bo (flower picking)

bo isn't a romantic. he doesn't do grand gestures and he doesn't do cheesy presents. or, he didn't.

but this is different. it's the little things, isn't it? you cook and clean and smile and he think's he's in love with you.

so he does things to make you happy. he kisses you goodbye when he goes down to the garage and thanks you for dinner when he comes home. he lets you lay your head on his chest as he watches TV in the evening and he brings you coffee in the morning, before you wake up so it's cooled down by the time he's gone and you've opened your eyes. he knows your favourite movie and favourite song, he lets you play them on repeat and never gets sick of them because they remind him of you.

he goes out to the forest around ambrose and picks wildflowers after vincent tells him which ones mean that he loves you. daisies and forget-me-nots and little lilacs. he carries them back home and puts them in an old glass cola bottle because they're too small for a vase.

he offers them to you and you smile, kiss his cheek and repeat his sentiment back to him. "i love you too."

vincent (bloody teeth)

vincent always had the upper hand. he had the upper hand on everyone; you, his brothers, his victims.

you'd yet to see the day where vincent came home with any injury more substantial than a scraped elbow or a pulled muscle. he'd never broken a bone or been stitched up.

vincent was a force of nature.

which is what made his arrival back at the house so shocking. he stands in the boundry of the living room, mask mangled in his hand.

you look up at him from the couch. a thin line of blood drips down his chin and onto his sweater. a faint, rust red shadow lingers on his skin and you see where it came from as he swipes at the blood with his sleeve, smearing it before the trickle builds up again and creates another stream.

"vincent," you start, hurrying over to him and inspecting his face, his darling face, to figure out how he's hurt. your hand reaches for him and he turns his head away.

"it's okay," he insists, hands fast and sharp. "just a split lip."

you inspect him further, but keep your hands by your sides.

"you got 'em?"

he nods and from here you can see his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

he's upset. he's angry. he always has the upper hand.

"it's okay," you promise, "everything's okay. you're okay, i'm okay." you laugh shortly as you add, "bo is okay, though you'd better get cleaned up before he sees you, or you won't hear the end of it."

vincent nods again curtly, not-quite shouldering past you.

he's going to spiral if you don't do something, you realise. following him to the bathroom, you linger in the doorway while he pokes around in the medicine cabinet, pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and a cotton ball.

he likes fixing people up, he likes to be the one to do it so he knows it's done properly, and so you leave him to it.

when he finishes with his lip, he looks into the mirror again -- something he doesn't do to often, not when he has bo and you to tell him what he looks like -- and bares his teeth. they're stained red with blood. he spits into the sink.

"you're okay," you repeat, taking a chance and going into the bathroom with him. he squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again to look at you.

you reach out to touch his face, the unscarred side, and hold him in place, not literally but figuratively, keeping his attention on you. you lean in and press a kiss to his lips.