Where Nothing Happens: Chapter 2
Alastor's hoof tapped a rhythm on the floorboards, his fingers making quick work of eggshells, brushing them into the waste can. His ear twitched at the sound of soft rustling from the other room. Ah! Vincent's awake, then. Alastor glanced down at the bowl of eggs, his smile thinning. If he made this meal and examined Vincent, the demon would be free to leave. Tsk. Shame, it was, really.
"Hmm," Alastor sighed, his fingers brushing over his collarbones. Just how much of Vincent was mechanical? How much was flesh? Alastor’s own fingers continued absently over the shift from skin to beneath his collarbones, the hidden speaker humming faintly with static. Alastor wanted desperately to tear the demon apart, to understand his insides. How similar was this demon to him? The uncertainty was delicious; it was killing him! But first, he had a guest to feed, and Alastor was nothing if not a good host.
Alastor turned and left the kitchen in time to see Vincent sit up with a wide yawn, eyes blinking warily. "You're awake!" Alastor supplied cheerily.
Vincent nodded, and slid off the settee, grimacing and shifting upright. "Mind if I use the bathroom?" he asked cautiously. "Also, you said my clothes were washed...?"
Alastor waved a hand. "Yes, of course. Your clothes are in the bathroom."
The boy's brows furrowed. "But they weren't there last--"
"They're in the bathroom," Alastor insisted, and made a shooing motion. Vincent hesitated, and then turned, and Alastor took the moment to snap the blanket straight, folding it neatly over the back of the settee. Hmm. Vincent would probably be leaving soon. Even someone as naive as he would know better than to overstay their welcome in the home of a well-established terror like Alastor. Being as he wasn't stupid, Alastor couldn't count on him asking to stay beyond the terms of the Deal allowed. Ah, dear... He should've negotiated better terms, really, it was quite sad he hadn't... Tsk. Rosie would probably die laughing if she ever heard. Still, he could work with what he had. He wasn't a Dealmaker for nothing. By the time he'd finished making up the settee and had settled back into the kitchen, he heard the bathroom door open and click softly shut.
Alastor cracked an egg and innocently let it slip out of his fingers with a sharp crack, and his radio static crackled irritably. He bent at the waist to clean it and his shoulder hit the empty pan, sending it to the floor with a godawful CLANG!
"Are you okay?" Vincent's voice came, and he padded into the kitchen--lo and behold--wearing the same old clothes from the day before, newly washed. "Oh! Do you... want some help with that?"
"Oh, please, I wouldn't want to trouble a guest!" Alastor said demurely, his ambient static crackling in frustration.
"Well, you are helping me out, I mean it's the least I can do...! Here, let me--" Alastor stepped back, his grin smug as Vincent picked up the pan and quickly wiped up the spilled egg with a spare towel. "Why don't I help you make breakfast?" he said, and Alastor sighed gratefully.
"How thoughtful! Thank you, dear. You can dice the tomatoes; they're on the counter. You can handle a knife, can't you?" Alastor inquired.
"Oh, sure. I'm not a chef, but I can dice. Just--I'm not so good at cooking," Vincent said sheepishly over his shoulder. He picked up the paring knife and started dicing. Not nearly as well as he himself would do it, but well enough that Alastor assumed he'd helped his mother in the kitchen as a child. Something strange and tight curled briefly in his chest at the image.
Alastor focused on whisking the eggs, turning on the gas stove, and setting some butter to melt, before accepting the tomatoes from Vincent and setting the whole thing to cook. Vincent watched over his shoulder--well, next to him, more like--as Alastor's quick movements flipped the omelet. "That's pretty impressive," Vincent said off-hand, leaning agaist the counter.
"Oh?" Alastor said, leaving the question open.
"Yeah. My mom was more of a baker--anything in the oven came out great--but she never liked the stovetop as much. She said it was 'too volatile!'" Vincent flashed a reminiscent smile, and then his eyes flicked up to Alastor's. "She made good food, just never as good as from the oven. And I," he added, his tone dipping into self-deprecation, "never got the flair for the stove at all. I can handle the oven okay, but the stove is awful. I burn things, I don't even know how half the time."
"Hmm. Probably you have the heat too high or leave it on too long," Alastor said helpfully. Honestly, there's no other way to burn things. Unless you're just not paying any attention.
Vincent sighed. "You would think so," he said mournfully. Alastor made a noise under his breath, folded the omelet, and gestured to the right. "Do grab us some plates, good man. This is almost done." Vincent looked up at the cabinets.
