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The moon hung low and bright along the New Orleans treeline, casting long shadows between the cypress knees. Usually, the humid night air felt like a second skin. Vincent would complain about the sweat, and Alastor would remind him that the faster they dealt with the “aftermath,” the sooner they’d be home, but tonight was suffocating.
Alastor’s knuckles turned white, his fingers twitching rhythmically around the smooth wooden handle of his hunting knife. The blade caught a sliver of moonlight, gleaming with quiet malice.
"Communication, Vincent," Alastor hissed—the sound less like a human voice and more like steam escaping a pressure cooker. "A simple concept. Yet you treat it like a suggestion. An afterthought!"
Vincent took a slow step back, boots crunching on the dried leaves as he glanced down, trying not to trip over the hidden roots.
"Al, look, I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—"
"Shut up for once, Vincent!" Alastor snapped. His voice sounded much harsher than intended. "Just be quiet."
Vincent’s mouth clicked shut. He swallowed hard, his throat feeling as though it were lined with broken glass. He had seen the crimson fire in those eyes directed at others. But having that malice focused solely on him? It made his stomach lurch with a sick, twisting sensation, like an icepick jabbed straight into his gut and stirred around.
Alastor’s figure loomed closer. His pupils had narrowed into thin, vertical slits, his usual charismatic grin replaced by a tight scowl. His hands shook, the knife trembling with sheer fury in his grip.
"If you had just listened to me," Alastor breathed, his chest heaving. "I wouldn't have had to—"
A sharp crack echoed from the brush behind them.
Alastor’s frayed nerves snapped. In the high tension of the moment, his instincts didn't distinguish between a stray animal and an intruder. He spun, his body moving in a violent, involuntary jerk, a predator's reflex to a threat.
The blade didn't find a stranger.
It found the soft space between Vincent's ribs.
The world went dead silent. The crickets cut out instantly. All that was left was the sound of two men’s breathing, and one was beginning to hitch.
Alastor froze, his hand still buried to the hilt. He looked down, his eyes widening until they were horrified circles. Vincent’s breath left him in a soft, wet huff. Shock washed over him first, a cold wave that numbed the initial sting. Then came a flare of white-hot anger: He actually did it. But the anger withered as quickly as it rose, replaced by an overwhelming, hollow sadness.
Was this always how we were supposed to end? He wondered. Was partnership just a long, slow walk to this specific patch of dirt?
As the blood began to soak through his shirt, warm and terrifyingly abundant, a strange resignation settled over him. The woods began to blur, the trees melting into dark, fuzzy smears. He felt light, buoyant, almost as if he were drifting away from the forest floor, yet a deep, biting chill seeped into his marrow.
"Al..." Vincent whispered, his voice a ghost of itself. "I'm so sorry... I didn't mean to make you so..."
Then he remembered. Be quiet.
Vincent clamped his jaw shut. He didn't want his last act to be another disappointment. He stared up at Alastor, his eyes glassy and pleading, silently asking for forgiveness for bleeding out so inconveniently.
Alastor finally looked up from the wound. When he met Vincent's eyes, He saw a flickering candle, a terrifying devotion that persisted even as the light was failing.
"Vincent?" Alastor’s voice was tiny.
It was as if a thick sheet of glass had instantly dropped between Alastor and reality, cutting off all sound. The rustle of the leaves, the sharp crack of the brush, the crickets, everything vanished into a vacuum.
He froze, his hand still buried to the hilt. He looked down, his eyes widening into horrified, unblinking circles, but his brain refused to process the sight of Vincent choking on a breath. It was too massive a horror to swallow. So, his mind fractured, veering away from the panic and slipping into a strange, dreamlike fog.
He felt the gush of red over his fingers—it was so incredibly, impossibly warm. In the damp, cooling air of the woods, the heat felt grounding. It was the only warm thing left in the world.
