She is stripped down to her underwear when she is found, puncture wounds drilled into the side of her paling neck. Her skin horridly drained of color, brown eyes dull and unseeing, turned up toward the darkened sky. The sun, hidden behind full clouds, is in mourning.

She is dead.

Yellow tape is stretched around the perimeter of the scene, hovering above mounds of freshly fallen snow. Particles of ice glitter beneath his feet like fallen stars as cameras flash in rapid succession, snapping photograph after photograph in bright flickers of blinding light.

Alfred throws a hand up to shield his eyes from further damage, stoops down beside the young girl, and heaves out a sigh. Although lifeless, the terror she must have experienced in her moment of death remains etched on her face—frozen. Her lips, tinted blue, reminiscent of the snow's undertones, are parted as if her jaw is unhinged.

His eyes are drawn away by the rounded edge of a plastic card protruding from beneath the cup of the girl's bra. Immediately, he springs into action, fueled by curiosity, tugging a pair of gloves from his back pocket.

He pulls them on. The rubbery material snaps back against his wrists with a slap. He brushes away the frigid fluff that has accumulated on the surface and plucks the identification card away. A brief examination of the I.D. labels the girl as a college student—former college student now.

Well, that's one way to get out of student loans, Alfred thinks humorlessly.

Everything begins to fall into place: two puncture wounds located on the neck, stripped of clothing and dumped in the park, bare of all items except for a card to aid in identification of the body. Precise, relatively clean, remorseful—at the very least.

The hasty shuttering of cameras persists behind him and merges with the hushed chatter of information being exchanged under an agitating film of deja vu.

How many times have they all been in this exact position before? Why?

To no one in particular, simply because he needs to get it out, to hear it, Alfred informs, "It's them again." Of that much, he is certain.

Nevertheless, a scoff sounds from behind him and a mildly agitated voice replies, "Yes, well, we didn't need an I.D. to tell us that. Bravo, Captain Obvious. Do you have any other information you would like to divulge that we all can clearly see with our own two eyes?"

He'd recognize that voice, that unrestrained sarcasm anywhere.

Despite the morbidity of their surroundings, Alfred laughs joyfully, smile wide enough to uncomfortably stiffen his cheeks in the cold early morning air. He brings himself to full height and whirls around just in time to capture the agitated spin of green irises. That, too, is horribly familiar.

"Her name's Michelle, if you were wondering," answers Alfred, hands planted defiantly on his hips.

But Arthur… Arthur is not wondering. His thick eyebrows draw so close together that they very nearly connect as he angrily snarls, "I thought you were handling this!"

"I am!"

And he is! In his own way. These things don't come easily.

"Is this, " Arthur yells, stabbing an accusing finger to the lifeless woman being zipped up within a coroner's bag. "—what you call 'handling it?' Because, if so, I think it's time to reevaluate the team placed on this case. You're moving so slowly you might as well not being moving at all."

"This shit takes time, Artie!" Alfred insists, shuffling backwards when Arthur comes stomping forward until they are particularly chest-to-chest. From one body to the next, Arthur's finger relocates to jab harshly into Alfred's sternum. He almost crumbles with the pure force of it.

The people around them appear unaware of their aggravated standoff, no doubt already well-accustomed to Arthur's notorious temper. A big bomb, a short fuse, the gossip says. When things are not going his way, when things are moving much too slowly for his liking, he tends to bend and snap under the pressure of all the stress. Alfred is bearing the brunt of it now.

"Too much time, if you ask me."

Blunt. Curt. Like a shot to the heart.

Alfred has no valid response for that statement. It is true. The bodies continue to pile up. More innocent victims are being subjected to malicious attacks because of his incompetence. With an exasperated sigh, he visibly deflates, pushing a hand through his wind-tousled hair.

What can he say to that? Other than: he's trying.

This. This vicious string of attacks is linked to something bigger than all of them. Bigger than den registrations and magic-less havens. So large, in fact, that Alfred has to risk his life by turning to non-human allies. A maneuver that must always be a last resort.

Anxious, Alfred shuffles his feet. He has been putting off notifying Arthur of his plans, but now seems to be the time to confess.

