Vincent stepped past Scott quietly, his shoes splashing in the puddles of blood.

David was still alive. Barely. Shuddering breaths escaped him, he wasn't able to talk, didn't have the energy to scream. Just lay there, twitching slightly.

Some of his face was viewable through the Spring Bonnie mask. He'd put it on himself, but he hadn't been careful. He'd dislodged the spring locks.

His eyes were pale, the spark of life in them dim and virtually non-existent.

Vincent got on his hands and knees next to the small body, letting his blood run over his fingers. Carefully, he moved his hands up to the mask, preparing to take it off.

"Don't."

Vincent looked back at Scott. He was trembling, looking as if he was fighting throwing up with all his might. "Scott, the springlocks are still being driven in... It's easier to take it off now than-"

"Don't," Scott said again. His eyes were pleading, "Please. Please don't. I-I can't... Don't want to see... I can't see..."

Vincent knew what he meant. David's body was untouched, still as if he were alive, but under that mask were deep gashes, slices, holes that had punctured through skin, muscle and bone. A mess of metal and human flesh.

Vincent lifted up his hands, watching with a sick fascination as the blood slowly dripped down his arms.

In the background, he saw Scott's eyes widen, and he leaned over, throwing up on the floor.

Obviously he wasn't a fan of blood.

"It's not going to be long before somebody finds us here," Vincent said quietly. "Are you able to call the ambulance?"

Scott wiped his mouth, choking back a sob, he nodded and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. As Scott called the authorities and explained their situation in a wavering, breaking voice, Vincent sat in the blood, trailing his fingers in it, letting it run all over him.

As Scott hung up, a heavy feeling seemed to fill the room, every breath was like a breath of liquid despair. Vincent and Scott both felt it at the same time, and they didn't have to say anything; they knew what the feeling was. Death had entered the room with them.

Vincent looked back at the little boy, who's eyes were now dim. He almost imagined that he could see it; a thin, black, skeletal figure reaching over the body with its slender fingers. Not the hooded figure with a scythe as so many depicted, but a true embodiment of Death identical to its just-as-sinister twin, Fear. A figure with no defined edges, covered in rot and disease but at the same time wielding a kind of entrancing beauty, greedily sucking the poor boy's soul away.

"Come on," he said to Scott. "Let's get out of here before the authorities get here. I don't want you to be caught up in the mess of it all."

Scott nodded and Vincent hauled him to his feet. Scott's legs were still unstable, so Vincent pulled him close, holding him up like a puppet with its strings cut.

Like this, they made their way to the entrance, huddled together in a tight embrace.

Mike stood at the entrance, on duty there as he had been for most of the day. He didn't pay any attention to their blood-soaked clothes, whether because he mistook it for paint or oil, or whether he was simply too dim to make the connection, Vincent didn't really care. He shifted his weight onto one leg, smirking. "Aww, look, Vincent's cuddled up with his little boyfriend. What happened, did someone throw pizza at you, Scott?"

Vincent felt something new to him, and emotion he hadn't felt before, bubbling up inside of him. He growled at Mike, "I'm looking after him, Mike. It doesn't mean we're together. If you haven't noticed, this is blood on our clothes. Go look in the back room," It was true, not once until now had he thought of the fact that Scott was gripping onto him with all his might, hugging him as hard as he could, and even now that he knew it, it didn't matter to him. This wasn't a 'cuddle', it was Scott searching for security, whether it was him, or Mike, or anyone in this pizzeria, it didn't matter. He needed someone to protect him, and Vincent made a silent vow that from now on, it would always be him.  

Mike's grin dropped, he examined the dripping Vincent and Scott and paled. "Not again. Oh, gawd, please, not again."

Vincent pushed past him outside of the doors and, still supporting Scott, started half-carrying him back towards his house. About halfway there, Scott seemed to find his legs and began to walk shakily, still gripping on to Vincent's shirt as if letting go of him would make him lose his way.

They reached his house and Scott walked in. Vincent hung around the door for a moment before following him in. He found Scott in his bedroom, sitting on the bed and staring out the window, a blank look in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" Vincent asked tentatively, walking over to him and sitting down on the end of the bed.

Scott shook his head, his eyes looked around the room as if hearing he'd just registered the voice, he focussed on Vincent's face.

"Of course. Of course you're not alright..." Vincent said. "Sorry."

"It's my fault," Scott said. "I was in the safe room earlier. I left the door open. He could probably see it ajar, and tried to get the mask... It's my fault!"

Vincent frowned slightly, he shifted himself so that he was sitting next to Scott and pulled him closer. "It's not your fault, Scott. I planted the idea in the kid's head and gave him the tablet. Don't worry about it. Playing the blame game will do nothing."

Scott buried himself into Vincent, and again Vincent was filled with that feeling - he had to protect Scott. It wasn't about physical contact right now, it was about something different, something that ran much deeper. He wrapped his arms around Scott, holding him carefully.

"Thanks for standing up for me in front of Mike," Scott said finally, evidentially deciding to drop the subject of David's death.

"It's alright, Scott," Vincent said. "And I still stand by what I said, by the way. Don't... Don't be afraid to talk to me about... about anything. I won't... See, even us together like this. As one co-worker comforting another. That's all it has to be, until you say otherwise."

"Thank you," Scott whispered, pressing himself further into Vincent's body.

Vincent smiled a little. There was something oddly comforting about all of this. He knew it was selfish of him, to be taking enjoyment out of the fact that Scott was close after what had happened. He knew that Scott wasn't thinking about being close to Vincent at all, that he was trying to come to terms with the traumatic experience, that it was entirely platonic, but Vincent couldn't help a little buzz rush through him as Scott moved closer still.