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Broken lights sparking above with power; the sounds of his coworkers screams and the thudding of their bodies as they hit the ground; a sinister low chuckle rising from a dark shape as it moved impossibly fast through the reduced visibility - the London Division of Supernatural Affairs was quickly becoming a crime scene of its own. Whittaker could feel his heart in his throat as he shakily pressed up against the side of his overturned desk, fiddling anxiously with the gun in his hands to make sure a bullet was chambered.
“Yes…” a familiar voice calls out with an almost manic glee. “This is exactly how this should happen!” The laugh that follows feels like it’s echoing off the entire bullpen, but in reality it is simply how fast its owner was moving throughout the space.
That voice - a voice that once spoke sweet nothings in his ear - is now making his blood run cold. Whittaker risks a chance to peer around his cover to see if he can get a clear shot. He sees a fellow coworker one desk over stand up to shoot at the monster square in the chest. There’s barely three rounds shot into the creature before the sound of wet, gasping breath fills the space - the monster had moved fast enough to impale them through the chest.
Whittaker flinches back to cover, listening to the last moments of his coworker’s life with an almost surreal amount of fear. Minutes ago it was just another day in the office until his lover, Errant Webb, had entered the bullpen, met his gaze with a wicked fanged grin, and then started unilaterally killing everyone.
It was with this sickening cold feeling settling in his chest that Whittaker realises he’s one of very few people still alive and he can’t just sit here waiting for death. Whittaker grips his gun tighter, rises from his crouched position, and calls out “Why the fuck are you doing this?” as he aims the gun towards where he saw Errant last.
But Errant was so fast upon him, Whittaker barely had time to reflexively fire. Hands grabbed his wrists, forcing them skyward, and making his delayed shot go uselessly into the ceiling. The monster before him crowds in on him to force him into a wall before wrenching the gun out of his hands - it clatters in the distance as if it was a useless piece of scrap. “An eye for an eye, eh?” that voice purrs out. “They were involved in destroying my lair, so now I am destroying theirs.” One of their hands comes down to brush lightly against Whittaker’s face. “And I have you to thank for it.”
Whittaker tries his best to recoil but the vampire’s strength is too much for him to pull away. Instead he opts to spit back “You’re a fucking monster!”
A wide grin splits wider on the face of his former lover, fangs becoming more and more pronounced. “You got that right, darling.” One of Errant’s hands brushes down his neck, pulling downward to rip open the buttons of Whittaker’s dress shirt. Then in a move that would come off as almost seductive if it wasn’t for the iron strong grip the vampire held him with, Whittaker’s head was forced back by a hand buried in his hair and Errant’s fangs pierced into his chest.
Ice cold, sharp pain bursts from either side of his collarbone - Whittaker couldn’t help but shout at the sensation. Errant’s grip on him tightened, one hand snaking around his waist as if they were melting into the sound of him screaming in pain. But that thought was quickly lost in the muddle of fear that followed - Whittaker felt like he was dying. He was being drained of something more than just his blood and with every greedy pull from Errant he felt his very being slipping further and further from life.
Then, with a dramatic satisfied swallow, it ended. Whittaker felt his legs give out but Errant held him upright, in something resembling an embrace, as their blood stained mouth hovered inches over his. “That’s just a little something to remember me by.” That fanged grin returned for just a moment before Whittaker felt himself be thrown across the room, crashing into the glass panel of one of the office’s windows, and slumping to the ground.
The edges of Whittaker’s vision began to go dark as his sheer will not to die was the only thing keeping him from giving over to the blackout fully. He tried to look up at the monster who was standing a few feet away from him, making their way towards the door. He couldn’t make out their features anymore, but their head was in profile as they tied their long hair back up into a neat bun.
And the world started to flicker as they paused in the doorway. A low chuckle and…
“Whittaker?” The shape in the doorway said. It was now advancing back towards him.
“No.. please…” Whittaker managed weakly, despite how heavy his body and eyes felt. He reached for the bite mark on his chest to stem the bleeding, silently begging Errant to not get close again.
“Whittaker?” The voice was alarmed now and… not right. Why would Errant call him Whittaker? Why would Errant sound… American?
The shape in the doorway stepped in, reached for a weapon at their hip, and went through the well practiced movements of clearing a room. Why would…?
The figure crouched in front of him and a familiar face swam into view. But where Whittaker expected long hair and a curled, fanged smile, he was met with the short, slicked back undercut and the dark worried eyes of one Syrus Holt. Reality slammed back into him in that instant: he was in a darkened, unused office in the Eastey Agency, where he worked… where he had been working for nearly a decade - far, far away from the London Division of Supernatural Affairs.
“Whittaker?” Syrus said again, this time his voice low and gentle. “Are you alright?”
Whittaker didn’t trust himself to speak. The realisation of what had happened - a terribly real flashback - and the vulnerability of Syrus of all people having found him like that… he was questioning a lot of things at the moment. He thought he had these memories more under control.
