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When he's been really terribly burnt, is when it's the most obvious that Renfield used to be a parent. He goes into full daddy mode. Dracula completely fucking hates it. It's an easy joke, that in their relationship, Dracula is the Daddy and Renfield the little baby, which is why Dracula despises the role reversal so much. But it's...deeper then that.
Lying in his coffin, that's slightly open so the drips can get in, pumping fresh blood slowly through his torn veins. Being given blood through a drip makes healing awfully slow. Drinking it however makes entire body parts mend in minutes. Right now he can feel the horrific squelch of red bloody muscle bubbling over his chest. His teeth always heal up first. Fresh gums and the nubs of fangs there. The teeth growing back is the worst pain. All those points bursting through raw sensitive flesh. He's screaming in his mind, no voicebox to communicate. Just a frozen hell. He's been to hell and this is worse. At least you can walk around in hell. Here he's just trapped in his own broken wreck of a body. Breathing thick and laboured through lungs the texture of overfried eggs. The lid opens. He can only see a dark indinstict shape through his eyes that are still mostly unset gel in their sockets but his telepathic mind's eye is clear as a whistle. Renfield smiling gently down at him.
"Wakey, wakey," he says in a sing song voice as he's carefully gathered up into his arms. Rage flares in his chest. He knows logically that Renfield doesn't do it on purpose to grate his already mangled nerves. Has no idea how much the baby talk pisses him off. Just because he's become temporally disabled and reliant on him doesn't mean he's a goddamned infant.
"Hungry?" he says as he's carried over to the couch. Of course he fucking is. He's just woken up. For satan's sake he could shove a knife down his throat and carve up his ribcage...
He smells blood, delicious hot blood. In a cup. At this early stage of healing, he's too weak to even drag a body over to feed on by himself. Has to be handfed. Suprised Renfield didn't put it in a milk bottle.
He feels it sliding down his ruined throat. The agony in his gums and the horrible itch in his chest soothes, calms, flares down. Oh the bliss. The sweet relief.
"Very good," Renfield cooes. He's rocking him in his arms. Must have done exactly the same to his daughter. Rage bubbles deep in his mind, the only thing in his body not ruined. He can feel the meat of his brain reforming around his conciousness.
"Oh dear," says Renfield. He's peering at his chest which is a disgusting mass of mucus and membranes, throbbing wetly as it heals.
"The flies have gotten at you a bit. No worries."
He's reaching into his pocket to pull out his tweezers and some bug boxes. The cup is basically empty of blood so before he starts extracting the maggots out of his chest wound, he sticks his finger in Dracula mouth. The nub of a fang slices his skin. His blood dribbles down his throat. Delectably sweet and fresh, basically liquid gold. The other blood was from a scam artist, it had that vinegary taste. Perhaps a telemarketer or a MLM salesperson. Whoever it was, Renfield's was a thousand times better. Had the gluggy unpleasant texture of cowardice there that stopped it from being too good but still. He adores it. Even if the way he's positioned in his arms makes him feel like a breastfeeding child.
The blood means he can barely feel the tweezers digging around pulling the wriggling maggots free. Just a slight odd tug. He's popping the worms into his bug boxes. Something to mock him about later, make him feel small and disgusting. That to feel even slightly powerful, he has to gorge on pus soaked vermin. And he will make sure he feels the full force of his wrath the moment he gets his energy back.
He hates it so much because its so demeaning. Hates it because his independence, his dignity, his strength has been stripped away. He can't wait until he's strong enough to talk. Is going to make Renfield's life a living hell. Yes, he does prefer the blood of pure innocent people, but exaggerates his pickiness just to make things hard for him. At full strength, he'll drink a bankrobber's blood even if he dislikes the slightly sour taste any night of the week. But will insist Renfield only get him the best of humankind during healing, knowing how much havoc it wrecks on his soul and sense of morality.
Why doesn't Dracula just communicate with him? Tell him straight up; "your babying of me when I'm injured aggravates and upsets me a great deal, please treat me like the adult I am instead of acting so condescending."
No. Couldn't be vulnerable like that. Couldn't show him his emotions. Was just going to punish him instead for not immediately knowing how he felt.
"That's enough now," Renfield says, slightly chiding, taking out his finger from his mouth. "More later okay?"
All he can think, as the uncomfortable itch immediately starts to edge back in again, is;
I could kill him. I really could.