Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“….admitedly, he is somewhat more of a gentleman than most of the folks dwelling down here-”

“Then agree.”

“-but under that thin layer of manners, he’s still an obnoxious and crass buffoon-”

“Then don’t.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes. Once he replayed the audio from three days prior so many times through his microphone staff that he could hear scratches forming on the otherwise imaginary record, he concluded that he needed a fresh perspective. He decided to talk about his predicament to Angel Dust, because he assumed he’d be the best person to bounce off — Angel wasn’t scared of him, which while foolish, meant he spoke to him openly and bluntly, instead of trying to guess what Alastor himself wanted to hear. At the same time, he was close enough with Husk to not risk upsetting Alastor too much, or worse, later gossip about the conversation and see him pay the price. And, unlike some other hotel’s residents, Angel was too blase to care and thus make the interaction annoying by assigning it weight it certainly didn’t have.

What he apparently didn’t account for, was that Angel was also too blase to offer any worthwhile feedback.

“It’s not as simple as you’re making it sound, my dear,” he said dryly.

Angel raised a brow, looking up from his portable telephone he was sliding his finger up and down on.

“Look, I’ve dated more guys than ya’ve prolly ever been in the same room with. And let me tell ya, it literally fuckin’ is.” He placed the telephone down on the couch and crossed his lower arms. “So instead of givin’ me this guy’s entire bio, just ask yourself this; ya like him?”

It was a question without a clear cut answer. Admittedly, him and Vox have recently been on better terms (speaking, even) than they have been in decades. Nonetheless, the animosity from all the time they spent as bitter rivals still lingered, seemingly not interested in leaving any time soon. But so did the fondness from even further past.

“...I suppose so.”

It wasn’t often that Alastor allowed hesitation to slip into his tone, even if it was mostly masked by an increase in static. If Angel noticed, he didn’t let it show.

“That’s a start,” he nodded. “Ya love him?”

Alastor considered the things he did love; strong black coffee first thing in the morning, musky smell of bayou, thrill of a challenging hunt, good music that grabbed you by the hand and tugged toward the parquet. Then, he put them side by side with Vox. It wasn’t an all too favorable match-up.

“...He’s the most entertaining demon I’ve met here,” he settled on eventually.

“Guess comin’ from ya that’s basically a yes, huh?” Angel chuckled.

In a way, there was something that rang true about that. Still, Alastor didn’t think it was quite right. He hummed, noncommittally.

“Well, there ya go! Now go and take your new boyfriend to like a museum or whatever shit you dinosaurs are into.”

Now he was certain this wasn’t quite right. He very much didn’t like how the word “boyfriend” sounded, even more so than “beau” or “moll”.

“I have to admit, I…” he started, not exactly sure how to express himself so that Angel would understand him. “...never was the one to enjoy dating.”

That seemed to surprise Angel a little.

“You’ve dated before? No offense but-” He looked him up and down. “Actually, full offense. Ya creepy as fuck.”

“During my lifetime, yes. It helped to blend in.” Alastor shrugged. “I’ve had two or three sweethearts, but all in all I’d say the whole ordeal was...” a carte blanche for people to put their hands all over him unpromptedly, to stick their nose into his private matters and harass him about where he went and with whom, to invade his life and talk nonsense about “marriage” and, Lucifer forbid, “children” “...Rather tedious.”

For some reason, Angel flashed him a grin.

“Can relate. So basically what you’re sayin’ is you’re not after this guy’s heart but his cock, huh?”

Alastor gave him a flat stare. Then, the stained glass in the windows started to rattle.

Angel nearly showed his head between his knees, as he pressed both sets of palms against his ears to cover them from the shrieking static.

“Fuck, Jesus fuckin’ Christ-! Sorry, shit, I’m sorry, okay?!”

The noise rang for ten seconds longer, scaring a horde of cockroaches from under the lobby’s furniture — huh, Nifty really wasn’t joking when she said the bugs were still winning. When it stopped, Angel glared at him.

“Fuck you,” he mumbled. “All I was sayin’ is that I don’t judge, ‘kay? Sometimes ya just want a nice piece of dick. We’ve all been there.”

“Speak for yourself.”Alastor bared his teeth in a condescending smile.

Angel sighed.

“Why am I even helpin’ ya with this?”

“Because my shadow found the counterfeit you have hidden around the hotel,” Alastor reminded ever so kindly, examining his claws.

“No, I mean- Ya don’t wanna date him. Ya don’t wanna fuck him. Like what’s stoppin’ ya from tellin’ him to fuck off?”

A grimace cut through Alastor’s face, which in his case meant that his upper lip curled to show a bit of the gums and his brows fell low.

“Presuming I were to reject his advances, he’d most likely throw himself in the arms of someone else.” Many very grubby arms.

“Sure, maybe. I mean, rejection is a bitch.” He waited a moment, expecting Alastor to keep talking. When he didn’t, he frowned in confusion. “Wait… that’s it?”

Alastor tilted his head.

“Ya considerin’ this only ‘cause the dude who asked ya out might have a messy rebound?”

“Not “might”, and not just a “rebound”,” he corrected.

“What, he like broke up with a boyfriend for ya or somethin’?”

As much as his ego wanted to say yes, the facts about Vox’s so called love life suggested otherwise. He hummed reluctantly.

“I suppose that’s a possibility, but I wouldn’t exactly bet on that.”

Angle opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place and a realization dawned on him.

“Holy shit,” he said under his breath, “Wait, wait, wat- Ya thinkin’ about going out with Vox?”

For just a moment, Alastor froze. Then, a studio laughter filled the lobby.

“That conceited picture box? God gracious, no! What has come over you to even suggest that, my dear fellow?”

The unimpressed look Angel gave him showed he didn’t buy his bluff in the slightest.

“Oh puh-leaaase,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe I didn’t get that sooner. He’s the only fucker crazy enough to go after ya.” Rude. But not fully untrue. “And let me tell ya, he’s crazy, alright. I only believe like half of the shit Val told me about him and that still makes him sound like a fuckin’ nutcase.”

His expression gained a more serious quality to it and he leaned forward.

“The guy’s a nasty ass stalker, Al. He like has cameras on the cameras he’s got on ya. Instead of thinkin’ if ya wanna date him or not, ya should be thinkin’ ‘bout how many feet ya want on your restrainin’ order.” He paused for a moment, musing. “Ya know, Charlie’s dad’s a king, she might be able to actually get ya that…”

Alastor bristled and straightened, puffing up his chest.

“I’ll have you know that I’m more than capable of handling myself, thank you very much,” he said coldly. “And as for Vox, I, ah, value his… dedication.”

That was a bit of a half-truth, but he wasn’t about to explain to Angel that he felt underappreciated by his peers. Oh, common Joes of Hell were terrified of him, no doubt about that. But other overlords treated him basically like an acquaintance from work. It was insulting. People in the living world wrote books about his feats as a serial killer, but here? The current (well, forever) ruler didn’t even knew who he was, after he’d been terrorizing the masses for almost a hundred years! Vox was the only one who gave him the amount of attention he deserved. Of course he’d want to follow his every move, of course he interrupted the scheduled broadcasts to talk about him, that was what the public, newspapers and radio did as well when he turned Louisiana into his personal playground. As they should.

Angel cringed.

“Right. Sorry, I forgot you’re mother fuckin’ insane as well, my bad.”

“If I were you, I would learn to watch my words when I’m speaking to my superiors,” Alastor’s voice crackled threateningly through heavy static, but he paid him no mind, slumping on the couch.

“So, lemme summarize; ya don’t wanna fuck him and don’t wanna date hum, but ya don’t wanna see him fuck or date other people and he’s like, dunno, the highlight of your existence.” As he talked in exasperated tone, Alastor varied between noding and swinging his head in a so-so gesture. He sighed heavily. “Ya can’t seriously expect me to-” He stopped suddenly, as his eyes widened. “Hold on, I think I know how to deal with this cluster fuck situation.”

