Two Sets of Fangs and a Cuppa Joe

He caught her familiar scent on the night breeze, above the stink of over-brewed coffee coming from inside the cafe. There was no mistaking its uniqueness, exquisite and sad: dusty graveyard flowers, moonlight and the copper tang of blood. It made all of his hair stand on end, the drive to destroy a natural enemy and to make love to her rising together in his veins, instincts crawling all over one another for dominance.

Just like it had always been.

She saw him before he saw her - her scent changed, anxiety spiked excitement. Back from her journey to find herself, but still not found? What was she doing here? What was he doing here this close to the full moon - or at all? Hadn't they tortured one another enough for one endless lifetime?

Then he turned to face her.

She hadn't aged a day, of course. She never would. Skin still perfect alabaster, eyes shocking preternatural blue, body built like a young boy's dream. But details that only someone who knew her well might notice spoke of changes: burgundy hair in a messy bun when she used to wear it down, iron straight, and pitch black. Softer, more human clothes, when she used to favor stereotypical skin tight leather. Subtle makeup instead of harsh blacks and reds. Here was a mature woman where used to be an angry, rebellious Goth of a "young" girl.

Their gazes met, and that cold shield her kind practiced slammed down so quickly, he didn't get a chance to read what was there. He hoped he was just as blank, because he did not want her to know all the things that were boiling inside his heart and gut. Like wishing he was a real dog so he could just trot over and shove his nose in her crotch, know everything that had happened in the past quarter century, and then lay his head in her lap and let her skritch his ears. All understood. All forgiven. Simple.

He approached the table and she stood, her family's high-class etiquette taking fierce control. He didn't know where his came from - he was still struggling between wanting to shout at her, and wanting to throw her down on the table or the floor and have at each other right there. They stood there staring at one another. His hurt feelings screamed that this was his chance to finally tell her off. He fought to hide it. He must have been failing, if the growing cracks in her defenses were any indication. God, he hated her so much. Her and all her kind. She was so beautiful, so cold and so freaking beautiful.

"I'm sorry," she said. He wondered if she was using her hypnotic powers, because he suddenly didn't care about the last 25 years, all the pain. He just wanted to be hers again. She reached out to take his hand and he took it, letting her lead him out into their starlit world, the night.