( i had a thought, dear, however scary, about that night, the bugs and the dirt, why were you digging?)

chapter twenty-nine !

WHILE VINCENT HAD NEVER PARTICULARLY ENJOYED THE KILLING ASPECT OF HIS OLD JOB, IT DEVELOPED SKILLS THAT HE LIKED. Murder wasn't so fun after a while, but the art of holding a gun properly or knowing just the right place to stick a pen in a neck were things that came with the job. They were things that Vincent could confidently say he liked very much. He liked knowing things that others often didn't, and he liked showing off. He liked attention.

This attention, exhibited with crazed smiles and shocked stares, was fulfilling for Vincent. He didn't care for putting a bullet in someone's head because that was always the boring part. The fun part was what came after. Being paid and being praised.

Vincent's skills weren't far and few between. He had many, a variety that mostly consisted of small things. He had learned most of them when he worked for the Commission as an assassin. (Or hitman, if you prefer. Vincent definitely prefers it.)

One of these skills, taken straight from a few Swedish assassins he was put on a job or two with, was apathy.

Being apathetic was something Vincent had once been bad at. He was a naturally expressive person, and pretending to be disinterested and bored all the time didn't seem like something that would suit him. And it didn't suit him, but that was what made it so unsettling when he did it.

Keeping the face blank didn't take Vincent long to perfect, and it was one of the easiest skills Vincent knew. But it was one of the more effective ones. He'd enjoyed toying with it. He'd enjoyed using it to his advantage.

Another one was the complete opposite of apathy. This skill, taken from Vincent's cesspool of a brain itself, was just to act batshit crazy.

This one, Vincent preferred.

Vincent liked putting a wide grin on his face. This one worked better. Rather than using intimidation like the Swede shitheads that trained Vincent suggested, Vincent used insanity. It was funnier. It got him more attention.

Most of all, it annoyed his superiors. The Commission, naturally, hated Vincent's new technique when he'd used it for the first time. That only made Vincent use it more often.

Vincent was good at faking a smile. He was better at forcing a laugh. He was the best at distractions.

Or maybe he was the best at constantly getting caught off guard.

"Good morning, Captain," Vincent felt like a complete idiot, turning on his heels to look at the woman opposite of him, a stupid grin on his face. "You don't stay dead long, do you?" He asked afterwards, laughing a bit.

The woman across from him- the Handler, as Vincent often did not call her- smiled back mockingly, holding one rather long gun in her right hand. It was pointed at Vincent, but he couldn't find it in himself to be even slightly worried. "You killed Harold Jenkins as if it would do anything," The Handler smiled. "You silly child. You should know that there's nothing you can do to change fate."

"I mean, I could guillotine you and put your head on a stick. Viva la France style, you know?" Vincent smiled back with a small shrug. "That could change fate, right? Can you come back from a decapitation?" He sighed dramatically, tilting his head to crack his neck lightly. "Do you want to find out?" He grinned wider now.

The Handler simply smiled wider, taking a step closer and pressing the barrel of the gun against Vincent's forehead. "I would come back from it, yes. I'm not a real being. But you, Vincent, you would not," She chuckled. "I would love to shoot you in the head and get it over with, but unfortunately I'm not permitted in doing so. They're telling me to let nature take its course. I trust that Mr. Jenkins- the idiot he is- told you what your fate is?"

"What, that I'm gonna die? Yeah, yeah, like it was a surprise. Get some originality in here," Vincent laughed out. "Just get it over with."

"I would love to," The Handler sighed, moving the gun away and shooting beside Vincent's foot, so close that he yelped embarrassingly. "But I too have a boss to listen to. If I go against them, I will cease to exist. Bummer, isn't it?"

Vincent laughed. "That's lame." He pointed out. "You should fight back. Just shoot me."

"You're so thrilled to die. I'm impressed," The Handler smiled. "I wish you wouldn't have proven to be a loudmouth fool. You could have been a valuable asset for the Commission." She reached a hand out, as if to trace it down Vincent's cheek, but he slapped it away instantly.

