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The body slips in Vincent’s hold for the third time.
Alastor is technically meant to be preparing the tools for breaking up the bodies, but he can’t help watching. After all, it’s unusual for Vincent to struggle with such an easy part of their process, and anything that changes their carefully-crafted routine is…worth noting. “Everything…alright?”
“It’s fine, I’m just…” Vincent blinks, hard, breathing deeply through his nose. “It’s probably just the heat. You know I’m not, uh…” again, he squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m not used to it. You know I’m not used to it. I’m not used to it being like this. Louisiana. Hot.”
Alastor scans him, eyes flicking from his hands to his face and back down again. But nothing appears visibly off. And Vincent knows better than to take coke before they go out on a hunt. Besides, the one time he had been stupid enough do a line before they met up, it had been…different. Coke had him manic and hypervigilant. Not to mention, filled him with enough energy to bounce his way all across the swamp. This isn’t quite the same. Vincent is struggling today.
Perhaps it’s a matter of motivation. Alastor pauses in the midst of wiping down a scalpel, cooing over his shoulder: “Oh dear, are you having a hard time~? Why do I bring you along, if you can’t take care of this part, hm? Do you need me to hold your hand in this, too~?”
Vincent’s eyes widen a fraction. “N-No, I can do it! It’s fine, the body probably got caught on a fuckin’ root or something ‘cause you insist on coming three fucking miles into buttfuck nowhere just to hack a guy up. Could just shove him in the water and fucking be done with it. If anything, cutting it up makes it more suspicious.” He lets go of the arm to grab at the man’s shirt, instead, trying to hoist him up at a slightly different angle. That option doesn’t seem any more successful. “It’s— fuck, I can’t get a hold on it, stupid fuckin’ thing. I can’t— Come the fuck on!”
“Careful, Vincent. You sound about ready to cry~”
“I’m not!” he insists, pulling harder at the body. Slick with swamp water and blood, it slides from his hands and drops into the thick mud. Vincent swipes the back of his forearm over his face to wipe away the blood so he can see. “Get off my damn back for one second. I can get it, it’s just slippery. It’s hard to—” he grunts, again trying to heave the body against his own chest, “—get it to sit up.” Alastor’s face must betray his unease. “B-But I can do it! We only have to get it onto the plastic, right? Uh— fuck. Fuck, it’s gonna get stuck, isn’t it,” he mutters, staring at the body as it begins to sink, slowly, into the shallow waters.
Staring.
Rather than picking it up. Alastor watches Vincent, while he in turn watches the body, and it becomes more and more lodged in the muck all the while. Alastor clears his throat, and when Vincent looks back towards him, he has to nod to the corpse again for the other man to understand and scramble into action. It’s…atypical. Perhaps a problem. “…Are you certain you’re alright, Vincent? You don’t seem especially present, today.”
Of course, even as he says it, he knows Vincent won’t confess anything— Vincent never admits when he’s unwell, even when he’s visibly dripping with cold and wrapped in three layers of blankets. Already, Alastor is braced for the dismissive response. An equally dismissive jab is ready on the tip of his tongue for when Vincent replies: “I just…I don’t…feel so good.”
Alastor rolls his eyes. “Well, you said that last time, an—”
Then, he blinks, the tools clattering out of his hands in his haste to turn around. “I…beg your pardon? Did you say you’re…not feeling well?”
Vincent’s grasp on the body slips again, and he wobbles, unsteady on his feet. He swipes at his face again, covering his pale skin with another thin layer of blood and dirt. Alastor marches over and grabs his wrist hard enough to bruise. “You look pale.”
Half a second too slow, he replies: “You always say that. About me.” A breathy little laugh escapes him. I, um…that’s how my face…how my face, uh…” He sways again, more visible this time, almost pitching himself straight into Alastor’s chest. His face scrunches. “Al? I don’t feel good.” When his body tilts again, he digs his fingers into Alastor’s shirt, letting out a soft noise. “I’m gonna— I think I might be sssss…”
And Vincent’s knees give out.
Fuck.
