"Tu loquerisne latin?" the frighteningly curious man asked Old Jose.

Jose couldn't remember how long it had been since Old had assumed the position of his first name, but it had been a long time. Old Jose got a firm grip on his scattered thoughts and replied, "I don't speak Italian, or whatever that is. English, pretty good, Espanol, un poco."

The grubby little mankind's reply was long, but carried flavors of the standard language of the conquerors. He was pretty sure that the gist of the reply had been 'no'. A dangerous scent wafted from the flask that the mankind took a gulp from as he nervously widened the gap between them.

--

The Vampire entered the establishment that kept one toe on land, and one in the water. He paused in the entry, drawing the eyes of the muscular man in an apron, various people crouched at the bar and tucked into dark corners around the room. Even the saxophone player seemed to be able to see him through the stage lights.

He moved sedately toward the bar, and could almost feel most of the watchers relax, until a creaky old voice made him freeze in his tracks as someone called out, "Andy? Is that you?"

He cursed his own reflexes, he should have ignored the name, they couldn't possibly recognize him since he wore a new face and build from either his most recent waking or the one before, when he'd been Andreas Colton. He took another few steps forward and then stopped again as a wrinkled old man tottered into his path.

The old man squinted up at him, and then muttered sadly, "Sorry, my old eyes 're playing tricks on me. Just the way you moved, it reminded me of someone I knew." He edged back, to allow the vampire who was scrambling to remember the temporary name he'd chosen while he'd been at the library, to pass.

"Chris… Tandy," the Vampire muttered, and then added more clearly, "it's fine.

The elder's eyes seemed to sharpen for a moment as he peered up at the self proclaimed Chris, and he nodded, and asked something that made the vampire's blood run cold. "Do you sing Mr. T'andy?"

"Who wants to know?" the vampire asked stiffly. The ancient and weathered face had to belong to someone who had known 'Andy' well, to identify him from the way he moved and a few spoken words. He had no doubt now that he'd been identified.

"Mac. Chester MacLeod," the old man declared proudly, and blinked his watery eyes. "Let me buy you a drink," he suggested with an almost wicked glint in his old eyes.

The vampire didn't even care that he was utterly giving himself away as he shook his head, if the old man hadn't already been sure. As he looked Mac over, his heart hurt. Mac, that brazen child, was this wrinkled old man. Knowing it, he could see the traces of his old friend buried in the wrinkles.

Humans aged, and it wasn't something that usually bothered him, because he usually built a life where he lived beside them. Time passed at the same rate for everything as near as he could tell. When he noticed a new wrinkle, or a silver thread of hair, in someone of his current identity's age, he simply made sure to add a similar mark of age to himself. There was always a wrench when he had to 'die' and leave a familiar life behind, but age itself was usually mere fact.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

A friend from his first century as a human had devised the basic course his many 'lives' had followed ever since, when they had both finally realized that he wasn't aging at the same rate. He had altered the details to fit the era, but it had generally served him well.

Mac took his arm, patted it, and pulled him toward the bar. "Don't worry T'andy, Bobby makes a mean chocolate milk."

Milk, one of the foods that actually held a bit of nourishment for him, when it was fresh. He almost stumbled forward, as tears hazed his eyes. He could feel the bartender's doubtful gaze.

Mac climbed up into one of the stools, he'd never grown very tall, and instructed the woman firmly, "Chocolate milk, no additives, for my old friend…s grandson. And another cup of tea for me, heavy on the whisky."

Chris T'andy, he immediately adopted the lilt his old friend had added to the name, settled himself on the stool in front of him with practiced ease, and nodded to the bartender's raised eyebrows.

"It's fine if you don't want to talk about it," Mac said garrulously. "I can sorta guess, from what I already knows." His voice became more hesitant as he added, "I would like to hear you sing again though." He didn't wait for an answer, as he chattered nervously about changes in the neighborhood.

Nervous, his friend was nervous. He supposed Mac had plenty of reasons to be nervous. He interrupted the flow of words. "With this new epidemic, I'm low on cash… that's an exaggeration, I'm flat broke. I was hoping that there was somewhere I could sing for my supper."

Mac looked at him in surprise, and then leaned forward to squint at his face again. He decided that maybe, ironically, the reason his old friend had been able to recognize him so easily, was because he couldn't actually see very well. "You don't look half as pretty now as Andy did do ya?"

Chris glanced at the bartender who set down two glasses with a sharp noise that said a roach could have died to the blow.

Mac seemed to realize his words were loose, and straightened up and patted Chris's arm again. "Take after your mum no doubt," he said in a slightly too loud voice.

Chris grinned at Mac, and his old friend's grin spread just as wide and quick as it had in his youth. His heart eased a little at that smile. Age might have come for Mac, but life obviously hadn't worn him down the way it did some people.

"Waddya think Bobby?" Mac called to the bartender who had moved away to refill someone else's drink.

Chris looked around. People were sitting in isolated groups, and the server was wearing gloves and a bandana that masked his face, but kind of matched his feathered tricorne. "If things are tight here, I don't need the pay," he said quietly. "I can get by with less than most."

"Pshh, everybody's got needs," Mac stated firmly. "Things are tight, but people come for the music as much as the drink, y'know that as well as I do."

Bobby made her way back to them and looked Chris up and down, even though he knew that she'd already taken in the details of his clothes, his face, and Mac's smile. "When the boy's are done, you can take a turn, and I'll feed you supper," she agreed almost kindly. "If you're any good, I might even let you come back," she added almost smugly as she turned away again.

Chris couldn't prevent his own grin, as he called back to her, "I'm a vegetarian and a teetotaler!"

He enjoyed the startled look on her face as she turned to look, and the way Mac rolled his eyes. "Vegetarian," Mac repeated sourly, with a pointedly arched eyebrow.

"What else do they serve that's alive?" Chris asked wryly.

"Point," Mac agreed. "Not even oysters anymore, 'cept on Mondays."

"Mondays?" Chris asked.

"Bobby takes Mondays off," Mac explained. "And that Clare will serve anything with water in it. Brat thinks nobody can tell. Ears 're stuck in the eighties too, fills the place with canned techno."