Work Text:
Alastor eased the thermometer out from between his lips, squinting as he twisted the glass rod until he could focus on the red line. His nose crinkled at the reading and he dropped back against the couch cushions with a grumble. Not that he needed to know how high his fever was, but it was just further confirmation that the only thing he'd be doing for the next couple of days was huddling down and hoping he’d be well enough for his show at the end of the week.
He coughed into the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and cursed the inconsiderate oaf that infected him. With how sick he was the man would probably get away with it too.
Leaning back, Alastor closed his eyes and tried to will himself to get up and make a warm drink before heading back to bed. Instead, he dozed off, breath wheezing through his parted, slightly chapped lips.
A banging woke him. He sat up, confused for a moment about whether it was the pounding of his own headache, but then the noise came again.
He was going to kill whoever was at his door.
Alastor slowly stood, testing his leg’s steadiness, and wrapped the blanket more firmly around himself. He shuffled to the door and checked the peephole. Vincent.
Alastor groaned, dropping his forehead against the door for a moment before pulling back and unlocking the door before Vincent could knock again.
He barely got the door open when Vincent started talking, one hand on the door to help push it wider.
”Hey, Al! I thought maybe-“ He paused, blanking as he registered Alastor’s pale and slightly gaunt face with its glimmer of moisture under an irritated nose and a sheen of sweat across a forehead framed by frizzed curls. “You look like shit.”
Alastor shut the door.
Or, he tried to. Vincent still had a hand on it and he shoved a foot into the doorway as soon as he realized what was happening. “Oh, uh, no… no I didn’t… I just meant… you look…”
”Like shit. I heard. I do apologize for not being adequately presentable for an unexpected and unwanted visit from a coworker,” Alastor hissed. Then he turned aside and coughed roughly, bracing himself against the door jam as a wave of lightheadedness washed over him.
”Whoa,” Vincent reached out and gripped his shoulder.
Alastor growled and the grip eased off, but didn’t leave entirely.
”Yeah, well… you need to sit down,” Vincent said, gently pushing at him.
”I’m perfectly capable of doing that once you leave,” Alastor assured him, even as Vincent shut the door and started walking him towards the couch.
“Al,” Vincent said, as though what he said was just so silly.
He got Alastor on the couch and then perched next to him, gawking like he’d never seen someone unwell before. Alastor tightened under the scrutiny, pulling back and shifting uncomfortably until Vincent finally looked away.
”Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t…” He looked at Al again, eyes darting from sickly feature to sickly feature. “You didn’t look like this the first time we met.”
Ah. Alastor’s tongue uselessly moved to wet his lips. If Vincent apparently always looked wrecked when he was sick, disheveled and sweaty and half dead, it would figure that he’d assume that Alastor always appeared put together. “I’m sorry to disappoint,” Alastor sighed.
”Not what I meant,” Vincent grumbled and then stood and walked to the kitchen like he owned the place. He returned a moment later with a glass of water, which he held out to Alastor.
Alastor stared at it. Stared so long that Vincent started to question himself.
”Should I have made tea? You’d probably like some tea. Do you, uhh, have tea? or a tea pot? Is it in the kitchen?”
Alastor took the glass from him to shut him up. “No. Thank you.”
Vincent shifted from foot to foot and Alastor took a sip of water. It had been just to placate him, but the water was cool and soothed some of the burning in his throat and he hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. He took a longer drink, eyes sliding shut in relief.
They popped back open when Vincent placed a hand against his forehead. “We should take your temperature.”
”I’m aware of my fever,” Alastor said, eyes dark under Vincent’s hand.
”You are?” Vincent asked, hand still planted firmly across Alastor’s forehead.
Alastor pulled away, since Vincent seemed incapable of doing so, and took another, more dismissive, sip of water. “I’m perfectly capable of using a thermometer, Vincent dear.”
“Oh.” He sat again, fingers knitting together. He glanced around the living room, eyes roaming over the nearly full wastepaper basket and the thermometer and tissue box on the coffee table and the lack of any other necessities, mouth moving like he had thoughts but kept dismissing them.
It was exhausting to watch. “Why are you here?” Alastor tried to keep the whine out of his voice, but he really just wanted the man to leave.
Vincent blinked at him. “You’re sick. So I thought I could—“
“No.” Alastor set the now empty water glass down on the coffee table and then pulled a couple of tissues from the box. He turned away and wiped his nose. “Why did you come here? Originally?”
Vincent perked up, eyes sparkling like he just remembered. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me to this little soiree the studio is throwing. It’s only for tv personalities, but I thought maybe you could be my guest! Cause I'm a rising star and you’re established, sure, but in radio and if you ever wanted to move to tv then you’d have an in, because of me.” He leaned close, excitement overtaking everything until he refocused on Alastor’s wane and unamused face. “Except, you can’t, obviously.”