"Screw the Commission," Vincent grinned wickedly, baring his teeth.

The Handler laughed, head thrown back. "Say what you will. Your attitude only gives you a worse reputation. They despise you there."

"Good. You have a framed picture of me with the words 'MORTAL ENEMY' printed on the bottom? Or me with devil horns, perhaps? Ooh, that one's good. Feel free to steal my ideas like you steal my assassination techniques," Vincent sighed dramatically.

The Handler's smile widened, and she shook her head. "I've never done such a thing. Why would I? I've killed thousands more people than you."

Vincent grinned back, shrugging. "Proving that you're a terrible person." He joked.

"I'm not a person," The Handler shot back. "I'm here to take you back to the Commission. You're making it fall apart. We're going to ruin you."

Vincent laughed loudly, shrugging his shoulders and shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. "Sure. Do I get to say bye-bye to my new friends first?" He joked more. "Klaus will miss me."

"How unfortunate for him. I'm sure his drug-induced mania can create a new version of you for him," The Handler grinned, reaching out to place a hand on Vincent's shoulder, which he smacked away as hard as he could.

"That was actually a good one, geezer," Vincent grinned wider. He was so tired, literally and figuratively. "What are you gonna make me do at the Commish...? Kill more people? Torture me some more? I can do either, sweetheart. You should know by now that I'm not very easy to break."

"No," The Handler laughed, a shrill and horrid sound that made Vincent want to slap his hands over his ears. "We are going to make you watch Five die over and over again. And then we are giving you the assignment of killing him yourself."

Vincent's grin dropped and his back straightened, blinking slowly. "What?" He spoke much too gently, frozen in place.

"You got cotton in those pretty ears of yours, Vincent?" The Handler smiled, taking a slow step closer, her hand moving to Vincent's cheek, patting it gently. Vincent was too shocked to jerk himself away. "Of course the footage of Five dying isn't real, but it looks quite impressive. Even better is the fact that in this footage, you're the one wielding the knife that kills him."

Vincent flinched back at the words, shaking his head. "I'm not watching that. You can't make me watch that," He said, rolling his eyes at how shaky his own voice was. "I'm not going to kill Five. Why would I kill him? Isn't he valuable to you? He should be," He rambled, eyes widening when The Handler moved to fiddle with her briefcase. He talked faster. "I understand asking him to kill me because, as you said, I'm a loudmouth fool. But- But he can help you. He's a better hitman than me, right?" His voice was absurdly panicky.

"That's not entirely true. You have much more experience than he does and a lot of your techniques are extremely impressive to some of the higher ups. Lucky you," The Handler grinned, looking Vincent up and down. "We've decided already. You're to come with me, and Number Five is to die. You are also to die, but that will come naturally." She waved off with a laugh, reaching out to grab Vincent's hand, holding it so tight Vincent felt his bones creak when he tried to pull away.

Vincent stiffened more when he heard the shitty car the Hargreeves siblings had been using pull onto the dirt road, cursing under his breath. They would- Five, especially- definitely notice the blink of blue.

Vincent didn't have time to dwell on it. The Handler messed with the briefcase and, all too suddenly, they were back in the Commision.

Shit.

Vincent had never liked the Commission. It was filled with pompous time assholes who thought they knew the secrets to the universe; although Vincent supposed they really did. This place was all bad memories, all phantom feelings of being punished and scorned like a child. He hated it, but he didn't let it show. Vincent put a prideful grin on his lips, waving at everyone he passed despite their scandalized whispers, following The Handler down a long hallway. He had always been good at pretending.

Vincent walked like he was on top of the world, back straight and his shoulders loose with a confident ease that oozed the same pretentiousness that the rest of these assholes loved.

He was not weak, not like The Handler wanted him to be. He was not something to be played with and then consequently thrown away. He was not to bow down and submit. Vincent would fight back now and forever. Outwardly, he was strong. Outwardly, he was to be feared, to give the Commission a run for their money.

