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Only a few months had passed since Alastor had promised his soul to the Queen of Hell herself. The details of the contract were rather brief, yet demanding, and with her travel up to Heaven, she decided upon taking her newest pet with her. Her little deer, as she called him. Their relationship was not particularly strained — she made him a good deal, all in all, something he could hardly find himself regretting, save for the distance that he now found himself from his preferred realm.
She was … very self-indulgent. Lilith was one to spend time mingling with others in Heaven, appearing at parties and gatherings, enjoying a drink or two and gossiping and more. It wasn't the most unfamiliar scene for Alastor, even if he usually didn't really participate that way. For the most part, though, she let him be. He spent time in the place that they lived, and he was allowed out and around, although he didn’t often venture far, except to see a play here or there, or attend a concert of some kind, and even then, it wasn’t very often. He preferred to read, to play and listen to music, and generally explore more creative outlets. Lilith was more than happy to indulge this in him, easily willing to go out and find and bring him back the appropriate instruments and tools. She had a way of keeping him content and happy, and what could he argue with? He was away from home, sure, and annoyed at the environment here, but she was a friendly companion most days, and knowing that he would return to his power eventually and knowing that his mother was safe and cared for? It was all okay. He just needed to have some patience.
Every day was nice in Heaven, compared to the general mugginess and regular bouts of acid rain that Hell had. It wasn’t necessarily better in terms of Alastor’s own opinion, but he could understand where the sentiment was coming from. Bright lights, emulation of the summer sun or a soft spring breeze that would cross the main roads. He could be convinced, in some way, it might have been pleasant. But his focus wasn’t on those things. He used the daylight to read and write at a small table by a window. Lilith had invented his little corner for him, happy to install a bookshelf and place to exist, and oftentimes he was there for hours. It made both of their lives a little easier; he could be somewhere casually, doing something he enjoyed, and she would never have to go far to find him, and certainly never had to pull on his chain to summon him. She spent her time at the house watching various shows on the television, but most often watching over her domain from afar. Alastor could give her some credit for her clear care and dedication to Hell, which was quite a concept to ponder, given that she was planning to be in Heaven for … well. Indefinitely, as far as he could tell. She didn’t give him a timeline for his own leash treatment, let alone her stay here. He wondered if she planned to truly stay, but thought the idea was unlikely, even if he didn’t understand what her plan was.
Today, Lilith sat on the couch in the same room, opening a wavering watching window for her to view Hell through. Alastor hardly paid the ritual much mind any more, given it was a daily experience now. She had some way of switching through the places, watching wherever, or perhaps whomever she pleased. Sometimes it was her own daughter, Charlie, sometimes it was the seven Sins themselves, and other times, she just watched day to day activities of various sinners and hellborn, chuckling at the funny parts or gasping when something scandalous or particularly sudden occurred. It was a bit like having a sibling who was watching their favorite sitcom. But Alastor paid no mind usually to what she saw, given that typically it was rather boring and tedious. He presumed today would be very nearly the same as every other, even when whatever she saw elicited a gasp, followed by, “He needs to turn around!” all excited, like she was instructing actors in a movie to realize their scripted mistake. If anything, it was somewhat endearing, a funny, strange little quirk she had.
He would realize later that maybe he should have paid more attention to what she watched.
“Alastor, oh, come look at this!” Lilith said abruptly, drawing him from the current scripting he was writing, for a broadcast he would never make. It was entertaining to write, so he did this often. But he obliged her, pushing up from his table and making the short distance to stand behind her and the couch, to see what she wanted him to observe.
The window was showing what appeared to be an alleyway. Shadows covered the scene and Alastor worked to parse what all he was seeing. Someone was fighting several other people, and the person was knocked to the ground. It was a hard fall onto hands and knees, and the attackers took the given advantage to lay out a flurry of kicks and other blows into their body. It was probably unpleasant, but he wondered why Lilith wanted him to see. A look to her told him what he needed — she was amused by their little encounter here. She was watching the scene for fun and probably wanted him to share in the delight. He could indulge this for her, of course. Fights weren’t an uncommon spectacle, and could always be something to learn from or to generally enjoy experiencing as an audience. He often put on his own fights before an audience — not the large ones, no, but some.
But as the image moved slightly, as the attackers parted, Alastor went still and tense, staring at the scene.
