Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

New York City, New York 

December 28th, 1947 

High vaulted ceilings were dressed in glittering lights and sparkling tinsel. A massive tree still decorated the great hall. Gaudy and grandiose as all things to do with the Christmas season are, a velvet rope strung all around it to create a small barrier. If anything did happen–a fight or a rowdy party goer, Alastor doubted it would do much in the way of ‘protecting’ the tree. But sure. Put the velvet rope around it, whatever makes these people feel proactive. 

He could feel the eyes of too many guests follow him as he made his way through the crowd. He’d love a drink but part of him had to wonder if the bartender would bother serving him. His fingers itched for a cigarette as he narrowly avoided colliding with another man. As much as he’d like to be offended, even he had to admit he didn’t belong at this party–there was still room to be offended. However. 

This was not New Orleans, these people did not know him. It stood to reason the well known faces would look at him with contempt. After all, people still gave him dirty looks in Louisiana, but they stomached his presence for appearance sake. 

So far he was consistently being let down by this dreadful city. All he heard from the yanks who paraded around the south was how there was nothing like a party in New York City. They didn’t even have music playing. Alastor felt his lips quirk up in a smug cat-like grin. Nothing like a party in New York indeed. He wasn’t sure how one could call it a party at this point. It seemed more like a wake to Alastor. Idle chatter filled with nothing but the best wishes of distant acquaintances who wouldn’t speak until another event such as this again. 

He searched around for any sign of life in this abysmal excuse of a party but so far he hadn’t had any luck. He ran his fingers over the intricate lighter in his coat pocket, yearning for a cigarette as he took his nail absentmindedly over the engravings. 

“Excuse me, excuse me–” a woman snagged his coat, “honestly I’ve been trying to get your attention for five minutes.” 

Alastor pulled away from her slightly, “Hm, whatever for?” 

She waved a champagne glass in the air like it was obvious, “Another drink? What else?” 

A few men chuckled around her. 

“Uh-huh. Well , I hope you find someone who can get that for you,” Alastor gave her a small smile. He didn’t particularly like killing women, but they did entice him on occasion. She was visibly affronted, eyes flaring with rage as she went to lay into him. 

“Alastor! There you are,” his manager appeared from the crowd. 

Drats. Alastor was sure he’d lost the older man for the night. Though, perhaps his sudden appearance was for the best. The woman’s rage had already drawn in a few more eyes. 

“Been looking all over for you, do you know many people are jumping down my throat to talk to you?” Conrad glared at him. The group of imbeciles from before seemed to understand their error now. Eyes widening in mild horror at the concept of the colored man being important, Alastor was sure. How they hadn’t pieced together he was not employed by this establishment–considering his red suit compared to the all black literally every employee was wearing–he did not know. 

“I’m trying to enjoy myself,” Alastor shrugged, “so much for a party, though. This joint is a drag.” 

“Yeah? Well maybe you could do something about that, come on,” Conrad linked their arms, pulling him through the crowd. 

“You’d think a swanky place like this would have a band,” Conrad whispered. 

“And how,” Alastor chuckled under his breath. 

Conrad straightened up when they came into a tall, rotund man’s line of sight. Beady eyes glanced up and down Conrad and then over Alastor. 

He felt like a caricature of a smarmy rich money hungry mongrel. Big in every way save his eyes, wearing a suit to hide an obvious beer gut, and what seemed to be a permanent scowl etched onto his features. 

“The fuck is this?” He arched a near nonexistent brow, gesturing to Alastor in evident irritation. 

“This is New Orlean’s finest,” Conrad smiled brightly, “Alastor Bordeaux.”

There was a huff of disbelief that passed through those thin, grimy lips, “Never knew you were a n–negro.”

Alastor folded his hands behind his back, refraining from just strangling the man front and center. He pasted his usual jovial smile on and hummed, “Is that a problem?” 

“I assure you he’s good at what he does,” Conrad cut in. What was this man getting him roped into? 

He and Conrad would have to have a long conversation about this ridiculous behavior later. 

“Your manager says you’re a proper musician,” beady eyes bore into him like Alastor owed them something, “why don’t you play us something?” A fat finger pointed to the baby grand placed on a slightly elevated platform. 

Alastor cast a pointed glare at Conrad, “But of course.” 

A long conversation. A very long conversation. Honestly, if it wouldn’t be such a hassle to train a new manager Alastor would consider putting the man six feet under. 

Conrad gave him a mildly apologetic look, "Whiskey?" 

“You know good and well they can’t make a sazerac,” Alastor tsked. Another reason he couldn’t just toss Conrad. They were comfortable with one another, Alastor could get snippy with him like that and wouldn’t have to worry. 

It was hard to find someone who knew their place in this pecking order, unfortunately. 

Alastor tested the piano, running his hands over a few scales. It was properly tuned, good. He’d already captured the crowd’s attention. Probably because they were all equally as bored as he was. 

Taking a seat Alastor’s fingers danced across the keys, he hadn’t originally planned to perform, but if that’s what everyone expected. 

He never cared to play at parties like this, they never really appreciated the effort he put into what he did. It was as though they thought the keys just played themselves and the lyrics fell from a voice in the sky. 

A circle formed around him. Conrad deposited a glass of whiskey atop the piano at some point. Alastor gave the crowd a wide, show stopping smile, inviting them to sing along. 

They were terrible of course, they always were, but the point was to have fun and heaven knows this party needed a little fun. 

Part of him wondered if they expected him to perform like this for the whole night. He certainly would not–he didn’t work without payment. 

He stood after the second song, much to the crowd’s disappointment. A few songs were called out in request, and before he could deny them he saw Conrad’s pleading gaze. 

An extensively long conversation. 

“Oh alright, just one more!” Alastor conceded, knocking back the remainder of his whiskey. He held it up for a moment, a signal to Conrad that he was owed another. 

There was a light roar of applause as he sat back down. There’d been a few requests but Alastor decided to play something for himself. Perhaps it was the new year ushering itself in, but he was feeling a little sentimental. 

The familiar notes came easy, almost second nature even after the time he'd spent avoiding the song like the plague. One of his mother’s favorites before she passed. When her fingers were no longer nimble enough he played it whenever she asked. 

“Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread.”

Not necessarily a fun party song, but hey he’d heard a few love songs thrown out, surely this would do. 

A few couples held each other, swaying gently to the tune. It was quaint, he supposed. Love–at least the romantic kind, alluded him. He had no interest in investing time in someone else. Most people bored him anyhow. He had his select few. Mimzy, Conrad, and his mother once upon a time. 

He added some flourishes to the final chorus, but mostly played it safe and simple. No reason to do more than that. Again, he was not getting paid. 

