Vincent was certain he’d never been this desperate to catch a criminal before. Not to the point where he felt such anger and desperation in his bones. He was clenching the phone so tightly as he asked the agent what they had, praying that he wouldn’t hear anything other than ‘Neil McCauley in custody’. Still, a part of him wished to not just have his men catch him but for him to shove him against the hood of a car and cuff him himself. He wanted to grab the man’s wrists, whisper in his ear that he had nowhere else to run and show him that he’d won.
“Nothing's going on. Waingro went for ice. That's it.”
Vincent Hanna was an experienced detective. He gave off sheer confidence, and he always strived to be an example to his people of how to keep cool-headed, unbothered, and focused on the job. And that might have been true once, but it had all gone to hell the moment his life and that of Neil McCauley crossed.
From the moment Vincent saw his first crime scene, he knew the guy was a professional, and things had only gotten worse after that. He remembered the first time he saw him when no one on his team knew who he was because he’d avoided detection completely. Then, the second time he saw McCauley was through a night vision screen, and he’d been impressed by his technique but also by how attentive he’d been, how wary, someone who knew when it was time to retreat.
The more crimes he committed, the more Vincent seemed to find himself admiring the man in the aftermath of it. But it wasn’t until McCauley led them to that scrapyard that he truly felt a level of admiration and respect he had never felt for a criminal before. The moment he realised he’d got made was when he accepted that McCauley would always be two steps ahead of him.
At first, he’d told himself it was just the thrill of the hunt. He was used to sloppy petty criminals, so McCauley was a challenge, someone who’d keep him sharp, and that would give him more satisfaction when he’d eventually catch him. But now-
Vincent slammed the file he’d been pretending to be focusing on on the nearest table in frustration. He was not going to think about that moment anymore, the moment McCauley had looked into his eyes and had seen him. No, he was going to forget about him.
McCauley was gone by now; he had to be. He’d taken his woman, and he’d gotten out. Unseen, undetected, and Vincent had failed, but there was nothing that could be done about that now.
“You know what?” He said flatly. “Neil is gone.” He then started to walk away from the desk. He wasn’t going to stay here and watch them grasp at straws. He was gone. They’d lost the bastard. “Bam! Flying like a bird.”
“Come on, Vincent, how do you know?” Casals pleaded. “We still got bait. Maybe some time!”
“Got, got. What do we got? What do we got?” Nothing, that’s what they had. “Bon voyage, motherfucker. You were good.” He mentally chastised himself for admitting it, for still feeling that sense of admiration towards him, but there was no risk anymore. McCauley was somewhere far away, and Vincent’s secret was leaving with him. He was safe.
“I'm going to the hotel. I'm going to take a shower. Going to sleep for a month.”
He started to drive to the hotel, the lights of the LA skyline flashing by. The road was quiet at this hour, as it should be, and, to some, that might be peaceful, but to Vincent it just made him think of all the things happening in the shadows. Most of the time, a drive like this would clear his head, but not tonight. No. No matter how much he’d insisted back at the station that he was done and just needed some rest, he knew deep down that was a bald-faced lie.
He wasn’t safe. That was a lie he kept telling himself to try to calm himself down. Wherever he was, for as long as he was alive McCauley could talk. More than that, Vincent needed to prove to himself that he could catch this guy, that just because he felt something - respect, that’s all it was, respect - for him, he would still be enough of a cop to bring him down. He was still good at his job. It was the only thing he had left. He had to still be good at his job.
He made a turn away from the direction of the hotel. He didn’t care where he was going. He needed to think. He needed to find Neil McCauley. As he continued to drive around aimlessly, he became aware of just how deep in this obsessive spiral he was. It was almost shameful to acknowledge, only to himself, never aloud, that he’d thought about Neil McCauley more than his wife, more than his daughter, more than any of the people he cares about. And the fact was, he didn’t even feel guilty. No, he felt justified in this because catching Neil wasn’t just to get some kind of fucking award from the LAPD. It was a necessity . He would never sleep peacefully again for as long as Neil McCauley was out there.
It wasn’t just about arresting him. No, he wanted him dead. He wanted the satisfaction of shooting the man and watching his body fall to the ground. He’d never considered himself trigger-happy like many of his colleagues. He didn’t take this job just for some kind of powerplay.