Alastor’s thumb brushed against the edge of the wound. In this quiet, twisted vacuum, his horror was entirely eclipsed by a morbid fascination. He thought of the porcelain tea sets he favored, how they held heat just long enough to be pleasant. He thought of the hearths of New Orleans in the winter. But this... this was different. This was the heat of a life still humming, pouring out onto his hands like liquid silk.
It was so bright. So vibrant. It was a shame, really, that such a beautiful color only revealed itself when something was broken. He found himself wondering if the heat stayed in the blood once it left the body, or if it died the moment it hit the air.
If I could catch it, Alastor thought, his eyes glazed and distant. If I could wrap my hands around this warmth, maybe I could keep him from freezing.
Then, the glass cracked.
"Vincent?"
Alastor’s voice was a small, fragile thing as reality rushed back in, hitting him like an icy wave. He felt the life of his partner slipping through his fingers. The pulse beneath the skin was slowing, growing fainter. The very warmth Alastor had been fixated on was the very thing leaving Vincent behind.
"Vincent, stay... stay still," Alastor stammered, his polished persona crumbling into a heap of raw desperation. He pulled his hand away, horrified by the red staining his skin. "I didn't... I wasn't... You weren't supposed to..."
Vincent didn't answer. He just watched Alastor with that heartbreaking, silent obedience, his head lolling back against the damp earth.
The shock finally broke, and the reality of what he’d done crashed through Alastor all at once. His eyes tracked straight to the blade still buried in Vincent’s ribs. Alastor knew anatomy—he understood the human body, the delicate, fragile veins and organs. Right now, that metal was the only thing keeping the blood inside. The blade was holding back the worst of the bleeding. If he pulled it out, the pressure would drop instantly, and Vincent would bleed out before they even cleared the treeline.
"Don't... don't move," Alastor whispered. His hands contradicted him, hovering over Vincent’s torso in a useless, trembling panic.
He had to get him out of these woods. He had to get him somewhere he could stitch him back together. But the thought of lifting him or shifting that metal inside him made Alastor’s stomach turn in a way no slaughter ever had.
"Vincent, look at me," Alastor commanded. His voice cracked, the smooth, radio-tuned rhythm completely gone. "I need to move you. Do you hear me? You have to stay with me."
Vincent managed a tiny, microscopic nod. His eyes were already dulling, the pupils blown wide with shock. He stayed agonizingly quiet, his jaw locked tight because Alastor had told him to shut up. Even on the edge of unconsciousness, Vincent was listening.
Alastor slid one arm behind Vincent’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees. The moment he shifted Vincent’s weight, the knife shifted with it. A choked, muffled sound caught in Vincent’s throat, not a scream, but the awful noise of someone trying to swallow one. Alastor felt the hot slickness of fresh blood soaking straight through his sleeves, coating his forearms. The heat of it was terrifying. No longer did it bring him comfort
"I have you," Alastor hissed through gritted teeth, trying to convince himself as much as the dying man. He anchored Vincent against his chest as he walked with a frantic, unsteady momentum. "Stay with me. Vincent, don't you dare close your eyes."He began to move faster, his boots sliding in the mud as he stumbled toward the edge of the woods. Where? Where do I take him?
The thought flashed through his mind before he could stop it: A hospital. They could save him. They had real doctors, tools, medicine—everything Alastor didn't have. They could stop the bleeding.
No. No, No, NO.
Panic flared, hot and sharp. A hospital was impossible. He couldn't just walk into an emergency room covered in filth with a dying man in his arms. The doctors would see the knife wound, look at the blood on Alastor's clothes, and call the cops immediately. He'd be locked up before the sun came up. He couldn't risk it. Vincent was growing heavier by the second, a leaden anchor in his arms, but Alastor's need to survive was absolute. He felt no guilt for it. Self-preservation was his nature.
I have to fix it myself, Alastor thought, a manic, breathless rhythm taking over his chest. I have to sew him back together.
"Stay with me, Vincent," he rasped, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper against the dark. "Do you hear me? Stay with me."