Alastor stood, there was a small sound of disappointment through the crowd but he’d said before it was the last song. 

Conrad handed him another glass of whiskey as he stepped down from the platform. 

“Thank you,” Alastor accepted it with a subtle nod. He’d grill the man later, might as well be pleasant for now. 

“Hardgrove likes you,” Conrad clapped his hands over Alastor’s shoulders. 

“Mhm,” Alastor took a pointed sip of his glass, “And I should care about this because?” 

“Because he’s willing to use your voice for one of his movies,” Conrad whispered excitedly in his ear, “four hundred and thirty-five dollars to put a recording of your show in the theater.” 

Alastor smiled, “You are quite useful on occasion.” Conrad gave him a smug little grin. Alastor figured he could have this win. 

Beady eyes, or Hardgrove, seemed to be in a better mood as Alastor approached him once more. 

“Not half bad,” Hardgrove nodded in approval, “my assistant should be in contact with you by the end of next month, if not here’s my card.” He held out a card to Conrad that was hilariously small compared to his hand. He walked off after that, maybe to do more business. Maybe because he couldn’t quite stand the thought of being around Alastor any longer. 

If the opportunity ever presented itself Alastor would have to kill him, he reasoned. 

“Look I was talkin’ to a few other folks and I think we could make this a productive night,” Conrad beamed. As fortunate as Alastor was to have someone who was always looking to put money in their pockets–he was starting to regret bringing Conrad along as opposed to one of the younger men at the station. 

“I think you’ve done plenty tonight, I’ll be in meetings for two straight weeks after the new year,” Alastor protested, “can I simply enjoy one night without any business?” 

Nevermind the fact the last hour had already been tainted by it. 

“Sorry, sorry, I just can’t really enjoy mucha nothin,” Conrad sighed heavily. Alastor gave him a pat on the shoulder. 

“Cheer up, pal, you’ll be with Judith and Junior in time for New Years.” 

“Still I should be home,” Conrad frowned, surveying the crowd for his next sales pitch victim. Alastor resisted the urge to roll his eyes–it was sweet, he had to admit. Missing one’s family as deeply as Conrad missed his was certainly a virtuous trait to have. 

“Have I told you you’re a good man, Conrad?” Alastor hummed, giving his whiskey glass a gentle swirl. 

“Once or twice,” Conrad straightened his posture ever so slightly. 

“Mm, make it three,” Alastor finished off his second glass for the night and wondered briefly how many times he could send Conrad to the bar for him. Not that he enjoyed sending the man on frivolous errands (he absolutely revelled in it).  

“Thank you, Mr. Bordeaux,” Conrad gave him one of those genuine smiles. One that didn’t belong in the cut throat world they worked in, but had never left Conrad in all the years Alastor had known him. A testament of his relentless character, really. 

“You try and keep the business to a minimum, I’m getting another drink,” Alastor punctuated his sentence with a shake of his glass. 

Unfortunately, much like he’d originally expected, the bartender gave him a wide berth. Avoiding telling him to leave, but still refusing to serve him. Lovely. He probably should have asked Conrad to get him another. He knew better, he really did. 

Go up North, they said. It's progressive, they said. You’ll love it, they said. 

“Alastor Bordeaux?” 

Alastor nearly jumped out of his own skin. He casted a glance over to the man who’d said his name and was struck with a sense of familiarity, but couldn’t quite place him in his mind. There was an awkward bit of distance between them as the other man stretched out his hand–and dare Alastor say the man looked elated. 

The first thing Alastor noticed was his smile, a canine protruded ever so slightly over his bottom row of teeth. It complimented the child like excitement in his eyes.

Charming. Alastor took his hand with a pleasant smile, “That would be my name.” 

The second thing he noticed was a faint scar that trailed down the left side of his face. 

“Vincent Whittman, I’m a big fan.” That name…it sounded familiar. It sounded like a name Alastor should know. He had to wonder how he could have possibly forgotten such a unique face. Sparkling, wide mismatched eyes, a handsome hooked nose, a naturally rosy hue to his face that gave life to an otherwise pasty complexion, and the scar. It was clearly faded from time, but it was still obvious enough to draw your attention if you weren’t careful. He did his best not to look at it for politeness sake. 

“I would imagine so, not many people recognize me by my face alone,” Alastor turned slightly towards him. Taking in the man’s full appearance. 

“It helps that you haven’t aged in twenty years,” the man stepped forward, closing the awkward distance between them. Alastor was mostly immune to flattery, usually because he knew it entailed a stupid demand of some kind. He forgot himself, in that moment, chuckling slightly, and he didn't miss the victorious spark in Mr. Whittman’s eyes. 

He was remarkably tall, Alastor noted. He might have been a full head taller; forcing him to tilt his chin up slightly to meet blue-green eyes. Other than that, he seemed rather unassuming. A nice dark blue suit with a faintly purple tie. Alastor tapped a finger to his chin, it didn’t look bad, he looked rather–fun. One could say. 

“Twenty years,” Alastor tried to think of the man before him as twenty years younger. He was an older man, Alastor assumed. A few grey streaks in otherwise perfectly black hair. It suited him, Alastor decided, “Are you an actor?” This Vincent certainly looked the part. He could be the romantic lead in one of those movies Mimzy gushed over. 

“No–well. I host a morning talk show and the late night news,” Mr. Whittman explained. 

The words “talk show” rang to the bell. He knew who this fool was–of course. It all made sense now, Alastor realized. This was the loon from the morning show Mimzy prattled about. Well, he’d been half right after all. 

“Ah, I see.” Alastor didn’t bother hiding his disinterest. What was the point of a “talk show” on a picture box when you had radio? 

There was a visible drop in the other man’s enthusiasm. Pitiful, truly. 

“Not a fan, I take it?” a question born of nothing but defeat. Alastor wanted to laugh again, but kept himself in check as tilted his head to the side. So far Mr. Whittman was the only person–outside of Conrad to acknowledge him at this party. It was only eight thirty, social convention expected him here for another hour. 

“A friend of mine likes your show, but I’m afraid I don’t care much for television,” Alastor ran his finger over the rim of his still very empty glass of whiskey. 

“Well at least I know I have one fan down in Louisiana,” Mr. Whittman smiled again. A little less wide, a little less confident. There was a pause. Alastor tried to think of a way to keep the man strung, carry the conversion even for just a few minutes more, but all that came to a halt when he heard the man curse under his breath. 

A flippant hand waved out at the bartender, startling the boy into almost dropping his shaker. 

“Old fashion–what were you drinking?” Whittman glanced back at him, a sharp look in his eye that didn’t align with the excitable puppy he’d seen seconds prior. 