But this was different. McCauley needed to die, not just for his crimes, not because he was dangerous or because he was a threat to innocent citizens Vincent had sworn to protect and serve. No, McCauley had to die because he’d seen him vulnerable. Because he’d opened up to him about his dreams. Because they had shared a moment in that coffee shop, and Vincent had liked it. Maybe his need for violence was an outlet for all the hate he felt towards himself but could do nothing about.
“What do you say I buy you a cup of coffee?” Vincent had sat at the table just staring at McCauley, wondering what the criminal must be thinking. He hadn’t planned on asking that stupid question. He really hadn’t. He still didn’t know why he did.
That was a lie. Vincent had asked him that because he’d known it would likely end with one of them dead, and he’d just wanted to have that moment before that. He’d felt he deserved it, to have one moment with McCauley, with this man he admired despite himself, face to face. He’d wanted to relax for a moment, breathe, and pretend that they weren’t doomed by fate to be enemies, that their lives weren’t mapped out already, that one of them wasn’t going to die at the other’s hand.
“And now that we've been face to face… if I'm there and I gotta put you away, I won't like it. But I'll tell you… if it's between you and some poor bastard whose wife you're going to turn into a widow… brother, you are going down.”
Vincent would do anything to catch him. Except it wasn’t about catching him. It wasn’t about having the glory of being the cop who put the elusive Neil McCauley away. No, Vincent wanted him dead, and he wanted to pull the trigger. The only way he could ever not be haunted by that interaction they’d shared at the coffee shop. The only way he could quiet his spiralling mind thinking about what could be, in an ideal world, where they weren’t on opposite sides of the law. The only way he could make that voice shut up. That voice that reminded him that he didn’t just think of Neil as a foe, a common thug to catch, or even as a friend. And he knew that, but he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to admit those feelings, that secret he’d tried so hard to keep buried deep down. So, why let himself be reminded? Neil needed to die so he could move on from these thoughts that would never, ever, be reality, not even in his wildest dreams.
“So you never wanted a regular-type life?”
“What the fuck is that? Barbecues and ball games?”
“Yeah.”
“This regular-type life like your life?”
“My life? No, my life… no, my life's a disaster zone.”
In that fantasy he’d created they could have been friends, and if it truly was a fantasy, they could have been even more. Who cared when it wasn’t real?
“I don't know how to do anything else.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don't much want to either.”
“Neither do I.”
Vincent had stared into McCauley’s eyes and seen a fondness there. He’d briefly allowed himself to wonder if he felt the same things, the same repressed perverse desires.
Maybe a guy like McCauley didn’t even need to repress. What reputation did he have to live up to after all? He was a criminal; he didn’t need to pretend and try so hard to blend in with what society expected.
“You know, we're sitting here… you and I, like a couple of regular fellows. You do what you do, and I do what I gotta do.”
He cursed himself, slamming his hand on the steering wheel. He had him. He fucking had him in the diner. If any of his colleagues knew about that, he would be fired on the spot, and then it would be more than obvious that his obsession with Neil was more than just about the satisfaction of catching him. They would seriously question his sanity. And, really, Vincent did too. What the fuck had he done? He’d come face-to-face with Neil, had him backed in a corner, and could have done the righteous thing of detaining him. And, yet, he’d given him a sense of trust, then let him go.
McCauley had no doubt made him - once again, but in a much more dangerous way - had seen the desperation on his face and knew. And he had let him go.
He had fucked up by giving into that fantasy, and the only way to remedy that would be to make sure MCauly wouldn’t live to tell his secret. That’s why he had to kill McCauley. He had to. His reputation depended on it. His whole life depended on it. He would have done anything to silence Neil at this point. He really would.
“Anything?” An unfamiliar, almost distorted voice said. He was hearing things. He had to be delirious. He was alone in his car and he was hearing things.
As Vincent tried to logically find an explanation, he was distracted for a second, as he thought he saw some kind of light in the corner of his vision. Maybe he was more exhausted than he thought, and he was seeing things - not that he had any intention of acting on that. Focus. He had to focus. He blinked a few times to really keep his eyes on the road in front of him, knowing there was always some drunk asshole behind the wheel when they shouldn’t who might come flying out of nowhere.
