Same Words, Different Situation - Part 5
No, I haven't forgotten about this fic. School's just been kicking my ass. Anyway, here's part five of the fic. It's a little longer than the previous chapters, but hopefully that will make up for the four months without updating it.
Title: Same Words, Different Situation - Chapter 5
Fandom: Petshop o f Horrors
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Ask and ye shall be as gods receive
Warning: Lots of profanity, flashbacks, reincarnation, possible errors about certain medical professions, violence, sexual innuendo (if you tilt your head and squint a little)
Spoilers: Volume 10 of the Petshop of Horrors manga is mentioned, and will likely continue to be so. The Papa D/Vesca side story from Shin Petshop ofHorrors might also be referenced
Vincent lit a cigarette once they were out on the balcony, drawing in a long drag, and ignoring the Count's exaggerated coughing when he exhaled the smoke. Seconds ticked into minutes and after two cigarettes the Count had had enough.
"Do you intend to talk about Mr. Howell tonight, Dr. Harris? Or were you planning on having me watch you give yourself lung cancer?" he asked acidly.
Vincent snorted, drawing the light jacket he'd worn out onto the balcony a little closer. "Better way to go than being eaten by animals," he muttered. "Slower and less painful. At least until the end when it gets really advanced and you start coughing up blood and shit all the time."
The Count arched an eyebrow at that. "You speak from experience?" he asked.
"On which one? The getting eaten by animals, or the coughing up blood?"
"Either. Both," the Count said, watching Vincent with renewed interest.
"I'm a surgeon. I've seen more than one patient in the final stages of terminal lung cancer. Like... really bad terminal lung cancer," Vincent said, looking at his hands. "And Howell got eaten by animals. Attacked, eaten, whatever. It's how he died. They went after him after the blonde... the cop... after he shot you in the head."
The Count looked startled. Vincent didn't notice the look. He was looking at his hands. And he finally shook his head before pulling out and lighting another cigarette. His hands were shaking slightly, but only slightly. You would have had to be looking at them to notice it.
"Why do you talk about Agent Howell like he's a separate person?" Count D asked quietly after Vincent was halfway through his new cigarette.
"Because he is. I might have his memories, but they're fragments. Hardly the whole thing. I'm not in the FBI or CIA or whatever he was in. I'm not crazy enough to go chasing you down over the entire damn world, only to have both of us die in the end. It was a waste. A senseless, pointless waste. I have too many people counting on me here," Vincent said, shaking his head.
"Then why did you wish to discuss him?" the Count asked.
"Because if I got saddled with his memories, his baggage, I want to know why. And even if I can't find that out... well... you and he had one of the most fucked up relationships I've ever seen. You were close, yeah, but by the end, the passion was fuelled more by hate than by love. I think. Hell, I'm not sure. You were both insane," Vincent said, finishing his cigarette and dropping the remains of it off the balcony.
"Perhaps we deserved each other," the Count said bitterly. "But as you pointed out, you are not Agent Howell, so I don't see why my relationship with him is any concern of yours. Especially since you seem to have your own social commentary on what it was like."
"It's my concern because I've been dreaming of you on and off since I was fifteen. And that's not going to stop. The fragments have been becoming clearer and more coherent since I actually met you. And then it just gets even more fucking confusing, because you're different too!" Vincent yelled, not caring how many of the neighbors heard them.
"What are you talking about?" D countered, his voice rising a little as Vincent's did. It was so frighteningly easy to fall back into the old behavior patterns that he would get into with Vesca.
"The last time I saw you, you were trying to kill the entire fucking human race! Now you're working in a hospital! Talk about cognitive fucking dissonance!" Vincent growled. "Fuck, D, I don't even know what your game is this time! I've been trying to figure it out and I can't!"
The Count stilled. Vincent sounded more like Vesca now. Just the tone, the way he spoke of things. It was eerie. And the way he just switched like that threw the Count's reason out the window. And then he was shrieking, yelling at Vesca the way he'd never gotten a chance to the last time they were both alive and in the same room together.
"You weren't the only one that died the last time, Agent Howell! Are you happy?! Things change, people change! And I have no interest in dying a second time!"
"I know you fucking changed!" Vincent growled, ignoring what the Count called him for the moment. The memory fragments were coming fast now, clashing like thunder, making him dizzy as they tried to connect. And in the end, they still weren't making any sense. "You aren't trying to kill everyone this time! I don't know what the fuck you're doing in a hospital of all places, in my hospital, but you aren't killing people! And God knows, you've had enough chance! You work with kids!"
"How observant of you, Vesca! What's your next trick?! To tell me that the sky is blue?!" the Count yelled.
Vincent stilled, quieted, reaching out an arm to steady himself on the railing of the balcony. He closed his eyes, taking a few slow, deep breaths. "I'm not Vesca Howell, D," he finally said. "I'm not going to fight with you the way he would. It never solved anything. You two would screech at each other, he'd get head trauma, and in the end you both ended up dead. What's the point in going through it all again?"
"What's the point? What's the point?! You are the one who started this in the first place!" D yelled.
"I thought I could get answers," Vincent said, shaking his head. "I was wrong."
The Count blinked at that admission, and he stared at Vincent for a few moments, not saying anything. Not really able to find the words. And when he did find words, they were quieter.
"You are not Vesca."
"Good of you to notice," Vincent said, making a bit of a face. He reached for his pocket where his pack of cigarettes was, only to find them empty. He swore softly, before looking up at the sky. "So what made you realize it?"
"He never admitted that he was wrong. About anything," the Count said, shaking his head.
"Fucking stupid stance to take towards anything," Vincent muttered. "You should apologize when you fuck up. You end up with less bruises that way." And from the sound of it, he spoke from experience on that point.
"perhaps if you realized that the last time, neither of us would have died," the Count said bitterly.