And reached. Alastor stared for a moment. Vincent flushed, feet almost off the floor, arm reaching out and fingertips barely brushing the handle. Alastor inhaled. "Do you... need help there?"
Vincent puffed out a breath. "N-nope! I've... almost got it--!" He slipped and fell back onto his heels with an oof!
That did it. Alastor burst out laughing. "Haha--Oh dear! You're quite--HA!--oh dear!" Vincent sent him a glare, before deciding that was a bad idea and sighing.
"Ha-ha, it's sooo funny. I mean, I am six feet tall, you know! That's really tall for a guy!"
"Not in Hell, it's not!" Alastor replied gleefully, radio static kicking up into canned laughter. "Surely you've seen the size of most people here? Why, I'd say you're on the shorter side of average, aha!" Vincent twitched a little at that.
"Of course not, dear," Alastor said patronizingly, patting his shoulder and giving the eggs a shimmy. "There's a stepping stool in the--" Vincent didn't wait; he hoisted himself up onto the countertop, sitting on the edge and twisting--Alastor winced at the sharp hiss of pain--and grabbing two plates down. Vincent slid off the counter, one arm rubbing tenderly at his ribs.
"Ow, ow, ow," he grumbled. "Shit!" Alastor felt a twinge of something. He wasn't quite sure if it was the principal of a young guest swearing in his house, or just irritation that Vincent'd gone and hurt himself (he'd better not need more care, honestly!), but Alastor swatted the back of his head. "Ow!"
"Language!" Alastor replied cheerfully. Vincent looked away. "Annnddd?" Alastor prodded.
"My apologies," Vincent replied, somewhat stiffly.
"Very good! Grab a few forks from the drawer and set the table, will you? That table right there, that'll do for breakfast." Vincent did as he was bade, and Alastor internally gleamed with joy. What an obedient little thing! Hmm. Maybe he could make a pass for the boy's soul. That wouldn't be so bad. Then he'd be able to study his magic, too, and figure out what about it made his Shade so interested in the boy.
But that was a thought for later. For now, Alastor slid the omelet onto the plates Vincent had set out, added a generous portion of the breakfast potatoes he'd been crisping in a separate pan, and carried both plates to the small kitchen table. Vincent had already laid out the forks, along with two glasses of water and a neatly folded napkin at each setting. *Such manners!* Alastor's smile curled with genuine pleasure. It was so rare to find a young person with proper etiquette these days—even rarer in Hell, where most Sinners seemed to think "please" and "thank you" were suggestions rather than requirements.
"Breakfast is served," Alastor announced, setting the plates down with a flourish. "Omelet with tomatoes, peppers, and a touch of cheese, alongside my signature breakfast potatoes. I do hope you enjoy it."
Vincent slid into his chair, mismatched eyes wide as he took in the food. "This looks incredible. Thank you, Alastor." He waited until Alastor had seated himself before picking up his fork, and Alastor filed that away too. *Waits for his host to sit before eating. His mother raised him well.* The thought brought back that strange tightness in his chest from earlier, and he busied himself with cutting into his own omelet rather than examine it too closely.
For a few minutes, they ate in companionable silence. The jazz station was still playing softly from the parlor, drifting through the house like warm honey, and the morning light—such as it was in Hell, filtered through the perpetual red sky—cast long amber shadows across the kitchen floor. Vincent ate with the focused intensity of someone who hadn't had a proper meal in a long time, though he was careful to mind his manners, cutting small bites and chewing thoroughly. Alastor watched him over the rim of his coffee cup, cataloging every detail.
The boy's screen displayed his face with remarkable fidelity—expressions flickering across the glass as naturally as they would on flesh. When he tasted something particularly good, his eyes half-closed in pleasure, and a soft blue wash of color spread like a blush. When he caught Alastor watching him, the blue deepened to lavender, and he looked down at his plate with a self-conscious duck of his head. *Adorable,* Alastor thought, and meant it in the way a collector might admire a particularly rare specimen.
"This is really good," Vincent said, breaking the silence. "The potatoes are perfect. What's the seasoning?"
"A family secret, I'm afraid," Alastor replied, which was true enough. His mother's spice blend had been a closely guarded recipe in life, and death hadn't changed that. "Though I suppose I could be persuaded to share, under the right circumstances."
Vincent looked up, his expression shifting to something cautiously amused. "What kind of circumstances?"
