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The nineteenth century was apparently doomed to an existence of random and undeserving names. Victorian, Rococo, ‘Turn of the Century’, and any other over dramatic titles that simply dressed it up to be something it wasn’t. Dockett remembered it. He often tried to forget, though, as he walked the streets of the city that has been so good to him. He would try and convince himself of some strange mental ailment that might explain a number of memories that a normal human man would not otherwise have. Perhaps he was really a mortal plagued by schizophrenia and doomed to believe he actually was a vampire when the truth was quite otherwise.

As much as he tried, it never worked. And as he stood in the back of the dusty book store, leafing through volumes upon volumes of the century he had been born in before his unfortunate (and not to mention, cruel) vampire birth took place, he realized it was all too real.

Dockett called it his ‘Time of Weakness’, even though the hypocrisy of titling it should have kept it nameless. Whenever he turned a corner and saw a fresh, flushed, mortal face, he so badly wanted to turn it dead and white, and to have a companion to walk beside him. It was when he felt like this, as if there were a hole in his chest that could only be filled by an undead of his own, that he came to a bookstore. It was a sort of intellectual comfort, or so he felt.

He had only just arrived a few minutes ago, his young tanned faced looking slightly devoid of any real emotion. He had walked directly past the front desk and was now in the history section, reminding himself that he had already gone so long without creating one of his own.

“And another one bites the dust,” he muttered under his breath, as he slid one of the books back on to the shelf. He walked further down the aisle, his steps muted against the carpet as he slowly dragged the fingers of his right hand along the spines as he passed.

And perhaps, tonight, at the bookstore, the hole in his chest, by which only an undead of his own could fill, may be, at the very least, sated by one of his own kind.

They have one thing in common, these two lovely immortals in a mortal's store. They have both seen the nineteenth centry, lived it, learned it. Though, I can not say for Dockett, Asher enjoyed the nineteenth century, for the very same reason he enjoyed all of the previous centuries. It was unique.

There is nothing modern about Asher, in fact, he does not mind being called the ‘stereotypical vampire’ because in all truth and reality, this is exactly what he is. Asher had entered the bookstore a little less then twenty minutes prior to Dockett’s entrance. Dressed in clothing especially outdated, he wears a white shirt with ruffles and lace falling over his chest, tucked into a black vest. The sleeves flow and then clasp tightly about his wrists with onyx buttons. More lace spills from there to cover nearly to the tips of his long pale fingers. His pants are black, at first glance one would think leather. Actually, his boots ride his legs to his thighs, silver buckles climbing the outside of his leg. He is wearing pants, they can just barely be seen. His hair has been left to curl around it’s own will, laying across his shoulders and down his back, golden against the black vest. Somewhere in this bookstore, a jacket has been discarded. The lace appears masculine while he is draped in it, though one would apply the world lovely or beautiful before hansom to his face.

He has appeared somehow, or rather, simply by centuries of practice, at the other’s elbow and has touched two thin fingertips to the spine of a single book. “This, I believe, you would find interesting.” His voice, like the story-book vampire, could send chills rippling across the skin, delicate, soft spoken, and strong. The Restoration And The Eighteenth Centry by C. F. Main “But then, he was not there, was he?” Asher took a step back and he bowed to the other.

The surprise could not have been more complete. Dockett hadn't even sensed the other's presence, let alone that the fact that he was now standing so close. It irked him, somehow, even though he should take comfort in the fact that he wasn't that different from a mortal being after all. He makes up for it by recovering his composure as quickly as he can, although his first reaction of astonishment betrays his now cooler exterior.

He takes a few seconds to analyze the situation. The one before him was attractive indeed, and as he took in his outfit, with the lace and ruffles, he found a viceral reaction of dislike curl in his stomach like smoke.

