Chapter Text
1950, Evening, Louisiana
Vincent Whittman was halfway down the courthouse steps when the sun was slowly dipping low enough to give him a slight chill.
The wind was stronger than usual.
He loosened his tie anyway. A cigarette was already between his fingers as he brought it to his mouth, taking a quick drag, briefcase heavy at his side. Another long day finished. Another case closed—one he wouldn’t spend a second longer thinking about.
Instead, he chose to think about home. About the dinner that was probably already heating on the stove. About the man waiting there, voice smooth as honey, curls bouncing as pretty as ever, and that smile that always came with him.
The telephone rang behind him. He could still hear it.
Vincent paused.
“Mr. Whittman,” the voice on the other end said when Vincent answered the call. It sounded profound and urgent. “We need you back at the parish prison. There’s been a new intake.”
“That’s not my case. I’m done for today,” Vincent replied automatically, unconcerned.
The line went quiet for half a deep breath.
“Mr. Whittman, I assure you, it is your problem now.” The tone in the voice was rigid.
Vincent knew better than to fight higher positions. He hoped that Alastor wouldn’t be too mad at him for being late to dinner. He’d make up for it with some red flowers that Alastor loved—he always said they reminded him of—
“A deep red, like blood. Surely a pretty color.”
Vincent didn’t bother thinking too much about it. He loved the man, even with his odd behavior sometimes. His Alastor would not have bad intentions. Ever.
…
Vincent got into his Chrysler New Yorker and drove to the prison he had been called to. After all, his duties mattered to him—and he did feel a little curious after that urgent call.
The prison sat heavier than ever. It always had—but something was still different tonight. Tonight, it seemed to press down on the earth itself, a dark shape swallowing the last of the evening light. He parked and sat for a moment longer than necessary, lighting another cigarette to stall for time.
New intake… he reminded himself. Nothing more.
That happened often enough—drunks, thieves, men who would be gone by morning, or men who deserved to stay. He still didn’t understand how this concerned him when he was outside of his working hours.
Inside, the air was thick and stale. Everything smelled of iron, sweat, and disinfectant, trying unsuccessfully to cover the rot beneath. At the front desk, Vincent signed his name without really reading the ledger, muscle memory guiding his pen. The desk sergeant barely looked up or spoke, which was already unusual. Normally there would have been a slight nod or an “Evenin’, Mr. Whittman,” maybe even a small joke.
One of the guards stepped closer. “Follow me,” he said, already turning.
Vincent adjusted his coat as he walked, the echo of his shoes too loud in the corridor. He ran a hand through his short brown hair out of habit. Something felt wrong. He had never been this nervous before—well, maybe on his first day. But he had been doing this for a good fifteen years now.
They stopped.
The guard unlocked a door and stepped aside.
They led him into an interrogation room just off the main corridor. It was bare, save for a table and two chairs, harsh blue lighting, and cinderblock walls that created an oppressive atmosphere. A one-way mirror and security cameras watched every move. Even Vincent began to feel exposed.
“You’ll continue from here on, Mr. Whittman,” the guard said before turning to leave the room.
For half a second, Vincent saw only a man seated neatly on the chair, hands folded in his lap as if he were waiting for something specific. His suit jacket—dark red—had been taken, his shirt wrinkled and stained at the cuff. But the posture was unmistakable.
Then the man looked up.
Vincent’s breath left him in a single, far too sharp exhale.
Alastor smiled.
It wasn’t wide, nor cruel. It was polite, almost apologetic, as if he had broken Vincent’s favorite record instead of sitting in front of him for an interrogation.
“Good evening, Vincent,” Alastor said pleasantly. “I was beginning to wonder how long it would take before they called you.”
Vincent’s world shattered.
He didn’t remember stepping closer to Alastor, but suddenly he was only inches away from him. His briefcase slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a loud thud.
“…No,” he said quietly, barely audible. “No, that’s—this is a bad dream, right?”
The guard cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whittman, but you know the inmate?”
Vincent didn’t answer. Couldn’t—was more like it. His eyes were locked on Alastor: the pretty brown curls, the eyes, the face he admired more than any other in the world. He searched desperately for something—anything. Panic. Anger. Regret. Something that proved this was a mistake.
There was nothing.
Alastor’s eyes softened instead. “Now, now,” he murmured, voice as calm as ever. “There’s no need to upset yourself, dear.”
My dear…
Vincent swallowed hard. His hands shook despite his efforts to still them, fingers curling into fists before opening again far too quickly. “What did you do?”
Alastor tilted his head, considering, rolling his eyes slightly. “I’m afraid that depends on which version of events you prefer.”
The guard shifted. “He confessed.”
That did it.
Vincent laughed once—a broken sound that didn’t belong to his usually controlled self. “He doesn’t confess,” he said, more automatic than thoughtful. “He never—”
Alastor’s smile widened just a bit.
“I suppose I was a bit sloppy with my work,” he admitted. “It happens to the best of us, right?”
“…Vinny,” he added.
Vincent stared at him, chest aching, every memory suddenly resurfacing—shared dinners, easy laughter, the first kiss Alastor had allowed him to give.
“You’re lying,” Vincent whispered.
“Me? Lying?” Alastor replied. “My, my, you know me better than that.”
The way he said it—calm, accepting—terrified Vincent more than anything ever could.
The guard coughed again. “You’ll have ten minutes before we begin the professional work.”
Vincent barely heard him.
Alastor stood, close enough now that Vincent could see the faint bruise blooming around his wrist.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Alastor said gently. “I’d hate to think I’ve ruined your evening, mon amour.”
Vincent’s throat closed. He forgot how to breathe.
This wasn’t a nightmare.
And the man he loved was already halfway gone.
Did he even have a chance to save him from what was waiting?