Vox’s apartment was decorated in an extremely modern, bordering on futuristic style. The art prints hanging on the walls were geometric and lacked frames. Every aspect of the slick furniture was minimalistic, every, that is, beside the surfaces. Because those were currently occupied by countless alcohol cans and bottles, full and empty alike. The Media Demon himself half-sat half-laid on the armrest-less sofa feeling and looking pathetic. His eyes were bloodshot and his usually neat bow tie hung undone, exposing a stained collar on which, along with his unbuttoned vest, he spilled multiple beers. Having no proper dimensional lips made drinking difficult, especially when his coordination was out of whack after a whole night of drowning his sorrows.

Stupid fucking mouth. Stupid fucking face. Was it because of it Alastor didn’t even have the courtesy to reject him and have been ghosting him for the last three days? He bet it was. He bet it was because he was an ugly fucking freak. But fuck Alastor! Who cares! Certainly not Vox, that’s for sure! Yeah!

He let out a low whine which quickly turned into full-on ugly crying, heavily glitching between the sounds. He was one beer away from digging his phone from between the cushions and begging Val to take him back and two beers away from doing so through a dick pic. So, that was it. No more beer. He shakily got up from the couch and trudged toward the mini-bar. It was time for vodka.

Before he reached his destination though, the shadows began crawling from under the furniture. They shot up from the floor, and formed into a familiar skinny silhouette.

“Hello, old pal! You look absolutely dreadful!”

Vox yelped and stumbled over a bottle, which sent him flying to the ground.

“Holy shit!”

Alastor paid his bewilderment no mind, bending over him with arms clasped behind his back and a smile close to splitting his head in half.

“Say my dear, does the word "queer-platonic" mean anything to you?”

Chapter Text

When Vox woke up, his circuit board was on fire, his wires crackled and his mouth tasted as if a bunch of unwashed hippies organized Woodstock 2.0 there and left all their garbage behind. The last time he felt this bad, was after he got his first Hollywood contract and snorted half of his body weight in cocaine. With a great effort he untangled himself from the blankets and tripped out of the bed, forgetting to unplug his charger. The cable yanked his head backward, making his vision distort and stomach clench at the spinning visuals. He froze and pressed a hand against his mouth. After standing still for about a minute, he breathed a sigh of relief, certain that the moment has passed. Then, he bolted toward the bathroom.

Despite painful cramps, all that passed through his hoarse throat was acid as he gripped the toilet bowl. Still, he stayed on his knees in front of it, varying between heaving, fighting vomiting reflexes and cursing. He’d been there for a longer while, when he heard tapping of claws against the marbled floor, followed by a concerned vocalization.

“Hi there, baby,” he whispered weakly, turning to his shark pup, giving him the saddest look any hammerhead has ever pulled off. “Are you worried about daddy? Don’t be. Daddy’s been a fucking idiot and did this to hi-”

He didn’t manage to finish and turned back to the toilet bowl to regurgitate more acid. Vark whined pitifully, and nudged his side.

“Okay, okay, I think- Satan, I hope that was the last of it,” he wheezed finally, before muffling a disgusting belch and bending over, ready to spit out more bile. Thankfully the only thing that left his mouth was greenish spit. His throat burned so badly that he felt like any more strain would make it open up and rain gore all over his beautiful white tiles.

With a choked groan, he heaved himself up and flushed the toilet. Then, he waded over to the shower cabin, undressing as he went. Usually he’d chase Vark away from the bathroom for that, but this time he had neither the willpower or the heart to did it. The little shark had enough stress for one morning.

While the water poured over his synthetic skin, he divided his attention between washing himself and starting his work early. That is, “early” as in “before going to his office”, since his internal clock showed that it was well past the hour at which he would usually do it. He began downloading his e-mails, to read before either deleting them or saving for archiving or blackmailing purposes. A few of them were from his assistants, concerned by his absence from the office, each worded carefully but with urgency growing proportionally to the passage of time. A bit unusual, considering that while he was quite diligent, it wasn't like he never skipped work — most often than not because of his business partners, with the main offender being Val. But well, what was the point of owning the whole (well, technically speaking one third of) company, if he couldn't even grant himself an emergency day off on a whim, right? Then, he cross referenced the e-mails with his schedule, and yeah, this made more sense. Apparently unless he teleported directly into the conference room as soon as he'd dress himself, he was going to be late to a meeting with the representatives from the Greed's television conglomerate. He sighed heavily, shaking his head to get rid if the water dripping into his cable ports. He was way more waterproof than his appearance would have suggested, but the sensation was still unpleasant, similar to having it stuck in an ear canal.

He stepped out of the shower and turned toward the sink, to brush his teeth. Not even him, with all his charm and charisma, could strike a winning deal reeking of alcohol and vomit. For once he was grateful for having a screen for a face; putting on make up to mask his dreadful state would take much longer than turning on a digital filter. It was admittedly less reliable than its physical counterpart, but he would just have to refrain from changing expressions too quickly.

While he was mass sending replies, he put on the footage from the previous night to play on ten times the speed in the background. Usually he'd rather avoid confronting the sad sight that was his handsome self drinking away the sorrows. But he had an absurd feeling that somebody came to his apartment before he blacked out. He knew it was impossible — he had the best security money could buy. Still, he checked just for the pace of mind. Otherwise it would be bugging him for the rest of the day.

He was just about to finish rinsing his mouth, when the rather repetitive video changed from the depressing sob-fest to something much more disconcerting. It was early in the morning and for a moment he thought that the red spot appearing in the middle of his living room was just a reflection from Hell's unnatural sky. But no, when he gave the footage his full attention, it became obvious he couldn't be more wrong.

Alastor.

Alastor was there.

He nearly choked, when he recognized the Radio Demon standing with a disdainful expression above his own form splayed on the floor. As he wheezed and pounded at his chest, trying to get the foam out of his respiratory pipe, running down toward his inner fan, the sequence continued playing to his immense and yet growing horror. The few seconds of it he watched so far were unintelligible due to the changed pacing, but before he had a chance to slow it down, he violently turned the whole thing off. His claws cut through the sink's surface, leaving behind shallow gushes, but he wasn't in the right mind to notice.

It was as if his entire system went into an emergency shutdown. If he wasn't still in the process of loading everything back in order and didn’t operate at half the power at most, he'd probably cause a blackout for the entire building- Or, more likely, for the entire city.

Alastor came here last night. He tried to talk to him about something, but at that point Vox was too busy being drunk out of his mind and tripping over himself to listen. And then, he clumsily crawled between the shattered glass toward Alastor and after a split second of trying to focus bloodshot eyes on him, he-

All the lights in his apartment flashed in a dying spasm and exploded.

He regurgitated right onto the Radio Demon's shoes.

A call broke through his buzzing mind. He put it through on an auto pilot.

"Sir, where are you?!" His assistant's voice rang desperately. "The meeting-"

"Call the meeting off," Vox interrupted him flatly. "I'm busy."

"What?! With what sir?!"

"I have to find my angel steel bullets."

With that, he hung up.

He staggered out of the bathroom. He made a small stop by the kitchen, where he dumped an entire bag of food into the Vark's bowl. The shark-dog himself circled around him, whining worriedly. Vox scratched between his eyes.

"Who's going to be the cutest orphan boy?" He cooed weakly. "That's right, you are."

Despite obviously not understanding the troubling implications of that, Vark didn't pay any mind to his breakfast and followed him to the bedroom. He pawed at his legs as Vox dug through his wardrobes with shaking hands. Not finding much there, despite throwing the entirety of their contents on the floor, Vox pressed his face into his palms, rubbing at his eyes so hard that stray pixels began frizzling around them. Maybe there was no need to take such drastic measures. Maybe he could try to isolate the memory away and- No, Alastor would still be aware of this horrid embarrassment. That was the worst part. There was no point in deleting anything, if Alastor still remembered it. He decided to check the drawers on the bedside tables.