Vincent looked at the Count sideways before looking out at the view from the balcony again. "You know, D, I'd be perfectly happy to throw you off the balcony, but it's not worth the time, effort, or consequences that it would take," he said, rather conversationally.
The kami blinked, more at Vincent's tone than his words. But before he could respond, Vincent had turned and started to speak again.
"Look, I'm not Vesca Howell, D. So you won't get your closure or whatever it is. And I won't follow you to the ends of the earth. And I won't be able to get the answers I want from you, mostly because I don't think you're able to give them to me."
"What an inspiring sermon, Dr. Harris," the Count said dryly. "Is there a point to it?"
Vincent sighed, checking the urge to just toss D off the balcony anyway, consequences be damned. It was getting harder with every passing minute though. "Look, D, all I'm fucking saying is that we both went into this with assumptions. But neither of us is who we were." He turned to look at D then. "I'm not saying we have to be best friends or anything, but can we at least give it a fresh start?"
The Count fell silent for a few moments, as if contemplating that. Starting over. That's what Vincent was ultimately asking him to do. "I already started over once," he said, more to himself than to Vincent.
"Not with me," the young doctor countered. "You don't seem to be genocidal anymore, and I'm not a fucking insane federal agent hell-bent on tracking you down. Would it really hurt if we started again with each other? Without the misconceptions this time?"
The Count paused, seriously considering what Vincent was saying. Really, the young surgeon had him in quite the position. After all, while Vincent might not be Vesca Howell, he had the Agent's memories, which gave him knowledge about the kami. Rather... intimate knowledge depending on how many of Vesca's memories Vincent had. And despite what the younger man said, the Count didn't exactly trust that Vincent wouldn't use that information for his own gain if need be.
"Perhaps it would be for the best if we were to start over," the Count said finally. At least until I know what your intentions really are, Dr. Harris.
Vincent considered D for a few long moments. That pause might have been a bit too long. He's plotting, a thought which was probably fuelled by Howell's memories informed him. Vincent nodded anyway, though whether it was in agreement with D or his own thoughts, not even he was sure. It could be either. Or even both.
"Shall we drink to it?" Vincent asked, grinning.
"I do think we've both had enough alcohol for one evening, Dr. Harris," the Count said, shaking his head. "And I should probably go home soon anyway."
"And you're going to get there how? It's kind of late to catch a cab, and I'm still not sober enough to drive you anywhere," Vincent said, shaking his head. "You can stay here. Unless you're too dignified to sleep on the couch."
The Count looked at little surprised at the offer. "I do not sleep on the couch," he said, trying to sound imperious. The effect was ruined by a yawn though.
"Well, I didn't think you'd want to be sharing my bed so soon," Vincent teased, smirking now.
The Count just scowled at Vincent at that statement. "I do think I'll be seeing myself out, Dr. Harris," he said. "Good evening." And with a swish of silk and a rustle of movement, D was gone.
Vincent turned to stare bemusedly after him. "Note to self. See if an X-ray or CT scan of Dr. D reveals ovaries, as they would explain his mood swings quite well. Now I just need to find my tape recorder, so I can make sure I note that the next time I do dictation."
*~*~*
"Is giving yourself lung cancer your usual way of dealing with your problems, Dr. Harris?" D's voice came from behind him.
"Do I comment on your bad habits?" Vincent asked sourly, drawing his jacket closer around him.
It had grown colder in the last few weeks, as the fall had started to turn towards winter. And his arms were aching as a result. Not to mention that he was sleep deprived, he'd had a long messy surgery that morning, and he still had six hours of his shift left.
"You're going to die of lung cancer before finishing your residency at this rate," the Count said critically.
"At least I'll be able to get some sleep then," Vincent countered darkly.
The Count blinked, and when he next spoke, his voice was a bit less sharp. "Did you lose a patient today?" he asked.
"No," Vincent said, shaking his head. "Not today."
"This shift?"
Vincent shook his head again. "The surgery I had this morning was messy."
"Messy? Isn't all surgery messy?" the Count pointed out.
"Yeah, but not like this," Vincent said as he took another long drag on his cigarette.
The Count stayed quiet, waiting for Vincent to continue. He'd gotten to know that statements like that were usually followed by some sort of near-unbelievable explanation when they came from Vincent Harris.
"The patient had a tumor in her uterus. We went to remove it," Vincent began, shifting a bit uncomfortably at the memory. "At least, that's what all the tests and data that we had showed."
The Count went very still. Suddenly, he was expecting the worst. And not sure that he wanted to hear the rest of this story.
"We cut her open to get the tumor out. There was a tumor in there but... D it looked like she was pregnant at some point. And the tumor had either merged with or was eating the fetus."
D had the good grace to look a bit ill at that thought, and when Vincent turned to face him, the kami saw that the young doctor did too.
"Needless to say, I probably utterly scandalized at least one of my assistants with my very colorful language," Vincent said dryly. How dirty his mouth got when he ran into a situation that was disgusting or novel was nothing short of legendary around the hospital. "And I got to explain to the woman what had happened when she woke up."
"After that story, I can see why you smoke," the Count said after a few moments ticked by. He didn't really want to know how the woman had taken the news. And asking why Vincent felt the need to tell her would have been an exercise in futility. He didn't understand Vincent. In fact, he was beginning to think he understood the young doctor even less than he'd understood Vesca. "However, giving yourself lung cancer won't help matters."
"Lung cancer's a better way to die than getting eaten," Vincent said matter-of-factly and shrugged.
"Stop that," the Count snapped.
"Stop what?" Vincent asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Stop doing that. You keep going on about how you aren't Mr. Howell, and then you reference his memories! It is very off-putting!" D growled.
Vincent looked about to respond, but a weak voice interrupted their conversation then.
"...help me..."
Vincent turned quickly, swearing softly under his breath. The Count followed his gaze, and his eyes widened. A woman was staggering towards them, her arms clutched over her stomach. Blood was seeping out around her arms, so clearly, the wound was either deeper than it seemed, or she wasn't applying enough pressure. Either way, she was potentially bleeding to death before their eyes.