Vincent didn't answer. He just watched Alastor with that heartbreaking, silent obedience, his head lolling back against Alastor's chest as they both made their way back to Alastor’s home.
Alastor’s breathing was hoarse and broken by the time he finally hauled Vincent onto the wooden kitchen table. The light from the single overhead bulb was bright, exposing every stain and killing the shadows Alastor usually found so comforting. Tonight, the dark corners just looked like holes waiting to swallow Vincent whole.
"Vincent? Speak to me," Alastor commanded, his voice shaking, cutting through a desperate layer of static. "Say something. Anything."
Vincent only stared back. His eyes were glazed, fixed on the ceiling, his lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line. He looked like a mannequin, frighteningly still, empty of resistance.
A cold weight dropped into Alastor's stomach. Was he already gone? Was this quiet the sign that he’d slipped away, leaving nothing but a cooling shell on the wood? The silence was deafening. Normally, Alastor had found Vincent’s constant need for noise, for constant chattering, rather annoying, and yet the sheer lack of anything made Alastor sick to his stomach.
"Answer me!" Alastor snapped, his fingers fumbling blindly with the medical supplies, tangling the silk thread against the curved needle.
It wasn't until his mind flashed back to the woods—the shouting, the blinding rage—that it hit him.
“Shut up for once, Vincent. Just be quiet.”
Alastor’s heart stopped. Even now, with his chest torn open and his blood pooling on the floorboards, Vincent was obeying. He wasn't drifting away in silence; he was keeping his mouth shut for him. The realization turned Alastor’s stomach to ash.
"You can... “ You can speak, Vincent," Alastor whispered, his voice dropping to a fragile, ragged thing as he prepped the needle. "I take it back. Please."
Vincent’s throat hitched, his Adam's apple bobbing weakly, but nothing came out. Alastor stared down at the torn flesh, his hands shaking so violently that the curved needle caught the harsh overhead light. He’d cut a hundred men open, but looking at Vincent’s chest, his fingers refused to cooperate. He had to do this. If he didn't, Vincent would die. He took a sharp, rattling breath, pinned Vincent's shoulder down with his free hand, and forced his mind to focus.
Alastor had to be precise. He had to be fast. But the second the steel pierced the skin, trying to pull the tore flesh together, Vincent’s entire body seized in a violent, involuntary convulsion.
Alastor braced for the scream, a curse anything to break this terrible silence hell at this point, Alastor welcomed it! Instead, Vincent shoved his knuckles into his own mouth. He bit down until the skin broke, his eyes squeezed shut as tears tracked through the grime and blood on his cheeks.
"Vincent, stop," Alastor hissed, his hands shaking as he pulled the thread taut. "Scream. Cry out. You don't have to remain silent Vincent."
But Vincent didn't let go. He remained entirely rigid, his body vibrating with the effort to remain quiet. Every time a sound leaked past his teeth, he panicked, terrified that the noise would only make Alastor angrier.
The kitchen was thick with the copper tang of blood and the sharp sting of rubbing alcohol. Alastor had cleared the table with a violent sweep of his arm, leaving broken porcelain scattered across the floorboards. Now, the only sound left was the flat hum of the overhead bulb and the wet, rhythmic drag of the needle passing through flesh. Alastor’s hands, usually steady enough to hold a pulse, were trembling. He had to be perfect. He pushed the curved needle through the jagged edge of the skin, watching it disappear into the weeping tissue and emerge on the other side, dragging the dark silk thread behind it. He pulled the edges of the wound together and tied the knot.
Underneath him, Vincent was entirely rigid. The world had narrowed down to the white-hot puncture of that steel. Every time it pierced him, the pain radiated out from his core, setting his nerves on fire. His muscles were corded so tense they felt like they might snap off the bone. His mind was a blur of frantic, racing thoughts. He kept seeing Alastor’s face in the woods;
Why didn't I listen? Why didn't I do what I was told?
