Deus Ex Machina (Dead Plate Fanfic)

Near the edge of Tartarus

12 November, 1963. 11:14pm.

Everything had gone according to Vincent's precise calculations. Rody had arrived on time as he had requested, half-heartedly agreeing to offer the dishes his boss had prepared to the guests.

It was a little funny, watching Rody grumble under his breath and wear a rosy color of embarrassment on his cheeks. He almost felt compelled to let out a chuckle whenever the waiter walked by him.

His eyes also couldn't help but trace the outlines of Rody's biceps underneath his blouse. Briefly, he wondered why the guy seemed so caught up with Manon when he could probably have anyone he wished if he was a little less desperate. Any person would give the world to be held in those strong arms of his.

Not Vince though. He had standards. Standards that ultimately got crumbled when Rody first turned up looking for the job, but still.

The longer the party went on, the more Vincent's eagerness slowly morphed into hesitation and unwillingness. The more his desire to taste Rody turned into a protest at the thought of him in pain. Of the thought of him dead.

The reality of the situation is that, in spite of the disturbing thoughts his mind produces, Vincent is not a killer-- he had never actually taken anyone's right to life before.

Perhaps if he had killed Manon yesterday, things would be different for his psyche now.

If only there was a way to both taste Rody and yet keep him alive at the same time-- now that would be more than ideal.

The house was all but empty now. When Rody went further into the house under the guise of wanting to use the restroom, Vincent found the perfect opportunity to shoo everyone away. Just so that it could be the two of them. Alone.

Alone with Rody. Vincent couldn't understand why he felt so thrilled, why his skin flushed with excitement at the thought of it.

Perhaps he just wanted to consume him that badly.

The tension palpable, making Vincent's throat all the more dry. He had purposely left a sharpened kitchen knife on the cutting board upon the counter top for easy access. He would go lure Rody back into the living room, then attack him before he even knew what hit him.

It would be so easy, now that Rody was beginning to trust him, now that he was vulnerable, like a baby bird unknowingly curling against the talons of a hawk for warmth. He would make it painless-- he didn't want to hurt Rody, after all.

But Vincent stalls. He takes the handle of the knife into his hand, wraps his hand around it. The blade he has used to cook so many dishes, the one he used to cut his bread, used for such a gnarly purpose.

He hesitates. Again. Whenever Rody is involved, he finds that hesitancy is sure to rear its ugly head. In reality, he is torn.

He doesn't want to kill Rody. But he needs to taste him. To consume him. To feel his skin under his hands, the soft flesh against his lips and teeth. Rody is the only one who has ever made him feel alive like this. The only one who has his blood rushing in his veins like this.

Vincent loves cooking. And he likes Rody-- perhaps a lot more than he should. A combination of the two things closest to his heart is bound to be a beautiful creation, right?

..Right?

His hand shakes with the inner turmoil arguing within his very soul, and for a slight moment, he finds himself gripping the knife too hard in all the wrong places. It is merely a split second, but it is enough to have a sliver of skin split the skin of his thumb apart.