"Please...h-h-h--"
She didn't even get to repeat her request before Vincent was moving. What happened then happened very fast. Vincent ran towards the woman, tearing off his jacket as he did. He got to the woman a few steps later, catching her before she could fall and quickly working on making his jacket into a tourniquet for her wound, which was, he noticed with some dismay, deeper than he would have liked. "D! Go get me some backup!" he growled.
There was no response, and Vincent turned to see why. He was annoyed to see the Count just standing there and staring at him. "D! What the fuck are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?! Stop standing there like a fucking deer in the goddamned headlights and get me some fucking backup!" Vincent growled.
The Count, for the time being, remained unmoving. He was more occupied with the scars that covered Vincent's arms. Scars that were now exposed since the cynical young doctor had taken off his jacket. He realized, wonderingly, that in the several months he'd known Vincent Harris, not once had he seen the man's bare arms. And with good reason. The scars that covered Vincent's arms were thick, numerous, and ugly looking. D honestly wasn't sure that he wanted to know how Vincent had gotten them. And yet, at the same time, it seemed important for some reason.
"D! This woman will die if you don't either get me some goddamned backup or some motherfucking surgical equipment right fucking now! I can't magically heal her! So if getting me backup is too fucking much for you to handle, then could you get me some fucking surgical equipment so I can sew her the hell up?!" Vincent demanded, his voice an angry growl.
The woman, meanwhile, was sobbing hysterically. And Vincent turned to her. "I need you to calm down, all right? We're going to stop the bleeding and patch you up, and I know it hurts, but I need you to try and calm down," he said to her, his gentle tone in direct contrast to the way he'd been yelling at D a scant few seconds before.
Somehow, that broke the spell. And D turned and hurried into the hospital to get the backup Vincent had asked for. He could ask the other man about the scars later, after all. For now, he had no real desire to taste Vincent's wrath.
*~*~*
The backup had finally been gotten, the surgery had been done, and the woman was currently sleeping and recovering. The details of the case were, as such cases often were, messy. The woman's name was Amy Taylor. She was 25 years old and eight weeks pregnant. She'd ended up with a knife getting run into her gut when she'd told her boyfriend and he'd been less than thrilled by the news. The baby, surprisingly, was fine. Ms. Taylor's muscles, abdominal wall, and intestines were still recovering, but Vincent was sure that they too would eventually be fine as well.
And now? Now Vincent was just taking the time to actually do his paperwork before going to do his rounds. He would be smoking a cigarette outside, but he really didn't think that he could handle another injured pregnant woman interrupting a smoke break.
"Dr. Harris?"
"D, can it wait?" Vincent asked, not even looking up at the voice.
"I think not."
Vincent sighed and looked up. "Talk. Fast. Because if I don't finish this before I go on my rounds, it won't get done, and then I'll be the one that gets in trouble."
"Very well, I'll get straight to the point. How did you get the scars on your arms?" the Count asked.
Vincent sighed. "D, really, this isn't the best damn time for a story."
"Yes, well it's better now than out on the loading dock when you were trying to save Ms. Taylor's life," the Count pointed out.
"And what a help you were then," Vincent said scathingly. "She could have died, you know. And then you would be the one that had to talk to the review board for negligent care."
"But she didn't die. Neither did the child. Now how did you get the scars on your arms?"
"You aren't going to let this go, are you? Why is this so fucking important to you?" Vincent asked.
"You know, if you stopped insisting on knowing the reasons and just told the story, then it would be over with, and you could go back to your paperwork before you have to do your rounds," D said, as if such a thing should be obvious.
"Yeah, well if you're going to interrogate me, I'd like to know why," Vincent demanded.
"You didn't need to know why when I asked about Emma Jean, Dr. Harris."
Vincent sighed softly. "Fine. But the next time I ask you a question, I want you to answer it."
The Count didn't respond. He just looked at Vincent expectantly. The man would tell him, regardless of whether he answered or not. Or so he thought, anyway.
"I mean it," Vincent said, when D still hadn't answered him. "I want your word that you'll answer the next important question I ask you if I tell you this."
"And how do you define important in this case, Dr. Harris?" the kami asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Like... if I ask you a question about your past, or your reasoning. And I want an honest answer, D," Vincent said, making that clear. After all, a lie would be no good to him.
"You're certainly asking for a lot tot ell me a story about scars, Dr. Harris," D said.
In all honesty, he had not expected this kind of argument. Vesca wouldn't have made silly demands like this. Or if it had demanded answers, he would have eventually gotten angry with D's lack of cooperation and started yelling and told the kami what he wanted to know. And then later on, he wouldn't remember any demands that he may have made before the argument. It was the lack of what would have been a typical Vesca Howell reaction that was throwing D off.
"It's important," Vincent said stubbornly. "Give me your word, or there's no story."
"You're being childish," D scoffed.
"Well then, I can be even more childish and not tell you," Vincent said, smirking.
"You are insufferable!" the Count growled.
"Congratulations on realizing what everyone else at this hospital has already figured out," Vincent said, a grin playing on his face before he turned his attentions back to his paperwork.
"Fine," D said after a few minutes, when no explanation of the scars was forthcoming. It irritated him that Vincent wouldn't tell him without this silly promise, but the fact that the scars for some reason seemed to be so important irritated him even more.
"Hmmm?" Vincent murmured, not looking up quite yet. Though D could definitely hear the smug, pleased note in his voice.
"You... have my word," D said, grudgingly.
"Your word for what?" Vincent asked, looking up.
"That if you ask me a question--"
"An important question," Vincent cut in.
"An important question, using your inane definition of important. You have my word that I'll answer it if you tell me about the scars."
