Chapter Text
Three men dragging a body was, admittedly, faster than one by himself.
One man on either side of the body, holding it by the shoulders, and the strongest carrying it by the
legs.
The task was simple. The haul was simpler.
And the experience? The reward that was to be, afterwards?
Simply magnetic
The strongest of the three lifted the body’s legs a bit higher. “Alright, on count of three-“
“Shouldn’t we cut open the abdomen so he sinks?”
The interruption was sudden. And had it been from anybody else but either of the two men in front of Vincent, the death of said individual would have been even more abrupt.
“I- Yes, you’re right, Al.” A sigh of defeat, and reluctant agreeance.
“As I tend to be!”
Followed by an exasperated, drawn out groan from the other.
The blade glided smoothly through the skin of the victim’s abdomen, slicing the flesh with a delicious ease. Older blood slowly pooled from the wound, some getting on Alastor’s hands. But he minded not.
Instead, the man brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean in an almost subconscious manner.
Both the men nearby shared smirks and glances to their shared half, without a doubt exchanging sexual implications, even if completely silent while doing so.
Once all was said and done, he beckoned George and Vincent over to assist with hefting the body again.
“Alright, now on the count of three,” Vincent started, looking to the other two, who both nodded in acknowledgement.
“Three,”
Each man adjusted their hold, some tightening their grip, and the other merely shifting his grasp.
“Two,”
An intake of air and a heavy exhale from one man.
“One.”
The throw was about as synchronized as three largely uncoordinated men could be - but the splash was satisfying, even as the group got splattered with cold water.
A twisted cackle escaped Vincent’s throat, before George and Alastor joined along.
The return home was far more freeing than the travel there, full of energetic chatter, despite the hour.
The men were all far less coiled, animatedly conversating on the trek back to their dwelling - though perhaps that’s a bit of a brash way to describe a house. Especially one owned by three popular media personalities.
“And that’s when I said, “No, Tom, that was your ex wife”!”
The joke had George snickering, though Alastor merely nodded along as he settled further back against the couch, chest rising and falling calmly.
“Well, boys,” He started slowly, looking to the ginger and brunet. “I’d say we did well tonight, wouldn’t you?”
A cluster of “yes”’s and “absolutely”’s abrupted from the duo, both agreeing automatically and looking excited, like a pair of dogs promised a steak.
An amused sigh left Alastor’s lips. “You never fail to disappoint.”
After a bottle - or perhaps more - had been drank amongst the group, a bit of a pile had been formed on the couch, more than three men sitting with one another.
Slumped against Vincent, George took a drag from a cigarette. Meanwhile, Alastor was scolding him on smoking inside, earning a whine from the redhead, who reasoned it with a defensive, “You always smoke inside!”
However, Vincent remained happy in the middle. Perfectly content to be squished between his two... partners in crime? Accomplices? ...Just partners?
He wasn’t really sure how to define their relationship.
Sure, they had all fooled around a time or two when a little too tipsy, but nothing really more than
that. Or a heat-of-the-moment kiss. But nothing really out of the ordinary.
. . .
That was a question for another day. Tonight was about rolling in victory with his two favorite people.
The newscaster let out a satisfied exhale through his nose - one shared by the others - as he shifted slightly against the back cushions of the couch, his eyelids precariously drooping.
“Mmnghhhh...”
A sleepy groan escaped... whichever man’s face that was pressed against Vincent’s collarbone. Quiet enough to not be considered a disturbance. Loud enough to still wake Vincent up.
“..Eh?”
The questioning sound was met with no reponse - almost disappointingly so. Almost.
Vincent’s eyes fluttered open slowly, followed by a low grunt as he subconsciously attempted to stretch. Only to be met with the consequences one would aquire by sleeping for four inadequate hours on a living room couch. No matter how costly the furniture.
To remove himself from the position was a chore in itself.
Mourning the loss of warmth and comfort. Watching wistfully as George slowly leaned himself on Alastor instead.
The soft chuckle that left his lips was one of fondness - though as he caught the time on the wall clock...
