Work Text:
The dining room is quiet.
Vincent sets the plate down with care, aligning it to the table as if there were anyone present to judge him for crookedness.
Presentation matters. Always has.
He knows every step that led here. He remembers the heat of the pan, the sound of fat meeting metal, the timing measured down to the second. His hands never shook. They never do when he’s cooking. This dish is the culmination of weeks of certainty, of a belief held so tightly it had to be true.
Vincent adjusts his grip on the fork, the tines catching for a moment before sinking in.
A decisive pierce. Clean. Professional. The resistance is correct. The fibers part exactly as they should. That alone nearly makes him smile.
He lifts the bite. He does not rush.
Anticipation is half the meal, after all.
He places the bite into his mouth.
...
He chews.
He pauses.
He waits.
Nothing happens.
No salt. No depth. No warmth blooming across his tongue. Just texture. Fibers breaking down, meaningless and mute. His jaw keeps moving because it is supposed to, because muscle memory is the only sense still doing its job.
Like always, this dish is no different.
He can hear his own voice laugh at him in his mind. Soft. Bitter. He should have known. It was bound to happen. He had known all along that this would not work, that it was too good to be true.
Vincent had always understood the cruelty of reality.
And still, he had been the fool who hoped. Who poured everything he had into a useless dish.
He presses his lips together. His throat burns with the pressure of tears threatening to rise. It catches him off guard. Crying is messy. Inelegant. He has not done it in a long time.
He blinks hard, staring down at the floor, at the clean black and white tiles, at anything except the plate. His breathing turns shallow, uneven, each inhale too sharp, each exhale trembling despite his efforts to keep control.
He gave everything for flavor.
And flavor never came back.
Vincent lets out a quiet sound, half a laugh, half a gag, and turns his face away from the table. Behind him, the plate sits untouched, cooling, immaculate.
Perfect.
Meaningless.
He forces the emotions down. Pushes until the suppressed sobs scrape his throat raw. It hurts. It hurts so badly, and all he can do is keep shoving it deeper.
It was wrong.
He was wrong.
A great chef weaves their feelings into their work. They lay themselves bare and gift that part to their customers.
But someone like Vincent could never be a great chef.
In this moment, he feels impossibly small.
Memories surface without warning. His childhood, fragmented and sharp. He remembers being loved, yes, but also neglected. Craving stimulation, novelty. Chewing on things that were never meant to be eaten. For that, he had been abnormal.
He remembers how he'd always been different. Always odd.
It is obvious why he never had many friends.
His mind worked differently, and for that he was ostracized. The way he expressed himself was strange. He was not only strange. He was wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Nausea rises suddenly. He covers his mouth, shoves the dish into the fridge, and makes his way out of the building. His movements are sluggish and unsteady, and the desperate need to act as if nothing has happened presses in on him, suffocating, but he cannot do it.
He never can.
The cold air outside bites into his skin. Vincent welcomes it. The pain is grounding.
Unbearable, even though he should be used to it by now.
And he has no right to pity himself for it.
It is his fault.
Only his.
Two innocent souls, slaughtered for nothing.
What a waste.
His love, his passion, is not pure.
It never was.
All it has ever been is obsession.
...
Rody comes to him next.
Not all at once. Not as a person. As details.
The sound of his footsteps in the kitchen, always a little slower at the end of a long shift. The way he'd scratch his cheek when unsure. The way he'd twiddle his fingers and rub the back of his neck when nervous. Vincent remembers the way he asked questions, hesitant, like he was afraid of being annoying simply by existing.
He remembers thinking it was irritating.
Irritatingly charming.
Rody’s laugh resurfaces next. Too loud. Too genuine. It used to bounce off the walls and linger, long after the sound itself had faded. Vincent had told him to keep it down once. Rody had apologised, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously and avoiding Vincent's eyes.
Vincent would do anything to hear that sound, now.
Vincent turned away, hugging himself before he could think of anything else.
His mind continued to ramble, anyway.
He remembers the way Rody watched him cook before going back to the tables. He'd stand there, quiet, eyes following every movement of Vincent’s hands. There had been admiration there. No matter how much Rody had disliked Vincent's food, he still respected him and his skill. His precision.
It had made Vincent uncomfortable. He wasn't used to someone watching him with so much appreciation.
But it also made him feel...happy. Something he'd never admitted to himself until now.
He remembers the warmth of Rody’s presence, the way the bistro felt less empty when he was there. How the silence between orders had been filled with something soft instead of suffocating. Vincent had never outrightly acknowledged it. He kept his thoughts to himself.
