Count Dracula

It had been days since housekeeping had been in the suite - he'd long discovered that Martha couldn't move or talk when he wasn't alone. And how could he do that, shut her back into her lonely prison? Drac had given up sleeping in his coffin, too. Shutting the lid against Martha had just hurt too much. He wasn't sleeping anyway. He still had so much to talk to Martha about! He'd only caught her up to the night Mavis' baby fangs fell out!

Every day he was losing the energy desire to do more than stay with his Martha. His voice was soft and low, slightly cracking and getting more hoarse every day, but he didn't care. He continued to tell stories of his life since he'd lost his beloved.

He was still allergic to sunlight, though, and he didn't have the energy desire to continue getting up to closing and open the drapes, so despite his exhaustion he had pulled the painting to him and was curled up in a dark corner of the room. He was small, huddled in on himself and the painting. Still and gray, he lay there talking softly and haltingly, assuring Martha that she would soon be free, be with him and their daughter again, his hand resting gently on the oils where Martha's cheek was.

( 'More,' the painting urged him. )



[So many ♥s to tigerundercover for this!! NFI, obvs.]