“Don’t you dare throw up on this suit,” Alastor hisses. “Vincent! Vincent, get up, for goodness’ sake!” Somehow, he’s grown heavier in the last minute, leaden limbs slipping away from Alastor’s shirt. He’s gone quiet. Much too quiet for Vincent, especially. He’s never quiet. Despite himself, a faint sting of panic pierces Alastor’s calm. “Alright, that’s enough. You’ve had your allotment of touching and then some, haven’t you?”
Vincent doesn’t say anything.
When Alastor gives up on preserving his suit and sinks to his knees, it’s all he can do to keep the dead weight vaguely upright. Vincent’s skin is pale under the layers of grime, and when Alastor presses his hand to the man’s forehead, it’s much colder than he’d expect. The temperature of a corpse right after the kill, when the body still hasn’t fully caught up yet. Alastor forces that image firmly to the back of his mind and shifts Vincent against his chest so he can check for a pulse.
There— sluggish, but present. It’s something. Alastor lets his own head drop for a moment, resting it in the other man’s shoulder as he exhales sharply through his teeth. Not quite a sigh of relief. That has nicer connotations than the angry, unsettled thing in Alastor’s chest. Of course Vincent hadn’t simply dropped dead for no reason out of nowhere. He’d just decided to lose consciousness in the middle of a body disposal, when the police had already been sniffing about near the other drop site, again because of Vincent in the first place—
He looks back at the body, still lodged in the mud, and then down at the man in his arms. At least Vincent had stabbed this target with a quick one-and-done in the jugular…no visible injuries besides that. Of the bodies that had been found, he knows two of Vincent’s were strangled, with a handful more of their group projects found stabbed and attributed to muggings. On the very off chance that someone comes across this one, it could be put down to a burgeoning serial killer who liked to exsanguinate victims. That should throw them off the trail for a while, providing the pair were careful. He could always come back to…
“Don’t go back to the bodies, Alastor,” he mutters to himself, teeth clenched tight enough to squeak together. “That’s foolish. That’s how you get caught. Don’t go back to bodies.” One of their most important rules. Or more specifically, one of the rules he’d beaten into Vincent’s head at the outset of this partnership. Too many idiot novices had been caught that way, letting the police whip them into a frenzy and lead the way to their own noose, like a hunting dog. And he would not be compared to a dog.
Besides. He doesn’t know for certain what’s wrong with Vincent. It could very well be time sensitive. “…this is your fault,” he hisses, pulling the other man along by his armpits. His legs rake through muck and goodness knows what else, no doubt ruining his nice, shiny shoes. Thank fuck the truck is parked nearby. “—yours and you will pay for it. I don’t give you permission to die until you’ve bloody well—” Christ, lugging this moron along is already making Alastor’s back twinge in protest. “—paid me back. And run me a bath. That’s how you can— pay— me— back.”
Getting to the truck is quite the feat. Alastor almost falls against it, heaving for breath, one hand fumbling for the door handle. “You’re going in the back seat. You’ve lost shotgun privileges. Like a dog. Do you hear me, Vincent? You’re no better than a damn dog.”
…No response.
“Well, if anything was going to rouse you…” Arguably, that’s better proof of how serious this is than anything else Alastor could do. Maybe they should go to a hospital. Even though his better judgement says otherwise, Vincent has no reaction to being manhandled into the back seat of Alastor’s pickup, despite all of his ‘jokes’ about it, and even when his head knocks into the far door as he’s pushed in, the man doesn’t stir.
They’re both covered in various unspeakable fluids, and it’s about two in the morning, by Alastor’s estimation. Walking into a hospital is a surefire way to be arrested. Much as he hates to admit it, thinking on the fly is Vincent’s job. Between his face and his silver tongue, he’s the one to swoop in when plans go awry. Alastor is the planner.
He’s supposed to be the planner. Right now, his mind is stuck in a feedback loop. Where is the nearest hospital, even, would they take a man with no wallet and no documents? Hell, he doesn’t know if Vincent has health insurance. Surely, he isn’t stupid enough not to have any.
Then again, he can just picture how the idiot might respond if asked. I’m fit as a…uh…shark! Who needs that crap? I’ll just pay if I get sick! All with that idiotic grin on his foolish face as he says the most ridiculous things.
