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The heavy banging on the door didn’t startle Alastor, but it did make him leave an ugly mark on the program notes he was reviewing for his evening show. There shouldn’t be anyone interrupting him, well, ever, but certainly not in the middle of the day. Still, he rose from the kitchen table and crossed the room to peer through the peephole.
He pulled back, glanced at the wall clock, and then double checked the peephole.
A disheveled Vincent Whittman stood on his doorstep.
The middle of the afternoon meant Vincent should have been at work. He should have been preparing to do one of his numerous daily weather reports. Reasons for him to be here, looking like that, to see Alastor, were limited to not good things.
Alastor’s hands curled at his sides and he briefly wondered if he should get the large kitchen knife now or wait to see what kind of mess Vincent had made and how he planned on dragging Al into it.
They had come to a shared understanding of sorts, an almost friendly partnership (if either one of them were the type to have friends), after discovering their similar hobbies.
But Alastor had the feeling that Vincent’s impulsive messiness would eventually come to haunt him. He didn’t expect it this soon though.
Through the peephole, Vincent raised his fist to bang on the door again and Alastor quickly pulled the door open before he could. This wasn’t exactly the kind of neighborhood that appreciated wild, uncontrolled interruptions like that.
Beyond the confines of the tiny, distorted lens Vincent looked even worse.
He blinked his glazed and unfocused eyes at the suddenly opened door, fist raised to strike nothing other than Alastor. “Al,” he said with a mix of shock and relief.
”Vincent,” Alastor replied, trying to gauge exactly the depth of the issue by the frantic, sweaty look the man had.
"They sent me home from work, Al. Can you believe it? Said I wasn’t fit to read the weather."
Alastor raised an eyebrow. Whatever this was, it wasn't anywhere near what Alastor had been thinking. He began reevaluating. Vincent’s voice was gravelly, thick with congestion, and absolutely shot to shit. He was pasty, flushed across the cheeks, and his nose was leaking as he all but panted through his mouth.
"Looking like this? Haha!” Alastor deadpanned. “Unfathomable to the human mind!"
”I know!” Vincent wheezed before turning to cough against his shoulder. “I had three segments left.” He then walked past Alastor without even a “how do you do, may I come in”. Just an assumed invitation for Al to get a load of his business woes, as though Alastor would want anything Vincent currently had.
Alastor glanced around outside, making sure none of the neighbors were getting nosey, before firmly shutting the door. With Vincent inside. Instead of out on the street where he could be his own problem.
He sighed as he turned to face the other man, cocking his head as he watched Vincent sway in the middle of his living room.
”…when it’s all their fault anyway,” he mumbled and Alastor realized that he’d continued to rant regardless of whether Al was listening or not. “They do this to me and then throw me out like trash.” He looked up, eyes fixed on Alastor’s face and chest heaving.
Oh, Alastor knew that look. That feeling. That righteous burn.
Usually it followed an exceptional bit of rudeness, something that could never be corrected except in one specific way.
And normally Alastor would be all for a night of correction, however the circumstances for Vincent’s ire were far from what Alastor considered worthy. Hardly even what Vincent himself should consider worthy, if he were honest about it.
Alastor sighed. He should have seen this coming when Vincent had bounded up to him the week before, crowing about the studio testing a new remote video broadcasting system.
“They’re sending me out to do a live, on the scene, weather segment. Showing people reality from the comfort of their homes is the future, Al!” The excitement had shown through every minute movement of his body, every breathlessly awed word. “You’ll watch, won’t you? You’ll watch me make history?”
And Alastor couldn’t resist such wild, misplaced, enthusiasm.
Even better was when he had tuned in to see Vincent struggling to stay perky in ridiculous conditions; rain battering him from all angles, voice drowned out by the whipping wind, looking worse than a twice drowned rat. The fact that the weatherman had failed to predict the torrential storm had given Alastor a most agreeable chuckle.
Of course being drenched in freezing rain and not being able to properly dry off or warm up before returning to the studio for the rest of the day would send Vincent’s immune system into a downward spiral. The ribbing he’d gotten for days afterwards from his colleagues certainly didn’t help things either. Alastor could swear the man was more delicate than a wilted flower.
”They humiliated me,” Vincent coughed out. “And I still showed up. I show up every day, no matter what.” He coughed again, longer and more ragged this time. “They think they can send me away? I could have done it, Al. They wouldn’t let me show them!” Vincent clenched his fists and then swiped one under his leaking nose. Then his breath hitched and he sneezed twice, the sound grating out his throat.
This was quickly getting out of hand. Vincent's murders, in Alastor’s opinion, tended to be half-cocked power grabs at best. Messy. Relying on the blindness of others and his own suspicion dodging camouflage. Alastor wanted no part of what that mixed with revenge and a raging cold would look like.