"I owe Braginsky a favor in exchange for a... favor," murmurs Alfred, in an attempt to assuage Arthur's concerns.

Cautiously, Arthur inquires, "What kind of favors?"

A beat. A pause. Then,

"Favors that can only be exchanged when… off-duty."

Arthur does not have to voice his disappointment, his disgust this time around. The downward tug of his entire mouth, the coldness of his hard gaze says it all. Alfred is not worth the words sealed behind his tightly pursed lips. His nostrils flare irritably and he turns to duck beneath the caution tape, leaving Alfred to fill in the blanks.


The car arrives outside the precinct within record time. Arthur's foot had hardly left the gas pedal during the drive over. His eyes, stony and fiery like hot coals, never left the road.

The atmosphere is left suffocatingly silent. A veil of quiet that is punctured only by the muted sound of their car doors slamming shut.

For the first time in years, Alfred is genuinely happy to be back at the station. His energy is not instantly sapped away by the incessant buzz of chatter and phones that ring without end; squeezed all into one cramped, confined space with an alarming lack of windows, an abundance of desks overflowing with paperwork and files, and dreary exposed rafters and piping.

He is so eager to get away from the tension between himself and Arthur that he takes a moment to appreciate the shitty little building they've all been shoved into. So eager that he does not immediately turn down Francis' invitation to converse. Though, he does try to escape, halted by the labyrinth that is their place of work.

His foot ends up entangled in a bundle of cords, sending him careening toward the water dispenser. Arthur shoulders past him, still in a blaze of anger. The shove rights Alfred's balance. Unfortunately, the tower of paper cups does not fare as well when Arthur steps in his office, yanking the door shut behind him. They tumble to the floor as the entire place vibrates with the power of it.

"Another one?" Francis asks, jerking a thumb behind him to indicate his question is in reference to Arthur's terrible mood.

Alfred huffs as he untangles the cords strangling his ankle. "Yeah." Then, in explanation, "College student. Freshman. It's like they're getting younger and younger and we're getting no closer to stopping it."

Francis hums in response, nodding solemnly while leaning back in his chair. It squeaks pathetically in protest.

"Let's chat about something a bit more light-hearted, then. Shall we?"

Stupidly, Alfred agrees, not at all recognizing the gleeful glimmer in Francis' eyes as he is unknowingly guided into participating in petty gossip.

"So… Who have you been romancing?"

Right away with the interrogation.

"No one," he answers easily, sidling past the nosy man without so much as a glance, which is truly a commendable feat, considering that involves squeezing between Francis' chair and the steel filing cabinet not even a foot away from it. But Alfred will be damned if he willingly plays into the greedy hands of Office Gossip, Francis Bonnefoy. As the saying goes: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice… Well, he's making sure it doesn't come to that.

Alas, despite the awkwardness of Alfred shimmying behind him, Francis does not let up. Rather, he sees the tight fit as an opportunity to continue pestering. And if his chair happens to squish just a bit harder against Alfred's body, that definitely has nothing to do with him. "That vase of three dozen roses on your desk says differently, mon ami."

Sure enough, once he escapes the terrors of being pressed to death, he spots a large bunch of startlingly red flowers on the small portion of table that is his own at the single double-sided desk within the whole building.

The blooms resemble the splatter of freshly drawn blood. The petals glide across his fingertips like finely-spun silk. Alfred tugs off the tiny card clipped neatly to the cerulean ribbon wrapped around the curvature of the glass vase. Inside, in dramatic script, it reads, You're everything a big, bad wolf could want.

Ah, three dozen. The age-old motif.

Alfred is unable to stop the adoring smile that stretches his lips, even with Francis' eyes glued to his profile. Slipping the note into his pocket, he quickly conjures up an appropriate excuse before the pressure to tell is piled on.

"The Williams family just saying thanks."

"Hm." Francis hums. It sounds like he is evaluating the possibility. "With roses?"

He shrugs.


The one-sided communication between Ivan and Alfred ceases immediately after the delivery of the flowers. There is nothing more to be said. Red is for a favor. Roses are for the Rose Motel. Three dozen are for room number three. Secretive, precise, and straightforward.