Vincent smiled triumphantly. And D wondered if seeing a look like that on the cynical young doctor's face was why knowing about the scars had been so important. Then he dismissed the idea as being ridiculous. But he did have to admit that finding out about the scars was important to him for some reason. He wouldn't have promised Vincent anything otherwise.
"I just hope that this story is worth the frustration you went through to get it," Vincent teased.
"It had better be," the Count grumbled.
"I was in med school," Vincent began, looking at his arms consideringly as he talked. "I probably hadn't slept in about 48 hours. I didn't sleep much in med school. Working 3 jobs to pay the bills didn't really allow it."
"It's amazing you got through medical school at all," the Count murmured.
"I'm still not sure how I managed it. Anyway, I was walking back to my place from one of my jobs, past a construction site. I didn't really even notice the place til that day, but then, no one had been screaming bloody murder in there before. So me, being the brilliant and extraordinarily sleep deprived doctor-in-training that I was, I decided to go marching boldly into the situation to save the day."
"Something tells me you would have gone charging in regardless," D said. "You don't really seem to be able to resist damsels in distress, Dr. Harris."
"Why should you leave people in trouble if you can help them?" Vincent countered.
"You really aren't what I expected," D murmured after a few moments.
Vincent just shrugged, before continuing the story. He could ask D what he'd been expecting later. "As I got closer, the screams got louder. and I saw that there was a group of men all grouped around a certain areas. One of whom was more frantic than the others. In fact, his reaction was probably a lot fucking closer to panic than anything else. When I got close enough to what the men were crowded around, where the screaming was coming from, I stopped for a minute. And wondered if the sleep deprivation had really gotten bad enough for me to start hallucinating."
"Hallucinating?" D repeated, feeling like he'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere.
"The screaming was coming from a little girl. She was trapped in a mess of barbed wire. The really panicky man was her father." Vincent's voice had gone oddly flat, if only because he was trying to keep emotion out of it. But his eyes... his eyes were lost in the memories.
D, however, had enough emotion in his voice for both of them. "What kind of irresponsible parent lets their child get into a situation like that?!"
"She was three, D. He didn't have anyone else to watch her. It was one of those situations where everyone thought someone else was keeping an eye on her. That kind of shit happens," Vincent said, slightly surprised at that reaction, coming from D of all people.
"It's too much to ask for humans to worry about this world. They can't even worry about each other," D muttered in Chinese.
Vincent heard him, and what's more, understood him, but he didn't comment. He simply filed the information away for later and then decided to finish the story. After all, he couldn't call in that promise he'd gotten out of D if he hadn't fulfilled his end of the agreement.
"I couldn't just leave her there," Vincent continued after a moment. "So I told the men to back off a bit and let me work. I reached into the barbed wire, with the crowd of men yelling suggestions as to how best to get her out. It was chaos. Sheer, utter chaos. Cause the little girl was screaming her head off, and she wanted her Daddy."
"And?" the Count asked, annoyed that Vincent had stopped.
"The little girl ended up mostly fine. Just a lot of superficial scratches and shit. I ended up with aching, bloody arms, and probably having taught that little girl way more curse words than she ever cared to know," Vincent said, smiling slightly. "I don't really remember getting her out. I was so exhausted by that point, I'm amazed I managed it. I think I passed out from the blood loss once I got her free. Thankfully, while I was working on getting her out, someone finally remembered that they could call the paramedics. Though I think in the end that I needed them more than the little girl did." That smile was still playing across his face. "Her name was Annamaria. She made me a get-well card and promised that she'd marry me when she grew up. She still sends me a card around Christmas every year. She'd be... shit... eight now. I think."
The Count was staring at Vincent by the end of the story. Perhaps it had been worth that promise after all. Because it finally made the Count realize, really realize, that despite the similarities, Vincent Harris was not Vesca Howell. He might have the man's memories, resemble him physically, and have the man's fondness for vulgarity but he was not a carbon copy of the FBI agent. Vesca Howell would have never done that for the little girl. In fact, Vesca may well have just ignored the little one's screaming and just walked on by.
"You could have died of blood loss," D murmured, slightly in awe, still.
"But I didn't," Vincent said, shrugging.
"But you could have. Or the child could have ended up hurt even worse. Or... do you have any idea how insanely lucky you were?!" the kami asked, his voice having risen.
"I couldn't just walk by and do nothing, D! She could have died! She was three fucking years old! Could you have really left a child in a situation like that?!"
The Count was quiet for a few moments, before shaking his head. "You know, Dr. Harris, for all the little girls that you've played White Knight for, I'm surprised that you don't have an entire harem of them at your beck and call."
"Who's to say I don't?" Vincent teased.
"I would say that perhaps they should move you to pediatrics, but I daresay that pediatrics wouldn't survive. Those children would learn far too much profanity. Not to mention you'd have a small army of children following you around," D said, smiling slightly.
"I could use the help," Vincent said, snickering. "Then my minions could do my triple-shifts for me, and I could get some sleep."
"And reasons like that are exactly why we can't move you to pediatrics," D said, shaking his head. Though he was still smiling faintly.
"Damn," Vincent said, snapping his fingers, as if it was a real loss.
"Perhaps I'll consider it. Though for the moment, I fear I've taken quite enough of your time. And you were saying something about having rounds to go on, weren't you?"
Vincent swore softly at the reminder. "Yeah. And I still haven't finished the goddamned paperwork," he groaned.
"Don't worry about it, Dr. Harris. I'll make sure it's taken care of," D said. "You just go on your rounds."
And with that, he swept out of the room, leaving Vincent to stare bemusedly in his wake.
"I really wish he would stop fucking doing that. He's doesn't have enough of the dark melodrama to act like Batman," Vincent remarked. Then he scowled a little at the papers on his desk and the clock on the wall. He did have to go on his rounds. The paperwork would either just have to be taken care of later, or magically do itself. Because story time had taken up the rest of the time he'd had.