“See, the demon there, he was getting very, very drunk, it was quite funny.” Lilith’s voice was like background music in a busy bar. He barely heard her; he knew she was speaking, though. “So I thought I would see what he was going to do, and when he got up to leave, those three followed him out. They kept following him, and then they started attacking, and obviously he’s losing. Quite a shame, but very intriguing. I wonder why they’re targeting him?”
Alastor knew why. Well, he at least knew why attacking him while vulnerable and drunk would be appealing to any demon in Hell. It was because the demon there was an Overlord. And not just any Overlord…
That Overlord was Vox.
The TV-headed demon was hard to mistake for anyone else. Even others of similar look had nothing on the man. Dressed as smartly as ever, even if the style matched his more modern features now, and wearing the telltale Vee marking on his jacket. His hands clenched at his side, but Alastor’s smile remained. Strained, but there. He didn’t need to care about this. This was nothing, Vox was in trouble of his own volition. This wasn’t his problem. Vox was going to get up soon, anyway, he was sure, take care of the pesky little things. It was fine.
A shoe of one of the attackers landed a hit dead in the middle of Vox’s face. The screen fractured under the pressure, cracks webbing out from the impact and across his entire face. Alastor felt his smile strain more, felt his fingers digging into his palms. This was … why was Vox just laying there? He was just laying there, taking each hit with a grimace and flinch, but refusing to get up, refusing to do anything. What was he waiting for?
Was he waiting for me?
The thought was intrusive and abrupt, and Alastor was very quick to wave it away and ignore it. It didn't matter. Even if he was, it couldn't matter. Once upon a time, he would have appeared, so quickly, drawn either by Vox's voice across their shared frequency or the distress signal that would have gone off. It was probably ringing out now, as a matter of fact, but Alastor was certainly too far to catch it.
Stop thinking about it.
And so he did.
Vox's form remained still for what seemed like far too long, but as Lilith appeared ready to change the scene, Vox looked up between their feet, and his eyes, though warped by cracks and having lost color, were open. There was a flash of turquoise and then he was holding a long cord of electric blue magic in hand, wrapping it around the ankle of one sinner and yanking against it, sending them crashing down. Just like that, Lilith's curiosity was regained, and Alastor found his mind quieter. It was fine, and it was quite like some sort of switch had been flipped. He wasn't even using his full power, and it wasn't as though he needed to, even with three versus one. A second cord appeared in his other hand as he climbed to his feet, and it all was over very quickly.
All three sinners were taken off guard, so Vox had an advantage, and he used it. Pushing his weight against the smallest of them, he was able to space between them all while whipping the cords at them, leaving burning welts across the skin. The sinners regained themselves, and it became a true fight. Knives against Vox's whips. Vox was able to keep them well at bay, and eventually got in close to capture two of them by the cords, pulling them tight around each of their necks, branding marks into flesh. The two sinners flailed, trying to escape, but their fingers were only burned by the sparking lengths of magic, and they were soon limp. Vox dropped them to the ground, and the final opponent was cornered in the alley, where Vox once was. He backed him steadily into the corner, and then bent down, grasping the demon by the throat.
It was impossible to tell what he said, the window only served to provide a visual, but whatever Vox said was effective. When he dropped the sinner back down, he was shaking and quickly fled the scene. Vox approached the lifeless bodies of the other two, withdrawing a fine blade from inside of his jacket. A flash of it proved it to be made of angelic steel, and Vox drove the weapon into the hearts of the sinner’s bodies. They wouldn't ever be coming back.
“Well,” Lilith said, startling Alastor slightly. “That was quite the show!” Alastor murmured a sort of agreement to the sentiment, taking in Vox's appearance. Huge cracks were across his face, and the color had faded from the display entirely. He had a limp in the right leg now, and he was clearly in some chest pain or other, a hand pressing against his own body. He swayed where he stood. “Anyway, you can go back now.”
Three minutes and twelve seconds. That's how long the encounter that he watched was. He wasn't sure exactly how long the fight had actually been, but he imagined it hadn't been much longer. It was fine. He went back to his provided space and his scriptwriting. He made himself pick right back up. He had to work to keep his thoughts straight, but it was doable, so he did it.
It was fine.
