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It all started with his missing red vest.
It was a replacement for the one he lost in the New Year’s debacle. Vincent had presented him with a near-perfect replica, and while he’d initially been reluctant to get involved with another red vest so soon after losing the last, it had become his favorite in about a week. It was much like Vincent in that regard. Not that Vincent was his favorite anything. Somewhere in another universe the vest had given him a new Vincent, probably*. No, that was silly, he’d just been overexposed to Vincent’s science fiction stories.
*It was true.
Anyway. The vest had led him to discover the note. He would’ve discovered the note no matter what, but the vest was meant to be in his closet, and he went to his closet before he went to his kitchen counter.
Hey Al, wanted to let you know I’ll be too busy to come by for a few days - I’m fine, don’t come looking for me! I left one of your favorite tarts on the table for breakfast.
Said Vincent’s handwriting in suspiciously red-vest-blood-flavored ink.
Naturally, once he finished the tarte, Alastor set out to look for him. It. The red vest. He couldn’t be careless with his things in this economy. Who knew if he’d be able to afford another red vest next week? He was only determined to check in on Vincent while he was out because leaving him to his own devices was usually catastrophic. And also he’d probably stolen the vest as part of his nefarious plot, so he didn’t have to go out of his way to find both.
Vincent’s neighborhood made him uneasy these days. Not because it was unsafe - he rather liked unsafe places. Because it was unnaturally safe. Dangerous-looking scruffy men with visible alley knife fight scars and permanent scowls nodded respectfully as he passed. Rude boys shouting and playing ball would apologize if their absent-minded games momentarily blocked his path. The women unsettled him the most. They were usually kinder and so the difference was the least pronounced, but the ones on Vincent’s street had a habit of hiding little smiles at the sight of him. It was all very uncanny. Since the Butler flood he’d avoided the place as much as possible, but needs must. He strode up Vincent’s path and banged on the door, and if he felt a bit like a king walking into his own castle, well, the neighbors helped to give him that impression.
Which made it a jarring shock when Vincent refused him entry.
“Open up, Vincent. I demand the return of your hostage,” he’d said, eliciting a distant yelp of his name and a series of abnormally clumsy thunks as Vincent raced to greet him… through the white-painted wood of his front door.
“Didn’t you get my note?!” Vincent wheezed after the door jolted, presumably from taking his weight. Busy indeed. The boy must’ve managed to catch a cold in the dead of summer.
“Yes, so I didn’t come looking for you, I came looking for my best vest. Come on, let me in.”
“No.”
Alastor blinked.
No?
From Vincent?
At a demand to be admitted into Vincent’s lair? The very lair he plotted to rent in the hopes that Alastor could be coaxed into it?
He was so stunned that it took him several seconds to process the rapid fibbing that followed.
“No, no, no, you can’t come in! I, uh, have a cold! And it’s real bad, yeah. I wouldn’t want you to catch it! I’ll return the vest when I’m better - o-or you could come back in a few days? If you want? I’d like that! Having something to look forward to will help me recover! But not today, s-sorry Alastor, ok bye!”
More thudding as Vincent apparently ran away.
Well. He couldn’t let that stand. Not in this economy. Who knew if he’d be able to buy another red vest in three days.
He stepped off the small stone stair that lifted guests to the door and opened Vincent’s perpetually unlocked window. Vincent relied on his increasingly fearsome reputation too much.
Alastor didn’t suspect a thing. Vincent’s house had always smelled of blackberries and steel. The smoothing of his thoughts as he heaved himself over the sill was too unobtrusive to register. That, and he’d never had occasion to experience what he was experiencing before, so even if he had noticed, he’d have thought Vincent was cooking opium in the basement and it’d tainted the air.
He was beginning to idly wonder if he was falling into another of Vincent’s traps, since he was now in the house Vincent rented in the hopes he’d visit of his own stubborn free will, so he ensured Vincent wouldn’t hear him coming as he strode for the cracked bedroom door.
It took an embarrassingly long time for him to comprehend the scene he found when he pushed it open. It was obvious, really, there was no reason he should have been so confused. The Depression and Hoover’s tariffs had made it nearly impossible to get materials, such as fabric for a red vest.