Inwardly, however, Vincent was not having as much of a good time.

Inwardly, in the head of his that's packed with swarms of terrible terrible things, Vincent Leblanc was breaking down. He was realizing with passing time that this would end in his own torment. He would be forced to watch the things The Handler told him he was to watch, and then he'd be ordered to kill the boy he'd just confessed his undying love for barely two hours before.

Of course, Vincent would never kill Five. He would never even think of betraying him again. He was far too deep to do anything of the sort, far too blinded by affection to even humor the idea of being the reason for Five Hargreeves' downfall.

However, Vincent knew that would never hold up with the Commission. They'd hate his disobedience, his continued failure to be a nice boy, his long-holding act of rebellion. They'd probably try to beat it out of him, or maybe make him watch more of those dreadful training videos for what felt like- and actually was, sometimes- months. Vincent knew there were a few particular assassins who wouldn't be above breaking a few of his fingers if they were so instructed. Assassins who Vincent had mouthed off too much to, too annoying for some of the more macho guys with their machine guns and their stupid beards. Some people just didn't appreciate a little talkative gay man, and they especially didn't appreciate it when said little talkative gay man turned out to be better at murder than they would ever be.

Overall, Vincent was to die a screw up. What a surprise. Guess mom and dad were right, huh?

Sighing, Vincent followed The Handler into a room he didn't recognize, choking on his own breath at the contents.

Inside was a very large projector projecting an even larger image on a somehow even huger wall. There were a few desks— school desks, like the training rooms had. And, to Vincent's utter hatred, there were absolutely no windows or immediate exits, but that unfortunately was not even the part that made Vincent stumble. No, the bad part was what was being projected. There, on the wall, was the beginning of a rather concerningly well put together yet still clearly fabricated video of fake Vincent, dressed in the same blood stained ratty clothes he'd been wearing for days, flipping a butcher knife skillfully in between his fingers before stabbing fake Five in the neck brutally.

Vincent blanched at the sight, earning an amused glance from The Handler, who grabbed him by the nape of his neck and tugged him forward harshly. "What's the matter, Vincent? I thought you couldn't watch it," She mused, stroking her fingers over the back of Vincent's neck in a way that made him grow nauseous. He held his breath, unable to tear his eyes away from the video, playing over and over again on repeat, taunting him. "You were so confident coming here and now this?" She smiled sharply, shoving Vincent into a seat behind a desk way too roughly. Vincent barely flinched, too busy trying to get his breathing under control, trying to keep his hands from shaking worse than they already were. "You're shaking like a leaf. Do you need a drink?" She taunted, slowly moving to stand behind Vincent, looming over him.

"F-Fuck you. Like I'd accept a drink from your creepy ass. I scream, you scream, we all scream when we're roofied, and all that." Vincent grumbled out, hating how badly his voice shook. He took a rattling breath in through his gritted teeth, trying to finally look away from the projection, tensing when The Handler guided his head back to staring at the video. "Why the fuck are you showing me this?!"

"To teach you a lesson," The Handler stroked Vincent's hair slowly. "You are being ordered to kill Number Five, of course, and I brought up the grand idea of creating a replica of exactly what I want you to do," She gestured with her other hand to the screen. Vincent could hear the horrible smile in her voice. "I added the extra flare of you flipping the knife because I know how flashy you like to make things." She whispered. Vincent jerked away from her way-too-close proximity.

Vincent swallowed thickly, staring at the video once again, watching closely as it restarted, unable to help taking in every fucking detail.

