Ryxen: Chapter 13
Word count: 3,102
Accumulative: 28,689
Hall is waiting for him when he gets back from the Coyote - bar in London, and so much fucking better than the Rose or the Sparrow. The food there tastes like something. The common room, like usual, is pretty much deserted. Completely, really, except for Hall and Greene’s other daughter - the one who tries to be pretty. What’s her name? Laura.
“Tell me again how Joseph and the second coming,” she’s saying as Vincent walks into the room, and he has to bite back a snort. Everyone gets told that story as a kid. Vincent always thought that Joseph was an old fraud - he didn’t die on the cross. And even if he did, he didn’t buy the virgin giving birth to the son of god story for Jesus; he isn’t going to buy it for Joseph either.
Hall apparently does, though, because he launches into a tale that doesn’t seem to have much to do with The Great Death and seems to have a lot more to do with Joseph as a warrior-hero creating miracles left and right. Vincent listens for a few minutes then cuts in with, “fancy seeing you here, Aryn.”
Hall stands easily, smiles at him. “Vincent,” he says with a nod.
“Would you like to come up for a drink? I bought some brandy in London a few days ago. Think you might appreciate it - it’s different.”
Laura is staring at him hard - not with malice, really, but just like he’s betrayed something. Taking her precious Hall - Aryn away. Vincent rolls his eyes; like he’s that fucking likable. Especially when he’s acting like some sort of modern imitation of Jesus Christ or whatever. Saint Aryn. Makes him want to gag.
Hall cocks his head to the side. “That does sound rather interesting. I do believe I’ll accept your offer.” He takes a step towards Vincent, then turns around, asks over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind my taking my leave, Miss Greene?”
Laura is still glaring, still looking like Vincent just - kicked her fucking puppy or something childish like that. He can’t remember how old Nimue said she was, but he’s pretty sure she’s old enough not to be acting like a spoiled cunt. Whatever.
“So?”
Hall nods and makes his way up the stairs and Vincent follows. Laura watches them all the way.
--
Hall is standing at the door. Vincent is sitting on the bed. It’s a little awkward.
“I take it there’s no brandy?”
Vincent smirks at him. “While I’d like to say it was just a clever lie on my part,” he stands smoothly, goes over to his duffle bag and pulls out a heavy bottle. “If you want. Hors D’age; it’s worth it.” He rotates his wrist, and the liquor splashes golden against the side of the bottle.
Hall’s expression is unreadable, then he smiles, politely, and says, “I’m sorry but I’ll have to - ”
Vincent rolls his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you to drop the bullshit?” He sets the bottle on the floor, and goes back to rummaging through the bag. There are some heavy wooden cups in the very bottom, underneath some crumpled newspaper he can’t read, can’t remember why he kept them. “I don’t happen to carry around brandy snifters, so these’ll have to do,” he says as he sets two out.
“I shouldn’t - ”
“You’re not going to get drunk off a sip of brandy, Hall.” He pours one cup half full and hands it to Hall and does the same for himself.
Hall stares at him. Vincent shrugs it off, though not as easily as he usually does and takes a sip of his brandy. It’s mellow - almost woody. Fucking good. Worth the ten pounds he hand to shell out for it. He looks over and Hall’s drinking too.
“Not bad. You bought this at Lawson’s shop, yes?”
Not surprising that Hall would know his liquor, especially after seeing the rows and rows of bottles lining Hall’s cellar. “Mm hm.”
Hall doesn’t say anything, just glances down at the cup. After a few long minutes, he says, “you’ve been accepted.”
Vincent leans heavily against the door frame, crosses his arms over his chest, doesn’t smile at Hall, but his mouth twists. “Have I, huh?” So he’s said - saying and the truth, though? Two different things. He knew he’d be invited back either way. They either really do want him to work for them, or they’re going to kill him.
“Are you going to attend?”
Vincent remembers this story his mother told him once - his mother was a damn smart woman, for all her faults. He can’t remember the details, or the why behind it, or anyone’s names - if they had any - but it ends with these two doors and this guy, this dumb fuck, has to choose between them. And behind one is some beautiful woman and behind the other is some tiger that’s going to rip him to shreds and now, now he feels like he’s making that choice. But, either way, what does it matter? “When?”
“Now.”