“Whiskey.” 

“And a whiskey.” It wasn’t a request. What a nifty little power to have. Alastor grit his teeth–technically he’d had Conrad doing more or less the same thing, but it still grated on his nerves that he had to have another man order for him. 

At least with Conrad he wasn’t at the bar. 

“What do you think of New York so far?” Whittman turned back to him, taking another step closer to put a casual amount of distance between them. 

“I’ve not had much time to look around, I’m only here for this actually,” Alastor made a small gesture to the grand hall they’d been confined to in his best attempt to not express more disdain for the man’s conversation topics. 

“Well if you get the chance you–” Whittman looked around for a brief moment, grabbing a napkin from the bar and pulling a pen from his inner breast pocket, “–should check out this place. Best coffee in New York.” He slid the napkin to Alastor with a small, slightly cocky smile. There was a certain degree of arrogance in all his movements that should have made Alastor retreat and find a way to avoid him. Yet he stayed put, keeping an intent gaze on the man beside him. 

There was something–it was just under the surface of that suit. It was magnetic. A natural kind of pull Alastor wasn’t used to being captured by. 

He took the napkin, “Well, I’ll take your word for it–hopefully you don’t let me down.” 

A showman’s smile found itself on Mr. Whittman’s face. Performative but not entirely fake. 

“Trust me.” 

Alastor absolutely did not, but it was coffee–it couldn’t hurt to throw a dog a bone on a rare occasion. 

The bartender placed two glasses in front of them, eyes locked on Alastor, “I’m gonna have to ask you to move away from the bar.” 

Well, it was nice while it lasted. Alastor took his final glass of whiskey with a forced smile. He could feel the tension in his shoulders tighten as he took a step back. 

He’d forgotten how nice it was to know the bartender. 

“It was a pleasure, Mr. Whittman,” Alastor tilted his head in a short goodbye. At least he’d made fifteen minutes go by just a little faster. 

“Ah, I was going to grab a cigarette, care to join me?” Mr. Whittman closed the distance between them for the second time that night. “I’ll suffocate if I’m in this place any longer.” 

“...you know, I could use a cigarette right about now,” Alastor agreed. 

“Perfect,” a hand found itself between Alastor’s shoulder blades and he stiffened. “Theres a balcony on the west end, follow me.” 

Alastor turned slightly to brush away the other man’s hand, “Quite comfortable aren’t you?” 

“Ah–sorry,” Mr. Whittman held his hands out in surrender, “habit.” 

It always was. Alastor followed him despite his better judgement. Eyes trailed after them, but they seemed more focused on Whittman as opposed to him. Which was a nice change of pace, so he’d forgive the touchiness. For now. 

The balcony they stepped out on was vacant. That wasn’t much of a surprise, however, as snow laid itself on Alastor’s shoulders and made the grey in Vincent’s hair white. 

While he wasn’t a fan of the cold, Alastor did see the appeal of the snow, he could acknowledge beauty when it was present. 

“Fuck,” a gust of wind cut through his person, “damn North.” He shivered. This trip was more than enough to extinguish any desire he’d ever had about exploring the upper east coast. 

Whittman chuckled as he held out a cigarette, “It takes some getting used to.” 

“Are you not from here?” Alastor inquired, accepting the stick of nicotine with a small sound of appreciation. 

“No,” Whittman confirmed, “I’ve lived all over the coast, settled down here when I got offered the talk show.” 

Alastor simply hummed in response while lighting his cigarette, it was vaguely interesting. He’d been under the impression the man was a native New Yorker. Whittman patted his pockets gingerly, probably looking for his own lighter. Alastor saved him the time and wordlessly offered his own. 

“Ah–thank you,” Whittman paused for a long moment before he took it, “A.W?” 

“Hm? Oh a soldier gave it to me years ago when I was traveling around during the war,” Alastor waved a dismissive hand, “I’ve always assumed they were his initials.” 

“You’re half right, it's Albert Whittman.” It was now that Alastor saw that shit-eating grin. 

He may have imagined it, but it seemed that for just a second the world stopped. Snow paused midair, his cigarette didn’t burn, time didn’t pass–it was just the two of them at the center of it all, as though this revelation was the most important thing that could have happened tonight. Maybe it was. 

“My–what a small world it is we live in,” Alastor pushed himself against the balcony’s railing, looking at the pompous TV show host in a new light. 

He saw it now. There were faint remnants of the young soldier who had given Alastor his lighter. More obvious now in the darkness of the balcony, illuminated by nothing but the subtle glow from inside and the street lights. While he was not as young and he was much more confident, that nose and that smile remained. 

“I can’t believe you still have this,” Whittman tossed him back the lighter he’d been calling his for the past five years. 

“I think you’ll find I take care of what I’m given,” Alastor caught the little trinket with one hand. “Its quite nice, I couldn’t believe you just handed it off to me.” 

Granted, its once pristine silver case was slightly tarnished now, but the vines engraved in it were still easily recognizable, and it still worked like a charm despite its obvious age. 

Whittman shrugged, “I can get a lighter anywhere–I could only leave an impression on Alastor Bordeaux once. Or so I thought.” 

Alastor laughed openly at that, “And an impression you left.” 

Vincent smiled knowingly–irritatingly earned confidence on full display, “I was surprised to be the soldier with the hooked nose, considering.” He gestured to his eyes. 

Alastor watched as he took a steady drag from his cigarette, smoke billowed around them. The wind carried it in circles up and over their heads. An air of prestige surrounded Vincent Whittman. A man who knew he was important, but smart enough not to force it. Alastor never would have imagined the young man who couldn’t look him in the eyes would grow into something so much greater. It was intriguing he had to admit. 

“You could have been the timid little lamb,” Alastor quipped, “you have grown quite a bit Mr. Whittman.” 

“Damn,” Whittman feigned an injury to the chest, “here I thought I was…what was it–darling?” he flashed a brilliant, teasing smile. 

Alastor rolled his eyes, “Certainly not anymore.” He always figured the soldier would know who he was when Alastor told the story on a broadcast, but he’d never accounted for his words to be thrown back in his face. 

Whittman closed the distance between them yet again. Standing slightly over Alastor, eyes lit by lingering holiday decorations that illuminated the city. 

“Am I not darling?” 

“You seemed so young, time–” Alastor paused, he didn’t want to say it’d been cruel. Whittman was by no means a bad looking man, and he could buy the man being closer in age to himself. “Well, darling young soldiers don’t have scars and grey hair.” 

“Fair enough,” Whittman nodded as he took a sip from his old fashion just to look at it in disappointment. “So what am I now?” 