Alastor thumps his fist against his truck in lieu of a smug imaginary grin. This is getting him nowhere. Standing here thinking will only waste valuable time.
At least he remembers, at the last moment, to retrieve their tools. You never know what the fine officers of the local department can clean from one measly pocket square left at the scene, never mind an entire set of surgical equipment in a fancy leather wrap. He peers through the window at an unmoving Vincent, grits his teeth again, then starts down the slope to retrieve his equipment. Since he can’t do much about the body now, he plants his foot on its shoulder and heaves it further into the water. Not a perfect solution, yes, but hopefully the bloating should throw things off, if it’s found prematurely. Despite his better judgement, he’ll have to leave it like that, and try not to obsess about it. They’ve experienced closer shaves. It should be fine.
He slings the pouch onto his passenger side door before climbing up into the driver’s seat. What he needs, ideally, is somewhere isolated where he can see to Vincent and get him clean enough be presentable, if...his condition takes a turn.
Fuck. He hadn’t thought about that part, either. What does he do, if Vincent doesn’t wake up? If the man dies in his truck?
Alastor allows himself a single moment to calm down. Rakes his hands through his curls, lets his face drop to the steering wheel, inhales a deep, steadying breath through his nose. If Vincent doesn’t wake up, then he’ll need to take him to a hospital. Inform his studio. Perhaps notify the family. Does…does Vincent have family, somewhere? He’s never spoken of his mother, the brief mentions of his father have always been in past tense. Siblings? Vincent strikes him as an only child, but he doesn’t know that, it’s only a supposition, and if there is one who’s in regular contact, the sudden disappearance will be troubling. For the first time in his life, Alastor wishes he’d paid more attention to Vincent’s inane ramblings, that something of use would have stuck. Not to mention that if a man like Vincent is found in Alastor’s house after vanishing into thin air…
Which are all considerations he can make when the time comes. They have a few hours before anyone will notice Vincent is gone. That gives him time to mull it over.
As he exhales, he straightens up and wrestles the truck into gear. The roads out here are narrow and bumpy. Endless corridors of silent black, barely illuminated by his headlights. He keeps his eyes fixed on a single point in the distance. He doesn’t bother with the radio, even knowing it could drown out the steady churn of his thoughts. As much as it leaves a foul taste in his mouth, he has to use this time to sort through the next steps.
Regardless of the cause, he’ll need to get Vincent cleaned up and presentable. If he needs a hospital, he can’t be covered in blood, and neither can Alastor. Vincent is unconscious, which means he needs somewhere to rest. Somewhere warm and clean and safe. Somewhere Alastor can keep an eye on him. Not to mention, somewhere where he can actually carry (or rather, drag) a lump of uncooperative dead weight without anyone bothering—
The cabin.
That’s it. Alastor pulls the car into an abrupt u-turn, pressing down on the gas pedal hard enough for it to squeak in protest. The cabin is closer than either of their homes. They have supplies there, food, a bed. Before Vincent, he’d stay overnight on occasion, rather than risk driving back in the middle of the night and get stopped. It isn’t perfect, but it’ll be enough to…to work things out. He rakes his fingers through his hair and tightens his grip on the wheel, easing his foot off the accelerator. Just enough not to end up veering off the road when they approach the meandering, downhill curve that leads down towards the lake. Mud encroaches on each side of the tarmac. Vincent shifts in the back seat with a soft groan, and Alastor’s eyes dart to the mirror, watching him intently.
He doesn’t move again. He lays there, pale and shining with sweat, and he doesn’t move as the truck rattles down a solitary track through the trees. The road runs out after a few minutes, just shy of his cabin, leaving them stranded in a silent row of empty stone plots. His cabin, a sad-looking thing at the end of the row, was going to be something of a display piece. Running water, electricity, the works. Perhaps the only boon his father ever gave him, though naturally not meant for Alastor. There were supposed to be other cabins, he remembers, beside his own— this area was supposed to be a whole collection of obnoxious holiday homes for overpaid white men who ruined everything.