The video started simply. Fake Vincent walked side by side with fake Five, stopping him once they reached the midpoint of a thickly wooded area. Fake Vincent then, with a poise that real Vincent couldn't help but be genuinely impressed by, pulled a large butcher knife from his hoodie pocket. Fake Five looked on with an abject horror that real Five would never let pass through his emotional barriers, his eyes widening and his lips silently opening with a short question; What the hell are you doing? There was no sound on the video, but Vincent didn't have to hear it to know. Fake Vincent said something back- Who, me? Don't worry about it, darling; which was way too close to something Vincent would actually say- before flipping the knife between his fingers, twirling it and all. Fake Five watched on before stepping back slowly, his hands flying up when fake Vincent stabbed him ruthlessly in the side of the neck. From there, fake Five bled quickly and dropped to the floor while fake Vincent grinned wickedly from beside him, wiping the blood- Five's blood- on his pants.

Then the video repeated.

Vincent's ears were ringing for a long moment before he dry-heaved over the edge of the desk, gripping the rim of his seat in a white-knuckled grip. He shook his head, trying to get his breath back, feeling absurdly sick over something that was obviously not real in the slightest. The nausea he felt grew when he remembered The Handler's hands on the sides of his neck, her manicured nails digging into his skin. Vincent took in one harsh breath before swallowing hard, closing his eyes.

"Did you like it? Took me a while to convince my people to create it. It was a bit of hard work, really, to make replicas of you and Five. You're both quite unique," The Handler smiled widely, tapping her nail against Vincent's cheek. "Watching that for another- what, six hours?- should suffice in conditioning you on what exactly to do. You will bring Five into the woods and kill him there. It's easy that way."

Vincent bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood and snarled back with a rough voice, "There are no woods around. Sorry."

The Handler laughed, her hands gliding to Vincent's shoulders, just resting there. "Don't lie now, Vincey Vince. The woods you killed little old me in will do very good, won't they?"

Vincent forced out a laugh. "Those woods are special. Christened them for you," He muttered slowly before he opened his eyes, looking over his shoulder at the woman, a bitter grin on his face. "It's a perfect place for you to cry about how bad you are at breaking me, you dried up whore."

The Handler clenched her jaw for a split moment before she laughed, shaking her head. "Always the annoying one, aren't you?" She smiled, though it looked more like a scowl than anything. "My boss never did say anything about me skinning you alive, I suppose. You would have to give me an hour or a two to get a raincoat or something. Can't get blood in my outfits."

Vincent rolled his eyes, whipping his head around, back to staring at the projection. "You really want me to watch this bullshit for six hours?" He huffed out.

The Handler's smile turned into something more like a smile. "Yes. You must appreciate its authenticity. I'm sure Five would, although he'd be getting the ultra-real version, would he not? When you stab him through his neck."

"Wouldn't say stabbing is my strong suit, Handsy," Vincent replied, sounding just as tired as he felt. "I'm better with a gun. You should know. Remember when I shoved it between your eyes?" He added, unsurprised when The Handler scoffed, leaning closer to Vincent, still behind him.

"That was no skill. That was luck," The Handler sighed. "You're lucky it didn't hit my brain. If it did I would have been out for months, and we can't have that," She droned on dramatically. "I'm extremely important to the Commission. I'm sure you understand."

"Wish I did. I don't know why they don't get someone stronger in your place. Or someone younger," Vincent chuckled out. He was talking mostly to tune out the video, but he wouldn't admit it. He pretended like the projection was no longer getting to him, but he could only hold off so much. The blood that oozed from fake Five's neck made real Vincent want to cry. "Maybe someone less bitchy. Really, anyone but you."

"You need to learn to control that mouth, Vincent," The Handler warned lowly. "I have many assassins who would want nothing more than to beat your poor little face in. Remember Jean?" She taunted.

Vincent let out a loud laugh, almost hysterical. "How could I not? He's the wannabe Frenchy. Jean Boucher. He used exclusively meat cleavers," He grinned bitterly. "He was a jealous bastard. He thought I was ruining his chances at being the best. He got very angry at our last job together when I took his cleaver and whacked him gently on the back of the kneecap with it," He sighed, stretching his arms out in front of him over the desk.

"Gently?" The Handler laughed, sounding giddy. "How I wish you were useful to us. You'd be fun to keep around." She placed her hand back on Vincent's neck, and he flinched under her touch.