Vincent took a breath and pointedly stared straight ahead, but again, the light flickered. It flickered enough for him to register that it wasn’t just in his head. Against his better judgement, he turned his head and found the rays, stark white like high beams - except on the inside of his car - to form some kind of vague, person-like figure in his passenger seat. His eyes widened at the sight, bewildered, and, frankly, afraid of what he was looking at. As he glanced back at the road, he realised he was headed for the guardrail on the highway.
“Christ!” He yelled, narrowly missing the object as he swerved in the nick of time.
“Careful. Your body is still frail.” That same voice said, almost with amusement.
Maybe he had hit that guardrail, and this voice was his guardian angel leading him to… wherever he was supposed to end up. He had always had a feeling he wouldn’t get to peace. And after how he’d been thinking about Neil, in a way that could not be justified platonically or even as predator and prey like he’d always tended to think of other criminals, he was sure of that.
Vincent pulled over as quickly as he could, feeling his heart pound as he finally turned to look at the figure beside him without risking killing himself. He reached for his gun in his holster, raising it shakily.
“Be not afraid, Vincent.” The voice said calmly. “And, besides, that won’t work on me.”
He supposed that wasn’t unreasonable for something non-corporeal. Force of habit.
“W- Who are you? How the fuck did you get into my car?”
The voice chuckled. “Oh, I have so many names. John Milton is a favourite of mine.”
Vincent squinted. “What?”
“Don’t worry, most don’t get the reference. The one you’re probably most familiar with is Satan .”
Vincent laughed nervously. He had to be hallucinating. He was so crazy he was having vivid hallucinations about the devil. And not just having them but interacting with them.
“I thought the devil was meant to be…” Vincent shrugged vaguely. “ Dark. From the shadows.”
Milton tutted. “Lucifer means lightbringer. People tend to forget that part.”
He wasn’t even going to try to ask for more details about that. What the fuck was he doing? Was he really sure he was alive?
“You know you really could have died back there if you’d hit that guardrail,” Milton said, interrupting his spiral.
“No thanks to you.”
Again, Milton seemed amused. “But you wanted to, didn’t you?”
He gave him a confused look. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re driving around LA in the middle of the night with no purpose. Happy people don’t do that.”
He scoffed. “What? You’re saying I’m depressed, is that it?”
“Depressed isn’t the right word; Hopeless is more accurate. You feel like a failure, a fraud, a perv even. You feel inadequate as a husband, a parent, and a cop.”
Vincent went to protest, but he had to admit there was truth to it. What did he have to feel proud about? What success did he have? He and Justine barely looked each other in the eyes, he was living in the shadow of Lauren’s father, who, no matter how badly he treated her, is still her father, and the one case that could have helped him justify his absence as a husband and father, is never going to come to fruition. If he had Neil’s head on a silver platter, only then might he feel like he’d succeeded at something. But he didn’t. And he doubted he ever would.
“You don’t think there’s anything you can do to redeem yourself but catch McCauley.” He went on as though reading his mind. “You think maybe killing him is the only way for you to escape your failures, and if you go after him, if you really hunt him down like you want to, you know you could die. But there’s a part of you that wants that, isn’t there? It would all be over. You’d go out in a blaze of glory.”’
He wasn’t wrong. There was a lot of appeal to that. Milton might not fully understand why, hell, Vincent didn’t even really understand it, either.
“I can let you do that.” Milton offered.
Let him? Since when did the devil have so much control over his life?
“I can put a bullet through my own skull, thank you. I don’t need your help.”
“But it wouldn’t be a noble end like, say, dying in the line of duty. I know that’s what you want. You don’t want to die a loser. You want to die a hero!” He pointed out. “Besides, who else could make your final wish come true?”
Vincent had mostly been dismissing Milton’s words, but that made him suddenly very attentive. “What do you mean?” He asked, but he already knew what he was referring to.
“I will give you Neil McCauley.”
“How?”
“Well, you’re parked in a loading zone, so maybe we can do this somewhere else?” Milton pointed out.
“Alright.” Vincent conceded. “Let’s find a place to talk, then.”