Dockett had never worn such clothes in his own century, he could not have afforded it. Even now when money would be so easy to come by, he stuck to his own garb. Dirty and ripped denim trousers, a plain black t-shirt, and the only slightly more expensive item of his wardrobe: a weathered leather jacket, composed his assemble (although he wouldn't dare call it such). Money made him uncomortable, especially when it was owned by the undead. He felt as if such material things should become obsolete, though a secret envy was already unravelling in his mind.

"I've read it, actually," He finally replied, managing to keep a certain viciousness out of his voice. "But I suppose you have no need? Personal experience can do that," He stared at the other man for a few seconds before turning his attention back to the shelf in front of him, picking up a different book and flipping through it as if nothing had happened.

Would it come as a suprise to know that, in his own time, Asher had never been able to afford these clothing either? That all of his clothing had been fitted and bought simply to make him the mirror image of who he was to represent during punishment? Asher indulged in the luxery now, for the sole reason that he enjoyed the feel, marveled at the style and the make.

"Forgive me, it had not been my intintion to startle you. Simply to make myself known to you." And that over, there will be no more spoken of that mishape. Asher will not dwell on the fact that he had gone unoticed by him. It did not matter, because to Asher, it was not new.

Instead, the vampire turned his blue eyes to the book in which the other had turned his attintion too. "Why do you say this, monsieur? I too have indeed read this book, I would not have made it a suggestion, had I not already studied it's context." His tone contained utter kindness and respect, his voice was silk, yet another story-book vampire trait.

They seemed to juxtapose almost perfectly, Dockett's rough and unsophisticated attitude next to the elegance of the lovely creature standing next to him. He openly scoffed as he glanced back at the book between those pale fingers.

"You could have written it, for all I care," he stated icilly, his grey eyes meeting those of blue. For a moment he froze, his breathing quieting as he slowly reached out. His long-fingered hands shone slightly in the light, but otherwise could have passed for mortal, as he carefully placed it on the other vampire's hand. It rested there for a moment, until he finally let it slip away with an oddly regretful look in his eyes.

"Doesn't matter." He placed the book he was holding in his other hand back on the shelf, turning slighty to face the stranger with his arms crossed over his svelte chest. "What are you called?"

His fingers did not shimmer, nor did they glow, though, as he had not fed yet this evening, his hand was pale, a close shade to the white of his shirt sleeve. His skin would feel of marble under the touch, smooth and cold, preternatural flesh, preternatural nails. They looked as though someone had replaced his fingernails with polished glass.

"Pardon," he let his hand lower from the book after the other's hand had removed from his own. Every motion, every movment he made seemed perfect, the results of centuries of practice, trial and error. "But what does not matter?" His blue gaze held the other's gray. "Asher. Once I was Jean-Asher Nicolas of Avanon. Et tu? What may I call you?"

"Nothing. And you may call me Dockett," he said softly, a smile gracing his lips, showing his two sharp fangs. Usually he could hide them with some attentive lip work, and he had learnt from personal experience that some vampires don't take kindly to such a glaring primal challenge, but he felt rather experimental this night.

"Asher..." He tasted the name, "You look like you walked out of an Anne Rice novel. Ever consider subtlety?" He snorted in a very human manner before shrugging off the shelves he had been leaning on. He walked around to the next aisle so he could see Asher through the gaps in the shelves.

"You're old. What are you here for? Kill me now, if it's what you want. The suspense is killing me." His sarcasm could not have been more evident as he removed a book from his side of the shelves and flitted through the pages casually.

He did not attempt to test the name on his tongue when it was given. If need be, he would know what he should call him by, but after so many centries, names become tedious, words become tedious. As for Dockett flashing his fangs, Asher looked on as if Dockett had not, though he himself showed none.

"Anne Rice?" And his smile broadened. Still, there was no fang. "She, I believe, has captured us the closest to the truth that I have yet to find." He watched the other move around the shelves, and he did not move more then to fold his hands behind his back and allow his eyes to follow the other's progress. "Subtlety?" He laughed, a sound that rang wonderfully in the ears but had the ability to send chills down even the coldest of creatures spines. "No. Never. I could, but I would not enjoy it."

