Chapter Text
Scrape.
Thud.
Scrrrk.
Earth gives way in stages. Not all at once. It resists, then sighs, then collapses in damp clumps that smell like iron and rain. Dirt piles up unevenly at the edge of the hole, kicked aside with careless precision.
Hff.
Clink.
Scrape.
“So,” a voice says, light, conversational, as if discussing the weather.
“That’s the last of him, then.”
A pause. Another sound, though lower, and unamused.
“Mmm. You’re rushing. Let the ground settle. It hates being hurried.”
The shovel bites again.
Thunk.
Crunch.
“So picky,” the first voice replies.
“You’d think we were tucking him in.”
“Presentation matters,” the second answers. “Even when no one is watching.”
Gravel shifts underfoot. Fabric brushes fabric. Something metallic kisses stone and is gone again. The night hums around them, insects buzzing, leaves whispering, the soft wet pat of soil landing where a body no longer resists.
Pat.
Pat.
Pat.
“You always do this,” one voice says, fond now. “Turn everything into a sloppy spectacle.”
“And you always pretend you don’t enjoy it.”
A scoff of laughter.
Shhrrk.
Thud.
Silence stretches, broken only by the rhythm of work. Then, finally, the hole is filled. The earth is smoothed down with a shoe, pressed flat, indistinguishable from the rest of the forest floor.
Vincent exhales and leans back on his heels. “We make a good team.”
Alastor hums, thoughtful, pleased. “Perhaps.”
Vincent tilts his head, smile audible even without seeing it. “You know you love me.”
That hum again. Warmer this time. Indulgent.
“Come along now, dear,” Alastor says gently, licking blood from his hands. “Once he’s covered, we have to get back home at once. I’ve already collected all the parts I need for supper tonight.”
The forest keeps their secret.
The ground settles.
And the animals are now only thing carrying the weight of their secret.
The apartment smells like cigarettes and lemon.
Alastor insists on washing his hands twice before touching anything else. Once to clean them and once to reassure himself that all the evidence has been washed away, despite how perfectly curated their latest…hunt was.
The sink rattles faintly as the pipes complain, an old building with old habits, and he hums along with it, something jaunty and out of step with the hour.
Vincent paces.
Not back and forth, exactly. Circles. The kitchen is small, but he makes it feel smaller, shoulders too broad, presence too loud even when he isn’t speaking. He shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair like he owns the place, like he hasn’t learned to fold himself smaller in certain rooms.
Alastor notices. He notices everything.
“You tracked dirt across the linoleum,” Alastor says pleasantly, reaching for a towel.
Vincent glances down, then grins. “That’s what linoleum’s for. It’s cheap. Nothing special to be cared for like a prize.”
Alastor smiles thinly. “Some of us prefer things that last.”
He turns to the stove, sleeves rolled with surgical neatness, movements controlled and precise. The knife gleams under the overhead light before it dulls as it's plunged into flesh fileting meat with harsh speed and precision. Vincent watches it with open interest, leaning his hip against the counter.
“Eugh! Why don't you just eat normal meat?” Vincent says. Not a question. “I seriously don't get the appeal, Al. That looks terrible.”
“It tastes delicious,” Alastor replies. “Plus, it provides such protein im sure your…beef can't compete.”
Vincent scoffs. “You were talking with that guy 4 hours ago.”
“I wouldn't say talking more, so giving him the run around. It's just show business, baby, nothing more to it besides you get something out of this kill, l so why shouldnt i?”
Vincent snorts softly. “I guess you're right… It’s a square deal.”
Outside, a radio somewhere down the hall crackles with a cheerful tune. A woman laughs. A door slams. Normal life presses up against the walls, oblivious and uninvited.
They share a look. The kind that would never survive in daylight.
“Hey Al, do you ever think about…”
Alastor looks at him over his shoulder, his stare devoid of any emotion, but Vincent knew what that meant; he was full of it, he just didn't want to appear uncertain in front of a man he considered beneath him.
Vincent steps closer. Too close, really, by the standards of the decade. He lowers his voice anyway. “About us?”
Alastor’s knife pauses mid-cut, his focus resuming on the task in front of him. He does not look at Vincent. “I have no reason to.”
W-what…?
“We’re secure in our arrangement, you get fame, and I get an inside man to direct all attention away from my…fun. It’s a copper-bottomed plan dont you think?”
“Y-Yeah! That’s what I mean.” Vincent’s grin is shaky and hungry for approval. “A truly “copper-bottomed” plan. ”
Alastor finally turns, expression warm and unreadable. “I knew you’d agree.”
Vincent’s smile falters for half a second. Then he recovers, straightening, smoothing it over with bravado.
“We make some 'killer’ business partners.”
Alastor lets out a sigh. Vincent isnt the funniest of fellows, but he's good company, though he’d never tell him that.
A laugh escapes Vincent before he can stop it. He shakes his head, fond and frustrated all at once. “Don’t be like that, Al. You know you love me.”
That earns him a look. Long. Measuring. Dangerous in its restraint.
“Come along now, dear,” Alastor says instead, voice smooth as polished wood. “Once supper’s finished, we mustn’t linger. Neighbors notice things, and tomorrow's gonna be a long pull for the both of us.”
Vincent raises an eyebrow. “Both of us?”
Alastor smiles.
“I suggest a long nights rest, Vincent.”
The pot simmers and the two men stand too close in a kitchen that would condemn them twice over if it could speak.
But it doesn’t.
And neither do they.