Chapter Text
It's cold. It's cold, and you can't move. You can't squirm. You are going to die here.
It's dark but not dark enough. You've seen too much , but you also see that you have something that might just save you. You reach out, strike a match and suddenly you're standing.
You can't leave. He's right in front of you, and you can barely hear what he's saying over the ringing in your ears and the clawing breaths in your chest. He leans forward, and teeth connect with your flesh, and pull away, and—
Run, or you'll end up a piece of meat on a hook like she is.
When did you drop her locket?
No no no no no no no.
…
You can't just run.
You keep asking, and he keeps being more and more and more wrong.
He needs to die. There is a broken bottle on the ground, matching with the corkscrew in his hand.
You can not know what to say, not to that, but you know what to do.
He needs to die for what he did. You pick up the bottle with your stinging hands.
He needs to die he needs to die he needs to die he needs to-
…
It's not cold anymore.
Your ears — no, your ear — still rings but you can hear the collapse of the walls you've spent the last week working within. There is warmth drying the blood on your face, and you turn away from the brightness.
You'll never forget him.
You know you can't.
…
Rody's chest heaves in a short breath as he sits up in bed and he squints his eyes open. It's not cold, and there's no fire, but the scarred teeth marks where his right ear should be tell him that that was real once. He shakes the plaid blanket that shrouds him into his lap. It's not just the glow of the fire behind his eyes that woke him up. A much gentler light peers through his curtains, and though he could always use a few more hours of rest, Rody pulls himself forward before starting onto his feet. If he's as up-to-date on his desk calendar as he thinks he is, today is Sunday, November 3rd.
"Oh, that's-" he can't stop himself from saying audibly. The date makes his teeth go on edge. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to ignore it. It's been five years, he can hardly picture his cramped old apartment any more, much less any image of La Gueule De Saturne not as a smoking husk of a building. Besides, what's there now is so much better. Speaking of which, he should be getting ready, shouldn't he?
Rody hits the light switch before walking over to his dresser and choosing a pale blue flannel, which he wears over a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled past his elbows along with a pair of dark pants held up by a belt. He can't help but remember the amount of times he's had to get buttoned up in some uniform or another for someone else, before he swore off of working food service and decided to get his life together using the money he stole from the register before the Bistro burnt down. It took a while to decide what he'd do, especially with everything that led to the decision. Nightmares that left him feeling like he could never escape and the fact that even thinking Manon's name was enough to make his eyes water, they made him sure that he had to remove any chance of ending up in a situation like that again. The nightmares don't make him wake up screaming anymore. Rody has his life together now, and so he hops on his bike and to the shop.
The thing is, his life's work and the reason he has more of a life than getting hired and fired by people that really could be anyone, could be murderers like Vince — it's in the same place that Rody set aflame half a decade ago with Vince bleeding inside. But after Rody resolved to go to trade school, he got a job at a bike shop that just so happened to be contracted in the place that would've haunted him if it stayed a ruin, and the shop was passed down to him by the mechanic. The parting gift of a sign with LAMOREE'S MOTOS hand-painted in big serif letters is sure to ward away any ghosts.
And yes, the Lamoree in question does feel his shoulders drop with comfort when he locks up his bike outside and crosses the threshold of the shop. He's only technically been the owner for three months, but even before that he took care of the shop better than he takes care of himself, because it's Rody, of course he does.
It's even more work than a new relationship would be, though he can't stand the thought of it. Sure, the last five years haven't been devoid of nice girls, but none of them are Manon and even if he could care about someone in the same way, he doesn't think he'd be able to handle being so terrified of what could happen. Of what has happened before.
But his job's alright. And as long as his judgement is trustworthy and the two new hires aren't of any danger, it'll stay that way. The bike shop is safe, and maybe by November 3rd next year, it'll be constant enough for him to forget Vince's face, or the pull of his teeth away from Rody's face or that dull-blade look in his following eyes as he lay there.
Until then — until that impossible lapse in the memories that protect him, Rody grabs the broom from the back closet and gets to work making the place spotless before Colette or Jackie come in. He takes stock, counts his change, makes sure the toolkits are well-sorted and that the prices on the bikes he's selling are visible.
Any inane task to stop his customers from catching him crying because walking around like this reminds him of waiting tables and waiting tables reminds him of the Bistro and of course, the Bistro that is no longer anywhere reminds him of Vincent, and the only place where Vincent is still alive is in the darkest parts of Rody's shadow and in the ashes in the foundation of the bike shop, and Rody may as well be the only person who knows that.
He's certainly the only person who knows he's an arsonist and a murderer, but that's not the worst thing he is. The worst thing he is is the idiot who let Manon be killed without saying goodbye first. That begets everything he had to do to Vincent, everything he had to put himself through. He didn't hesitate, and he didn't want to. Vincent needed to die, an eye for an eye and he didn't care about at all.
Rody sniffs and scrubs a hand across his face, trying not to picture where the meat freezer would be if the Bistro was still standing. Rody is okay. He's not living that life anymore, he owns his own bike shop and the people at the cafe nextdoor and the food truck across the street know his name and the orders he defaults to because he still can't cook for shit, and Colette and Jackie call him Mr. Lamoree which makes him feel much older than he is, and somebody just sold him a bright green bicycle that's a bit of a fixer-upper but it'll be fun to work on, his own bike has been through worse. He's okay, even if his desk drawer at home still has that matchbox he doesn't use except to rub his thumb against the rough side when he doesn't feel vengeful enough to not regret it. He kept the locket, too, and that usually changes his mind about revenge.
