He was floating in the depths of darkness, the world and all the hurt that came with it somehow lost to him. It was a surprisingly tranquil feeling - one that went on, uninterrupted by dreams or the world around him as Alistair fell into unconsciousness. He was unaware of that moment when his head lolled back onto the floor of the dark, dirty alleyway, just as he too was inattentive to the manner in which his things and his nearly lifeless body were collected and hoisted into a pair of strong, steady arms. He was inattentive to the medical care he received or the hours that spanned on and on in his state of unawareness. In fact, it wasn't until sometime late in the afternoon of the next day that Alistair found himself aware of anything at all. It was a scent that invaded that nothingness that surrounded him - a smell that was all too delectable and the protesting grumble of his own stomach. His eyebrows furrowed as the boy came to, he rolled to his side, pulling that blanket tighter to his figure. For a moment, Alistair relished in that very warmth before those memories began to flood his very thoughts. He remembered the pathetic mewling of a kitten before he'd found her. He remembered how his touch had prompted a purring rumble within her, only for that awful sound of spurrs to fill that dark alley. He remembered the glint of those sharpened canines and the awful pain associated with them when they'd all but torn into his neck. God, how much blood there had been!

Immediately, Alistair's hand reached up towards his neck, his fingers almost hesitating, as if he somehow expected to still feel that gash within his skin. He hardly expected the soft touch of a cloth bandage as his fingers gingerly probed against that skin, the Artist all too aware of how...sore his neck felt. His emerald eyes fluttered open only to meet the unfamiliar surroundings if a...bedroom, one that was not his own. Where was he? Alistair's eyebrows furrowed as the artist slowly shifted out from underneath the sheets. Someone had undressed him down to his underwear - his clothes neatly folded over a chair in the corner of the room. Sluggishly, he pulled himself to his feet, fully intending to dress himself only for the artist to pause in front of the bedroom's window. A myriad of colors were splashed against the sky - those lovely hues of pink and gold were something he once might have painted and yet, now, Alistair merely found himself questioning if a whole day had really passed? If not more. At the very least, he recognized the city's skyline. It was a small blessing but, at the moment, Alistair found himself appreciating the smallest bits of familiarity when his whole world somehow felt...off. God, he couldn't wait to get back to his own flat. In fact, he was fairly certain he even recognized the neighborhood he was currently in - his office was somewhere around here, wasn't it? Softly, Alistair shook his head, the man attempting to focus upon the present as he reached for his jeans.

His pants were pulled effortlessly upon his hips, only for the man to pause as he picked up a green cotton shirt. He definitely hadn't been wearing that. The Artist reached for his jacket, lifting it up in clear search for that white button down he had been wearing and yet...he was pretty sure it was missing. That frown only deepened as his gaze found a dark stain on the collar of that woolen trench. Blood. His...blood, if he remembered right. It was the sound of a pan sliding across a stove that drew his gaze towards the closed door. Someone was out there. Alistair pulled that foreign green shirt over his figure, his jacket was tossed back into the chair before Alistair made his way across the room. Slowly, he opened the bedroom door, the Artist nothing if not cautious after that near-death experience. The last being he wanted to find on the other side of that door was that god awful vampire and his cat. Though they would probably be happy to eat him for dinner rather than busy themselves with cooking. Slowly, his bare feet padded down the apartment's hallway, only to glance out into the living room and the figure settled in front of the stove in the kitchen beyond. For a moment, Alistair simply stared at that back he was presented with, his memory trying to put together those hazy puzzle pieces. This man had...saved him? Hadn't he? Had he? He remembered some....choice. Alistair cleared his throat only to utter a singular word - "Hello?" His voice sounded far...gravelier then he remembered it being, those vocal cords almost...sore and unwilling to be used and yet, at least this time, he had the means to form those syllables that had once been lost to him.