Only, a week later, it happened again. Alastor had walked in from another room to see Lilith watching Vox again. This time, he could see that Vox was in a bar. He was drinking; that was odd. He remembered Lilith had said it last time, too, but Vox really wasn't much of a drinker. Here, though, in this handy little manner of watching things happening elsewhere, Vox was drinking down a glass of what appeared to be whiskey in a few gulps alone. Alastor could have a few on his own, so it didn’t seem that bad until he realized within ten minutes, the TV-headed lightweight had already drunk three glasses. Vox couldn’t hold alcohol down for anything, and there was no doubt he was already tipsy at least, and planning for worse given that he seemed to have ordered a fourth. Lilith watched him with intrigue, and she didn’t bother to shoo Alastor away. Instead, she spoke aloud to him, aware he was watching with her.
“He goes here every night. Has somewhere between four and ten glasses, and then goes home. No other fights, so far, but I have my hopes. Either way, he is an interesting find.” Good and bad news. In a way. Irritation bubbled beneath the surface, but he tucked it neatly away and continued to watch. It was fairly tame, and Lilith was right — he had a total of six drinks before Vox finally took his leave of the place.
Right along with him walked two larger looking sinners.
Lilith sat up from her relaxed position, looking eager, and this put Alastor more on edge. Surely, Vox would notice. Surely he wouldn’t get into a fight again so very soon. When he left, as far as he was aware, Vox didn’t fight almost ever. He wasn’t one to start them, and most people didn’t bother in the first place. Two fights in one week? Highly unlikely, he was sure.
He was wrong.
It was like the last in many ways. Vox walked alone along the sidewalk and then the two demons rushed him against a wall. No alleyway, but equally with no one else around who would be willing to intervene. Hands and weapons were forceful, blunt and dangerous to the Overlord, and once again, he fell to the ground like last time, and the abuse continued. Alastor didn’t think this time of why, or what it might have been, watching him lay there, almost unresponsive in nature, despite his flinching and trembling. But just as last time, a switch flipped (this time after four minutes and fifteen seconds of fighting), and he was just as quickly victorious as he had been before. In less than half the time his attackers had, he had subdued and murdered both of them, ensuring them to never return. Alastor felt the effects of the rollercoaster of emotions and tension of the fight in the aftermath, and Vox was just as clearly wounded this time as he had been previously. But Lilith was entertained, and eventually did shoo him to his corner of the room.
Alastor wondered what was going on that so many were attacking so quickly. But he tried to ignore the concern and curiosity in favor of doing something else at all.
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In the next three weeks, Vox got into three other fights. They weren’t exactly a week apart, each, but very nearly. On average, these fights lasted no longer than ten total minutes. Always preluded by several glasses of whiskey or sometimes some other alcohol. He didn't know them all by looking alone, certainly. What was concerning, though, was that the amount of time that he took what they gave increased with each one.
It was like he was giving up. Like he wanted it, for some reason. It made no sense. It was infuriating. Vox was fully capable of handling every fight he got into, even when he was outnumbered. None of them ever held an angelic weapon like Vox held, and it wasn't as though he wasn't a semi-decent fighter. He may have been reckless about it, somewhat, but he was definitely effective. Alastor found himself often wondering what was going through the TV demon’s mind, and that it was wildly infuriating that, for once, he had no real way to find out, either. He was so used to hearing the other’s thoughts, but he was so far away now that it just wasn’t possible. The frequency was there, sure, he could hear the faint buzzing of it in his mind if he focused, but no words ever came through. He imagined he couldn’t have reached Vox that way even if he wanted to. Vox had always had a harder time controlling what came through the frequency, too, even if it had gotten better over the last several decades that they spent together. So the silence, while familiar lately, made him nervous just as well.
Tonight was another fight. Alastor tried not to watch initially when he realized that Lilith was observing Vox again — she had been doing it a lot even when it wasn’t very interesting. She evidently found him quite fascinating, and part of him didn’t really blame her. Vox had always been an interesting person, someone to watch and wonder about. He had a way of things, and he was a performer, to say the least, he thought bitterly.
But when the action began, Lilith called for him to watch with her, and he could do little other than indulge her, watching raptly. He couldn't seem to tear away once it began, once he was watching. He needed to know how it was resolved, needed to see what was happening. Just like always, he went down fairly quickly, and so began the timing. The minutes passed while Vox took his beating presumably in silence. One minute turned to three turned to five. Alastor's hands balled into fists, his smile strained as ever when he saw these scenes. He didn't notice the way that Lilith looked between him and the fight playing out.
Five minutes, twenty-three seconds. Twenty-four seconds. Twenty-five seconds. What was he doing? It was taking so much longer than usual. Vox was usually up within a few minutes, but he was still down. Stupid.