While he rummaged through the one on the left, he bumped into the underside of its top. A glass standing there rang in a warning and he reflectively caught it, before it could shatter. He was putting it away, when something beside it made him pause. Slowly, he closed the drawer and took between his claws a small piece of paper that was under the glass before he almost knocked it over.

It was nothing out of ordinary — just a folded sheet torn out of one of his notepads that he always had laying around in abundance. Still, he stared at it, as if he expected it to sprout legs and ran off. Right in the middle of it stood a curt note, calligraphed by a steady hand, more accustomed to fountain pens than their cheap, dim a dozen contemporary counterparts.

“Drink it."

There was no signature on it beside a doodle of a jagged smile.

Suddenly he felt weak in his knees. He dropped on the bed listlessly, his eyes fixed on the note with a feverish glaze over them. Some part of him noticed the mattress bending under a heavy weight by his side and he reached to pull Vark's head into his lap. The pup wasn't usually allowed on the bed, but there were times for concessions to be made. Vox really needed that emotional support right now.

Hesitantly, he put the recording on once more, this time on normal speed and skipped to the moment in which Alastor teleported inside. While he winced all the way through, he managed to watch the entire thing, up until a bunch of moppets dragged his unconscious body to the bedroom (he knew he passed out in the living room) and Alastor himself disappeared in the kitchen. He carried the prairie oyster cocktail he prepared there to the nightstand on which Vox has found it and disappeared again, this time literally.

Vox didn't move for a good five minutes. Finally, he stroked Vark's dorsal fin and pushed him off.

"Alright, move your ass. Daddy's not blowing his brains out after all, so he'll need to dress up and face the consequences of his actions." He sighed. "That, and a bunch of royally pissed off CEOs."

The concoction Alastor left him tasted awful, but admittedly made his headache more bearable. But maybe that was because he was too grossed out by the raw egg that was in it to focus on the pain. Still, his mood improved enough that he even started whistling as he was pulling clothes from the pile he thrown them on during his breakdown. Just as he was in the middle of tying his bow tie, he felt another call buzzing at the back of his head.

"Hello Velvette," he greeted weakly, giving up on maintaining a casual tone somewhere half-way.

"Don't you "hello" me!" She snapped. "Your assistants have been blowing up my phone the entire morning! And now one of them was crying? Vox, what the fuck! You've been talking my ears off about this meeting for the last week! And now you want to cancel it?! I-"

"Oh, yeah, no, about that-," he pulled his vest down and began looking around for his coat. "I've just had a little crisis. Don't worry about it," he dismissed her, crouching down to look for his shoes.

"What do you mean, "don't worry about it"! Vox, for fuck's sake, our reputation-"

"I've already ordered the staff to stall our guests, okay?" He lied, sending the messages as he spoke. "Relax my dear, I've got it!"

"You better!" Velvette huffed. "I don't want you to later whine to me, that you let a big deal pass you by because you were too busy moping about the Radio Demon rejecting you. Again."

"Yeah, about that- You wouldn't happened to know what a "queer-platonic relationship" is, would you?"

The confused noise on the other side of the call made him sigh. Well, that was fine, he could just voogle it later. He was just used to asking Velvette about the elements of modern life on the upper-side that he wasn't privy to. Sure, he would have to first suffer through a bunch of ridiculing, but in the end she would always explain everything in a clear and exhausting manner. But maybe this wasn't modern slang? It was, after all, very unlikely for Alastor to keep up with the times better than Vox did. It was just that it really didn't sound like something from the 30's...

"What does that have to do with anything?" Velvette finally said, taking him out of his thoughts.

"Well-" he paused, worrying a shoelace. He wasn't exactly in the mood for withstanding mockery and he had an inkling that replying might grant him just that. "Let's just say that... I may have... Not been rejected? This time? Question mark?"

The silence following this was deafening. He cleared his throat, feeling more and more awkward with each passing second.

"Any-waaay! Good talk, I gotta go, see you for the movie night, byeee-"

"Alastor the Radio Demon said he wants to be in a QPR with you?!"

The disbelief in Velvette's voice was somewhat hurtful. Even if he didn't have the full context for it.

"And why wouldn't he?" He said definitely not defensively and not glitching at all. "Look, will you tell me what it means, or not, because I have a bunch of angry investors waiting for me, that grow more likely to tear me limb for limb the longer I take to meet them."

Velvette clicked her tongue.

"Fine. Queer platonic relationship, or QPR for short, is a kind of relationship that has mutual respect and commitment, but not necessarily romance or sex. So basically think opposite of whatever the fuck you have going on with Val." He could hear her grin as she said the last part.

"Well, first of all, fuck you," he huffed. "Second of all, that just sounds like the shit Hay’s code was putting on TV. Or my second marriage. So fuck that too."

Not the first one though. There was no respect lost between him and Maggie. Fuck Maggie.

He could hear Velvette swallow loudly.

"Vox... For the- what? Fifty years? You've known Alastor-"

"Sixty two."

"-Have you ever, and I mean ever seen him with a partner?"

He hesitated before replying, not because he didn't know, but because he didn't understand what Velvette was getting at.

"No?"

"And have he ever mentioned having a relationship he was fond of?"

"I guess he's really close with Rosie-"

"I don't mean friendships!"

"Then... No?"

"Then why," she drawled, "You utter moron, aren't you celebrating and instead are about to throw a tantrum just because the Radio Demon still won't fuck you?"

A wave of snow flared on his screen.

"Well, I-"

"Well, you?"

"I'm- This is confusing, okay?! I don't get it! It's frustrating!" He finally burst. "I've been chasing after that deranged freak for over half of my fucking life, and now that he- Is he- This feels like a cruel joke, okay?! Like- like imagine if you asked somebody if they wanted to date? And they'd want to just be friends with benefits? But with no benefits? I mean! Fuck!"

His inner fans started to kick in and the lights flickered slightly. He had no idea what to think, except that he needed a drink. And that was out of the question as long as his stomach was on the general strike that it decided to go on after his night of indulgence.

"Vox," Velvette said softly. "I think he's just aroace."

He frowned, for a moment knocked out of his spiral. He had a vague sense that he should know that word and-

Oh.

"...like you are?"

"Yeah, you old fart. Like I am."

He felt like he should apologize. He didn't know for what, though. So he didn't.

"...Right. Right... Have you ever...?" He asked instead.

"Been in a QPR? Yeah. A few times. And no, it's not the same thing as a loveless marriage."

Vox hummed. He tapped a claw against the flooring, tracing over the grains and scratches. Sometime during the call he sat on the ground and now he pulled his knees to his chest.

"Why though?" There was a hue of desperation to his voice, a pale one, between disorientation and exasperation. "Like- If you're not into love. And sex."

"That's the entire point," she replied tiredly. "To be with those people without the expectation of those things. It's like- Like you find someone special, right? Like you could see yourself move in with them. And like, adopt a cat. And it isn’t about if you actually do that or not, but that you could see yourself do it. That's how it was for me anyway."

“...I think Alastor already sort of has a cat?”

“That’s all you’ve got from it? Seriously?!” she groaned.

“No, but I’m just trying to process this, okay?” He ran a hand down his screen.

His head started to hurt again. He couldn’t help but think that he preferred it when it was just from a hangover and not from experiencing the entire range of human emotions right after waking up.

“Look, we can talk about this later,” Velvette said, going back to her usual sharp tone. “Hell, maybe I’ll even explain to you relationship anarchy and shit, but I cannot stress enough that it shouldn’t be your priority right now.”

Vox let out a strained noise. Maybe he didn’t really need that contract. He barely felt like he could stand up, let alone deal with the business-typical minefield of pleasantries, passive aggression and legal loopholes. He already had more money that he could ever spend and he was technically immortal. He didn’t need to make even more.

...Yeah, fuck that.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going, jeez, I’m going,” he sighed and heaved himself from the ground.

“You better be.”

“Oh, and Velvette?” He managed to squeeze in, before she hang up. “Thanks.”

