Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Baroness was well known for two things.

One. It was, without a doubt, the most haunted hotel in the whole cursed apple. The living weren’t the only guests it entertained, and that goes without mentioning the very souls in its employ. The hotel itself was rumored to have supernatural abilities, though whether this was the building itself or its current keepers doing was up for debate.

Two. It played host to the widest, most absurd assortment of amenities, provisions, and entertainment on this side of the Long Island Sound. Boasting openly to meet every guest’s desires, it made light work of dreams coming true. Anything that could be acquired to improve the comfort of its clientele was provided on request. Though, it was best not to ask questions about where such things were procured.

Victor knew it by another, third element which contributed heavily to his own opinion of the business.

Three. It was a place for good, nice people. Kind and pretty people. Rich people. Beautiful and well-dressed people. He was none of these things, he knew, and so never entertained fantasies of ever experiencing the first two points, himself. And he put it out of mind, only to ever resurface when he spotted the blue haze of its grand electric sign over the city rooftops at night.

It wasn’t that he thought he held a low opinion of himself- it was simply the truth. He was the kind of monster that people sheltered in the safety of the Baroness to escape. To hide from. They were right to do so. That was just how it was. What he was.

It was only recently, in the company of people who had claimed him as their friend, that he was forced to confront this reality again. And it happened after he had shared a moment of vulnerability with one of these friends, Paige.

“Hey, I’m not trying to insert myself into your business- well, I guess I kinda am, but I won’t be offended if you don’t…um…” She had a habit of finding him when he least expected it, something he found baffling because more often people made a habit of doing the opposite. She also had a habit of being nosey.

She couldn’t help it, he supposed. She loved knowledge, loved collecting intangible things, valuable or not. Staying in the hideout, however temporary, gave her ample opportunity to corner him and gently pry the few pieces of knowledge he had from his head.

“What do you want to know?” He droned, turning his back to her so she wouldn’t have to see the way his makeshift needle wove in and out of the flesh of his left shoulder, suturing closed the jagged edge where two pieces of mismatched corpses met. Where they recently sustained trauma enough to rend a large swath of stitches broken.

She cleared her throat, nervous. Trying to walk around the side of him to meet his gaze. “Um…do you want my help?”

He stopped sewing, letting the needle fall limp, swinging from the thread dangling at his shoulder. He placed his opposite hand over the wound, turning just enough to glance at her across his other shoulder. 

“You don’t even know me.” He said bluntly. She looked hounded, then, but stood her ground, hands balled at her sides. 

“I know, you just…you look so sad, and… I know what that feels like.” Her voice wobbled slightly, and she looks down at the floor, at the wall, at the windows- this, he is more familiar with. Looking anywhere but at him. It eased his nerves, in a way.

But it’s not malice, or hatred, that drew her away from looking at him. Her hands worry the hem of her knit sweater, eyes distant. Open. It alluded to something deeper, some wound within her that aches, physical or emotional, which she has chosen to reveal to him.

It would be rude to prod that wound, but the equal footing its admission created between them is welcome. He turned around completely, moving to catch her drifting gaze through his dark curtain of hair. “That’s very sweet of you. Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper. The ghost of a smile passes across her face.

She doesn’t say anything about the inhuman, grotesque wound in his shoulder, but she does offer to help him finish mending it.

And he tentatively accepted her help, and answered her myriad of questions. She asked about himself (his favorite color was blue, he didn’t have the privilege to have preferences for food or hobbies, he was a proficient reader but didn’t own any books), his origins (naked, panicking, a slab of cold steel in a colder laboratory, empty and silent save for the wild unkempt beating of his own heart-), and his experience with pain (chronic).

Their conversation lasted for several hours and only ended in quiet whispers when Paige had to excuse herself to retire to her makeshift bedroom for the night. Victor, left to spiral in his thoughts, nodded off to sleep having convinced himself he had finally scared her off.

To his surprise, she found him the next day, a cheerful expression plastered across her face and a large phonebook in her hand.

