Warning: This isn't my usual happy-go-lucky Screed story.
I just wanted to remind everyone I can write "serious"
stories!  Send comments and virtual ratsies to
Alibbyp@aol.com.
Permission to archive to FKFIC webpages and Screed's
webpage only.  All others please ask first.

Special thanks to FKWL for beta reading and comments.

DISCLAIMER: Aren't me characters, just borrowin' 'em
for a wee bit.

THE FEVER'S PASSING
Part 1 of 1

by
Libby Singleton

     Tracy scrubbed furiously, glad she'd brought the
knee pads along with cleaning solutions, disinfectant, a
mask and the rubber gloves.  Yet, no matter how hard she
worked, the wall still appeared dingy.  Leaning back on her
heals, she studied her lack of progress.
     "You really don't have to do that," Vachon said.  He
sat on the floor a few feet away, packing items into a small,
very weathered trunk.  "I cleaned in here after Screed died."
     "But you didn't disinfect," Tracy pointed out.  "If
you're considering moving in here, I want to at least be able
to breathe fresh smelling air."
     "I don't think it's possible," he replied, throwing a
hole-filled sweater to the ground.
     "I dunno, the odor is already better..."
     "That's not what I mean," Vachon said with
frustration, moving next to Tracy.  He ran his fingers
through her hair.  "I don't think I'm going to be able to live
here.  No matter how much you scrub, it won't get rid of
Screed's smell, his presence.  I tried staying here yesterday,
but couldn't sleep.  I kept hearing his voice, expecting him
to come rushing in any minute, mad because I'd buried him
prematurely."
     Pulling the mask and gloves off, Tracy settled into
his arms.  He seemed to gaze into nothingness, blinking a
few times.  She knew he was remembering some adventure
with his friend of nearly 450 years.  In the silence, Tracy's
own thoughts drifted back to her last memories of the
carouche.  When they'd discovered Screed sick and
starving, the Spaniard had fed him from his own wrist.
She'd brought Vachon some bottles from his abandoned
church so he'd not be weakened by his friend's needs.  By
the time she'd left, Screed had been sleeping.  She'd wiped
his brow as Vachon drained an entire bottle, then she'd
whispered good-bye in Screed's ear, not realizing she'd
never see him again.  "Isn't there someone, another va... I
mean one of your kind you can talk to?" she asked softly.
"Surely others lost friends."
     "Countless," Vachon admitted.  "But no one wants
to talk about a carouche.  Screed was high functioning for
his sort.  Most of them are feral, living like wild animals...
not that he was exactly civilized."  The Spaniard smiled
slightly, sadly.  "At least Screed had someone with him at
the end.  I can't help thinking of the others, alone in the
bushes and sewers, no one to hold or comfort them.  For all
we know, there's not one left alive anywhere."
     There were at least a dozen questions Tracy wanted
to ask.  She wondered who'd discovered the cure and how.
Were there vampire doctors, scientists and researchers?
How far had the plague reached?  How many had died?
Who'd known to go to the dying Vachon and administer the
vaccine?  She kept her curiosity to herself as Vachon would
evade any inquiries.  "I miss him too," she said instead.
     "Really?" Vachon said accusingly, pulling away.
      "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"
     "You thought Screed was disgusting, admit it,"
Vachon said, those dark eyes seeming to drill through her.
     "No!" she protested.  "Of course he took some
getting used to..."
     "Trace, he sucked rats," Vachon snapped, his voice
full of rage and denial.  "Screed usually smelled like a sewer
or whatever else he'd rolled in to disguise his smell for
hunting.  He had the social graces of a lust-crazed
warthog!"  Vachon stood, turning away.
     "Will it make you feel any better if I told you some
things about Screed _did_ repulse me?" Tracy asked.  "But
Screed would not have been Screed if he, well, wasn't the
way he was!"  She stepped in front of him, staring into his
anger-etched face.  "Trying to convince yourself that his
death was no loss isn't going to make you feel any better."
     "No, it isn't, is it?" Vachon mumbled, his eyes
brimmed with tears.  Her own began filling in response.
"You miss him too."
     "Yeah," Tracy managed to choke out.  "I guess it's
just now hitting me.  I mean, I was so worried about losing
you, and so relieved you lived... Not that I wasn't thinking
about Screed..."
     To Tracy's embarrassment, a sudden sob wracked
her body.  Vachon's cool embrace enveloped her as she
began trembling.  "I'm sorry..."
     "Don't be," Vachon assured her.  "Let it out.  I... I
should be the one apologizing.  I haven't been able to cry.  I
start, then think how Screed would've harassed me about it
and can't help laughing.  Cry in my place, Trace.  It woulda
warmed the cockles o' 'is 'eart, it woulda."  His imitation
was eerily accurate.
     "I'll never be able to look at a rat without thinking
of him," Tracy said before totally breaking down.  She
allowed Vachon to gently lower her to the floor.  He rocked
her gently as she cried, rubbing her back.  Once through her
own tear-blurred eyes, she was sure she saw red tinted
moisture on his face.  After countless minutes, her sobs
slowed and Vachon brushed her hair away from her cheeks.
     "Feel better?" he asked.
     "Not really," she said.  "This may not be a good time
to ask but it's sort of eating at me, you know... is... is it true
vampires are damned?"
     "That's what they say," Vachon answered softly.
"Though who really knows?  Seems like every time you turn
around, some group is calling another cursed.  If mortals
say that about their own kind, why should vampires be
different?  Maybe it's because we're... allergic to religious
symbols.  That seems to be a weak excuse to damn an entire
species, huh?"
     "I just can't picture God doing that to someone like
Screed," Tracy commented.  "I mean, he ate rats, not
people - he didn't ever drink... human blood, did he?"
     "Do you really want to know?"
     "No," Tracy whispered, warned away by the tone of
Vachon's question.  They sat in silence for a moment.
"Would you show me where you buried him?  I'd like to
pay my respects, maybe scatter some flowers or
something."
     Vachon hesitated, then nodded.  "I haven't been out
there myself since... I guess someone should make sure the
rats haven't tried to get revenge on his body; dug 'im up or
some such sort o' malarkey, ay?"
     Held close by Vachon's strong arms, Tracy left the
cellar with him.  For a moment she easily imagined that all
was right with the world; that Vachon was the man of her
dreams and Screed would come crashing down from the
sky, interrupting the intimate moment.  When they reached
her car, she sighed before pulling away from Vachon's cold
body.  "I really am going to miss him."
     "Me too, Trace.  Me too," Vachon said. He gazed
upwards toward the sky.  "Good night, my rat sucking
sailor friend.  You'll be remembered."

THE END