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Charlie Morningstar had a lot to answer for.
Alastor had prepared to have a quiet night in. A drink, a good book by the fire, and in bed at a reasonable hour so he could be up with the sun to make breakfast. He'd been planning on making French toast but considering this imposition he was mentally rewriting his menu to give that golden retriever of a woman a bowl of gruel and a glass of water. If he ever found the demon who put the laughable idea of bonding so deeply into Charlie's little mind, he would hunt them down and eat their liver straight from their belly while they were still alive.
She sprung the idea on all of them like a steel trap over dinner. The ladies were going to have a "sleepover", a concept Alastor broadly understood from time with Mimzy. Nail polish and hair curlers and idle gossip. Niffty positively vibrated with excitement over the idea and it was only her beseeching look that stayed Alastor's sharp tongue from deriding the idea as silly and unnecessary. He supposed she deserved a nice evening, she had been working ever so hard lately.
But why did that mean he had to be standing out on a damned street corner, with Husker and Angel Dust of all people, waiting in line to get into a neon-encrusted hole in the wall that you could hear from two blocks away?
The indignity of it all.
Charlie had called it a "boy's bonding night", which felt both somehow infantilizing and infuriating. In his day, if men wanted to... well, gather, there was always drinking and poker. Or hunting. God, and there were some people he would really like to fucking hunt for sport right about now. What luck, two of them were standing right next to him at this very moment!
Angel, wrapped in some kind of bright pink fur stole, made a show of shivering and trying to stand closer to Husk "for warmth". He was wearing the most appallingly ripped jeans and had laughed himself almost hoarse when Alastor had offered to have the unseemly things repaired. His tailor was good but he might not be able to work that kind of miracle, he conceded. For his part, he was wearing one of his usual suits, and looked quite sharp if he did say so himself. The sentiment was apparently not shared by his compatriots.
"Smiles, are ya sure Charlie told ya all about this place?" Angel asked, having been softly rebuked from Husk's own fur coat. He gave the demon a once over, a flick of his eyes from toe to head, and Alastor grinned brightly.
"What's there to tell?" He asked, sweeping his gaze over the assembled sinners ahead of them, "I assure you, we had night clubs when I was alive. Ah, they were a real riot sometimes. Jazz, gin, dancing! Who could ask for more?"
Angel shrugged and returned the smile. "Well, I don't think you're gonna get jazz here, but I bet we can get'cha a gin ya don't need to use a code word to order."
"Or a whiskey," Husk said, almost slyly. "Rye, perhaps?"
Alastor laughed, "Oh Husker, my good fellow, you really do have my number, hm? Anyway, I don't see how we'll get those drinks or participate in this forced bonding nonsense unless we get into the club itself! This line hasn't moved in twenty minutes."
As one they all glanced over the line of sinners, dressed to the nines, that stood between them and the door. Angel sighed, digging into a tiny purse that hung off his wrist, and pulling out a cigarette and lighter.
"It's a popular spot, Al. Just opened. Owned by the same demon who opened up Consent a few months back. And that place is still hoppin'." He blew out a plume of smoke and leaned a hip against the wall behind them.
"Well, this just won't do," Alastor said, summoning his cane and peeling away from their little group to go speak to the bouncer. Husk groaned, muttering curses under his breath as he grabbed Angel and hurried to follow him.
It had been a good day- no, scratch that, an excellent day for Vox. First quarter sales of their new Angelic Security systems were off the charts and he was able to sign a tidy little agreement with Carmilla Carmine that afternoon. It hadn't given him everything he wanted but it hadn't given that sanctimonious bitch even half of what she asked for, so he considered it a victory.
A+ work, 10/10, no notes.
When he had burst into the Vees living quarters, Velvette was already getting them on the list for the hottest new night club in the whole damn city. When they arrived and oozed out of their limo like starlets onto a red carpet, there was already a private table ready and a bottle of free top shelf champagne waiting for them. Damn, sometimes it was good to be him!
He grinned as he watched the dance floor, sipping his bubbly as Velvette jumped around to the DJ's set like a kid having a sugar rush. Behind him, Valentino was flirting outrageously with their waitress, a curvy little thing with pastel pink fur and bunny ears. The irony was kind of hilarious. Had Playboy been a thing when she was alive? Eh, who cared, skin mags like that were too classy and a half for Val. Vox wondered if the moth could even read words that had more than four letters.
