Chapter Text
“Am I boring you with my compliments?”
Alastor said “perhaps" but didn't mind it so much; Vincent shared flattery the most when he wanted something.
Whether what he wanted would ultimately be dismissed or a form of entertainment varied but Alastor was in a good enough mood to indulge the man.
The last time, Vincent had showered praises upon Alastor's cooking skills before he asked Alastor to assist with a turf dispute.
“I normally wouldn't bother you with such a thing, but you said you were curious about whether or not a chicken-inspired sinner would actually taste like chicken,” Vincent had said, almost sheepish. He spun his hand in a circle. “So I thought you might want to join me and find out since, well, the other guy is a chicken.”
The sinner had in fact tasted like chicken; Alastor chose to ignore Vincent clearly needing help—a shriek of static interrupted Alastor's reminiscing.
“Vincent?” Alastor put his glass on the counter. The media sinner's glass face distorted with static and he shook his head. Vincent's entire face flickered. Alastor tried his name again, “Vincent.”
His drinking companion touched his claws to the side of his head and flinched. Vincent drew them back before touching the sides once more and sliding them back with a light scrape until he hit the end of the square.
Vincent’s breathing increased and his eyes darted around the room. He looked like a frightened animal and he could feel the static building. Alastor didn't sense any disturbances, so what had caused Vincent's distress?
It was no fun watching the man look so confused mid-conversation.
Alastor put his hand on the man's shoulder and squeezed. “Vincent!”
Electricity ran through Vincent’s antennae as he turned his head toward Alastor. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and jerked back hard enough to fall off the bar stool.
“What has gotten into you?” Alastor asked, sliding out of his own seat. He held out a hand to help the man up. “You were fine a moment ago while telling me I was inspiring. Don't tell me a hint that you could be boring sent you into shock.”
Actually, Vincent did value himself as an entertainer. Accusing him of being boring may have hit harder than Alastor intended.
Vincent hesitated for a solid ten seconds before he took Alastor's hand and allowed himself to be lifted.
He put his claws on the bar and whispered, “Did I say anything else?”
“No,” Alastor tilted his head. “Why?”
“Sorry.” Vincent swallowed. He tapped the side of his head, making his screen turn to static with each tap. “I think I shocked myself; knocked something loose inside when I moved. The last few minutes are fuzzy.”
“I see.”
“You know, I'm not feeling too well.” Vincent forced a smile. “I'm going to call it an early night. Have a good evening, Al.”
Al?
Vincent wandered away from the bar with slow steps and a hand on the back of his neck. He did look worse for the wear.
“Want me to have someone walk him home, boss?” his bartender asked, looking at Alastor from the side of his eye. “He looks a bit distracted. Not a good thing to be in this area.”
“That's quite all right,” Alastor said. He finished off his drink and put the glass down. “I can do it.”
Not visibly, of course.
Alastor slipped into the shadows to shadow (ha!) Vincent. He'd make sure the man got home and retire early himself. There was little point in drinking alone in public.
Two blocks down the road, Vincent turned into an alley and grabbed his head as he leaned over.
“What the fuck is going on?” Vincent said to himself. “Is this double hell? Getting sent back to the worst day of my life?”
Vincent's voice rose in panic; Alastor listened.
“I mean, at least I didn't fuck everything up this time but how long will that last?” Vincent's voice cracked. The man's pupils were pinpricks of fear in the white of his eyes. “I haven't been Vincent in seventy years. I don't. How the fuck am I supposed to start over?”
Vincent dropped to his knees and dug his claws into the side of his head. The screech of metal as he yanked downward with a frustrated cry sent shivers through Alastor with the high pitch.
“And this stupid head is back!”
With that cry, Vincent dug his nails back in, trying to yank his head forward.
A spark of electricity and multiple colors flashed over Vincent's screen. It changed between his face and bars in succession before turning black.
Vincent dropped like a stone; body limp.
Alastor stepped out of the shadows and—he did not run, no matter what his shadows may insinuate—to the collapsed form.