Oh. That’s fucking sweet of you Hall. But he’s not going to lose his balance. Better than that - yeah, he’s fucking better than that. Hall’s not the only one with control. He smiles. “Sure. It at your place again?” Like they’re going to get together and watch rugby.
“Yes. I’ll accompany you if you like?” Hall says as he hands his empty cup back to him.
Vincent nods. “Yeah. Sure. Just - give me a second? I’ll meet you down in the commons. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” He can’t help the smirk. “I’m sure Greene - Laura? Yeah. I’m sure she’d love to spend some more quality time with you.”
Hall looks like he’s going for a polite smile, but then falters and just looks at him blankly. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
“Do that.” Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
--
He walks downstairs exactly nine and a half minutes later. He’s changed his shirt, yeah. He’s also shrugged into a heavy sports jacket. Disguises the pistol in the halter under his arm. They didn’t ask him to disarm last time and, the way he sees it, if he’s going to die he’s going to fucking kill someone else too. Maybe that clergyman - the bishop. Maybe the Black Ink girl. Maybe Hall himself. Whoever he can manage. He’s not picky.
“Ready?”
Hall nods, and politely excuses himself from Laura again. Vincent smiles at her this time, as Hall’s walking away. Tells her that men don’t like pissy little twats like her, that, with her dress pulled down that low, she looks like she belongs in an Eastcheap brothel. Hall can hear and they both know it.
She only glares harder.
--
There’s ten chairs cluttered around the table now and they’re the last two in. Vincent smiles as he slides into the empty one - between the Black Ink cunt and James. Hall takes his seat on the other side of James.
Nobody says anything.
“What? Don’t need to know what color my boxers are?” He says it to fill the silence, to be an asshole, to show that he wasn’t shaken last time. He wasn’t.
Next to him, Sierra’s head lolls to the side. Her smile is lazy. “Well, sweetheart, since you mentioned it …”
Doesn’t miss a beat; he says, easily: “Too bad I’m not wearing any, huh?”
She licks her lips in a way that’d probably be really fucking hot if they weren’t in the middle of something fucking important. “Wanna share with the class? I say you drop ‘em.” The reporter - Brandson - nods enthusiastically at that, and even Mortimer is almost leering at him. The fuck?
He rolls his eyes. “Maybe later.”
She leans in close, rests a hand on his shoulder and whispers in his ear. “That a promise?”
“D’you want it to be?” His gaze flickers over to her brother, who is looking at him and Vincent’s damned if he can tell whether he’s trying to be threatening or is just - watching. He’s got that glassy-eyed look, like a dead fish, any way you cut it.
“I wouldn’t complain,” she says, and moves her hand slowly down his arm, under the table, to rest on his thigh. He smiles at her because fuck, he is interested but - not now. This is fucking work.
“Later,” he whispers, and pushes her hand off with another roll of his eyes, this one directed at Hall to fucking do something. This isn’t fucking - social hour. He doesn’t need to commit treason to pick up a fuck.
Hall looks at him, and then to James, whose staring intently at the table. Whispers something that he can’t quite make out, but James must hear well enough, because a second later James jerks his head upwards. “We have a new member,” he says.
Vincent only raises his eyebrows when everyone goes to look at him. Big fucking surprise.
“On probation.” Vincent looks over, and it’s the bishop who’s talking in a voice that manages to be deep and booming with two words. That’s something else really surprising there, he supposes.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” Vincent days dryly. Passing their questioning or no he’s still new - relatively unknown. Of course they’re not going to - fuck, he doesn’t know - invite him to their weddings or whatever.
“Be that as it may,” and that’s Hall, always diplomatic. “You are still accepted as one of us. And with that comes the same responsibilities any of us bear.”
Mortimer - Anon, he supposes, and that’s hard to get used to - Anon smiles from across the table at Hall, then looks to him. “Aryn is our little peace keeper. He’s so very good at it, isn’t he? Quite talented - we’re glad to have him with us.” He says it like Hall’s a particularly smart dog that’s just done something right. Like he’s a possession.
Hall averts his eyes and says, “my lord is too kind,” in a tone that’s not sarcastic or annoyed or anything and that’s fucking impressive. Unless Hall really mans it, which is a fucking funny thought.
“Isn’t he?” James says, a little dryly. “Well then. I suppose we’re on to our first order of business. The state of affairs.”
Beside him, Sierra groans.