Speaking of which…
Alastor guides the truck to a stop right outside the cabin’s front steps. Typically, he just drags prey by their ankles and lets their head thunk over the steps. It’s not like most of them are in any state to complain, by the time they arrive here. Complaining, however, is one of Vincent’s specialities. And as much as Alastor is loathe to admit it, being able to hoist the bodies is one of the duties he was all too happy to outsource. Not a wonderful combination. For goodness’ sake, he’d practically spoiled himself, with this little partnership.
He swings himself out of the truck and throws the back door open, scowling at the useless lump on his back seat, swearing to himself the entire time as he loops his arms under Vincent’s and carefully backs up, dragging him up each...painful...step. “You are nothing but trouble. Do you hear me? Absolutely nothing— but— trouble!” he grunts, pulling with everything he can muster when Vincent’s foot catches on a step. His shoe pops off and clatters down the steps. Alastor doesn’t stop to retrieve it. Frankly, he’s not certain he could start again if he stops walking. So he gets his teeth and keeps walking, all the way to the sparse bedroom which is, of fucking course, right in the back of the cabin. Bastard. “You’ll be cleaning my shoes with your tongue for this. And the cabin. With a—” his back gives a painful twinge in time with his groan as he heaves Vincent over the little step between levels. “—a toothbrush. You’ll be scrubbing until your fingers are numb, I guarantee you.”
Thank fuck he left the bedroom door open. Vincent’s forehead knocks into the doorknob on their way past. It’s fine. He has some ice around here somewhere. Some of it may still be covered in blood, but he can pick out some clean pieces. Probably.
“There,” he mumbles to himself, draping Vincent’s upper body over the bed. He pulls each leg over and tries, as hard as he can, to ignore the smears of blood and mud across his white sheets. His white sheets. Perfectly clean, nicely-pressed, near-new white sheets.
Vincent’s face is so pale.
The fire in his stomach is doused, all too easily, when he looks at the man again. Why isn’t he awake? How? Alastor tears his gaze away to finally, finally collapse into his armchair. “What have you done to yourself, you fool…? You aren’t dead. I checked. So what are you doing to m—”
That thought ends as sharply as it begins. He refuses to take it as a personal slight. Taking it personally means he cares, has given some piece of himself to this loudmouthed idiot. It’s true that he’s conceded more of himself to Vincent than he should ever have allowed. Perhaps ten years ago, when heaving bodies didn’t give him this kind of ache in his bones, he wouldn’t have allowed it.
Well. Regardless of his musings, the fact remains that he’s made his bed, irritating fool included, and now he’ll have to lie in it. After washing the sheets.
He watches in interminable silence as Vincent sleeps. He’s so pale, even now, more so than he should be. Has he ever been quiet for this long? Alastor hardly remembers such a thing. Every time conversation lapses between him and Vincent, the younger rushes to fill it, seemingly terrified of silence. He’s never quiet. Ever. Not until now. Not knowing its cause only rankles him further.
A clock ticks away, callous, in the corner of the room. With nothing better to occupy his mind, with so little to think of that doesn’t involve Vincent, he can’t help but count the incessant clicking. Time flows around him undisrupted. The hour chime doesn’t sound, from what he remembers. He could…check. Get up and peer around the corner. Yet the very idea of getting up and leaving Vincent’s side, when he has no idea what’s happening to the man— of course it sets him on edge.
For all he knows, that moment spent away could…
Alastor grits his teeth as another few seconds scratch across the thin layer of his patience. Stuck here. Sitting here, useless, bereft of information, unable to fetch a doctor or anyone of any help, rendered useless, it’s all simply…
Just…
Too familiar.
At some point, he wakes again, pulling himself away from hazy childhood images that grasp at him from the depths of his mind. He’s tucked awkwardly into the armchair, and if his back had been giving him trouble before, then this is…whatever the next stage is. Hopefully he didn’t waste all of his whiskey on celebratory drinks after the last hunt. Still, the sleep has done him some good, since he feels slightly less inclined to murder Vincent for making him worry. Alastor scrubs a hand over his face and turns towards the bed, half expecting to find Vincent laughing at him for ‘acting like an old fart’.
Those bright, mismatched eyes are looking right at him.