He looked so crestfallen that Alastor almost laughed. “Don’t worry, pal, I wouldn’t have wanted to go even if I was well.”
If possible Vincent looked even more deflated.
Alastor rested back against the couch. “I’ve had my fill of soirees for a while.” He sniffled, pressing the tissues against his nose again. “That’s how I ended up like this.”
At Vincent’s confused head tilt, Alastor elaborated. “Someone got me sick at the studio’s radio based function last weekend.” He half expected Vincent to pout about how Alastor hadn’t asked him to tag along, like how he was so graciously offering.
“I’m sure they didn’t mean it,” Vincent said instead, though he looked suspiciously rejected.
”He entirely did mean it,” Alastor snapped. “Given the blatant disregard for my health compared to the practically shy, dare I say repressed, way he interacted with everyone else!” His breath caught, sending him into a coughing fit, and he leaned forward as he barked harshly into his blanket.
His shoulders tightened when Vincent’s broad hand touched his back and began to rub, but Vincent didn’t stop. He even added some supposedly comforting shushing noises and assurances that it’d be okay. Annoying.
Eventually, Alastor leaned away from the hand and back against the couch. Vincent was only quiet for a moment.
”Why would he…?” His fingers wrinkled his pants. “You’re Alastor.” He said the name as though it were coated in stars.
There was almost something adorable about how Vincent’s near spotlight focus on fame and popularity blinded him to reality. Alastor rolled his head towards him, staring balefully.
“Oh,” said Vincent after a moment. His eyes darkened. “Oh.”
Alastor studied the change. The way his gaze moved past Alastor, into somewhere between where they were and an inner place, his eyes glittering, sharpening, like a flint ready to strike a match. This was why Alastor hadn’t done away with him yet, had allowed him into his home, into his life, without consequence.
He came back to himself a moment later, eyes still wild as he turned to Alastor. “Is he…?”
Alastor coughed lightly, a slight, regretful smile playing across his lips. “Unfortunatly, this damnable lurgy has so far prevented me rectifying the injustice.”
“I could—“
Alastor held up a hand. “You really want to assist me?”
Vincent perked up. “Do you want that tea now? Or more water? Or… do you have vick’s? I could rub it on your chest.”
Alastor pinched the aching spot between his eyes and wondered if allowing the man to stay was wise. “On the bookshelf in the corner, second shelf, third book over. Bring it here.”
”Oh, um… sure,” Vincent said, like he wasn’t maybe a little disappointed that there would be no chest rubbing.
The book was old, hand bound in worn leather. Vincent carefully pulled it free from the shelf, fingers running over the unlabeled front. He didn’t dare open it with Alastor watching him like a hawk.
He handed it over and then sat again, leaning close to see inside.
”My mother’s recipe book,” Alastor explained, turning through page after page of small, neat handwriting. There were even a few drawings of ingredients or finished dishes.
“Your mom cooked,” Vincent said, like the attempt itself was a small wonder.
“And she was very good at it.” Alastor stopped on one page, fingers tracing the writing, before moving on. “Most of these she created herself.” He finally found what he had been looking for and held the book out to Vincent.
”My mother’s chicken soup.”
Vincent brought the book closer to his face, so he could see better in the dimming light of Alastor’s single lamp combined with the evening setting in. The book had a faint smell. Not musty, but an earthy homey smell invoking decades of meals.
“It’s got an awful lot of ingredients,” Vincent said, looking over the recipe. “I thought chicken soup was supposed to be plain.”
”You would,” Alastor mumbled. “All are necessary, I assure you.”
Vincent gave a little nod and shrug, still reading.
”I would like you to make it for me.”
Vincent looked up, eyebrows hitting his hairline. “You? Want me? To cook?” He laughed a little. “Uhh, you know they’re doing amazing things with cans now. And I know this diner…”
”The instructions are all there, it’s a straightforward and easy recipe. You’re perfectly capable, Vincent,” Alastor said, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. “You’re hardly feeble minded.”
Vincent glowered. “No. I just… I’ve never…” He looked like he wanted to follow it up with something disparaging about cooking, but didn’t dare with Alastor’s dead mother’s book in his hands.
“I want my mother’s soup. If you can’t do this for me, then leave.” Alastor sniffed sharply, body tightening away from Vincent. “When I’m feeling well enough I’ll make it myself.”
Vincent looked between Alastor curling away from him and the book, feeling the reluctance draining out of him. “I can do it,” he said. “Might not be as good as your mom’s…”
”Even my cooking isn’t as good as my mother’s,” Alastor said softly. He turned back to Vincent. “All the spices you need are on the rack. I should have everything else, but if there’s something you need there’s a market down the street.”
