Something wasn't right.

Jack's mattress was firmer than normal, and his sheets smelled fresh from the package. He couldn't remember the last time he bought sheets and didn't rely on hand-me-downs from Tara updating her décor.

Groggily, he pushed himself upright and frowned at the unfamiliar bedding beneath him. Little dinosaurs grinned up at him. He raised his eyes to the bare concrete wall in front of him. This did not bode well.

The sound of fabric shifting came from the other side of the small room, and Jack slowly breathed in before confirming his fears. In the opposite corner, Farragut sat on an old metal folding chair, scrolling through Jack's phone. He looked amazing for someone who'd been stabbed to death.

He looked just like Jack remembered him, including the jeans and short sleeved button down. Farragut was clean-cut with just enough of a rough edge to pique Jack's curiosity and interest. It was an unwelcome reminder that Jack liked eye candy that came with too many red flags to count.

"Finally awake," said Farragut, not bothering to look up. "Good. You wanna tell me why you delete your texts?"

Jack's arms locked up, and his breath caught in his throat. If he concentrated, he could remember the feeling of fingers lightly stroking his hair and an amused voice coaxing him to follow. He swallowed down his fear and sat back on his heels as he faced Farragut with a look of confusion.

"People might read them," he replied. For once, he felt justified in his delusional paranoia.

Farragut eyed him for a minute before turning his attention back to the phone. "Uh-huh. Who's your new boyfriend?"

"W-we broke up," Jack said quietly, looking away and fidgeting with his sleeves. He'd never been more grateful to be able to tell the truth. "He wanted … stuff."

Farragut rolled his eyes with an exaggerated groan. "You seriously need to get over those hangups, Sparky. One good nut'll fix you right up."

"My hand works just fine." It was hazy and full of holes, but Jack could recall awkwardly explaining his lack of sex drive to Farragut. And Farragut's delight over his offer of an open relationship. He never expected the realization of what was going through Farragut's head to hurt so much. "And what do you care? You were never really into me. I don't even think you're gay."

"Oh, I'm into you. Just not the way you're thinking."

Jack glared at his lap and wished he'd asked Kieran if there was any way to avoid being enthralled. Maybe if he just stayed focused and alert? Was that even possible?

"Don't be disappointed, babe. I came back for you. Just like I promised."

He curled into the corner and hugged himself, wincing at the soreness coming from his left wrist. He tugged his sleeve up and found a freshly healing cut. He gasped when Farragut grabbed his face and forced him to look up.

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"You know I don't like it when you cut yourself, right?" Farragut said with exaggerated concern.

That's right… Jack had a problem. Always looking for an escape, attention … something.

"But that's okay. I'll always be here to kiss it better."

He might have wanted attention, but not the sort Farragut was offering. "I don't want…"

"Yes, you do."

He couldn't lie, but he didn't want to make Farragut upset. He didn't want to make it worse. "I like kisses."

"There ya' go."

Jack blinked and stared at the wall, barely aware as Farragut left the room, slamming the door behind him. What had he just been doing? His wrist hurt. He pulled back his sleeve and frowned at the cut. He'd cut himself…

No. He might be fucked in the head, but he'd never tried to take his own life or cut into himself. Besides, the scars littering his arms weren't like the parallel lines and thin scratches he'd seen on others.

His short conversation with Farragut was nothing but a fog. His memories sharpened as he recalled meeting Farragut's eyes and following from there. If he concentrated, he could remember. It wasn't much, and it wasn't exactly helpful after the fact, but at least he didn't have to live with the lost time.

At least, not while he was conscious. Without a window, he had no way of guessing how long he'd been out. Was it night? The next day? How long until someone noticed he was missing? How long did he have to wait for Tara to start hunting him down?

He stood and silently crept up to the door. Holding his breath, he tried the handle.

Locked. Of course.

He sighed and took a closer look at what he hoped was a temporary prison. A single, bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, its pull string just out of Jack's reach. Stains and old anchors embedded in the walls marked where shelving used to be. An outlet sat a foot away from the door. If worse came to worst, he might be able to dig out a spring from the mattress and shove it in the outlet.

The mattress in the corner had a fitted sheet and a light blue blanket. In the opposite corner, the folding chair that Farragut had been occupying sat beside a large plastic bucket that once held white paint. He had no hope of filling it up enough to cause trouble for whoever was responsible for cleaning it up.

Maybe he could piss on the handle. But, knowing his luck, he'd be the one to take care of it. At least there was a lid.

He resigned himself to hanging out on the mattress and wallowing in his self pity for a while. He tried to look on the bright side. He still had his clothes, but his shoes and random receipts had been confiscated. Farragut would find out that Jack was a loser with three books on African art checked out and an addiction to coffee and booze.

He let his head fall back against the wall. Even if he wanted to stay sober and alert during his stay, he was going to miss the option to self-medicate. There was no way Farragut would let him get so much as a sip.

He breathed in sharply.

No alcohol because it made his blood taste sour. Hazy, mixed-up memories…

Farragut was a vampire.

His chest tightened as the thought wavered and shifted.

"No! He's a god damned blood sucker. It's his fault I'm so fucked up," he mumbled, clutching at his head. "He's the one that cut me. I never did it. It was never me. It's all him. Window, footage, vampire. Alcohol, cutting, vampire. I'm not crazy, I'm just crack."

He wrapped his arms around his legs and glared at a particularly happy stegosaurus.

"I'm just vampire crack," he repeated against the fluid images of holding a blade in his hand.

Would he have to live the rest of his life reminding himself that he wasn't as crazy as he thought he was?

image [https://i.imgur.com/eZY0YUq.png]