Alastor used his glass to push Whittman back slightly, “Lets see…perhaps–a pompous picture showman.” His grin widened at the deadpan that settled on Whittman’s face. 

“So cruel, I guess they do say not to meet your heroes,” the man sighed exaggeratedly. 

They arranged themselves comfortably side by side against the railing, Alastor having a full view of the scar on Whittman’s face. Alastor felt he would have remembered such a feature if the young soldier who’d approached him back then had it. 

“I’m sure you could find someone much better to take up the mantle,” Alastor chuckled. Smoke warmed him from the inside out, leaving him empty and cold as it wafted around them. 

“I couldn’t,” Whittman answered decidedly. 

“Thats—” Alastor froze. He’d been expecting some kind of sarcastic retort. “You are a peculiar man, Mr. Whittman.” 

“Vincent, please, Mr. Whittman was my father.” 

Alastor rolled his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, but corrected his phrasing, “Vincent.”

A pleasant silence fell between them as their cigarettes burned down and Alastor’s whiskey emptied. He noted that Vincent did not take more than one or two sips from his old fashion, equally disappointed after each. 

The snow grew heavier, thick flakes dancing through the sky. Alastor brushed some snow off his shoulder, “I hope this infernal weather doesn’t put off my train ride back to New Orleans.” 

“Oh, leaving tomorrow? You really were only here for this?” Vincent seemed surprised. Alastor's not sure why, he had no reason to lie about something like that. 

“Yes,” Alastor flicked the rest of the ash from his cigarette off into the street far below, “Conrad wants to be home by New Years Eve–and I want out of this hell state.” 

Vincent laughed, “You’ve not even had the time to enjoy it!” 

“Oh I’ve seen plenty,” Alastor protested, “it's dull and the food is tasteless. Goodness you can hardly see the stars–and it's all concrete. Grey, grey, look more grey!” 

Vincent continued to laugh as he watched Alastor gesticulate, emphasizing his words by pointing at monstrous buildings and a black sky. 

“Well, it's snowing tonight, but my point stands. Your night sky is an abomination,” Alastor nodded curtly. 

“This is unacceptable, Mr. Bordeaux, really. I have to change your mind,” Vincent stood up completely, “you haven’t been to the right places.” 

“Oh and I suppose you can show me the right places?” Alastor’s nose scrunched in smug disbelief. 

“Absolutely–you just don’t know where to look,” Vincent assured. 

“Are you offering to get me out of this dreadful joint?” It was more of a challenge than a question. Would Vincent stick with his guns or would he back down? 

“I’m not offering,” Vincent shook his head, “I’m getting us out of here.” 

Alastor should feel bad. He’d jumped at the chance to ditch a party he’d drug Conrad to during the holidays–and promptly left Conrad.

In his defense he hadn’t wanted to go to the party in the first place, but technically he was a partner of the station and it would have been uncouth not to attend. 

How was he supposed to turn down the chance to leave, anyway? He’s sure he could spin some sort of net benefit scenario rooted in making friends with Vincent. There was something to be gained–there was with any connection in their world. Well, most connections.

All this to say, he didn’t feel an ounce of remorse as Vincent pulled him into an actual hole in the wall. 

“A speakeasy?” Alastor grinned–genuine excitement building in his chest that he was trying his damdest to temper, but the wild energy Vincent had exuded since they stepped out of the cab was contagious. 

“One of the last few in New York,” Vincent smiled widely at him. 

Alastor had to give it to him, he knew his audience. 

One minute he was in a dark, dingy alley on one of the many cookie cutter streets that made up the cement labyrinth of New York City. The next, cigarettes, booze, and jazz bombarded his senses. He felt nineteen again for a split second before bodies became flush with his bringing him back to reality. While he didn’t enjoy touching others and found great pleasure in his personal space, he couldn’t deny the nostalgia he felt as the crowd forced him and Vincent closer. 

This was what Fitzgerald had written about. Massive parties and wild nights created a different sort of intimacy between people. A faint line of connection to be shared even if you didn’t know the name of the people against you. These are the nights parents hope their children never have. 

A glass of whiskey found its way into his hand despite the fact he hadn’t ordered one, and he hadn’t quite registered they'd made their way to the bar. 

“Is it everything you remember, old man?” Vincent teased over the noise. 

“Oh please, you look older than I do,” Alastor ran a hand through perfectly brown locks. The only signs of age being his smile lines. He preferred to consider them a sign of a life well lived. 

“You’re a cruel man, Bordeaux,” Vincent laughed. Oh if only he knew. Alastor couldn’t help the wry smile that spread across his face. 

The very air around them pulsed with energy as they grew closer. Drinks found their way into their hands, laughter became abundant, and Alastor idly wondered what Vincent would sound like with a knife in his chest. 

With every word Vincent spoke Alastor considered how he would kill the man. He didn’t typically kill someone who hadn’t summoned his anger, but it was hard not to picture a blood soaked, writhing Vincent begging for his life. It’d have to be a slow death, Alastor decided. He wanted to hear Vincent try and talk himself out of being slaughtered. 

New York City, New York

December 29th, 1947

He was out of breath. But laughter still managed to leave him as the hands of a stranger held him. One entwined in his hair, the other planted on the center of his chest. It was hot. They became forcefully close, but they didn’t care. 

Cold air brushed against his skin but he didn’t flinch, the warmth of someone else close to his chest as he reached out a hand. 

His blood boiled. A body was beneath him. It didn’t move. 

Hands were on him again. 

Vincent noticed two things as he blinked awake. Number one, there was a body in bed next to him. 

Number two, he was covered in cuts and dried blood–and so were his sheets. 

He sat up too fast, a wave of pain crashing down on his head which threatened to send him back down. First thing first though–he looked over at the form next to him and prayed it was just a really freaky broad and not a dead body. It could have been both, he reasoned as he trailed tentative fingers down the shallow cuts decorating his torso. 

He noticed a third thing, however. 

That wasn’t a woman next to him. No–that was Alastor fucking Bordeaux. 

Panic seized his chest as he realized that he hadn’t just brought some woman home and then potentially strangled her, he’d brought Alastor Bordeaux–one of the most famous voices in America–and potentially strangled him. 

Last night was a blur of lights and alcohol as he surfed through his memories. He’d never killed someone and then not remembered. Or maybe he had and he didn’t remember. 

Vincent took a steadying breath, leaning slightly over Alastor. He traced two fingers gingerly over the man’s throat. He watched, relieved to not only feel the warmth of Alastor’s skin but to see the slight twitch of his brow. Vincent removed his hand and settled back into the sheets. 

