timesink
Junior Member
VINCENT WARD
The first thing Vincent thought of was the shallowness. Superficial, like the sparing glances some of the others spared him, bystander effect in full force. The split was nothing to worry about, not when he'd had worse, far worse. Still, his blood was happy to play the overdramatic actor; it continued to gush freely down the slope of his left eye and along the ridge of his cheekbone, dripping on his knee and congregating on the floor. The sharp sting against his skin blurred at the edges. In a gradual, yet sudden sort of way, the past bled into the present, giving way to a colder air than the one outside. A thicker air, a drier air. Desert air, night-black and dry, sand choking his throat as red pooled between calloused fingers. He could almost hear the comms crackling in his ear, the weight of Kevlar pressing into his chest. The rhythmic, familiar pitter-pattering of blizzard snow lashing against the gas station windows, for a split second, sounded like something else entirely.
Vincent blinked. Once, twice, a third time as the world evened out. The sterile white floor remained just that; sterile, untouched save for the growing little blood puddle, his papers, and the squeak of sneakers. Vincent squinted as the smorgasbord of faded doodles on the shoes jumped out at him against the crinoline floor. The young, shaggy-haired, guitar case slinging kid they belonged to crouched beside him, mouth moving a mile a minute. In his caramel-colored hand was one of the rescued victims of the great briefcase flood.
A beat of silence. Vincent stared at him.
The clear blue eyes, the way his hair curled slightly over his forehead, all itched at the back of Vincent’s mind. For a fraction of a second, he saw someone else entirely. Vincent’s stomach went tight. At the same time, the young man's voice hit the brakes, words coming to a barely censored stop.
Zack.
Vincent’s breath caught at the back of his throat, and for half a second, he was twenty-three again, crouched behind cover, Zack pressing a hand against his own bleeding side, cracking dumb, nervous jokes through gritted teeth. Vincent could still hear himself then, voice tight, too fast, trying to stitch reassurance into words that barely held together. You’re fine, you’re fine, just hold on, we’re almost clear.
He could hear the same kind of desperation coloring the voice in front of him now, patting himself down in frantic, jerky movements, words spilling out like they couldn’t keep up with his hands.
“I’ve got a bandaid in here somewhere, I think. It’s Superman themed. The cut doesn’t look bad, if you’re worried about that. Well, it looks bad, but it might not actually be bad. You know how the head just bleeds a lot because—oh, pause, it might get on your papers!”
Even if Vincent barely had time to process half of that, he couldn't help but smile softly, his inner awkwardness melting into a sort of gratitude and pleasure in watching a simple, good heart in acting in good faith, even if it didn't accept or know God yet. He nodded along, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out low, a little rough around the edges.
“My congregants call me Father, but my name’s Vincent. Friends call me Vince.”
His fingers brushed absently over the split in his brow, feeling the warmth of blood where it had already started to clot, accompanied by a dry, rumbling chuckle. “It really looks worse than it feels. Head wounds are dramatic like that, you're right.”
Then, softer, with a quiet flicker of amusement in his voice, he continued. “Thank you, Superman.”
His green eyes flickered across Jasper’s frame, a slow, assessing glance, until his gaze caught on the guitar case, the scuffed surface, the bold letters of a name tag peeling at the edges: Jasper.
Vincent exhaled, blinking back into focus, and tilted his head slightly in correction.
“Jasper.”
A beat. Then, faintly, the corner of his mouth twitched, some dry humor slipping in despite himself.
“Though I have to say, I think Superman suits you.”
Just then, another presence entered the periphery. A girl, looking around the same age as Jasper, skidded down to her knees beside them, fingers deftly gathering the remaining scattered papers before he could reach for them himself. His gaze flickered up just as hers did, and for the second time in the span of a minute, someone was looking at him with that same oof, yikes expression.
“Ooh, that does look pretty bad. Just in case, I’ll go ask the staff if they have a first aid kit. There can never be too many bandages, right?”
And just like that, Vincent felt the embarrassment trickle in again. Really, there was no need, he was going to say. A trip to the bathroom maybe, and some paper towel to clean the blood off the floor... but she had already skidded off again, and Vincent sighed. He adjusted his grip on his briefcase, with what little dignity it had left after its spectacular failure, and straightened up slightly, trying to ignore the warmth still trickling down the side of his face.
Vincent huffed out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, good thing I had an audience for this one,” he mused, green eyes flicking to Jasper with wry amusement. “Would’ve been a real shame to bleed out alone. Terrible for the parish’s reputation.”
He crossed himself in a slow, practiced motion, more for himself than Jasper, seeing as he'd actually followed through with the swear when he banged against the door. He cast a glance heavenward before looking back at the kid and winked, mouth tugging into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.
“And nice save, by the way. Though, sad to say holy ships went out of commission sometime after the Crusades.”
Right at that moment, the young woman practically sailed back over, first-aid kit in hand, with a look Vincent knew he'd seen before. Not on her, but on plenty of fresh recruits trying to play it cool after their first real taste of something off. The kind of tension that didn’t come from exhaustion or stress, but from a gut feeling they hadn’t quite processed yet...
Cheryl moved quickly, too quickly, like staying busy would stop whatever had shaken her from settling in. The too-bright cheer, the way she practically announced the first-aid kit like a damn game show host, it all rang false. And Vincent, trained to read body language like a second language, clocked it immediately.
Vincent nodded to her question as he found a more comfortable position on the floor, readying himself for the stinging, cleaning and bandaging of his head.
