Warning:Cross-dressing Vincent and mentions of prostitution
The smoky, low-lit bar was tucked away in a forgotten alley, the kind of place where the neon sign buzzed quietly above the peeling paint of its facade. Soleil Noir, it was called—an ironic name, given how little light found its way through the grime-streaked windows. The bar itself wasn’t much, just another watering hole for the city’s lost souls, but it was where Rody Lamoree felt most at home. He worked behind the counter, serving drinks and chatting up the regulars. Rody was a bartender, and in his mind, a guardian of sorts for those who stumbled into the dark corners of the world.
Tonight, as always, his eyes followed Vincent.
Vincent Charbonneau was impossible to miss. He was all elegance and flair, a vision in red lipstick and smoky eyes, his short black hair tousled just enough to give him that sultry, dangerous look. The heels he wore clicked rhythmically on the floor as he moved through the room, his black dress clinging to his slight frame. For as long as Rody could remember, Vincent had worked the streets around the bar, always slipping inside for a drink or a few words with whoever caught his eye that night. He was one of the regulars—only, unlike the others, he seemed like he belonged somewhere better.
And Rody had taken it upon himself to save him from this life.
“Whiskey neat?” Rody asked, sliding Vincent’s usual across the counter as the man approached.
Vincent took it with a smile, though his sharp eyes seemed tired tonight, maybe even frustrated. “Thanks, darling.” His voice was low, husky, with just enough sweetness to make Rody’s heart skip a beat.
“Busy night?” Rody leaned on the counter, close enough that Vincent could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Could be busier,” Vincent said with a dry chuckle, eyes flicking to the corner where a man had been watching him for the last hour.
Rody followed his gaze, eyes narrowing at the guy. Another creep, he thought. “That guy bothering you?”
Vincent’s smile faltered, but he quickly recovered. “No, Rody, he’s not bothering me. He’s a client.”
The words barely registered. Rody was too busy watching the man in the corner, waiting for him to make some sleazy move, to leer or reach out with dirty hands. “He looks like trouble,” Rody muttered.
“He’s not trouble, he’s my job,” Vincent said, a little firmer this time.
But Rody wasn’t listening. The moment the guy stood up and started towards them, Rody was out from behind the bar. He moved faster than Vincent could react, stepping between him and the man, blocking the way with his broad, well-built frame. His disheveled auburn hair caught in the bar’s dim light as he fixed the stranger with a hard glare.
“Can I help you with something?” Rody asked, his tone just shy of a growl.
The man hesitated, clearly thrown off by the sudden confrontation. “Uh, I was just gonna talk to—”
“No, you’re not,” Rody cut him off. “Vincent doesn’t need your kind of trouble tonight.”
The guy glanced at Vincent, confused. “I thought—”
“Thought wrong,” Rody said, his voice low and threatening.
Vincent sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead as the man stammered an apology and quickly left the bar. Rody watched him go with a satisfied look before turning back to Vincent, beaming as if he’d just performed some grand act of heroism.
“You’re welcome,” he said, smug.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, though there was a hint of amusement in them. “Rody, you’ve got to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” Rody asked, genuinely confused.
“Scaring off my clients!” Vincent’s voice rose, earning a few curious glances from the patrons nearby. He dropped it back down to a whisper, leaning in close so no one could overhear. “I’m trying to work.”
Rody blinked, not quite grasping what Vincent was saying. “Work? Vincent, come on. You don’t need to be doing… that.” He waved his hand vaguely, not wanting to say the word out loud.
Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what exactly do you think I should be doing, Rody? Getting a nice office job? Settling down with a picket fence and a dog?” He chuckled bitterly. “This is my job. This is what I do.”
Rody looked pained, his green eyes softening. “You don’t have to. I can help you out. You know, get you out of this place. You’re too good for this.”
Vincent shook his head, more out of exasperation than anything else. “Rody, darling, you’ve been scaring off my clients for weeks now. I’ve tried to tell you a hundred times, but you just won’t listen.”
“Because you shouldn’t have to deal with them,” Rody insisted, his voice full of conviction. “You deserve better.”
Vincent’s gaze softened for a moment, and something like a sigh passed between them. For all the frustration Rody caused him, there was a certain charm to his obliviousness. He genuinely believed he was doing the right thing, that he was saving Vincent from some tragic fate.
“I don’t need saving, Rody,” Vincent said quietly, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”
Rody’s brow furrowed as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. To him, Vincent was this fragile thing, someone who needed protection from the rough edges of the world. He’d seen the way the men in the bar looked at him, how they treated him like an object rather than a person. Rody wasn’t about to let that happen.
“I just… I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Rody said softly.
Vincent let out a long, tired breath. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Rody. I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to handle myself.”
But Rody wasn’t convinced. He crossed his arms, still blocking the bar like a bouncer. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop looking out for you.”
Vincent’s lips curled into a small, wry smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Rody shrugged, that goofy grin returning to his face. “Yeah, I’ve been told.”
They stayed like that for a moment, the tension between them easing into something more familiar. Vincent watched Rody for a long time, his eyes tracing the way his messy hair fell across his forehead, the way his shirt strained slightly over his broad shoulders. There was something oddly comforting about Rody’s obliviousness, about how he saw the world in black and white. In Rody’s mind, Vincent was the good guy, and anyone who looked at him the wrong way was the bad guy.
If only it were that simple.
“I’ll tell you what,” Vincent said after a moment. “How about I finish this drink, and you let me get back to work? No more scaring off my clients for tonight, alright?”
Rody looked reluctant, but eventually, he sighed. “Fine. But I’m keeping an eye on you.”
“Of course you are,” Vincent murmured, taking another sip of his drink.
They fell into a comfortable silence, the sound of clinking glasses and quiet conversations filling the space around them. Vincent couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth whenever Rody was near, despite how much trouble the man caused. There was something undeniably sweet about his misguided attempts at heroism, as if he really believed that he could protect Vincent from the world.
But the truth was, Vincent didn’t need protecting. Not from the world, and certainly not from himself.
The night dragged on, and as promised, Rody kept a close watch on Vincent. Whenever a potential client so much as glanced his way, Rody would give them a look—a silent warning that sent most of them packing.
Vincent rolled his eyes every time, but deep down, he couldn’t help but feel a little… touched. Maybe Rody was dense, maybe he didn’t understand the realities of Vincent’s life, but there was a sincerity in his actions that Vincent had never encountered before.
By the time the bar began to empty out, Vincent found himself lingering at the counter longer than usual. Rody, too, seemed in no hurry to leave, wiping down the bar with slow, deliberate movements as if waiting for something.
“You know,” Vincent said after a while, his voice softer than before, “you really don’t have to look out for me like this.”
Rody glanced up, his green eyes meeting Vincent’s in the dim light. “I know. But I want to.”
There was a sincerity in his voice that made Vincent’s heart skip. For a brief moment, he let himself imagine what it might be like if things were different—if he didn’t have to work the streets, if Rody wasn’t always playing the part of the oblivious protector. Maybe, in some other life, they could be something more.
But this wasn’t that life.
With a sigh, Vincent finished his drink and stood up, his heels clicking against the floor once more. “Goodnight, Rody,” he said with a small, sad smile.
Rody watched him go, his heart heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. “Goodnight, Vincent.”
As Vincent disappeared into the night, Rody found himself staring at the door long after it had closed, wondering how long it would be until he saw him again
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