"Oh, I don't know. A Deal, perhaps?" Alastor's grin sharpened, and he let the offer hang in the air, watching Vincent's reaction.
There was brief wash of static before settling back to his face. Interesting. "I think I've made enough Deals for one week," Vincent said finally, his tone light but his eyes wary. "But thanks for the offer."
"Smart boy," Alastor said approvingly, and meant it. The quickest way to lose yourself in Hell was to make Deals carelessly, and Vincent had already demonstrated he had at least some instinct for negotiation. That he knew when to stop was a good sign. "Still, the offer stands, should you ever change your mind."
Vincent nodded, and returned his attention to his breakfast. Alastor let the silence stretch, content to simply observe. The boy ate slowly, savoring each bite, and by the time he'd cleaned his plate, Alastor had made up his mind. He was going to keep this one, at least for a while. The question was how to go about it without scaring him off. Vincent was skittish, but not stupid—he'd bolt if Alastor came on too strong. But he was also grateful, and clearly lonely, and those were levers Alastor knew how to pull.
Vincent set his fork down with a quiet clink and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. "That was amazing. Thank you." He paused, and Alastor saw the shift in his posture—the slight squaring of his shoulders, the way his hands folded on the table in front of him. Preparing himself for something. "So, um. About the Deal."
"Mm?" Alastor tilted his head, affecting casual interest.
"You held up your end," Vincent said. "Two non-cannibal meals, and you patched me up. So I should hold up mine. You wanted to look at my head, right?" He gestured vaguely at his head. "I'm, uh, I'm ready whenever you are. And then I'll get out of your hair."
Alastor's smile didn't waver, but internally, his thoughts sharpened to a razor's edge. *There it is. The moment of departure.* He'd known it was coming, of course—had been planning for it since Vincent first fell asleep on his settee. But hearing it spoken aloud still sent a flicker of irritation through his static. He wasn't ready to let this fascinating creature walk out his door. Not yet. Possibly not ever.
But he couldn't say that. Not directly. Vincent was already poised for flight, his shoulders tight with the expectation of dismissal. If Alastor pushed too hard, the boy would be gone before he could blink. No, he needed a gentler approach. A reason for Vincent to stay that didn't feel like a cage.
*And I have just the thing.*
"Ah, yes, the examination," Alastor said, setting his own fork aside and dabbing at his mouth. "I am quite looking forward to that. But, my dear Vincent, I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding."
Vincent's brow furrowed, the projected image flickering slightly. "A misunderstanding?"
"Indeed." Alastor folded his hands on the table, his smile turning almost apologetic. "You see, the terms of our Deal specified that I would provide you with two non-cannibal meals, correct? And that I would care for your injuries?"
"Yeah…?" Vincent's voice trailed off, uncertainty creeping in. "And you did. The red beans and rice last night, and breakfast this morning. Plus you bandaged my back and my ribs."
"I bandaged your back and ribs, yes," Alastor agreed. "And I made you dinner last night. That was one meal, prepared solely by my hand." He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough for Vincent to start frowning. "But breakfast… well. You helped me make breakfast, didn't you?"
Vincent blinked. "I—what?"
"You diced the tomatoes," Alastor said, his tone as innocent as fresh snow. "You retrieved the plates. You set the table. You even cleaned up the egg I so clumsily dropped." He shook his head with a theatrical sigh. "I'm afraid that means breakfast was a collaborative effort. I didn't make it for you—we made it together."
"That's—" Vincent started, then stopped. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. His expression cycled through confusion, disbelief, and something that might have been the beginnings of indignation, or at least shock. "That's—that's a technicality!"
"Is it?" Alastor asked, tilting his head. His ears swiveled forward, the picture of innocent curiosity. "The Deal was quite specific. I was to *make* you two meals. Not *provide* two meals, not *ensure* you ate two meals—*make* them. I'm afraid your assistance in the kitchen this morning means I only made one."
Vincent stared at him. The ruby eye flickered, and the turquoise one narrowed. For a long moment, he seemed to be searching for words—or perhaps running back through the exact phrasing of their Deal, trying to find a loophole of his own. Alastor waited, perfectly still, his smile a placid mask.
"That's…" Vincent started again. "That's really… I mean, I just diced some tomatoes. That barely counts as helping."
"Doesn't it?" Alastor's voice was mild, almost gentle. "You handled a knife. You prepared an ingredient. You contributed materially to the meal's creation. I would say that counts quite firmly as 'helping.' Wouldn't you?"