--
Vincent learns a lot that session. A lot from what’s said. A lot just from watching. This thing is networked through London - through the southern half of England, and up north? Well, they don’t give a fuck about anything other than making a living, about industry, so if - when - the regime changes it won’t be a big deal to them. As long as their way of life stays intact.
It’s funny how that words. They could probably replace the current king with a dancing monkey and those fucks in the north wouldn’t care as long as they were still making money.
He also learns that Marian Kohldrel-Innes is one of the most ruthless women he’s met, and between her and Brandson they’ve probably got enough blackmail to fuck over half of London. That Everard doesn’t seem to like any of them, and though he’s fine sitting there ripping apart any idea that gets tossed out he’s got none of his own. That Sierra is loud and crass as a matter of course, and probably the only reason she’s there is because her brother is a fucking genius. That James very rarely meets anyone’s eyes. He wonders if that’s for effect because his gaze is so startling or some other reason. He learns that Anon is a fucking creep - which, from Emmeline’s stories he already knew. He learns that, of everyone, people tend to disregard Hall the most.
He’s not so sure that isn’t a mistake.
Most of all he learns that this fucking crazy scheme might actually work. That, and the pressure that’s been in his head screaming do something, fucking anything seems a little less.
--
One by one the conspirators - because that’s what they are, and what else do you call them? The Let’s Plot a Revolution club? They file out, and Vincent meets Hall’s eyes over James’ head. Hall doesn’t have to say anything, doesn’t have to nod or smile. He waits, watches. Kohldrel-Innes and the bishop - neither of them look left or right while Brandson can’t seem to stop looking every direction. Everard gives the Black Ink kids a wide berth on his way out and Sierra pauses beside him to run her fingers down Vincent’s spine as she walks past. Her brother gives him another weird look. James is the last to leave; his head is bent close with Hall’s the entire time. He wonders idly if they’re fucking. Wouldn’t surprise him.
Once James leaves, Hall looks to him. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
Vincent rests his foot up on his knee. “Does it really matter?”
“You’re part of it now.”
“I - ” He’s watching Hall’s face, but half the lamps have run out of kerosene and the chair is hard wood. “Can we get out of this fucking cellar?”
Hall looks at him blankly for a moment, and then says, “oh. Of course.” He walks around, puts out the final lamps and they’re left alone in the dark. Way to go Hall. Way to fucking go.
“I don’t have the electricity wired down here yet.” In the dark, Hall’s voice sounds creepy - almost disembodied.
“You might want to look into that.”
“I will.” And he’s a few steps closer to him. Vincent wonders if maybe he’s going to try to stab him. He shifts his stance, rebalances his weight. No fucking way he’s going to let Hall shank him in a dark room. He’s not that fucking pathetic.
Hall reaches out and brushes his wrist. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I put out those lamps. Do you might if I …?”
“Er, what?”
There’s a strange pause, long and stretched out and then Hall says, “I know my way out by heart, but I doubt you do. Is it alright if I - ?”
Vincent snorts. “You want to hold my hand that badly? Sure, Hall. Go for it.”
Hall doesn’t say anything to that - he merely takes his wrist and guides him out of the cellar. Well, mostly. Vincent hits a box with the toe of his boot, but Hall says there’s nothing really important in the cellar, and he probably didn’t break anything, so whatever. A few seconds and they’re sitting up in Hall’s old lady parlor drinking sangria. Hall is sitting on the sofa while Vincent lounges in an easy chair, legs propped up on the coffee table in the center of the room.
“The Greene family,” Vincent says after half of his second goblet is gone. “I’ve got no idea how you fucking put up with them.”
Hall looks at him questioningly. “Not getting on well?” He says it like he can’t imagine someone disliking that family. Vincent does his best not to show his annoyance. He thinks he manages. Somewhat.
“That’s - one way you could say it. If you were being polite. Which you always are.” So there’s a trace of bitterness at the end there. Whatever.
Hall looks at him, and Vincent just smiles. “Having manners wasn’t a crime last time I checked.”
“I never said it was.”
There’s silence, and then Hall says awkwardly, a little like he’s not really sure how to say it: “you might just stay here. I’ve a spare room.”
“I might.”
They fall into silence once again, and Vincent considers it. Hall is - a good fuck, polite, can keep his mouth shut and stop lying to yourself, Landseer, you’re interested. Fuck. He is. It’s fucking stupid and it’s fucking dangerous because he knows that there’s more to Hall than Hall lets anyone see - except maybe James, or Anon. That it’s fucking dangerous and he’s willing to bet Hall would chew him up and spit him out and not think anything of it if Vincent let him and -
He looks up, and Hall is standing beside him now. He must not have heard him.
