Strictly Business
A fairly pointless Viv/Wilder drabble.
Words: 1,202
She hates coming to him for this, hates coming to him for anything, at all. She’s known a lot of assholes over the years-- after all, she’s related to plenty-- but he takes the cake. Unfortunately, this is a problem few people have the supplies to solve.
A cult or a coven, she’s not quite sure which, has summoned something ancient. Something too old for the usual tricks. It’s wreaking havoc and people are dying. She could call someone else to handle it, but she would rather not have hunters sniffing around her home. Kit and Kai pass for human well enough, but Dana and Robin? No. She won’t risk them.
Which means putting up with Wilder’s bullshit for long enough to get the supplies she needs.
He’s in a mood when she gets there, which is just fucking great. On a good day, he’s tolerable. On bad days, she wonders if any of his clients are morally grey enough to kill a human, because he just might push one of them to do it.
He knows she’s mostly left the business and his opinion of it isn’t one he bothers to hide. She doesn’t think he would even on a good day.
“It’s bullshit. You’re a fucking Holden. Holdens don’t retire.”
He’s right, of course. Most of them don’t. They fight until they can’t anymore. And the ’can’t’ never relates to injury or old age.
“My dad did,” she points out. Temporarily. But it had been nice while it lasted.
His lips curl into a sneer. Not a word she often uses to describe… anyone. And yet… “And how well did that work out for him? If I recall, isn’t your mother dead?”
She doesn’t hesitate to throw the punch. It’s probably not the first time he’s been decked and it definitely won’t be the last. He stumbles away from her, hands catching himself on a table behind him. She’s small; people forget how strong she actually is.
“You don’t get to talk about my parents. Got it?”
He spits blood onto the floor and scowls at her.
“You didn’t have to come here,” he reminds, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he rights himself.
“You don’t have to sell to me,” she returns. He also doesn’t have to be a massive dick, but she refrains from pointing that out. “But if I don’t come here and you don’t sell, people will die. So do you think you can play nice long enough for a business agreement?”
“You think I care about people?” he answers, gazing at her coldly.
“I think if you didn’t, you’d have a better job.” Or maybe a worse one. Something where he makes more money and maybe more people die. “Most hunters give at least half a fuck about human lives.”
“I think the Mahlendorfs disprove that.” He moves over to one of the tables, picking up a screw driver and tinkering with some metal contraption. “Some of the Bakers, too. I think Rosalyn would kill anyone.”
She can’t say for certain, but he’s probably right. She knows her aunt would be capable of killing Chase if she thought it necessary. Sometimes she wonders if Rosalyn would kill him even if she didn’t think it necessary. Uncle Avery isn’t kind but he’s always struck her as more stable, more restrained. Aunt Rosalyn is one of the reasons Vivian thought it would be a good idea to leave.
“Fine. But I think you fall into the ’care about humans’ category.”
“You don’t know shit about me.” But she knows she’s gotten under his skin, hit some sort of nerve, by the way he slams the screwdriver on the counter. It’s a weird comment for him to react to, but Wilder is a mystery that isn’t worth solving. No one knows much about the man, except that he can somehow be your best friend and your worst enemy in the same day. No one seems to want to know more than that. Vivian isn’t interested in adding another shitty person to the roster of people she cares about. Chase fills up enough of that space.
“I can be out of your hair the minute you give me what I need.”
“Can be and will be are different.” He turns to face her once more, staring her down.
“Give me what I need and I’m gone.” She doesn’t want to be here anymore than he wants to have her around. As fun as it is to irritate him, putting up with his shit personality isn’t worth it.
He’s quiet for a long moment, just watching her. She notices one hand is gripping the table behind him, holding himself steady, and she wonders how much he’s had to drink tonight. She knows he turns to alcohol when his mood sours like this, but she doesn’t bring it up. Pissing him off further doesn’t help anyone.
Finally, the silence is broken by him. “Do you have cash?”
“Of course.”
It’s not hers, but he doesn’t care about that. She hands it over and he counts it out before nodding and raiding his supplies. Eventually he hands her bullets, a jar that she’s sure will explode, and a copied page from what appears to be a spellbook. The last item has her arching a brow and he scowls in answer.
“Look, sometimes science isn’t enough. I don’t fucking like it, but you’re not getting rid of that thing unless you send it back where it came. Shoot it, hit it with the jar, read the spell. Problem solved.”
“Hunters and magic don’t normally mix. You and magic don’t normally mix.”
“You don’t know shit about me,” he repeats. And she doesn’t. Except that she knows what everyone else does; Wilder hates magic just as much if not more than any other hunter. “Look, I sell people what they’ll actually use to do their damn jobs. Most of your family wouldn’t cast a spell, but I’m betting you will because you understand that you can’t shoot away a Chthonic being.”
“And because I’m retired?” Or at least semi retired.
“You don’t have the same issues with the supernatural that everyone else does,” he agrees.
“But you do.” She shouldn’t push him. It’ll work because he’s good at his job. He doesn’t betray people because it would be bad for business. But this is weird and she doesn’t trust it.
“Fuck magic,” he answers. “But if it’s the best option, fucking use it. I’ll invent something better eventually but for now this is what we’ve got. Now will you just get out?”
It’s a weird answer, but she’ll take it. As long as it actually helps, she doesn’t need justification to use it. “You’re a strange one. I don’t think anyone understands you.”
The smile that forms on his lips isn’t genuine or happy. Something about it is unsettling and kind of makes her want to punch him again, but this time he doesn’t deserve it. “Yeah, well, try being me.”
“Not if my life depended on it,” she answers and heads for the door, hoping it will be a long time before she needs to track him down again.