Chapter Text
To the public, Alastor and Vincent never met.
Never killed.
Never fucked.
Never fell for eachother.
But to be fair, the public also believed that both of them never had anything to do with the series of murders that occurred during their time as a news reporter, and a radio show host.
The public is incorrect about many aspects of their lives.
Alastor had just finished wiping blood off of his hands, and the frail, lifeless body of a salesman laid before him. The victim's skull having been crushed under the weight of the baseball bat Al had leaned against a tree in the forest he occupied, leaving his face unrecognizable. His only distinguishable features remaining were the suit he wore and the wedding band on his ring finger. Al decided to leave said articles on his body.
He wanted the media to know who had been killed that day.
It was late, and he was in a secluded part of the city, tucked away in a forest where he thought no one would find him.
Until–
“Holy shit.”
A voice. A man's voice. Shrill and laced with fear.
When a fight-or-flight response is triggered, it's the doing of the amygdala, Alastor’s favorite part of the brain. It’s a tiny little thing, delicious, almond shaped, which gives it its name. Despite its lack in size, it carries great power, preventing harm, working with the hypothalamus to release adrenaline and cortisol. The results vary from person to person and situation to situation. In this case, one may come to a realization: two lives will have ended tonight. The question though, will it be the salesman as well as Alastor’s, or the salesman as well as the man who has caught him in the act?
The prefrontal cortex. The part of the brain that controls decision making, and calms the brain down enough to escape in a dangerous situation using the power of norepinephrine, a chemical that increases alertness and blood flow. It triggers Alastor's arms to fly up in the air in an act of surrender, slowly standing up from his kneeling position, turning, learning, what the man who was about to ruin his life looked like.
Holy shit.
There before Al stood who he couldn’t make out at first, but as he pieced together the features: white male, dark hair with lighter streaks, wide eyes–mismatched–green and blue.
“Vincent Whittman,” Al said on an exhale, exasperated.
“Alastor,” Vincent replies. They recognized each other. They recognized each other, and in the midst of the fear, Vincent felt quite triumphant. To think his news channel has become so popular that figures such as Alastor recognized him. Alastor, a man he’d reported on time and time again.
Alastor returns to his senses.
“If you scream– if you run– I will kill you,” he says between gritted teeth. Something has taken over his body, and he's forgetting who he's talking to. He drops the salesman on the ground and backs Vincent against a tree.
Vincent’s not crying. His face is just stuck in this peeled, wide eyed expression. When he finally speaks, his voice begins to crack and split, much like the wood on the bat Al used to smash in the head of the salesman behind him.
“Why not just kill me now?”
A beat.
The question pierces the air and stops Al in his tracks. Why doesn't he just kill Vincent now? He's vulnerable, in shock, at his disposal, a threat to his industry, yet he couldn't do it if he tried.
Maybe it was something about the fact that this is a man he'd been reporting on for so long. A man he'd never formally met, but had admired from afar.
His eyes. Mismatched.
His hair, soft to the naked eye, leaving Al’s hands curious.
His presence, familiar.
Was he a killer?
A cannibal?
A missing piece?
It all kept him from picking his weapon back up.
“Are you asking me to?” Al replied with genuine curiosity coating his words.
“No,” Vincent replies, unfazed. “Just wondering.”
Al lets out a chuckle. A performative demeanor, one coated with power.
“I won't kill you now, but I will ask what you're doing here,” Al asked.
Vincent found himself more awkward than usual. Shy. Timid.
“Same reason as you.”
It was then Alastor realized Vincent was carrying a duffel bag. When he unzipped it, inside lay a human arm.
“I needed to dispose of the rest.”
Al was taken aback, but his grin grew wider. If his vessel of a body weren't so restricting, perhaps his smile would have split his face in two.
“My, now that surely does explain a lot now, doesn't it?” Al said, dropping the body and approaching Vincent. “The anchormen that came before you, your producers, that wasn't a coincidence now, was it?”
Vincent let out a nervous chuckle. “Why would I tell you such a thing?”
“You have a secret of mine.” Al gestured to the salesman perched behind them. “Its only fair if I get one in return.”
Vincent cracked a knowing smile, then nodded. “Alright, so it was. How did you guess?”
“You're sloppy with your murders,” Al said, provoking a scoff from Vincent. “And you're comfortable with sharing the remains of one body with me, proves this isn't out of the ordinary for you. Besides, you haven't exactly tried to run. If I didn't know any better I'd guess you're just as intrigued by me as I am by you.”
Whatever small movements Vincent had been doing this entire time came to a halt. Something shifts in the air. His cheeks erupt with a soft pink hue.
“You're intrigued by me?” he asks.
“How could I not be?” Al answers, his tone smooth, slicing through the air with calculated precision. “Despite your foolish mannerisms, you've gotten away with every single crime.”
“I suppose I have,” Vincent said as his hand found the back of his neck. “I'm flattered, truly. I would be a liar if I said I hadn't been a fan of your work for some time now.”
“Is that so? You're quite the charmer,” Al started. “I see why they give you so much screen time.”
Vincent speaks. The air shifts. “Why are you so desperate to continue this conversation anyway?”
Al carefully considers the question before responding with honesty. “Well if I let you go, who's to say you won't run your mouth?”
Vincent looks Al up and down, the blood rushing to his head and displaying itself in a fuschia daze upon his flesh. “Well–” he pauses. “I– I won't.”
“Mm,” Al reacts. “What's your motive anyway?”
“Motive?”
“For killing.”
“Oh, right.” Vincent clears his throat. He had already spilled plenty of secrets, what was one more. “If you must know, it's to… y’know. Eliminate competition. And I get a news story out of it too. More murders equals more material to report on.”
Al listens intently, not breaking character, not moving a muscle. The silence bothers Vincent.
“I don't know why I'm telling you this,” he says, his fingers warping into a fist, tightening to the point where the tips of his fingers turned white. “I shouldn’t be trusting you with any information, I don't know why I trust you.”
“Maybe because I'm charming,” Al responds. “And deep down, you know I'm not so bad, and deep down, you know you and I have a lot in common.”
Vincent feels a shift in the air. He lets another part of his guard down. “I want to be the name that remains on people's lips until the world ends. I don't care what I have to do to get there.”
Al felt his grin morph into something sharper. “Now that's ambition,” he pauses. “Tell me, Mr. Whittman, how far would you go to achieve your dream?”
Vincent looks up at him with a grin that tells him he understands. Tells him he's on his side.
“I would kill. Again.” He paused, his next words woven between his teeth. “And again. And again.”
Something about the way he says it told Al he wasn’t exaggerating. But he doesn't flinch, he doesn't even blink.
An idea.
“You want publicity,” Al starts. “You need more news to grow your channel. My murders, the crimes I commit, now that– that is a story worth telling.”
Vincent perks up.
“You're unafraid to push the limits of society,” Al gestures to the body. “And you already know that I'm the same way. Together, we could achieve both of our goals.”
“Are you suggesting a partnership?” Vincent asks.
“Not necessarily, think of it as a business transaction,” Al replies.
“You think I’m crazy,” Vincent breaks eye contact.
“I think you’re desperate,” Al says.
“I’m not desperate– I– I’m determined.”
“Then show me how determined you truly are,” Al holds out an open hand.
Vincent’s eyes ignited with a fire, one it seemed only Al knew how to light. He sighs, then smiles, and takes Al’s open hand.
“It’s a deal.”