“Are you - ” And he knows Hall’s about to ask him if he’s okay, all right, having trouble. If he needs anything. Vincent wants to tell him to shut the fuck up before Hall’s even said anything, but instead he stands, almost jumps, up, slams his mouth down on Hall’s and you could call it a kiss if you really wanted to, but it isn’t. He just wants Hall to shut the fuck up.
He pulls away and looks at Hall and in his expression - there’s this flash, like lightning before a thunderstorm, when the sky is dark and calm and there’s no sound, no rumbling thunder. Just a flicker of bright light, like someone flipped on the light switch for daylight and then it’s dark again - darker than before. You’re blinded and afterwards, when you’re blinking away the memory, you wonder if it was real of if you’re just going mad.
That - that’s what he feels like with Hall. Because sometimes he gets this flicker of expression on his face that’s a little scary but more intriguing than not, like he owns the fucking world and Vincent wants to know why he thinks that, if he really does think that. It’s a little about power, He supposes. Know your enemy or whatever, but there’s something else. He’d rather not think about it.
He says, “what - ” but cuts himself off because that’s a sentence he’d rather not finish - does he even know what he’s asking? Instead he presses his hand against Hall’s cheek, carefully, carefully, like Hall will bolt if he doesn’t. Stupid. It’s not like he’s run away yet. He kisses him a way he only remembers how, and when he pulls away he’s a little breathless, a little trembling and there’s an edge to Hall that wasn’t there before; hasn’t been there before.
When he pulls away Hall isn’t looking at him but through him and Vincent feels almost embarrassed. He kisses Hall again, like he usually does. It’s not a question, it’s a demand. It’s want and he doesn’t give a fuck if Hall enjoys it or not. It’s about him. He’s such a fucking bastard.
Like always, it leads to fucking. Same kind of sex as usual - okay but not outstanding. Hall doesn’t say a word when he undresses and finds the pistol. Vincent would’ve been surprised if he had.
He falls asleep on Hall’s living room floor feeling like he wants to vomit.
Accumulative: 28,689
Hall is waiting for him when he gets back from the Coyote - bar in London, and so much fucking better than the Rose or the Sparrow. The food there tastes like something. The common room, like usual, is pretty much deserted. Completely, really, except for Hall and Greene’s other daughter - the one who tries to be pretty. What’s her name? Laura.
“Tell me again how Joseph and the second coming,” she’s saying as Vincent walks into the room, and he has to bite back a snort. Everyone gets told that story as a kid. Vincent always thought that Joseph was an old fraud - he didn’t die on the cross. And even if he did, he didn’t buy the virgin giving birth to the son of god story for Jesus; he isn’t going to buy it for Joseph either.
Hall apparently does, though, because he launches into a tale that doesn’t seem to have much to do with The Great Death and seems to have a lot more to do with Joseph as a warrior-hero creating miracles left and right. Vincent listens for a few minutes then cuts in with, “fancy seeing you here, Aryn.”
Hall stands easily, smiles at him. “Vincent,” he says with a nod.
“Would you like to come up for a drink? I bought some brandy in London a few days ago. Think you might appreciate it - it’s different.”
Laura is staring at him hard - not with malice, really, but just like he’s betrayed something. Taking her precious Hall - Aryn away. Vincent rolls his eyes; like he’s that fucking likable. Especially when he’s acting like some sort of modern imitation of Jesus Christ or whatever. Saint Aryn. Makes him want to gag.
Hall cocks his head to the side. “That does sound rather interesting. I do believe I’ll accept your offer.” He takes a step towards Vincent, then turns around, asks over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind my taking my leave, Miss Greene?”
Laura is still glaring, still looking like Vincent just - kicked her fucking puppy or something childish like that. He can’t remember how old Nimue said she was, but he’s pretty sure she’s old enough not to be acting like a spoiled cunt. Whatever.
“So?”
Hall nods and makes his way up the stairs and Vincent follows. Laura watches them all the way.
--
Hall is standing at the door. Vincent is sitting on the bed. It’s a little awkward.
“I take it there’s no brandy?”