There was no time for that.
Loretta would kill him if he was late. If he left it all to her again.
The man’s bare feet padded with a newfound vigor, rushing to the bathroom like no tomorrow.
Vincent eyed up his weary reflection precariously. Then splashed his face with cold water to wake himself up, recoiling at the harsh temperature.
Wiping the dripping water with a random hand towel, his left hand fumbled around before closing around a comb.
Mumbled sounds of pain escaped as he combed his hair through quickly, before abandoning the
room and heading to his bedroom. Neglecting just one thing that would be guaranteed to bite him in
the ass later.
Vincent wasted zero time in grabbing his white dress shirt and trying to button it up as fast as
humanly possible. Of course, one can only button something so quickly without screwing it up.
Vincent never trusted that notion, however.
He then slid on his blue vest, tugging at the hem to combat any possible wrinkling. Followed by
pulling on his tan slacks and attempting to do up his belt.
Which gave him far more trouble than it was worth.
“C’.. mon...” Messing with a now malfunctioning buckle. “piece of fucking-“ The belt finally buckled -
though with the cost of pinching his finger.
A whine escaped the man as he briefly rubbed at his finger.
The drive to the station was as mundane and normal as any other day. Though with the added
pressure of knowing he was on a time crunch.
Vincent burst into the building, panting softly as he rushed past one of the office girls and gave her a
wink - though it didn’t come off as charming as he may have thought, given how he looked
frazzlebrained. And sweaty.
The makeup girl jumped as Vincent threw the door open.
“Molly,” He gasped. “Think you can get this done quickly?”
Throwing himself into the chair, shoulders faltering as he let out a breath of relief. Then adjusting his
sailboat pin until it sat perfectly on his lapel again.
“I’m not your makeup artist for nothing, Mr. Whittman. You can count on me.” Molly replied as she
methodically reached for a brush. Meanwhile, Vincent’s eyes remained fixed on the clock hanging by
the door.
Watching the hands like a hawk, rapt and ready. Shifting slightly with every tick.
“You’ve got to relax a moment, Vincent,”
Breaking his concentration. “Huh?”
“You’re vibating. Makes it hard to apply anything in a way that’s... not messy.”
“Alright, alright-“
Within about seven minutes, he was camera-ready. At the cost of his face feeling beaten.
“Thank you again, Molly. Can’t be live withou’cha.”
The wink was far less off-putting to this girl than it had been to the last.
She smiled. “Glad to do my job. Now go, shoo!”
And then he flew out of the room like a bat out of hell. Or a man fearing that he was going to be late
for the news and face the wrath of his co-worker. Whichever sounded better.
At the sound of fast footsteps, the blonde newsanchor glanced up from her lap, where she’d been
fidgeting with her dress.
Catching eye of her frazzled newscasting counterpart.
“Vincent! Ya finally made it!” Loretta greeted, throwing her arms up and leaning back. “Didn’t wanna
have to do this segment all alone! Again...” She trailed off, flashing a look to Vincent.
The man laughed nervously as he took a seat beside her.
“I try. ...To not leave it all for you, I mean-”
“If you two could stop jabbering... we’re live in about thirty seconds.” One of the camera men
deadpanned. Looking done with life.
“Yeah, yeah, Sheldon, I got it.”
Vincent waved a dismissive hand.
The broadcast was an absolute breeze, which was a saving grace for the man. Simple stories, no
slip-ups... a wonderful performance all around.
He wasn’t sure anything could dim his sparkle.
The halls were navigated with ease, especially because Vincent’s mind was occupied with reward.
Returning home before George and Alastor woke up was the thing keeping him running this morning
- not just the lovely broadcast.
Entering the main space, doors in sight, chest puffed out, Vincent carried on. Nothing could ruin this!
Nothing would. It was all perfectly set-
“Can I talk to ya for a second?”
Vincent froze midstep. That wasn’t one of the office girls talking.
The turn around was slow, stomach doing a funny move as Tom came into view in all of his
Thomas-y glory.
