Chapter Text
“This too I know—and wise it were
If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,”
(Excerpt from Oscar Wilde’s The Ballad of Reading Gaol)
Alfred F. Jones dug through his closet, retrieving one of the old wooden chests he’d collected over the years. He opened it and snatched out the fresh red hoodie and stiff blue jeans. He traded out his night shift for these, remembering, belatedly, that underwear should be worn with these modern types of trousers. But he didn’t want to waste any more time.
The sun was just peaking over the horizon, its dangerous rays slowly spreading over the wooded grounds of the Kirkland Manor. He only had a few hours before even he couldn’t risk being in the noon high sunlight.
He’d seen Arthur just a few hours ago, drunk as David’s sow, he’d been, no thanks to Francis’ howling goading. With any luck, Alfred would be out of the front door before the beast was any wiser.
Of course, Alfred wasn’t very lucky. The one thing he remembered from his mother had been her comment that he’d been born under a threepenny halfpenny planet, never to be worth a groat: And all because he’d overslept and hadn’t managed to milk the cows.
So, as Alfred snuck past his brother’s room and then his master’s, he held his breath. He did not need to breathe anyhow. Although, Arthur did insist he keep the habit. Arthur insisted on many an annoying thing, a list that seemed to grow with every day, and he had spent a God-awful amount of days with Arthur.
He’d just about made it to the knob of the front door when he felt the sudden foreboding. The chill up his spine that made his veins tremor under his skin. His shoulders hunched and he gritted his teeth.
“And where the bloody ‘ell are you going?” Arthur asked, his accent stronger with drink. He wreaked of ale and the stench stung Alfred’s sensitive nose.
Alfred turned around, although he kept one hand on the knob for security’s sake. “Out.”
“At this time of day?” Arthur continued, “Bugger off to bed, Alfred.”
“I’m over three hundred years old. I don’t need a damn curfew,” Alfred snapped.
“What you need is some common sense,” Arthur remarked. “Cotton won’t keep you from bursting into flames.”
“It’s synthetic,” Alfred grumbled, crossing his arms.
“Wretched,” Arthur said, he leaned closer, like he had trouble seeing. Perhaps his vision had doubled. He had been drinking for hours. “Where’d you even find this awful garb?”
Instead of answering, Alfred just moved to pull his hoodie up and over his head. He would just ignore Arthur. The old man was floating, which meant he was too inebriated to stand up straight and was trying to hide it. Which also, more importantly, meant he was in no condition for a skirmish.
“Alfred,” Arthur insisted, “Must I remind ye of your condition.”
Alfred decided he’d had enough then, turning the knob and throwing the door open. He heard Arthur’s shriek and his quick escape up the wooden steps and away from the light. Alfred closed the door behind him and kept his head down.
It was warm and he could feel his skin beginning to sweat under the thick layer of fabric. Still, he did not risk taking his hands out of his pockets.
The sun was far from its full force, but Alfred, nevertheless, found it uncomfortable. He hopped quickly down the stone pathway as if he was barefooted on the white sand of a summer beach. He rushed under the shade of trees whenever possible. Under one, he managed to free his hand to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. The sweat beading on his brow had forced them downward, but he needed them to stay on his eyes most of all. Healing burned retinas took forever.
Alfred ducked past the stable Arthur insisted on, although almost all the animals were long gone. Arthur still always made a point to keep a horse around even though he never really rode it. Alfred made his own point to ride it every now and then, only because he pitied the poor beast spendings its days in the tiny pasture alone. Trapped.
He knew the feeling.
He kept a quick pace, veering left at the old abandoned latrine–thankfully Arthur had been persuaded to at least allow for modern plumbing into his manor. The grounds grew more unkempt the further he went. The light grew dimmer and Alfred felt himself breathe a bit easier.
He lifted up the fallen tree trunk of an old decaying oak and set it aside. There, freshly polished as he meticulously did was his Model-T. He could not help but grin at the sight of it, the stress of the encounter with his master immediately melting away.
He ran his fingers along the black metallic frame until he came across the front. He pulled the cord by the hood a few times until he heard the engine choke up. Then he worked the crank and soon his baby roared to life. It was like experiencing the miracle of birth each time, the wails of the engine like the music of a newborn’s cry.
He hopped into the carriage, making sure the hood was up and no debris had torn a hole. That had not been a fun lesson to learn. He still had a pinprick scar on his left arm from when the afternoon sun lasered into his skin.