Alastor bolts upright in his chair, nails digging into the leather in an effort to keep himself in place. Rushing Vincent won’t help, not in his condition. Besides which, Alastor refuses to let his concern show on his face, lest the man end up with an inflated sense of self-importance. So he forces himself to relax back down into the seat. A deep breath drawn through his nose steadies him further, enough to force a smirk as he asks: “You’re back to the land of the living, then?”
Vincent nods, just once, before he turns his head to lie flat on the pillow again. “…what, uh…?”
“You collapsed. In the woods. You were attempting to move the body, and you lost consciousness quite abruptly.” Vincent nods again. Squeezes his eyes shut, the expression almost pained. Despite his earlier efforts, Alastor is beside the bed before he realises he’s moved, his own aches forgotten. “What is it? Do you feel ill again?”
“No, no, just…stupid.”
The laugh that bubbles up his throat gets caught, awkwardly, and Alastor feels the sting of it in Vincent’s neck as easily as if it were his own. “Not too different from the usual, then. At least you’re remaining consistent.”
“Ha. Yeah.” Vincent swallows. “Yeah.”
Now. With the pleasantries attended to, he can turn his attention to the parts of nursing that he’s good at. “Stay put. I’m going to get you something to eat. And perhaps a hot cocoa, if I can find some.” Something shifts in Vincent’s expression, though, and that has Alastor pausing at the edge of the bed. “…you don’t want cocoa? I’m not giving you coffee at this time of the day.”
“You don’t have to— You don’t have to feed me. It’s fine. Seriously. I’m sorry I freaked you out, but I was just…tired, or whatever, probably. Or hot. You said about that heatstroke thing. I’m not exactly built for Louisiana. That’s not exactly a state secret.”
“You collapsed,” he replies, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. It smooths into his usual tone again as he continues, “which I’m given to understand is not caused by tiredness, unless you work in a coal mine. Why, Vincent, you never told me! And to think, you’ve never brought me a diamond home, either. My heart is shattering in my chest.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m the worst. Anyway, I woke up, so it’s fine—” Apparently incensed by whatever he sees in Alastor’s face, Vincent shifts to try and sit up, rolling his eyes all the while. “Look, I’ll get checked out in the morning, if you’re so worried about me,” he snaps. “But they’re gonna tell you I’m fine, and they’re gonna wonder why the fuck I even bothered coming in for something stupid like that, and then I’m gonna make fun of you for mothering me.”
Alastor sets one hand on Vincent’s shoulder and shoves him back down to the bed. Perhaps a little harder than he needs to, but it gets the message across. On instinct, he wipes his palm down his shirt, making a face at the thin sheen of sweat that coats his hand from that one touch.
…then, slowly, he raises his hand again. There’s nothing left on it, of course. But why is Vincent sweating again, if he’s supposedly past whatever ailed him? He’s dressed, and tucked under a blanket, not to mention the rather balmy conditions outside. If anything, he should be on the wrong side of comfortably warm, not cool to the touch. Cold, sweating, struggles with focus…
Mothering.
It hits him all at once: a single, maddeningly simple answer that’s been staring him in the face all evening, the source of his nagging discomfort. “You absolute idiot.” Vincent moves to sit up again, and Alastor shoves him back to the bed, keeping his hand in place, this time. “You moron. You dimwit. You degenerate, thoughtless…infuriating simpleton! When was the last time you ate?!”
Despite his sputtering protests, he knows when he’s been caught. Vincent opens his mouth, shuts it, then resorts to pouting into the middle distance, eyes fixed on something fascinating that happens to be as far away from Alastor as physically possible. “I…I ate before I left.” Alastor promptly smacks him upside the head. “OW—! Hey?! It’s true!”
“What did you have? The air in the refrigerator?!” He whacks the man again, just for good measure, a wordless screech of frustration escaping him. “I’ve seen your kitchen. Do not lie to me, Vincent Whittman! You utter fool! Did you suppose I wouldn’t notice? Did you honestly think that?”
“No!” Alastor leans forward, and Vincent relents, holding up both hands in surrender. “Maybe! Just—get off of me, sheesh. Talk to me like a goddamn person, not a TV on the fritz.”
He relents, sitting back. Though because he’s not stupid or new to this, he stays close, pinning Vincent with his eyes. “You collapsed in the middle of a kill. You were unconscious for the entire drive here. Not to mention however long I was asleep for. I had to carry you to and from the car. Malnutrition is a serious matter. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. It isn’t as if you can’t afford food. I know you can.”