“...Yeah.”
Fuck! No! No!
Vincent’s mind was screaming, for lack of a better word, as Tom led him around the corner to the
bathrooms.
Did he know that I needed to-
Suddenly, large hands - bigger than his own - planted on his shoulders.
“Vincent.”
Silence.
“...Tom.”
The crickets were practically blaring at this rate.
“What were you doing last night?” Tom questioned, moving further in. The scent of cigarette smoke
was faint, but still notably stuck to him.
Somehow, the British lilt to his voice was moe unnerving than the question itself.
“...What makes you ask?”
“That mark,” One of Tom’s hands shifted off of his shoulder, a finger briefly running over Vincent’s neck. Over a sensitive spot. “Right there.”
A soft gasp escaped Vincent’s lips before he could stop himself. But then he bit them.
To be completely truthful... he didn’t even know the mark was there to begin with.
“A fight? Or something... more explicit?”
There was no doubt of Vincent’s heat beginning to race in his chest as Tom leaned incrementally
closer. Not out of anticipation.
Out of a sense of terror and unease, that, had he been in his normal mindset, would have been
deeply wounded by.
“..I don’t have to tell you what I was up to.” Vincent defended slowly.
“I can always make you.”
The feeling of unease and now disgust made its way onto Vincent’s face. Though it just made Tom
chuckle.
“Cu-“
The door opened, and Tom quickly slunk away.
“Oh, George! Hey! It’s.... been a minute!” Vincent loudly greeted, voice strained and clearly hinting
at the fact that he needed help.
George... didn’t one hundred percent get the memo.
“We just saw each other last ni-“
A look made only of daggers came from Vincent’s eyes.
“It’s been ages! My god, Vincent... how long’s it been since we’ve last had a chat? Four months?”
“Yes! Very long! Long time!”
Vincent’s chest relaxed as Tom left the room awkwardly.
“Is he our next target?” George asked, stepping closer.
Vincent shrugged. “If need be. But it’s... more complicated to kill off a producer, than a random man
who’s seen too much.”
A moment passed where their eyes met, unblinkingly.
“Why are you here, anyways? Your shift isn’t until eight PM.”
George rubbed the back of his neck. “Aha, well, you know...”
It wasn’t until on the way back to Vincent’s house, did he get anything remotely close to an
explanation.
“So, let me get this straight... you realized I was gone... and then you followed me to work?”
Vincent questioned, eyebrow cocked, though his eyes remained focused on the road.
George murmured a “Yeah”, embarrassedly looking down at his lap.
“I- nevermind.”
Alastor wassomehow still dead to the world, now curled up by himself on the couch.
Vincent eyed up the sleeping form. “He’s still...?”
“Happens more often than you’d think.”
“...Alright then.”
Abandoning the dark living room - refusing to exist in a space that didn’t have proper lighting (it was
8 AM, for god’s sake, Alastor) - and instead settling for the kitchen for a coffee.
A swift few actions, and like magic, a mug of coffee and a slowly dying man were both sat at the
table.
The warming ceramic touched his lips as he took a slow sip.
Staring at nothing but the wall.
Siiiiiiiip.
Hm.
Was that bit of paint always missi-
A very groggy, wet-cat like rendition of a man slumped into the kitchen, hair in every wrong
direction, looking like he’d been a victim of static electricity.
“...Mhn.”
A pathetic attempt at a greeting.
“Tired mumble to you too, sleepyhead.” Vincent remarked snappily, taking another slow sip. Though
greatly accentuated this time.
Alastor huffed, slowly walking over to the coffee maker.
It had taken him quite a while to get his own together this morning, much to his personal dismay.
However, noting that Vincent had intentionally been nursing his own.
“You waited,” Alastor commented, sitting down beside him.
“Maybe.”A sly smirk suggested he did. “Sooo... how come you’ve slept for so long? What’s been so taxing that you went into
hibernation?”
The question hit Alastor, not quite as hard as a brick. But nearing the intensity.
