Off Screen Scene: Kim Cleans Up


by Aidan Boyle
1297279866|%e %b %Y, %H:%M %Z|agohover (updated 1298324639|%e %b %Y, %H:%M %Z|agohover) | 0 comment(s)

IC Date: February 9th, 2011 — Early Morning
This scene takes place the day following the log Hunter, Hunter
Suggested Music: Ain't No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant

Kim lets herself into Aidan’s loft flat with her personal key. The moment she’s inside, she turns and immediately disarms the alarm system. She finds it amusing that Aidan insists upon the alarm, not so much to protect him from bodily harm but to protect his material possessions. Some of the artwork and paintings in Aidan’s loft are worth more than Kim will make in a year, or even five and Aidan is quite generous with her salary. His vanity and materialism are things that would make Kim scoff with scorn, but she understands that Aidan merely takes the long view; in a century from now, having the right artwork or painting as part of the inheritance of whomever he reinvents himself to be will assure him funding for a sustained existence.

All right, she still scoffs at the vanity; never mind that it’s well deserved. After three centuries, Aidan is still the spoiled little rich boy and that will likely never change.

Kim begins her morning movements through the apartment. Her motions are slow and leisurely. Her cell phone is a comfortable weight in her pocket where Aidan’s one message from last night sits in her text screen: No rush.

The two words are a simple, easy code worked out between them years earlier. It’s Aidan’s way of telling her that he has everything under control, that he didn’t allow his lesser urges to carry him away. It means that Kim can get a good night sleep and report for "work" in the morning without worry and stress and the pressing need for speed. If he needed her quickly, there was a code for that as well, though typically when it was urgent, Aidan didn’t text. He would call and his words would be short and cryptic; Kim always dropped everything to hurry and pick up the pieces.

She swears as her foot hooks on something and she stumbles. Looking down, Kim spies the offender and rolls her eyes. It’s a shoe, and unless Aidan has developed a sudden fetish for cross-dressing, the gold five inch spike heel sandal is not his. It’s still early morning, the sun making its climb to the sky anew, so when she power opens the heavy curtains and presses the remote button to open the blinds, the room slowly fills with pale morning light.

Via the soft yellow light, Kim finds the second shoe under the leather sofa as well as one of Aidan’s loafers. There is spilled wine near the fireplace, and — Kim tests the thick dark drops leading from the fireplace to the arm chair with her finger, raising it to her nose. The coppery tang tells her that yes, it is blood.

Kim wonders if the cleaning ladies think Aidan is a drunk, a klutz or both. Then she realizes that she doesn’t care. They are paid well, their contract includes never going into Aidan’s bedroom — not that they could without the code — or the guest bedroom without permission. They keep their own console and if they have any thoughts on the eccentricities of the twenty-something young man with too much money to burn, they don’t voice them.

The rest of the clothing are strewn up the stairs like a hedonistic bread crumb trial. Kim picks them up as she goes, adding to the pile in her arms. Another shoe, Aidan’s socks, a little black dress. She lifts the dress to the light and eyes it. It’s nothing more than useless cloth now, ripped nearly down the side from shoulder to hem. There are spots that are a darker black than others, hard and stiff beneath her fingers and Kim exhales, words spoken to an empty room in a low whisper. “No rush? Only if you pulled yourself together.” Because as it is, the evidence shows that Aidan had gone fully fang long before he left the living room with his … partner for the evening.

There are tattered thong panties on the landing at the top of the stairs. Kim folds them into the dress. She goes to the guestroom first, on the opposite end of the hallway from Aidan’s room. The door is ajar, and she Kim nudges it further to peek inside. It snags, catching and dragging a bit of material. Kim recognizes Aidan’s black and silver John Varvartos shirt before she has wrapped her fingers around it. It’s ruined, with buttons popped and splattered with blood.

Stepping further into the room, Kim takes a glance at the bed finally. The figure there sleeps on her stomach, her tangled blonde hair, some of it matted with dried blood, spilling onto the pillow beside her. The sheet, also with darkening spots of blood, only comes to her waist. Not nearly high enough to hide the myriad of bruises and bite marks covering what had once been unbroken, peach skin. But the woman’s back rises and falls with slow even breaths, a reassurance that she is alive and Aidan’s casual text hadn’t been a mistake.