Or the ingredients for highly illegal weapons-grade suppressants.
Which was what Vincent must have been on for no one to have noticed he was an omega. Alastor wouldn’t have noticed himself, as his alpha instincts had never once roused from dormancy, but surely someone would have told him before he found Vincent curled up in a pile of blankets on his bedroom floor with his face buried in his missing red vest. What restraint it must’ve taken to select only one object to make off with.
Yes. Come to think of it, Vincent and that shady chemist who came regularly to the speakeasy got along well. Too well. Dealer and number one customer well. Vincent might’ve connected with him his first night there and oh, of course he’d run from his father so young and nothing could put the thought of returning in his mind - a man like that would surely honor kill his male omega son. All very clear in hindsight. And of course Vincent wouldn’t want the watered-down church-approved legal suppressants that made it apparent to others what his secondary gender was. Male omegas were uncommon, and in recent decades not warmly received in society - Louisiana state law required he be sterilized and remove himself from public places by this age.
Vincent was an omega?
His Vincent? The agitating barnacle determined to make Alastor his wife? The suicidal hand grenade who went off at anyone who threatened him? Who’d been trailing after him for years, pinning him under his fixating two-colored gaze, smiling and striving and plaguing him with his affection?
While he stood sluggishly processing, Vincent gasped in horror and shot upright in his nest of inexperienced construction.
“Alastor! How did you get in here?!”
Through the window, you idiot, Alastor didn’t manage to reply. Vincent’s tempting marbles were grayed at the edges with the effects of his heat - which seemed mild as far as heats went, but it would be with him so young, would it? They were also suddenly wet. Something in him raised its head. He’d never met this something before, so he had no name for it. It disliked the panic - yes, that’s what Vincent was feeling, panic - on Vincent’s face a great deal and irrationally demanded he do something about it. He nudged it in the hopes it would go back to sleep. He didn’t even know what Vincent was panicking over, and besides, it wasn’t his responsibility to manage Vincent’s volatile emotions.
“I-I didn’t mean to hide it! Please don’t be upset!”
Ah. Alright. Perhaps this new thing had a certain intuitive wisdom.
“I never said I was anything else! It wasn’t a trick, I promise! I just… I just…”
And here the tears overwhelmed him, because he was feverish and reasonably frightened and also unreasonably frightened that this wholly different circumstance would be a repeat of January first, and the thing that had just awoken proved itself to be deeply cunning and overwhelmed Alastor’s sense at the sight.
He smiled. He always smiled. Vincent was too emotional to read anything through it, but he wouldn’t have been able to if he weren’t because Alastor’s thoughts were an unconcerning mystery to even himself. He let go of the door and glided, as he was king here and should be allowed, into Vincent’s disheveled nest. Kneeling brought a terrified flinch from his omega, and he simply couldn’t have that. He’d have to do as the new thing insisted and soothe Vincent’s fears once and for all.
“Alastor…?”
He smiled.
Then he shoved Vincent’s face into the blankets and sank his teeth deep into the nape of his neck.
Blackberries and steel burst over his tongue, the source of them punctured by his elongated canines, and wasn’t it funny Vincent had those, too? He worried it for more of the flavor, extracted his teeth and lapped to savor it mingled with its iron-based medium. There. Now nobody could take him. Exceedingly dangerous, an unmarked omega cavorting about the New Orleans underworld. One momentary advantage obtained by an opponent in their brawls could have left him claimed and corrupted, if they’d been aware, and they’d certainly be aware now and until whenever his supply became reliable again. And not locking his windows in his condition! Anyone else could have come in and leashed the Devil of Virginia. Unacceptable. But that crisis had been averted, he’d blocked the rabid masses off forever. Nothing would change as long as Alastor was his alpha. Vincent was his anyway.
Vincent had yelped in surprise and then fallen totally silent save for his breathing. He didn’t seem to be panicking anymore. Alastor hummed in approval, stroking his ungreased and undyed hair - and abruptly regained his sanity.
What the fuck had he done.
