brushoff | dorian & godric

dorian & godric

Christ, how Dorian hated Texas.

It was the best and worst of America. There still was so much space, plenty of towns barely hanging on, hardscrabble little places that were trying to make their move, the drive and determination and chutzpah that Dorian adored of the America in the past. America in the 1920s was great. A feisty nation, determined to prove itself on the world's stage, bright and brilliant and ready to take on the challenge.

But the Texas cities? The cities were horrible. Large, ugly things almost crushed under the weight of their own self-importance and overpasses. Forgotten centers where all residents fled to cookie-cutter nigh identical houses set in towns created solely for the purpose of commuting. People didn't thrive in places like that, with their subdivisions and big box stores and fucking Targets. You lived there, but you didn't thrive. And Dorian Gray was always looking for something new, something bright and breathing and alive.

Granted, a shitty little dive bar wasn't exactly what most people thought of when they thought of 'alive.' But Dorian had been lingering around Dallas long enough that a few things had gained his interest. The coming out of the closet, so to speak, of vampires had been the big one. Idly, he wondered what Toby would have thought of it all—he felt so alone for so long. Would vampire advocacy groups or these cute little pamphlets have changed anything? Or would the Sunday morning cable news services about how all vampires are damned have made things worse? There's no way of knowing. But Dorian wanted to learn more about this himself.

Try as he may to fit in, it's obvious that Dorian is here for something. He flirts with the waitress and casually asks a few questions about vampire activity in the area. He loses a game of pool but presses his competition whenever they bring up 'fangs.' This is the third day in a row he's made some not-so-subtle inquiries about vampires, something's got to give eventually. He's British as hell, the accent is a dead giveaway, so might as well lean into the obviousness and see what happens.

And as he slips out of the back door of the dive bar, stepping outside to light up a cigarette, Dorian's certain that something will happen. What precisely? He doesn't know.

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"Then I'll see you in five."

It's more like ten minutes when Dorian arrives back at Godric's. He enters inside, locking the door behind him. Godric might have the chutzpah of an alert vampire, but Dorian has the slight paranoia of a man who's cursed portrait has been stolen multiple times. He makes his way up to their bedroom and opens the door.

"Honey, I'm home!" Though don't mind Dorian as he dramatically flops down on the bed upon entering the room. Somebody's had a busy day!

Godric's writing a letter at his desk when Dorian walks in. He doesn't look up when he flops on the bed, either. He just signs his name with a sigh.

"Do you have any leads?"

"A few," Dorian idly remarks. "One of the branches is local enough that I can deal with them myself. One of them, we might have to make a roadtrip for. Where the fuck is Waco?"

All Dorian knows about that is the Branch Davidians. Sorry Texans!

He makes a face.

"Two hours south by car," he says with a huff. "How cliche."

"Road trip," Dorian dryly responds. He's not that excited about a road trip but it's hardly like they have any other options. "Shall I be the one to drive?"

He laughs. "Yes, of course. I can't drive. I never learned."

"What, really?"

That's a new and interesting fact. Dorian wrinkles his nose slightly before pointing out,

"I'm old enough that cars weren't around in my youth but I still learned how to drive. I needed a license for my Vespa."

Granted, he learned how to drive before the 1960s, but that Vespa was very important, dammit.

"I have no desire to drive," he says, standing up and gathering his clothes. "I never wanted to learn. I never - well, I never thought it would matter. I have a driver."

He takes off his shirt and replaces it with another of the same cream color.

"Now, I have you."

"You do have me. And I'll introduce such wonderful things into your life like road trips, the joy of a good car, and a splash of color in your wardrobe."

Because he sees that cream shirt, buddy.

"I think a deep purple would go very well with your complexion."

He rolls his eyes and slides on his shoes. "Get the keys from Stan," he tells him. "We can discuss my wardrobe on the way."

"Heading out already? You're going to run me ragged," he teases.

He can still keep going. Dorian slept in, after all, he can work through the night after working through the afternoon. But he absolutely is going to crash once the sun comes up.

"I hope you've got something sporty!" Dorian calls out, as he heads out to try and find Stan. Please be a sports car, please be a sports car...

"We need to get there quickly. You can sleep at the hotel." He's already walking out, telling Isabel to make the reservations at the vampire-friendly location. Lighttight and comfortable. That's all he needs.

Stan hands Dorian the keys and opens the garage door to reveal Dorian's pick of cars - two BMWs or a Corvette.

Godric stands behind him, waiting.

Without hesitation, Dorian goes to the Corvette. He slides behind the driver's seat, adjusting the seat, the mirrors, getting the car perfect for him to drive.

"Mmm, you have fantastic taste," Dorian grins. He's not a car guy. Not really. But come on, it's a Corvette. He's going to appreciate the hell out of driving this.

"You're the navigator. I cannot wait to floor this thing."

In this moment, it is very obvious there's a nonzero chance that Dorian might crash this car on a joyride at some point in the future.

Godric sighs and makes sure the windows are up before he settles back in the passenger seat. "Just get back on the highway and go south," he snorts. "You can't miss it."

Or maybe he can and they end up lost.

He does flip on the radio.

As the garage door opens, Dorian can't help but grin. He flicks the headlights on, sits back in the seat, absolutely does not buckle up, and then floors it. He's absolutely not caring about the speed limit, just focused on how fast he can push the car and how quickly they can get to Waco.

They are 100% getting pulled over. Sorry, Godric.

Godric does not seem concerned about it. They certainly are not pulled over in Dallas, seeing as the cops know his car. They know he's in a hurry to go somewhere and they know they don't want to be wherever that fucking is.

But as they leave the city, it is entirely possible. Fortunately, Godric has his ways.

"When was the last time you drove like this?" he asks, closing his eyes at the sound of the car's engine.

"Decades," Dorian laughs. "I've lived in London most recently. Love the city, adore my time there, I never drive anywhere because it's a fucking traffic jam. What's the use of having a lovely expensive sports car if you can't push it like this?"

Godric looks out the window, thoughtful. "I didn't know what it would do," he says softly. "This is the first time I've ridden in it."

"What, really?" Color Dorian surprised. He frowns for a moment before musing, "I'll need to take you out more in it then. It's a shame to let a car like this sit around and gather dust."

"I let Stan and Isabel use it," he assures him. It isn't gathering dust. It simply - isn't used by Godric.

"I don't have a reason for it to be."

"You have a reason now. I'll drive you places. We'll explore, we'll drive out of state and hole up in some little hotel somewhere during the day time. I'll take you on a vacation—Lord knows you probably deserve it."

He reaches over and places a hand on Dorian's thigh. "Oh? Do I deserve it? Or is this a flimsy excuse for you to drive my car?"

"It can be both!" Dorian laughs. "You deserve a vacation and I want to drive your car."

"I don't think so," he says and there's a small laugh to it. "But alright. As soon as we find out what's waiting for us in Waco, I will take a vacation. We will."

"What's waiting for us are aggravating cultists," Dorian shrugs. He turns his attention back to the road as he muses,

"A few deaths in our wake should take care of that problem."

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