“What have you done to yourself?” Alastor asked the unconscious body. He tapped him twice with the end of his cane, but there was no movement. “This won't do at all.”
Alastor had so few entertaining toys left; he wasn't about to let one break itself.
“Up you go.” Alastor lifted Vincent with his tentacles and brought him closer. Small currents of electricity tumbled and danced over the unconcious form. “Let's get you home and fix whatever got knocked loose.”
A quick portal trip brought them to Vincent's apartment soon enough.
Alastor glanced around, noting little change since the last time he'd visited. Coffee cups still towered in the sink and an overworked brewer held cold, leftover grinds.
He snapped the mess away and carried Vincent to his bedroom.
Regeneration would take care of the self-inflicted wounds, and hopefully the internal one. It left Alastor the job of tucking the man in his bed and waiting for him to wake up and explain himself.
In the meantime, Alastor investigated the newly cleaned kitchen for baking supplies.
He had to do something to keep busy through what little remained of the night.
Vincent woke when Alastor plated the pancakes with a dollap of whipped cream and a sliced strawberry. Alastor watched Vincent through the open bedroom door: Vincent stared forward with a glazed look; he started with a sharp jerk when he saw Alastor.
“Feeling better?” Alastor entered the room and handed Vincent the plate. He summoned a fork when he noted the one he'd prepared had been left on the counter. “I found you passed out in an alley on my way out of the bar.”
“And you brought me home?” Vincent asked, mouth turned down with narrowed brows. “Why bother?”
Alastor would have frowned if he were able. What sort of question was that?
Sinners he liked enough to share a drink or dance to keep his aquantiance were few and far between; of course he'd make sure they got home!
Besides, there were other important reasons Vincent needed to be in one piece.
“Have you forgotten you're my plus one for Rosie's Garden Party this evening?” Alastor tapped Vincent on the head with his staff. “How on earth are you to dance if you’re in pieces because some other scoundrel found you first? Full regeneration takes ages.”
“The garden party,” Vincent said, voice slow. He stared at the plate of pancakes. “I forgot about that.”
“Clearly.” Alastor huffed and flicked Vincent in the head again for good measure with his fingers. “Thankfully, you’ve got all day to fix whatever you knocked loose last night.”
Vincent didn’t look at him. “Right–of course.”
“Since you’re up, I’ll be taking my leave.” Alastor tapped his microphone cane. He lingered at the bedroom door. “I may pick you up early. Rosie wanted to talk with us before the event.”
“Sure.”
Alastor left the apartment; his shadow did not.
Tucked in a corner and well out of sight, the shadow watched Vincent stand up and set the plate of pancakes on his end table. He shuffled to a small date book next to the phone in the living room and dragged his nails down the wood.
One finger tapped the blocky writing that read “Rosie Party!!!” on the date.
“I remember now.” Vincent put a hand on the side of his head. Alastor’s shadow tensed in case it had to intervene. “I forgot all about it…probably because I didn’t end up going.”
Alastor leaned against the wall outside the apartment; what odd phrasing.
“Didn’t I also? I did.” Vincent strode across the apartment–the shadow slipping behind him to avoid being trampled–and threw open his bedroom door. Vincent stopped in front of his closet and pulled out a garment bag. “That’s right. I spent all my savings on a suit from that tailor Al likes.”
Vincent set the garment bag on his bed and covered the lower half of his face with both his hands.
“Okay, Vox.” Vincent nodded twice to himself. Vox? Who was that? Vincent inhaled and exhaled, lowering his head. “Get through the party. Then you can fuck it all up.”
Alastor retrieved his shadow and left the building. By all accounts he should be amused at Vincent losing his marbles after some sort of minor damage–like a concussion or drunken haze–but he couldn’t escape a sliver of worry.
Worry.
How ridiculous!
Whatever was going on with Vincent was a fluke from a little unwanted zap of electricity in his delicate head.
Surely Vincent would be right as rain by the time Rosie’s little garden party arrived. Or he had better be—Alastor was not going to suffer through yet another obligatory event of hers without some form of distracting entertainment.