Pacing the echoing halls of Nachzehrer-Nachlass like an over-eager groom was much too Wuthering Heights for Gilbert’s taste (because no, he was not an uncultured swine and yes he did take rather a keen interest in modern literature as well as the performative arts— ask his opinion on this one, it’s not a disappointment) and yet here he was, doing just that. He hadn’t wanted to be here doing this, or waiting for Ishmael of all people— but there was no other choice.

Ever since he’d decided (rather stupidly in retrospect) to let Eventide go, there had been no other option but to leave England himself— at least until he could get his head on straight. It had only been a week and he was about ready to rip a few heads off for curiosity of what the kid was doing, who he was with, what he was about. But Gilbert needed answers more than to give in to an obsessive need to babysit a human who had survived for thirty some odd years perfectly fine on his own. (And he wasn’t sure locking the kid up in a tower somewhere was all that helpful either.) So, in his time of need, he’d called the only person who might be just slightly more rational and… organized than he was.

Ishmael was one of the few vampires in Gilbert’s, albeit distant, confidence who he… trusted. Or whatever. Not any more than anyone else, granted. And nobody more than Az. But Gilbert was pretty sure Azazel would have just agreed with him that he should kill Eventide— and for whatever god forsaken reason, he didn’t want to. Yet. Not that he had asked her. But he would. After. Maybe get a second opinion if he didn’t like the first. But that was exactly the problem— and why he had chosen to go to Ishmael instead. Azazel was his soulmate. His other half. The very fiber of his being— and he didn’t trust himself or his own opinions on this one. Thus— Ishmael seemed the best option. He liked to pretend he was morally superior and while they had their differences, Gilbert could at least appreciate the ground Ishmael stood on. Or for. He was consistent if nothing else.

But he was also taking forever to get here! Didn’t he know Gilbert wasn’t the most patient of vampires?! The owl had gone out at least two hours ago. Whatever he was doing could not possibly be more important than a summoning by his grand-sire, scheiße! (Because yes, his direct child or not, Gilbert liked to take responsibility for all those in his line when they were up to no good. Less so if they were being… moral. Boring.)

Finally he caught the distant sound of footsteps approaching the door and he was by the giant iron frames, heaving them open, before he was even sure who they belonged to. (But he was almost positive. Only Ishmael had such a sure-footed and self-righteous gait.) “Verdamnt! Next time remind me not to call for you if it’s a real emergency!” He growled in place of a greeting.

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Ishmael had never been very good at being summoned. It was not for nothing that Monty had always thought of him as a cat, slipping in and out of their London houses for years, demanding attention when he required it and only gracing people with his presence when he chose – whatever Ishmael did in his afterlife, he would damned well do it with a dash of independence.

But there was some saying about curiosity and cats not mixing well, he supposed, and unfortunately an owl from Gilbert (grand old Prusseneit, no less, a vampire with whom he had no choice but to be intertwined with, giving their shared ties and history) was simply too interesting to let it slip him by.

Of course it was Gil’s style to make one come to him. Eternally mixing the grandiose with the trivial – even this place was too fantastically imposing for its own good. (Compensating for something, to be sure.) “I’m flattered I’d be your first port of call in an emergency,” Ishmael purred back in answer – though he expected it was true, for all that he might profess not to care at all for Gilbert’s wellbeing (or bloody Azazel’s, for that matter). But Ishmael sometimes thought he was the only vampire walking the mortal earth with any sense in his head, so –

So here he was, doomed to be at everyone’s beck and call. “I see a couple hundred years haven’t taught you any patience yet,” Ishmael said with a smirk, and raised his eyebrows expectantly to express what’s the problem, then?

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