Chapter Text
F*king hell
Vincent's arms burned, shoulders screaming with every step, his back nearly locking up. Sweat clung uncomfortably beneath his collar despite the night air, and the sound of something limp dragging through leaves grated on his nerves.
'No good son of a-'
The corpse snagged on a root for the third time, and Vincent hissed through his teeth as he hauled it free.
Dead weight. Literally dead weight.
Why does he allow himself to be used like this?
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, boots sliding in the dirt.
“Absolutely unbelievable.”
Ahead of him, Alastor walked with a bit of a spring in his step, unburdened, as if the night were a pleasant stroll rather than a cleanup. Whistling, actually whistling, hands clasped behind his back, one holding a bloody knife. The moon caught the light brown-red in his curly hair and the easy tilt of his smile.
“A successful evening, wouldn’t you say?” Alastor said cheerfully, not bothering to look back.
Vincent grunted, adjusting his grip under the corpse’s shoulders. The body was dead weight in every sense of the word, limbs dragging uselessly through leaves and mud. He felt his glasses slowly shifting downwards with his own sweat. Cursing under his breath, he nudged them upwards as much as he could with his shoulder.
“Oh, yes. Fantastic, extremely fantastic! I especially loved the part where I did all the heavy lifting the past several hours while you, what, admired the scenery?”
Alastor’s laugh rang out, bright and warm. A laugh that Vincent almost nearly let his growing frustration subside.
God, he never got tired of hearing it, there was a time he'd make a fool of himself deliberately to hear more of that sound.
“You do have such a talent for it, my dear Vinnie. Efficiency is a virtue.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened, feeling a rush of warmth run up his neck. His arms burned.
“You know, for a partnership,” Vincent grunted, pulling a little harder by the dead man's underarms, “this feels suspiciously like unpaid labor.”
The thought wasn’t new. It never was. If he bothered to count, he’d probably lose his mind, too many nights, too many bodies, too many times he’d been the one hauling, hiding, cleaning. Nearly a decade of it, really, ever since they’d shaken on that unspoken agreement and called it an alliance. Funny how alliance always translated to Vincent doing the work that made his back ache and muscles working overtime.
He waited, half-expecting a quip, a deflection, something. But Alastor made no comment, no reassurance. Just silence, deliberate and dismissive, reducing Vincent’s complaints to mere background noise.
That, somehow, irritated him even more.
“I do hope we reach our destination soon,” Alastor then said lightly completely ignoring his partner's complaints, his words steady as though he were commenting on the weather.
“As wonderfully efficient as this little hit turned out to be, I fear I might have let enthusiasm get the best of me.”
“You don’t say.” Vincent rolled his eyes.
Frankly, he was amazed the body was still in one piece. Alastor’s interpretation of enthusiasm tended to involve far more stabbing than strictly necessary. Not that Vincent could deny it, watching Alastor go in for the kill was incredibly, hot.
Concerningly hot.
Vincent shook his head refusing to let those thoughts surge again. There was just something intoxicating about the focus, the confidence, the way Alastor moved, still graceful, when he gave himself over to his bloodlust completely. Mesmerizing, even. But the way the man lost himself in it, smiling all the while, was equal parts impressive and deeply concerning.
Messy, too. Very messy.
This time especially, enough that Vincent had to actually step in, hand on Alastor’s wrist, sharp words cutting through the haze before the blood was creating more of a scene then he liked to leave behind even in the middle of the forest.
It had been too long, in Alastor's definition, of indulging in their little 'hobby'.
Hot or not there were limits.
Alastor glanced down at himself with mild disapproval, long fingers idly plucking at the front of his once-pristine button-up. The white fabric was thoroughly ruined now, darkened, soaked through, clinging unpleasantly to his skin. His glasses had also been smeared bloodily to the point of unusable, luckily, he always carried a hankerchief for this exact reason.
“Knife work can be so invigorating,” he continued, tone bright. “One loses track of moderation in the moment.”
Internally, however, irritation crept in. The shirt was heavy with blood. Sticky. Cooling in places it shouldn’t. Every step made the damp cloth pull and cling, an offense that set his nerves on edge.
Blood was all well and good where it belonged: on the floor, on his hands, on someone else. But soaked into his clothing, it became an entirely different matter.
An impending sensory nightmare slowly crawling up his spine.
Alastor suppressed a grimace, smile never faltering, and quickened his pace just slightly.
The trees then finally started to thin out, revealing a crooked wooden shack hunched at the edge of a clearing. It looked barely held together, weathered planks, a slanted roof, overgrowth slowly climbing up the wooden walls, and a window glowing faintly from within.
Alastor slowed, clearly pleased.