Laughing to himself, Vox let his gaze sweep over the club. Nothing could ruin his night, not a goddamn thing. Alastor himself could walk in that door and it still wouldn't put a damper on his good mood! Hell, he'd even buy the motherfucker a drink! Why not!
And then, because reality had a sense of humor and Vox was one of its favorite playthings, he spotted a familiar set of ears and antlers by the entrance.
"Oh, no fucking way," he wailed, speakers popping. "You have gotta be fucking kidding me!"
Val leaned over Vox's shoulder, absurd glasses sliding down his dumb round face as he zeroed in on the bright red eldritch aberration Vox had noticed. Or so he thought. "Holy shit, is that Angel? The fuck is he doing here? Oh, he looks hot though..."
You know what, actually, fuck being him. Everything was terrible and he wanted to die. Fuck him in particular. Goddammit.
Alastor walked into the club with his head held high. Amazing what a little bit of persuasive conversation could do! Why, he'd barely had to expend any demonic energy before the hellhound at the door had suddenly found the name "Radio Demon" on the VIP list and let them in with a whimper. The wide eyed look of slightly proud shock on Angel's face was equally gratifying.
"Damn, you really can be scary sometimes," he said, as they stood in the entry way and tried to get their bearings. The club was loud, dark, and unpleasantly humid.
"Sometimes?" Alastor asked, affronted, letting his static deepen at the slight.
"Bar." Husk demanded, grabbing Angel again and tugging him to the gaudy, mirrored altar to alcoholism to their left. He made a move to also grab Alastor but immediately thought better of it. He didn't have any death wish. He was a big boy, he could find the bar on his own.
Alastor looked around the club and couldn't help the tinge of a sneer that grew on his smile like mold in a damp basement. At the most basic level, yes, he could recognize it was a night club. Dancing patrons? Check. Alcohol? Check. He wouldn't classify what was being played at a frankly irresponsible volume as music, though. It was like listening to a heart monitor with aspirations of greatness. Rhythmic beeps and boops trying desperately to become something that resembled a tune. If someone had suggested he play it on his radio, he would have torn the thing from the wall and beaten them to death with it.
People seemed to be enjoying it though, dancing like there was no tomorrow and rubbing against each other vigorously. Ugh. Well, there was no accounting for taste.
He made his way to the bar, the crowd thoughtfully parting for him once they realized who was in their midst. A few sinners completely threw themselves out of his path and a couple that had just stepped in after waiting outside for over an hour took one look at him and turned right back around.
"Ah, hello my dear," the bartender took one look at Alastor and skidded back against the far wall, eyes wide. If the Radio Demon noticed their terror he didn't acknowledge it. "I will have a rye whiskey on the rocks, but don't drown the thing, yes? My associate here will have a scotch and soda and that one in the pink will have the most popular, technicolor, overly sweet and inappropriately named drink you have at this establishment, thank you."
As a show of good faith, Alastor dropped a few bills into the tip jar and gave the sinner a cheerful smile. The bartender gawked at him before visibly shaking themselves and rushing off to make his drinks.
Alastor hummed to himself as he waited, leaning against the bar next to Husk and Angel, indulging in a bit of people watching. The music continued to be abysmal. If the drinks were bad too, well, razing the place to the ground would probably be a public service.
The spotlight over the dance floor spun wildly, the light glinting off a scowling flat screen television seated at a table separated from the riff raff by a red velvet rope. Alastor felt his perpetual smile widen into something hungry.
Well what did you know, this night had potential after all!
The bartender dropped their drinks off and fled. Alastor caught Vox's eye, lifted his whiskey with a cheeky tilt and a wink, before taking a sip. "Cheers, darling!"
Vox's screen glitched briefly, much to his delight. It was honestly too easy sometimes. The media demon turned, said something to the, ah yes, of course that disgusting moth demon was there, and then disappeared with an arc of bright blue energy.
Husk and Angel startled terribly when Vox popped back into existence at the bar, the spider demon swearing as he spilled the horribly candy colored drink with, good heavens, three umbrellas all over himself.