Swallowing his coffee calmly;
“No... particular reason.”
“You’re lying.”
. . .
“Why should I have to tell you everything?”
He watched as Vincent glanced away, pondering the question.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the newscaster began. “maybe because I actually give a damn about you?”
Alastor found himself inhaling a bit of coffee, and a mild coughing fit ensued before a strangled
“Pardon?”
“You heard what I said.”
Alastor cleared his throat.
"You say that as though I have no one else who cares about me."
If mornings were meant to be fast, this one was, for the most part, the exact opposite.
Every second passed like an hour, and every minute like a day. A slow, boring drawl.
Alastor remained planted in the kitchen, even after Vincent had left to quote “find George”, as
though the grown man was an aimless toddler.
The man slid over to the window, looking to the streets. Exhaling heavily.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I actually give a damn about you?”
“Give... a damn... about me.” Alastor’s expression, rather than to soften, soured. He was cared for, yes, but told it in such a way, as if nobody else cared about him.
Vincent wandered around the home, searching for George with an intrusiveness that anybody would
find at least a little bothersome.
Only when he’d gone outside, did he find the ginger.
“Morning smoke?”
“Morning smoke.”
“Can I join?”
“Go for it.”
A puff of smoke exhaled from Vincent’s lips.
“So, you’ve already noticed, yeah?”
A beat.
“Alastor?”
“Yes.”
“Well... here and there. Now, he did tell me it was a medication that was messing with his circadian
rhythm.”
“...Is that really it?”
Another puff of smoke.
“We both know how intentionally vague that man can be,” George turned to look at the shorter. “you and I both know there’s hardly a chance that it’s true.”
A nod. “You’re right, honestly. I bet if he is struggling with... whatever it is, there’s no way in hell he’s
going to tell.”
“Exactly. Now, I’m not saying we force him - that’s only going to go so far. I wouldn’t say to pester
him about it, either. If he’s going to talk about it, he’ll only do it on his terms.”
“I’ve gotten him to talk about things he didn’t want to.”
“Vincent, do you think he was really being truthful?”
“I-“ Vincent paused. “Good point.”
“I know.”
“Hello.”
Both George and Vincent jumped at the third voice.
“Alastor,” Vincent started, turning around even while George continued smoking. “How’s it going?”
A shrug.
Vincent’s eyes searched his face, suspiciously.
“What?” Alastor questioned, head on a tilt.
In the living room, sat on the couch, was Alastor.
Vincent paced around, meanwhile George was standing off to the side.
“Vincent, this isn’t necessary...”
“Can it, George!” Vincent hissed. “Alastor,” He started, leaning closer to the seated man before
standing up straight once more. “You’ve been acting... a little off lately, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A glare earned from the radio host. A laugh bubbled from the newscaster’s throat.
“That’s what they all say, Hartfelt. But I know you know.”
“I really don’t understand what this is ab-“ Cut off by a pale finger pressed to his lips. Remarkably
condescendingly.
“Ah! I didn’t say it was your turn to spe-“
George took a step closer. “Vincent, this is getting out of-”
“Butt out of this, George!” A dangerous snap.
Air growing thick with a sudden danger.
“Vincent, I’m serious, leave him alone.”
“George. I know what I’m doing.” Fists tightening at his sides.
“But do you really, dear?” Alastor piped up.
“Shut up!”
“Vincent, this is really unnecessary, just-“
“George, how many times do I have to tell you to be quiet?!”
Giving up any attempts at reason, George walked over. Ignoring Vincent’s protests.
“Listen to me. If he doesn’t wanna talk about it, stop interrogating him. This. Is getting. Out of hand.”
“Talk about what?” Alastor questioned.
Vincent and George both looked to him. “What do you mean, what?! You slept in weirdly late.”
“Vincent, we were up until four AM, and you expect me to not have been tired?”
. . .
“Oh.” Face turning to an embarrassed pink hue.
“It’s... really not that hard to have figured out.” Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me... I’ve got a radio show to prepare for that doesn’t involve absolutely
pointless lollygagging.”