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Here?” Vincent asked, standing with his hands on his hips as he looked up at the sign.
“Just do what I tell you to.” Milton dismissed, and admittedly Vincent didn’t actually want to disobey Satan. He might be a cocky son-of-a-bitch, but he wasn’t stupid. “Go in there and take a seat at table twelve. Buy yourself a drink.”
Sighing, he walked to the door, turning to the figure beside him. “I don’t think you can just walk in there and not create a mild panic.” He pointed out.
“Who says I’m coming in?” Milton challenged, and the light soon faded.
Vincent decided not to keep asking questions and did as he was told. He ordered an espresso, just as he had all those hours ago. And he waited. What the fuck was he doing? Suddenly, as though on cue, a waitress, the same one who had given him his coffee, came back to the table.
“Sir? Someone named John Milton’s on the phone for you?”
He nodded and followed her to the counter, where she pointed at a landline attached to the wall. Another waitress was holding the phone off the hook, and she passed it to him. Vincent thanked her before placing the phone to his ear. The two women looked at him with slight curiosity but gave him some space.
“Miss me?”
“Why are you even here? What- What made you appear to me?”
“Does every question need an answer?”
Vincent sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did I do? The fuck did I do, huh? I know I’ve done a lot of bad things, but what was it specifically that cursed me?”
“Cursed you?”
Vincent huffed. “Well, the devil doesn’t just show up in a good guy’s car, does he? Obviously, I did something to deserve it.”
“Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. But you seem to think you deserve it. Why?”
“I haven’t been a good husband. That must be it.” Talking about that on the phone felt wrong, and he wished he didn’t have the waitress so close; he had the impression she was eavesdropping, or maybe that was just his paranoia. “If you were going to call me, why send me here and not a phone booth?”
“Well, you seemed fond of the place. I could feel you wanted to come back here. Want to tell me why?”
Oh, so that was why. He deserved this punishment for what he’d done in that same cafe hours earlier.
“Something happened in here. Something I allowed to happen, and I should have known better.”
“It’s like pulling teeth with you.”
Vincent sighed. “I let myself dream of a different life I could have lived, and it was-” Glorious, to be so free, to let himself feel his feelings without shame because he connected with this man so deeply and so quickly. He’d never been so entranced by someone with just a simple conversation. None of his wives, even dear Justine, had made him feel this connected in such a short period. He didn’t know a lot about Neil, admittedly. He was sure he had skeletons in his closet, just like he did. But what Vincent did know was that they understood each other on a level deeper than he could have imagined. He’d never felt this way about anyone before.
“I have a woman.” His memory reminded him, and Vincent winced. “It was wrong and foolish.” It wasn’t that he was resentful that Neil had someone in his life. On the contrary, he was quite happy for him. It was envy, not jealousy. Vincent wanted that person to be him. He just couldn’t believe he was worthy of it. He couldn’t possibly see himself in a position where he could do that freely. He wanted what he couldn’t have. It was the classic tale.
Vincent huffed. “Spill. How are you going to get me close to Neil?”
“Seems to me you don’t need any help with that. You looked pretty cozy when you were here last time.”
“How are you going to help me catch him?” He rephrased.
The devil grew impatient and saw right through him. “Oh, please. You don’t want to catch him. Why can’t you be honest? Tell me what you really want, or I won’t be able to make it happen.”
“I want to kill him.” He confessed.
“I’ll admit, that’s not what I was expecting you to say,” Milton said genuinely. “And it’s not often that the devil gets surprised, let me tell you that!”
Vincent said nothing. He mostly believed that, but he somehow knew that nothing would slip by the devil.
“You’re not quite lying, not deliberately trying to deceive me, at least. No, you’re lying to yourself too, desperately so.” Milton analysed. “To the point where you’ve convinced yourself that’s what you really want. You almost had me fooled, too. It would be impressive if it wasn’t pathetic.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Vincent bluffed weakly. Again, he wondered why he was even bothering to keep up this act. Perhaps because he still didn’t want to admit it to himself. Not consciously and certainly not aloud.