Now he got to digest the fact he’d slept with Alastor Bordeaux and couldn’t remember it. This had to be some kind of cruel joke. 

He strained his memory again, but no such luck as all he was able to put together was a blur of blood. Probably his own, judging how his chest looked. He had the evidence, at least. 

He’d had his fair share of wild encounters but he couldn’t think of a time someone drew blood from him. He wished he could remember it. Maybe Alastor would tell him about it–maybe they could have a small reenactment. Who knows?

Vincent closed his eyes, fully intending on falling asleep again, enjoying the novelty of Alastor’s presence, only to be jolted awake when he remembered Greta would be here any minute. He pulled himself from the bed as deftly as possible while also being quick. 

He wasn’t sure how to explain the blood stains on his sheets. He might just have to throw them away and hope Greta never asked questions. 

You never realize how loud basic tasks are until you’re doing everything your power to be quiet, Vincent observed as he slowly pulled a dresser drawer out to fish for a shirt. With every little sound he made he found himself glancing back at the bed to make sure Alastor was still asleep. 

He threw on one of his bathrobes just to add an extra layer–he needed to find a way to get Greta out of the apartment when she arrived. One could aptly describe his mind as a wild stampede as he scrambled for one of his notepads and a pen. 

Once he acquired both items he scribbled a note out for Alastor in case he was still dealing with Greta when the man awoke. Giving himself a pat on the back for thinking ahead Vincent began making his way down to the living room. He would intercept his housekeeper, send her back home after a few apologies and any and all disasters would be avoided. 

The universe had other plans though. 

Greta was already here, evidence being the open curtains that allowed too much light to spill into the open living room. Vincent shielded his eyes as he made his way down the staircase, praying that he and Alastor hadn’t left some wild mess for Greta to find and piece together their affair. 

He tried to quell the rising urgency in his movements, but that was a bit difficult when he was dealing with the very real possibility he’d have to dispose of Greta. She was a kind older woman who’d never given him any problems before he didn’t want to kill her—but if she exposed his more explicit ventures he’d be ruined. 

And unfortunately his housekeeper had a pension for gossip and a keen set of eyes despite her age. 

He knew he’d been caught the second he stepped foot into the kitchen. 

“What have you done?” Greta squinted at him, clearly unimpressed. 

“Greta!” Vincent cheered too loud for his own head and too uppity to convince the old woman of his non-existent innocence, “you’re early–”

“It's 11:30, Mr. Whittman,” Greta deadpanned. Vincent did a double take, eyes landing on the clock hanging above the kitchen sink. Sure enough it was already 11:30. When was the last time he’d slept in at all let alone almost noon? 

“Damn,” he ran a hand down his face. His answering machine was probably full by now, “What are you doing here, though? You didn’t walk in that snow did you?” 

“Oh it's no trouble dear. I’m not far, besides it's nothing I haven’t seen before. Rough night?” Greta looked him up and down pointedly. He’d love to have a proper comeback but he’d seen himself in the mirror. It was warranted.

“You know how company parties are Greta, always a drag,” Vincent waved his hand in dismissal. 

“You look like you got run over by a freight train,” the older woman pushed a cup of coffee towards him, “you gotta skank in your room don’t you?” 

“Wha-I don’t–Greta that's very rude to the very kind woman I brought home last night,” Vincent folded. Best to let her think he had a random woman tucked out of sight as opposed to a man. 

“Oh are you gonna marry her?” Greta cocked an unimpressed brow. 

“You know I think she deserves better than me,” Vincent took a tentative sip of the coffee, nodding in approval when he deemed it the perfect temperature. 

Greta was going about her business in the kitchen, clearly prepping for a breakfast meant for two. 

“Greta, if you could do me a favor–” 

“Ah am I making myself scarce?” Greta closed the fridge before she finished pulling all the necessary things with a disdainful huff. 

“You know I love your company,” Vincent tried to be more delicate but Greta just tsked. 

“Alright, I’ll let you and your lady friend have the day,” she gave him a curt nod, “you have my number when you need me, Mr. Whittman.” 

“Thank you, truly, Greta,” Vincent walked her out of the apartment, crossing his fingers and praying Alastor didn’t leave the bedroom. 

“I do hope she’s nice my dear,” Greta stopped just outside the door’s threshold, “you need to get married–wouldn’t it be nice to have some little ones around?” 

Vincent just shook his head in exasperation, “Maybe one day, Greta. Maybe one day.” 

He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally managed to close the door. She had a point, he supposed. While it would serve him well to go ahead and marry a younger woman so he could start trying for kids it was just a little hard to maintain a proper relationship when your only off day was once a month on a random Tuesday. Besides, he was pretty content where he was. 

He cast a glance around the bare living room. He hadn’t bothered with a Christmas tree–much to Greta’s horror. 

A little boy and girl danced around in his mind for a brief second before he shoved the thought away. There wasn’t much of a point in thinking about the things he couldn’t have. 

Now that he was more awake he surveyed the expanse of his apartment with each step he took. Nothing seemed out of place–but that could have been Greta’s doing. 

His coat hung on the rack next to the door, and much to his horror so did Alastor’s. Hopefully Greta hadn’t noticed or didn’t think anything of it. He examined the coat; it was simple, he could believe it belonged to a woman. It helped that Alastor was remarkably thin for a man, making his coat look almost dramatically smaller when paired with Vincent’s. 

He paused for just a second in the living room, observing the dead city below blanketed in snow. Alastor’s complaints about how ugly he thought the city was came to mind–he wondered if this sight would give the man a new perspective. Not that it mattered, of course. Alastor was going back to Louisiana, and probably wouldn’t look back. 

He mourned the memories he’d lost to alcohol once more as he climbed the stairs back to his bedroom. Vincent didn’t just take someone into his personal room. Sure, he was no stranger to a one night stand but if they made it to his apartment? They usually just wound up on the couch or in one of the guest rooms. Somehow the idea that he’d let Alastor into his bedroom felt more intimate than the fact they’d had sex.

His hand hesitated for a second above the doorknob. He tried to listen for any signs of movement but all he got was dead silence. Not even the city outside made a sound. It was rare for snow to shut New York down, but it did happen. 

He pushed the door open, but not without squeezing his eyes shut and sending up one last prayer for good luck. 

—much to his surprise it was luck he received. 

Alastor was sitting up in bed with his head turned away from the door to look out the expansive patio doors attached to Vincent’s bedroom. Bright white light highlighted the edges of his figure, giving him an ethereal sort of glow. No pomade remained to hold down thick brown curls, tussled out of their side swept style and falling to their more natural position. He looked remarkably delicate, blankets pooled around a sinfully small waist, a gentle smile on his face as he watched the dead city streets below. He was something out of painting–too gorgeous to be real. 

