[ Benny accepts the blood bag without a word at first. It’s not like he doesn’t want it - he wants it bad enough his hands shake when he takes it, fingers curling around the plastic like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the pavement. It's that there's a stigma around it, of what he is, the fact that he tends to be on hunters Most Wanted lists, even before his death fifty years ago - but he's too damn thirst-hungry to care.

He doesn’t tear it open or make a scene, ust bites the corner, slow and careful, and lets the contents pour into his mouth like he’s been parched for weeks, like it's his own personal blood flavored Capri-Sun.

When Jack turns his head, Benny’s grateful - the kid gets it without needing to be told. It gives Benny some space and his dignity without making it weird. It also makes Benny like him more than he already does, and that’s saying something. ]

Well. [ Another swallow, and he pulls a little bit of a face. His voice is low, gravelly; drawing out the words. ] Was a long time ago. Hundred forty, fifty years? Details are a little blurry, but it was a vampire they called the Old Man. [ The irony of the nickname isn't lost on Benny, but that prick had been alive a long, long time. As young as he looked, the name was entirely appropriate. ] Ancient thing, older than dirt. Walked like a man but smelled like the grave. Still not sure why he didn't kill me instead of turnin' me. Guess he liked my pretty face.