“Shut up, I’m gonna barf,” she said, but he knew she didn’t really mean it. “Now go and wring some cash out of those rich fucks, because I’m making you pay for my next shopping spree — you owe it to me after today.”

He did, didn’t he?

“Ah, where would I be without you?”

“I wanna say dead and bitchless, but you’re already both, so.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too.”

Chapter Text

It’s not that the restaurant never served overlords, to the contrary. They were a respected establishment — as much as anything could be in Hell — and as such were used to host business lunches and elegant parties. However, those tended to happen between allied overlords, or at the very least, those on neutral terms with each other. But two powerhouses known for going at each others throats for decades? One of which being infamous for being a cannibal with a sadistic streak? Now, that wasn’t something they dealt with often. The head chief took it upon herself to prepare their meals, selecting their top cooks as her assistants. But before any preparations could take place, somebody had to take orders from their potentially murder-happy guests. After a long debate-turned-brawl among the waiters, those without families who could mourn them played rock-and-paper and dragged the unlucky loser, clawing and screaming, to the VIP suites to drop him there like a sacrificial lamb.

With his heart ready to jump out of his chest, the waiter eventually knocked on the door. The subdued murmur of the conversation stopped for a moment and a commanding “enter” could be heard. His hand trembled as he took the knob, but somehow he managed to stand tall as he entered the room. Waiters who couldn’t keep a professional facade in front of the clients didn’t last long here. Usually they ended up getting shot by said clients, dissatisfied with the sub-par service, but the Radio Demon wasn’t the first cannibal to visit them, so there was always some variety involved.

What he saw on the inside looked like quite a serious business meeting. The Media Overlord had a laptop opened by his side, its keyboards clicking away frantically, despite the hands of the demon himself resting clasped on the table. The air was thick with tension, so much so, that he approaching the table he felt as if he waddled through a jelly. Gazes of both overlords hung heavily over him, not entirely malicious at the moment, but rather lightly perplexed that anybody had the audacity to interrupt them. Never in his life did an ordering process feel longer to him, every minute of the two debating which dinner combo to choose, while exchanging venomous vocal blows, felt like five hours.

The silence continued for a few more minutes after he left, backward and bowing down repeatedly, until he managed to blindly find the knob and bolt to the safety. He didn’t wait for it to resume though. From what he gathered, negotiations regarding the topics of grave matters must have been taking place behind the closed doors, and the less he knew about them, the less likely to die he undoubtedly was.

“I want to make it absolutely clear,” Alastor said, once the hurried steps of the waiter receded and he was certain they could expect a dozen or so minutes without interruption. “My feelings toward you are not romantic in nature. Don’t count on that ever changing.”

Vox waved a hand dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Velvet explained that whole “queer-platonic” thing to me.” A smug grin spread across his face. “What matters, is that you’re finally going to be mine.”

Alastor wrinkled his nose.

“I do appreciate a good joke when the time calls for one, but now’s hardly it.” Growing static made the air feel fuzzy and burning, as dials flashed in his eyes in a warning. “I belong to me and me alone, my dear. Never forget that.”

“And to me as well,” Vox stressed, with almost childish stubbornness and a black pulse circling his left pupil.

For a moment or two they glared at each other. Then, Alastor seemingly backed away, instead directing his attention to his monocle, which he started cleaning with a handkerchief. Vox’s self-assured smile overtook half of his screen, but before his satisfaction from the perceived victorious stare down could really set in, Alastor spoke up again.

“Also I have no intention of ever engaging with you in debauchery.”

Vox’s shoulders sag. Alastor send him a winning smile full of knifes and disdain. He expected protests and saw no reason to save his contemptuous expression for later, given that he knew Vox’s intentions toward his humble self unpleasantly well. To his surprise though, the Media Demon grated for a while, looking him up and down, before sliding a hand down his face. He sighed, which turned into a groan and then, a quiet grumble, until he looked back at him, mouth down-turned and one eyebrow raised.

“What about making out?”

To his credit, Alastor shuddered only a little while considering that.

“...Maybe sometimes,” he said after a heavy pause.

This wasn’t an allowance he gave out lightly, save for the time when it had been necessary to keep the appearances up and the neighbors from giving him the wrong kind of attention. Unfortunately, Vox didn’t seem to realize how big of a proof of his complicated fondness toward him this was. He crossed his arms, glancing suspiciously.

“Oh sure, because that’s not up to interpretation at all,” he snorted sarcastically. “How often is “sometimes”?”

The smile on the Radio Demon’s face wavered almost unnoticeably in irritation.

“That’s not something I can tell you in advance.”

The phantom clicking of the laptop stopped for a second, as if in disbelief.

“Seriously, Alastor? How long do you think I’ve been writing contracts? I don’t do vague.”

On the inside, Alastor asked himself why was he even subjecting himself to this headache. Surely there must have been some other way to ensure that he was the only one enjoying Vox’s attention. Perhaps the right kind of binding spell… Oh, but that would have been so overwhelmingly boring…!

“As I was saying,” he stressed, as if he was talking to a petulant child, “I can’t promise you anything in regards to that. You know I do not enjoy human touch. On some days more than others. It’s not something I can plan for.”

Vox huffed. But in the end he shrugged and mumbled, “Fine, whatever”.

Granted, it was more than he could ever imagine achieving less than a day ago. In a way, that was something to celebrate. But he was never good at settling on “enough”, in the face of illusory calling of “more”.

Keeping the momentum going, Alastor continued.

“Speaking of which, you are not to touch me without asking for permission first. Is that clear?”

“Yeah, I expected as much,” to this he agreed easily, shrugging again. After all, Alastor didn’t change much over the many decades they’ve known each other. That was honestly the point of his entire brand. And, if you were to ask Vox, the reason behind their eventual falling out years ago.

A meek knock on the door stopped Vox from saying whatever he intended next. Both of their eyes snapped toward the source of the sound. One of Alastor's ears twitched in annoyance.

"Your meal has arrived, sirs," announced the waiter, with the cadence of an inmate entering the death row.

He dragged a serving table behind himself, filled to the brim with meat-heavy treats Alastor ordered — he could see a steak, ribs, beautifully smothered loin cuts and a bowl of stew, with chunks of chuck peeking from underneath the thick sauce — and a plate of tagliatelle for Vox, pushed into the corner. Alastor's mouth watered at the rich, savory smell, especially since as per his request the steak was very rare and soared over this tasty bouquet in a delicious aroma of blood. In a great act of self-control, he tore his eyes away from the feast and rested them instead on the trembling imp, currently trying to place it on their table without spilling anything.

"Thank you, my boy!" he said jovially and while the waiter yelped in surprise, to his credit, he still managed to keep his hands steady. Alastor's smile only widened. He pattted him in a faux-friendly manner, prompting a visibly distressed and more importantly, amusing reaction. "I have to say, I am impressed. That's the first time I've been served this fast at a restaurant!"

The waiter didn't get to respond him, interrupted by Vox's boastful voice.

"Oh, that's no big deal," he said, somehow managing to manspread even further in his seat. "I'm a regular here. They know I expect nothing short of perfection."

"Yes, sir, I couldn't have said it better myself," the imp squeaked pitiably. "Mr Vox and Mr Valentino are our most valued and respectable clients and we're immensely grateful for their patronage."

Alastor turned to face him so quickly that something in his neck cracked, making his head hang at an unnatural angle for a moment.

"Oh, really," he drawled.

If his attention wasn’t on the waiter, who was desperately trying to hide behind the serving table, he would have noticed the electric current passing between Vox’s antennas in the shape of a heart. The TV demon decided to give the waiter a huge tip for getting this kind of possessive reaction from Alastor. Something like ten percent should do.

"Well?" He said, once the waiter disappeared again in great hurry. "Go ahead, dig in. And don't worry, I'm gonna pay for it. I imagine sponsoring princess' shitty project is putting a strain on your finances."

Cutting a large piece of the steak, the Radio Demon hummed.

