"Together," they chorused, and looked at each other. Claire couldn't help a bit of a smirk, and Shane rolled his eyes. "She's kind of a coward," he said. "Faints at the sight of blood."
"Oh, please," Claire said with a sigh. "That does describe one of us, though."
The receptionist, for all her motherly looks, clearly wasn't sympathetic. "Fine," she said briskly. "Second door on the right. There are two chairs in there. I'll get an attendant for you."
"Yeah, about that . . . Could you get us a human?" Shane asked. "It creeps me out when a guy's draining my blood and I hear his stomach rumble."
Claire punched him in the arm this time, an unmistakable shut up, and gave the receptionist a sunny smile as she dragged him toward the door that had been indicated. "Really," she said to him, "would it be that hard just to not say anything?"
"Kinda." He shrugged, then opened the door and held it for her. "Ladies first."
"I'm really starting to think you are a scaredy-cat."
"No, I'm just flawlessly polite." He gave her a sideways glance, and with a curious seriousness said, "I'd go first in any fight, for you."
Shane had always been someone who best expressed love by being protective, but now it was deliberate, a way for him to make up for how he'd let his anger and aggression get the best of him. Even at his worst he hadn't hurt her, but he'd come close - frighteningly close - and that lingered between them like a shadow.
"Shane," she said, and paused to look him full in the face. "If it comes to that, I'd fight beside you. Not behind you."
He smiled a little, and nodded as they started moving again. "I'd still jump in front of the first bullet. Hope you're okay with that."
She shouldn't have been, really, but the thought, and the emotion behind it, gave her another little flush of warmth as she walked into the room. Like the rest of the human side of the collection center, the space felt warm and comfortable. The reclining chairs were leather, or some vinyl approximation. The speakers overhead were playing something acoustic and soft, and Claire relaxed in the chair as Shane wriggled around in his.
He went very still as the door opened and their attendant stepped inside.
"No way," Claire said. First, their attendant was a vampire. Second, it was Oliver. Oh, he was wearing a white lab coat and carrying a clipboard and looked vaguely official, but it was Oliver. "What exactly is the second in command of vampire affairs doing drawing blood?"
"Yeah, and aren't you needed pulling espresso at the coffee shop?" Shane added with a totally unnecessary edge of snark. Oliver was often found behind the counter at the coffee shop, but he wasn't needed there. He just liked doing it, and Shane knew that. When you were as (presumably) rich and (absolutely) powerful a vampire as Oliver, you could do whatever you damn well wanted.
"There's been flu going around," Oliver said, ignoring Shane's tone as he took out his supplies and laid them out on trays. "I understand they're short staffed today. Occasionally, I do pitch in."
Somehow that didn't quite feel like the whole story, even if it was true. Claire eyed him mistrustfully as he scooted a rolling stool up beside her and tied the tourniquet in place on her upper arm, then handed her a red rubber ball to squeeze as he prepared the needle. "I assume you're going first," he said, "given Shane's usual attitude." That was delivered with every bit as dry an edge as Shane's sarcasm, and Shane opened his mouth, then stopped himself, his lips thinning into a stubborn line. Good, she thought. He was trying, at least.
"Sure," she said. She managed not to wince as his cold fingers palpated her arm to feel for veins, and she focused on his face. Oliver always seemed to be older than many of the other vamps, though she couldn't quite pin down why: his hair, maybe, which was threaded with gray streaks and tied back in a hippie-style ponytail just now. There weren't many lines on his face, really, but she always just pegged him as middle-aged, and when she really stared, she couldn't say why he gave her that impression.
Mostly he just seemed more cynical than the others.
He was wearing a black tee under a gray sweater today, and blue jeans, very relaxed; it wasn't too different from what Shane was wearing, actually, except Shane managed to make his look edgy and fashionable.
The needle slid in with a short, hot burst, and then the pain subsided to a thin ache as Oliver taped it down and attached the tubing. He released the tourniquet and clamps, and Claire watched the dark red line of blood race down the plastic and out of sight, into a collection bag below. "Good," he said. "You have excellent flow."
"I'm . . . not sure how I feel about that, actually."
He shrugged. "It's got fine color and pressure, and the scent is quite crisp. Very nice."
Claire felt even less good once he'd said that; he described it like a wine enthusiast talking about his favorite vintage. In fact, she felt just faintly sick, and rested her head against the soft cushions while she stared at a cheerful poster tacked up on the back of the door.
Oliver moved on from her to Shane, and once she'd taken a couple of deep, calming breaths, she stopped studying the kitten picture and looked over at her boyfriend. He was tense, but trying not to seem it; she could read that in the slightly pale, set face and the way his shoulders had tightened, emphasizing the muscles under his sweater. He rolled up his sleeve without a word, and Oliver - likewise silent - put the tourniquet in place and handed him another ball to squeeze. Unlike Claire, who was barely able to dent the thing, Shane almost flattened it when he pressed. His veins were visible to her even across the room, and Oliver barely skimmed fingertips over them, not meeting Shane's eyes at all, then slipped the needle in so quickly and smoothly that Claire almost missed it. "Two pints," he told Shane. "You'll still be behind on your schedule, but I suppose we shouldn't drain you much more at once."
"You sound disappointed." Shane's voice came out faint and thready, and he put his head back against the cushions as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Damn, I hate this. I really do."
"I know," Oliver said. "Your blood reeks of it."
"If you keep that up, I'm going to punch you." Shane said it softly, but he meant it. There was a muscle as tight as a steel cable in his jaw, and his hand pumped the rubber ball in convulsive squeezes. Oliver released the tourniquet and clamps, and Shane's blood moved down the tube.
"Can I specify a user for my donation?" Claire asked. That drew Oliver's attention, and even Shane cracked an eyelid to glance at her. "Since mine's voluntary anyway."
"Yes, I suppose," Oliver said, and took out a black marker. "Name?"