“I did a little digging looking for leads on your…” She winced, eyes searching the air for the right phrase, “…donors, but I didn’t find much with my resources. And then I hit a wall, so I started thinking about some of the other stuff you said, like how you’re always hurting-“

He doesn’t mean to interrupt her, but he doesn’t want her to waste her time. Just being reminded that he had confided that information in another person made his heart stutter. “It’s okay, Paige. I appreciate the help, even if you can’t find anything.” He prepared to go back to the book he had been reading- one he had borrowed from the bookkeeper, in fact- when she spoke up again.

“Well, that got me thinking- I know a place- er, person? Probably- that can help with both.” She said it matter-of-factly, one hand coming down across the book like a gavel.

He raised an eyebrow, the one with a wider range of movement that he could feel. He couldn’t help but smile a fraction, humoring her.

“Both?”

“Your constant pain, and leads on your bodies’ origins!” Stupified, he tried to imagine a place like that. Perhaps a hospital, or a morgue. He didn’t want to go back to a morgue for as long as he lived. He knew from experience that hospitals didn’t know what to do with him. 

While he was lost in thought, trying to think of some way to articulate these thoughts without crushing her spirit, Paige continued. “I already made us a reservation with the Baroness, our check-in time is tonight around eight-“

And that caused his brain to spark to a sputtering halt. “I- what?” What? “I think I misheard- I thought you said The Baroness.” This must be a joke. Surely she didn’t mean-

“Yes! I did. Oh! I’m sorry, did you have something else planned for the next few days? I can reschedule if needed.”

“Paige, this is really nice, but…” His eyebrows crease, and he glances down at himself. “I’m not exactly the kind of person they take in. You’ll have to search for leads without me.” He could picture it in his mind. They would arrive at the front door of the illustrious hotel, and Paige- wonderful, intelligent, kind Paige- would be let in with waiting arms and a warm smile. He, on the other hand-

Anyone could take one look at him and know he wasn’t fit to be there. He would be chased away, scared off, thrown out.

While he spiraled, Paige had kept talking, as she was wont to do. “No, see, I actually asked them about that, they seemed to be incredibly accommodating of my requests, oddly determined to help, actually, so really it’s no problem, Vic.”

She paused, looking up into his eyes, searching for something with an intensity that drew him sharply from his fantasy. She took a deep breath and placed a delicate hand on his lower forearm. It tingled faintly, the pins and needles of low blood circulation prickling at the point of contact.

“Vic. Victor. I’m not just doing this to solve your mystery- that’s a big part of it, sure, but what you told me yesterday- all of the pain you feel, all the time,” she closes her eyes, squeezing his forearm. He can barely feel it. “You don’t deserve to feel that way. And when I said I wanted to help you- I want to help you, Victor. Not only to get justice or peace for your donors, but for you. Because it’s your body too, and you don’t deserve to be punished just for living in it.”

It was a lot. “Oh.” It was a lot to consider.

“So,” She patted his arm lightly, making him wince, “I asked the man who answered the phone if they could accommodate someone like you, and he said that ‘it would be their pleasure to do so’. The hotel is renowned for its customer service- you’ll be in good hands.” She removed her hand from his arm, and he resisted the urge to chase the feeling, however faint it was. “And so will I, because I’m coming with you.”

“How does staying at that haunted hotel help us find my creator, or the people I was made out of?”

“Well…” She looked aside again. “It’s not the hotel itself that would be of help to us, regarding that particular mystery.”

“What does that mean?” He asked absentmindedly, thoughts racing with possibility and anxiety alike.

“There’s rumors that the hotel staff are particularly knowledgeable on the mystic, supernatural leylines of the city. Actually, it’s theorized that the hotel itself was constructed at the intersection of several leylines- sorry, not relevant- I bet someone there knows something. We just have to find the right person.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then we get the best spa experience in all of New York City, and take some weight off your shoulders. Metaphorically and literally.” She turns then, her back to him as she gestured excitedly with her book. “Don’t be so worried, it’ll be great! I haven’t taken a vacation in ages!”