“Silly... bastard... always thinking he’s right about everything...” Each word muttered and injected with a healthy amount of irritation as he got ready properly for the day.
“Ready” was a bit of a stretch, in truth. Even Alastor had to admit that. Going out in clothes he worse
the night prior, in another man’s house, using said other man’s comb, at that!
The radio host brushed his hair calmly, reviewing his reflection every now and again to ensure only
the utmost perfection amongst his chocolate locks.
“Hello and welcome back, my darling listeners of Baltimore! Before we get started with the music, I
really must say....”
There was nothing Alastor coud have appreciated more than his own expertice. And nothing could
possibly top the pure enjoyment he got out of each broadcast; talking to an audience that he was
sure shared similar values. And a damn good taste in music.
Records after records transitioned smoothly - As they tended to - he did take great care of each and
every one, after all - with a little background he happily explained between each piece.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, went done a great load of chaos.
George, sat on the stage of his talkshow, had... perhaps made a jab that stabbed a little too deep to
the man he’d been interviewing. And was being cussed out on live television. Thank god no kids were watching...
“Aha- listen, William, I didn’t mean anything by it!” Hands up in surrender, an awkward smile plastered on his freckled face.
“’Didn’t mean anything by it’! As if! A sad product of familial inbreeding, that’s what you are, you
mutt!”
George cocked an eyebrow before he could think twice. “Ex*cuse* me?!”
Followed by a high-pitched “eep” as he ducked beneath a flying vase, that promptly shattered
behind him.
“You heard me, you incest-born rat!”
“...Ah...”
“Don’t you ‘ah’ me, you unholy freak!”
Vincent bit his lip, staring at the scene unfolding on screen.
Beginning to wonder if he should actually drive to the studio and do something about it. Maybe he’d just give it a minute- did that piece of garbage just call his... whatever George was to him... inbred?!
“That’s it! Fuck this, I’m going back to work, Shark.” Said to the grey tabby cat resting on his lap, a pat given to the feline before he rose up.
Blood boiling, he twisted the key into the vehicle’s ignition.
“Oh, this record! You know, Leslie Gore was one of my mother’s favorite singers... ooh! Do excuse me, my darling listeners...”
Alastor paused as he heard someone enter the room. A meeker boy, not a day above twenty-three.
“Ethan?”
“Ex-excuse me, sir, but, uhm..”
“Spit it out dear, I’m in the middle of something!”
“Okay, okay, er- ahem...”
A beat.
“I think Mr. O’Ryan might require some assistance? Yes, the one at the Channel 6 Studio...? That’s
all, really, I- erm... yeah.”
Alastor blinked. “He what?”
“That’s all I know, I swear!”
“Alright then...”
Turning back to his microphone.
“I hope you all weren’t too lonely during my absence...”
“Please! I swear, I didn’t- Ah!“ Evading yet another object being thrown and ducking behind his seat,
George cowered pathetically. Perhaps too pathetically for a man who’d killed three people in the past calendar year.
“I don’t give a damn what you did or didn’t mean!” The other roared. George gulped.
Vincent parked the car aggressively, ripping the key from the vehicle and shoving it in his pocket
whilst sprinting into the building and directly to the set room.
Or, more accurately... the hallway of numbered set rooms. Of which he only cared to memorize what
one was his own.
“Shit, what one is it?!”
Scanning the numbers quickly, he opted for number three - judging by how it was ajar and there was
much ruckus he could hardly make out.
The burst into the room proved himself correct as he viewed the one-sided brawl going down on set.
Finding himself actually swallowing out of nervousness, the brunet forced himself past the
cameramen and up on stage.
“Who the fuck’re you?!” The perpetrator demanded, pointing a finger at him.
“Does that really matter?”
The ginger poked his head out from behind the chair he used as a shield, eyebrows raising as he
realized Vincent had come to be the knight.
“Have a darling evening, everybody! This has been Alastor Hartfelt, signing off for the evening.”