Vincent didn’t want to break the silence. Fearing that if he did this would all disappear somehow. 

Alastor turned to him at last. His eyes widened in evident surprise, dark gaze flicking from Vincent to the blood covered sheets and then back to Vincent. 

“You’re staring,” Alastor clicked his tongue. 

“You’re worth staring at.” 

Alastor’s eyes widened again, a hand threading nimbly through his hair as he tried to tame his curls, “Uh-huh. I’m sure you say that to all the people you sleep with.”

“I don’t,” Vincent assured as he took a tentative step forward. To think he’d never have the memories of what happened in this bed the night before–his heart ached at the concept.

“I have to admit I don’t remember much from last night,” Alastor relented, a hand splaying out over a bloodstain. “I do hope this is from last night, anyway.” 

Vincent lifted his shirt, revealing the cut trailing from his sternum to his naval. 

Alasto pursed his lips together and nodded, “I suppose an apology may be in order.” 

“I wouldn’t have let it happen if I wasn’t into it,” Vincent rocked back on his heels, “but to be honest I don’t remember last night either.” 

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “What–what do you remember?” 

Vincent sifted through the vague flashes from the night before. They were at the speakeasy. They drank, talked, he was pretty sure they wound up dancing at some point. Then–they were on the street. He was hauling a cab–Vincent froze. 

The cab driver. 

Fuck. 

He glanced back at Alastor, “Uh…I remember when we hauled the cab. That's about it.” 

“Yes,” the older man paused, wheels turning faintly in his mind. Vincent saw it. There was a spark in those eyes as he remembered what had happened to the driver. 

Well. That's unfortunate. Vincent would have liked to get a picture of Alastor like this, and it was going to break his heart to kill him–but he couldn’t have a witness. 

Suddenly, in a surprising display of strength, he was down on the bed with Alastor on top of him. 

“You,” Alastor was beaming. A kind of unhinged look dancing in his eyes, “you killed him for me.” 

Vincent blinked. He had done it for Alastor, hadn’t he? 

Right–right the driver refused to let him in the car. 

“You are so sweet,” Alastor pushed a hand up his shirt, lithe fingers trailing over the cuts he’d made last night, “do you remember?” 

“...its hard to forget bashing a man’s skull in,” Vincent mused. He’d already resigned himself to the fact he had to kill Alastor. A confession wouldn’t do much. He was deeply confused about what was happening right now, though. 

Alastor fucking giggled. Vincent’s whole world was suddenly the man straddling his waist–because Alastor was still very nude, and very sexy. 

“Oh it makes sense now,” Alastor hummed, hand still resting against Vincent’s stomach, "it's a shame you don’t remember my thank you.” He pulled off too quickly, leaving Vincent craving his touch once more. 

“Wait what?” Vincent tried reaching for Alastor but it was too late. 

“Well I’m not having sex with you again because you don’t remember,” Alastor waved a dismissive hand, eyes scanning the floor. 

“I killed a man,” Vincent asserted. And right now Alastor was implying the only reason they had sex last night was as a show of gratitude for murder. 

“Yes, and it was very kind of you,” Alastor gave him a taunt smile. Holy shit that’s really what he was implying. Either he was being overly agreeable to try and make a break for it, or he was more insane than Vincent. The first was the more likely of the two. 

“You’re–that–most people don’t thank someone for that,” Vincent swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

“No I suppose not,” Alastor shrugged, “but I think we both know I’m not most people.” 

“...you know that's not the first time I’ve killed someone?” 

“Of course, you’re a war veteran, after all,” Alastor just chuckled. There was an increased sound of discomfort in his voice. 

Vincent just hummed as he watched Alastor pull on a pair of boxers. Already so eager to leave. It was a valiant effort, trying to play along for safety’s sake, but only an idiot would fall for something like that. 

The tension was thick between them as Vincent moved to stand slightly over Alastor, “I didn’t mean during the war.” 

Alastor blinked up at him with big overly sweet brown eyes, “And?” 

“People don’t usually take that very well, you’re kind of a liability to me, you know,” Vincent stood at his full height, squaring his shoulders to make a point. 

“Oh but Mr. Whittman I won’t tell anyone, I promise,” Alastor cooed at him like a child. He slid his hand down Vincent’s chest and as hot as the man in front of him was, Vincent was far more focused on the fact Alastor clearly thought he was stupid.

Vincent caught his hand leaning down to whisper in the older man’s ear, “Keep treating me like a child and I might decide to play with my food, Alastor.” 

A heavy silence followed. His hand stayed wrapped around that slender wrist, holding it firmly against his chest as he stared Alastor down. He was unfairly pretty, Vincent didn’t want to have to kill him. Usually, Vincent mutilated his victims in some way, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to do something like that to Alastor.

The silence only lasted for a few seconds even though it felt far longer. 

“Come now, Vincent,” Alastor tried to tug his wrist away, face twisting in discomfort when he realized that wasn’t happening any time soon. “If you think you can kill me you’re far dumber than I initially thought.” 

Vincent raised his brow, that was a lot of confidence for a man with a notoriously delicate constitution. 

“Think you can get away, baby?” Vincent pushed Alastor against the wall, pinning him with just one arm. 

To his credit Alastor didn’t flinch, but he was so small Vincent barely had to use any strength to hold him. 

“Smug fucking cracker,” Alastor spat. Before Vincent could react the older man’s foot was jammed into his stomach with an amount of force he couldn’t believe Alastor possessed. In quick succession, Alastor brought all his weight down on Vincent, bringing them to the floor. 

“You’re tougher than you look.” 

“Shut up,” Alastor tried to wrap his hands around Vincent’s throat but he wasn’t fast enough. 

It didn’t take much for him to flip their positions, Alastor’s back against the cold hardwood, Vincent leering over him. 

He had Alastor pinned again. He couldn’t help himself as he leaned down and ghosted his lips over Alastor’s neck. Vincent had never faced heartbreak over having to kill someone. He couldn’t make the man suffer, or ruin that face. Maybe breaking his neck–it’d be quick, and mostly preserve his appearance. In a way snapping Alastor’s neck was sort of poetic. Taking the voice of a man who’d made a career of it. Vincent went to lift his head, steeling his resolve, but something cold and sharp against his neck gave him pause. 

“You know for a man who’s supposedly constantly fighting death you’re a tough son of bitch,” Vincent winced slightly, knowing full well his stomach was going to bruise. 

“I can’t believe you were actually going to kill me,” Alastor huffed. 

“Why wouldn’t I? I told you you’re a liability,” Vincent tsked. 