So he steeled himself and stepped forward to lay his hands on Vincent’s shoulders, nose crinkling at the uncomfortable heat he felt.
"Well, you'll certainly show them you can't be kept down when you return to work hale and hearty next week," he cooed, massaging at the bunched and trembling muscles at the base of Vincent’s neck.
”I’ll show them,” Vincent nods. “They’ll never try to ruin me again.”
Alastor rolled his eyes and kept kneading at Vincent’s neck and shoulders, feeling the man begin to relax. He eased Vincent’s suit jacket off and draped it over the couch before returning his hands to Vincent’s back. The fever heat felt more intense now, without the thicker layer, and the shirt underneath was damp, but Alastor still made sure, calm strokes across his shoulders.
Vincent continued to mumble, grumbling about how his ideas were never listened to, even though they were brilliant. “24 hour weather, Al, can you imagine? Up to the minute reporting…”
Alastor could imagine. He didn’t care. The weather wasn’t terribly interesting to him.
He slipped his hands around Vincent’s neck and undid his tie, which was already a poorly tied mess, and pulled it away.
”24 hour everything. Ever notice how you can’t go anywhere at two am?”
Alastor hummed, not committing to any answer. He couldn’t imagine people bustling around at two am. Not since it was so nice when there was no one awake for miles.
He gave Vincent a small push and Vincent moved, barely under his own steam. “Sharks never sleep,” Vincent told him, feet shuffling against the carpet and Alastor briefly wondered if his fever was in delirium territory.
He steered Vincent towards his bedroom. Not an ideal solution, but far easier than trying to escort Vincent back to his own apartment.
They stopped in front of Alastor’s dresser and Alastor got to work unbuttoning Vincent’s shirt and slipping it off him.
Vincent was pliant under his hands, eyes unfocused, allowing Alastor to move him this way and that, uncaring. He’d even seemingly given up trying to stem the flow of moisture from his nose and when he coughed he only leaned away a little. “I have so many ideas,” he said, almost sadly.
”Of course you do,” Alastor assured him, only half paying attention as he dug around to find a set of pyjamas that would fit Vincent’s slightly larger frame.
”Everyone will see,” Vincent said, gesturing sharply as Alastor tried to corral his hands into the pyjama sleeves. “They’ll see all my ideas, Al! Then they won’t be able to send me away again,” he growled and then twisted away to cough.
A small ball of pity had lodged itself in Alastor’s chest and was demanding that he use a soft approach.
"Vincent, darling," he began gently, after finding some time ago that affection, even verbal, often settled Vincent down. "While I am loath to agree with your boss, who clearly doesn't have even an ounce of your intelligence..." Flattery tended to help too. "Your brain is quite possibly boiling right now. You’re not thinking clearly."
Vincent blinked at him, pulled away from the dark revenge laden road he was heading down. Something cleared in his eyes as they focused on Alastor’s face and Alastor could practically see the singular brain cell he swore Vincent was occasionally reduced to working overtime.
”Alastor? I…” He sounded lost, eyes darting around Alastor’s face. “What?”
The pity ball grew. “Your fever, sweetheart,” Alastor said, laying his palm against Vincent’s forehead. His eyes narrowed in honest concern.
“Fever,” Vincent murmured, like he was trying the word out for the first time. He sagged against Alastor’s hand, eyes sliding shut at both the brief cooling relief and from being touched by Alastor at all. He pulled away after a moment, swallowing thickly. “…I don’t think I feel good, Al.”
Alastor only barely held back on rolling his eyes. “That’s why you’re going to bed now,” he explained, overly gentle and patient.
Vincent scrubbed a hand over his face and sniffled up some of the wetness sluggishly dripping from his nose. “Yeah, bed sounds…” He froze, eyes circling around the room, seemingly realizing where he was for the first time. “Alastor…? This is your bedroom.”
Alastor lightly tapped a finger against Vincent’s forehead. “Correctly observed! Still working a bit, I see.”
He guided Vincent to sit on the edge of the bed. “Since your brain seems to be in slight working order, here are your pyjama bottoms. I trust you can put those on yourself.”
Vincent fingered the fabric of the bottoms and then moved to touch the top he was wearing. A blush overtook the fever flush as he realized he was half dressed for bed already. In Alastor’s clothes. "erm, yeah, um, I can... yeah,” he said, not looking at Alastor at all.
Alastor nodded, even though Vincent wouldn’t see it, and left him to it.
He moved through the house, digging through closets and drawers to find a stack of handkerchiefs, a hot water bottle, and some aspirin. He then stopped in the kitchen to make Vincent a cup of tea and fill the bottle.