Vincent's screen washed pale green—the same queasy color it had turned last night when he'd been sick. He wasn't being cruel; he was being strategic. There was a difference. Vincent wasn't hurt by this—just confused, and perhaps a little frustrated. He'd be fine.
"I… guess?" Vincent said finally, his voice uncertain, face shifting back to its usual color. He seemed a bit relieved. "I mean, I didn't mean to mess up the Deal. I was just trying to help."
"And I appreciate your help immensely," Alastor assured him. "You were a wonderful kitchen assistant. But the fact remains that the terms of our Deal have not yet been fulfilled. I still owe you one more meal, prepared solely by yours truly."
Vincent was quiet for a moment, his mismatched eyes fixed on Alastor's face. Alastor let him look, keeping his expression open and guileless. The boy was clearly trying to figure out what was happening, and Alastor was equally clearly not going to give him any clues.
"Okay," Vincent said at last. "So… what does that mean? The Deal isn't complete?"
"Precisely!" Alastor clapped his hands together, the sharp sound making Vincent jump. "You understand perfectly. The Deal binds us both, and until I have fulfilled my obligation—two meals, made by me—neither of us can consider our agreement complete. Which means…" He spread his hands, a gesture of benevolent helplessness. "You'll simply have to stay a bit longer. You can, of course, let me look at you anytime, but my end of the deal won't be quite complete until I make you a second meal!"
Vincent's screen flickered. "Stay? Here? With you?"
"Unless you'd prefer to leave and come back?" Alastor raised an eyebrow. "I'm perfectly willing to accommodate that, of course. But you are still injured, and the streets of Hell are hardly a safe place for a demon in your condition. I would hate for something to happen to you before I could complete my end of the bargain."
The boy's expression shifted, something complicated passing across his projected features. His shoulders, which had been tense with the expectation of departure, loosened slightly. The tight line of his mouth softened. "I… yeah. The streets aren't… great." He glanced down at his hands, still faintly stained with tomato juice. "I've been sleeping in alleys. And abandoned buildings. And once in a dumpster, which was…" He shuddered, green flickering across his face again.
"I can imagine," Alastor said dryly. "Well, you're welcome to stay here until the Deal is complete. I have a guest room that's been gathering dust for a decade, and I'm sure my Shade would appreciate having someone else to fuss over for a change."
Vincent looked up. "Are you serious? You'd let me stay? Just… like that?"
"Just like that," Alastor confirmed. "I am a man of my word, Vincent. The Deal says I owe you a meal, and I intend to deliver. But I can't very well do that if you're off getting yourself killed in some alleyway, now can I?" He stood, gathering the plates from the table. "So. You'll stay at least until dinner. I'll prepare something truly exceptional—no assistance required—and sometime before or afterward, we can complete the examination and call our Deal fulfilled. Fair?"
Vincent was silent for a moment, his screen dimming slightly as he processed. Then, slowly, his shoulders dropped the rest of the way, and the tension bled out of his posture. "Yeah," he said, and his voice was quieter than before, but warmer, too. "Yeah, that's… that's truly too kind of you. Thank you, Alastor."
"Think nothing of it." Alastor carried the plates to the sink, his smile sharp with satisfaction. Perfect.
By the time Vincent realized the implications of staying, Alastor intended it to feel far too late to leave.
He was so focused on his internal gloating that he almost missed Vincent's next words.
"I mean it, though. Thank you." Vincent had risen from the table and was hovering near the counter, his hands tucked into the pockets of his borrowed trousers. "I know I'm not… I mean, I'm nobody. Just some random Sinner who got jumped in an alley. You didn't have to do any of this. The Deal, the food, letting me stay…" He shrugged, the gesture awkward and self-conscious. "I don't know why you're being so nice to me, but I appreciate it."
Alastor paused, his hands still in the soapy water. *I don't know why you're being so nice to me.* The words hit him somewhere unexpected—somewhere soft and buried, a place he usually kept locked tight. He thought about telling Vincent the truth: that he wasn't being nice, that this was all a calculated play for his soul and his secrets. That "nice" was just another tool in Alastor's arsenal, wielded as precisely as any knife.
But the truth wouldn't serve him here. And besides, was it entirely the truth? Yes, he wanted to study Vincent. Yes, he was maneuvering the boy into a position of dependence. But he'd also fed him, and bandaged his wounds, and let him sleep on his settee when he could have just as easily thrown him out after the examination. Some part of him—the part that had been a mama's boy from New Orleans, the part that still believed in hospitality and manners and proper behavior—genuinely wanted to help. For selfish reasons, certainly, but he wasn't going to tell Vincent that.
