really sure what do do. "Do you know much of vampires, then?" he asked, instead, for it seemed a logical reason for him to remain here—when in truth, he wanted much more to ensure he had caused von Stalhein no permamnet damage becuase he didn't know his new limits. Foolishness, he thought. In such a new situation, with all these changes, he should be keeping better track of his body and his needs.
"A thing or two, I suppose," said von Stalhein, and Biggles nodded. Even in the dark, he had a far better view of von Stalhein than he would have only a few days ago, for his new state came with a better eyesight than he ever could have imagined. He could clearly see von Stalhein, could hear the beat of his heart, still, but now that he was sated it did not overwhelm as it had earlier.
"I do apologize," said Biggles, lowering his voice and leaning toward von Stalhein, gazing up into his eyes. Von Stalhein made a hard noise in the pit of his throat and put down the water, only a scant few bits of it left and yet sloshing loudly to Biggles' ears. Biggles listened to the sound, listened to the sound of von Stalhein's heartbeat, and he bit his lip.
"You must keep it a secret, I am sure you know," von Stalhein said, then, and Biggles nodded. "Including that I've helped you." And Biggles nodded again, for he knew that, as well. He was sure, once his spying was revealed—as it was bound to be—any who had associated too closely with him was bound to be in hot water, and he did not wish to cause uneccary cruetly when he already fond a great deal of hatred for this spying business of his. It was not, he thought, what he was built for, nor what he was good at, and he had to confess to a certain amount of resenemtn for circumstances forcing him into this role.
"I won't tell a soul," promised Biggles and rose to his feet. He stood and gaze downa t von Stalhein for far too long, then finally could think of no excuse to remain, even though he very much wished to do so. The help von Stalhein had offered so easily was no small thing, and though Biggles knew logically that some degree of motives must stand behind it—perhaps he wished to have a vampire owing him—it did not change the gratefulness that filled with Biggles heart, along with a sense of like that he could ill afford. War was nasty business, he knew, but it felt rather nastier still, at the realization that he'd only known this man for what must be moments, and yet he liked him.
A devil, he thought, von Stalhein must be. To have such profound impact through only a few moments, to turn Biggles' head utterly around and leave him a confused yet grateful mess at his feet. A devil.
A saint.
Biggles took a step back and as he did so von Stalhein lit a cigarette and elegantly held it to his mouth, his fingers long, his lips shaping around the new weight. Biggles could not look away; he was for a moment uncertain of why he ought to leave at all. It was late already; so late that he would have to sneak back to his own room to prevent rumors and suspicion, and he thought, why not stay, just for a little while longer?
The smell of the cigarette rose in the room, and Biggles inhaled it deeply. He was warm inside out, well-fed, and he wished suddenly for something he had not for some time, but which he could now not forget. The sensation of his lips on von Stalhein's skin was suddenly bright as day in his mind, the memory filling him up, and he inhaled sharply through parted lips.
Von Stalhein looked at him.
It was not even the touch. The intimacy, he thought. The senseation of somebody's life under his hands. The feeling of that life entering him, filling him up, allowing him to contiune living. He ached, deep and sudden, for more. To touch, to swallow, to consume. To be consumed, in turn.
"I—" Biggles began, but then did not finish, for his mind was spinning and his body was overheating with desires. He turned away from von Stalhein and walked to the door, placing his hand upon the handle. His body shook; he bent forth and rested his forehead on the merciless door. Could hardly breathe, as he inhaled the smoke and swallowed deep into aching lungs. Eyes clenched shut, he held his breath far past the point of what should be possible, and his legs trembled in weakness he ought not reveal in front of the enemy.
Fool, he thought to himself. You're an utter fool.
But he could not change it.
Not now.
Not with blood still on his tongue, veins full of another person's life. "Sit down," said von Stalhein, then, voice like a thunder in the darkness, and Biggles jumped. "You'll fall like that. Take a nap and sneak back before everyone wakes up in the morning."
"Are you sure? Won't that..." licking his lips, Biggles turned and leaned back against the door, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. He thought he could feel von Stalhein's gaze on him; a heavy weight, dragging his attention back to the mortal plane.
Shaking his head, von Stalhein pointed to the bed. "Sleep," he said.
And so Biggles did.
The bed wasn't the most comfortable, but Biggles could sleep on anything. The knowledge an enemy was near wasn't the most comfortable, either, but it was counteracted by the strange faith he had that von Stalhein wouldn't do anything to him in his sleep. Perhaps in the morning. Perhaps the next day. Things could not stay like this, he knew. There was a war to fight, a mission to complete, and Biggles had to surive both the desert and the sun and the Germans—made even more difficult, now.
But he woke in the morning hale and whole, and Biggles blinked at the sunlight that stopped just short of the bed. Stretch out a hand, he held it under it, and while it stung something fierce it was not an instant annihilation as he had feared. Von Stalhein, still in the chair, moved, and said, "You'll be flying during the night, for the next few days. The Count approved it."
"Thank you," said Biggles, sitting up.
"Don't thank me." Clicking his tongue, von Stlahein tilted his head. "I expect this won't make things easier for you, whatever your true purpose."
"I'm here to be of use," said Biggles, and it was the barest truth. Of use to who was a greater concern, but it wasn't something Biggles decided. This blasted mission had already changed his life beyond repair, and now all he could do was try to hang on. If he could only get to the end of this spying, then he could head back home and with Algy's he could—well. There was a lot of things he thought he could do, and that would need to be sorted out, when he got home.
"I'm sure," von Stalhein said, and he could not have sounded more suspivious if he tried. But he did not toss Biggles out on his ears until after Biggles had had a second sip of his blood, sitting beside him on the bed, von Stalhein's arm in Biggles' hands. It was somehow an even better sensation, the second time. And Biggles could not quite summon up so many negative emtoins for him, then, when von Stalhein so easily, so simply granted him this mercy.
After, Biggles went to his room, hurrying through the sunlight and coming out the other end furiously burned but not dead—and the burns merely looked like he'd spent a few too many others in the sun, not like was a vampire melting. Biggles laid on his bed, hands on his full stomach, and tried to pretend he wasn't already missing the small of von Stalhein's room. Tried to pretend he wasn't licking his lips for any remnant of blood.