She skips off to prepare for the impromptu adventure, and Victor is left to stew with the new information he had been presented. He hadn’t had a vacation ever, since the moment of his awakening. 

It seemed like the kind of thing that normal, regular people did. And besides, wherever he went, there he’d be- no vacation could take him out of his body, or separate him from the image the world saw of him.

For Paige’s sake, he’d try to find some semblance of peace while they stayed at the Baroness, if only so her enthusiasm and financial loss wasn’t completely wasted on him. However difficult it may be.

Chapter Text

The Baroness stood as a tall, brick and mortar relic of an era that was, in most places, buried beneath the streets of New York City. So few of these historic buildings remained as they did when they were first constructed, that even amongst the similar, younger, architecture that surrounded it, the hotel had an otherworldly charm which captivated tourists and locals alike. On this particular day- overcast, light drizzle of rain, low hanging clouds- the bright blue of the sign overhead seemed to call people to it like moths to a flame.

“Wow, look at that! Vic, look- Look at those spires!” At least Paige is enjoying herself, glasses clacking gently against the window of the taxi’s backseat as she looks out at the monolithic building. ”And the sign- wow. The font choice is so unique, I wonder if it was handcrafted specifically for the Baroness…” He turns away from her to hide a soft smile; her excitement is almost enough to keep his fears at bay.

Despite his own trepidations, he hoped Paige’s faith was well-placed; he didn’t share his own opinions of the hotel for fear of dashing those high spirits. Perhaps it was Victor’s odd life experiences which painted his expectations of the Baroness so differently to Paige’s own- to be rather sinister. Nothing this good was given freely, and the fact that he had yet to see the price they had to pay ate at him.

The entrance was even more enchanting upon closer inspection: ornate windows framed by delicate ivy, a slight fabric awning protecting the front doors from the inclement weather, flowering topiary arrangements and a long welcome mat emblazoned with the hotel’s logo.

A porte cochère, the dark recesses of his mind unexpectedly supply; though from where that term came, he hasn’t a clue. The flash paper memory is chased down with a splash of sickly sour realization and finished off with the discomfort of having taken something that never belonged to him. He’d never been to a hotel in his life.

Paige gently pulls him out of the taxi cab, mindful of the way his joints stiffen when it’s particularly cold and damp. She places an umbrella in one of his hands and her own hand in the other, despite his insistence on carrying her luggage for her.

“Don’t worry about it- here, you can hold the umbrella over both of us.” She attempted to assuage him, using her other arm to carry her overfilled carpet bag.

The entire time they unload her belongings from the taxi, he has the distinct prickling feeling on the back of his neck, as if they are being watched. It is only as they are within walking distance of the hotel’s porte cochère that Victor loses some of the nerve that brought him so far already.

There is a man at the door. 

There is a man, a hotel employee, holding the door for guests as they come and go. His uniform is something highly decorative, made of a fine currant-colored material and burnished gold whorls. It lays perfectly tailored over ramrod straight posture, and flows with his dancer-like movements as if skin over fine muscle. 

He looks like a prince from one of those fairytales or Young Adult novels Paige tried to get him to read once, ethereal in the warm glow of the lobby that escapes through the open doorway and into the gloomy street beyond. Approaching him from the dark frightens Victor more than anything ever has, as his metaphor twists, and he can only see himself as the mythical monster of those stories that crawls forth from the shadows to kidnap or kill. His heels drag on the pavement.

Paige pulls him closer still, and to his chagrin, she raises her bag laden hand to wave for the man’s attention.

“Hello! Hi! Could I get some help with my luggage?” She chimes, cheerful as ever, and entirely unaware of his plight. He tries to keep the umbrella over her head, even as every muscle in his body screams in unison to run away.