*Complicated,* Alastor thought, and set the thought aside for later examination.
"You're not 'nobody,' my dear," Alastor said, turning from the sink with a dish towel in his hands. "You're a very interesting young man with a television for a head and shark gills on your ribs. In Hell, that makes you practically a celebrity." He dried his hands and tossed the towel onto the counter. "Now. Shall I show you to the guest room? You'll want to rest that back of yours, and I have some business to attend to before dinner."
Vincent's screen brightened—a warm, pleased blue that Alastor was beginning to recognize as his version of a smile. "Yeah. That sounds good. Lead the way."
The guest room was at the end of the hall, a modest space with a single window that looked out onto the perpetual red gloom of Hell's sky. Alastor had decorated it in the same style as the rest of the house—dark wood, warm amber lighting, antique furniture that was old but well-maintained. The bed was made up with crisp white sheets and a quilt in shades of deep red and gold, and a small writing desk sat against one wall, stocked with paper and pens.
"It's not much," Alastor said, pushing the door open, "but it's clean and quiet. The bathroom is just across the hall. Feel free to use anything you find in there—towels, soap, what have you. I'll have my shadows bring you some clothes that actually fit. Those borrowed trousers are a tragedy."
Vincent stepped into the room, his mismatched eyes sweeping over the furnishings with an expression Alastor couldn't quite read. "This is… this is really nice," he said. "Like, really nice. Are you sure it's okay for me to stay here?"
"Positive." Alastor leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I'll knock when dinner is ready. Until then, rest. Doctor's orders."
Vincent's screen flickered with something that might have been amusement. "Are you a doctor?"
"I've dissected enough bodies to qualify," Alastor replied cheerfully, and had the satisfaction of seeing Vincent's screen wash pale green again. "I'm joking, my dear. Rest. I'll see you at dinner."
He closed the door before Vincent could respond, and stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of the boy settling in. The creak of the bedframe. The sigh of relief as he lay down. The quiet, almost inaudible murmur of what might have been a prayer.
*Interesting,* Alastor thought. *Still praying, after five months in Hell?* Most Sinners lost their faith within weeks of arriving. Either Vincent was remarkably stupid, and stubborn in his religion, or he had something worth praying to. Another mystery to unravel.
He pushed off from the doorframe and made his way back to the sitting room, where his Shade was waiting. It materialized from the shadows as he entered, its form rippling like heat haze, and tilted its head in a silent question.
"Yes, he's staying," Alastor said, settling into his armchair. "At least for now. I need you to keep an eye on him—discreetly. If he tries to leave, let me know. If he gets into anything he shouldn't, let me know. And if anyone comes looking for him…" His smile sharpened. "Well. You know what to do."
The Shade nodded, a ripple of darkness, and melted back into the shadows. Alastor leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, and allowed himself a moment of pure satisfaction. The boy was in his house, under his protection, bound by a Deal that Alastor could extend indefinitely with a little creative interpretation. He had all the time in the world to study Vincent's head, to understand his magic, to figure out why his Shade was so fascinated by the boy. And in the meantime, he had a guest with impeccable manners and a charmingly expressive face.
*Not bad for a day's work,* Alastor thought. *Not bad at all.*
The rest of the day passed quietly. Alastor attended to his usual business—a broadcast script that needed reviewing, a few messages from other Overlords that required carefully worded responses, a territory dispute that he resolved with a brief but satisfying show of force. Through it all, his awareness kept drifting back to the guest room down the hall, where Vincent was presumably sleeping off his injuries.
He didn't check on the boy. That would be unbecoming—a violation of the hospitality he'd extended. But he did keep his ears tuned to the subtle sounds of the house, and every creak of the floorboards, every soft rustle of movement, registered in his peripheral awareness. Vincent woke once, used the bathroom, and returned to the guest room. He didn't try to leave. He didn't snoop through Alastor's belongings. He simply went back to bed, as obedient as a well-trained pet.
*Remarkable,* Alastor thought, and returned his attention to the letter he was drafting to Rosie.
