Bartender Vox Week
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Summary
Alastor knows Vox is working up to something with his little speech. He can feel it in the airwaves; in the way Vox’s signal oscillates wildly despite his steady smile. His Picture Box is always so noisy, even when he tries to be quiet. It’s building word by word for the little case that Vox is making towards something Alastor is sure he’s going to dislike.
He’s seen it coming for the last six-months, the growing, writhing expectations from Vox. The way he clings harder, asks for just one more drink or one more dance. The longing little gazes Vox thinks he doesn’t see. This always happens, useless emotions from others spreading like weeds, the closer he allows them to be to his person, like what he gives them is never enough. For once, he wished it could be different. For years, he thought maybe it would be with Vox, that maybe Vox was like him.
Now he can watch that illusion fracture in real time as Vox opens his mouth.
Series
- Part 1 of Bartender Vox Week
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Vox sighs at the steady drip of acid rain splats down on the pavement outside his electronic store. The neon lights glow a steady blue against the puddles. He glances at the door and then gazes across his backlog for repair: a few small portable radios, a couple of toasters, and one television set. The only thing even semi-modern was the radios. Of course, Alastor would leave loopholes for himself when he said no new technology in their deal.
The irritating blurt of Alastor’s recorded voice echoes across the empty shop. “Radio technology isn’t new, my dear! Why, it’s been around since before the war. No, these little shinier boxes are hardly new.”
He flips the back casing off the radio with extreme prejudice as he harshly adjusts the wires. Vox sneers. “Not new, my ass.”
Series
- Part 2 of Bartender Vox Week
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“No,” Husk says flatly, not looking up from counting his poker chips.
Valentino scrunches his face into a pout as he stretches himself across the bartop, his fingers curling around the shot. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”
”You don’t have to. I know that look means you’re thinking about fucking someone. It’s not difficult to guess who. The answer’s no. You can’t fuck him, find someone else.”
”But Husky.” Valentino whines as he pulls himself off the bartop, throws back his drink, and falls sensually across the Casino Overlord’s lap. He reaches up to fiddle with his grumpy partner’s bow tie.
”I don’t want the Radio Demon up our asses—don’t say it!”
”Oooh, kinky.” Valentino couldn’t help himself. As soon as the sad little television in the yellow sweater walked in, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep until he fucked him. Val was as benevolent as he was beautiful; he could give the little television a pity fuck.
Series
- Part 3 of Bartender Vox Week
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Summary
It hurts. Everything hurts. Alastor isn’t here to deter others’ broadcasts, and Pride has grown wild and wicked in signals. Now it's a many-headed dragon. Radio waves might not be his bread and butter like they are Alastor’s, but he can feel them all. His body is the perfect little receiver, and that’s exactly the problem. It only gets worse. Vox can’t tune them out. He’s not made for it. So they thrum with constant noise and leave him with a never-ceasing migraine.
He reaches up and wrenches one of his antennas down, bending it over itself. It hurts like Hell, like breaking an arm. It quiets the never-ending deluge of foreign signals. Vox lets out a shaky breath and stands.
Alastor isn’t here to deal with this, but Vox is.
Series
- Part 4 of Bartender Vox Week
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Alastor whistles a jaunty tune as he strolls up to the hill to the decrepit hotel. What Rosie sees in a place like this he can only guess. Much to his chagrin, it was not his place to question. So with his signature smile, he knocks on the door, only to have it promptly slammed in his face.
His grin twitches; this was going swimmingly. He could feel a headache coming on.
Pentagram City’s airwaves are noisier than he left them, but that was no worry. He would deal with that soon enough. He was itching to restart his broadcasts; the air hummed around him, saturated in unfamiliar frequencies. It was like listening to hundreds of swarming wasps. It made his antlers itch. Most irritating of all, it made it impossible to find Vox.
Or Vox finally joins Alastor at the Hazbin Hotel.
Series
- Part 5 of Bartender Vox Week
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“What made you do it?” Angel Dust slurs out. He’s high. His antenna twitched in irritation. Great, just how Vox wanted to spend his evening babysitting. Vox isn’t sure what the spider took, but Charlie isn’t going to be happy if he has more drug stashes hidden around; that’s not Vox’s job, though.
Vox throws down the towel he’s using to shine the cocktail glasses. “Pardon?”
“What made you sell your soul?” Vox lets out a screech of static, the edges of his screen black out, and then his entire vision goes back. Vox raises a hand up and smacks his casing a few times to get his screen to come back on.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Or Angel and Vox get a chance to talk.
Series
- Part 6 of Bartender Vox Week
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Vox didn’t think about it. If he had, he’s not sure he would have done it, but his body didn’t let him think. One minute, he was watching Alastor showboat in front of the first man; the next, he was flickering in front of him while the angelic axe came down.
Hah, looked like Pentious wasn’t the only idiot who could be a self-sacrificing martyr. Vox’s eyes flicker to Alastor’s; it’s just for a second, but it’s enough. For once, his smile’s gone flat. Vox’s heart pounds, speeding up in the way it only does for Alastor, even decades later.
Pain, sharp and incompressible, burns over his chest. The air is stolen from his lungs. He always assumed angelic steel would hurt like a bitch, but the reality left him reeling. It was like his whole torso had been dipped in a vat of acid before promptly being rolled in salt and deep-fried.Or Vox is wounded in the battle with heaven. Alastor freaks out.
Series
- Part 7 of Bartender Vox Week