Vincent nodded. “Got it.” He started to stand, but Alastor’s hand on his knee stopped him.
Alastor suddenly loomed close. “If any harm comes to my mother’s book I will bleed you like a hog and use your meat in a number of her favorite dishes. Do you understand me, Vincent?”
The air thickened. The walls closed in. The shadows deepened. Danger crackled between the two men.
And then Vincent rolled his eyes, breaking the tension. “Trust me, I know how to handle a book.”
Even so, once he stood he very carefully set the book onto the coffee table before turning back to Alastor. “It’s gonna take a while. Do you, uh, would you be more comfortable in bed?” He blushed slightly as he asked.
Alastor shook his head carefully. “I’d prefer to stay out here, in case you need assistance.”
Vincent almost chuckled. “Yeah, okay.” Then he placed his hands on Alastor’s shoulders, guiding him down. “How about you lay down though?”
He hated being pushed, but also this entire experience had become increasingly draining, his head now evven thicker and fuzzier than before, so Alastor allowed Vincent to settle him horizontally on the couch. And even though Alastor was already wrapped in a blanket, Vincent tugged at the afghan that decorated the back of the couch and draped it over him. The extra weight tempered the mild tremors that had begun to run through Alastor’s slight frame.
Vincent gave a final pat to Alastor’s shoulder and made his way to the kitchen.
Alastor listened to him fumbling around, opening cabinets and drawers, pulling out pots and pans. He was probably making an awful mess. Alastor tried to keep his eyes open, tried to focus on every noise in case he had to step in, but soon he drifted off to sleep.
At one point he thought he heard the front door open, and then it opened again, but it seemed far too close together for anyone to have gone away and come back. There was more shuffling from the kitchen, maybe a swear or two, Alastor couldn’t guess. One of his radios turned on, playing low and on a station he didn’t usually listen to. His head ached and then there was a cool cloth being pressed against his forehead and fingers threading through his curls until the pain faded. It all happened in a moment, except when he finally opened his eyes to Vincent softly calling his name, hours had passed and a steaming bowl of soup was sitting on the coffee table.
“I think I fell asleep,” he mumbled, hand pushing the blankets back until he could rub at his eyes.
”Mmm, yeah, maybe a little,” Vincent teased gently before helping Alastor sit up, making sure it wasn’t too fast.
Alastor took a moment, congestion shifting. He ducked his head into the blankets and sneezed. And then groaned and sneezed again as the congestion shifted more. When he emerged Vincent was there, holding some tissues for him. Alastor nodded his thanks and turned away to blow his nose.
He sniffed but it didn’t trigger another sneeze so he tossed the tissues into the wastepaper basket. He was still too congested to smell anything. At least he hoped it was the congestion and not that Vincent had fucked up so monumentally that the chicken soup smelled like nothing.
When he was finally settled enough, Alastor reached for the bowl only to be interrupted by Vincent grabbing his hand. Alastor nearly shook him off, but Vincent knelt in front of him, devoted patheticness radiating off him like the sun.
”Al, I…” He licked his lips, thumb worrying Alastor’s palm, and took a steadying breath. “Let me kill him. Let me kill him, for you. I know you like to do it yourself…”
Alastor pulled his hand away, ignoring Vincent’s devastated look. He picked up the bowl of soup and carefully brought it to his lips. Even this close he couldn’t smell anything, but the warmth was there, and as he took a sip his mouth was filled with a familiar, if muted, flavor. He sighed, eyes fluttering close and letting the broth slip down his throat.
He savored that first mouthful before opening his eyes again. Vincent was still on the floor, gazing up at him, waiting for approval or condemnation.
”You may,” Alastor said, like bestowing a gift. Vincent’s eyes lit up. “But make sure to clean up after yourself.” He took another sip of broth before picking up the spoon and trying some of the chicken and vegetables. It was decent enough. Not that he’d tell Vincent, lest it go to his head.
”You won’t regret it,” Vincent promised, rising from the floor. He adjusted the blanket so that it was covering Al’s shoulders before returning to the kitchen to clean up there. He’d go out hunting later.
Vincent eventually brought Alastor a glass of water, a cup of tea, another bowl of soup, and what seemed like half of Alastor’s medicine cabinet (that Alstor had not given him permission to go through) before finally dropping into the armchair next to the couch with a bowl of his own.
Alastor wasn’t sure if he held more annoyance or admiration for Vincent’s brashness as watched as the man poke around the soup suspiciously like he hadn’t been the one to make it. Finally, Vincent took a bite and hummed in approval.
“Hey, not bad,” he grinned at Alastor around a mouthful of chicken. “Compliments to the chef.”