Victor can see the slight pique of his chin when he hears her, the way his head turns towards them, followed by the rest of him- he sees the moment the man’s vibrant, cerulean eyes make contact with his own, and he feels whatever hopeful confidence he had left fully wither and die.

For a tense moment, all the world is those two eyes, and he is pinned in place, like a specimen. He’d often read stories where eyes were described as deep pools, mesmerizing and endless windows to the soul. He had never understood that saying until this very moment. 

He felt his shoulders tense, lowering the umbrella slightly, as if to protect his hulking form beneath the tiny scrap of material. Waiting for the inevitable.

If the doorman is surprised by his appearance, he does an incredible job at hiding it, his face a perfect placcid mask of content. The look he spared Victor was nothing more than a glance, before his eyes were set on Paige again. “Oh, you must be Miss Paige, from the bookstore. We’ve been expecting your return. Your storytime readings at the Baroness have been rather captivating, I’ve been told.” Victor all but crushes the handle of the umbrella in his hand, glancing aside the second the red-uniformed man’s eyes leave him.

“Careful, it’s heavy- oh! Thank you, that’s so nice to hear!” She hefts the carpet bag into the doorman’s waiting palm, and he holds it behind his back, as if it weighed nothing at all. “I’m so glad we could come to this arrangement, too- it was so kind of the Baroness to offer to help my friend in exchange for some volunteer work.”

The man nods. “It’s nothing but a trifle, dear. The least we could do for such an esteemed patron of the Baroness.” He titters, holding the door open with his hip and freeing his other hand. “I recall you mentioning this over the phone. We can discuss further inside, perhaps even attend to your more…familial matters, as well.” For the first time since their arrival, Paige’s smile dampens, and Victor can see something heavy and dark settle behind her glasses.

“…Perhaps.” She says distantly, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

Victor can feel eyes on him again. He fears what he’ll see if he returns the look. “I’d like to take your umbrella, if it is amenable to you, Mr…?”

“Just Victor.” He mumbles. It is so quiet, it’s a miracle the doorman was able to hear him at all.

“…Just Victor,” The hotel clerk responds with a sly smile, reminiscent of a fox. He extends a thin, gloved hand, and Victor reluctantly lowers and closes the umbrella, feeling uncomfortably exposed. His feeble shield is surrendered to the doorman, who turns, and places it amongst the many others drying by the door.

He leads them towards the front desk, a remarkably small reception amidst the rest of the grand lobby, teeming with people. The desk is also, remarkably, unmanned. The doorman takes up the position of concierge, bending slightly to retrieve a heavy tome from behind the counter.

The second they walk through the doors, all chatter is whisked away in gasps and noises of shock. It is exactly what he expected, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. All of those people, looking at him. Paige keeps walking, and he hesitates.

It’s not too late to consider leaving. It’s not too late to ask Paige to take this on by herself, and go back to the hideout. He takes a step backwards.

The silence is broken when the doorman- who until this point had exuded a strange weightlessness to himself- drops the heavy guest tome onto the concierge counter with a resounding finality. The conversations across the lobby quickly roar back to life, and Victor notices with some confusion that not a single person in the room would make eye contact with him.

The other guests in the lobby seem overly eager to dive out of his way as he approaches his friend and the strange bellhop.

“The ever-dutiful staff of the Baroness work tirelessly to ensure the best care for all of our guests.” His voice sounds just a little louder than it had been, outside. A fresh jolt of discomfort races down his spine as the doorman opens the book, leaning over it with one hand across his chest, where a strange key-shaped emblem lies. He hasn’t blinked once since they met. “I have been told yours is a special case. It is my pleasure to dote on your every whim and desire, should you require it.” The crisp lilt of his tone uncomfortably disarming.

He was so effortlessly charming.

If Victor had learned anything being what he was, he knew that most people who chose to be kind to him had motivations beyond what they revealed on the surface. For Paige, it had been knowledge. For most people, it was because they thought they could use him to enact violence, or provide them power they lacked. For this doorman…he wasn’t sure. 