Silence. Vincent does, at least, look suitably chastised. But he also looked chastised when he was told about establishing an alibi and then dashed out of a party to join him for a kill. Vincent pulling a sad little face doesn’t necessarily mean he’s learned anything. After a full minute waiting, Alastor sighs. “Fine. Think about how you’ll excuse this. Evidently, I need to feed you, like an unsupervised child.”
That, at least, makes Vincent flinch. It isn’t enough to force any words out of him, but Alastor isn’t expecting any by now. “I keep supplies here. For particularly strenuous hunts. I’ll see if I have something for you to eat. If you move, I’ll carve your eyes out of your head.”
“Okay,” Vincent mumbles. There are no sounds from the bedroom as Alastor makes his way to the kitchen. Thankfully, the sky is still dark, in the thin sliver of sky between the curtains. He flicks on the light and tries to ignore its flickering. The generator will need checking again, or perhaps the lines, another issue he’ll need to attend to. But later. As long as the camping stove still lights, the cabin is still usable. Of course, he’ll have to wash his hands before anything else. Then they can…tackle the rest of it.
The cupboards are sparsely populated, stocked back when he only had himself to worry about and had been planning the cabin as nothing more than a place to be while heat died down. Mercifully, though, his past self still had more sense than Vox in the modern day. There are a few cans of chicken soup tucked in the back. The flavour won’t be anything close to what he could achieve making it from scratch, but it’s still food. And likely more nutritious than whatever Vincent has been eating to end up in such a state.
He still can’t understand it. The thought lingers as he tracks down a pot and a box of matches. Vincent can afford food. Even if he were frittering away half his salary on meaningless purchases, he’s paid enough that it wouldn’t matter. And Alastor has been into his apartment. Never mind frivolous spending— there’s hardly a trace of a personal touch in the entire place. Perhaps, then, any money trouble could be related to the drugs, but Vincent had sworn, as a condition of their agreement, to stay off of them when approaching a hunt, at the very least. Call it naïve, but he doesn’t believe that Vincent would risk this little partnership falling apart. He puts too much stock in it. What exact flavour of psychosis makes Vincent so clingy, he can’t say for sure. But he likes to think he knows the man well enough by now.
Where is that can opener? As he hunts through drawers, there’s a shuffle in the doorway, and Alastor sighs, not bothering to turn. “I told you to stay in bed. I obviously didn’t leave. It’s my own cabin. You didn’t need to seek me out like a spurned dog.”
“I didn’t think…” Despite receiving no rebuttal, Vincent trails off. “I…You never told me how you— I mean, not that you’re right, but…why was that your first thought?”
It’s a testament to their closeness, Alastor thinks, that he even considers telling Vincent. With any luck, it might even guilt trip him into opening up. But he still lets the man stew in uneasy silence for a long few moments as he locates the can opener. Slowly works the can open with more grating, scraping noise than is strictly necessary. Pours the contents into a pan. Eventually, he takes pity on Vincent, breaking the silence first. “Someone close to me. A long time ago. Lest you need reminding as to what this city thinks of people like myself.”
From there, he’s certain Vincent can piece it together. Alastor wouldn’t have allowed it at a time when he could have done anything about it, ergo he must have been unable to work at the time, and he’s let it slip on one drunken night or another that he started at the radio station as soon as they would have him, even if it was only to run errands.
Right on cue, Vincent’s dulled eyes sparkle with a moment of realisation, and he lifts his head. “Oh. Your…Your mom?”
Alastor doesn’t say anything. It’s as good an answer as any he’ll get.
“I didn’t…I wouldn’t…I mean, you know—”
“I know you didn’t expect me to find out,” he snaps. “Or you simply didn’t think about it. You never think about anything, because you’re a damnable fool who never thinks about others. Of course you don’t; you’ve never had to. You subjected me to all of this because you don’t think, and you’ve managed to live a semi-successful life without thinking, because of who and what you are, because you aren’t expected to think about others and consider the impact you have on them and how one errant mistake could send you into the gutter where they already believe you—” He cuts himself off. The damage is done, no doubt. One of them has to have some self-control. And typically, that’s his job. His spoon scrapes noisily against the bottom of the pan as Alastor stirs the soup, watching it with an unnecessary intensity.
