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One moment, Vincent’s car is pulling up outside of Westminster Hall. He’s been dreading this day ever since he reluctantly agreed to have it added to his schedule, months ago.
So it’s almost a relief when the front door opens and someone drags his driver bodily out of the vehicle.
There’s the sound of a scuffle for several moments, and then someone - a stranger in a rumpled shirt and skewed tie takes his place.
Or - not a stranger.
“Ray?” says Vincent, alarmed, “Ray, what are you-”
Ray ignores him and pulls the door shut, and then has them tearing out of the driveway with a screech of tyres. It’s only then that he realises that the side of Ray’s face is splattered with blood, that his shirt is not only rumpled but torn at the sleeve, that Ray himself is sweaty and breathless as he mutters angrily under his breath, swerving around traffic to get them across the bridge and out of the city. Vincent finds himself clinging to the handle on the roof for dear life as Ray accelerates into oncoming traffic, then swears quietly as he turns them into a backstreet to the chorus of several angry car horns.
The journey continues like this until Ray twists the steering wheel, sending them careening with terrifying precision into a parking spot outside a beautiful public garden.
“Out,” he says tersely, “and take that cassock off.”
Vincent tears everything off as quickly as he can, unbuttoning only the first few buttons and then tugging the entire garment over his head so that he can stuff everything into the back seat.
He’s wearing a white shirt and trousers underneath, and Ray appraises his look with a frown.
Vincent realises that his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it. He quickly untucks the shirt, then undoes the buttons, already on alert enough that he’s certain he can hear the sound of sirens in the distance.
“Roll up your sleeves too,” says Ray, already walking towards the park, “hurry!”
Vincent runs after him, and Ray holds out an arm for him to take, which he does without question. He’s not stupid - he knows better than to slow them down to ask questions right now. He slips into the proffered role with ease, and it’s hard to tell whether the beating of his heart is from fear, or from excitement.
Ray guides him through the gardens, checking something on his phone before picking up his pace, gently nudging Vincent along with him as they race past fragile, budding spring blooms that fill the air with sweet fragrance.
Ray leans close, and tries to whisper something in his ear. Vincent can’t hear anything - he’s on the wrong side. He brushes his hair aside so that Ray can see the scarring that runs across that side of his head.
“I’m deaf on this side,” he says, very calmly, “you’ll have to speak up.”
He wishes, as Ray grabs his arm instead and pulls him along, breaking into a run, that he had time to rest here a while.
The sound of a gunshot brings him back to his senses, triggers a buried reaction that has him falling to the ground immediately, covering his head with his arms.
The excitement is gone. Suddenly the world around him sharpens into sound and light, and a deep, rational calm falls over him. He keeps low and looks around for where they can run to, where might give them some measure of safety.
He and Ray both spot the public bathrooms together and they bolt, keeping low, for the meager cover. T he building is old, and splinters of wood and flaking paint fly out as another bullet fails to find its mark.
“We can’t stay here,” pants Vincent, “there might be someone inside.”
Ray’s expression is inscrutable as he looks around. They’re not too far from the road here. He examines a bay full of parked cars.
“Your Holiness-”
Vincent reaches out and lightly touches Ray’s arm.
“No casualties on my account, Raymond. Do you understand?”
Ray’s lips press together very tightly.
“Don’t worry, your Holiness, I’m not in the habit of allowing that to happen. You see that car over there?”
He nods towards a battered old Ford Fiesta, the nearest car to them.
“I see it,” breathes Vincent.
“Right. On the count of three.”
Vincent nods at him silently. The sound of footsteps crunch on the gravel pathway behind them, and sweat prickles along his back.
“Three.”
The two of them bolt. Vincent’s body moves of its own accord, quick and agile as he’s spurred into action by the drumming in his ears. He watches Ray do something with the car door as if in a dream, and then he’s inside, barely closing the door before the speed off and something shatters the rear passenger window.
Both of them breathe in counterpoint, harsh and ragged, though Vincent is still too alert to feel tired just yet. He just watches Ray drive the two of them out of there, screaming out of the parking lot and down a winding series of backstreets until suddenly they’re out on a main road, and out the window all he can see are spiky dead trees lining the roadside, and endless flat greenery stretching out to the horizon.
It’s only then that Ray slumps forward over the wheel, letting out a long breath that seems to deflate him.
“Are you hurt?”
Vincent’s voice comes out clipped. He’s speaking faster than he meant to.
“Fine,” says Ray, “I’ll just be a little sore tomorrow. We’ve got to get that looked at, though.”
He nods at Vincent, and it’s only then that he looks down and realises that his shirt is soaked with blood at the forearm.
For a moment, his thoughts grind to a halt.
“Oh.”
The blood seems too bright against the stark white of his shirt. Bright enough that it doesn’t look quite real. It doesn’t register as real. He barely even feels the pain.
Action. Action. He has to do something. He needs something to do. He needs-
Ray is passing him a handkerchief, and he peels the wet fabric away from his skin with a numb kind of curiosity.
It’s just a graze, really. A gouge of ragged skin and flesh. He’s lucky.
He presses the wadded up handkerchief to the wound.