"You," Vox growled as he sidled up next to Alastor.
"Me," the Radio Demon replied with a special shit eating grin he kept in reserve only for him. He took another sip of the admittedly very nice whiskey (one point in this terrible club's favor, his internal review of the place jumping from minus 4 to minus 3 stars).
Vox snapped his fingers at the bartender and a drink was put in his hand immediately.
"Manners," Alastor chided. "You can tell so much about a person by how they treat waitstaff, you know."
"Fuck you, first of all," Vox said, pointing the glass at him accusingly, "second of all, what the fuck are you of all people doing at the trendiest night club in the whole city? I thought you'd burn to a crisp like a vampire walking into a church if you set foot into a place that refused to act like culture stopped evolving after the Great Depression."
Alastor huffed a laugh. "I'll have you know, my dear, that I enjoy an evening out every so often. I'm not a nun."
"And, so, what? You guys picked here?" A disbelieving chuckle clung to his words, glitchy and warped. Vox leaned into Alastor's personal space a little, screen lighting up with one of his patented shark toothed grins. "I had no idea you were so fond of EDM music, must have missed that segment on your little radio program."
Alastor refused to take a step back, instead letting his smile turn into something sleek and serpentine. "Oh, so you do listen to my program! I was wondering who's been writing me all that deranged fan mail lately, so good to find an answer to that little mystery!" Tinny canned laughter played through his static, a few whoops thrown in for good measure.
Vox's speakers made his growl into a garbled warble as they continued to bicker, the air around the bar growing heavy with electrical buzz and radio feedback, like clouds rolling in before a thunderstorm.
Nearby, Husk watched the two overlords like a tennis match while Angel shoved napkins down his cleavage to mop up the remains of his spilled drink.
"We gotta get the boss outta here before they level the fucking block," Husk said, hand clutched around his drink like a sailor thrown overboard clings to a piece of wood in the sea.
"Huh?" Angel looked up from his waterlogged stole. "Nah, I told Charlie all about this place, it's why we picked it. Ya can't-"
Alastor said something, a sly murmured swipe delivered with a sparkling smile, and Vox struck like a viper, a claw wreathed in electricity grabbing for his white trimmed lapel. An invisible force deflected the attack, bouncing the limb back as if hitting a wall. Vox yelped, rubbing his wrist as Alastor flicked his eyes around, confused.
He hadn't done that. What the hell was going on?
"I SAID," Angel repeated, loud enough for the two posturing idiots to hear, "ya can't fight in this bar. It's called TRUCE, ya ding-dongs. That's like it's whole deal, no bar fights. Neutral territory."
"Excuse me?" Vox said, voice laced with barely contained anger. Alastor stayed his own tongue, letting his senses out a bit more. Ah, there is was. How had he not noticed beforehand? There was a feeling like a weighted curtain of warding over the bar. Like a blanket tossed over a birdcage. He could feel a charm embroidered into it. Keep your hands to yourselves! We're all friends here! Let's have a good time together!
Alastor's diplomatic smile curled into something curdled. "I see. How... unfortunate."
"Pfft, lucky for you! If this place wasn't warded I'd beat your ass so hard they'd have to sell your hide as ground venison." Vox let his own internal studio audience ohhh at the insult, grin dripping with malice and pixelated saliva.
The Radio Demon rolled his eyes, his monocle a shard of glittering red in the dark of the club, elbow leaned primly against the bartop. "My dear fellow, it would be a miracle if you could even lay a fingertip on me before I rend you down into scrap metal and sell you for pennies."
Valentino slotted himself between them, angling for the bartenders attention. "Girls, girls, cut it out, you're both pretty." He ignored the murderous look Alastor shot him while Vox made an exhausted, frustrated noise deep in his throat. "Oh hey Angel baby." the slutty moth purred, leaning against a struggling Vox to leer.
"Wow, you're right, this place sucks. Let's go," Angel said, glaring at Val.
"First sensible thing anyone's said all night," Husk put his empty glass down on the bar, giving the oversexed demon his own unimpressed look. Velvette followed in Val's wake, hair frizzy from dancing, a blush high on her cheeks.
