“Clear…” He wheezed, finally allowing himself to drop down on all fours. The sound of bootsteps bounced around inside of his head, like a whole army was flowing through the set of heavy double doors behind him.

There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him far too firmly for his delicate state.

“Are you alright, Brother St. Clair?” The young police woman’s eyes were warm, even in the sickly moonlight.

“Ah,” was all he could say. Her eyes kept staring at him in concern; he could see his own dark silhouette outlined in a friendly blue on the front of her visor - and inverted and pathetic hunched form - good lord, was he shivering? “Yeah. ‘M alright.” He tried to smile, and his face felt like he probably winced instead.

More boots congregated around him. There was a clinking of metal on metal, belts on guns.

“Well this is one cozy little set-up, ain’t it.” Another male voice, one Vincent couldn’t place a face to. A wise crack to try and hide one’s own nerves — how charming.

Not that Vincent knew anything about that.  

“What do you think, Miriam - wanna move in here with me? You’ll only need to tidy it up a bit.” The young police woman rolled her eyes, silently standing up. Vincent watched a boot as it toed at a fragment of mirror — large and heavy. Probably the speaker.

“Wouldn’t — wouldn’t touch that, if I were you.” Vincent said, and to his distaste there was still very little authority in his voice. The pain was starting to fade from his consciousness, but he still felt drained, like he’d been running through the mountains for days.

“Did you say something, Crow?”

The surging annoyance gave him enough energy to raise himself so that he could crouch and look up at the speaker.

Young and dumb, with a jaw that could cut diamonds.

Not that Vincent knew anything about that either.

“There’s a Nomen Type demon stuck inside those shards, and he would very much like to get out.” He looked the speaker up and down, “Especially into a sexy new meat suit.”

Young-And-Dumb jumped, with all the grace of a cat spooked from its nap. His boots must have lifted at least a meter off the ground before stomping back down, splintering the rotting floor boards. All you needed to do was add in one little girly screech. Miriam laughed, joined by a couple more male voices.

Vincent couldn’t laugh quite yet, but that was amusing enough for him to scrounge up a shred of energy to stand. A groan — more like, an exhalation of built-up tension — escaped his throat as he did so, but he didn’t feel too wobbly on his own two feet and considered that an overall victory.

“Don’t worry, bro — I’ll just pop him right back out your sphincter if that happens.” Reaching for the shoulder grasp was probably ill-advised, considering he could barely stand. He did it anyways, because there was no way he was going to miss this chance to retaliate. “I can’t guarantee it’ll be the most comfortable one for you, though.”

 There was more laughter. Miriam’s eyes sparkled, and Vincent decided he liked that. He swept the shards of glass with the side of his boot, taking care to avoid having any of the razor-sharp edges cut into his shoes or clothes. The soulbind would probably keep him protected but… who knew what fucking else this particular Nomen could manage with a drop of blood? He toed the shards beneath the sofa chair that now held the empty carved mirror frame, then patted the front of his cassock dramatically.

“There, all clean now,” He announced, leveling a stare at Young-and-Dumb. “Oh and if you’re going to call a Brother of Light with a colloquialism — it’s ‘Raven’, not ‘Crow’. Ravens are the magnificent ones with very large beaks? You of all people should care about the difference.”

One of the other policemen howled, slapping Young-and-Dumb on the back. Miriam snorted and squealed, like a piglet. Even in the sickly moonlight, Young-and-Dumb looked red.

“What did you just—”

“There a problem here, gentlemen?” The old noir detective seemed to have a knack for arriving at just the right point in the conversation.

“No, sir,” Vincent said. “I was just teaching,” he scanned Young-and-Dumb’s chest plate through his visor. It spun its thinking wheel for a moment, then came back with Clark, Manfred. What the fuck kind of name is Manfred? “I was just teaching Manfred here about the intricacies of exorcisms involving a Nomen Type demon.”

Noir Detective grunted.

“Let’s keep to our expertise, shall we, gentlemen? We got a job to do.”

When Vincent’s lips automatically formed the words “yes, sir” in response, he realized, with a pang, that it’s been a whole year since he last had the chance to say anything in unison with others.