Alastor’s lips came dangerously close to forming a pout that would result in Vincent turning into a pile of overly agreeable mush, “Are you not attracted to me?” 

Vincent laughed–even though it hurt he laughed, “Hate to break it to you–you’re beautiful but you’re not ‘risking life in prison’ worthy.” Nevermind the fact he’d been considering it just seconds prior. 

“Hmph,” Alastor pulled the knife away from Vincent’s neck to poke him lightly with the tip in the shoulder, “get off of me.” 

“Maybe ten years,” Vincent offered. Alastor pushed at his chest to get him to move. 

“Only ten? Oh what has age done to me,” Alastor made a show of being offended. It stole another laugh from Vincent as he remained firmly in place, just to make sure Alastor got the message. 

He may have caught him off guard, and he may be stronger than Vincent had initially assumed, but if it came down it Vincent would win. 

Alastor stopped pushing against him and narrowed his eyes, his smile too smug for someone who was at Vincent’s mercy. 

Unfortunately, when it came to beautiful things, Vincent was nothing if not a weak, borderline spineless man. Also the knife grazed his throat once more. He’d nearly forgotten about it. 

“Thats a lie, I’d do twenty,” Vincent relented. 

Alastor smirked triumphantly, “That's more like it. Now–get off.” 

Vincent stood, offering his hand to Alastor. Maybe as some sort of truce, maybe because he enjoyed the look of surprise in Alastor’s eyes when Vincent lifted him with one hand. 

“Where did you get the knife?” Vincent looked down at it, and observed it was one of his. 

“The floor–you know, that you pinned me down to like an animal,” Alastor spun the would be murder weapon with practiced ease. 

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t do exactly the same in my position?” 

Alastor pursed his lips together like that was an argument. He took a shirt from the floor, avoiding the question as he finished getting dressed. 

“What the–”  Alastor furrowed his brow upon realizing the dress shirt he’d put on was probably two sizes too big. He surveyed the room again and sighed, “Who could possibly need this much space–where are my clothes?” 

That…was actually a good question. Alastor’s suit was brighter and redder than most anything Vincent owned; it should stand out, but nary a sight. 

“Don’t tell me you were so eager you just stripped me down in the living room,” Alastor crossed his arms over his chest. Vincent wouldn’t put it past himself. 

“To be honest I’m surprised we made it to the apartment,” he hummed. 

“Filthy dog,” Alastor threw over his shoulder as he made his way out of the room.

“Between the two of us, who's the one that got cut open?!” Vincent gestured to his chest even if Alastor couldn’t see it. 

“We’ve established that you let me do that so I don’t want to hear it!” 

Damn. He had a point. 

Vincent followed him out, eyes scanning around for any sign of Alator’s suit. He was really hoping Greta hadn’t seen it. 

Alastor paused when they came to the interior balcony. His eyes widened, darting across the wide area of Vincent’s apartment and promptly landing on the world outside. 

“Fuck, what time is it?” 

“Probably noon by now,” Vincent estimated. Alastor ran a hand down his face in exasperation. 

“I imagine you have a landline, would it trouble you if I made a call?” 

It took too long for Vincent to remember Alastor had a train to catch, “Not at all, go right ahead.” 

In the meantime he could keep his eyes out for the still missing clothes. He was not complaining about the current clothing situation, though. And while he fully intended on keeping up the search for Alastor’s suit–he really did–he couldn’t help but get distracted. 

His eyes became fixed on Alastor as he hurried with surprising grace down the stairs. Somehow every move the man made appeared careful and calculated. Vincent followed him easily as though he could get lost in his own apartment. 

Alastor did have a sort of otherworldly quality to him. The living room was arranged specifically to allow for as much light to pour into it as possible, and for as much of the city to be on display as well. It was the whole reason Vincent moved in. So his couch, and the few tables he had arranged about the space were positioned opposite to the many windows decorating the wall. As Alastor took up the telephone, he was placed dead center of it all like it was made for him to stand in. The midday sun sat at the perfect point to cast a golden halo over untamed curls and highlight a perfect silhouette. Even the snowy city below acted as Alastor’s perfect backdrop, further proving to Vincent that not only did the world bend around him to add to his beauty, he belonged on a stage. He belonged on a camera. To be seen. It was a crime that so few people actually knew his face. 

“Conrad–yes–are you trying to get fired?” Alastor glared at the receiver. Despite the fact it was impossible, Vincent was sure Conrad could see it from wherever he was. 

“It was cancelled? I see…no. Very funny, but no. Believe it or not I am capable of conducting business on my own,” Alastor glanced over at Vincent in consideration. “I doubt that—what?” Alastor stood a little straighter, whatever Conrad had told him clearly catching him off guard. 

“And he’s–Conrad be honest have you made a deal with the devil to get these skills?” Alastor laughed, leaning back against the couch. 

Vincent wondered how long he could keep Alastor for, if just to watch him relax and lounge about for a few hours more. 

“Alright. Hm? Please, I’ll manage. Indeed dear, I keep good company–oh hush. No, I should be on my way here soon, we'll discuss it then,” Alastor placed the telephone back with a punctuating click. 

“Has anyone ever told you you look like something out of a dream?” Vincent asked idly, still standing in awe at the base of the stairs. 

Alastor snorted, “I thought I was only worth twenty years.” 

Regret over his word choice in the bedroom hit immediately. He was never making up for that one. 

“I’m a changed man,” Vincent opted for humor. 

“I’m sure,” Alastor rolled his eyes as he stepped closer, “as riveting as our time together has been, I’m afraid I must be on my way.” 

Vincent began making his way towards the kitchen, but not before giving Alastor’s current wardrobe a pointed once over, “You can certainly try.” 

“How does one man possibly make use of half this space,” Alastor scoffed as he fell in line behind Vincent, “surely you don’t have so much excess you can’t fathom where my clothes wound up.” 

Vincent felt a sleazy smile tug at his lips, “I mean, I can fathom. I just don’t think you’ll like the answer.” 

Alastor gave an exhausted sigh, “I’m too hungover for this.” 

“Coffee?” Vincent gestured to the still mostly full pot Greta had made. 

“Now, Mr. Whittman if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were attempting to prolong my stay here,” Alastor wore a sarcastic smile. 

“Mm, and what if I was?” Vincent pulled down a mug for his guest. He set it down in front of the pot, waiting–hoping for Alastor to take it. 

“If you do recall, I have places to be.” And yet he poured himself a cup. Vincent leaned back on the counter, sipping lightly on his own (nearly forgotten) coffee from earlier. 

“...do you have a notepad on every surface in this apartment?” Alastor snatched the notepad that resided on the far end of the kitchen counter. 