“It’s a perfectly natural desire you’ve got there. There’s nothing wrong with it. As humans, you’re supposed to want things. And for you, wanting things shows your drive and ambition. It’s good. You want something, you get it.” Milton said with surprising admiration. “It’s instinct, you know? Your God-given instinct. But what did humanity do? Instead of making a world where that was appreciated and respected, they decided that wanting things was a sin!” He laughed. “A sin to want anything more than the bare minimum. And now you get people like yourself, defenders of the law, who look danger in the eye, afraid to admit they might want more in life. You’re terrified by what you crave the most. You deny it. You act like you don’t need it. But you do. Love, affection, community, belonging, pleasure, whatever you want to call it, you want it. Not just from anyone, but from Neil.”
He took a moment to absorb those words. There was merit there. But wasn’t this how the devil got people? By tempting them with their desires?
“I don’t tempt, Vincent. I’m not going to make you do anything, but I’m not going to sit there and keep up this charade that you only want to get to Neil for the sake of your career, either.” He explained, tired of him beating around the bush. “So tell me the truth now. What do you want?”
“I want Neil dead.” Milton scoffed, and Vincent knew he was about to interrupt him, but he wouldn’t let him. “No, I mean that. I know what you want me to admit, and I will, okay? Yes, I… feel something for him.”
“You’re so vague, you can’t even say-”
“I’m attracted to him, alright?” He finally snapped, with a sharp whisper, still aware that people were within earshot. His voice then softened as he realised there was no hiding. “And it isn’t just physical. Sure, the fact that he’s a criminal and I’m a cop adds to the forbidden part, as if everything else wasn’t enough, but that’s not all there is. We opened up to each other and… I had a feeling he got me. More than anyone else ever has. He listened to me talk, and it was like he knew what I was saying without needing me to explain it in more detail. We’re kindred souls, him and I.”
Milton hummed in understanding. It felt surprisingly liberating to get that off his chest. He’d never been able to open up like this with anyone, not Justine, not any of his other wives. Really, the only person was… well, Neil.
“So why do I want him dead?” Vincent shook his head, unsure, but his expression looked haunted. “I don’t know. I doubt it’s something I can analyse and explain rationally. I just… I hate the way he makes me feel. And he has to pay for it. Otherwise, I’d have to start redirecting all that hate towards myself, and I guess it’s just easier to blame the murderous criminal.”
“He didn’t make you something you weren’t already, you know that, right?” Milton pointed out. “McCauley didn’t make you gay.”
Vincent brushed right over that, not wanting to even acknowledge that word he’d been trying to avoid. “But it’s easier to hurt him than myself. I can mask that as part of my duty.”
“Is that truly what you want? Knowing I could offer you anything, even a way for you to accept yourself, let go of the guilt that weighs you down like a brick to the neck and let you live a happy couple of years with your favourite criminal in whatever foreign paradise he’s planning to escape to?”
His eyebrows raised. “Couple of years?”
“You don’t think I’d do anything for you out of the goodness of my own heart, do you?”
“What’s in it for you?” Vincent asked warily, very aware that the phrase ‘deal with the devil’ applied too well here. He should have known better. The devil would never just grant someone their deepest desire without expecting something in return.
“Well, as you know, I don’t have a body right now. I don’t just possess anyone, you know? It takes effort to convince someone to possess a living body.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why not possess a dead one?”
Milton groaned. “ Do you know how much paperwork that requires? I’ll give you a hint: a lot. Besides, I need permission, consent if you will. I can’t just hop in a dead body.” He huffed. “And you’re a detective. In a way… you have power over life and death. You make a lot of big decisions, and most people trust you to do them, almost implicitly. They won’t bat an eye if you start acting differently.”
“You’d take over my body,” Vincent concluded.
“As I said, I’d give you time to live first and enjoy the gift I can offer you. Be free.”
Vincent allowed himself to think what that would look like, him and Neil living happily. What he wanted was freedom. To not have to think about who was looking over his shoulder at all times. To not be anxiously checking his watch or his pager, dreading the next call. He wanted peace. He wanted to be at peace. But not alone. Not with Justine. Not with anyone… except him. Neil. This was beyond a physical attraction; it was an intellectual one, an emotional one, and a spiritual one, too.
God, he wanted Neil so bad.