"Maybe I can ask D to do it for me, since it's his fault that I ran out of time," Vincent muttered as he got up. And he decided that he definitely had time to catch up with D and demand that the other doctor do just that.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Title: Same Words, Different Situation - Chapter 5
Fandom: Petshop o f Horrors
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Ask and ye shall be as gods receive
Warning: Lots of profanity, flashbacks, reincarnation, possible errors about certain medical professions, violence, sexual innuendo (if you tilt your head and squint a little)
Spoilers: Volume 10 of the Petshop of Horrors manga is mentioned, and will likely continue to be so. The Papa D/Vesca side story from Shin Petshop ofHorrors might also be referenced
Vincent lit a cigarette once they were out on the balcony, drawing in a long drag, and ignoring the Count's exaggerated coughing when he exhaled the smoke. Seconds ticked into minutes and after two cigarettes the Count had had enough.
"Do you intend to talk about Mr. Howell tonight, Dr. Harris? Or were you planning on having me watch you give yourself lung cancer?" he asked acidly.
Vincent snorted, drawing the light jacket he'd worn out onto the balcony a little closer. "Better way to go than being eaten by animals," he muttered. "Slower and less painful. At least until the end when it gets really advanced and you start coughing up blood and shit all the time."
The Count arched an eyebrow at that. "You speak from experience?" he asked.
"On which one? The getting eaten by animals, or the coughing up blood?"
"Either. Both," the Count said, watching Vincent with renewed interest.
"I'm a surgeon. I've seen more than one patient in the final stages of terminal lung cancer. Like... really bad terminal lung cancer," Vincent said, looking at his hands. "And Howell got eaten by animals. Attacked, eaten, whatever. It's how he died. They went after him after the blonde... the cop... after he shot you in the head."
The Count looked startled. Vincent didn't notice the look. He was looking at his hands. And he finally shook his head before pulling out and lighting another cigarette. His hands were shaking slightly, but only slightly. You would have had to be looking at them to notice it.
"Why do you talk about Agent Howell like he's a separate person?" Count D asked quietly after Vincent was halfway through his new cigarette.
"Because he is. I might have his memories, but they're fragments. Hardly the whole thing. I'm not in the FBI or CIA or whatever he was in. I'm not crazy enough to go chasing you down over the entire damn world, only to have both of us die in the end. It was a waste. A senseless, pointless waste. I have too many people counting on me here," Vincent said, shaking his head.
"Then why did you wish to discuss him?" the Count asked.
"Because if I got saddled with his memories, his baggage, I want to know why. And even if I can't find that out... well... you and he had one of the most fucked up relationships I've ever seen. You were close, yeah, but by the end, the passion was fuelled more by hate than by love. I think. Hell, I'm not sure. You were both insane," Vincent said, finishing his cigarette and dropping the remains of it off the balcony.
"Perhaps we deserved each other," the Count said bitterly. "But as you pointed out, you are not Agent Howell, so I don't see why my relationship with him is any concern of yours. Especially since you seem to have your own social commentary on what it was like."
"It's my concern because I've been dreaming of you on and off since I was fifteen. And that's not going to stop. The fragments have been becoming clearer and more coherent since I actually met you. And then it just gets even more fucking confusing, because you're different too!" Vincent yelled, not caring how many of the neighbors heard them.
"What are you talking about?" D countered, his voice rising a little as Vincent's did. It was so frighteningly easy to fall back into the old behavior patterns that he would get into with Vesca.
"The last time I saw you, you were trying to kill the entire fucking human race! Now you're working in a hospital! Talk about cognitive fucking dissonance!" Vincent growled. "Fuck, D, I don't even know what your game is this time! I've been trying to figure it out and I can't!"
The Count stilled. Vincent sounded more like Vesca now. Just the tone, the way he spoke of things. It was eerie. And the way he just switched like that threw the Count's reason out the window. And then he was shrieking, yelling at Vesca the way he'd never gotten a chance to the last time they were both alive and in the same room together.
"You weren't the only one that died the last time, Agent Howell! Are you happy?! Things change, people change! And I have no interest in dying a second time!"
"I know you fucking changed!" Vincent growled, ignoring what the Count called him for the moment. The memory fragments were coming fast now, clashing like thunder, making him dizzy as they tried to connect. And in the end, they still weren't making any sense. "You aren't trying to kill everyone this time! I don't know what the fuck you're doing in a hospital of all places, in my hospital, but you aren't killing people! And God knows, you've had enough chance! You work with kids!"
"How observant of you, Vesca! What's your next trick?! To tell me that the sky is blue?!" the Count yelled.
Vincent stilled, quieted, reaching out an arm to steady himself on the railing of the balcony. He closed his eyes, taking a few slow, deep breaths. "I'm not Vesca Howell, D," he finally said. "I'm not going to fight with you the way he would. It never solved anything. You two would screech at each other, he'd get head trauma, and in the end you both ended up dead. What's the point in going through it all again?"
"What's the point? What's the point?! You are the one who started this in the first place!" D yelled.
"I thought I could get answers," Vincent said, shaking his head. "I was wrong."
The Count blinked at that admission, and he stared at Vincent for a few moments, not saying anything. Not really able to find the words. And when he did find words, they were quieter.
"You are not Vesca."
"Good of you to notice," Vincent said, making a bit of a face. He reached for his pocket where his pack of cigarettes was, only to find them empty. He swore softly, before looking up at the sky. "So what made you realize it?"
"He never admitted that he was wrong. About anything," the Count said, shaking his head.
"Fucking stupid stance to take towards anything," Vincent muttered. "You should apologize when you fuck up. You end up with less bruises that way." And from the sound of it, he spoke from experience on that point.
"perhaps if you realized that the last time, neither of us would have died," the Count said bitterly.
Vincent looked at the Count sideways before looking out at the view from the balcony again. "You know, D, I'd be perfectly happy to throw you off the balcony, but it's not worth the time, effort, or consequences that it would take," he said, rather conversationally.