Vincent smirks at him. “While I’d like to say it was just a clever lie on my part,” he stands smoothly, goes over to his duffle bag and pulls out a heavy bottle. “If you want. Hors D’age; it’s worth it.” He rotates his wrist, and the liquor splashes golden against the side of the bottle.
Hall’s expression is unreadable, then he smiles, politely, and says, “I’m sorry but I’ll have to - ”
Vincent rolls his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you to drop the bullshit?” He sets the bottle on the floor, and goes back to rummaging through the bag. There are some heavy wooden cups in the very bottom, underneath some crumpled newspaper he can’t read, can’t remember why he kept them. “I don’t happen to carry around brandy snifters, so these’ll have to do,” he says as he sets two out.
“I shouldn’t - ”
“You’re not going to get drunk off a sip of brandy, Hall.” He pours one cup half full and hands it to Hall and does the same for himself.
Hall stares at him. Vincent shrugs it off, though not as easily as he usually does and takes a sip of his brandy. It’s mellow - almost woody. Fucking good. Worth the ten pounds he hand to shell out for it. He looks over and Hall’s drinking too.
“Not bad. You bought this at Lawson’s shop, yes?”
Not surprising that Hall would know his liquor, especially after seeing the rows and rows of bottles lining Hall’s cellar. “Mm hm.”
Hall doesn’t say anything, just glances down at the cup. After a few long minutes, he says, “you’ve been accepted.”
Vincent leans heavily against the door frame, crosses his arms over his chest, doesn’t smile at Hall, but his mouth twists. “Have I, huh?” So he’s said - saying and the truth, though? Two different things. He knew he’d be invited back either way. They either really do want him to work for them, or they’re going to kill him.
“Are you going to attend?”
Vincent remembers this story his mother told him once - his mother was a damn smart woman, for all her faults. He can’t remember the details, or the why behind it, or anyone’s names - if they had any - but it ends with these two doors and this guy, this dumb fuck, has to choose between them. And behind one is some beautiful woman and behind the other is some tiger that’s going to rip him to shreds and now, now he feels like he’s making that choice. But, either way, what does it matter? “When?”
“Now.”
Oh. That’s fucking sweet of you Hall. But he’s not going to lose his balance. Better than that - yeah, he’s fucking better than that. Hall’s not the only one with control. He smiles. “Sure. It at your place again?” Like they’re going to get together and watch rugby.
“Yes. I’ll accompany you if you like?” Hall says as he hands his empty cup back to him.
Vincent nods. “Yeah. Sure. Just - give me a second? I’ll meet you down in the commons. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” He can’t help the smirk. “I’m sure Greene - Laura? Yeah. I’m sure she’d love to spend some more quality time with you.”
Hall looks like he’s going for a polite smile, but then falters and just looks at him blankly. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
“Do that.” Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
--
He walks downstairs exactly nine and a half minutes later. He’s changed his shirt, yeah. He’s also shrugged into a heavy sports jacket. Disguises the pistol in the halter under his arm. They didn’t ask him to disarm last time and, the way he sees it, if he’s going to die he’s going to fucking kill someone else too. Maybe that clergyman - the bishop. Maybe the Black Ink girl. Maybe Hall himself. Whoever he can manage. He’s not picky.
“Ready?”
Hall nods, and politely excuses himself from Laura again. Vincent smiles at her this time, as Hall’s walking away. Tells her that men don’t like pissy little twats like her, that, with her dress pulled down that low, she looks like she belongs in an Eastcheap brothel. Hall can hear and they both know it.
She only glares harder.
--
There’s ten chairs cluttered around the table now and they’re the last two in. Vincent smiles as he slides into the empty one - between the Black Ink cunt and James. Hall takes his seat on the other side of James.
Nobody says anything.
“What? Don’t need to know what color my boxers are?” He says it to fill the silence, to be an asshole, to show that he wasn’t shaken last time. He wasn’t.
Next to him, Sierra’s head lolls to the side. Her smile is lazy. “Well, sweetheart, since you mentioned it …”
Doesn’t miss a beat; he says, easily: “Too bad I’m not wearing any, huh?”
She licks her lips in a way that’d probably be really fucking hot if they weren’t in the middle of something fucking important. “Wanna share with the class? I say you drop ‘em.” The reporter - Brandson - nods enthusiastically at that, and even Mortimer is almost leering at him. The fuck?
He rolls his eyes. “Maybe later.”
She leans in close, rests a hand on his shoulder and whispers in his ear. “That a promise?”
