Chapter Text
Vincent didn't trust people. It wasn't in his nature—people were pawns to him, pawns that might betray him at any moment. There were just three exceptions: Velvette, Valentino, and, despite their history, Alastor. He still trusted him. At least with this. And unfortunately, the other two were the reason he needed help. So there was really just one option.
Alastor's door opened, and the men stared at each other for a moment. Vincent watched Alastor's eyes give him a once-over. He was clutching his side and there was dry, smeared blood below his nose.
"...Vincent."
"Alastor..."
Alastor stared at him through thinning eyes, trying to piece together what could have happened to Vincent in his mind. Vincent wasn't one to get into petty fights over nothing, and even when he was, he'd never get hurt this badly. It must have been someone strong enough, someone close enough... And he knew Vincent's collection of close friends wasn't vast.
"Are your little buddies upset with you?" He asked, almost mockingly. No, definitely mockingly. Vincent knew Alastor. He took a deep breath through his teeth, the pain in his face and side only amplifying his irritation.
"...Yes," He replied begrudgingly.
"And you've come here because...?" Alastor asked. He knew Vincent hated when he'd play dumb, especially about embarrassing things—like getting your ass kicked by your only friends. But he couldn't resist being difficult.
"Oh, fuck off, Al. Let me in." His tone bit just hard enough to sting his side, and he winced. "Please."
Alastor looked him up and down and opened the door wider, stepping to the side. He hated how pathetic Vincent could be. It almost made him feel sorry for the man.
Vincent walked, almost limped, into Alastor's home. It was small—nothing fancy—but cozy. He had quiet jazz playing from a record. It was neat, tidy, but still cluttered. Vincent looked around at everything, at all the extensions of Alastor's self. New things, like an expensive-looking radio. Old things, like the same framed picture of his mother that Vincent had asked him about the first time he came over. Warm light from a lamp filled the room, matching the temperature; much better than the cold outside.
And it must have been a mix of the cold and Vincent's compromised immune system, because before he could begin speaking, a sneeze left him.
"...Bless you."
"Thanks..." He could not get stuck sick here. He hadn't seen Alastor in years. There was no way he was going to reunite with him just to end up overstaying his welcome with a cold. Alastor must have been thinking the same thing, because he seemed in a hurry to get Vincent patched up and out.
"How badly are you hurt?" He was looking through a cabinet for a first aid kit.
"Um... I don't know. Not fatal. It hurts to walk."
Alastor sighed, "Helpful." Closing the cabinet with the first aid kit in his hands, he smiled, but his eyes showed only irritation.
"Sit," Alastor ordered, pointing to his couch. Vincent wasn't about to test his patience. He was the only one who he trusted to help him. He sat down, and oh, god, he was dizzy.
Alastor cared little about whatever immature dramatics happened between Vincent and his buddies. He could deduce that they hadn't made up, otherwise one of them could have done this instead of Vincent's ex-... friend? It was complicated. This wasn't the time to ponder on the details of their long ended relationship.
He unbuttoned Vincent's shirt. It wasn't the first time he had. Just in the past, it hadn't been to tend to his wounds. It felt strange—but he pushed past that feeling to inspect Vincent's wounds. There was already a huge bruise forming on Vincent's side, halfway up his ribs to the top of his hipbone. He could imagine Velvette kicking him in his side to leave this mark. He had always liked that girl. She could be bratty, but she took no shit and she could pack quite the punch. Or kick.
"Velvette?" Alastor asked, poking the bruise.
Vincent winced. "Ow, yes. Could you be gentler?" He asked through gritted teeth.
Alastor's eye twitched at the poor phrasing.
"Sure, dear." He gritted.
Alastor inspected Vincent, finding a decently deep slash on his upper arm. He peeled the fabric of Vincent's shirt off of it and made him take the shirt off fully.
Vincent winced at the antiseptic. Alastor pat his knee as he cleaned the wound.
Vincent didn't know how to feel. The first time he had seen Alastor, his ex-... whatever, and he's cleaning his wounds and patting his knee, kneeled down beside him.
Alastor took a damp paper towel to clean the dried blood from Vincent's face. It felt warmer than usual.
And Vincent was painfully aware of that—but what was he meant to feel when Alastor was cleaning his face and tending to his wounds?
"I'll grab ice for your bruise." Alastor stood and tossed the used items into the trash before grabbing ice and putting it into a rag.
Vincent had said nothing for the entirety of Alastor's help. He feared his voice would crack or shake. He forgot that Alastor being someone he trusted meant he'd also have an emotional effect on him. And having your ex-whatever they were gently fixing you up and taking care of you isn't exactly the least intimate thing. He tried to take a deep breath or two while Alastor prepared ice.
Alastor returned and held the ice on Vincent's side with slight pressure. Vincent did his best to avoid eye contact, but Alastor had no issue staring at him until he gave up. When Vincent finally made eye contact, Alastor held it.
"...What?" Vincent asked after a moment of trying not to stare at Alastor's lips. God, he missed them. No, no, he had Valentino now. He couldn't fuck around like that anymore.
"I'm looking for signs you're ill," Alastor said, staring intently at Vincent's every feature.
He hadn't even noticed Alastor was scanning, not just staring.
"...Oh. Right."
Was he really still pining that hard? He couldn't tell the difference between intimate eye contact and inspecting for a cold?
Achoo!
Speak of the devil.
Alastor sighed.
"I guess that settles that... I can't send you to get everybody else sick, too. Get comfortable."
Vincent blinked. What, he's sick so Alastor gets to hold him hostage here?
But then his brain phrased it differently. He'd get to stay with Alastor until he got well.
"...Fine." His cheeks were rosier than usual.
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He'd assumed that he would sleep on the couch, since it was Alastor's house and they weren't exactly close enough to share a bed anymore. He watched as Alastor brought a few pillows into his bedroom, a blanket, and then brought one of each to the couch.
"Thanks," Vincent said as he went to take the pillow and blanket.
Alastor pulled them away from him. Vincent did that god-awful head tilt thing he hated. It always made his face heat, just slightly.
"You're sleeping in the bed. It's easier to wash bed sheets. I don't need your filthy germs on my couch for the rest of time." Alastor said harshly, masking how he felt his face warm.
"...Oh. Of course. That makes sense." Vincent said.
Alastor shooed him away, and he awkwardly made his way to the bedroom. It was almost nostalgic walking through this hallway again.
Oh. Oh. That's what the pillows and blankets were for.
Alastor had arranged the pillows and blankets in the specific way Vincent had always liked best. He'd always complain that Alastor didn't have enough pillows or blankets. But it was mostly to bug him. He didn't think Alastor would actually remember that, let alone care enough to give him extra almost a decade later, long after he should've forgotten.
Alastor walked in and handed Vincent a cold remedy to take. He grabbed a pair of folded clothes from the top of his dresser, pajamas he had prepared earlier that day.
"You know where my night clothes are. You can borrow some. And shower. I can't imagine you're clean after a fight."
Vincent nodded as Alastor went to the bathroom to change his clothes. He left the door cracked the tiniest bit. Vincent thought about peeking—god, he wanted to—but he didn't want to get risk getting kicked out. Alastor emerged in a red pair of pajamas, his glasses gone and his hair slightly messier than before. Fuck.
"Get well, Vincent." God, and he forgot how it feels when he says his name.
"...Yeah, night, Al..." The nickname slipped right out of his mouth. He looked at Alastor, hoping he either didn't notice or didn't mind. Alastor's eyes just narrowed, half irritated, half curious. He walked out and shut the door.