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When the sound of the frequency appeared in the back of his mind, with a quiet and soft little snap of noise, Vox thought he might have been imagining it. He’d been so unfocused on everything, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Sleep had been a fleeting attempt that he often gave up, exhaustion permeated every action he took. He was a lot better, these days, at pretending than he once was. After the initial grief left, Vox was empty inside, hollow in his chest and his mind, and it was probably better that way. He kept his eyes away from everything, stopped watching the feeds that might have once showed him what the radio demon was up to. Focus turned to a lack of care, sitting at his desk, staring off into space as he let shows and ads run without any form of interruption. His mind would wander just about anywhere with a glass of rye. He didn't like it. The earth, the spice, the vanilla, the oak. He was more of a bourbon man. They weren't terribly different, but enough that he grimaced with each sip.
It didn't stop him from finishing the glass and pouring a second.
Valentino and Velvette were giving him space. He was grateful for it. He didn't want to be bothered, not even a little. He wanted to mope, sure. What was wrong with that? Surely after all this time he deserved a week of mostly rest. Not that, of course, he was actually doing any resting. He just also … wasn't doing anything very productive, either. The photo album was resting open on his desk to the side. He'd been torturing himself with it since the moment the incident became more clear. He'd printed a copy of his transcript of their last encounter before he'd left, too, of every nasty and correct thing that Alastor had said to him, about him.
Maybe this time he could move on properly.
And then there it was. A nearly imperceptible change in the air, somewhere in the waves of the space around him itself. It was a reminiscent feeling, reminding him of when he'd first arrived here. A slight screech in the back of his mind, something tugging and pulling before it eased into a feeling and sound that was so familiar.
No. No, this wasn't possible, was it?
Vox's next movements were frantic and quick, setting down the nearly empty glass and leaning forward to type away at the keyboard, to change the views. He was scanning through every damn camera he had in the whole fucking ring, but he … wasn't anywhere. He couldn't see a hint of the radio demon's presence. Was it something else? Someone else? He'd literally never seen anyone or anything that could interfere that way, though. It seemed so unlikely.
“Goddamnit.” The curse wasn't aggressive, just … tired. Exasperated. How many fucking times was he going to mourn this asshole only for him to show back up? At least it wasn't seven fucking full years, this time. But he needed to solve this, he needed the answer. Didn't he?
Alastor?
He didn't use the connection very often these days. Given the way things had been going down the last six plus months, it wasn't shocking. Plus the seven years in which he just assumed he was dead anyway, that he had been imagining it. But at one point, their connection, their frequency across the radio waves that only they could seem to manipulate, had been their sole method of communication. They were good days. Sitting together in relatively quiet places, sharing thoughts no one else could hear, even if they didn't really need to be so private. It was safe. Protected. Warm.
Fuck, he needed to stop.
Something did shift in it - he knew what. Alastor was listening, certainly, but though Vox waited patiently, no response ever came. Was it a fluke? Was he wrong? Was he imagining it this time? Maybe. He wouldn't have been surprised.
His posture slunk back down and into his chair, and he turned the cameras back to what they showed previously. Lifted the glass of rye and downed it in a single gulp and poured it back full again.
No, Alastor was alive.
He just needed to remember that Alastor still wanted nothing to do with him. Silly of him to forget. His attention turned back to the transcript, rereading torturous, painful words.
Worthless. Shameful. Nothing. Pathetic.
They weren't friends. They hadn't been for a long time. Why would Alastor greet him upon coming back, even with Vox being the one to reach out? How stupid could he be?
He stood up from his chair, left the once again empty glass on the table, took the bottle of rye itself, and wandered his way out of his office. He needed a stiffer drink, and maybe something else to distract. Maybe he could forget and go back to grieving.
At least that was more familiar than the silence alone.