“This bothers you,” Lilith said, and while Alastor didn't look away from the window, she knew he was listening. “What are you thinking?”
“He's an idiot.” Spoken through gritted teeth. He didn't have much more to say about it, and she turned her gaze between him and the fight they watched.
Six minutes, three seconds.
“Would you like to go handle this?”
“Yes.” The answer was immediate, and he turned to look at her expectantly. Lilith was amused, a small smile turning up her lips. She made a small gesture with her hand and the window shifted and changed, into what was clearly a portal rather than just a way to watch. It was across the road. “Take your time. I will see you.”
Alastor did not hesitate, stepping towards and through it in less than a moment. A dizzying free fall for a few seconds, but then his feet touched the ground and he could feel the heavy fog of Hell all around him again. It had been … how long? Only a few months. Three months, one week, and a day. He could decipher the seconds, if he so chose, but he was immediately refocusing on the fight that he could see and hear across the street.
The frequency wasn't quiet. Vox's thoughts, loose during this attack, were leaking through, unfiltered. He could hear each quiet plea, and the low pitch of the frequency's distress signal. He hadn't been able to hear it before, but it had clearly been going off for some time. Not surprising.
‘Finish it. I'm so tired.’
Idiot.
But he was here now, and he would handle this, like he usually would. Shadows rose from the concrete around him and … launched forward. It happened very fast. Alastor was quiet, had snuck up on the group of four sinners attacking Vox, sufficiently distracted, and to pull one away from the TV demon was easy. For his shadow figures, large tentacles grasped each of them, squeezing the life from their bodies. The air filled with static, radio feedback echoing along the street and through the alley.
“When did you come back?” one of the sinners gasped, trying to wriggle free of the oppressing shadow.
“Wouldn't you like to know?” Alastor muttered, but his eyes were on Vox, who was barely looking at what was happening.
‘Why did they stop? Did they leave?’
Vox was clearly out of it. He would finish this quickly then. They needed to talk. He had been given no deadline to return, after all, and this was getting ridiculous. His fingers closed tighter around the neck of the sinner he had, and his shadowy servants did the same before pulling them down into a rift in the ground. He drove his free hand through the chest of the sinner he held, grasping his heart and yanking it from his chest. They were genuinely powerless, anyway, and Alastor dropped the heart immediately, as well as the body. Both hit the ground with a soft thud, and Alastor took a few steps closer to Vox, who finally seemed to be looking up.
“Come on. Up.” Words uttered over the shared frequency, a natural occurrence, in spite of everything else. The TV-headed Overlord looked up at him, confused, and Alastor was much more able to see the damage. Cracks and fractures along the other's face and screen were obvious. Some were huge and spiderwebbed out, and others were barely noticeable. A corner of Vox's display was entirely colorless, seeming to have gone out. Some of the middle was black and white rather than proper color, and Alastor had to remember he needed to help Vox stand. He reached out to him, grasped his arms, and pulled the other man upright. Vox swayed on his feet but seemed stable enough, but his gaze seemed stuck on something beyond Alastor's face. He glanced behind himself, and then realized it was likely more because the demon was still drunk.
“Alastor?”
He could still think intentionally, at least. Some of his other thoughts were more disjointed and simple enough to tune out.
“Which way is your place, Vox? It isn't a good idea to stick around while you're like this.”
The question seemed to derail whatever train of thought he may have had. He glanced up and around, and then started off down the sidewalk, stumbling the whole way. With a grumble, Alastor caught up to him, placing a firm hand against Vox's back to keep him a little more stable. The touch caught the other's attention, and he turned to look at Alastor, clearly still somewhat confused.
“Why are you here?”
“To fix things, obviously.”
“Fix what?”
Alastor gestured at Vox vaguely. “This. You need to stop this nonsense, Vox, you're much better than this.”
The words had some sort of an effect, Vox turning his face away and focusing on the sidewalk. But it was quiet, and Alastor didn't have much more to say, instead focusing on keeping an eye out for any other potential attackers. If word had spread that Vox was an easy target, he wanted to keep it from getting any worse tonight. Or for however long he would get here to try and fix this. Things were complex between them, true, he didn't recognize Vox much at all anymore, but he still cared. The last thing he wanted was to see him suffering like this, especially when there was no reason for it.
It was only ten or fifteen minutes before VoxTek Tower came into view, a place Alastor had really been only a handful of times before he had left Hell. He wasn't a fan, truly, what with the many cameras watching every angle, but it was Vox's home, way up at the top, and it was close. He could make a fuss about it later, perhaps, once he knew Vox would be alright.
