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Summary
He hasn’t seen Alastor in person in at least seven years, maybe more. Not that he hasn’t been keeping tabs on him, of course. Every time the little creep climbs another rung of the broadcasting ladder, Vincent is the first to know about it. Every time some hack prints another article on Radio’s darling versus TV’s sweetheart — who’s in the lead?, Vincent reads it over and over ’til his eyes bleed. And every time he thinks back to college, and to the charming young man who’d stay up with him all night discussing everything from mechanics to murder, and how it all ended so bitterly, Vincent drinks himself blind on the kitchen floor.
And now here he is, on Vincent’s doorstep.
‘Well,’ he says, lips curling into a nasty grin, ‘I guess it really is Christmas.’
*
On Christmas Eve, Alastor arrives at Vincent's door bleeding from his shoulder. Featuring stitches, scotch, and sweaters.