> *My dear Rosie,*
>
> *I hope this letter finds you well. I've recently acquired a most fascinating guest—a young Sinner with a television for a head and the most charming manners. You would adore him. He's polite, respectful, and utterly oblivious to the danger he's in. I find myself quite taken with him.*
>
> *I'm writing to ask if you've ever encountered a Sinner with technology integrated into their form. This boy—Vincent, he's called—seems to be part machine, part flesh, and I cannot determine the mechanism by which his organic and mechanical components interface. Any insights you could provide would be greatly appreciated.*
>
> *I'll be bringing him to Cannibal Town eventually—I think he would benefit from your particular brand of charm, and I confess I'm curious to see how he reacts to the more... refined elements of Hell's society. Don't worry, I have no intention of letting anyone eat him. He's far too interesting for that.*
>
> *Yours in friendship,*
> *Alastor*
He sealed the letter and handed it to a waiting shadow, which whisked it away toward Cannibal Town. Then he checked the time—nearly five o'clock—and rose from his desk. Time to start dinner.
The menu he'd planned was ambitious: a proper Creole jambalaya, the way his mother had taught him, with andouille sausage, chicken, and shrimp, seasoned with the family spice blend. It was a dish that required patience and attention, the kind of meal that couldn't be rushed. And it had the added benefit of being impossible to "help" with; Alastor could claim the entire preparation as his own, fulfilling the Deal's requirements without any ambiguity.
He was halfway through chopping the holy trinity—onion, celery, bell pepper—when he heard footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, Vincent appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking rumpled and sleepy. His screen was dim, the projected face slightly blurred at the edges, and his sweater was creased from sleeping.
"Hey," Vincent said, his voice rough with sleep. "Smells good."
"Jambalaya," Alastor said, gesturing with his knife. "A family recipe. You're welcome to watch, but I'm afraid I can't hand out the recipe, you understand."
Vincent's screen flickered with something that might have been amusement. "Yeah, I get it." He shuffled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching Alastor work. "Can I ask you something?"
"Why are you being so nice to me?" Vincent's voice was quiet, genuinely curious rather than suspicious. "I mean, I get the Deal and everything. But you're the Radio Demon. You could have just… I don't know. Killed me. Or made me make a worse Deal. Or just left me in the street." He looked down at his hands, his screen dimming. "So why didn't you?"
Alastor set down his knife and turned to face Vincent fully. The boy looked up, mismatched eyes meeting his, and Alastor felt that strange tightness in his chest again. *Honesty,* he thought. *Or something close to it.*
"Because you're interesting," Alastor said. "I've been in Hell for three decades, Vincent. I've seen a great many things. I've killed a great many demons. After a while, it all starts to feel rather… same. The same fights, the same deals, the same desperate Sinners clawing for power they'll never reach." He picked up his knife and resumed chopping, his voice casual. "But you're different. A television for a head. Shark gills. A tail that grows back. Magic that makes my Shade sit up and take notice. And on top of all that, you're polite. You say please and thank you. You wait for your host to sit before you eat." He glanced over his shoulder at Vincent. "Do you know how rare that is?"
Vincent's screen flushed lavender. "I, uh. My mom was big on manners."
"She raised you well." Alastor scraped the chopped vegetables into the pot and reached for the sausage. "I appreciate good manners. I appreciate interesting people. And I appreciate a mystery." He pointed his knife at Vincent, the gesture playful but pointed. "You, my dear, are all three. So I'm inclined to be nice to you, at least until I've solved the mystery."
"Solved the mystery," Vincent repeated. "Is that what this is? I'm a puzzle for you to figure out?"
"Among other things." Alastor's smile widened. "Is that a problem?" Vincent hesitated, then idly picked up the salt shaker, looked at Alastor, and held eye contact while leaning it over the vegetable and shaking a small amount over the vegetables. Alastor's smile widened. Vincent let out a slow breath. Ah! So we're doing that, then, hmm? Not that he minded. He was rather amused by Vincent willingly extending their Deal just to have a roof over his head, and it saved Alastor the trouble of having to 'accidentally' find ways to extend the Deal.
"It's... cold out tonight," Vincent said apologetically. He was quiet for a moment, considering. Then his screen brightened—that warm, pleased blue again. "No. I don't think so. I mean, it's… actually kind of nice? Being interesting. Usually people just want to smash my screen in." He touched the edge of his casing with one hand, a reflexive, protective gesture. "I've been down here five months, and you're the first person who's looked at me like I was worth something."
*Oh, you're worth something,* Alastor thought. *You're worth a great deal, and you don't even know it.* But he kept that thought to himself.
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