He was very aware that there was no going back from this. Eventually, the devil would overpower him and collect his body, but wouldn’t that be worth it? He could beg Milton to disappear without making a fuss, let Neil believe he just went back to LA, but not because he regretted anything. Maybe he could leave a note to apologise. Maybe he could write a few postcards and beg Milton to send them gradually, giving Neil the impression he was still alive and he still cared about him. But how much would that hurt him?
“No. I told you what I want.” Vincent snapped himself out of his delusion. He had a clear goal. An easy one. And Milton could let him achieve it. “I want McCauley dead, I want to chase him, and I want to kill him myself.”
“What about our deal then?”
“I still want to have a talk with Justine. I want to let her know it’s not her, it’s me.” He might even tell her about his newly discovered attraction to men. Maybe it would hurt her less if that was the reason. “And if you plan on leaving LA, I would love to get one last night with my men to celebrate like in the old days.” Vincent mused. But he knew it just wouldn’t be the same without Bosko.
Milton pondered this for a moment, every passing second making Vincent question whether he was actually about to go through with this. “I can accept that.” He finally said. “You can hang up now. Meet me back in your car.”
Vincent did as he’d asked, thanking the waitress again, who made an off-handed, grudging comment about the diner’s phone bill, and he grabbed a fifty and slammed it on the counter. He was dying soon. What did it matter?
Vincent sat in the driver’s seat and wasn’t too fazed by the appearance of that misty figure again. This time, he came with a contract. Surprisingly, it was not made of parchment. It looked… about the same as any other contract. Perhaps the devil liked to stay with the times. There was also a floating fountain pen. Vincent grabbed it but winced as it pricked his finger. He wanted to read the terms, logically, he knew he should, in any case, but especially with the devil. But he didn’t. He… trusted him. More importantly, he couldn’t wait any longer.
He signed his name, noticing the ink was blood red, which explained the sensation from when he’d grabbed the pen. He was sealing the contract with blood. As soon as it was done, both items vanished into thin air. The small wound also healed almost instantly.
“Invulnerability is one of the terms of your deal,” Milton explained. “Not that you read it.”
Vincent supposed that would be useful. “So, when does this all start?”
Milton didn’t answer. He didn’t need to answer because his phone started to ring. Casals was calling him. He’d never picked up his phone with such excitement.
“We got him. McCauley’s arrived at the Marquis. He’s going after Waingro.”
It took everything in him not to react with violent enthusiasm. “I’ll be there.”
Everything happened so fast. Amongst the mix of people running around with panic, he saw Neil so clearly, like he had tunnel vision for him only. Their eyes met, but Neil’s gaze soon flickered to someone else in a car. He’d never seen the man break until now. He was like a deer caught in headlights. But he had time. Vincent wasn’t there yet. It was almost like he was just letting him get a headstart.
“What are you doing?” Milton asked. “Go.”
Vincent snapped back to reality and started to run. He pushed past anyone and everyone without care. His Colt was at the ready. He wasn’t going to hesitate. Once he got a clear shot, he was going to fire, and it would all be over. This was what he wanted. He had to remind himself of that, which only proved the contrary.
As he ran, he noticed a woman who seemed to be the only still figure in the chaos. She stared longingly in the direction Neil had run in. A glance showed Vincent a very lost and heartbroken expression.
“So then, if you spot me coming around that corner, you're just going to walk out on this woman? Not say goodbye?
“That's the discipline.”
“Well, he certainly seems like a man of his word.” Milton pointed out, with a chuckle. “He felt the heat. You know, maybe that whole thing was a euphemism. Maybe that was just his way of saying he’s got the hots for you like you have the hots for him.”
“Shut up,” Vincent muttered, the tension building in his body.
He kept running away from the people, heading towards the large, seemingly endless airfield. The cargo containers were like a labyrinth, each providing cover in a way that meant he and Neil were equally able to catch each other. There was a distant engine roar, like a plane was not too far off from landing. Vincent strained to hear, trying to listen for any sign of Neil. His heart was racing.
“You’re close to the end of this.” Milton reminded him, not helping at all. “How are you feeling?”
Manic, that’s how he was feeling. Conflicted. Scared, even. “Good.” He lied, knowing full well the devil would see right through him.
“You’re feeling good knowing that in a few minutes, McCauley will be dead?”