The kami blinked, more at Vincent's tone than his words. But before he could respond, Vincent had turned and started to speak again.
"Look, I'm not Vesca Howell, D. So you won't get your closure or whatever it is. And I won't follow you to the ends of the earth. And I won't be able to get the answers I want from you, mostly because I don't think you're able to give them to me."
"What an inspiring sermon, Dr. Harris," the Count said dryly. "Is there a point to it?"
Vincent sighed, checking the urge to just toss D off the balcony anyway, consequences be damned. It was getting harder with every passing minute though. "Look, D, all I'm fucking saying is that we both went into this with assumptions. But neither of us is who we were." He turned to look at D then. "I'm not saying we have to be best friends or anything, but can we at least give it a fresh start?"
The Count fell silent for a few moments, as if contemplating that. Starting over. That's what Vincent was ultimately asking him to do. "I already started over once," he said, more to himself than to Vincent.
"Not with me," the young doctor countered. "You don't seem to be genocidal anymore, and I'm not a fucking insane federal agent hell-bent on tracking you down. Would it really hurt if we started again with each other? Without the misconceptions this time?"
The Count paused, seriously considering what Vincent was saying. Really, the young surgeon had him in quite the position. After all, while Vincent might not be Vesca Howell, he had the Agent's memories, which gave him knowledge about the kami. Rather... intimate knowledge depending on how many of Vesca's memories Vincent had. And despite what the younger man said, the Count didn't exactly trust that Vincent wouldn't use that information for his own gain if need be.
"Perhaps it would be for the best if we were to start over," the Count said finally. At least until I know what your intentions really are, Dr. Harris.
Vincent considered D for a few long moments. That pause might have been a bit too long. He's plotting, a thought which was probably fuelled by Howell's memories informed him. Vincent nodded anyway, though whether it was in agreement with D or his own thoughts, not even he was sure. It could be either. Or even both.
"Shall we drink to it?" Vincent asked, grinning.
"I do think we've both had enough alcohol for one evening, Dr. Harris," the Count said, shaking his head. "And I should probably go home soon anyway."
"And you're going to get there how? It's kind of late to catch a cab, and I'm still not sober enough to drive you anywhere," Vincent said, shaking his head. "You can stay here. Unless you're too dignified to sleep on the couch."
The Count looked at little surprised at the offer. "I do not sleep on the couch," he said, trying to sound imperious. The effect was ruined by a yawn though.
"Well, I didn't think you'd want to be sharing my bed so soon," Vincent teased, smirking now.
The Count just scowled at Vincent at that statement. "I do think I'll be seeing myself out, Dr. Harris," he said. "Good evening." And with a swish of silk and a rustle of movement, D was gone.
Vincent turned to stare bemusedly after him. "Note to self. See if an X-ray or CT scan of Dr. D reveals ovaries, as they would explain his mood swings quite well. Now I just need to find my tape recorder, so I can make sure I note that the next time I do dictation."
*~*~*
"Is giving yourself lung cancer your usual way of dealing with your problems, Dr. Harris?" D's voice came from behind him.
"Do I comment on your bad habits?" Vincent asked sourly, drawing his jacket closer around him.
It had grown colder in the last few weeks, as the fall had started to turn towards winter. And his arms were aching as a result. Not to mention that he was sleep deprived, he'd had a long messy surgery that morning, and he still had six hours of his shift left.
"You're going to die of lung cancer before finishing your residency at this rate," the Count said critically.
"At least I'll be able to get some sleep then," Vincent countered darkly.
The Count blinked, and when he next spoke, his voice was a bit less sharp. "Did you lose a patient today?" he asked.
"No," Vincent said, shaking his head. "Not today."
"This shift?"
Vincent shook his head again. "The surgery I had this morning was messy."
"Messy? Isn't all surgery messy?" the Count pointed out.
"Yeah, but not like this," Vincent said as he took another long drag on his cigarette.
The Count stayed quiet, waiting for Vincent to continue. He'd gotten to know that statements like that were usually followed by some sort of near-unbelievable explanation when they came from Vincent Harris.
"The patient had a tumor in her uterus. We went to remove it," Vincent began, shifting a bit uncomfortably at the memory. "At least, that's what all the tests and data that we had showed."
The Count went very still. Suddenly, he was expecting the worst. And not sure that he wanted to hear the rest of this story.
"We cut her open to get the tumor out. There was a tumor in there but... D it looked like she was pregnant at some point. And the tumor had either merged with or was eating the fetus."
D had the good grace to look a bit ill at that thought, and when Vincent turned to face him, the kami saw that the young doctor did too.
"Needless to say, I probably utterly scandalized at least one of my assistants with my very colorful language," Vincent said dryly. How dirty his mouth got when he ran into a situation that was disgusting or novel was nothing short of legendary around the hospital. "And I got to explain to the woman what had happened when she woke up."
"After that story, I can see why you smoke," the Count said after a few moments ticked by. He didn't really want to know how the woman had taken the news. And asking why Vincent felt the need to tell her would have been an exercise in futility. He didn't understand Vincent. In fact, he was beginning to think he understood the young doctor even less than he'd understood Vesca. "However, giving yourself lung cancer won't help matters."
"Lung cancer's a better way to die than getting eaten," Vincent said matter-of-factly and shrugged.
"Stop that," the Count snapped.
"Stop what?" Vincent asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Stop doing that. You keep going on about how you aren't Mr. Howell, and then you reference his memories! It is very off-putting!" D growled.
Vincent looked about to respond, but a weak voice interrupted their conversation then.
"...help me..."
Vincent turned quickly, swearing softly under his breath. The Count followed his gaze, and his eyes widened. A woman was staggering towards them, her arms clutched over her stomach. Blood was seeping out around her arms, so clearly, the wound was either deeper than it seemed, or she wasn't applying enough pressure. Either way, she was potentially bleeding to death before their eyes.