The pain is searing.
He can’t help but let out a quiet cry, and feels the car swerve slightly in response. It’s enough to make him grit his teeth and force down the grain of fear that begins to rise within him.
He’s fine. It’s just a scratch. It barely hurts. He’ll live. He’ll live. He’ll live.
“I think I’ve lost them,” says Ray from beside him, “I’m sorry we had to do that.”
“You did what you had to,” says Vincent.
He speaks on autopilot, too fast again, his mind filling in the appropriate words for the situation.
It’s not usually like this. He’s usually far better in a crisis, but that’s usually when he’s helping other people get to safety. Here he feels out of control, unmoored without anything to do except hold the handkerchief to his pitiful wound.
Perhaps if Ray would let him drive.
“I’d say it’s lucky MI6 are around to keep an eye on things, but it’s their fault for not realising what was happening in the first place,” sighs Ray, unaware of the thoughts churning around in Vincent’s head, “I thought something strange was going on with four guards being replaced in as many months. They didn’t agree to look into it until it was just about too late. And then-”
He trails off, glancing over at Vincent.
“You alright, your Holiness?” he says, sounding slightly strained.
“Fine,” says Vincent softly, “just fine.”
Ray doesn’t reply, but he does turn off the main road the next opportunity he gets, scanning the landscape until he finds an area with enough bushes and trees that they can stop.
The wound in his arm is on fire by the time Ray kills the engine, throbbing uncomfortably in time with his heartbeat, an epicentre of heat from which pain radiates all the way up his arm to his neck.
Ray is muttering under his breath again, and this time Vincent realises he has a finger to his ear.
They’re not alone, after all.
“There’s a field nearby where they can land a helicopter,” says Ray, “everyone on it’s been cleared by Mallory, so we should be alright.”
Vincent doesn’t ask who Mallory is. He’s already checking outside the window for what Ray means, steeling himself for the short burst of movement.
“And what about you?” he says, “are you hurt?”
Ray blinks at him like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
“Your Holiness - you’re the one who was hit.”
“I’m fine,” he says, “really, it’s not so painful.”
Ray shifts in his seat so that he’s facing him, his expression a mixture of fond and exasperated.
“Vincent,” he says, far more gently than he’s spoken thus far, “you’ve gone quite a nasty shade of grey. I know you’re used to being in charge, but let me carry you through this one, alright?”
That flicker of panic returns in his chest, a fluttering feeling of uncertainty and fear that threatens to unravel him the moment he returns fully to the present.
The sound he lets out is inarticulate; words are not quite forming correctly. He must look terrible, because Ray gets out of the car and opens his door for him, slips an arm around Vincent’s waist to help him up.
Once Vincent is on his feet, he realises why. The ground suddenly feels unsteady beneath him and he sways, thankful for Ray’s warm, solid weight to lean against.
“We’ve already got someone on the way to pick us up,” he says, taking Vincent’s weight as much as he can manage, careful not to jostle his injured arm, “don’t worry about it. I’ve got you.”
“M’alright. Come on, let’s go.”
Blessedly, Ray doesn’t argue with him. Doesn’t point out the fact that he’s trembling like a leaf.
He’s right. Vincent is used to getting the others to safety.
Getting himself to safety, however, involves acknowledging the possibility that he might be harmed.
They burst out of the treeline and-
And the world is too open.
The field before them is one big, open space of tall grass, and the panic Vincent has been keeping at bay crawls all the way up his throat.
“They’re close,” Ray pleads with him, “not long now.”
The note of exhaustion in his tone is what steels Vincent’s resolve, and they hurry together out into the open, into too-bright sunlight and whipping, biting wind that flings his hair into his face and eyes.
It’s the downwash from the helicopter, and he laughs into the roaring of the rotors, the sound of his relief swallowed whole.
Thomas is there. Thomas grabs him with strong arms and helps settle him in a seat, and they’ve barely taken off again before he’s got gauze and antiseptic in his hands, and is peeling the blood soaked cloth from his arm.
There’s no tenderness to the touch, though. He is handled with a precise, clinical detachment that has him wanting to wriggle away. It feels wrong.
“Thomas?” says Vincent.
Tired blue eyes flicker up and meet his. There’s no warmth there, just an evasive kind of pain.
“I’m afraid not.”
Of course. The twin.
“This is Gareth Mallory, your Holiness,” says Ray.
Mallory nods at Ray, who nods back. There’s clearly very little in the way of camaraderie between the two of them.
Ray scrambles past so that he can get to the seat on Vincent’s other side. It’s a tight fit, and Mallory has to press himself against the window while Ray, all limbs, folds himself up awkwardly until he’s buckled in.
Vincent doesn’t really know why he’s gone to the trouble, until Ray leans over and speaks into his ear. His good ear.
“I could probably do a better job of that,” he says, while Mallory tends to his wound, “if he leaves a shit scar, let me know and I’ll put in a formal complaint.”
He takes Vincent’s uninjured arm, wraps a steady hand around it, and holds him there. It feels like being anchored, and Vincent takes in a shuddering breath, and finally feels his heartrate begin to slow.