Soon enough, Colette comes in to greet him with a bit too much energy for someone who works a second job as well, at the bookshop half a block from here. "What kind of coffee do you drink?" Rody jokes.
Jackie is late, as per usual, and Rody opens up shop before assuming his position at the cash register. Jackie finally comes in, smelling like smoke with beer stains on his white tanktop. Rody doesn't get too mad, he used to be that much of a disaster himself, he just needs something more to focus on. Jackie tries to flirt with Colette, who responds with a sharp "If I were interested, you'd already know it," and Jackie stumbles through a faltering "That's the way it seems" even though anyone with a working pair of eyes can tell that Colette doesn't have time for men. Rody sighs through his teeth even though the company makes his mind a bit quieter and his reflection a bit less startling to see through the window, with his hair short enough to look professional but still overgrown to hide the scar on the side of his face. Well. He still knows it's there.
His vision of himself is eclipsed by someone walking their bike into the door — the first customer of the day. Soon, he's caught up in a flow changing tires and selling spare parts while fixing the tear in the seat leather on the green bike any spare minute he has. Colette helps talk to customers, while Jackie is working the register. It feels more natural than any job has before as a motley trickle of people come in to check out the shop with their bicycles and scooters.
He hates the thought of eating, not today, not on the same day he was almost fed Manon, so during his lunch break he replaces the wheels on the green bike. If he didn't want to sell it, he'd take it home with him. He can eat most of the time, he likes food all things considered, he just has to be careful. He doesn't trust meat anymore, and even on the days where he wants to, he ends up throwing it up afterwards. He knows it can't be…wrong, it won't be human, but he hates that he wouldn't be able to tell, that he recognized her locket better than her body hung up and bled like that. Rody ate well the day before, so that staves off 90% of the thoughts of Vincent's voice mirroring his own — I can't stand eating. But with his aching stomach, Rody's nothing like Vince.
"You okay?" Colette asks when Rody comes back to check on the main shop, a distant look in his eye.
"Yeah, I'm alright!" Rody chirps, a little too enthusiastic to be convincing. His stomach hurts. He'll find something he can eat after he closes up shop.
"You were staring into space for quite a bit there."
"And you should be working."
"It's a Sunday, it's slow today. Y'know, we really should be closed on Sundays and open on Mondays instead. I think you'd make a lot more money."
"I'll think about it," Rody responds, knowing full well that he'll forget even though this is the second time she's brought it up within her month of working here. A few years down the line, she'll be an entrepeneur. The breath caught in his throat tells Rody that she could be like Vince, someone whose passion is their business, with no time for the more social side of things. He shakes the thought. "But it's not that slow. I see a customer at the door. Why don't you see what they're looking for?"
Rody is about to ask how Jackie's doing at the register, when Colette leads the customer right to him. "What's wrong?" Rody asks, startled by the speed at which she sought Rody's help directly. "Do you need help finding something, or-?"
"No, I'm alright. He asked for you." Colette steps to the side to allow the customer to introduce himself, but he says nothing. Just looks Rody up and down. Rody starts to do the same when the silence extends, noticing that this stranger is dressed a little too warmly for the early days of November with a wool scarf bundled to his chin. With the cap hiding most of his charcoal hair, Rody doesn't recognize him until he looks him in the eyes.
He needs to be dead. He should be dead. You killed him, didn't you?
He's right there. Rody plays dumb, but it's an awful act. "UuuUUuh. Help to Lamoree's Motos, how can I dead you, I mean can I welcome I mean-"
"Rody, I know you don't greet every customer this way." Vince's voice is raspy like smoke. Like he had a messy gash stabbed into his throat. A little shaky, too, if Rody's hearing it right.
He draws in a breath. "H-how are you here?" He mumbles, coming out somewhere between a hiss and a gasp for air.
"I walked. The sign outside of the shop intrigued me." Vince's eyes narrow in that way they always used to.
"You know what I mean!" Rody shouts. Colette and Jackie turn towards him, and he lowers his voice nervously. "I— I don't want you here. I need you to leave."
"I haven't done a thing to you, Rody. How do you know I don't just want to talk?" Vincent shows his teeth. "And even if I was here to hurt you, it's not like you haven't done a thing to me." He pulls back a sleeve to show burns deep into Vincent's muscles. He can't say anything in response, just shudders. He was never a murderer, but he is capable of all of this. One part of his mind tells him no, bad, you shouldn't have done that, you should've just run. He hurt an actual person, and scared within an inch of his life it was easier to ignore that. His hands shake. The other part says you couldn't have even killed him?
Rody doesn't last a second before rushing into the back room and slamming the door. That part of his life was supposed to be dead. He killed Vincent, he ruined his life's work, and all of that was necessary compared to what Vincent did to Manon. The worst thing that he's done was letting Vince survive. He was supposed to be able to forget.
…
At least Vincent's a competent murderer.