They meet in their usual dingy motel room. The one with the dusty yellow curtains and the water stain that steadily crawls across the ceiling, growing wider and wider which each rendezvous. The one with the dried brown spots (mysteriously similar to that of oxidized blood) that remain unclean, deemed irremovable, having seeped too deeply into the threads of the frieze carpet.

Old-fashioned wallpaper curls up along the corners, peeling away to escape the weakened plaster beneath. The air is painfully still, dense with the musty smell of dust-laden furniture. Something positively reeks of mildew, the stench sears the fragile nerves within Alfred's nostrils. Filthy, is the perfect description.

Perfectly normal. Inconspicuous. The standard motel room.

No one would suspect that beyond the locked door at the opposite end of the bathroom is a suite of romantic paradise (another joke made at the expense of Alfred's emotional sensitivity).

Ivan leads Alfred over the threshold with a heavy hand at the space between his shoulder blades. Those hypnotic violet irises leave him virtually weak in the knees, so he welcomes the support.

His feet travel from cheap tile to pliant, plush carpet. The door swings shut behind them. Immediately, the atmosphere is different here. In this private room, aglow with the flickering flames of candles and the sweet aroma of a cologne with the clean smell of pristine linens, "a favor" has transformed from an act of business to a personal affair. Here, away from the watchful eyes of others, he and Ivan are no longer enemies. Here, they are simply that: Alfred and Ivan, two men dealt an unfortunate hand of cards.

"Are you trying to seduce me again, Braginsky?" Alfred asks, cockily raising an eyebrow; an action so contrary to the rapid beating of his heart against his ribs.

The man guffaws at this query, the first sound he's made all night. "I am merely playing up your fantasies. The sneaking around, the seclusion..."

Ivan's voice trails off, his hand traces farther down the hidden ridges of Alfred's spine, raising goosebumps, as he leans forward to whisper huskily into his ear, "The romance. "

It is Alfred's turn to chuckle. The familiarity of their banter helps to remind him of who's really in control here.

Romance. It's a laughable concept, regardless of the way in which it makes him shiver with anticipation, want. Amidst all the pain and suffering, the murder and death, does anyone really have time for love? Cupid has forsaken them all.

Alfred turns the tables with a firm hand against Ivan's chest, chasing him backwards until they encounter the unyielding weight of the bed. Ivan goes down without a fight, flopping back against the mattress. It is the devilish smirk and smouldering gaze that betrays his giddiness.

"Ivan," Alfred sighs, wistfully.

The bed dips beneath the press of his knee. He settles his hands against the lapels of Ivan's suit jacket, swings a legs across the man's body to sit astride his hips. Alfred drops his bottom heavily into Ivan's lap, perched like he belongs there. Satin ripples and meanders about the shape of their bodies atop the sheets, flowing like water.

"Kiss me."

Ivan is a man of possession; he wants nothing but to own. A true Alpha. He does not miss a single beat, lurching Alfred forward forcibly by fingers anchored firmly into the skin at his waist. Alfred goes willingly.

They pause to stare into one another's eyes, a breath away, searching for something. A moment so intimate that Alfred hesitates. His body tenses, he prepares to end this here, but then Ivan is kissing him with all the gentleness of a lovesick human when his humanity has long-since been gone. Soft and chaste, though made all the more passionate by its lack of lust. A sickening fluttering builds in Alfred's stomach that has absolutely nothing to do with the tickle of arousal.

Love?

A needy moan punches out of him and he pleads more, licking along the seam of Ivan's lips, desperate for a taste of exactly that.

"Fuck!" Ivan hisses in pain, tugging back, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. "What the hell did you do?"

Momentarily, Alfred is confused, startled and disappointed by the suddenness of Ivan's departure. Then he remember.

Oh, right... that.

He opens his mouth to expose a tiny stud of pure silver embedded in the pink flesh of his tongue. It glints and shimmers, capturing the dancing flames of the candle withering away on the nightstand.

"Bitch," Ivan says almost endearingly. Interest comes in the form of a hand sliding through the hair at the back of Alfred's head, an eager pressure coaxing him forth into a proper kiss this time.

"Masochist," teases Alfred, eyelids growing heavy with desire. But, nonetheless, he complies, sinking fully into the man beneath him.

Love? There is nothing romantic about pain.