"Please...h-h-h--"
She didn't even get to repeat her request before Vincent was moving. What happened then happened very fast. Vincent ran towards the woman, tearing off his jacket as he did. He got to the woman a few steps later, catching her before she could fall and quickly working on making his jacket into a tourniquet for her wound, which was, he noticed with some dismay, deeper than he would have liked. "D! Go get me some backup!" he growled.
There was no response, and Vincent turned to see why. He was annoyed to see the Count just standing there and staring at him. "D! What the fuck are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?! Stop standing there like a fucking deer in the goddamned headlights and get me some fucking backup!" Vincent growled.
The Count, for the time being, remained unmoving. He was more occupied with the scars that covered Vincent's arms. Scars that were now exposed since the cynical young doctor had taken off his jacket. He realized, wonderingly, that in the several months he'd known Vincent Harris, not once had he seen the man's bare arms. And with good reason. The scars that covered Vincent's arms were thick, numerous, and ugly looking. D honestly wasn't sure that he wanted to know how Vincent had gotten them. And yet, at the same time, it seemed important for some reason.
"D! This woman will die if you don't either get me some goddamned backup or some motherfucking surgical equipment right fucking now! I can't magically heal her! So if getting me backup is too fucking much for you to handle, then could you get me some fucking surgical equipment so I can sew her the hell up?!" Vincent demanded, his voice an angry growl.
The woman, meanwhile, was sobbing hysterically. And Vincent turned to her. "I need you to calm down, all right? We're going to stop the bleeding and patch you up, and I know it hurts, but I need you to try and calm down," he said to her, his gentle tone in direct contrast to the way he'd been yelling at D a scant few seconds before.
Somehow, that broke the spell. And D turned and hurried into the hospital to get the backup Vincent had asked for. He could ask the other man about the scars later, after all. For now, he had no real desire to taste Vincent's wrath.
*~*~*
The backup had finally been gotten, the surgery had been done, and the woman was currently sleeping and recovering. The details of the case were, as such cases often were, messy. The woman's name was Amy Taylor. She was 25 years old and eight weeks pregnant. She'd ended up with a knife getting run into her gut when she'd told her boyfriend and he'd been less than thrilled by the news. The baby, surprisingly, was fine. Ms. Taylor's muscles, abdominal wall, and intestines were still recovering, but Vincent was sure that they too would eventually be fine as well.
And now? Now Vincent was just taking the time to actually do his paperwork before going to do his rounds. He would be smoking a cigarette outside, but he really didn't think that he could handle another injured pregnant woman interrupting a smoke break.
"Dr. Harris?"
"D, can it wait?" Vincent asked, not even looking up at the voice.
"I think not."
Vincent sighed and looked up. "Talk. Fast. Because if I don't finish this before I go on my rounds, it won't get done, and then I'll be the one that gets in trouble."
"Very well, I'll get straight to the point. How did you get the scars on your arms?" the Count asked.
Vincent sighed. "D, really, this isn't the best damn time for a story."
"Yes, well it's better now than out on the loading dock when you were trying to save Ms. Taylor's life," the Count pointed out.
"And what a help you were then," Vincent said scathingly. "She could have died, you know. And then you would be the one that had to talk to the review board for negligent care."
"But she didn't die. Neither did the child. Now how did you get the scars on your arms?"
"You aren't going to let this go, are you? Why is this so fucking important to you?" Vincent asked.
"You know, if you stopped insisting on knowing the reasons and just told the story, then it would be over with, and you could go back to your paperwork before you have to do your rounds," D said, as if such a thing should be obvious.
"Yeah, well if you're going to interrogate me, I'd like to know why," Vincent demanded.
"You didn't need to know why when I asked about Emma Jean, Dr. Harris."
Vincent sighed softly. "Fine. But the next time I ask you a question, I want you to answer it."
The Count didn't respond. He just looked at Vincent expectantly. The man would tell him, regardless of whether he answered or not. Or so he thought, anyway.
"I mean it," Vincent said, when D still hadn't answered him. "I want your word that you'll answer the next important question I ask you if I tell you this."
"And how do you define important in this case, Dr. Harris?" the kami asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Like... if I ask you a question about your past, or your reasoning. And I want an honest answer, D," Vincent said, making that clear. After all, a lie would be no good to him.
"You're certainly asking for a lot tot ell me a story about scars, Dr. Harris," D said.
In all honesty, he had not expected this kind of argument. Vesca wouldn't have made silly demands like this. Or if it had demanded answers, he would have eventually gotten angry with D's lack of cooperation and started yelling and told the kami what he wanted to know. And then later on, he wouldn't remember any demands that he may have made before the argument. It was the lack of what would have been a typical Vesca Howell reaction that was throwing D off.
"It's important," Vincent said stubbornly. "Give me your word, or there's no story."
"You're being childish," D scoffed.
"Well then, I can be even more childish and not tell you," Vincent said, smirking.
"You are insufferable!" the Count growled.
"Congratulations on realizing what everyone else at this hospital has already figured out," Vincent said, a grin playing on his face before he turned his attentions back to his paperwork.
"Fine," D said after a few minutes, when no explanation of the scars was forthcoming. It irritated him that Vincent wouldn't tell him without this silly promise, but the fact that the scars for some reason seemed to be so important irritated him even more.
"Hmmm?" Vincent murmured, not looking up quite yet. Though D could definitely hear the smug, pleased note in his voice.
"You... have my word," D said, grudgingly.
"Your word for what?" Vincent asked, looking up.
"That if you ask me a question--"
"An important question," Vincent cut in.
"An important question, using your inane definition of important. You have my word that I'll answer it if you tell me about the scars."
Vincent smiled triumphantly. And D wondered if seeing a look like that on the cynical young doctor's face was why knowing about the scars had been so important. Then he dismissed the idea as being ridiculous. But he did have to admit that finding out about the scars was important to him for some reason. He wouldn't have promised Vincent anything otherwise.