"That little side hobby? Oh no, not in the slightest." Almost one third of the steak disappeared in an elegant snap of his jaws. "However, if it'll please you, then who am I to deny you that happiness, mon cher?" His eyelids fell low, as he reached to brush away a small drop of blood from the corner of his lips.

He didn't miss the flash of pink coming from Vox's display, nor the cartoonist hearts that popped all over it.

"Mon cher, huh," he purred. "I think I like that..."

It would have been almost endearing if it wasn't so laughable.

While Alastor was eating, he could feel Vox’s stare burning holes through him, as he stabbed a fork into his own portion halfheartedly. For a few minutes he pretended to not notice it, but when Vox started to drum his fingers over the table top, he was forced to pretend he was wiping his mouth once more to muffle the bubbling laughter. He couldn’t keep a straight face any longer than that.

“If you're waiting for whatever it was that you ordered to put into my food to start working,” he started cheerfully, “Then I’m afraid you’re out of luck, my dear. I personally visited the kitchen and provided the chief with a wonderful cut of meat and strict instructions regarding its preparation.”

It was a joy to witness the abrupt changes going through Vox’s screen. It blinked from surprise, to anger, to resignation.

“Can you really fault me for trying?”

“Oh no, not at all. Au contraire, I would have thought lesser of you, if you didn’t,” Alastor reassuringly patted his hand.

“I can’t believe those fuckers had the balls to disobey me,” he huffed.

“Don’t be too hard on them. The cut I provided used to be their poissonnier.”

“Their what?”

“Their fish cook.”

“Huh. Well, I guess that would do it then, yeah.”

Once Alastor finished his first plate of the perfectly seasoned poissonnier, he took a sip of the white wine and put down his fork, letting himself continue the conversation for the moment.

“What was it, if you won’t mind me asking? This “love potion” your lady friend seems to be skilled at making?”

Unexpectedly, that seemed to actually offend Vox.

“Wow, okay? Is that seriously what you think of me? It was just something to knock you out for a few hours, sheesh.”

Apparently even Vox had some standards. Alastor wasn’t interested in learning how exactly low they were by asking what he had planned for those few hours. But he supposed he could appreciate that. It was ever so charming of him to try so hard, after all.

“Is that so? My apologies then,” he said, with laughter a hair away from bleeding into his voice.

“Whatever,” Vox huffed, clearly pouting. “More importantly, you’ve had your terms, now it’s time for mine.”

"Yours?" Alastor repeated, with amusement of someone watching a puppy do something entirely inappropriate.

"Yeah, mine. We went over your expectations and whatnot, so now's my turn." The keyboard by his side clicked loudly and paused dramatically, before starting a new line of letters. "First of, at least one date per month. Don't care how busy you are, you gotta make time for me. No excuses, no booking a table, but never showing up or sending a whore in your place. None of that."

However... strangely specific Vox's negative examples were, Alastor didn't thought it to be much of a problem. After all, a gentleman had certain social obligations towards his friends. Although whether or not he'd count Vox among them at the moment was an entirely different matter. Still, he agreed, seeing no harm in humoring him this time.

“But,” he added, before Vox could continue with his silly little demands, “Every second month said date will be a dinner at my place. I’d like you to taste my dishes, darling.”

While at first Vox flinched in alarm, once Alastor finished speaking the request seemed deceptively innocent. He furrowed his brows, trying to work out what might be the hook to it.

“Well, that sounds-” he started with an unsure smile. It quickly fell, as a realization hit him. “Oh, not pleasant at all. Fuck no. Nuh-uh.”

Alastor couldn’t help a dark chuckle escaping his lips.

“I didn’t expect you to be so squeamish.”

“Oh yeah, because having reservations against fucking cannibalism is so squeamish.”

“Now, now, don’t be like that. I simply wish to cook for my partner. Isn’t that the most natural desire?”

His eyes gleamed ever so briefly, as he talked, with eagerness and mania more fitting somebody feverish than a put-together gentleman. It was anybody’s guess whether it was that or calling Vox his “partner” that made him reluctantly agree.

Either way, he did so with a firm decision to throw up everything Alastor might feed him during any of their planned meet-ups.

“Honestly, when you said “dinner”, at first I thought that you’re planning to have me as the main course,” he forced a laugh, which Alastor joined, surprisingly enough.

“Oh dear, no, who do you take me for?” He waved a hand. “Now, that would be entirely inappropriate to talk about on a merely first date. Eventually though… Well, who knows?” He took a bite of his food, maintaining an eye contact with Vox as he did so. He licked his lips.

"Cool, cool..." Vox nodded, trying to look anywhere but at him. Were his pants always this tight?

Remembering that he actually did have a good excuse to escape Alastor’s hungry eyes, he bend down to dig something out from his folder. Once he placed it on the table and slid toward Alastor, he blinked as if rudely awaken and moved away.

"Next, I want you to take this and have it on you at all times."

Alastor put a single claw on the cellphone and categorically pushed it away.

"No."

"I insist."

"And I decline."

The lights over their heads flickered. Alastor didn't point out this obvious evidence of a weakness of character only because calling attention to the lack of manners and composure of others was in bad taste. He did wrinkled his nose though, very judgmentally.

"Oh come on. I need to be able to contact you somehow."

"I'll have you know that I already own a stunning telephone, thank you very much."

Surprise showed on Vox's screen, before he sneered.

"I bet it's candlestick."

"And why wouldn't it be? It's all you need in a telephone, with none of those senseless chaos you and all of the youth are so enamored with," he responded, keeping his head high.

"What if I wanted to text you? Or send you a photo?" Vox pushed further. "See, I preset it so you would have everything written down, with all of the core features on the home screen. There's no way even a fossil like you would get confused with it."

Ignoring the rude remarks, Alastor quietly stared at the Media Demon for a moment.

"Look old pal, I’ll say it only because you seem perplexingly serious about this. Even if it wasn't for my entirely justified distaste for modern technology, I still wouldn't take it from you, for the very same reasons you wouldn't take a voodoo charms from me. I cannot fathom why you’d ever think otherwise.”

Vox grit his teeth, looking like he wanted to rebuke him. Eventually though, he pocketed his dubious gift, glancing away.

“I’m gonna put a tracker on you one way or another, just you wait,” he mumbled.

Despite not knowing the exact meaning of that word, Alastor still smiled a wide smile, ready to open up and tear throats.

“I can’t wait to see you try.”

It was a genuine invitation to a game as much as it was a threat and perhaps that softened the blow to his companion’s ego. A small smirk showed on his face as well.

“As if I’d ever let you notice.”

Alastor rolled his eyes. There was being delusional and then there was whatever Vox had going on.

"Also while I doubt that's gonna be a problem with you, we've gotta talk about PDA."

"Excuse me?" He tilted his head.

"You know, public display of affection? Like holding hands and shit?" Vox let out a quiet snort. "Though in Hell for most it's probably closer to walking people down the street on lashes. Either way, as much as I would love to show you off, it's bad for business."

The image of collared Vox on all four was weirdly fitting, but the rest of his statement made Alastor's claws pierce through the table cloth, before he could stop himself.

"Is that so?” He said, forcing a conversational tone. “How funny, from the way you and your beau,” he almost spat out that word, “Acted, I would have assumed the exact opposite.”

Vox blinked. He placed his head on his palms, cocking it to the side in a half-mocking, half-coquettish manner.

“Aww, but didn’t you just say you don’t like being touched?” he teased.

He didn’t mention though Alastor’s obvious jealousy over Valentino, despite wishing he could do so. If he let it slip that he noticed it so easily, Alastor would go to great length to mask it completely. As he did with most of his emotions. And Vox greatly enjoyed feeling that the Radio Demon wanted him exclusively for himself.

“I don’t,” Alastor replied, seemingly nonchalant. “That’s just a simple observation.”

The subtle strain of his smile suggested that pushing the topic any further would probably result in a retaliation and for the time being Vox preferred to avoid that. This was a negotiation, after all. One had to be diplomatic about those things. At least a little bit more than they usually were. Well, barely. But still.

