Work Text:
Now
Renfield doesn’t notice them for days. Too busy with everything that came after killing Dracula (disposing the corpse, reviving the support group, finding a new place to live, etcetera) to notice the discoloured starbursts of skin in the middle of his palms.
Then
The first thing Renfield noticed when he woke up in Castle Dracula was the stabbing pain in his neck. It was a sharp, precise pain, localised to the spot on his pulse point. Remarkably unlike the dull ache one might have gotten from sleeping wrong.
At the time, he figured it might have been a bite from a bug, perhaps even a spider. There were plenty lurking around the castle, after all. But he didn't see any marks, not even a patch of reddened or raised skin, when he strained to get a view of his neck in the small mirror that came with his travel shaving kit.
Oddly, the Count didn't have any mirrors in his entire castle
Now
He's been staring at his hands so long that the water flowing from the faucet has turned frigid.
When he finally snaps out of it, he keeps the water running, barely registering the temperature as he frantically rubs his hands together, furiously pumping out more and more soap onto his hand without success.
When the soap runs out, he grabs a scouring pad.
Then
There were many reasons that Renfield preferred the time outside of their transitional periods, but chief among them was the more reliable access to warm water.
He's especially appreciative of it now, soaking in the claw-footed tub in the master bath of the mansion. He sighs happily as he sinks down into the soapy water, which stings only slightly as it seeps into the cuts and scratches left behind by his Master during their latest romp.
Another reason to appreciate these times, he requires his Master’s healing blood much less frequently. Meaning it's likely he'll get to keep these marks for a while. Something both him and Dracula prefer.
Now
He slams the fridge open, grabs the pitcher, rushes back to the sink, recklessly splattering the viscous liquid all over the kitchen in his haste. The minor scrapes quickly absorb it, vanishing seamlessly into now near flawless pale pink skin.
Black rivulets flow uselessly over the white scar tissue.
Then
Like many during the seventies, Dracula and Renfield experimented with a variety of substances and lifestyle choices.
Unlike many, their experiments did not result in permanent life-altering consequences.
While the expulsion of the tattoo ink, small black beads popping up and out before bursting open and staining his skin for a few days, was interesting and the pain accompanying the accelerated healing of skin between the piercings, the pressure building and building until the metal was forcefully expunged from flesh, was exquisite, it wasn't what either of them were hoping for.
Now
He shoves his entire hand into the pitcher, submerging it completely. But when he pulls it out, it is still there.
He puts it back in, holds it there, pulls out.
Still there.
In.
Hold.
Hold.
Hold.
Then
Sometimes, Renfield is jealous of the people his Master kills.
Which is silly, he knows.
Dracula has killed him before. Multiple times, in fact! Occasionally, multiple times in the same night! Better yet, he has always revived him afterwards.
His Master wants to keep him by his side, unlike the poor fools he charges Renfield has to dispose of. Renfield is worth more to him alive than as a bloodless, lifeless, pound of meat. And Renfield never feels more alive than when he's dragged out of the soft stillness of death, back into the tight grip of his Master's claws.
It's just…
Those corpses get to keep his Master’s marks.
Now
"Fuck!" Renfield slams his hands against the countertops. His palms sting with the harsh contact, though the pain is dull in the centre, presumably where the scar tissue is the thickest. It's at this point that he notices the corresponding blemishes on the backs of his hand.
His eyes flit about the room, searching.
They land on the wooden knife block.
Then
The position his Master pins in him offers him the perfect view of the completely mangled and broken metal pieces glinting dimly in the dejected corner of the room they were carelessly thrown to when Dracula got frustrated with the barrier between his teeth and his servant’s neck.
Renfield will be disappointed later, when his Master inevitably pushes too far and he won't have anything to replace the bloody collar of gashes and gouges currently being torn into his skin.
While it had been uncomfortable and unsuitable for everyday wear, it had been sturdy enough to withstand most of Dracula’s rough handling and both of them appreciated the ring of bruises the weight of it left behind. He'll miss it.
But at the moment he's too preoccupied by the teeth in his neck to care about anything else.
Now
He stabs the chef knife through the spot on the back of his hand, his lip bleeds as he bites down on the scream threatening to tear through his throat. He twists the knife, scraping bone and ripping muscle, haphazardly widening the hole, needing to ensure no speck of marred skin remains.
He removes the blade.
The back of his hand hits the bloody counter with a splat, spraying specks of red absolutely everywhere. He pays the mess no mind, eyes transfixed only on his palm. Wet, squelching sounds fill the room, occasionally interspersed with the clang of metal on marble as he thrusts the knife in and out of his flesh.
When the handle breaks off, the only visible skin left on his hand is on the tips of his fingers.
He throws his other hand upon the broken blade that stands erect in the gnarled remains of its pair, half impaled as it is in the marble underneath.
Then
Renfield can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but at some point they'd both given up.
It could have been when the brand flaked off like dandruff, or when his ring finger grew back even though its severed predecessor hung on a chain around Dracula’s neck, or when blood kept pumping through his body while his heart was held outside his chest.
Or it could have been the culmination of millions of miniscule bruises and cuts that vanished without either of them noticing.
All he knows at some point, Dracula stopped biting as hard and clawing as deep and Renfield stopped offering new methods and trying to find any kind of work around.
Now
He curls up on the ground in a tight ball, hugging his hands against his chest, fully healed with exception of the pale stigmata scars.
He cries and tries not to think about how happy this would have made him once.