Vox led them both through the front doors and into the elevator that took them straight to the penthouse. It was late, Alastor realized. It was more difficult to tell in Heaven, he supposed, but the time was well past midnight. The penthouse was quiet and dark, no sign of Vox's business partners around at all. They were either sleeping or out, he supposed, but all for the better. Alastor hadn't been missing for very long, but the fewer people who knew he was here, and the less questions he faced, the better.
“I need to replace my screen,” Vox muttered aloud, and Alastor let him lead the way to hopefully do that. He hadn't had a part in replacing Vox’s parts in so long, not since the nineties, and he was mostly unaware of how he might have to help. Vox approached a closet, opened the door, and rooted around for a while. Eventually he withdrew what appeared to be a replacement panel for his face, and he settled himself on the floor right there and started to work. Alastor leaned on the arm of one of the couches And watched him.
He'd helped Vox replace internal parts, mostly. Back when he would have been able to assist, he'd never seen his screen do more than crack a little, and usually the little hairlines would recover and reseal on their own back then. Maybe that wasn't the case anymore. Either way, he had much more to worry about than just a hairline or two, with part of it completely broken, even sparking a little now that he could see it.
Vox worked in relative silence, his thoughts under more control now that the attack was over. It was always something interesting, that Vox had ever bothered to throttle his thoughts. After close to twenty-five years of open access, the privacy was nice, but it often left him wondering what was going through his head. Until the eighties, he shared pretty freely, but anymore, he never seemed to know. He would have paid money, at this point, to hear what he was thinking, to know why any of this was happening. Vox faced away from him, and roughly ten minutes later, a little series of snaps rang out, and then the demon stood, stretched, and stumbled around to sit down on the couch, leaning back against it. His screen had been, in fact, replaced, and looked much the way it should have.
It was quiet for a long time.
“You aren't really here.”
It was Vox who spoke up. Alastor didn't have much to say on his own, having already made his stance fairly clear. He was only staying to ensure he didn't do anything else that stupid. Eventually, he was sure Lilith would summon him back, but until then …
“Of course I am.”
“You can't be.”
“Why is that, then?”
“You hate me. So I must be dreaming or something.”
Is that what Vox assumed he thought? And maybe he did. There was a lot of anger and resentment, and Alastor knew that. But did he hate Vox?
He was here, wasn't he?
But Vox didn't seem willing to believe that. He supposed he was still drunk, and there was some shock from the fight leftover, maybe. Not that he should have been in such a predicament, anyway, if he would just stop all that nonsense, he'd be fine.
But as he turned back to Vox, to answer or reply, he realized Vox's display had dimmed out, and he was sleeping. It was interesting to see on his modern display. Though no longer bright, he could tell it was still on, whereas in the earlier days, he would have looked rather lifeless. With a huff, he pulled on Vox until the demon was laying down, and that was when he noticed the wounds that bled.
They were too difficult to see outside in all the shadow, but the lights had come on in the living room of the penthouse when they entered, and now they were obvious. Slashes through his suit that were stuck down with blueish-red blood. Vox was a mixture of some kind of electrical coolant, he'd learned early on, and blood from his flesh. He still had some, clearly. He counted each one, finding a total of four that he could see. Alastor found his smile tightening, his teeth grinding together in some heightened sense of irritation. He really was going to get himself killed if he wasn't careful. Pushing aside the clothes in the way, Alastor took a quick look at each wound.
Vox had two very slight grazes, it seemed. They weren't bleeding anymore and sat in inconsequential places around his ribs. They weren't very deep and would probably be fine by morning or the day after. Regeneration and all of that. One of them was a deeper cut in the upper arm. A more serious injury, with fresher blood and angry looking. But it would probably heal right along with the rest, even if it took a little longer.
No, there was just one long, deep cut right along his upper abdomen that was still actively bleeding. Probably the length of his hand, and deep enough to be concerning. Vox's flesh was dark grey and mottled, all of it, but the inner sections were as red or pinkish as anyone else was. He was familiar with meat, with people meat, even, and he knew well that this depth, were Vox anything other than a sinner in Hell, would be fatal without medical attention. Maybe it still had potential to cause problems, even without being related to any angelic weaponry. It wasn’t, he knew, or the edges wouldn’t have been trying to pull back together, This would take the longest to heal, upwards of maybe even a week, and Vox was not one of high constitution, most likely to end up with an infection of some kind. With a slight shake of his head, he decided to do something about that. Alastor had never spent really any time in Vox’s penthouse once he moved away from the eastern radio tower in 1985. He had some time under his belt in the rest of the building, but not much. Without a way of knowing where to find the tools he would need for the job, at least not without wasting a significant amount of time, he chose the simpler way.