Vincent hesitated at that. He didn’t want to even think about that reality, the idea of Neil dying, and to know he was responsible for it.
“You admire this man,” Milton observed, and Vincent knew there was no point in hiding it. “I do.”
“You’re obsessed with him.” He went on, and again, Vincent didn't shy away from the truth. “I am.” And that was the problem. That was the reason why Neil had to die; his existence threatened everything that Vincent had made of his life.
“Are you truly sure you want him dead?” There it was, temptation once again. But Vincent couldn’t give in.
“That’s our deal.” He gritted through his teeth. It wasn’t an answer, and they both knew that. “You can always change your mind. It’s your decision, not mine.” Milton reminded him once again. “There’s still time to walk away. You can save both of you. You can have everything your heart desires.” Vincent could already tell where this was going. He’d made his decision. He wouldn’t let Milton trick him no matter how much deep down the thought of being somewhere far, far away from all of this with Neil by his side appealed to him.
He huffed. “No. I know what I want, and this is it.”
“As you wish.” “I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll be back when it’s done.”
The light faded, and Vincent felt the lack of the presence that had accompanied him for what felt like so long. No one was there to tempt him to sway anymore, no one to guide him. No one to prove himself to.
No, the closest person right now, though Vincent didn’t exactly know where he was, was Neil.
To run after him would be to sign Neil’s death sentence. To turn around and walk away would be to never see him again. He wasn’t sure which was worse. He didn’t know if he could live with either reality. He had two choices, and he hated both of them. God, he was still deluding himself. He knew what he wanted, but he wasn’t going to get it. Because he was such a stubborn, insecure asshole. He wasn’t leaving Neil, he decided. No, if he went after him, he would feel better. He wouldn’t keep having these fantasies about Neil if he was dead.
He needed to kill him.
Vincent could have just walked in the midst of those reflector blocks without even trying to get some coverage. He didn’t need that anyway, not when he’d been granted invulnerability.
But where would the fun have been in that? He still wanted to best Neil, if only to prove to them both that he could. He wanted to give this his best shot, but there was a sense of brash confidence Vincent knew he wouldn’t have had without being aware of his advantage. So, in a way, it was unfair to Neil, he admitted to himself, then shook his head. He was not going to pity that criminal. He was only getting what he deserved.
The feeling of two sharp pangs in his chest in succession snapped him out of his borderline delusional spiral. He might not be vulnerable, he might heal, but God, that didn’t stop it from hurting. The white-hot pain spread throughout his entire body in seconds. Vincent fell to the ground with a thud, noticing the holes in his shirt where the bullets had pierced it. For a moment, he panicked, thinking he’d violated some term of the deal. But, Vincent soon knew things were working out just like the devil had assured him they would because he could feel no pain, not to the extent he should after having been shot. No, the only thing he noticed was a stretching-like feeling, as if the skin was being pulled and was closing over the gunshot wound.
Neil, of course, had no idea about this as he appeared as a blurry figure in his vision. How could he? He’d just shot two bullets to his chest.
Vincent wondered why he hadn’t finished him, why he hadn’t gotten a bullet to the brain yet.
He could have gotten up, could have grabbed his Colt that he’d dropped during the impact, and he could have shot Neil point blank, not showing him the same kindness, but he hesitated.
He tried to tell himself he wasn’t having second thoughts. Of course not. He was just curious, keeping his eyes wide open and still, wanting to see how Neil would react to thinking he killed him, hoping it would help him later when their positions would be reversed. It was dark enough that Neil probably couldn’t see the lack of blood staining his shirt. So long as he didn’t touch him, he supposed. Still, Vincent couldn’t deny that even just the idea of that thrilled him.
“I’m sorry.” He said and it took everything in Vincent to not react to that.
At first, he thought it might have just been something Neil only half-meant before he continued to bolt, knowing LAPD backup would be there soon to finish what he had started. But Neil wasn’t running. No, he knelt beside him and caressed his face. There was peace. It was like the coffee shop. Time stilled. Nothing else mattered except this moment between them.
“If only things had been different.” Neil mused softly. “I think you and I could have talked a lot more. Although, between you and me? I don’t think we would have just talked .”