Vincent sighed tensely, glaring at the projection before him. "Jean can't do anything to me. I fucked his leg up for good," He shrugged. "So why are you threatening a cripple on me?"

"Jean is very good at emotional torture these days," The Handler chuckled. "It's all he can do."

"Of course it is," Vincent grinned. "Well, I emotionally torture myself enough as is. He can't say anything to me that I haven't already said to myself."

The Handler whistled out an amused breath. "That makes this even better," She harshly turned Vincent's head back to stare at the projection. "The video gets really good on your twenty-seventh watch!" She exclaimed with a grin. "Hurry up. We have all the time in the world, but I also have somewhere to be. I'm torturing a specific someone who's name starts with an H and ends with an -azel's girlfriend over a big bowl of hot water!" She laughed.

Vincent tightened his jaw, watching the video again and again and again and again and again for what felt like two hours. Until he couldn't take it anymore, Vincent watched and ignored the Handler laughing behind him every single fucking time fake Vincent stabbed fake Five. He watched until his hands were trembling violently atop the desk and his eyes were burning— not with tears but pure unadulterated anger.

Vincent felt The Handler move behind him, her sharp chin pressing into the back of Vincent's head. He huffed, organizing his little plan in his head, listing the steps on an imaginary piece of paper, licking his bloody bitten tongue over his teeth, curling his shaky hands together. He sighed, deflating down slowly the most he could, pretending as though he were watching the projection closely. "You know—" He started before cutting himself off with a quick "nevermind."

The Handler huffed, squeezing his shoulder much too tightly. "What?" She snapped. "Spit it out, Vincent."

"You know, watching this I was just thinking.." Vincent started slowly, making his voice soft and small, which wasn't hard considering how horribly scrambled his brain was. "I was just thinking that..." He paused, sighing heavily. "I was just thinking that you're an ugly fucking worthless piece of shit."

Vincent whacked his head back as hard as he could against The Handlers face, pushing himself up to get her right in the nose, feeling it crack loudly underneath him. It hurt like hell, but he still grinned with exhilaration at The Handler's small screech of pain, only looking back for a quick moment to see blood spurting from her crooked nose before he bolted out the door.

He bumped into quite a few people, sprinting the fastest he ever had, yelling out a "get the fuck out of my way!" every now and then when a particularly large herd of pompous time assholes were in the way. He laughed loudly when one of the men referred to Vincent quietly as a killer to his colleague, responding much too abruptly with a "killer?! I barely even know her!" before stealing his briefcase, cradling it to his chest as he ran, genuinely and completely, for his goddamn life.

Vincent got to a storage closet quickly, locking himself inside before getting to work on the briefcase. He was a bit rusty on how to use those things, but he eventually got it down, messing with it a little more. He grinned widely when the door was broken down and he was face to face with the barrel of a gun, held by an unfamiliar woman.

"How adorable. Tell your boss that I hope her corpse is eaten by ten cannibals," Vincent laughed before doing a little two-finger salute. "Ta-ta!" He dismissed before pressing a button on the briefcase, gone through time.

Time traveling was something that Vincent could definitely get tired of. He despised it, really. It felt too odd, too vulnerable and raw. Between the real world and the Commission, there was but a quick flashing void for a few seconds before he fell to the cold hard ground, rolling before looking up and freezing at what he walked- or traveled- into.

He was in a clothing store, that much was obvious from the very moment he rolled in, and he had many women circling around him with equally confused expressions. The women gawked and prodded at his head, whispering to each other like Vincent was weird and diseased. At one of their pokes, Vincent bared his teeth, letting out a shuddery laugh when the women screamed and backed away, looking back every now and then as they ran.

Vincent groaned to himself, slowly standing up on shaky tired legs before looking around. He quirked up an eyebrow when he saw a familiar figure staring at him with surprise etched onto his very nice features, holding a big duffel bag in his hand.