Blocked the rabid masses off forever, sure! With himself. Now Vincent couldn’t ever mate with anyone else. He’d made damn sure of it with that bite, no hesitation and bullseye aim at the gland in the back of his neck. Vincent might not care, he might not, but he was sixteen and maybe this was totally unforgivable. Belatedly he sprang away, slid as the blanket unbunched under his hand and migrated over Vincent’s wood floor until it reached the extent it could while pinned by his weight. Freed, Vincent slowly began to move. Alastor raised his other hand as if to calm a spooked animal.
“I-It was for your own good, that's all, you can't be that vulnerable with all the trouble you get into. At least nobody new will have control over you.”
Already his scent was shifting, tainted with yew and willow and of course latching on to the faint hints of burning blackberry root that decorated his own. He’d better get back on those suppressants soon because the mixture was going to make it very clear to some people that he and his mate had broken anti-miscegenation laws. Among other things. Lucky Alastor had kept his wits enough that the mark could be covered by his shirt collars. He’d have said as much if he weren’t scared out of said wits. God forbid he be this level of boorish, inconsiderate alpha, slave to his formerly dormant instincts.
But Vincent’s fingers had snuck around to feel the new mark, so he’d know it would be easy to hide.
The moment he touched it he made a noise. A high happy trill like a goddamn kitten, and the evil thing Alastor knew the name of now purred with smug pleasure, but Alastor had the dignity to keep his throat from materializing it.
Always loud and immodest about everything, Vincent kept doing it. He turned on his side and scrunched up around Alastor’s legs, his cheeks a warm pink and his smile so wide Alastor suspected it was involuntary.
So delighted he was out of his head with it. Right. Because he was Vincent.
Alastor blew out the breath that had gotten stuck in his throat.
“I don't know why I bothered to worry,” he muttered wryly. And then dropped his head into his hands.
What the fuck had he done? Even if Vincent didn’t mind, marking him was still wildly shameful behavior greatly deserving of censure and ridicule. But he’d been conditioned to think nothing of biting him, damn it! He had kept his wits, mostly - his alpha instincts hadn’t overpowered him, just suspended his impulse control and guided him to bite in a specific place. If that had been a strange thing to do it would’ve been easy to resist the same way he was easily resisting the barely present urge to do something about Vincent being clingy and sexually available.
Except. Oh no. Oh no, he started the biting. Did he start it for… a reason? One he wasn't aware of at the time? Had that sly monster been awake longer than he knew, just feigning sleep to get what it wanted? It pulsed sunny satisfaction through his veins now, seemed only marginally more interested in the rest of the mess of a heat than him. Maybe it’d learned to hide itself so that it could orchestrate this moment. His subconscious learning trickery to combat his iron will.
At the very least, he could comfort himself with the knowledge that he wouldn’t start slobbering over the huge population of omegas who couldn’t afford even the state-sanctioned suppressants anymore. Vincent was his, and Alastor had accepted he was stuck with him, and his instincts took pity on him when he probed them for answers and resoundingly signaled this was the only omega they cared to stake their claim on. A weak solace, since an hour ago he’d thought there were no omegas his instincts would care to stake their claim on, but in fairness he didn’t know Vincent was an omega then.
But that still left him, thirty-three, with a sixteen-year-old white mate, and everyone would assume he was a brutish alpha who couldn’t control himself around an omega in heat anyway. Or worse, they’d assume the truth, that it was just Vincent he apparently sabotaged himself with. But, then again, no one could know, so there would hopefully be… no authorities he had to deal with. Very unfortunately, his indulgence in Vincent’s pheromone-laden blood was altering his scent to match. He cringed. He was the last alpha who should be shifting to match his mate. Only the really stupidly besotted alphas fell victim to that. No one would know the addition of blackberries came from Vincent, but they’d know it came from someone.
Oh, hell, he was going to have to tell his mother.