With a wave of a hand, the hints of his magic appeared at the ready. Bright green thread and a glowing needle that he took into practiced hands. His stitches weren't very pretty, and usually served a very different purpose, but for now, he could use them practically. Threading the needle, he pressed it against the proper spot and began. Vox had no real reaction to the needle piercing his body, and Alastor wondered how exhausted he really was. People usually had some kind of bodily reaction to something like this, but Vox didn't even twitch. He had looked very tired, admittedly, over the last few weeks. A gentle tug as he pushed the needle and thread through the skin and stitched the wound back together. It was rudimentary magic, truly, and would fray over time and work as intended. He worked on the two larger wounds, though the smaller didn't really need it. It still eased his mind. Vox was fragile, after all.
Once it was done, Alastor whisked the magic away and nodded to himself, cleaning Vox up of the blood all over him. He swiped the blanket that was draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over the other demon and then settled into the cushions of the other couch to patiently wait.
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It took five hours, forty-nine minutes and ten seconds for Vox to wake back up. It started with a slow brightening of his display, and a showing of a little hourglass on his face. And then his expression loaded in and he yawned and stretched. He even seemed to wince, which at least told Alastor that he had been correct, that his wounds were likely to stick around a little while. For now, though, he just watched the other demon.
Vox's hands rubbed at his display, and he leaned forward into them, holding his head there for a minute or so. Alastor saw his expression for a moment and he looked wrecked, even having been fixed, so to speak. It was a look that Alastor had come to know well between the eighties and nineties, and maybe it shouldn't have been so bothersome to see. He knew well that Vox was working himself to an early hypothetical grave. He was technologically required to sleep — or charge, at least. His functionality was lowered if he didn't, and that had always been the case. Yet here he was, with an internal waking at seven in the morning even after a horrible night, and likely to be out or up again until three or later in the next morning.
Alastor remained silent and appeared to go unnoticed as Vox started his morning. He grumbled under his breath something about odd dreams and aching, something about making breakfast, and then disappeared into the bathroom. Whatever his morning routine seemed to be on autopilot, because he got to work on that breakfast the moment he came back out. He was able to watch from afar, within the home, every move that Vox made. He cooked enough breakfast for the three Vee’s, a different meal each. He sat them out on the table, and while Alastor didn’t necessarily make an effort to be hidden, Vox did not seem to notice his presence. The others woke, and that was when Alastor slid away into shadows, unseen. Yet still there. Velvette took a few bites of the lovingly crafted meal before rushing out, Valentino seemed to actually eat all that was presented to him, although with no sort of thanks and nothing but complaints about the coming day’s work. Vox responded well and patiently to this, and eventually wished him well as Valentino headed off to his studio. Neither seemed to notice the exhaustion on Vox’s face, the way he moved with restriction and held a hand to the worst of his injuries. Did they know what he was doing? Did he always go home alone, take care of himself alone?
What did it matter?
Alastor reappeared while Vox cleaned the kitchen and the dining room. He continued to follow him around, at a few arms’ length, and Vox remained mostly unaware. The day moved along and Alastor had an opportunity to actually see what Vox did in a day. He refused to leave him for the time being, and Lilith hadn’t summoned him back yet, so here he was. In the corner of the office that Vox must have spent most of his time in. Three large wires were plugged into the back of his head, and the many monitors in the room moved and flickered between various programs and feeds. Every one of them seemed to look over something different, and Alastor wondered if Vox was taking it all in at once or not. He had gone back to blocking off his thoughts from Alastor, so he had little way of knowing. He wasn’t sure what that would have felt like, anyway. Overwhelming, no doubt, and loud. He was sure every feed had its accompanying audio, too, and if Vox was plugged directly in, he didn't imagine that he would be allowed out of getting all of it. So for now, he would just be happy for the silence.
At some point, it became clear that Vox was not looking in this room, and Alastor moved around more freely, coming closer to watch the screens and Vox's face. A hand waving before his eyes did nothing at all, and he wondered just how deep he was. How that worked. He seemed so keen to disappear in some way, it was … curious.