He does not allow himself to acknowledge it at all anymore.
He remembers Rody’s voice when he said his name- Well, nickname, most of the time.
Not “Chef.” Not “Sir.”
Just.. Vince.
It settles low in his chest, heavier than anything else.
He remembers Marianne.
She really was a nice girl; she hadn't done anything wrong, and yet-
He'd still killed her.
He'd killed them.
And there'd been no point in it.
He remembers the night he decided.
How calm he had felt. How justified. How easy it had been to frame it as necessity, as devotion, as something meaningful. He had told himself Rody would understand if he could. That it was better this way. That it was love. That showing Rody his love would mean killing her, cooking her into the perfect meal.
Rody didn't eat the dish. He wasted it. And worse,
Vincent had to end up killing the auburn, too.
All of this, just to be able to cook with love.
Love.
The word turns sour in his mouth now.
Rody had trusted him- no matter how afraid of Vincent he was sometimes. That is the part Vincent cannot avoid, no matter how hard he tries to rearrange the memory.
He had seen Vincent as a friend.
Vincent presses his fingers into his palms until the pressure hurts. He wipes his tears harshly.
He remembers Rody’s warmth. His smile. His charm. The way he had gone still, just like Marianne, when Vincent had done it.
When Vincent had killed him.
He remembers everything.
The nausea returns, sharp and unforgiving. He bends forward slightly, breath hitching, eyes squeezed shut as if darkness might erase the images. It does not.
There is no romance in it. No beauty. No transcendence.
Only loss.
Only absence.
Rody is gone.
And Vincent is still here.
The thought lands with a hollow finality. He straightens slowly, swallowing hard, staring out into the empty street. He composes himself. The world continues as if nothing has happened. As if Rody had not existed at all.
Vincent knows better.
He will remember.
He will always remember.
And for the rest of his life, no matter what he creates, no matter how perfect it looks on the plate, to him, it will all taste like this.
Nothing.
...
Vincent returns to the bistro long after the street has emptied.
The door locks behind him with a familiar sound. Final. Comforting, somehow, even after everything that has happened.
Everything is where it should be.
Upstairs, his apartment waits for him in silence.
Vincent removes his chef's coat, hangs it neatly, washes his hands for longer than necessary, as if he can wash the murders he’d committed out of existence. The water runs hot, then cold. He watches it bead and disappear down the drain. He changes clothes. He lies down in bed without ceremony, staring at the ceiling until the darkness presses in around him.
Sleep manages to come eventually.
When he wakes, it is to sunlight filtering through the curtains.
For a moment, there is nothing but that.
The ordinary weight of blankets. The chirping of birds outside. Vincent exhales slowly, relief spreading through him before he has time to question it. His chest loosens. His head feels clear.
A dream, then.
Of course it was.
He sits up, rubbing his face with both hands. His heart slows as reason asserts itself. He is tired. Overworked. His mind finally buckled under the strain and produced something grotesque to punish him. That is all.
Vincent dresses. He makes coffee. The routine steadies him. By the time he heads downstairs, the thought has settled comfortably in place.
Rody will be there soon. Late.
Like he always is.
The bistro is not empty. It is busy with cooks beginning to shuffle into the building, but it is missing something important.
Rody Lamoree.
Vincent pauses. He asks a cook to cover for Rody as he waits.
Minutes pass.
The door does not open.
A cold awareness creeps in, slow and sickening. He stands very still, hands resting on the counter, eyes fixed on the doorway as if Rody might appear if he simply waits long enough.
He doesn’t.
The memory hits him all at once, sharp and undeniable. The sound of footsteps he will never hear again. The voice that will never call his name. The body that will never walk through that door, arriving late, smiling sheepishly, already bracing for criticism.
That was not a dream.
Vincent’s breath stutters. His fingers curl against the counter, gripping hard enough to hurt. Horror floods his chest, absolute and suffocating, leaving no room for denial.
Rody is not late.
Rody is gone.
The kitchen feels suddenly too large, too empty, as if it has swallowed something essential and left only the outline behind. Vincent swallows, throat tight, eyes burning.
He stands there for a long time, waiting for something impossible.
The door never opens.
And for the first time since waking, Vincent understands.
There will be no undoing this.
No morning will make it better.
No amount of sleep will turn it back into a bad dream.
Vincent Charbonneau is the monster he always knew he was.
Everything after is a blur.
Rody is gone and now he is all alone.