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The sheen of the sharp blade bounced directly past Vincent’s glasses, causing him to screw his eyes shut once, twice.
“Kid, please!” the broad-shouldered man below him cried, tossing his arm over his face, “You don’t have to do this!”
Vincent looked down at his right hand, wielding a dagger that wasn’t his, it was too pristine, and his left, gripping tightly the brushed corduroy fabric of his coworkers suit. George Williams, Channel 2’s very own anchor, was currently curled up against a brick alley wall, on edge by the very real threat that was Vincent Whittman.
“George, I…” the weatherboy began, the rest of his words catching in his throat. The iron grip of his right hand somehow drew tighter as crystal droplets of tears fell from his eyes and plopped quietly on his glasses, which were barely hanging onto his ears at this point.
God, when had he started crying?
No, no, fuck, this was so embarrassing. A murderer could not have a moral crisis in the middle of a kill. They were supposed to be apathetic and malicious. You could barely compare Vincent to a murderer. This scrawny weather man was crying on the job, for fuck’s sake!
Jesus, what was he going to say to–
“See? See? You don’t even want to do it yourself!” Williams started, retreating the arm covering his face and noticing the tears bejeweling the glisten of Vincent’s eyes, “Please, I got to get home to—”
George’s words were cut short by a sudden, angry shift of position. Vincent hoisted the man up, slamming his back against the wall. In this arrangement, Williams could probably overpower the lanky young man, but unfortunately for him, any movement was bound to slit his throat against the knife currently held against his neck.
“Zip it, Williams.” Vincent hissed, noticing how the movement had knocked his glasses off his face. No matter. Even in the slightly blurred reality of the world, he could still make out the important things.
“Now, kid, let’s not get hasty–”
“I said zip it! God, do you ever listen to George?! Or have you always just taken orders from yourself, you jackass?” Vincent yelled, panting afterwards.
“...Kid–”
“You call me ‘kid’ one more time–scratch that–you speak one more goddamn time and you’re fucking dead!” Vincent’s grip on the base of the knife once again tightened.
George swallowed, feeling his Adam's apple brush ever so slightly against the sharp blade.
“C’mon Vince, we both know you won’t do it–”
Vincent felt a presence behind him, a firm hand grasping confidently his knife wielding wrist and dragging it in a swift, clean motion across George’s neck. The broad-shouldered man gasped out a few last breaths before collapsing against the cold pavement, blood spilling out from his slit throat.
A light, hearty laugh came from behind Vincent. The hand holding his wrist relinquished its grip as Vincent spun around.
“Al!” he choked out, trying to sound as cheery as he could with a dead man at his heels.
Alastor /̵̨͖͗/̸̟̮͛/̴̧́/̴̻̄̽̾͐/̵̢̩̣̲̃͒̃͜/̸̪̟̭̣̝̇̎/̴̮̙̙̯͗̊, Whittman’s mentor. A beautiful, deranged lunatic, with gorgeous curly hair that always looked so effortless when he threw his head back in manic laughter. Radio host by day, something more sinister by night.
“I–I thought you said you’d let me handle it…!” Vincent said. Alastor hummed.
“Vincent, dear, I do so believe you can handle this on your own now, but oh… oh, well, I suppose I just remembered how hard my first few kills were and I thought,” he gingerly took the dagger, his dagger, from Vincent’s hand and licked it clean of blood. Whittman quickly became very interested with the pavement beneath his feet, for nonspecific reasons (and definitely not to hide the obscene amount of blush on his face).
“I thought ‘I can’t let Vincent go through that same turmoil.’ So I thought I’d help you through the motions until you’re comfortable enough to get a kill that's all you.” Alastor finished cleaning the blade and placed it caringly in his belt loop. Vincent smiled weakly.
“I suppose you saw the tears?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, Vincent, darling,” Alastor began, opening his arms wide, “come here.”
Vincent stalked over into Alastor’s warm embrace. The care and support assured that the tears began flooding Vincent’s mismatched eyes in record time.
“I just,” he began, voice trembling, “he kept talking about his family, Al–I–I just couldn’t–”
“Shhh,” Alastor reassured him, “It’s alright, dear. It will get easier.”
Vincent pulled out from Alastor’s arms to meet his gaze, “You think so?”
Alastor picked up Vincent’s glasses from the floor and placed them gently over his face, “I know so, Vincent,”
“Thank you, Al.”
Vincent wanted to say something more appreciative,
but he stopped himself from getting too affectionate. He knew a man like Alastor usually cut ties with those who got too attached.
“Now,” Alastor looked down at the dead body of George, long stagnant now, blood half-dried against the pavement, “we must clean this up before anyone arrives.”
“Oh right.” Vincent said in quiet realization. The two men looked around before they both noticed a large green dumpster down the pathway. They met each other's gaze, silent words exchanged between the two of them.
It was amazing how easily a 200 pound man could be carried by two men who combined to make barely more than his size when the effort was put in. The dead body of George Williams was carefully laid in the alley dumpster in no more than five minutes.
“What about the blood stains on the sidewalk?” Vincent asked after catching his breath. Alastor chuckled heartily.
“Oh, Vincent Whittman, I taught you better than that.” he said in only the tone a disappointed mother could configure.
“Ah, right!” The bespectacled man said in remembrance, pulling his polyester handkerchief from his suit coat. “Do you have…?”
Alastor handed him two unlabeled bottles, one clear, the other tinted. Water and hydrogen peroxide. As Vincent began scrubbing the stain out, Alastor took the opportunity to clean his glasses with his own handkerchief, a silk one.
“It’s a good thing I decided to drop by, otherwise you’d be scrubbing that spot until morning.” he said, positioning his spectacles to watch his partner stand and refold his handkerchief into his pocket.
“I swear, Al, you gotta make a checklist or something. I can’t remember all this shit on my own.” Vincent said, handing back the two bottles. Alastor took them and laughed at Vincent’s comment.
“Oh, yes, I’ll post it on the fridge: ‘Alastor’s Murder Supply List!’”
Vincent scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, “I suppose that’s not such a great idea.”
Alastor’s nimble fingers caught Vincent’s face between his hands, rubbing his thumb against his heated cheekbone.
“Oh, Vincent, I think it’s a swell idea.” he murmured, “I can’t wait to see what more you accomplish, dear.”
The suave radio host placed a chaste kiss against Vincent’s cheek. He pulled away, smile ever present.
“See you around, Mr. Whittman.”
Vincent reached out as Alastor turned away, catching his wrist in his hand.
“Wait! Al—“ Vincent pulled Alastor in for a longer, more carefully calculated kiss against his soft lips. Alastor squeaked in surprise before indulging the man.
Vincent hummed, pleased with himself as he pulled away.
“Thank you, Al… I’ll see you later.”
Alastor turned, “I suppose you will, Vincent.”
“I love you…”
“I suppose you do, Vincent.”
And, with that, he was gone.