He had always been impulsive, but tonight, that was the one trait he wished would rot away. He had pushed too hard. He had been too loud. The white-hot sting of the needle was nothing compared to the freezing realization that he had finally pushed Alastor past his limit. A heavy, suffocating guilt settled over him, heavy as lead. He was the one who had messed up. He was the one who had driven Alastor to this. He deserved this, the wound, the pain. The least he could do was give Alastor some peace.
Stay quiet. Don’t make him angrier.
"It's past the dermis," Alastor muttered to himself, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he chased a bleeder near the bone. "I have to anchor it into the intercostal muscle, or it won't hold."
He drove the needle back in, catching a sensitive cluster of nerves.
Vincent’s back arched straight off the table, his spine snapping taut like a bowstring. A muffled, guttural sob caught behind his teeth. He bit down harder on his own hand, the taste of blood and salt filling his mouth. His eyes rolled back as he fought the primal urge to thrash, to scream, to crawl away from the man sewing him back together.
Alastor froze, the thread halfway through the stitch. He looked at Vincent’s face—the sweat-slicked hair, the tears leaking from his eyes, the bruised skin where his teeth were buried in his own hand.
"You're fighting me," Alastor whispered, the smooth rhythm of his voice completely ruined. "Stop fighting me, Vincent. Let it out. I ordered you to be quiet in the woods, not... not while I’m holding your life together." Vincent only shook his head a fraction of an inch, a frantic, desperate refusal. He was terrified that if he opened his mouth, the first thing to come out would be a pathetic sob—begging Alastor to forgive him for making a mess, for crying, for being a burden he had to fix. Alastor’s thumb brushed against Vincent’s cheek, leaving a smear of red behind. "Look at what I've done to you," he breathed. His manic focus fractured, his eyes tracking the row of black stitches. a permanent scar he had carved into him.
He plunged the needle back in to finish the row, forcing the steel through the resistant tissue."Almost there," Alastor lied, his voice cracking. "Just a few more, and the heat will stay inside. Just a few more, Vincent."
Vincent didn't hear the words. He only felt the pull of the thread, a slow, rhythmic dragging sensation that felt like Alastor was weaving their lives together with a cord made of regret. A strange, floating sense of resignation took over.
The final stitch was pulled taut, the silk thread biting into the skin to seal the jagged tear. As Alastor knotted the thread with trembling precision, the tension that had been holding Vincent’s body together finally snapped.
Vincent’s head lolled to the side, his jaw going slack as his hand fell away from his mouth, revealing deep, bloody marks from his own teeth. The agonizing war he had been fighting against his own nervous system was over; darkness had finally stepped in to offer the relief Alastor hadn't.
"Vincent?"
The silence that followed wasn't the obedient, stifled quiet Alastor had demanded. It was heavy. Absolute.
A sudden, sharp bolt of genuine terror—a cold, sickening dread—pierced Alastor’s chest. He dropped the medical shears; they hit the floor with a ringing clang that seemed to echo forever against the floorboards. His blood-stained fingers hovered over Vincent’s throat, his touch light, hesitant. He was terrified that if he pressed too hard, he would find nothing at all.
He waited, holding his breath, until beneath the pads of his fingers, he felt it.
Thump... thump... thump.
It was weak, a flickering pulse, but it was there.
Alastor let out a ragged, shuddering breath that bordered on a sob. "Still here," he whispered, his forehead dropping for a moment against the edge of the wooden table.
The frantic energy of the panic began to settle into something quieter, something entirely focused. Alastor moved with a gentleness that would have been unrecognizable to anyone else. He fetched a basin of warm water and a soft, clean cloth.
He began to wash away the night.
With slow, rhythmic strokes, he wiped the dried blood from Vincent’s torso. He was careful around the fresh stitches, dabbing away the copper smears until the skin was clean. He moved to Vincent’s face, tenderly wiping the salt from the tear tracks and the blood from the self-inflicted wounds on his hand.