Vox shoved Val off him, ignoring a disgruntled curse in Spanish yelled his way, and looked back to Alastor with a leer of his own. "Oh? Turning tail, hah, and running away? Can't handle a friendly little night club? What, Radio Demon's got no rhythm? Can't handle his drink?"
"You're an idiot," Velvette said, grabbing something fizzy with a long twirly straw from the increasingly overwhelmed bartender. They had the kind of despair in their eyes of a customer service veteran who had seen one too many tours of duty, the kind of look that said "maybe I really should go back to school and finish that degree in tax accounting".
Val wiggled over to Angel, Husk bristling as he got near. "Yeah, amorcito, don't be stupid. He's called the Radio Demon, of course he's going to have rhythm. He's probably got a damned metronome in his head."
Everyone sort of blinked at Valentino for a second. "How the fuck do you know what a metronome is?" Vox blurted out. Val shrugged and went back to making a looming nuisance of himself.
"You can not believe the depths to which I am loathe to ever agree with your... partner," Alastor said, giving Val another glare before leveling his gaze back to Vox's stupid flat face, "but I am delighted to admit to being an excellent dancer."
He spared a fond thought to his days upstairs, how a few dance contest victories with Mimzy in a local speakeasy had payed his rent a few times when things got tight. The good old days.
Vox got back into his personal space again, grinning so ferociously he looked like a shark ready to take a chunk out of a boat. "Oh yeah? Prove it."
Alastor let out a single bark of laughter. "To this noise? I don't think so."
"Coward." Vox accused, smile so wide the corners of it disappeared off the edges of his screen.
With a crunch of vertebrae, Alastor let his neck twist and elongate, eyes turning into vibrating radio dials. "What did you just call me?"
"Oh you heard me, Bambi."
"Challenge accepted!" he growled through a jagged spike of thick feedback, slamming his drink back onto the bar and shooting a hand out at the dance floor. The lights shifted with a shower of sparks, the patrons packing the space screaming and running for cover. Shadows raced out from Alastor's form, clawing along the floor before reconstituting on the DJ's stage. The music cut off with a violent screech, the DJ ducking behind his booth with a yelp.
Alastor walked out onto the dance floor as his shadows mimed picking up instruments, tuning strings and blowing a few tentative notes into horns. He gave Vox a vicious, eager smile and struck a pose, his suit flashing into a sleek red and black tuxedo complete with top hat and tails. The shadow band launched into a high energy jazz number that echoed through the club's sound system as he bent with a mock bow towards his most beloved foe. Vox seemed momentarily stunned as Alastor swept himself up into a tap number like a Hollywood movie musical protagonist.
It was impressive how quickly his feet moved, almost delicately, light as a feather on the dance floor. He grinned excitedly, a laugh of delight bubbling through him as he cut loose. It had been positively ages since he'd done something like this and it felt glorious. The horns played bright and fast as Alastor sashayed and strutted, an authentic, thrilled smile on his sharp face.
"Shit, grandpa's got moves," Velvette said as she raised her phone to try and film him. The Sinstagram app crashed almost immediately, wholly unable to perceive Alastor for longer than a few seconds.
Vox swore and took off his suit jacket, shoving his sleeves up before loosening his bow tie. The screens behind the DJ booth lit up with clones of his smirking face as he stepped onto the dance floor, making a beeline for the red menace doing his best Fred Astaire. The DJ's deck came alive as he sunk his power into it, a sharp techno beat ripping through Alastor's stupid old timey jazz band.
The lights on the dance floor changed, turning Alastor's blood red and Vox's corporate blue to shades of sickeningly bright neon as the television demon wrenched control back. He circled Alastor as the beat rose like a car on a roller coaster approaching a sheer cliff. The Radio Demon scowled with his eyes, grin etching higher as the electronic beat went frantic, froze, and then hurtled into a drop. Vox kicked out with a laugh, dancing along to the heavy new sounds bouncing through the stereo.
Where Alastor had been elegant, Vox was all energy. His was a dance meant to move along with sharp changes in time signatures and tones, flashy but surprisingly fluid. A cybernetic blur with a wild kinetic grin.
Not bad, but nothing to write home about. He could do better. Time to show Vox how they partied in 1929! He pulled his own jacket off, flinging it to the side, meeting Vox's mismatched eyes with a feral smirk of his own.