Speaking of…Alfred dug into his hoodie pocket to take out his tube of sunscreen, lathering it over his hands and face–the only skin somewhat visible. Hopefully, he would remember to reapply a new layer in a few hours.
He patted his jean pockets and felt the lump inside to breathe a sigh of relief. He drew it out, revealing a glimmering gold pocket watch. Flicking it open he confirmed the time. Seven in the morning. Still quite a while for him to enjoy himself without the threat of Arthur coming to find him, nor the sun to ruin his fun.
He wasted no more time, flicking the car on and pushing the accelerator lever by the steering wheel. From there it was an exciting dance that he took to much easier than any waltz, pushing and releasing the three pedals at his feet.
The Model-T was a good deal faster than a horse, but it was much slower than the new cars Alfred had seen on the streets. He kept to the backroads as much as possible, and luckily the land here was old. Older than him. Not older than Arthur–not much was. He saw only one other car and its driver stared at him perplexed. But Alfred merely gave a simple wave and cheery smile before continuing on his way.
He had found a little side road just a mile from town a few decades ago. It was ill-kempt, a good sign, and so he’d gotten in the habit of parking his baby Teddy there while he explored. The wheels handled off-road surprisingly well, and he could slip deeper into the woods to shield its view from mortals.
From there it was as easy as lugging old debris and fallen trees to cover up the access point.
Or you could just wait until dark and fly over, Matthew’s voice rang out through his head. He shook it away. Where was the fun in that? Plus there would be no escape from Arthur’s constant watch once night descended.
He took a moment to make sure no skin was unnecessarily exposed. He’d forgotten his old riding gloves but the pocket should work fine. It was still only mid morning, and blessedly cloudy too.
He took his time wandering the small little town. He was always amazed how much could change in so little time. Or had it been a long time? It all blurred together. He had a hard time keeping track. Most of the stores along Main Street had nice shaded overhangs he could keep to. But there was a part of him that liked the sting of the sun on his skin through fabric. The sudden jolt of pain that reminded him he was still alive, in a way.
His favorite thing to do, however, was to watch the mortals as they went about their day. Businessmen rushing along, store clerks washing the pavement with their hoses, teenagers loitering about looking much the same as he did right then. Everything looked different and yet the same. He remembered when the clerks of the general store had to rake manure out of the way and everyone wore hats.
Before long, the sun was high above, and despite his precautions he could feel his skin heating up even in the shade. He was hungry too–a quick drink would help him out a good deal. Of course, one of Arthur’s major rules was no hunting in the daylight. It had been a rule Arthur was shocked he had to even clarify. But Alfred had been a child of the day when he was living, and even his semi-death couldn’t pry him away from it.
A pigeon landed a few feet away. He eyed it. It bobbed its head at him in turn. It was a fat one too. Probably a slow flier.
He heard Arthur shouting in his ears, we are not animals, we do not feed from these rats with wings. Alfred never understood the preoccupation. Why waste any kind of food? He’d eaten pigeons plenty. He had vague memories of shooting them out of the sky under his mother’s eye and laughing at Matthew for crying when the dead beasts fell to the earth. He was half certain they’d even cooked up rats for dinner one harsh winter too.
The pigeon strutted away and Alfred began to follow it, contemplating his next course of action. A small snack would perk him up and he could waste more time away from the manor. The sidewalk wasn’t too crowded. He could get away with a quick snatch and retreat into an alleyway, right?
He darted forward, startlingly fast for the people around him. His hands closed around the little fowl and his grin widened. He could feel his canines grow in anticipation.
But then he squawked, head slamming into a firm body. His hands let go and the pigeon mirrored his noise before flapping its wings to freedom.
Alfred rubbed his head with a wince. It took quite a bit of force to stop him. It hadn’t been enough to knock him down, but he had managed to send the other man to the ground.
“Sorry!” Alfred quickly rushed out his words, reaching his hands out to help the man up. He was warm–though all mortals were warmer than him. Alfred could feel the blood thrumming just beneath the skin. The drum beat of the man’s steady heart sang to him. Oh, he was really hungry, wasn’t he?
The man retracted his hand, busy picking up objects scattered about. Alfred worked on a delay–the man smelled delicious. He was huge too, muscled and strong. Excellent circulation. His turtleneck kept Alfred from seeing his jugular but Alfred could fantasize.