He is indeed old, but was he here for something? "Kill you?" He turned his head to the side, "Why would I do that?" He shifted closer to the book case without seeming to move at all, until he was as close to the other as the case between the would allow. He removed the book opposite of what Dockett had removed and peered through the newly made gap. "And must I have a reason? Could or meeting not be purely coincidence?"

Dockett looked up at Asher through the gap, the smile on his lips benign if not slightly forced.

"Not coincidence. No, I don't think so. And as my personal experience has taught me, most old ones seem to disagree with my lifestyle," His tone loosened slightly and became casual and conversational. "As far as Anne Rice goes, she's a melodramatic upstart who needs an editor. But..." He glanced down at the book in his hands for a moment, "I suppose she does hit the mark from time to time."

He replaced the book, narrowing the gap once again, before taking out another a bit further down.

"So what is it then? You want a taste, is that it?" His smile widened and became playful, but malicious at the same time. "Is that your thing? You like to taste young ones don't you? Maybe absorb some of their power...Incite some sort of slave-like behavior?"

He was just playing now. He wanted to see this pretty thing just blow steam and maybe knock over a bookcase or two. Infuriate him, make his cold cheeks flush.

Get away from me Old one, he thought, I am too damaged for you.

"What is your lifestyle?" His tone was honest, because he did not understand what the younger one was saying completly. "Tell me and I shall let you know if this old one would approve or not," he urged lightly, curiously. In seven hundred years, curiosity has not gotten this cat killed, why stop now?

The book was replaced in the shelf, narrowing the gap, but he did not move. He simply stood, watching the other move a few books down. Unphased.

"A slave-like behavior," he mused outloud. Then he chuckled softly. "Why would I need a slave if there are many that are willingly serving? And I do not enjoy, as you delicatly put it, tasting young vampires. My preferances lay with lycanthropes."

Dockett will need to be willing to wait a very long time to see Asher mad, or do something very nasty to enrage this one. Seven centuries tends to make one very patient.

"Lycanthropes?" Dockett asked back, sounding disgusted and slightly puzzled. "So you pray on innocent people who have an illness all their own? Oh how very kind and generous you are, Lestat, to rid us of these people who are both afraid and ashamed of their afflictions." Dockett usually wasn't so incredibly outspoken, but on this subject he could go on for hours, seeing as he had spent over one hundred and fifty years on pondering the best way to feed. "I work with the suicidal," he continued, without giving so much as a considerate pause for response, "Those who think there's nothing at all left for them here. And believe me, I make sure." He slammed the book back roughly on to the shelf before walking further down the aisle, his eyes on the book spines but his mind miles away.

"When did you come to this city?" He asked almost quietly, wondering if this was a question of territory and perhaps his alley of choice was pushing some unseen boundary.

“It is not an illness. It is a gift. Once they have learned to control it.” A slim eyebrow arched gracefully at being called Lestat. And he shook his head without retaliation to the implied insult. “I do not rid this world of any people, Dockett. Not for nearly three centuries. And these people that I feed of, they are neither ashamed nor fearful of their afflictions.” If Dockett had spent one hundred and fifty years pondering the best way to feed, Asher had spent three hundred. And this was the conclusion in which he came to. Feed of those who willingly allow it. Kill not those who offer.

“Work with those who think that they wish to die? How very kind of you,” he mocked the younger vampires words. The book was replaced and the other moved further. And still Asher did not move. He remained at the place where the first book had been removed.

“I believe it was 1973, maybe more or less. Time does not matter.” Time never mattered. Not for one who is so old and can expect to live beyond that age twice over. When you are immortal, a year becomes the blink of the eye. By the way, Asher’s presence has nothing to do with territory. Asher does not keep a personal territory.