Work Text:
He’s too close and he knows it. If McCauley came out of his hiding spot now, shot him from this distance-
Another plane passes overhead, the runway lights keep on flickering. Vincent tries to breathe evenly, contemplating whether he should take the risk and attempt a quick attack now or wait him out.
He doesn’t need to decide. McCauley steps out onto the open field. He shoots.
Vincent thinks he’s dead for a second, there’s no way McCauley could’ve missed just from over there. And he wonders if dying like this would be all that upsetting. Already imagines the quiet that would come now.
But he’d ducked in time — somehow, somehow — and his breathing is anything except even and when he comes up again, him and McCauley lock eyes. It’s hard to see well in this light, but this hard-skinned criminal looks… shocked. Shocked that he missed? Shocked over his imminent death?
But Vincent doesn’t shoot him, no. His hands are shaking and he does the most stupid thing he could by charging at McCauley. Somewhere at the back of his mind he’s thinking maybe there’s a chance of bringing this guy in alive, but it’s looking more like Vincent’ll get himself killed before he puts handcuffs anywhere near the man.
McCauley is still surprised. Of course hadn’t expected that fucking manoeuvre because it was dumb as hell. He shoots again, but Vincent’s already tackled him by the shoulder and that bullet comes rushing right past his ear. He hears the weapon come down somewhere under the ringing.
He’s caught McCauley so off guard, he’s managed to topple them over. Trying not to lose grip of his own gun, too, Vincent catches himself with his other hand, hitting rustled fabric. But McCauley elbows him in the nose and he tastes copper before the red hot gush comes slipping down into his mouth.
The gun twists out of his palm, lands on the ground above Neil‘s head.
McCauley’s instincts are damn fast, one hand shooting forward to wrap around Vincent’s throat, the other back to where he can’t see to find the weapon. Vincent’s surged forward just the same though, reaching the gun despite that iron grip over his windpipe.
He’s unsure what’s happening for a second there until he can realise him and McCauley have caught the warmed metal at the same time. And Vincent’s arm’s still stretched out far, sprawling him forward over the other man, faces close despite Neil’s attempt to push him back.
He knows he should wrestle his gun free. Take it, take it. And shoot. No point in trying to bring him back in. He’d never go, would rather die trying to escape. Vincent understands.
But McCauley isn’t moving either. And it’s just the planes passing overhead and Vincent’s bloody nose dripping on Neil’s cheek and their hands interlocking.
His eyes travel down, away from the death and towards Neil. His face is stained red and he’s breathing just as heavily as Vincent. They look at each other. And Vincent can’t remember the last time he felt such a sharp pang in his chest, just by remembering a conversation. Because Neil had understood.
“I told you. I’m not going back.” Neil is almost whispering, but he’s sure.
“I told you I’m not gonna stop.”
Neil’s hand on his throat has loosened unmistakably, yet it’s still there. Fingers wrapped around his skin. Suddenly sliding. Sliding towards the back of his neck. Pulling.
Vincent’s never kissed a man before, but the slight burn of Neil’s beard makes it more real in that moment.
They separate, they look at each other; Vincent with wide shock on his face, Neil’s eyes hidden by shadow. He decides then. And Neil might have made some sort of noise, maybe a gasp, maybe he just breathes more sharply as Vincent leans down again.
Neither of them needs any more prompting to open, let inhibitions slide, just for now, just for now. And Vincent moves his flatly sprawled out hand from Neil’s chest to his collar to make a fist and pull him closer. He feels like he couldn’t get him close enough, it seems the only natural conclusion to their collision course.
A hot flush creeps over his entire face. He stops feeling real. Neil is kissing him back like he wants to. Badly. He wants to and he goes deep. He tastes like coffee and mint. And Vincent doesn’t even want to imagine what it would be like to know the taste for longer than the quiet seconds of this stolen moment. Because he knows even a sliver of hope would destroy him whole.
Neil hums softly into the kiss and lets go of Vincent’s neck. His eyes coat in a shiny film, he leans his head back and Vincent slowly pulls back a little, too.
“I had a good run until you came along,” Neil says.
Vincent’s still dazed, can’t help but steal another short kiss.
“Not me, it’s like you reminded me what living feels like.”
“Well, you did the same for me.”
The cold outline of Neil’s gun presses against Vincent’s chest then and if he wanted to say any more, it’s cut short by the shot dispersed past his rib cage.
His mouth falls open again and he stares at Neil’s sorrowful face. He must’ve gone for his gun still lying on the ground near them without Vincent noticing. His other hand still caresses Vincent’s over the other weapon.
“It was nice running from you.”
Vincent’s cold body collapses fully onto Neil and he starts to weep soundlessly.
“I wish,” Vincent whispers out hoarsely, “we could’ve stood still, too.”