As the doorman-turned-concierge helped Paige locate their reservation in the book, Victor glanced back and forth between the entryway and the front desk. The hotel was grand, sure, but the lobby alone appeared to be as large as the building itself. The vaulted ceiling made no sense, clashing with the windows he had seen on the outside just moments prior. The more he tried to rationalize the inconsistencies, the more he felt pressure surge behind his eyes, like the brief moment of aural realization before a seizure, or a low electric current.

“Has something caught your eye?” He turns back around, finding the man’s head tilted back ever so slightly, eyebrows raised in soft amusement. Paige is some distance away, loading a luggage cart. A shiny, gold key hangs from her fingers.

“The building,” he flounders for something to say- anything that won’t immediately destroy the warm kindness in the man’s eyes- “It’s very…unique.”

Somehow, his smile widens further. “It is! The Baroness is a product of many decades of evolution and change, as you will soon see. I hope you both have time during your visit to explore it thoroughly- looks can be deceiving.” He winks, and it sends a static charge straight to the core of the reanimated man.

“What?” He asks, dumbfounded. It must be part of his job, being this overly sweet to guests. There was no other way to explain it. His confusion must have shown on his own face, the hotel clerk’s eyes crinkling at the edges with mirth.

Paige wheels past him with the cart, pushing damp hair out of her face. “Thanks for the help, uh,” She pauses. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.” The man cheerfully responds.

He…didn’t, did he? It strikes Victor that they didn’t know anything about the man at all- and he seemed to know everything about them. He doesn’t have time to consider this, whisked away by Paige once again.

“Ok, it was nice to meet you! See you around, Mr Doorman!” And with one final wave, she’s off. Victor has no choice but to follow her, wondering why she didn’t question the staff member’s odd behavior as much as he did.

Something about him was wrong. Wrong in the way that a forged painting is wrong. Wrong in the way that he…

He hoped that he wouldn’t be seeing those eyes again until they were walking through the front doors after checking out.

Chapter Text

Which brought them to the present, and the realization that it was not the last time he would see those eyes. Far from it, in fact.

Paige had an itinerary for their visit planned in advance, and he had the sneaking suspicion that a certain hotel employee was partially responsible for writing it. Throughout their stay, that strange doorman seemed to weasel his way in, always appearing when least expected.

As they ate breakfast, Victor was stunned to look up at the wait staff attending their table to see familiar eyes staring back at him, tray of menus in hand. He met the waiter’s smile with a flat look of disbelief. “Aren’t you supposed to hold the lobby door?”

The doorman’s expression never faltered, light from the large, impossible windows dancing behind his eyes. He seemed entertained by Victor’s nonchalance. “I have many responsibilities. Do you like coffee or tea? Perhaps juice.”

He ignores the obvious redirect, only glancing away from the man when he places menus in front of them. “Couldn’t someone else wait tables?”

“Certainly.” The man hums, and Victor waits for him to continue. He doesn’t.

Paige busies herself with the menus while they continue their staring contest, which is only broken when she raises her hand to get the waiter’s attention. “Earl Grey would be nice. For both of us, please.”

“Of course, Miss Paige.” He spares Victor one more look, before he turns and disappears amongst the tables.

As they visit the hotel’s library and the adjacent in-house exhibit on the historic Baroness itself, Paige wanders off to peruse the shelves for anything related to his plight, leaving Victor to page through whatever she brings back to the tiny antique desk he’s leant over. He makes a conscious effort to sit as delicately as possible, for fear of what wrath breaking such an old piece of furniture would incur.

He nearly jumps out of his skin- and does jump off of the tiny, cramped chair he had been reading in- when he catches the edge of a candy-red uniform in his peripheral vision. There He is again, one arm tucked at a perfect right angle behind his back, the other holding a feather duster. 