“D’you want it to be?” His gaze flickers over to her brother, who is looking at him and Vincent’s damned if he can tell whether he’s trying to be threatening or is just - watching. He’s got that glassy-eyed look, like a dead fish, any way you cut it.
“I wouldn’t complain,” she says, and moves her hand slowly down his arm, under the table, to rest on his thigh. He smiles at her because fuck, he is interested but - not now. This is fucking work.
“Later,” he whispers, and pushes her hand off with another roll of his eyes, this one directed at Hall to fucking do something. This isn’t fucking - social hour. He doesn’t need to commit treason to pick up a fuck.
Hall looks at him, and then to James, whose staring intently at the table. Whispers something that he can’t quite make out, but James must hear well enough, because a second later James jerks his head upwards. “We have a new member,” he says.
Vincent only raises his eyebrows when everyone goes to look at him. Big fucking surprise.
“On probation.” Vincent looks over, and it’s the bishop who’s talking in a voice that manages to be deep and booming with two words. That’s something else really surprising there, he supposes.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” Vincent days dryly. Passing their questioning or no he’s still new - relatively unknown. Of course they’re not going to - fuck, he doesn’t know - invite him to their weddings or whatever.
“Be that as it may,” and that’s Hall, always diplomatic. “You are still accepted as one of us. And with that comes the same responsibilities any of us bear.”
Mortimer - Anon, he supposes, and that’s hard to get used to - Anon smiles from across the table at Hall, then looks to him. “Aryn is our little peace keeper. He’s so very good at it, isn’t he? Quite talented - we’re glad to have him with us.” He says it like Hall’s a particularly smart dog that’s just done something right. Like he’s a possession.
Hall averts his eyes and says, “my lord is too kind,” in a tone that’s not sarcastic or annoyed or anything and that’s fucking impressive. Unless Hall really mans it, which is a fucking funny thought.
“Isn’t he?” James says, a little dryly. “Well then. I suppose we’re on to our first order of business. The state of affairs.”
Beside him, Sierra groans.
--
Vincent learns a lot that session. A lot from what’s said. A lot just from watching. This thing is networked through London - through the southern half of England, and up north? Well, they don’t give a fuck about anything other than making a living, about industry, so if - when - the regime changes it won’t be a big deal to them. As long as their way of life stays intact.
It’s funny how that words. They could probably replace the current king with a dancing monkey and those fucks in the north wouldn’t care as long as they were still making money.
He also learns that Marian Kohldrel-Innes is one of the most ruthless women he’s met, and between her and Brandson they’ve probably got enough blackmail to fuck over half of London. That Everard doesn’t seem to like any of them, and though he’s fine sitting there ripping apart any idea that gets tossed out he’s got none of his own. That Sierra is loud and crass as a matter of course, and probably the only reason she’s there is because her brother is a fucking genius. That James very rarely meets anyone’s eyes. He wonders if that’s for effect because his gaze is so startling or some other reason. He learns that Anon is a fucking creep - which, from Emmeline’s stories he already knew. He learns that, of everyone, people tend to disregard Hall the most.
He’s not so sure that isn’t a mistake.
Most of all he learns that this fucking crazy scheme might actually work. That, and the pressure that’s been in his head screaming do something, fucking anything seems a little less.
--
One by one the conspirators - because that’s what they are, and what else do you call them? The Let’s Plot a Revolution club? They file out, and Vincent meets Hall’s eyes over James’ head. Hall doesn’t have to say anything, doesn’t have to nod or smile. He waits, watches. Kohldrel-Innes and the bishop - neither of them look left or right while Brandson can’t seem to stop looking every direction. Everard gives the Black Ink kids a wide berth on his way out and Sierra pauses beside him to run her fingers down Vincent’s spine as she walks past. Her brother gives him another weird look. James is the last to leave; his head is bent close with Hall’s the entire time. He wonders idly if they’re fucking. Wouldn’t surprise him.
Once James leaves, Hall looks to him. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
Vincent rests his foot up on his knee. “Does it really matter?”
“You’re part of it now.”
“I - ” He’s watching Hall’s face, but half the lamps have run out of kerosene and the chair is hard wood. “Can we get out of this fucking cellar?”
Hall looks at him blankly for a moment, and then says, “oh. Of course.” He walks around, puts out the final lamps and they’re left alone in the dark. Way to go Hall. Way to fucking go.
