Part V.II _ Bound to Ambrose
Vincent Sinclair House of Wax Words: 1.211 *Trigger Warning* social isolation, nonverbal communication barriers, physical intimacy (non-explicit)
You waited until the morning bustle in the Sinclair house settled—Lester chattering about breakfast, Bo pretending he didn’t care where you went or what you did. You helped them clean up, listened to their bickering, and then slipped out the back door with a quiet purpose.
Because today, you wanted one thing. One person.
Vincent.
The workshop door stood slightly open, morning sunlight slicing through the gap in thin lines of gold. You knocked once, lightly.
The movements inside paused. A moment. Then the door swung open fully.
Vincent stepped back to let you in, but what caught your attention was his posture—straightening, almost startled, like having you appear at his door this early wasn’t something he’d dared hope for.
“Can I stay with you today?” you asked softly.
He froze. Then nodded—quick, eager, almost boyish—before composing himself again.
You smiled. He failed to hide the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the worktable, as if grounding himself.
You stepped in and closed the door behind you, sealing the two of you in your own little world.
The workshop smelled like wax and warm wood shavings. The quiet hum of Vincent’s space settled around you instantly—tranquil, safe, careful. You scanned the chaotic arrangement of tools on the side tables.
“You want help sorting these?” you offered.
Vincent looked up sharply—surprised. Then nodded.
He led you to a long wooden bench cluttered with sculpting knives, carving picks, brushes, melted wax remnants. You rolled up your sleeves and started separating them by size and purpose.
Vincent hovered.
Not looming—he never loomed with you. Just close, like he couldn’t decide whether to guide you or simply watch.
When your fingers hesitated over a thin sculpting blade, Vincent reached forward. His hand brushed yours—accidental, but not unwelcome. You stilled.
Vincent drew the blade from your grasp and positioned it beside a matching set. Then he pointed gently to each one, showing their slight differences. His movements were calm, purposeful, beautiful.
“You’re really patient,” you murmured.
He paused, mask tilting. Then he signed slowly, carefully:
You are careful with my things. Not many are.
Your chest warmed. “I like helping you.”
Something delicate flickered in his posture—like a flame taking a breath.
After you finished a first section of tools, you turned toward him.
“Could you… teach me some?” You mimicked tiny hand movements. “Your signs?”
Vincent froze completely.
Then—slowly—his shoulders loosened. His fingers lifted, graceful and measured, and he signed:
You want to learn?
You nodded. “I want to talk to you the way you talk to me.”
A quiet sound escaped his throat—not quite audible, but a breath of emotion. Gratitude. Maybe affection.
Vincent moved close. Closer than he’d ever dared when the others were around. Close enough for his presence to fill your entire awareness—warm, solid, grounding.
He lifted his hands and signed a simple word:
Name.
You repeated the movement clumsily.
Vincent shook his head gently. Not disapproving—just focused. He stepped behind you.
Your breath caught when his hands rose and hovered at your elbows, guiding them. He didn’t touch you yet—waiting until you relaxed.
You did. And then he did too.
Vincent’s fingers curled carefully around your wrist, warm and steady. His other hand slid along your forearm to position your hand correctly.
You felt every point of contact like a spark.
He guided your movements slowly, silently showing you the angle of your fingers, the curve of your palm. His breath ghosted the side of your neck—soft, unintentional, devastating in its gentleness.
You repeated the sign again.
Better. Cleaner.
Vincent made a soft, pleased exhale against your shoulder.
You smiled. “Was that okay?”
He touched his knuckles to your arm—his version of yes, perfect.
He moved around to stand beside you, hands brushing yours each time he corrected a shape or repositioned a gesture. His touch was never intrusive—always a question.
You always answered with ease.
After twenty minutes, your fingers were warm from both the movements and the closeness. Vincent noticed the way you shook out your hand, fingers stiff from learning.
His brows furrowed behind the mask.
He reached for your hand instinctively.
His fingertips pressed into your palm—warm, careful—massaging lightly where tension had formed. He traced the muscles gently, kneading away stiffness.
Your breath hitched.
Vincent froze, about to pull away.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered.
He didn’t. He continued slowly, working each joint, watching you closely, making sure it was okay.
It was better than okay. It was grounding and intimate and wordlessly tender.
When he finished, he signed:
More?
“Please.”
This time, when he took your hand, it wasn’t just to help—it was to connect.
You practiced words for nearly an hour, and each time you got one right, Vincent gave a tiny, restrained reaction—shoulders relaxing, fingers brushing your knuckles, head tilting like a pleased animal.
But when you managed a full phrase he’d taught earlier—
Thank you, Vincent.
—he stilled entirely.
Then, slowly, so slowly you almost didn’t catch it—
He made a sound.
A soft, breathless huff. Half-laugh. Half-sigh.
Joy.
Vincent Sinclair—silent, careful, difficult-to-read Vincent—looked happy.
Truly, quietly, unmistakably happy.
He reached out impulsively—fingers curling around your wrist, tugging gently, like he needed you closer for a breath. When you stepped into him, he didn’t retreat.
You felt his heartbeat—fast, rising beneath the layers of fabric and mask.
He guided your hand, placing it over his chest.
Right over the rapid thrum beneath his ribs.
You looked up. He held your gaze through the dark glass of his mask.
His fingers spelled slowly against your wrist:
You. Make. It. Quiet. In. Here.
Here, meaning his mind. His world. His constant noise.
Your throat tightened with emotion. “Vincent…”
He shook his head gently, not wanting pity—only understanding. His hand rose, cupping the air near your cheek, not touching, just close.
Then he stepped back and motioned for you to follow him deeper into the workshop.
Working Side by Side
He led you to a half-finished sculpture—one you’d seen pieces of the last time you visited. He handed you a small tool, guiding your grip with his hands wrapped over yours.
Your fingers moved together, shaping warm wax into smooth curves.
He leaned close to watch. Closer than before. Close enough you could feel the heat of him through his shirt, the steady press of his shoulder against yours.
He signed softly, hands brushing yours between movements:
Good. Soft. Gentle. Like you.
Your breath caught.
His mask dipped near your ear—almost nuzzling, almost a gesture of affection—but he stopped himself at the last possible second.
You turned your head slightly, only inches from the edge of his mask.
“Vincent,” you whispered, “you can touch me. If you want.”
Vincent went absolutely still.
Not with fear.
With restraint.
With want carefully held back.
He lifted a hand—hesitant, trembling slightly—and let the back of his fingers graze your cheek.
You leaned into it, eyes closing briefly.
He exhaled a shaky breath.
Then he signed, slow and tender:
More later. I will go slowly. For you.
And then—like a final, quiet gift— He leaned his forehead against yours.
Mask to skin. Soft. Careful. A Vincent-style nuzzle.
His version of a kiss.
You whispered, “I’d like that.”
He made that soft, breath-laugh again. Happy. Truly happy.