Vincent wanted to grin or laugh or say something stupid, but nothing came out. In fact, Vincent's first instinct was to look away, at anywhere else. All he thought of when he saw Five, standing there watching him from not too far away, was him bleeding uncontrollably from his neck, kneeling, Vincent laughing, smiling, wiping the blood on his pants.

He shuddered, but hesitantly took a step forward, sighing when he came face to face with Five. He immediately stiffened when Five reached out and hugged him, of all fucking things, gripping onto the back of his hoodie. Vincent squeezed his eyes shut, but hugged back after a bit, letting out a small choked laugh. "Someone's happy to see me." He joked weakly.

"What did she do to you?" Five immediately asked as he pulled away, eyes wide and hands still on Vincent's hips. "How did you get back?"

Vincent smiled lightly, shrugging one shoulder. "Long story," He mumbled out. Long story he would never ever ever tell. "I broke her nose. With the back of my head. Guess you're right about it being empty in there because I don't feel a fucking thing," He joked. Of course it had hurt initially, but now it was just a brief buzzing. "And then I stole some guys briefcase and thought of you. So here I am," He looked around slowly. "Weird place to find you, by the way. What, are you buying some different clothes than your school boy get up?"

"I'm— are you sure you don't have a concussion?" Five blurted out, furrowing his eyebrows, one hand coming up to the back of Vincent's head, wincing when his hand came away soaked with sticky blood. "This yours or hers?" He asked, putting his palm up.

Vincent laughed at the sight, definitely hysterical now. "Jesus, I don't know," He breathed out. "Hers, probably. I headbutted her really hard. Like absurdly hard. Like I definitely didn't need to be so mean hard," he rambled. "I don't have a concussion." He decided on saying.

Five eyed him warily. "Sure.." He trailed off, not believing him in the slightest. "I'm not here to buy clothes, you idiot. I'm... don't laugh... I'm returning Delores— What did I say about laughing?" Five grumbled out, glaring when Vincent burst into more hysterics. "She deserves better than me. I'm... not quite interested in her any longer." He mumbled softly, his face turning beet red when Vincent let out a loud "awww!"

"You are literally adorable," Vincent grinned, reaching a hand out to ruffle Five's gelled back hair. "Quick rundown of the events of today and then I'll allow you to put your ex- sex doll to rest in peace."

Five sighed, shaking his head. "We went to Harold Jenkins house and found him dead, like you said. Before that I saw the blink in the woods. That was you and The Handler, wasn't it?" He questioned, sighing at Vincent's nod. "You were gone for a really long time. A few hours," He continued. "I was very.. worried, so I made myself some margaritas. And then Hazel blinked in and told me some things. He also knocked out Diego, but he's fine."

"What the fuck? I'm gone to get tortured while you get to drink your heart out and watch Diego get his ass handed to him? You fucker!" Vincent complained much too loudly, earning the unwanted attention of many employees.

"Tortured?" Five looked confused, keeping his voice down. "You got tortured?"

"Okay, that's a weird choice of words on my part, sorry," Vincent said much too quickly, waving Five off. "Did not get tortured. I just got shown a little video way too many times. No biggie."

"What video was it?" Five asked, perking up in intrigue.

Vincent shook his head with a huff of breath. "Doesn't matter. It's not useful to your end of the world bullshit, so it doesn't matter," He muttered bitterly. "Put away your fucking doll." He snapped afterwards, wincing at the defensiveness in his voice and the roll of Five's eyes.

Five sighed, taking Delores out of the duffel bag carefully before placing her up on a pedestal amongst other mannequins. He began to speak to her in a gentle voice, one that Vincent tuned out in favor of staring at his still trembling hands.

Vincent's head was a mess. Flashes of fake Five bleeding from his neck. Flashes of fake Vincent grinning that terrible grin. Fake Vincent wiping the blood on his pants. Fake Five asking what the hell are you doing? Fake Vincent responding with who me? don't worry about it, darling. Fake Vincent stabbing Five without any proper hesitation. The blood, the blood, the blood.