“Excuse me,” the man said. He had an accent Alfred wasn’t familiar with. He had such pale hair, it rivaled Arthur’s deathly white skin. The man’s eyes were violet, and they pinned Alfred in place as if he was in thrall to him. But that was impossible. Only Arthur should have that power over him.
A flash of annoyance seemed to break the spell, the smile on the man’s face sharpening dangerously. He pushed past Alfred entirely, opening the door he had accidentally been blocking.
Alfred stood there another moment, until the sizzle of his scalp jerked him back to attention. He shoved his hood back over his head and without really thinking, stepped through the doorway.
It was a new store of old things.
Alfred widened his eyes, distracted by the array of goods set out on tables. He recognized most of them which was an unfamiliar feeling for him. He spotted a sextant and several compasses. There was a rack of old tailcoats and skirts. In the corner sat a spinning wheel for wool with one of the spokes missing.
“Are you here to buy or sell?” the man sighed, eyeing him from the register.
Alfred again seemed to work on a delay. He ate up the man with his eyes. How could one man’s blood be so loud in another man’s ears? It almost felt like he was drowning. He had to keep his mouth sealed shut as his canines extended, poking uncomfortably into his lower gums.
The man squinted at him, and Alfred felt hot. Which was. Strange. When was the last time Alfred felt hot outside of baking in the sunlight? And this wasn’t a painful surge, either. This was warm. This was pleasant. This was like sitting by the fire with his mother.
“Uh,” he started, eloquently. He moved his hand to tip his hat, only to flush, because he wasn’t wearing one. He swallowed and straightened himself up, clearing his throat, “Hello!”
The man continued to stare at him. Alfred wondered how thick his neck was. How deep could he sink his fangs in. How powerful would his bloodstream be as it gushed into his mouth? How–
“We do not allow loitering,” the man said.
“Right,” Alfred said, moving closer. “Buying or selling?” he repeated the question for himself. Well, he didn’t have a sixpence to his name. “I guess I’m selling.”
The man looked at him expectantly.
“Uh,” Alfred started again, patting his pockets. “How about this?” He pulled out the long thin golden chain and the shiny pocket watch attached to the end of it.
The man’s eyes narrowed, reaching over to examine it closer.
“Nice right?” Alfred grinned, leaning against the counter, in what he hoped looked casual. “I think I got it in 1807.”
“What?” the man blinked.
Shit, “I think it’s from 1807,” Alfred corrected quickly with a chuckle, “My, uh, great grandfather gave it to me. Or uh, passed it down to me. Yeah. That.”
“It still works?” the man asked, bringing it up to his ear to hear the ticking.
Alfred puffed up his chest, “‘Course it does. I’m a master tinkerer, if I do say so myself. As long as I can take it apart once to see the insides, I can fix anything up in a jiffy.”
“I see,” the man said, returning the watch. “How much do you want for it?”
“How about I get fiddler’s pay?” Alfred asked, letting his smile veer lopsided.
The man stared at him.
“Uh,” Alfred said, trying to wrack his brain for better words, “Pay me in drink?”
“Excuse me?” the man stared.
Alfred straightened up, shifting tactics, “What are you doing later? Are you hungry? We could–”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” the man asked, incredulously, “And are you telling me to pay for said date?”
“Uh,” Alfred pauses, “I suppose so.” He laughed a bit sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. That warm feeling was back and he felt antsy on his feet. He tore his gaze away from the man’s throat and turned away. “Think about it!” he said quickly, “I have more of these knick knacks I can bring too, if it’s not enough to cover it.”
“Hold on–”
But Alfred was already moving, the jitters seeming to grab him full force. Before he left however, he called back to say, “I’m Alfred! I’ll be back on the morrow!”
The moment he stepped outside however, he hissed, quickly turning away from the sun and stuffing his hands deep into his waist pocket.
He risked strange looks in order to run down the sidewalk, cringing at every step he took. But he made quick work of the mile and managed to reach the shade of his parking spot without any permanent damage.
He had forgotten to re-apply the sunscreen, however. He could feel the ache in his cheeks, but when he touched his face he realized that rather than a burn, it was a muscle ache. From grinning.
He let loose a light laugh, feeling a bit too giddy to keep it contained. He could still feel the shopkeeper's stare on him. It made him shiver with exhilaration as if he were on the hunt. Except he was the prey somehow, in that scrutinizing distrustful gaze.
Danger, it warned. And Alfred had always loved a good risk.
He felt alive.