“I wasn’t…trying to worry you,” Vincent mumbles. “I…wasn’t trying to do anything. To you. To anyone. It wasn’t— I’m not— I guess, just…I forgot. That’s all. I know you don’t like me saying that I didn’t think about it, but it’s not like it was some kind of…fucking…master plan or whatever.”
Alastor hums. Not an approval, not an answer, just a noise to confirm he’s listening. “Fetch me two bowls. And the crackers from the pantry.”
“Al,” Vincent groans, almost pleading now. “Talk to me. What, you want an apology? I didn’t know it was gonna happen, obviously! I’ve gone way longer without—” While he snaps his mouth shut midway, the damage is done, and both of them know it. Alastor turns to him with an expression he doesn’t have time to cultivate. Whatever it is, it makes Vincent flinch, wrapping an arm around himself seemingly without thinking. “It— I didn’t— Alastor.”
“The bowls. If you’re going to act like a foolish dog, then at least be consistent. Go fetch.”
Silently, Vincent steps into the kitchen proper. It takes another moment for him to get close enough to actually retrieve the bowls— mismatched, the green one newer, a recent addition –and set them out next to Alastor. Two spoons from the top drawer. Crackers from the pantry. He’s practically radiating discomfort, and it hangs heavily in the air between them. Even so, he tries again, a meagre “I didn’t know that…”
“Do be quiet.”
Vincent listens. It’s…not exactly better. Alastor can admit that— he hates to see this obnoxious, loudmouthed man shrink and retreat into himself. It feels like kicking a loyal dog, hearing it whimper and whine without any understanding of why, and he knows, deep down, that there’s more to Vincent’s rare quiet spells than the man himself would ever willfully admit. But harsh words are better than physical harm. And frankly, Alastor isn’t sure he trusts himself not to slap the man for being so utterly foolish. Especially not if he refuses to explain himself. With the truth, not something so ridiculous as simply forgetting one of his basic bodily functions. Not when he always remembers a certain other biological function is never far from the man’s mind.
He dips his finger into the soup to check the temperature, pulling it away with a soft hiss. Warm in the middle, then. He pours half into each bowl, though one of them gets…a slightly bigger half, admittedly, and he shoves the bowl towards Vincent. “We’ll have to eat in my room. I won’t have you sitting on the counters like an animal.”
Vincent takes the bowl and leads the way. Alastor takes the crackers and follows him. They take their respective seats, one on the bed and the other in the armchair, and Alastor silently pours half the packet of crackers onto Vincent’s lap, uncaring for the crumbs which only add to the existing mess. At least the man making a mess of his nice sheets and tidy cabin and unproblematic life has thought to wash up as best he can with the tiny bathroom. He looks a little better for the rest. And, as Alastor suspected, he eats with a steadily growing fervour, crackers split into larger and larger pieces for dipping, before he gives up on breaking them altogether and bites off the end after a brief dunk.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you eat so quickly.”
The effect is instant. Vincent pauses, his spoon hovering over the soup, only his eyes lifted to study Alastor. Not his face, though. Not the same intensity that Vincent typically favours. His gaze is everywhere: hands, shoulders, legs, back to the face. A cornered animal. Swallowing, Alastor sets his own spoon down and feigns having not noticed, forces his own gaze down into the meal. “It wasn’t an admonishment. You should eat.”
Those words take longer to land. The other glances down, then back up, tension plucking across his body in a steady roll. Vincent’s mouth works without words for a moment. He doesn’t move to continue eating.
Softer, Alastor insists. “You should eat. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t, if you have the means.” It’s perhaps half the sentiment he’d have spoken if his heart weren’t too old and bruised and cautious to expose itself so easily. I know you have food. I know you know better. Why not, then? What is it you can’t tell me?
