He hummed, then sat down, leaving enough space between us that no parts of our bodies were touching—but not so much space that I couldn’t smell the lavender soap he liked to use in the shower.
We sat together in silence for a long moment, watching as Buffy Summers single-handedly beat up and then staked a string of vampires, one right after the other. This was one of the earlier episodes, back when Sarah Michelle Gellar still had some roundness to her cheeks and the show’s special effects budget was lower than Xander’s IQ.
Buffy’s fighting moves and her outfits were something to behold, as always. Even still, it took more concentration than it really should have to keep my eyes trained on the screen rather than on the person beside me.
“Have you ever seen this show?” I blurted out. It was a dumb question. Frederick had been asleep for a century and had only gotten Wi-Fi a few days ago; surely he hadn’t found the time to watch a campy show from the nineties about fictional vampires. But I was desperate for something to say to break the awkward silence.
He ignored my question. “Do you think Angel or Spike is more handsome?” he asked instead, with all the seriousness of an NPR journalist. His eyes were on the screen, not on me—but his tone, his ramrod-straight posture, and the steady, rapid way he drummed his fingers on his thigh gave away his keen interest in my response.
I was completely thrown. Whatever I’d expected him to say when he joined me on the couch, it wasn’t that. I had no idea how I was supposed to answer it—partly because it felt extremely loaded, but mostly because I’d never been particularly into either of Buffy’s bad boy vamps.
After a bit of somewhat frantic consideration, I gave him the truth.
“Giles is the hottest man on this show.”
“Giles?” Frederick spluttered in what sounded like genuine surprise. He turned to face me, eyes boring into mine with an expression that bordered on outrage. “The librarian?”
“Yeah.” I pointed to the screen, where Giles was presiding over a meeting of teenagers in the high school library. He looked supremely put upon and hot in his unique, middle-aged, glasses-wearing librarian way. “I mean, look at him.”
“I am looking at him.”
“He’s objectively attractive.”
Frederick grunted something unintelligible. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, his mouth turning down in a scowl.
“Also, of all the men on this show—alive and undead—he’s the only one who’s already processed and dealt with his shit.” I shrugged, turning back to the television. “Everyone else has way too much baggage.”
Frederick looked unconvinced. “But Giles is just so . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head and closing his eyes. His scowl deepened.
“He’s just so what?”
“Human,” he spat, the single word laced with bitterness and disapproval.
I gaped at him. But Frederick wasn’t looking at me anymore. His eyes were back on the television, staring at it with an intensity that could burn a hole through paper.
Was Frederick jealous of a fictional librarian from an episode that aired almost twenty-five years ago? Was that what was happening here?
Impossible.
Stupidly, my heart sped up a few beats at the idea of it all the same.
“What’s wrong with being human, Frederick?”
He muttered something under his breath I couldn’t make out but didn’t otherwise acknowledge he’d heard me.
“To answer your earlier question,” Frederick said eventually, sidestepping the issue of hot librarians, “I have seen this show. Reginald recommended it to me.”
“Really?” That surprised me.
“Yes. Although the version we watched at his home had frequent interruptions from companies wanting to sell things. Commercials.” He shook his head. “Annoying.”
I guess Reginald didn’t spring for commercial-free streaming platforms. “They usually are,” I agreed.
“I couldn’t even tell what I was meant to buy half the time,” he complained. “Though I did enjoy singing along to some of them. The music was often quite good.”
The idea of buttoned-up Frederick singing along to a car insurance ad—or, god, an ad for one of those sexual enhancement meds—was so ridiculous I nearly burst out laughing.
“What . . . what did you think of the show itself?” I asked, trying to recover.
If Frederick noticed I was on the verge of dissolving into giggles he showed no sign of it. “It’s a bit silly,” he said, thoughtfully. “Though I enjoyed what I saw.”
“How accurate would you say it is?” I was probably crossing a line, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d been wondering this ever since learning he was a vampire.
He hesitated, pondering the question. “The show’s writers got a few things wrong about my kind. For example, I have no penchant for leather jackets, and I don’t burn to ash when exposed to sunlight. Additionally, my face doesn’t change in a cartoonish way before I feed. But they also managed to get a number of details correct.” He paused, then added, “Which is surprising. As far as I know no one on the writing team was a vampire.”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t expected this much honesty when I’d asked the question. Was this my chance to finally get more information about him?
“What did they get right?” I prompted, unable to hide my eagerness.
“I, like Angel, do enjoy a good brooding stare.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“I’d imagine it would be hard to miss,” he conceded, his eyes twinkling.
“Anything else?”
He considered that. “I require express permission before entering someone’s home. Some vampire legends are nonsense and others are legitimate, and I have to say the show handles that detail quite well. Also, I cannot sweat, I never blush, and my heart hasn’t beat since I turned.” He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You likely noticed I had no heartbeat when we . . . when you touched my shirt at the department store.”
He might not be able to blush anymore, but at the reminder of that moment we shared outside the dressing room I was blushing more than enough for both of us.
“Oh,” I mumbled. “Yes. I . . . I noticed.”
He nodded, his eyes inscrutable as he held my gaze. “If you ever find yourself lacking in diversion you could do worse than Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Especially if you wanted to know more about me.” A pause. “Not that you would necessarily want to know more about me, of course. I am . . . merely stating a hypothetical.”