“It was different with Val,” he said waving his hand. “First of all, Val’s a pimp. Sleeping around and being all touchy is kinda something that’s expected from him. So that was a bit of a buffer for my reputation. Second of all, we weren’t really acting like a couple anywhere common demons could see it. Expect on social media, but that’s a different beast entirely. People don’t want to see professionalism there, they come to see the drama. And finally, Val is my business partner. You’re direct competition. Those stuff matter.”

Alastor didn’t appear convinced. The fact that he probably didn’t know what “social media” even were might have played a part in that. Either way, he didn’t seem impressed.

“Ever the politician,” he just commented wryly, pulling closer his stew.

“Speaking of which- I could really use some photos to post on my Voxtagram every week or so.”

That name sounded familiar, but truth be told, that might have been just because Vox was both bad at coming up with them to a sad degree and so very self-absorbed about it. Although he did recall Angel mentioning it while snapping pictures of one of the meals he cooked for the hotel’s residents. Either way, Alastor believed there was a hard limit on how often one individual was reasonably able to deal with Vox without resorting to manslaughter and “weekly basis” was cutting it dangerously close.

“While I’m used to your obsession with my humble visage, this is excessive even for you.”

Light blue tint spread over Vox’s cheeks for a moment before he composed himself.

“It’s PR thing, okay? People like celebrity gossip. Think of it like giving an interview for a magazine or some shit. They expect that kinda stuff when you’re in a relationship.

“I don’t know anybody who would want to read about the same people every week,” Alastor said doubtfully.

“You’d be surprised. Look, like I said, people love drama and I love free publicity that comes from it. Usually those vultures just feast on Val and my break-ups, but if we are going to be exclusive, and we are, then I would really appreciate some other material to at least partially replace them with.”

Even though the stew was every bit as delicious as the steak, with fresh vegetables bright in taste and meat chewy, but succulent, Alastor swallowed a portion of it as if he was given a plate of sludge instead. The entire point of this conversation even happening was that he aimed to secure Vox's interest in himself, having grown sick with the fact that the TV was lavishing other people with it way too eagerly for his liking. So why in Satan's name did he have to endure Valentino's name being mentioned over and over again? The repulsive bug wasn't even in the room, and yet was still stealing the spotlight from Alastor.

"No. I'm not going to go against my principles for something so frivolous."

"Oh come on..." Vox sighed, finally returning to eating too. This matter wasn't very serious, so he managed to force himself to relax enough to scoop some pasta on his fork. "You could even keep the filter on? Everybody knows you scramble technology either way. Hell, I could even develop my own to match, make it into a cute couple thing or some shit."

"No," he repeated, more firmly this time. "Not to mention that once a week would be way too excessive."

"It's not "excessive", if anything, it's a compromise," Vox rolled his eyes. "Val and me were posting like every other day. But fine. How about twice a month? Hm?"

Alastor vaguely felt something bend in his hand. Then, a clang of metal hitting the ground could be heard. A little surprised, he glanced down. The upper part of the fork, which snapped in his grip, glistened among the floral patterns of the carpet.

Vox cleared his throat.

"But. You know. I'll live if you really don't want it that much," he said carefully.

"So be it," Alastor almost spat out. "Twice a month and not a time more often." His lips lifted up, showing his fangs all the way to the gums. "And with that out of the way, here's one more of my terms."

Vox's chair scraped quietly against the floor when he shifted uncomfortably on it. He wasn't very scared of Alastor — if anything, he found his scare tactics quite attractive — but he wasn't stupid either. Needling and bickering was one thing, but upsetting Alastor right now to the point that he was starting to lose his composure, was against his best interest.

"Yeah...? And what could that be?" He asked, putting on his most diplomatic smile.

"I will be expecting you to cut ties with your current associates. A week would be enough time to get things in order with them, no?"

The words were followed by silence. Mostly because Vox had to reply his audio feed to believe he actually heard what he thought he did.

"You're joking, right?" He said finally. "You can't seriously expect me to- No, fuck that. That's fucking ridiculous and I'm not going to entertain it." He reached for the intercom. "I'll call a waiter to bring you a new fork and then we'll go back to talking like adults who know that world doesn't revolve around them and their demented whims."

Alastor's claws pierced through the tablecloth. Even so, he managed to force a jovial tone to his voice.

"Now, now my dear, I know I've been a bit harsh on you in the past, but I'm certain that with some elbow grease and perhaps support from yours truly you'll be able to retain the Overlord status without them-"

"Alastor, I'm not breaking an almost 30 year long alliance just because you asked me to. Stop being fucking unreasonable." For the first time this evening Vox slipped into a CEO persona, the kind he initiated in the face of straight up insulting deals. Or freshly dead, who thought unions had any place in Hell. His eyes grew cold and menacing, and the artificial friendliness as if evaporated from his voice.

Still, it wasn't enough to make Alastor back down. He clicked his tongue, but after assessing Vox with a displeased glance, he shrugged and doubled down on the carefree facade.

"Unreasonable?" He echoed, tilting his head with a sound of popping bones. "Old pal, no, perish the thought." The air around him fizzled and crackled and his fangs became too big for his mouth, making it bleed black blood, smelling of decay. ""̴̢̙͈̅͐Ǘ̸͕̜̋̒n̵̠̮͐̋̽ṙ̴͈̈e̷͎̟̪̊ȧ̸̭̖͝s̸̫̅̓ố̵̜͔̠n̵̪̳̩̋͗̊̚å̵̜̹̜͔̈́̌͛b̷̢̥̞͑l̴̖̥̱͇̓̏͊̇é̵͙̅̐"̷̟̫̅ ̴̠̮̍ẘ̷̦̻̺̏̑o̸̲̳͛͆͝ͅu̴̚ͅl̵̜̓́̋d̸̜͖͋̾̏͛ ̷̜̞̇b̴͙̽̔̾̚͜e̷̪̔ ̷̢̙̏k̸͎̪̖̟͛į̷̩̚l̷̢̜̇̆̄l̵̢̠͔̥̎̿͊̚i̵͇̯̻͒̌͗͊ͅń̵͇͚̫̽̾̄g̷̢̨͕̠̽͊͊ ̸̖̄͛̀y̶̛͎o̸̘͉̓̓ũ̴̹̙̤͘͜͝r̷͚̪̪̓̊͠͠ ̸͕̈ă̶̻s̴͎̘͔̾͊̄͜͝s̵͎̕o̶̫̟̺͍̿̅͂c̸͓̫̅̃i̴̫͕͕͒̈́̿͝ȃ̶̜͌͘t̸̳̠̮͋̌e̶̱̹͍͔͆̌̓s̶̙̞̾̂͂͜ͅ ̵̨͙̹̮̈́w̵͚̔̆̂̀i̴̱͕̩̳͑̽̅̀ẗ̵̙͚̼́͝ḥ̸̪̰͐o̸͈̗͒͑u̷͖̓̅͘t̷̫̰̿ͅ ̷̘̈́̈́̇̒ā̶̡̯ ̸̗̃͛̌ͅw̴̨̤͖͍̑̌͝ą̷͕̲̩̈͌͛r̴̗̊́̄̑n̸͔͇̄͑͘i̸͓̹͔̅͝͝͝ń̶͕̻̈g̸̲̞͐̈́̆̾.̵̹͒́̋͠ ̴̦̠̀ͅ"̶̖̇̂̿́͜Ụ̴͛̂̓͝n̶̨̬̣̙̆̐ŗ̸̙̒̃̋ę̸͉̳̜̀̄̍a̴̞͍̔͛͑͂s̷̛̘̪̈̃̌ǒ̴͔̭n̸̯͊͑a̸͈̜̦̿͆̏b̴̯̌̀̕ĺ̶̢̧͔̘̔͌́ë̴̛̗͎̪́̅̅"̵̠̋ ̵̫̟͕̲̚w̷͇̩̠͐ö̴͈͔͙̎u̷̟͓͕͆́l̷̬͕̄̌͂d̷̜̆͐ ̷̯͙͒̒b̷̧̗̠̀ẻ̸̱̠͜ ̴̻͚̲͚̂̾̋o̷̺̍͋̀ȑ̸͙̝d̷̟̺͖̼̓̀é̴̹̊̾̎r̴̡̛̯̥̍̋̀ͅì̸̢̻̦n̸̢̖͊ğ̶̆͌ͅ ̸̩̩̯̈́̓͗y̸̟̫̾͊̆͋ó̸͈u̸̮͖͗̈́͂͊ ̵͉̤̫̀͛̇ť̸̤̤͑̏ö̸̮͔̳̹ ̸̤̮͗̌̈́ͅd̴̩́́o̸̠͘ ̷̦̬̱͖̑́i̶̯̪̠͆̀̀̓t̸̰͂͋͒͝ ̸̨͌̔̇͝y̴͎̝̑̀̈́̀ȏ̷̢u̸͇͌̑̽ͅr̸̠̭̊̽́͠s̸̨̢̢̟͑̓̅e̷̮̖͌̈́́̆l̶͎̒̈́f̷͖͎̞͓̿̉͐͝,̵̨͉͕͚̀ ̵̧͙͐̔͠a̷̢̺̘͂͂̆s̴̳̝̪̈́̽ ̴̮̟̐̑͜a̵̛̗̓̂ ̸͓̔̔̃p̶̼̜̈́͊͘̕ͅr̴͙͖̾̌̆̽ö̵͕̯́o̵̧̢̼͖̿͊̓̚f̴̬̲̤̀͐ ̶̜̒o̷͔̙̜̮͆f̵̨̛͉̲ ̸̬̟̖͖̓͊̕ỵ̶̤̟̃͜͝ő̵͎͊̂̇ų̵̫̀͋ŕ̶͈͔̪͈͘͠ ̵͍̞̺́̒͆̀d̷̢͈͎͈͗ḛ̶̛̱͉̤̏̐̄v̶͈̫̰̎o̴̘̽͠t̴̛̤͘i̸̝͌̃̄o̴̹̻̹͌ṋ̵̩́̈́̌ ̷̡̥̯̀̓̃̌ț̶͍̍͐̉o̶̙͚̪̫͘̚ ̷̢̘̈́̽m̴̨̪̭͈͆̂ĕ̸̺͓͚̓͑͘.̸̥̘̖̀͌̒̏""