For a moment the blood was all over Vincent's hands in the middle of the clothing store. It was dripping between the webs of his fingers down to his scuffed up Converse, spilling onto the tile floor with sounds louder than any raindrop, a pounding in his head that made his vision blur. The blood was cold and warm at the same time, soaking into his skin the more he glared at it. The blood was everywhere, and there was nothing Vincent could do about it. For a moment he felt that terrible grin pull at the corners of his lips.

And then Vincent puked all over the clothing store floor, and found that there was no blood on his hands all along.

An employee ran over, eyes wide as she asked frantically if Vincent was okay. Vincent barely heard her, but still managed to nod anyway, stumbling backwards against a hard chest, stiffening before he realized it was only Five, only Five who wasn't bleeding down his neck and didn't have a butcher knife sticking out of it. Only Five who Vincent hadn't killed and wouldn't kill. Only Five who was speaking to him in a panicky voice.

"—okay? Vincent, are you okay?" Vincent's ears finally ceased the horrendous muffling thing they were doing, and he nodded quickly at Five's words, turning towards him. "What the hell did she show you?" Five asked softly, though it sounded more like a question to himself than anything, so Vincent didn't answer, couldn't answer.

"I'm great. Let's leave. I just threw up on their fucking carpet and— fuck, I might do it again," Vincent started, gagging once more before he looked away from the mess he'd made entirely, shaking his head to himself.

Five rolled his eyes, still holding tightly onto Vincent's forearms almost protectively as he spoke to an employee, saying something about redressing Delores in sequins. Vincent let out a tiny "kinky" under his breath before placing his own hands on Five's shoulders, squeezing way too tightly, feeling wobbly on his feet.

Five's eyes were wide when they looked at him, and Vincent had to close his eyes hard to will away the memories of that stupid fucking projection. Fake Five staring at fake Vincent with that horror, his eyes wide just like real Five's were right then. Blood, blood, blood.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

When Vincent opened his eyes again, him and Five were in the Hargreeves house again, up in Five's room. Five looked terribly worried, watching Vincent like he was made of glass. It would have pissed him off had he not felt so dizzyingly dreadful.

Five brought a much too gentle hand up to Vincent's hair, brushing it back gently. "Vincent. Are you okay? Without the puking this time."

Vincent chuckled weakly, slowly peeling himself away from Five, sitting on the edge of the bed and trapping his trembling hands underneath his legs. "I'm fine," He mumbled out. "You should go check out what your idiot siblings are doing now. Don't worry about me. I won't be kidnapped by the bitch again." He smiled crookedly up at Five.

Five looked hesitant, biting the inside of his cheek. He sighed heavily when someone pounded on the door loudly, followed by a "Five! If you don't hurry the fuck up with whatever you're doing then I will stab you in the goddamn neck!"

Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Five glanced at Vincent apologetically before shouting back a "I'd like to see you try, Diego!" He turned back to Vincent, smiling softly. "I'll be back for you in a few minutes. After I get an update on everything. Then we can make sure you don't have a concussion." He spoke, leaving a kiss on Vincent's forehead that genuinely burned.

Vincent watched Five leave, slumping down once the door was closed, his gaze sliding down to the floor. He tried to calm down his thoughts, tried to gather them up and toss them away in a hypothetical trash can. But it wasn't that easy.

All Vincent could think about was the blood on his hands, the blood on Five's neck, the knife, the blood, the look in fake Five's eyes, the grin on fake Vincent's lips, the blood, and... oh, shit.

Vincent could have cried when he saw it.

The butcher knife laying on the ground in front of him, identical to the one in the projection.

The butcher knife that didn't go away when he rubbed his fists over his eyes.

The butcher knife. Taunting him.

•••••••••••
A/N: hello hello so this chapter got real intense fast lmao. but I actually really like how it turned out lmao I hope you feel the same!!! things are getting crazy here!!!! sorry for the lack of Vincent/Five being tender lmao u should have known I wouldn't leave them happy for long ;)