"I just hope that this story is worth the frustration you went through to get it," Vincent teased.
"It had better be," the Count grumbled.
"I was in med school," Vincent began, looking at his arms consideringly as he talked. "I probably hadn't slept in about 48 hours. I didn't sleep much in med school. Working 3 jobs to pay the bills didn't really allow it."
"It's amazing you got through medical school at all," the Count murmured.
"I'm still not sure how I managed it. Anyway, I was walking back to my place from one of my jobs, past a construction site. I didn't really even notice the place til that day, but then, no one had been screaming bloody murder in there before. So me, being the brilliant and extraordinarily sleep deprived doctor-in-training that I was, I decided to go marching boldly into the situation to save the day."
"Something tells me you would have gone charging in regardless," D said. "You don't really seem to be able to resist damsels in distress, Dr. Harris."
"Why should you leave people in trouble if you can help them?" Vincent countered.
"You really aren't what I expected," D murmured after a few moments.
Vincent just shrugged, before continuing the story. He could ask D what he'd been expecting later. "As I got closer, the screams got louder. and I saw that there was a group of men all grouped around a certain areas. One of whom was more frantic than the others. In fact, his reaction was probably a lot fucking closer to panic than anything else. When I got close enough to what the men were crowded around, where the screaming was coming from, I stopped for a minute. And wondered if the sleep deprivation had really gotten bad enough for me to start hallucinating."
"Hallucinating?" D repeated, feeling like he'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere.
"The screaming was coming from a little girl. She was trapped in a mess of barbed wire. The really panicky man was her father." Vincent's voice had gone oddly flat, if only because he was trying to keep emotion out of it. But his eyes... his eyes were lost in the memories.
D, however, had enough emotion in his voice for both of them. "What kind of irresponsible parent lets their child get into a situation like that?!"
"She was three, D. He didn't have anyone else to watch her. It was one of those situations where everyone thought someone else was keeping an eye on her. That kind of shit happens," Vincent said, slightly surprised at that reaction, coming from D of all people.
"It's too much to ask for humans to worry about this world. They can't even worry about each other," D muttered in Chinese.
Vincent heard him, and what's more, understood him, but he didn't comment. He simply filed the information away for later and then decided to finish the story. After all, he couldn't call in that promise he'd gotten out of D if he hadn't fulfilled his end of the agreement.
"I couldn't just leave her there," Vincent continued after a moment. "So I told the men to back off a bit and let me work. I reached into the barbed wire, with the crowd of men yelling suggestions as to how best to get her out. It was chaos. Sheer, utter chaos. Cause the little girl was screaming her head off, and she wanted her Daddy."
"And?" the Count asked, annoyed that Vincent had stopped.
"The little girl ended up mostly fine. Just a lot of superficial scratches and shit. I ended up with aching, bloody arms, and probably having taught that little girl way more curse words than she ever cared to know," Vincent said, smiling slightly. "I don't really remember getting her out. I was so exhausted by that point, I'm amazed I managed it. I think I passed out from the blood loss once I got her free. Thankfully, while I was working on getting her out, someone finally remembered that they could call the paramedics. Though I think in the end that I needed them more than the little girl did." That smile was still playing across his face. "Her name was Annamaria. She made me a get-well card and promised that she'd marry me when she grew up. She still sends me a card around Christmas every year. She'd be... shit... eight now. I think."
The Count was staring at Vincent by the end of the story. Perhaps it had been worth that promise after all. Because it finally made the Count realize, really realize, that despite the similarities, Vincent Harris was not Vesca Howell. He might have the man's memories, resemble him physically, and have the man's fondness for vulgarity but he was not a carbon copy of the FBI agent. Vesca Howell would have never done that for the little girl. In fact, Vesca may well have just ignored the little one's screaming and just walked on by.
"You could have died of blood loss," D murmured, slightly in awe, still.
"But I didn't," Vincent said, shrugging.
"But you could have. Or the child could have ended up hurt even worse. Or... do you have any idea how insanely lucky you were?!" the kami asked, his voice having risen.
"I couldn't just walk by and do nothing, D! She could have died! She was three fucking years old! Could you have really left a child in a situation like that?!"
The Count was quiet for a few moments, before shaking his head. "You know, Dr. Harris, for all the little girls that you've played White Knight for, I'm surprised that you don't have an entire harem of them at your beck and call."
"Who's to say I don't?" Vincent teased.
"I would say that perhaps they should move you to pediatrics, but I daresay that pediatrics wouldn't survive. Those children would learn far too much profanity. Not to mention you'd have a small army of children following you around," D said, smiling slightly.
"I could use the help," Vincent said, snickering. "Then my minions could do my triple-shifts for me, and I could get some sleep."
"And reasons like that are exactly why we can't move you to pediatrics," D said, shaking his head. Though he was still smiling faintly.
"Damn," Vincent said, snapping his fingers, as if it was a real loss.
"Perhaps I'll consider it. Though for the moment, I fear I've taken quite enough of your time. And you were saying something about having rounds to go on, weren't you?"
Vincent swore softly at the reminder. "Yeah. And I still haven't finished the goddamned paperwork," he groaned.
"Don't worry about it, Dr. Harris. I'll make sure it's taken care of," D said. "You just go on your rounds."
And with that, he swept out of the room, leaving Vincent to stare bemusedly in his wake.
"I really wish he would stop fucking doing that. He's doesn't have enough of the dark melodrama to act like Batman," Vincent remarked. Then he scowled a little at the papers on his desk and the clock on the wall. He did have to go on his rounds. The paperwork would either just have to be taken care of later, or magically do itself. Because story time had taken up the rest of the time he'd had.
"Maybe I can ask D to do it for me, since it's his fault that I ran out of time," Vincent muttered as he got up. And he decided that he definitely had time to catch up with D and demand that the other doctor do just that.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4