He stayed working like that from eight until around eleven thirty-two that night. The only disturbances were when his executive assistant, Vyrus, would come in with lunch and then dinner. The two would briefly discuss the day and then Vyrus was dismissed quickly. After delivering dinner at six, Vyrus was told to go home.
Vox fully unplugged, but he stayed sitting at the desk for a long time. Nearly four full minutes. What was he thinking about? It was increasingly bothersome that he had no idea, and no real reason to ask than curiosity. But eventually he stood, turned, and walked right past Alastor without even looking up, hands buried in his pockets, heading for the door. Brows raised, Alastor was quick to follow, his steps quiet compared to Vox's heavier footfalls. Through the corridors, devoid of life, as most of the employees went home for the night. He avoided the elevator, taking the stairs down to the bottom floor, instead. Down and down flights of stairs, and eventually through the main doors of VoxTek Towers.
And so they walked. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. Finally, together they turned and entered the bar that Vox so often frequented now. Of course, how did he not realize? He supposed he hoped he had learned.
Vox settled into a seat at the bar, away from the more concentrated crowd, but then it wasn't too busy on Wednesday night, and Alastor took a seat there, too. He faded to shadow as Vox ordered a drink, one he didn't usually have, at least from memories of when they would drink together. He ordered Alastor's usual drink, a few fingers of rye, neat. Vox didn't like the taste of rye, preferring bourbon.
As he came back to solidity once Vox received it, the TV demon looked up and seemed to notice him next to him. He stared for a long moment that Alastor could only assume was him processing the fact that he was there.
“Alastor.” Spoken in silence, across the shared frequency.
“Vox.”
“You're still here.”
“I am.”
“I thought you would be gone when I woke up. You have been.”
“Have not. You just didn't realize I was still around, I think.”
“Ah. I wasn't exactly looking. Have you been here the whole time?”
“Yes. Since last night.”
Vox drank down half of his glass all at once and kept his gaze on the table following a long sigh. Alastor had been watching him for the last month, and while this technically wasn't new, it was very different to see in person. To hear. He had been missing so much with just video available, really. Alastor knew Vox inside and out, practically, although less inside these days. But he still had so many behaviors that were all exactly the same. The rhythm that he tapped into his glass, the length and force behind his sighs, the hesitations in his speech. Things were bad, he could tell. He was hiding things in front of him, and he was clearly having a weird sort of break. He looked and sounded like … well. Like he did around the time he moved out, which had been a clear first sign that things were sour between them somehow. Probably had been before that, but it was harder to pinpoint.
“Get me another double.” Vox spoke this aloud to the bartender, and Alastor watched in some confusion as he ordered. The glass was provided.
“Is that for me?”
Vox blinked at him in some equally clear confusion, but he slid the glass to him. It was Alastor’s preferred drink, after all, why would Vox continue to order it? He took it, sipped it, and quickly decided he probably wouldn't even drink the whole thing, since Vox chose to drain his glass and order his own second. So this was what he was doing. Vox was drinking it way too fast. His gaze was everywhere, and he could hear his breathing pattern change every time he seemed to want to start a conversation but didn't. It was a terribly familiar sound.
“I don't know what I'm meant to do. Why are you here?”
“I told you last night. To fix this.”
“Fix what?”
“You said that, too. Fix this. What are you doing here, Vox? You're getting yourself into trouble for no reason.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“You've been in fights. In the last month alone, you've nearly been killed several times.”
“But I haven't died. So what does it matter?”
“Are you trying to make me angry?” Irritation seeped into Alastor's tone so easily.
“Of course not. I'm just …” Another heavy sigh. Vox’s shoulders dropped, and he let out what sounded like a grumbling growl. Like he was irritated by not having the words for something. Exasperated. He drank his glass down and ordered a third. Alastor wasn't hiding anymore, too focused on Vox and the room around them. “I don't know. You've been gone for almost four months. You left telling me you hated me.”
“I never said that.”
“It's what I heard.”
“You aren't listening again, then.”
“Alastor, I don't know what to fucking do when you're here, or not here, or whatever!”
“I don't see how that has to do with any of this.”
Vox rolled his eyes, tapping the bartop furiously. Anxiety, Alastor thought. He'd asked him once about it, and that had been his laughing response, with an expression of embarrassment. That he was anxious, and it helped him to let go of the energy.