This shack was well tucked away in the swamps of New Orleans, only Alastor himself can navigate through these darker, unexplored areas. Which is why, aside from his own home not far from here, was the perfect place to dispose of their killings.... once he'd collected parts that interested him, of course. Whatever he was in the mood to feast on. What remained thrown out in the nearby body of water several feet away.
You can say the alligators who inhabited there were very happily fed.
“Ah, we've arrived at last,” he announced, unlatching the door and stepping inside. Vincent dragged the corpse all the way to the front, letting it thump onto the ground with no ceremony. He straightened with a sharp exhale, rolling his shoulders, hands braced against his lower back until something popped.
'F*ck me I'm getting too old for this'
“I’m serious," he said scowling. "I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, but if this keeps up, I’m going to start reconsidering why I—”
He glanced over, face stern—then stopped.
Alastor, already inside, had began unbuttoning his shirt, movements unhurried, almost absentminded. The bloodied fabric clung as he shrugged it off, tossing it over the back of an empty chair.
Vincent stared. His brain, usually sharp and buzzing with commentary, went completely blank.
Alastor’s build was… unfair for their winding age.
Lean but solid, back muscles defined from constant use similar to his forearms, chest broad and firm, a large irregular shaped scar spanning it. An impossibly slim waist, and faintly carved abs beneath warm lamplight that made his caramel toned skin glow.
Vincent gulped, face flushing, as his breath hitched and heart stuttered for a second.
Oh lord
Alastor stretched slightly, like a man shaking off a long day’s work, utterly unconcerned with the effect it had. He reached inside one of his pant's pocket to pull out his hankerchief to wipe at the knife used on his recent victim.
Vincent’s mouth opened.
No sound came out. His throat suddenly feeling impossibly dry.
Is it pathetic to think that the simple action aroused him even more?
Alastor glanced back then, eyes flicking over Vincent with quick, knowing delight. His smile sharpened just a touch.
“Hm? You were saying something about reconsidering?”
Vincent swallowed hard, heterochromic eyes shaking as he looked away, then immediately back again, as if his eyes refused to cooperate.
Alastor’s smile formed a smirk, eyes creasing in his newfound amusement.
Sh*t
“I— you— that’s not—” Vincent stopped, scrubbing a hand through his salt and pepper hair.
“You’re doing that on purpose.” he huffed.
“Doing what?” Alastor asked innocently, stepping closer, placing the somewhat clean knife on the table.
His steps silent on the shack's floorboards as he leaned in towards Vincent, close, but not quite touching.
“That,” Vincent snapped, gesturing vaguely at Alastor’s proximity and sudden exposure of skin. He then immediately regretting it having to take in the situation he was in once again.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
“Y-You know exactly what you’re doing.”
Alastor chuckled, low and pleased.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flustered.”
“I am not flustered,” Vincent said too quickly.
Alastor angled himself even more just enough to invade Vincent's space, eyes glittering.
“Of course not. And yet…”
He tilted his head, studying Vincent like a fascinating instrument. He always found Vincent's reactions so entertaining to watch, the man could rarely ever hide his emotions properly. Even for as long as they've known each other, there was something captivating in the way Vincent’s mismatched eyes shined just for him. Alastor had the thought, once or twice, how those eyes would look preserved in a jar decorating his shelf.
Hm, one day perhaps.
“You do so much more work when you’re motivated.” Alastor chuckled leaning back.
Vincent bristled, trying to recover his footing.
“So that’s it? You keep me around because I’m useful?”
“Among other reasons,” Alastor replied smoothly.
“You’re clever. Capable. And remarkably loyal when properly encouraged.”
His gaze lingered, warm and unsettling all at once.
Yes.
Usually he's not one for public displays of undress, in fact, almost every kill will leave his clothes just as saturated as tonight. But he felt it prudent to appease Vincent’s frustrations from the journey here. Oh, he was very well aware of Vincent's certain... affections towards him. Even if he didn't return them, he rather enjoyed Vincent’s company. They've been partners in crime for years for a reason.
What was a little indulgence between a shared deep rooted bond?
Vincent's gaze quickly flicked down at Alastors parted smirking lips, and he cursed under his breath. He hated how true Alastor's words felt. Hated that his earlier frustration was already slipping, dulled by the way Alastor looked at him like this, like Vincent was exactly where he belonged.
He scrunched his nose and closed his eyes, already feeling what had started this...whatever the f*ck this is, fade away.
Alastor had already turned around walking back to the table in the middle of the shack, gesturing lightly.
“Come now. Let’s get this little… hobby of ours wrapped up. We can discuss workload distribution afterward.”
Vincent opened his eyes again, looked at the corpse. Then at Alastor. Then sighed, bending to grab the body again.
“…You’re the worst,” he muttered.
Alastor’s laughter rang out in the tiny room, bright and victorious.