"I have you," Alastor murmured, his voice dropping to a low, quiet hum. "You’re alright now."
He moved Vincent with painstaking care, supporting his head as he eased him out of the shredded, blood-soaked remains of his shirt. He replaced the ruined clothes with a soft, clean cotton tunic—something warm that wouldn't irritate the wound. Finally, Alastor wrapped the bandage, winding the white linen around Vincent’s waist, steady and sure, smoothing it down with a lingering touch of his palm.
When he was finished, Vincent looked almost peaceful, tucked away in the soft light of the kitchen. Alastor didn't leave his side. He sat there in the quiet, his hand resting near Vincent’s heart, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
The first thing Vincent became aware of wasn’t the pain, but the smell. It wasn’t the metallic tang of the woods or the sharp bite of alcohol; it was the scent of expensive pomade and old paper. It was the scent of home.
When his eyes finally fluttered open, the world was a soft, hazy blur of gold and deep mahogany. He was no longer on the hard kitchen table. He was in his own bed, the sheets tucked so tightly around him he felt anchored to the mattress.
He tried to draw a deep breath, but a sharp, hot pull in his chest forced a soft hiss of air through his teeth.
"Careful now," a voice murmured. "The thread is strong, but the flesh is still quite temperamental."
Vincent’s head rolled slowly to the side. Alastor was sitting in a high-backed chair pulled flush against the bedside. He looked completely unraveled. His coat was gone, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was slightly disheveled. The terrifying, manic light that had burned in his eyes during the hunt was gone, replaced by a weary, sharp focus.
Vincent’s throat felt like it was filled with sand. He looked at Alastor, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He remembered the woods. He remembered the knife’s glint and the terrifying cold. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he hesitated, his jaw locking instinctively.
“Just be quiet.” The order still echoed in his mind, a ghostly barrier.
Alastor noticed the hesitation—the way Vincent’s eyes flickered with a remnant of that raw, heartbreaking fear. Something shifted in Alastor’s expression, his smile tightening until it looked strained and painful. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he let his fingers rest lightly atop Vincent’s hand.
"You don't have to stay silent, Vincent," Alastor said, his voice low and devoid of its usual theatrical static. "I'm listening."
Vincent swallowed hard, his voice coming out as a bruised whisper. "Al... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mess up the hunt. I didn't mean to make you so..."
"Don't," Alastor interrupted, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. "Don't you dare apologize because I turned into an animal and nearly slaughtered you on the dirt." Alastor leaned forward, the shadow he cast on the wall stretching long and sharp, but his touch remained impossibly light. He reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, holding it to Vincent’s lips with a steady hand.
"Drink," he commanded, though it sounded less like an order and more like a plea.
As Vincent took a shallow sip, his eyes never left Alastor’s. He saw the way Alastor was watching his every breath, as if he were afraid that one wrong movement and Vincent would cease to exist. There was no anger left, only a strange, quiet intensity that Vincent couldn't quite name.
"You’re still here," Alastor whispered, more to himself than to Vincent, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over Vincent’s knuckles.
Vincent leaned back into the pillows, the exhaustion washing over him. He was still hurt, and the memory of the blade and the fresh scar was a permanent ache in his side, but as he looked at Alastor, who hadn’t moved an inch from his side, the worst of everything started to fade.
Yet, as Vincent’s eyelids grew heavy, a quiet, unvoiced shadow settled into the corners of the room. The warmth of the bed couldn't entirely wash away the metallic taste still lingering on his tongue, or the memory of the terrifying entity Alastor became when the mask slipped. Alastor’s hand remained closed over his, tight and protective, but the weight of that grip felt different; he couldn’t quite place it… Though really, he didn’t want to think any deeper about it.
They were alive, and they were together, but the air between them had shifted. The needle had pulled the flesh back together, but both of them knew, without saying a word, that the trust had been torn open, and neither of them knew if a silk thread was enough to hold it.