The third glass came and Vox downed it all at once. That was more than enough, and though Alastor knew he typically drank between four and ten, he had no intention of letting that be the case tonight. When the fourth glass came, he grabbed it and slid it down to another patron, who didn't even really seem to notice and drank it anyway.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Three drinks is more than enough for you, Vox.”
“I get to decide that, Alastor—”
“You would, if you weren’t a complete mess.”
“What are you on about?”
A fifth glass arrived, but Alastor actually poured it out onto the floor.
“Hey!”
“You've been doing this every single night for a month, at least, Vox. It's ridiculous. Fights? You don't do those anymore, what makes you think this is fine to indulge in when you're clearly losing!”
Vox flinched away from his words, but he didn't order another one. Alastor settled back down, found himself grasping his own glass for the comfort of holding something.
“You don't care.”
“I do, Vox. Clearly.”
“Not clearly. You make no sense, four months ago, you told me you didn't ever want anything to do with me! So why are you here? Torturing me?”
“I have no interest in that.”
“Don't you?” Such bitter tones, it wasn't something Alastor had ever heard from Vox. “You sit here like nothing ever happened, like you didn't completely destroy me and then disappeared. You act like you just went out for lunch or something. Have you just been ignoring everything? I'm sure my signal has gone off before, so why now? ”
“That isn't what I'm here to talk about.”
“Yeah, clearly. Do you fucking— do you have any idea what it’s been like? Knowing I fucked up bad, that you hate me, and then that you just up and left? You're right , okay? I'm useless, I'm nothing, I don't care. I'm trying to fucking move on, or die, or I don't even know! Anything other than this.” Vox gestured between the both of them, and it took Alastor a few good moments to realize the TV-headed demon was … crying. Alastor let him speak.
“I understand I made mistakes, I get it, I made all the wrong goddamn choices, but I just wanted you! I wanted you to care, I wanted to show I could be someone to you, not someone you had to babysit all the time, and I wanted you to— fuck, I wanted you to love me, okay? The way I loved you, it's not— but you wanted us to be friends, and that was fine, I thought it was fine, and then I thought maybe it was because I was someone you didn't feel like you could rely on, I know I'm fucking weak and pathetic, I get it. So I tried, and I fucked it up anyway, and now you're just here, talking about all this like you care! I don't know what to do!”
It was all silently said across their frequency, and this was probably the loudest and most uninhibited that Vox had been in decades. It was a little bittersweet, and a lot of what Vox was saying didn't make a lot of sense. Vox slumped in his chair, clearly done speaking for the moment.
“It was never a bother to take care of you, that was my job. It still is, clearly. But that's fine , I can do that. I don't know what all you wanted from me, it clearly wasn't enough … but of course I love you. I never treated you like anyone else, that should have been obvious.”
He had more to say. Vox clearly had more he wanted to say, too, because he looked up at him, expression open and startled, and then he looked away, hesitant in all movements. But by the time Vox looked back again, Alastor was gone, standing once more in Lilith's room, and his hands grasped his staff, teeth clenched. Maybe it would be enough.
---------------------------------
Vox blinked, it felt like, and Alastor was gone all over again. He reached out over the frequency, but he heard no response. He thought maybe he'd gone outside or something else, so he paid his tab and wandered outside, waited for close to fifteen minutes.
Maybe he wasn't real, after all.
Of course he wasn't. He couldn't have been. He must have really lost it, he thought as he started the walk home. His vision was hazy, but he could walk decently. Alastor wouldn't show up now like that, and whatever he was out there doing, he still wanted nothing to do with him. Thought he was useless.
It must have just been his mind deciding enough was enough. It wasn't wrong … the excessive drinking and all the fights and waiting for death to come … it was dramatic. It was a ridiculous sentiment to be indulging in. He had work to do, people who did rely on him, now. He really needed to put a stop to it.
He made it home after a while, and Velvette and Valentino both looked surprised to see him. He stayed out so late, usually, they missed him. He joined them for their dinner, sat on the couch with them through a movie. It was nice, he thought. Normal. Comforting.
They all eventually split ways, plenty of work to do tomorrow, and Vox figured it was a nice night for a shower. Something bright green caught his eyes in the mirror, though, once he undressed.
His fingers followed the stitching on his wounds, blinking in some surprise. Was he really imagining that Alastor patched him up? With his own magic?
He really was pathetic, wasn't he?
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Alastor was happy to find, over the next six and a half years, that Vox only ever got into a handful of fights after that, none of which started with heavy drinking again. At least he listened to him sometimes.