“I do forget. When I’m working. When I’m busy.” Vincent breaks off a piece of cracker and swirls it through the soup almost absentmindedly. “Or…I figure I’ll do it after. Or. I don’t know. It just seems like…like it’s not important. Not right now. Not when I’m doing other stuff.” He lifts the cracker slightly, and the wet end breaks off, sinking to the bottom of his soup in time with Vincent’s grimace. “I don’t know. It sounds stupid. It is stupid.”
“Hm. Well, so are you. But I suppose I put up with you all the same.” He tears the packet open a little wider and shakes out a few more crackers onto Vincent’s plate, his own appetite all but forgotten. “You mean to say you don’t experience hunger pangs? Stomach pain? Nothing indicated to you that…all of this might happen?”
“Like I said. I don’t…I mean, it’s just, hey, I can deal with that in a minute. The scripts aren’t gonna wait until I’m back from lunch. And you know what it’s like in the studio. Hell, it’s probably not that different at the station, right?”
Alastor hums. He’s worked through lunch on occasion. Never long enough to collapse, though. While he isn’t much of a medical expert, he feels that might take more than one or two missed breaks. His noncommittal answer clearly spurs something in Vincent. “I’m not lying—! I know you probably think I’m, like, wasting my money or whatever or I took something before we met up, b-but I didn’t! You have to believe that! Right? You know I wouldn’t risk— We’d both end up in jail! Right?”
Well. If they take Alastor himself alive, which he personally doesn’t believe and certainly wouldn’t expect. The sentiment lands all the same, however; mutually assured destruction. Where Alastor fails to place his faith in other people, they can routinely be relied upon to look out for themselves. An unusually astute observation from the man in question. Alastor scoffs at him. “If that’s true, then that’s still a problem. Don’t you think? The very fact you can ignore your body’s demands until you faint—”
“Pass out.”
“—until you faint, that’s a problem we should address. How do you even reach that stage? You would have had to have done so for— for years, surely, to have no outward signs of...”
When he looks over, Vincent is...doing the thing, again, where he makes himself smaller and silent, almost as if he can avoid being noticed at all. It’s laughable, the idea that he can somehow hide when they’re sat across from each other. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me, a child’s idea of— “Oh.”
Vincent flinches as if he’s been struck. Alastor swallows past the lump in his throat. “Would you...tell me more?”
He shakes his head.
“So. I’m left to assume you understand, to some degree, as to how you’ve ended up able to do this to yourself.”
Vincent nods.
Alright. He supposes that’s better than nothing. Self-examination isn’t something either of them are especially skilled at, and somehow he doubts the outlook would improve with the two of them trying to instead untangle each other below layers of lies and half-truths and self-protective irony. Never mind the fact that Vincent might take any effort to do so as an invitation to return the favour. Identifying that you have a problem can be a substitute for tackling it, or however the saying goes. “...you understand that what you’re doing to yourself is terribly inconvenient for me. Even tonight, it was a miracle I was able to bring you here without assistance. And if you had required a hospital, we would be in a very difficult position.” He nods, so Alastor continues. “First thing we’re going to do is ensure you have food at home. You’ll have to be supervised on your visits to the store, of course, since you clearly can’t be trusted alone. And I’ll have to prepare you something. At least if I do that, you’ll be forced to eat it, thanks to your own pathetic obsession with me.”
“Ouch,” Vincent mutters, though notably without real protest. His spoon is prodding uselessly into the last dregs of soup. “So you’re...you’re mad at me and you’re gonna cook for me? That doesn’t seem like...y’know. How you do stuff. That seems like I get the better end of the deal.”
“You usually do, with this little partnership.” He tries to force his mouth into a smile. Alastor can’t keep himself from chuckling at the sight. “You know the cause, which means you can…work at resolving it. And in the meantime, we’ll do our best to…treat the symptoms. I suppose I’ll have to do what I can, as well. Check in on you. And a punishment system of some sort, if you don’t follow through. Hm.”
The smile on Vincent’s face becomes more genuine. “You’re treating me like a dog again.”
“Well, if you’ll act like one, then I have no other choice.” He reaches over to take Vincent’s bowl, studying it for a moment with a thoughtful expression purely for the other’s benefit. “Perhaps I should have this one engraved with your name. Would that help to motivate you, my dear~?”
Vincent is still burning red as Alastor cackles and hurries away. “S—Shut the fuck up!”