Calmly ending the broadcast, Alastor stood up from his seat and promptly stretched, flexing his limbs
awkwardly.
What was it the boy said? He wanted him to go meet up with the ginger at his place of work?
. . .
What would he be getting himself into...
“Fuck! You!” Vincent shouted, even as he too cowered behind an orange chair, throwing a mug at
the piece of garbage in front of him.
Which may have been one of the greatest throws of all his life, as it hit that asshole in the head and
he dropped right to the floor!
Buuuut then it set in that he might have just murdered someone on live television.
Turning to the ginger beside him and terrifiedly whispering “We have to go. Now.”
As Alastor pulled into the parking lot, he, without a doubt, recognized Vincent’s car not too far from
the entrance.
Sighing, he put it in park, took out the key, and made his way into the building.
“Run!” Vincent found himself shouting as his hand wrapped tightly around George’s, squeezing as he
tugged him desperately along.
The escapees bolted from the scene, out of the set, and... Alastor?!
Alastor walked without hurry, waving to Laura - one of the office girls who used to work at his own
wing on the west end of town.
But stopped in his tracks as he spotted an unfortunately familiar ginger and an even more familiar
brunet running from the direction he’d been headed.
All three stopped and stared, pairs of eyes widening - brown, blue, and green and blue.
“Alastor..?” George, looking bewildered, questioned.
“Who else would I be?”
“Can you both shut the fuck up and get to getting the hell out of here?!”
“Why?”
Vincent groaned and grabbed Alastor’s shoulders, staring into the shorter’s eyes. “I swear to Christ,
and whatever holy deities, Alastor, that I just fucking killed someone on live television. At. My. Place. Of work.”
“What?!”
“Exactly! Go!”
The trio, just as quick as they had reunited, all ran from the building.
“What about my car?” Alastor asked.
“We’ll be back for it later! You aren’t responsible for any of this, you’ll be fine- just fucking get in mine! Now!”
“Where are we even going, Vincent?” George pressed.
“I’ll figure it out!”
Thank the lord there were no cops visibly out that evening - Vincent went far above the allowed speed limit, as he drove about as far out as he could, before deeming it “safe” and stopping on a random sidestreet in the far-out, dead asleep suburbs.
Putting it into park, he turned to the backseat.
“You both alright?”
Alastor shrugged, George... just looked like George.
“Well, I could be better. Especially if you didn’t just assault someone with a coffee mug on my talk show.”
“I was saving you!”
“You... okay, fine, you didn’t fail. But you certainly caused a scene, that’s what.”
Vincent rolled his eyes. “Scene schmene. It was a scene long before I stepped in, George.”
“I-“
“You two are ridiculous.” Alastor murmured.
Both the others fell into silence, unable to protest the comment.
“We’re all a little ridiculous, Alastor.” Vincent replied.
“Don’t lump me into your tomfoolery...”
A mumbled reply even as Vincent stepped over the centre console and into the backseat with
George and Alastor.
“You know you love it, Al. So do you, George, so quit glaring at me.”
“Vincent, you might have just ruined my show.”
“Please?”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
A hand cupping the talkshow host’s cheek before their lips met slowly in a kiss that begged for
forgiveness.
Alastor rolled his eyes regardless. “I stand by my point of you two being ridiculous.”
Vincent pulled from George. “Whaaaaat, you jealous?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Vincent, can you quit it?”
“Please?”
"I dislike your tactics."
A laugh erupted from George. “Ooooo, he’s giving you puppy eyes, Al!”
Alastor shook his head, but, still smiled. Then briefly allowed the newscaster’s lips to meet his.
As they pulled apart, the radio host murmured “at least you don’t taste bad.”
“You say that like I have before.”
“Maybe you have!”
George chuckled. “He’s right, you know, Vince. How do you know?”
“Shut up...”
Leaning against the backseat, in between the ginger and curly-haired brunet,
“We really should spend more days together.”
“Even if it means ruining my segment?”
“Or interrupting my radio show?”
Vincent adjusted his glasses.
“Even if.”