"Take it away, boys!" Alastor yelled to his band, the music of Vox's modern techno suddenly drowned out by a loud swing number full of soaring saxophone and wailing trumpet. He switched easily from tap, letting less structured movements take over his bones.
Not to be outdone, Vox fought back, the techno tearing into the swing music until the two played at the same time, loud and boisterous and oddly in sync with each other. Each demon glared at the other as they danced, a crowd forming around them.
"This is fuckin' insane," Angel said as they all watched from the bar, bewildered and impressed in equal measures.
"$100 on the jerk in red," Husk offered, unable to let an opportunity to gamble go by.
"You're on," Velvette grinned, the pair shaking on it.
To Alastor's astonishment, a rare thing indeed, Vox began to copy his moves, abandoning his own style and leaning into the swing. He grabbed his hand, Alastor hissing like a kicked cat at the touch, pulling him just close enough to begin to lindy hop with him. A shift of his hips, a flick of the ankle, and Alastor joined in gleefully. Good golly, now this was dancing!
It was electrifying how good it felt to dance with a partner who knew what he was doing, and he hated to admit it but Vox was actually decent at this. Where had the overgrown calculator been hiding this little skill set? Their music bled together as they moved as one, Vox throwing Alastor up into a twirl, the deer demon alighting to the ground with a laugh. This time he took Vox's hand himself, leaping close and pulling the television into a fast paced fox trot.
The hand light on his back was gentle as Vox moved him closer, settling into the new rhythm without missing a step. Bastard, Alastor thought with something that was almost approaching fondness.
"Is that all you've got?" Alastor asked, tone cloying and smile baited like a fishing line. Vox's answering grin was a rabid, bright flicker, the fans under his shirt whirring loudly in exertion.
"We haven't even scratched the surface of what I can do, baby," he replied, spinning Alastor off as he changed the music into something a little slower, a little more sinuous. The shadow band took the new song up with gusto, adding their instruments to the arrangement, and by the time Alastor spun back into Vox's arms they sank together into a heady, dangerous tango.
They fought briefly for control but Vox firmly grabbed the lead, slipping Alastor into a dizzying dip. They stalked around the dance floor, chests touching, legs tangled. It was the most Alastor had touched someone in years but it felt wonderful. He hated Vox so much it was almost unbearable.
He wondered if he could tempt the man into a waltz, watch him submit to Alastor's lead like a dog brought to heel.
Hmm, maybe next time. When there was less of an audience.
After several more hours of dancing, drinking, and even more dancing, the six demons staggered out of the club as dawn was beginning to crest the horizon. Alastor leaned heavily on his cane, Vox's arm limp and weary around his shoulders, head fuzzy with delirious inebriation and the sparkly serotonin that came from dancing until your body ached.
Valentino carried a passed out Velvette over his shoulder, holding his high heels in one pair of hands and walking barefoot in just fishnets. Behind them, Angel sleepily leaned on Husk as he counted out his winnings.
"I gotta admit, that was fun," Vox said, screen dim and smile tired. "I haven't danced like that since I was alive."
Alastor hummed thoughtfully, his own static a little on the softer side as exhaustion pulled at him. "We made a well matched pair on the dance floor, my dear. No one could argue that."
A limo pulled up, shining and black with a gaudy Voxtek logo on the door. Valentino piled in, hurling his heels without looking, dumping Velvette on one of the seats, and cracking open a bottle of water.
With a shove, Alastor slunk out from under Vox's arm and wheeled back around to watch the television pause before ducking into the car.
"We should do this again some time," he said, something hopeful on his face.
"The next time I see you I am going to kill you," Alastor replied cheerfully.
"Yeah, no, that's fair." Vox sighed. "Good night, Alastor."
"I believe you'll find that it's now good morning, old pal!" he smiled with all his teeth. Vox groaned and muttered something about some people just having to get the last word as he got into the limo.
Alastor watched them go, giving his cane a thoughtful little twirl, feedback roiling around him like unsettled waves lashing against a beach.
"The fuck was that?" Angel asked, eyeing the demon.
"That, my dear man, was bonding, I believe! What a disgusting habit. Let's never do it again."
Angel shook his head and laughed as they all trudged back to the hotel.