Victor catches the very suggestion of a wince on the man’s face when the chair’s legs screech across the hardwood floor, but it quickly smoothes over. “Apologies. Could I assist you by providing a more comfortable chair to lounge in? One more befitting someone of your stature. We have many-“

“I don’t need anything.”

He doesn’t mean it to sound as brash as it does, but he’s starting to think this doorman has something more going on behind those eyes than what he allows the world to see. He doesn’t trust easily in people he doesn’t know.

The doorman purses his lips, head tilted in consideration. “I understand your trepidation may be caused by a misunderstanding- If you’d like, I can provide an extensive list of every amenity-“

Before he can finish, he is once again interrupted; Paige emerges from the bookshelves with a tower of books held precariously in her grasp, which wobble and threaten to fall with every step. The doorman is immediately distracted, stepping to her side to help steady her cargo, and find a place to rest them.

“Miss Paige, I must ask you to be more careful with the Baroness’ reading selection. Some of these books are over two hundred years old.” He admonishes her, placing his hands over her own to guide her to the tabletop.

It strikes Victor suddenly, with how close they stand to one another, how similar they look. The same hair, the same freckles. He wonders if they are related in some way, before pushing the absurd thought aside.

She grins, pulling several books off the stack, as well as a few newspapers, and placing them in front of Victor. “Yes, I know! Isn’t it fascinating?” Yes. Absurd. Paige would know something like that, and she didn’t seem to have anything other than a professional working relationship with the Baroness and its doorman. Maybe he was just magnetic to this particular type of person.

“Yes. Quite.” The doorman politely excuses himself shortly afterwards, when Paige offers for him to join them, and Victor is thankful to know there’s something in this world that can deter him, after all.

As they meander through the gardens, he is resolved to avoid seeing that man at all costs. This time, he tries to stay by Paige’s side as she studies the ethereal botanicals that the Baroness cultivates. It works, for a while.

To his chagrin, he loses her in a small hedge maze. And someone else finds him, in the shadow of the grand statue at its center. He’s absently picking at a stray thread in his hand, when smaller, gloved fingers alight over his own, ceasing his anxious behavior.

“Ahem. You appear to be lost.” The doorman. Of course.

He doesn’t have the energy to feel any particular way about the doorman’s appearance, other than defeat. He turns to face the man, who is standing just beyond the shadow so that the warmth of the sun hits his hair just-so, lit through like a wisp of flame.

He can’t help the genuine curiosity that sneaks into his voice. “Do you do any actual work, besides following me around?”

The doorman’s response is as predictable as it is meaningless. “I do everything in my power to keep the Baroness running at all times.” 

Victor sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out over the city beyond the borders of the hotel’s garden.

“Could’a fooled me.” He responds.

“Mmm-hm-hm.” His eyes widen when he hears a soft, twinkling laugh in response. It’s the most human he’s sounded since they met. “A little word of advice, Victor. Our service is only limited by what is required of us.” He swears he can feel the man’s breath on his ear, though he stands several feet away. “We cannot help those who do not ask. And I do not believe I am being presumptive in assuming that you have many, many questions.“

Lips against the shell of his ear, brushing hair aside, a hand on his shoulder. “What was it they said in that popular fantasy novel? It was only a few thousand years old- oh! I remember now. Be not afraid.” He turns to face the man again, to interrogate him further, only to find himself completely alone. 

He runs into Paige soon afterwards, her voice like a bubbling fountain as she laments how every path she tried to take back to him led her back to the entrance of the garden instead.

The longer they stay at the hotel, the harder He is to ignore- once Victor took notice of the doorman’s habitual presence, it was hard not to see him lurking at the edge of every moment of his time there. Eventually, Victor has no choice but to resign himself to the red spectre.

Stranger still, none of the other staff have been so forthcoming. They were still around, of course, but only when called upon. They, too, have this air of elegance and poise to them that goes beyond the expectations of customer service. He has to believe that they are so courteous to him because they are paid to do so, because the alternative is unthinkable.