“That is standard protocol, yes," he said, smoothing out his cossack, the wry smile still tugging at his lips. "Not just for cuts, either. Some of us Marines kept a bottle on hand for worse days. Or, y’know, Mondays.”
“But while you’re at it,” He let his smirk flicker up, just enough to feign casual. She wasn’t rattled by his bleeding head; hell, she wasn’t even looking at it anymore. Whatever she’d seen, whoever she’d talked to, had left an impression.
“Is everything alright?”
Vincent blinked. Once, twice, a third time as the world evened out. The sterile white floor remained just that; sterile, untouched save for the growing little blood puddle, his papers, and the squeak of sneakers. Vincent squinted as the smorgasbord of faded doodles on the shoes jumped out at him against the crinoline floor. The young, shaggy-haired, guitar case slinging kid they belonged to crouched beside him, mouth moving a mile a minute. In his caramel-colored hand was one of the rescued victims of the great briefcase flood.
A beat of silence. Vincent stared at him.
The clear blue eyes, the way his hair curled slightly over his forehead, all itched at the back of Vincent’s mind. For a fraction of a second, he saw someone else entirely. Vincent’s stomach went tight. At the same time, the young man's voice hit the brakes, words coming to a barely censored stop.
Zack.
Vincent’s breath caught at the back of his throat, and for half a second, he was twenty-three again, crouched behind cover, Zack pressing a hand against his own bleeding side, cracking dumb, nervous jokes through gritted teeth. Vincent could still hear himself then, voice tight, too fast, trying to stitch reassurance into words that barely held together. You’re fine, you’re fine, just hold on, we’re almost clear.
He could hear the same kind of desperation coloring the voice in front of him now, patting himself down in frantic, jerky movements, words spilling out like they couldn’t keep up with his hands.
“I’ve got a bandaid in here somewhere, I think. It’s Superman themed. The cut doesn’t look bad, if you’re worried about that. Well, it looks bad, but it might not actually be bad. You know how the head just bleeds a lot because—oh, pause, it might get on your papers!”
Even if Vincent barely had time to process half of that, he couldn't help but smile softly, his inner awkwardness melting into a sort of gratitude and pleasure in watching a simple, good heart in acting in good faith, even if it didn't accept or know God yet. He nodded along, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out low, a little rough around the edges.
“My congregants call me Father, but my name’s Vincent. Friends call me Vince.”
His fingers brushed absently over the split in his brow, feeling the warmth of blood where it had already started to clot, accompanied by a dry, rumbling chuckle. “It really looks worse than it feels. Head wounds are dramatic like that, you're right.”
Then, softer, with a quiet flicker of amusement in his voice, he continued. “Thank you, Superman.”
His green eyes flickered across Jasper’s frame, a slow, assessing glance, until his gaze caught on the guitar case, the scuffed surface, the bold letters of a name tag peeling at the edges: Jasper.
Vincent exhaled, blinking back into focus, and tilted his head slightly in correction.
“Jasper.”
A beat. Then, faintly, the corner of his mouth twitched, some dry humor slipping in despite himself.
“Though I have to say, I think Superman suits you.”
Just then, another presence entered the periphery. A girl, looking around the same age as Jasper, skidded down to her knees beside them, fingers deftly gathering the remaining scattered papers before he could reach for them himself. His gaze flickered up just as hers did, and for the second time in the span of a minute, someone was looking at him with that same oof, yikes expression.
“Ooh, that does look pretty bad. Just in case, I’ll go ask the staff if they have a first aid kit. There can never be too many bandages, right?”
And just like that, Vincent felt the embarrassment trickle in again. Really, there was no need, he was going to say. A trip to the bathroom maybe, and some paper towel to clean the blood off the floor... but she had already skidded off again, and Vincent sighed. He adjusted his grip on his briefcase, with what little dignity it had left after its spectacular failure, and straightened up slightly, trying to ignore the warmth still trickling down the side of his face.
Vincent huffed out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, good thing I had an audience for this one,” he mused, green eyes flicking to Jasper with wry amusement. “Would’ve been a real shame to bleed out alone. Terrible for the parish’s reputation.”
He crossed himself in a slow, practiced motion, more for himself than Jasper, seeing as he'd actually followed through with the swear when he banged against the door. He cast a glance heavenward before looking back at the kid and winked, mouth tugging into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.
“And nice save, by the way. Though, sad to say holy ships went out of commission sometime after the Crusades.”
Right at that moment, the young woman practically sailed back over, first-aid kit in hand, with a look Vincent knew he'd seen before. Not on her, but on plenty of fresh recruits trying to play it cool after their first real taste of something off. The kind of tension that didn’t come from exhaustion or stress, but from a gut feeling they hadn’t quite processed yet...
Cheryl moved quickly, too quickly, like staying busy would stop whatever had shaken her from settling in. The too-bright cheer, the way she practically announced the first-aid kit like a damn game show host, it all rang false. And Vincent, trained to read body language like a second language, clocked it immediately.
Vincent nodded to her question as he found a more comfortable position on the floor, readying himself for the stinging, cleaning and bandaging of his head.
“That is standard protocol, yes," he said, smoothing out his cossack, the wry smile still tugging at his lips. "Not just for cuts, either. Some of us Marines kept a bottle on hand for worse days. Or, y’know, Mondays.”
“But while you’re at it,” He let his smirk flicker up, just enough to feign casual. She wasn’t rattled by his bleeding head; hell, she wasn’t even looking at it anymore. Whatever she’d seen, whoever she’d talked to, had left an impression.
“Is everything alright?”
HIS THEME
jungkook
♡coded by uxie♡
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