“Lonnie.” Syrus's voice was as steady as the hand he placed on his shoulder. “Look at me?” Whittaker slowly met his eyes and Syrus calmly walked him through one of those grounding exercises that used breath control to calm the nervous system. “There we go.” he tacked on when Whittaker slowly released the tight grip he had on his chest and unfurled from his position against the wall.
There was a bit of an awkward silence that followed where Syrus remained crouched in front of him simply looking at him, but Syrus broke it before Whittaker was forced to. “Look. You don’t have to tell me what happened, but if there’s anyone who knows what it’s like having his past come back to haunt him like that - it’s me.” He offered a half smile that was almost sheepish in nature and for a moment Whittaker’s stomach flipped with the fear that it would show fangs.
The older agent took a steadying breath to clear the irrational fear from his mind before speaking. “Just remembering something I rather forget.” The smile Syrus had faltered for a moment but he simply reached out a hand to help Whittaker to his feet.
Whittaker couldn’t look at him. He hadn’t expected Syrus to be so gentle with him - he was just too used to the playful banter the two of them often shared. But maybe he should have known better - Syrus always seemed to know when people needed a softer approach. Case and point: here was Syrus making sure he had the physical ability to stand before moving out of touch range in case being that close would make things worse. Sure, Syrus’s and his… relationship? Could he even call it that? Dalliance? Occasional bed partner? Whatever it was it was casual - but that didn’t mean he didn’t owe the man some sort of explanation.
“Sorry.” he forced out, making Syrus’s head whip away from whatever part of the room he had been absentmindedly staring at back towards him. “You were right, it was my past coming back to haunt me.” Whittaker continued before Syrus could speak again. “A time before I worked with the Eastey Agency… Well, you’re familiar with being in the middle of a bloodbath.” A trait the two of them shared - being a survivor of an agency’s mass casualty event. Though Whittaker wasn’t sure that Syrus even knew about the incident in London until this very moment. “But I was the reason for it, this time. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.” The irony that Errant and him shared a similar “dalliance” as he currently had with Syrus wasn’t lost on him. Maybe that in and of itself was the reason Whittaker didn’t want Syrus any closer - but that was too much emotion to unpack at that moment.
Syrus lets out a huffed kind of laugh. “I understand that more than you know.” Syrus’s eyes peeled away to look into the middle distance, a haunted expression pulling up on his face. “It’s been nearly a decade for me since the Leeds Point Incident and even right now I can vividly remember all the details.” A shudder that Syrus was clearly trying to repress went through him.”It’s only human nature for these things to stick with us.” He glanced back towards Whittaker. “You shouldn’t feel shame for this happening - your fault or not.”
Whittaker took a long look at Syrus, seeing a flicker of deeper emotions in the other man’s eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time he saw that, like Syrus was attempting to communicate something without saying it but before he could even parse what it was or reply - he was cut off by a loud vibration noise.
Syrus flinched and fished his phone out of his jacket’s pocket. With a heavy sigh and an aborted curse, he answered. “I’m on my way.”
The room was quiet enough that the sound of the person on the other end of the call was audible. “You said that ten minutes ago, Sy.” Even tinny, Kit Spark’s voice was distinct enough for Whittaker to recognise.
“Look, I…” a glance in his direction, “ran into Whittaker. Give me another five.”
“You sure the old man doesn’t need more time than that?” The smugness in Kit’s voice made Whittaker frown.
Syrus’s face wrinkled in confusion with that comment before going positively offended as the realisation hit him. “Agent Sparks do we-”
“I’m fucking with you, Sy. I’m sure you’re being professional. Just hurry, I’m starving.”
Syrus gave another heavy sigh, this time directly into his phone. “Just for that, I’m taking ten minutes.”
“Oh come on-” But Syrus hung up before they could finish that sentence. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and went “Sorry about them.”
“I know what it’s like.” And the knowing look Whittaker gave him made Syrus laugh. “But you shouldn’t keep them waiting on my account.” Whittaker did his best to make himself look more put together than he really was. A part of him wondered if there was a reason those specific memories were coming back so vividly. He’d have to check in with his team about it.
“If I’m being honest, they could learn a little patience.” Syrus’s voice took on a slightly bitter edge. “I’m glad they’re not just militarily following orders any more but god that kid doesn’t know how to wait five damn minutes." A frustrated hand through his hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make that about me. Are you sure you’re alright?” Syrus gave him a sheepish look.
Whittaker couldn’t help the bemused smile that pulled upon his face. It was almost… cute how flustered Syrus got over all the small interpersonal issues - especially when dealing with his partner’s often rash personality. Syrus was always so calm in the face of danger, Whittaker never saw the man flinch from any of the tasks the agency put him up against. But when he was slightly embarrassed about his partner teasing him - here was when there was anxiety stricken on his face. “I’m sure.” a beat. “Thank-you, by the way. For coming to make sure I was alright.”
Syrus gave him a warm smile, one that made his eyes crinkle. “Any time.” He turned to leave but paused in the doorway and looked back at him. “Join us for lunch?”
“I don’t think your partner will be happy about that.”
“They’ll just have to live with it. You’re their favourite on Rogue Team after all.”