“Just about,” Vincent held out his hand for the pad, “some of us fought in a war and it shows.” 

Alastor’s gaze landed on the scar that trailed down the side of his face. 

“I’d say you have a fair point,” he conceded. “You seem to manage well enough, is it just your memory?”  

“Nowadays, yeah,” Vincent confirmed. 

Alastor hummed, “Nowadays.” 

Vincent turned his attention back to his rapidly emptying mug. “I had to relearn how to write.” 

A hand traced down Vincent’s face. Delicate fingers ran slowly over the unattractive divots in his skin. 

“You’re a truly fascinating character, Vincent,” Alastor pulled his hand away too soon; leaving him to wish for that addictive touch once more. 

“Could say the same to you–you did watch me beat a man to death last night,” Vincent placed his now empty mug to the side. 

“Yes, and you were a sight to behold,” Alastor had that unhinged glint in his eyes again.

“And then you thanked me,” Vincent dared to try and wrap his arm around Alastor’s waist, but it was to no avail as the man quickly pulled away. 

“It felt appropriate,” Alastor mused dryly, “not many men have found themselves lucky enough to be entangled with me.” 

Vincent would like to make some sort of quip about how it was narcissistic of him to think his body was that much of a commodity–but he couldn’t even attempt that lie if he tried. 

“That so? I’m honored.” Pathetically so, in fact. “Do men always have to kill someone for you to have this–excellent gift bestowed to them?” 

“Stabbing you to death is still on the table,” Alastor warned. “And no, I’ve never had someone do something like that for me. It was very flattering–and frankly very sexy.” 

Vincent took a second to let everything about that statement process, promptly pressing pause when he started to tumble into the weeds over the confirmation that Alastor thought he was sexy.  “You stab men to death often?”  

“When the urge possesses me,” Alastor tapped a finger to his devious little smile. “Which I suppose one could describe as often.” 

A normal person would be concerned. A normal person also wouldn’t go into a manic rage and rip a cab driver out of his car to bludgeon him with their fists. 

“You really like playing with knives, don’t you?” Vincent absentmindedly ran his hand over the cuts on his torso. 

Alastor grinned impishly, “Whatever do you mean?”

Maybe, and this was a big maybe, Vincent should be more afraid for his life, because Alastor was downright giddy. Don’t get him wrong, he enjoyed the thrill of the kill, but he was usually more focused on that in the moment as opposed to just talking about it. 

“I think you might be crazier than me,” Vincent thought aloud. 

“Oh sweetheart you have no idea,” Alastor laughed. A very enthused, unexpectedly cute sound that Vincent never would have imagined the calm, decadent Alastor Bordeaux could make. 

Tragically, they did end up finding Alastor’s clothes–and the remainder of Vincent’s for that matter in one of the guest rooms. 

Why they moved rooms Vincent couldn’t figure out. 

“This really is an excessive amount of space for one man,” Alastor commented. 

“I host my own parties from time to time,” Vincent shrugged. He wished there was a way to keep Alastor here, but the man did have places to be and he’d made it pretty obvious that even if he didn’t he wouldn’t stay. 

“Now tell me Vincent,” Alastor paused at the transition between the foyer and the living room. “Just how many bodies have you piled up?” 

“I don’t know twenty something–including war time,” Vincent mused. 

“And not including war?” Alastor arched a judgemental brow. 

“Seven.” 

Alastor looked towards the door and then back at Vincent with an air of contemplation. For a moment he dared to wonder if the radio host was suddenly willing to stay. Alastor made his way back over to Vincent, leaning into his space with a predatory gleam in his eyes. 

“I lost count after twenty or so myself,” he ran a hand briskly down Vincent’s arm, “were all your war kills the enemy?” 

“No,” Vincent answered simply. He had a feeling it would do him well to keep some secrets to himself. This seemed to please Alastor as his grin grew almost unnaturally wide. He side stepped Vincent in a smooth motion, plucking the notepad that remained next to his telephone from the in table. 

“I’d love to chat sometime, truly,” Alastor scribbled something out on the little book, tearing out a page and folding it into a neat square, “this is my personal number. Feel free to call me when you get the chance. If I don’t answer don’t worry–I’m not home much. I’ll call back.” Vincent felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest. This might have been the best day of his life. Or maybe the most elaborate and kind of cruel dream he’d ever had but he definitely wasn’t a stranger to wild dreams. 

Alastor tucked the paper into Vincent’s breast pocket, “It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

“Can I–sorry can I ask for something a little random?” Vincent stopped Alastor from walking past him again. 

Alastor tilted his head to the side, inviting the request with the look on his face. 

“I’d like to remember today–and I was wondering if I could get a picture of you,” he could hear the shake of his own voice, but he didn’t have the capacity to be embarrassed. 

Alastor scrunched his nose slightly but cooled his expression just as quickly. There was a brief pause, dread seeped into Vincent’s senses. He’d ruined it, hadn’t he? He pinched his eyes closed, preparing for the worst. 

Way to go, Whittman. Way to go. 

“Hm…fine. Just this once, for a war hero,” Alastor smirked. 

“I understand it was a dumb–did you just say yes?” Vincent knew he had to be smiling like a loon. 

“Did I?” Alastor tucked his hands behind his back, waiting patiently for Vincent to collect himself. 

“Stay right here, I’ll be right back,” Vincent all sprinted to his office for his camera. He wouldn't put it past Alastor to just go ahead and leave, probably just to mess with Vincent. 

Still he allowed himself to be excited as he made his way back to the living room with his camera in hand.  

Alastor was still standing there right where Vincent left him. That ethereal glow had settled slightly, and his hair no longer told the story of their night’s activities, but he still looked perfect. Like he belonged. 

Originally, he’d been hoping to catch the man off guard, but he noticed Vincent return almost immediately. It didn’t matter much, as he held up the camera and snapped the one picture he’d been allotted. Alastor still seemed a bit surprised, but didn’t make a comment as Vincent placed the camera down next to the telephone. 

“You really are gorgeous,” he murmured. 

“I think you’ve got a few screws loose up there, dear,” Alastor shook his head. But Vincent didn’t miss the faint flush of color that rose to his face. 

Vincent took his hand, relishing in the small bit of touch when Alastor didn’t recoil out of his grasp. 

He placed a kiss to Alastor’s palm, a low whisper leaving him as his lips remained against the flesh of the man’s hand,  “It truly was an honor.” 

Alastor’s expression remained neutral as pulled his hand back, “I’ll be taking my leave now, Mr. Whittman…don’t leave me waiting too long, dear.” 

And just like that, he slipped away from Vincent’s fingers.