Alastor couldn’t even begin to explain to himself why he was bothering. Wasn’t allowing Vincent use of his pyjamas and bed more than enough? Even that seemed beyond what he should be doing, when other much easier and more rational options included setting him up on the couch or simply telling him to leave.
Instead, Alastor also found a jar of honey and sliced up a lemon.
When he returned to the bedroom with the tray of supplies Vincent was still sitting on the edge of the bed, but thankfully he at least had gotten the bottoms on. He looked up when Alastor entered, eyes watery.
”Al, I…” He swallowed, fingers worrying at the buttons on the pyjama top. “I don’t know why…” He pushed himself off the bed, swaying as he tried to steady his legs. “I should go.”
Alastor set the tray down just in time to wrap around Vincent’s middle before his knees gave way. He eased him back down onto the bed. “Nonsense.” He tilted Vincent’s face to look at him and swiped a stray tear away before it slid down his burning cheek. “I could hardly send you away in this condition.”
That didn’t seem to make Vincent feel any better about the situation, eyes shining and lower lip trembling as he looked anywhere but Alastor.
Alastor sighed quietly. This would need a little extra finessing. “Certainly not after you made it all the way here. When your apartment is so much closer to the studio. It’s honestly impressive.”
Vincent gazed up at him then, full of devotion and leaking congestion.
Alastor handed him a handkerchief.
Vincent turned away to wipe at his nose and Alastor heard him trying to lightly blow. It didn’t seem like enough but Vincent quickly turned back and sniffed, looking sheepish and unsure about what to do next.
There was some fumbling and awkwardness, but eventually Alastor managed to get Vincent under the covers and propped up against a couple of pillows. He then handed Vincent two aspirin and the cup of tea laden with honey and lemon and busied himself with tucking the hot water bottle under the covers at Vincent’s feet.
Vincent made a soft, pleased noise as he sipped at the tea. And then his breath hitched, the steam having worked its way into his inflamed sinuses.
Alastor glanced up to see Vincent looking dazed, eyes unfocused as his nose twitched. The tea cup wobbled in his loosening grip and Alastor swooped in to remove it before Vincent was overtaken by a flurry of sneezes.
Alastor quickly handed him another handkerchief. It just felt like Vincent was one of those people to unthinkingly use his sleeve unless he had something else easily accessible.
Even though the sneezes sounded very productive to Alastor’s ears, Vincent only sniffed and lightly dabbed under his nose.
“Don’t hold back on my account, pal. Better to get it all out," Alastor advised, bored and somewhat annoyed with the small, wet sniffs Vincent was employing instead of a few decent blows.
Vincent blushed again, the tips of his ears turning bright red. But under Alastor’s expectant gaze, complete with raised eyebrows, he nodded and turned away, shielding Alastor from the worst of it.
It didn’t shield Alastor from any of the noise, but at least it sounded like he was getting a lot out. Alastor handed him another handkerchief before Vincent even had to ask.
Vincent settled back against the pillows and reached for the tea. “Thangs for... all this," Vincent sniffled, like he hadn't just filled two handkerchiefs.
"Of course," Alastor chirped. "What are partners for?” He adjusted the blankets, focusing on fixing wrinkles. “I'd never consider abandoning you while you were so unwell."
When he looked up he found Vincent staring at him, eyes shining with something far closer to a tender emotion than Alastor was comfortable with.
"Unfortunately, I have a show tonight!”
Vincent’s face fell, eyes dropping to stare into the now empty tea cup. “Oh.”
It caused something awful to bloom in Alastor’s chest. “Come now, Vincent, don't look so sad.” He aimed for cheery and not strained or desperate to comfort. “I'll leave the radio on and it'll be like I never left."
Vincent nodded, not looking up from the cup.
The awful thing in Alastor’s chest wriggled uncomfortably. In an attempt to calm it, Alastor sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the tea cup out of Vincent’s hands, setting it aside. He then placed a finger under Vincent’s chin and lifted until he could easily press a kiss to Vincent’s forehead. "You’ll probably sleep through my time away," he said, not moving his lips away from the sweat glazed skin.
Vincent trembled under him, breath catching in a way that had little to do with his illness. "I'll listen to your show," Vincent promised breathlessly.
Alastor pulled back, leaving one hand to stroke through Vincent’s hair. “I’m sure you will,” he said as he helped Vincent lie down. He tucked the blankets high over Vincent’s chest before plucking his glasses off. Vincent’s wheezing breaths were already evening out, eyes fluttering closed.
Alastor carefully brushed a lock of hair off Vincent’s forehead before turning the bedside radio on, with the volume low but still audible, and leaving the room.