One of the trills keeping him sane through these realizations ticked up questioningly at the end. He looked down at his resplendently happy… Vincent. It hadn’t crossed his mind until now that it was somewhat impressive he’d never touched the kind of drugs that got people off their heads like this, but a runaway in a large city like New Orleans who’d immediately attached himself to the criminal element opting to avoid them showed remarkable fortitude. Although, in Vincent, it was probably the result of a not-all-that-surprising dislike of losing control. He must’ve let go completely as Alastor set the mating mark, relieved and overjoyed to discover that not only was Alastor not angry with him nor hateful of male omegas, he couldn’t resist permanently tying Vincent to him within sixty seconds of learning it was possible. Only his perpetual concern for Alastor’s wellbeing was tamping his disintegration into speechless bliss down, and, seeing as Alastor hadn’t left the floor of Vincent’s lair, it wasn’t tamping very much. Vincent looked hilarious; blue and green were eclipsed by pupil, undermining the seriousness of his inquisitive big-eyed stare almost as much as the flush on his cheeks and the boyish smile still stuck on his lips. Amused, Alastor lowered one hand and stroked the back of his finger along Vincent’s hooked nose. Vincent trilled with adoring cheer, closing his eyes and reveling in his touch. Alastor chuckled at him. Silly thing, drowned in pleasure for being with him.
Oh well. It was done, no sense dwelling on it. He sighed tiredly. What a long morning. At least he’d found his damn vest.
The thing he wasn’t on speaking terms with nudged him to do something for his heat-stupid omega. He snapped at it with agitated confusion. Vincent didn’t seem particularly desperate for the activities commonly associated with his condition, and he’d certainly rather avoid it - he would avoid it, shit, they wouldn’t be hiding anything if he knocked Vincent up with a colored baby. Violently quelled, though the echo he got from the mysterious dark portions of his mind told him it was primarily troubled by the danger the idea posed to Vincent at his age, the thing nudged him again, but much more gently. He pursed his lips irritably. How was he supposed to know what to do with an omega? Age didn’t make this any less new to him than it was to Vincent.
He poked Vincent’s cheek for something to do. Vincent trilled, then giggled with his normal voice. He was a bit cute like this. Vincent’s happiness usually came with reservations now, always thinking about appearances. Even with Alastor, though when alone Vincent focused on trying to make him happy.
But Vincent didn’t like being out of control, did he?
For all his joy, he wasn’t very animated, come to think of it. Not that this was an occasion to be extremely animated, but he seemed too static. Awareness of his state, perhaps, just enough to be wary of his actions should he permit himself to make any. Which would also explain his silence. If you’ve nothing clever to say, say nothing at all. A foolish thing to worry about after letting Alastor see him in his earliest teen years. His misinformation had caused him to form the opinion that Vincent was charming to try to hide the fact that he was deeply awkward. The reduction in his awkwardness was already significant. It would be strange seeing more of it fall away with time.
He slipped his fingers under Vincent’s head. Big obnoxious eyes blinked at him curiously as he leaned down and set their foreheads together. Vincent had done this once before. Alastor hadn’t hated it, and Vincent seemed to find it comforting. Maybe it would work to calm his nerves now.
Almost at once Vincent chirped, which Alastor guessed was the trilling sound at shout volume - he didn’t know, he’d never seen an omega this happy before - and surged up with all his not-very-omega-like physical power. Alastor, already off balance and admittedly slightly affected by Vincent’s heat, stood no chance of resisting. He landed against the floor with a ball of overgrown trilling resting heavily on his chest, and feeling the sound vibrate through him eliminated the weak protests he was attempting to form.
“Alright, fine, get your fill,” he conceded with feigned resignation. In the off chance Vincent remembered this, he couldn’t let him think he’d get away with it often. “You’d better enjoy this while you can. I’m only allowing it because you’re sedating me with your omega wiles.”
Vincent huffed in a very Vincent-like way that said Alastor was right to be concerned. After thoroughly assessing the direction of his instincts for another trap, he gave in to the urge to rest his hands on Vincent’s back. It was natural for newly mated pairs to feel a little clingy, he’d heard, and he was not the kind of alpha the initiation of this bond implied. He was no one’s sweetheart, but he wouldn’t abandon an omega he’d made senseless. Besides, he’d already finished his morning plans. The vest was safely under his back.
Speaking of, he’d have to do something about this disaster of a nest later.