Kim sweeps around the room, finishing her circuit. She locates Aidan’s pants, which somehow have survived the onslaught of what happened here last night, and plucks his boxers off of the bed post. She doesn’t even let her mind stop to ponder the how’s of that scenario. In the attached bathroom, Kim finds a plastic garbage bag. Aidan’s shirt is shoved in the bag, as is the dress and the woman’s underwear.

There is a small refrigerator in the room, and Kim opens it. She removes an apple and a bottle of sport drink, placing them on the night stand beside the bed. Only then does she reach out a hand and shake the woman gently awake.

The blonde stirs slowly, fighting hard to surface from the depths of slumber. It’s to be expected if Aidan used his full power on her, clouding her mind and leaving her in a state where she’ll never remember what exactly happened in this room. The blonde rolls over — she’s younger than Kim thought, but typical of what Aidan catches when he’s out on a hunt — displaying for Kim more of Aidan’s handiwork spread over her torso. Yet, even now, Kim knows that the marks are not as bad as they likely were last night; that in another twelve hours the woman will be covered with bruises that she’ll likely only recall as love bites.

“C’mon then, luv it’s time to wake up and get moving,” Kim sing songs, yanking the sheet fully off the young woman’s body without the slightest bit of hesitation or shame.

It’s enough to jar the woman to a more awake state. She yelps, scrambling away from Kim at first, then grasping to pull the sheet up in front of her to hide her nudity. “Who are you? Where’s Peter?”

Peter, Kim thinks. I really expected something more original from you, Aidan. It’s a flickering thought, as her primary concern is the young woman in the bed. “I’m Peter’s personal assistant, responsible for taking out the trash.” Kim pauses a beat and allows the insult and indignation to settle across the blonde’s face before continuing. She tosses the tattered clothes onto the bed, spinning away on her heel before they even land. “Your clothes are ruined, but I’m sure I’ve something on hand that you can wear home.”

Kim’s at the armoire, pulling out a pair of women’s jeans and fingering the loose shirts. She glances over her shoulder and eyes the woman. “You’re an eight?”

“Six,” the blonde immediately argues.

“Right.” Kim drawls the word, dragging out the ‘i’ for emphasis. She tosses a size eight jeans and shirt on the bed anyway.

“Where’s Peter?”

“Luv, you aren’t going to see Peter again, a’right?” Kim moves to the armoire and roots around for sheets. “Best make him a memory, because you’re already forgotten far as he’s concerned. This was a one time deal. Peter isn’t the little rich boy who’s going to rescue you and make you a princess.” She turns, sheets in arms and waves a hand to the sport drink and apple on the nightstand. “Might want to eat and drink that, then you can be on your way.”

The blonde braces herself to argue, but she takes a good look at Kim’s face and decides against it. Twenty minutes later she’s gone; after Kim has asked a few leading questions and made sure the girl — who’s name is Cora, not that Kim cared or asked, but managed to be told what it was anyway — doesn’t realize she spent the night being a chew-toy for a Vampire. The bed has been stripped, the ruined clothes are in the cellar incinerator, and Kim is typing in the pass code on the security pad to Aidan’s bedroom.

The room is as dark and cool as a tomb. Once upon a time, it unsettled Kim and gave her goosebumps to come into Aidan’s room. She recognized that for all intents and purposes, when the sun rose and he fell to stillness, the bedroom was a tomb. That had been in the early days, but not any longer. She switched on the overhead light and strolled into the room.

As always, Kim’s eyes first swept toward the king size four poster bed. Aidan lies there on his back, quite literally dead to the world. He may as well have been carved from stone, all pale skin. Long dark lashes brushed his cheeks, and like this, he looked boyish and innocent, loose and free — something she knew that he hadn’t been in a very long time.

Was Aidan ever innocent?

She replaces his shoes in his armoire and puts the trousers and boxers in the laundry hamper. Kim has his schedule on her telephone, but she doesn’t have to refer to it. She removes a new pair of pants, a charcoal gray shirt and a pattered red tie from the armoire, hanging them on the hook on one of the posters of the bed.

There is a notepad and pen on the nightstand beside his bed. Kim picks them up and scribbles a quick note. It’s the first thing Aidan will look for when he “wakes” for the evening.

Her eyes were crooked, and yes, you are wearing that tonight.

Pen and pad are returned to their spots and Kim lets herself out, turning out the light behind her. She’ll be back later, because her day with Aidan is just starting, and it’s never really done.


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