That did it. The way his voice had broken, the way this man had shown so much effortless vulnerability around him and admitted that whatever tension was between them was real made Vincent want this to be over. He hated himself. God, he hated himself. In one swift motion, he grabbed his Colt and fired a bullet into Neil’s brain point blank. Neil had no time to react before his brains sprayed out behind him, but Vincent caught a glimpse of the surprise, no, hurt, on his face before he collapsed.
He’d killed him. He’d gotten what he’d asked for, but he’d never felt this wrong in his life.
His panic-induced adrenaline gave him the energy to stand up and look at him, look at what he’d done. Blood was splattered across his forehead, and his eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape.
It was a familiar sight in a way; he dreamt of dead people every night. He wondered if Neil would be there in his recurring dream, just as silent as the others. Vincent knew he would never be able to face him.
“I’m sorry.” Vincent echoed, wondering whether Neil could hear him, if only in spirit.
“ Was it all you expected?" Milton said suddenly, only it didn’t sound external with a clear direction, didn’t sound part of his surroundings, but rather from his inner monologue. He had possessed his body.
It should have been. He’d gotten exactly what he’d asked for. Vincent was still alive after having been shot, and he’d killed Neil just like he’d wished; the devil had honoured his part of the agreement, and now it was his turn.
Vincent knew how it was going to happen. The devil had promised him a little time still in control of his body, had promised him the chance to say his goodbye, finalise the divorce amicably, retire, and enjoy the surprise party his team would throw him.
But Vincent didn’t want that, to live a lie, to go on as if a part of him hadn’t died alongside Neil.
“I can’t do that. I can’t pretend anymore. I’m tired.” He admitted, feeling the weariness in his whole body. “You can still have my body, but please don’t bring me back. Let my soul die here.”
He wasn’t sure he was allowed to do that, but the devil didn’t try to stop him as he lifted his gun, so he took it as a go-ahead.
He mimicked Neil’s shots by giving himself a double tap to the chest. The pain was real this time, and it spread all over his upper body.
Vincent collapsed with a smile, his body ending up next to Neil’s, and it felt right that he was going to spend his last moments in Neil's arms.
He didn’t care anymore about what people would think when ballistics would show it was his own gun that killed him or when they’d find the two of them with intertwined fingers, Vincent’s face relaxed into a smile, resting on Neil’s chest.
He’d never been one for religion, never been one to put his faith in God when every day he saw destruction and terror that put paid to the idea that someone was out there looking out for humanity’s best interest. But given that he’d made a deal with Satan tonight, perhaps he’d have to acknowledge some of it. He wouldn’t be a worshipper, but he wouldn’t deny God’s existence. There was a God, albeit a cruel one.
But a very small, very naive part of Vincent wanted to believe that Neil was headed somewhere beautiful, a paradise where he could have what he wanted without guilt without resistance. And an even smaller part, the one he’d tried so hard to repress, realised that nothing would make him happier than to have that, too.
The only thing he could do in his last moments now was hope that wherever their souls were headed, they would get to be together in a place that knew no hate, no shame, and no guilt. A place where he wouldn’t have to hide.
A place where the two of them, together, could be free.
The morgue was cold. Milton might not be a human being capable of feeling the same kinds of things, but, damn it, the morgue was cold. It always was. He couldn’t sense anybody around him, so he sat up, deftly finding the zipper and freeing his body from the plastic body bag. He’d done this enough times to know where to find the clothes left behind by the dead, remove the irritating ID tag on his foot, and make his way out without being noticed.
He decided he’d spent enough time in LA for one lifetime. The devil had had enough of the City of Angels.
-
Vincent opened his eyes, and everything was still dark. There was no grass beneath his bare feet but sand. There was no whooshing of engines but the rhythmic comfort of waves crashing and falling. There were no harsh, blinding lights from planes flying overhead, but tiny little blue dots scattered before him, like Los Angeles skyscrapers from an aerial view. However, each shape here was unique, like a snowflake. Not like the consistent rectangles of windows. It was quiet, and it was peaceful. It was paradise.
Someone said his name, and Vincent turned to see Neil standing there. There was a smile on his face, not nervous and apologetic like he’d given the woman, but genuine and sincere.
He held out his hand, and Vincent took it.