He held eye contact with Vox all the while he was talking, even when his own eyes turned more living static than pupils. He didn't miss the slight twitch of blue talons, nor the flicker to Vox's display. But that was all he got.

How... Unexpected.

Alastor sighed and his body shifted around him, like a too small bag something was trying to claw its way out of. Then, it straightened up. The monster settled down in its lair.

"But very well," he said, like someone agreeing to take a bratty child for ice-cream. "Let it not be said I cannot compromise. The young lady, Velour, was it? Can stay. She seems to have a good head on her shoulder, so I can imagine why losing her could be a blow to your, hm, business."

"Velvette. And no, I'm not cutting ties with Valentino either." Vox leaned away, crossing his arms. "He owns more souls than Velvette and me put together. Not to mention, do you have any idea how much money his sector brings?" His left eye pulsed in black, but this time it was less of an attempt at intimidation and more of a sign of barely contained anger. "And nobody comes between me and my money, babe. Not even you."

His money and his family. He didn't say that last part out loud though. He doubted Alastor would understand things like that.

A look of honest surprise crossed Alastor's face and he reached for his glass to hide it. As he took a small sip of wine, he assessed the demon in front of him once more. It was a little... Strange to see Vox act motivated by something different than his blind obsession with him. Sometimes it was more on the side of love, sometimes it turned to hatred, but it was always there, seemingly only growing over the years they knew each other. Alastor wouldn't say he appreciated him having this much devotion toward somebody else. Still, at the same time, the sight made him feel something he couldn't quite pinpoint.

Nostalgia, perhaps. Before their friendship started to truly fall apart for the first time, Vox used to be more of a well-rounded person. More of a person, really. For some reason, this reminded him a little of that. Even though he was still opposing him from the place of greed.

"To think that I would live to see the day you start developing a spine..." he hummed quietly.

"Look-," Vox started, making a gesture as if he was pinching his nose bridge. "We could find an actual middle-ground to this, okay? You don't like Val. I get it. He's an asshole. I don't even like him myself most of the time." His inner fan jumped into an overdrive for a moment and a stuttered gust of air left his vents. "You don't want me to mention him around you? Fine. Fine, I can do that. I can even block him on my public accounts."

While he spoke, Alastor tilted his glass this way and that, following the shimmer of light on the wine's surface with a thoughtful expression. The solutions Vox prompted made him frown in scorn. He had a better idea.

"You know very well that I don't care for the mechanical world you amuse yourself with," he said, raising one of his hands, curled into a fist. "And while I would most appreciate not hearing about this... Repulsive cockroach, I believe additional measures need to be taken as well."

His fingers slowly parted, dripping shadows, thick like old tar. He turned his palm downside and the lump splashed onto the table, where it formed into a small moppet. It blinked curiously at Vox, before offering him a smile of needles.

"I shall hide it in your shadow. It will report to me about your actions every now and then." Dials flashed under his lowered eyelids, a little bit closer to a manifestation of emotions that a threat. "So that you would remember where your loyalties should lay." He spread his arms. "It's only fair, given your constant, hm, observation of my humble self, no?"

Vox glanced between him and the creature, which slipped from the tablecloth and disappeared beneath his chair. A shiver passed through his body and his hands clasped tightly together. But his screen was far from displaying fear.

"...Fuck, that's hot," he muttered into his hand. "Should I think it's hot? Because it is. Like a full-time surveillance play."

Alastor raised an eyebrow.

"Your depravity never ceases to amaze me, mon cher." He didn't exactly hate it though.

Of which Vox seemed to be aware — or maybe just assumed based on his delusions — because he laughed lightly and sent a cocky grin his way.

"Hey, you're the one who wants to know all my dirty little secrets, darling."

Some of the tension was relieved and for a moment or two they sat in silence. Vox turned to his laptop and scrolled up the document he was making. Alastor just summoned a new fork and focused on his food. It was delicious, but during their conversation it started to grow cold. Perhaps he shouldn't have ordered all of it at once. But how could he know the staff would bring it so quickly?

"I think that's mostly it?" Vox's voice took him out of his thoughts. "Anything you wanna add?"

Good question. Alastor tapped a finger over his lips.

"Nothing more comes to my mind, for now." He chuckled darkly and leaned forward, resting his chin on the folded hands. "Ah, just one clarification, dear friend. Do not think this... Arrangement gives you an immunity from me. I do love or little squabbles."

Vox coughed and tugged at his bow tie. His screen had the blinding color palette of a neon signboard, before he calmed himself down with a mouthful of wine.

"Shit. Okay. I was thinking about writing in a clause that you're not allowed kill me at least, but fuck it, what's a relationship without some risk?"

Alastor's smile turned almost affectionate. And just a bit demented.

"I couldn't agree more."

He wiped his lips with a tissue and got up, extending a hand to his soon to be... Well, not lover. Partner?

"Do we have a deal then?"

Eerie green light exploded around him in swirls and shadows crept up the walls. Vox responded with a pleased smile. But he didn't took his hand. Instead, he reached to his pocket and took out a fountain pen, which he offered to Alastor. The Radio Demon frowned, slightly confused. He followed Vox's theatrical glance to the doors. Soon enough, the corridor filled with frantic steps and to the room stumbled a hellhound, who looked like she was in the middle of a breakdown.