These are the tumultuous thoughts that occupy his mind most often. These, and the underlying desire to discover what this hotel could possibly know about the origins of his…himself.

“Paige?” He murmurs, looking down at the young lady who was sunbathing on a pool-side lounge beside him. He has to repeat himself before she startles, dog-earing her book to mark it. She looks up at him, where he’s sitting, fully dressed, under a large beach umbrella that just barely covers his massive frame. Though the luxurious pool is indoors, the setting sun still shines on them from a massive skylight overhead- another piece of the grand hotel’s architecture that makes his head hurt to consider logically.

She frowns. “What’s wrong?”

He draws his knees in close, resting his chin across them. “Do you think there’s something off about that one hotel guy?”

She curls an eyebrow at him, and turns to give him her full attention. “What? You have to be more specific, Vic.” She laughs.

“The one with the blue eyes. It’s like he’s always…everywhere. All the time. Is that weird?” It is weird. He knows it’s weird. He just needs someone- anyone- to tell him they see it, too.

“Vic, I think you’re paranoid. It’s ok to be afraid, but you can’t take it out on the people working here.” She tries to go back to her book, but he reaches out, two fingers pressed gently to the crease at the center of the book’s spine, holding it down.

“Haven’t you noticed anything strange about this place at all?” He feels a sudden burst of energy, an electric shock to his system that sets his mind racing. “Haven’t you seen how everywhere we go is miraculously void of guests? How we rarely see any other hotel employees? How the one we keep running into looks exactly like-“

“Victor.” Her voice is cold, resolute. A misstep. A mistake. He stops immediately, and pulls his hand away from her, tucking it against his chest. “I’ll ask questions I want answers for when I’m ready.” Her expression softens. “If you’re that curious about him or this place, maybe you should just find him and ask.”

She goes back to her book, and he goes back to stewing on his thoughts. She’s right. But it still tugs at something in the back of his mind.

Even outside their own hotel room, just when he assumed he was safe to turn in for the night, he spotted that man pushing a cart of covered dishes and fresh linens past their room at the exact time they arrived.

“How fortunate that our paths happened to cross, just as I was passing through this wing. Is there anything I can do to improve your rest before you retire for the evening?”

“No.” His simple response causes a twitch in the other man’s eye.

“Very well. And for you, Miss Paige?” She has a laundry list of requests to be made for the following days, and all the while, Victor stands at her side, staring down at the bellhop, replaying their previous advice in his head.

His friend retires to their room; the doorman returns to his cart, moving to push it past the creature that still lingered in the hall.

In a split-second decision, he puts a hand on the front of the cart, halting it with no chance of resistance. The doorman looks down at his hand, and back up to his face.

“Can I help you?” He drawls, almost sarcastic, if not for his otherwise placid demeanor. 

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe there really was nothing behind those eyes but a man trying to do his minimum wage customer service job. Maybe he’s just going to ruin another odd relationship with a nice, normal person.

“Victor. Tell me what you want.” His voice sounds different, richer, deeper. Probably the acoustics in the old building’s hallway. He feels compelled to…

“Where do I find you? If I want to ask questions.” His words are stilted and made up as he says them, not believing his own mouth’s betrayal. The bellhop’s eyebrows raise, and he looks down at the cart in contemplation, nodding his head.

When he looks back up at Victor, he flourishes his gloved hand, producing a travel brochure like a rabbit from a hat.

“For you, dear Victor? I know an excellent tailor who has taken up residence in the Baroness, and could see to your eccentricities and your questions, alike. You’re already very familiar with each other."

The taller man squints, accusatory. “If you’re the house tailor, you can just say so.”

His wheedling has no effect on the bellhop, who only tips his head in farewell, and jostles the cart into motion again. ”I hope we are able to find your sense of humor, as well as the answers you seek.”

Victor turns slowly to follow the man’s movements, afraid he’ll disappear again before he’s done speaking to him. “…What time?”

His answer is simple. “I’ll make time. Whenever you are ready.”