“I don’t have the electricity wired down here yet.” In the dark, Hall’s voice sounds creepy - almost disembodied.
“You might want to look into that.”
“I will.” And he’s a few steps closer to him. Vincent wonders if maybe he’s going to try to stab him. He shifts his stance, rebalances his weight. No fucking way he’s going to let Hall shank him in a dark room. He’s not that fucking pathetic.
Hall reaches out and brushes his wrist. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I put out those lamps. Do you might if I …?”
“Er, what?”
There’s a strange pause, long and stretched out and then Hall says, “I know my way out by heart, but I doubt you do. Is it alright if I - ?”
Vincent snorts. “You want to hold my hand that badly? Sure, Hall. Go for it.”
Hall doesn’t say anything to that - he merely takes his wrist and guides him out of the cellar. Well, mostly. Vincent hits a box with the toe of his boot, but Hall says there’s nothing really important in the cellar, and he probably didn’t break anything, so whatever. A few seconds and they’re sitting up in Hall’s old lady parlor drinking sangria. Hall is sitting on the sofa while Vincent lounges in an easy chair, legs propped up on the coffee table in the center of the room.
“The Greene family,” Vincent says after half of his second goblet is gone. “I’ve got no idea how you fucking put up with them.”
Hall looks at him questioningly. “Not getting on well?” He says it like he can’t imagine someone disliking that family. Vincent does his best not to show his annoyance. He thinks he manages. Somewhat.
“That’s - one way you could say it. If you were being polite. Which you always are.” So there’s a trace of bitterness at the end there. Whatever.
Hall looks at him, and Vincent just smiles. “Having manners wasn’t a crime last time I checked.”
“I never said it was.”
There’s silence, and then Hall says awkwardly, a little like he’s not really sure how to say it: “you might just stay here. I’ve a spare room.”
“I might.”
They fall into silence once again, and Vincent considers it. Hall is - a good fuck, polite, can keep his mouth shut and stop lying to yourself, Landseer, you’re interested. Fuck. He is. It’s fucking stupid and it’s fucking dangerous because he knows that there’s more to Hall than Hall lets anyone see - except maybe James, or Anon. That it’s fucking dangerous and he’s willing to bet Hall would chew him up and spit him out and not think anything of it if Vincent let him and -
He looks up, and Hall is standing beside him now. He must not have heard him.
“Are you - ” And he knows Hall’s about to ask him if he’s okay, all right, having trouble. If he needs anything. Vincent wants to tell him to shut the fuck up before Hall’s even said anything, but instead he stands, almost jumps, up, slams his mouth down on Hall’s and you could call it a kiss if you really wanted to, but it isn’t. He just wants Hall to shut the fuck up.
He pulls away and looks at Hall and in his expression - there’s this flash, like lightning before a thunderstorm, when the sky is dark and calm and there’s no sound, no rumbling thunder. Just a flicker of bright light, like someone flipped on the light switch for daylight and then it’s dark again - darker than before. You’re blinded and afterwards, when you’re blinking away the memory, you wonder if it was real of if you’re just going mad.
That - that’s what he feels like with Hall. Because sometimes he gets this flicker of expression on his face that’s a little scary but more intriguing than not, like he owns the fucking world and Vincent wants to know why he thinks that, if he really does think that. It’s a little about power, He supposes. Know your enemy or whatever, but there’s something else. He’d rather not think about it.
He says, “what - ” but cuts himself off because that’s a sentence he’d rather not finish - does he even know what he’s asking? Instead he presses his hand against Hall’s cheek, carefully, carefully, like Hall will bolt if he doesn’t. Stupid. It’s not like he’s run away yet. He kisses him a way he only remembers how, and when he pulls away he’s a little breathless, a little trembling and there’s an edge to Hall that wasn’t there before; hasn’t been there before.
When he pulls away Hall isn’t looking at him but through him and Vincent feels almost embarrassed. He kisses Hall again, like he usually does. It’s not a question, it’s a demand. It’s want and he doesn’t give a fuck if Hall enjoys it or not. It’s about him. He’s such a fucking bastard.
Like always, it leads to fucking. Same kind of sex as usual - okay but not outstanding. Hall doesn’t say a word when he undresses and finds the pistol. Vincent would’ve been surprised if he had.
He falls asleep on Hall’s living room floor feeling like he wants to vomit.