"The- the fax machine-" she yipped, putting forward a set of sheets. "In our office-"

Not looking away from Alastor, Vox pointed firmly to the table. The hell-hound haphazardly put her burden on it, nearly tripping in the process. The first of the pages was printed with an instruction in all caps to bring the contract to the private booth. Not complying meant a termination of employment of any restaurant's staffs' relatives working at VoxTech and leaking of their internet search histories. Vox crumpled it in his hand and dismissed the hound. In her haste to leave she ran into the door frame, so she would probably be glad if she knew neither Overlord paid her any mind. Maybe a little bit later, though. At the moment she was too scared to feel embarrassment.

"Hell yeah we do, sweetheart. All you need to do is sign," Vox said with a shark-like smile.

While he could hold his own in a direct fight against Alastor, his raw magic power was considerably weaker. The contract shined neon blue and the letters seemingly twitched on the paper, but that was it in terms of visible energy discharge. Or it would be, if Vox wasn't a born showman. He redirected to the room as much electricity as he could without overloading the wirework of the building. The chandelier lighted up like a supernova, burning into the shadows. The air grew hot and dry, like in the middle of a storm and Alastor could feel his fur and hair standing up. As much as he appreciated the sense of drama though, he couldn't say the same about Vox trying to take control over the situation.

"Why the formalities? It doesn't matter what form a deal takes."

"If it doesn't matter, then why won't you just sign it?"

Alastor narrowed his eyes.

"A formalized contract feels just so... stiff, don't you think? Where's the personality? Where's the pizzazz?"

Vox scoffed.

"At least it's more dependable than a damned handshake. Shit leaves way to much to the random wording."

While their powers accumulated around them, their electromagnetic fields expanded as well. They pushed and pressed against each other, disrupting their set frequencies in a shriek of feedback. And although the sound itself was almost painful, the rest of the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Alastor thought that it felt like being able to scratch an itch on the inner side of one's eyes.

Vox… Vox would have liken it to something more unsavory.

To put it shortly, the moment was a unique type of exciting and a little bit annoying. Nothing suggested it would end anytime soon though. They were both too stubborn — and petty — to back down. They would probably stand like this either until one of them would run out of power or the restaurant would close for the night, if it wasn't for the lights above them exploding.

The sudden noise made Alastor jump. Usually he wasn't prone to such impulses, but he focused too much on the power struggle. Not that Vox would have noticed his slip up, too busy cursing off the apparently poor quality wiring. Which was a good thing, because he would have most likely taken a great enjoyment in mocking him for it.

“Motherfucker! I told them to use VoxTech reinforced industrial light bulbs!”

“Now now, my dear, don’t loose your temper,” Alastor said, snapping his fingers. A half a dozen candles appeared around them, filling the room with a soft glow. “It’s bad enough that the lights are out, we wouldn’t want another full blown blackout, now, would we?”

“Choke on a dick,” Vox huffed, crossing his arms. He was blushing again and between glares send Alastor was stealing glances at the candles.

“I believe we’ve just agreed I won’t be doing that.”

In spite of himself, Vox snorted and Alastor decided that it was a moment as good as any to propose an alternative to their opposite views on deal making. He wasn’t one to back away from a provocation, but he could tell fighting which battles was constructive. Even if his fondness for pushing other people’s buttons often made him forsake this skill. Plus, being the mature one wasn’t without its fun either. Mostly in how he could hold said maturity over certain flat head.

“How about for the time being we’ll simply settle for a gentleman's agreement?”

“What, night-blindness finally got you, old man? Can’t read or write by a candlelight?”

Although after some consideration, a five year old could best Vox on that field. One couldn’t really take much pride in it.

“Hardly,” Alastor deadpanned. “I just got tired of seeing you act like bullheaded brat.”

Vox rolled his eyes. Nonetheless, after a while of consideration, he shrugged with a sigh.

“Fine. I guess we could make it into a trial period of sorts. You know, before we make the terms binding.”

“That’s… not a terrible idea,” Alastor admitted, stroking his chin.

He wasn’t an impulsive kind of demon, as long, that is, as he didn’t feel directly threatened by something. He already wasn’t jumping into this arrangement blindly — having known Vox for over half a century, he had a pretty good idea of what to expect of him. But some extra caution (some extra distance) never hurt anyone.

"Just don't expect to shake on it," Vox said. He looked a bit nervous now underneath his salesman smile and began tracing over the patterns on his plate's edge. "I guess that's all for the negotiations?"

"I would suppose so, yes," Alastor agreed.

With the main reason for their meeting out of the way, he directed his attention to one of his plates as well. Unlike Vox, though, he wasn't very interested in its ornamentation. Instead, he tried to see if any glass from the light bulb fell over his smothered loin chops. Cold as they surely were by now, they had a mouth-watering golden color. Although even if they didn't, Alastor still didn't like wasting food. When he really thought about it, his stomach would easily heal from swallowing glass. Perhaps he should-

"Sooo... Are we gonna make out now? I think we should make out."

His ears twitched, wanting to fall flat against his skull. For once, he let them.

"Please, I just ate."

Vox opened his mouth, to protest in offense. But his speakers seemed to fail him, as in the end he just pressed his fist against his sides, slumping into his chair.

"Jesus, a simple "no" would have been enough," he grumbled. "Asshole."

Silence fell between the two of them for a beat. Then, just as Alastor decided that he was indeed definitely resilient enough to handle a small internal bleeding, Vox leaned forward again.

"How about just holding hands?"

Alastor glanced from the hopeful screen to the extended talons. He hummed and hawed, feeling his smile strain uncomfortably. Eventually though, he relented. He would have to learn, after all, to accept this kind of attention as well. With a heavy sigh, he let Vox intertwine fingers between his own. He braced himself for a surge of disgust coming from the sensation of doughy flesh pressing into bones and sticking to his skin in a sweaty mass. To his surprise though, this felt quite... Different.

"Huh."

Vox looked up from their joined hands, which he was rendering into his hard drive with a giddy smile.

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing, it's just..." Alastor trailed off, stretching his fingers and sliding them up and down Vox's. "Hm. This feels much less repulsive than I was anticipating."

The other Sinner blinked.

"Wow," he said finally, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "You really know how to make a guy swoon."

"What I meant to say is- You're much more... Artificial to touch than I expected."

It didn't seem to register as a compliment with Vox the way it should. He crooked an eyebrow at him, glaring suspiciously, ready for Alastor's words to reveal themselves to be insulting.

"I find myself not really minding it," Alastor clarified further.

Since breaking the terms of their agreement minutes after it took place would have been a bad look, Vox bit his tongue before he could say that his previous boyfriend had exactly opposite thoughts on the matter. He settled on a hesitant,

"...Thanks?" Then he grinned, putting his other hand over Alastor's as well. "You could have just said that you like holding hands with me. You know, like a normal person."

Alastor rolled his eyes.

“I don’t completely hate it,” was all he said.

Still, it was peculiar to discover. Not undesirable, though. Perhaps with time he could even learn to enjoy this, the way he enjoyed being hugged and gushed over by his lady friends.

He wondered how he should tell Rosie about this new development. She so loved her gossips! But they knew each other since forever and he felt like it was a bridge he would eventually have to cross. If just because he wouldn't want her to learn about it some other way. Plus, he could use another head to brainstorm how to get rid of Vox's unfortunate... Coworkers. Obviously, it would be best to wait until the poor fool wouldn't be able to imagine his life without Alastor around, finally realizing he didn't need anybody else in it. Or at least, until he would no longer be able to walk away, even struck with some misplaced grief.

While he was pondering those scenarios, his smile grew more natural and content. Vox's CPU lagged at the sight of it. He still had hard time believing he was actually about to- No, not "about to" anymore. Alastor and him were now in a relationship. They were holding hands by the candlelight.

And Vox was officially invited into Alastor's house, for regularly scheduled meetings. Which would give him so many chances for setting up cameras and wiretapping all around it! And after that, once he'd have a point of access secured, maybe he could... Well, get some memorabilia, let's call them that. Something made of fabric would have been best. His whole body was shaking with excitement and resulting electricity building up. He was happy.

They both were, truth be told. Happy and ready to devour each other, in their respective ways, of course.

This was, no doubt about it, a start of something good.

... Probably.