The Time Triangle

Ending 1 (pt.2)

**Your POV**

You unconsciously poured the now boiling water into a stray cup for Vince, not even noticing how Vincent flinched when you spilt some water on your hand. You grabbed the tea bag from his hand with your blistered one and put it in the cup. You let it sit, and Vince grabbed your hand, making you flinch.
You turned to him and saw his concerned face. So, you asked, "What's wrong, Chef?" He scowled, "Don't call me that." before going all soft again looking at your hand and saying, "You burned yourself." You nod, "So? It's not that big of a deal. This is a daily occurrence." Then, Vince notices the scars on your hand and asks, "What about those?" You nod, "Same thing. Blisters are made, and I keep accidentally popping them. They scar easy."

**Vince POV**

I recalled what Rody had said, "Y/n said something about being a fast cook at home. I know he's good with knives; he likes to brag about it sometimes, but There's no way his fingers would be THAT scarred. I know he'd lying... So, it's possible he'll lie again if you ask. Maybe we could even catch him in the act and ask why he has so many scars... I noticed one on his ankle too when he rolled up his pants on that rainy day, trying to avoid getting his socks any wetter. I don't think he realized how visible it was... and I didn't want to ask."

"Liar." I declare, before dragging him into my office. He tried to protest, but I take the tea from the counter he had set it on and bring it with us. When I close the door and hand the cup to him, I ask, "What's the real reason?" Y/n trembles, "W-what?" "That you have so many scars! Why?" I press, and he's tearing up. I hug him. He sniffles, and My chest's slightly wet now. I don't even care anymore.
I pat him on the back and ask again. This time he replies, "I was abused for wanting to be someone I wasn't. After a while, I was kicked out of the house, and was desperate for jobs. I ended up getting one at a restaurant, as a cashier. When I got enough money, I got an apartment. But they found out I was younger than the normal people looking for jobs, so they made me do harder things without giving me any more money. I had to quit, and eventually... I found my way here."

He was shaking so much, and all I could do was hold him in my arms and ask, "How old are you?" He doesn't answer at first, and when I think he's asleep, he answers, "24... I was abandoned at 15." The shock registered on my face, but of course, he couldn't see it in the dark. "And the scars?" I ask, and he explains how he got each one.
Glass from his father's drinking habit for his eye and hands, burn scars on his right shoulder from cigarettes his mother had pressed into him as punishment (Now, I feel guilty for smoking and know why Y/n always seemed to avoid me when I did so), a scar for missing a target with his knife on the ankle from his parents, and he admits to having another like it on his stomach.

I was furious. "We can still file a police report." I say, and he rapidly shakes his head, breaking out of my hold frantically, moving the tea bag up and down in the water to distract himself. He takes it out after a second, closing his hand around the steaming thing- realizing that the herbs inside the bag no longer have any flavor left, as they'd been in there for a long time.
I run out of the office and grab a towel near a cook, who sends me a questioning stare, before running back to my office. Y/n was right outside the door, tea bag still in his hand. "Put it in here!" I demand, "Don't burn yourself on it if you know it's hot; what's wrong with you? Take better care of yourself!"

"They don't live in France." He says distantly, as I pry his hand open and take the tea bag from his fingers. I set it on the counter, moving him over to the sink to run cold water over his hands.
He flinches, closing his eyes for a second as the water hits his hands, before looking at me and repeating, "They don't live in France." I realized what he meant when he continued, "They moved after, so I'd never find them. They changed their landline... Phone number... Names- everything."

Tears are still streaming down his face as he asks, "Why do you care anyways? Nobody's supposed to. It's just some sob story that doesn't involve you." Rody walked in, holding a bunch of plates. He set them on the counter, practically running to Y/n.
Y/n looked at him, then me, and said, "Your tea's still in the room. It's done, too... So go ahead and drink it. I have some bandages; I'll wrap my hands and get back to work." He was dismissing me. I did what he was told, but made sure he was slow about it, only to hear Y/n scold Rody, saying, "You shouldn't've come back! When you leave a job- You. Do. Not. Go. Back!" I went in my office and took a sip. My face screwed up; It was sour.

It was sour...

Y/n and Rody did their shift, and I watched them from the drilled hole in my wall. I did this of the rest of the day. Y/n stayed out to clean, but Rody was going to 'take out the trash'. What a lie.
He opened the freezer. I walked over to him and knocked him out. Y/n didn't know. He would never know. I tied Rody up, ignoring the guilt eating up at my insides.

Rody woke up in a panic, yelling, "G-get away from me! D-don't come a-any closer!!" I defied him, walking closer, knife in hand. "S-stop! Stop!" he cried, and I told him to calm down, and I'd give him a 15 second head start.
He struggled, and inch wormed to the door. When his seconds were up, I growled, disappointed, "You can't even hurry when your life is in danger." I picked him up, and cut his ropes, my knife threatening to make its way into his back. He tried running. Big mistake. I stabbed him, impaling him.

The door was open, and Y/n walked by to see Rody fall onto the floor, dead. He dropped the plates in his hands shattering them. Tears pricked his eyes, and he fell to his knees, holding Rody's head of red hair in his arms, crying. His sobs made me upset.
After a minute, he stood up. He looked at me and before I was able to go over and wipe his tears, he aggressively did it on his own. "Tears are for the weak, but I couldn't help it... I thought I could save him; but I failed. I didn't think he would go without the matches. This is all my fault." He spoke, and I watched as his legs flickered between in and out of existence.

 He made eye contact with me, before saying, "Now I have to go back to my world. I failed for a happy ending; and now I have to pay the price of death. Dying asleep is one of the best ways to go, but... I wish it wasn't this way. I don't care what you do with the body; just give him a semi-proper funeral." He glitched, and he was gone.

For the first time, I cried.

I never got to tell him he helped me taste again...
Why'd I do this?