janie_tangerine | cowt 10 S6 M1: the observer (frankenstein + dracula crossover, gen)

The way to the Artic was long, and so he had decided to stop for the night and rest a bit - after all, what did it matter? As long as humans didn't find him to chase him out, as usual, he thinks bitterly, he could do it. There was nothing left behind him, no woman to share his life with, and sure, there was his thrice damned creator hunting him, but he thinks he had hidden his traces pretty well during their last meeting, and Victor Frankenstein could go to the same Hell he was surely headed for, as far as he was concerned.

Transylvania during winter certainly wasn't somewhere people would risk running into him - it's cold, even if he doesn't mind it, it's scarcely populated outside villages (and he's very far from the nearest one) and it has plenty of trees he can rest against. After walking for days without stopping, it's... well. He thinks he needs that.

So, he's about to sit down against the largest tree he could find in the vicinities -

Until he hears a sound.

That sounds suspiciously like... mewling, if he doesn't remember wrong from his time in the farm.

It's also pretty close.

He should let it go, but what's the harm? He follows it -

To find himself in front of a rather sad spectacle, by human standards.

There are two dead cats in front of him. Two dead female cats, from what it seems, because the mewling comes from their... kittens, he supposes, who can't be older than maybe an hour and who all look like they're about to die of cold.

He should leave, it's not as if animals ever were friendlier to him than people, and he doesn't want to be found, and yet -

He looks down at the helpless small animals, writhing on the snow, desperately burrowing into their mothers' corpses to find heat that would most likely be gone soon, if it wasn't already. He counts twelve of them total - half are ginger, the others are a mix of white and gray.

He swallows, kneeling down near them, taking one in between his hands delicately, entirely aware the he could crush it with no effort -

And the kitten immediately curls against his palm, looking for warmth.

Huh.

He blinks. Then holds out an arm. Then the other.

Half an hour later, he has found a tree near a river that's not frozen yet and has let each of them drink from his cupped hands - they did. All twelve of them.

And now he's lying against the tree with all twelve of them curled up against him - for warmth, of course, but while most are across his chest, one is in the crook of his neck and one of the gingers is rubbing his head against his palm and - oh.

It's nice, he thinks.

It's nicer than anything he's ever felt in his entire disgraced existence, and fine, none of them has opened its eyes yet, but he thinks he heard those farmers say that usually they don't before a couple of weeks, and he honestly doesn't know how he'll manage to keep them alive until then because they should also drink milk and that's... not in the cards, but for now he thinks he'll worry about it later.

For now, he can worry about enjoying the one nice thing that's ever happened to him.

"Would you mind terribly if I joined you?"

He immediately wakes up from his slumber to see a man standing a few meters from him, staring down at him and at the litter of kittens sprawled all over his chest with... a longing look.

Huh.

The last thing he was expecting was an observer — it’s too cold for humans to go around. Really too cold.

The newcomer is... certainly not a commoner, he reasons. Commoners don't go around the Romanian countryside in distinct leather boots and a heavy black fur coat. Other than that... tall enough, large nose, dark black hair and brown eyes, a round face, pale skin. Even holds himself like a nobleman.

He's immediately distrustful.

"Not on principle," he replies, slowly. "However... your kind usually doesn't wish to join me in anything unless they try to kill me. That usually doesn't work out." He doesn't even try to conceal what he is. It's the middle of the day, they're out in the sun, anyone looking at him would know.

"Oh," the man replies, "I suppose you're assuming I am some kind of ignorant human?"

"... Aren't you?"

The man comes closer. Then smiles enough to show his teeth. And then his canines suddenly get longer for a split moment, before he closes his mouth again.

"I am not," he replies, "and I have no interest in killing you. You just looked... extremely comfortable. And they seem... very fluffy." He's saying that as if he hasn't touched anything like that in a long time.

He can relate. It's not as if he ever has, either.

"You kill one of them, I will snap your neck," he finally says, letting the nobleman sit down next to him and take one of the kittens from his legs.

"Oh, I am not interested in cat blood," he replies. "Not really nourishing. And do you have a name I should call you by?"

He snorts. "My creator didn't gift me with that. I'm looking for one. And do you have one, oh mighty... whatever title it is that you surely have?"

The other man raises an eyebrow. "Count," he says, "well spotted. And that would be Dracula for you."

"You're dressed like one. I will give you one when I have it. And if you have anything you can feed them, if you like them so much..."

"Oh," the count replies, slightly smiling, still petting another of the ginger cats, "we can arrange that. We can absolutely arrange that."

Well. He looks positively smitten with the kittens, he hasn't tried to kill him yet and maybe he could trail along and see if he could score at least a bed for the night, too, and maybe find out what kind of nonhuman this count is.

For now... well. It's nice.

End.