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Vox has had a pounding headache for days. It’ll pass, he told himself, it always passes. It doesn’t matter that this one is making him feel so fucking groggy. He can’t properly concentrate, he keeps dozing off, and the worst is that he sometimes has trouble hearing what other people are saying. He can only ask them to repeat themselves so many times before it becomes ridiculous.
This fucking headache is going to pass.
And in the meantime, he severely hopes that whatever Edgar just fucking said didn’t matter. It’s probably something about numbers. Only problem is that Vox really should give two shits about numbers, but he can’t be arsed to ask Edgar to stop fucking mumbling and repeat himself like the real grown-ass adult that he is. He can’t do that because it’d be rude, and Edgar is a big thing or whatever and you have to be nice to the guys with the money. It’s such a fucking farce, Vox hates it. Edgar should just shove the money over, who the fuck needs numbers? The numbers will be fine, if Vox could just get the money he needs without all this useless preamble! Vox is revolutionary, but he can’t do anything ground-breaking on no fucking cash.
Someone calls the meeting – Vox has no clue who and honestly, he couldn’t give less of a shit – and they all disperse. The worst thing is that Vox has gotten no fucking slip of paper that says Oh yes Mr Vox we will give you all the money on it. Which means that none of them gave a shit about the ideas he proposed which means he’ll have to fucking stem it on his own somehow. But he doesn’t know how.
Stewing in misery, he gathers himself up and leaves the meeting room. Hell truly is the worst bureaucracy.
Vox is sweating when he walks. It’s not all too warm today, by Hell’s standards, but he already feels like he’s gasping for air after just a few steps. His head makes it difficult to walk in a straight line, and he hates it. He really has to concentrate to stay on course, and that’s way harder than it has any right to be. He curses his past self for offering to pick up groceries on the way. He’s such a fucking fool. But he’s promised, and he can’t slack off. Just go in, swipe anything they might need, and get the fuck out of there. He’s so looking forward to a nice hot shower and his soft bed, maybe some cuddles.
Because Alastor is staying over this week. Despite the massive growing headache, it makes Vox smile. They’re not... together together, but Alastor tends to stay over at Vox’s place for a week every month regardless. The radio demon says it’s because Vox cannot keep clean for the life of him, but Vox knows that’s bullshit. Sure, his countertops aren’t cleaned spotless, but it’s not like he’s inviting the ants in, either. It’s just an excuse, and it warms Vox’s heart that the man felt the need to find an excuse to stay over at all.
They haven’t kissed, not yet, but they’ve danced so close to it. Vox would like to do much more than kissing, but kissing should really be the first step. At least Alastor is touching him consistently these days, mainly because it brings out such a visceral reaction from Vox. He still doesn’t want to admit that he moaned out loud the one time Alastor’s claws accidentally brushed past his clothed nipples. He hasn’t quite moaned like that again, but he whimpers every time Alastor targets his nipples on accident. That asshole is such a liar. Vox wants to kiss him so much.
Standing in the grocery store, he can’t remember what he was supposed to get. Alastor’s going to cook, but what was he going to make? Fuck. Fuck, just – just get whatever, it’ll be fine. Vox hurries through the aisles, getting whatever catches his eye and then he makes his way to the checkout. He wants to go grocery shopping with Alastor. He knows it’d be a disaster because the man attracts disaster like shit attracts flies, but he wants to. He wants to offer to take the heavy, heavy grocery bag out of Alastor’s hand and carry it himself, because he’s the big strong man. (The fact that he has broader shoulders will always make him feel proud like a little child.)
He’s walking home, and the bag is kind of really heavy. It’s not heavy, he knows, but it feels like the thing’s dragging down his whole arm. His headache is getting worse, and maybe he can get Alastor to make him some tea. Now, the man cares not for tea at all; he’d much rather inject pure caffeine into his veins – Vox thinks he does take cocaine somewhat often actually – but maybe he’ll spare a bit for poor, poor Voxxy.
“Honey, I’m home!”
His voice isn’t as strong and cheerful as he’s wanted it to be when he opened the door. He sounds more like a pathetic bee, desperate to suck on some flower. Alastor’s nipples would suffice; too, he won’t be picky about it.
“Where have you been? I’m bored out of my mind; don’t tell me you still get lost?”
Alastor is leaning against the countertop, looking downright bored, just like he said. But damn, what a sight to behold: he’s lost the suit jacket and the bowtie, and his sleeves are upturned. Vox wants to dip him backwards and kiss him so good the man will gasp for breath, forgetting his own name.
“There was a line,” Vox lies, rolling his eyes. He puts the bag on the counter as Alastor comes closer, tip-toeing elegantly. Teasingly, he tipples his fingers over Vox’s chest as he presses closer. Fuck. They’ve been doing this, whatever this is, for a good five months now, and you’d think Vox would be prepared for Alastor’s bullshittery. He’s not. He never fucking is.
“Was there?”
The fucker breathes seductively right into Vox’s open mouth, and he presses his torso against Vox’s, caressing his chest with one hand while the other is gently stroking alongside the screen. This man knows exactly what he’s doing, and gods Vox hopes he’s never going to fucking stop.
Vox leans forward, fisting his hand into Alastor’s hair, pulling his head back. The demon smiles widely with an open mouth, and lets Vox man-handle him. Fuck, it’s getting to Vox’s head, and he’s already sporting a headache (and a semi, but that’s not relevant. Maybe a little. A big little!)
He presses Alastor against the counter they’re standing next to and pulls his head back further. His other hand is tightly grabbing onto the man’s waist and Vox wants little more than to bend him over and... and...
“Vox,” Alastor teases, haughty, because the fucker knows, and his favourite game is to make Vox lose his fucking mind. Sadly – luckily – he’s succeeding.
“There was,” Vox answers him, looming over the man just by an inch. They’re close enough that Alastor’s nose keeps bumping lightly against Vox’s face and it’s so easy. It’s so easy to lean in and shove his tongue down Alastor’s mouth.
“No,” Alastor just says with his big-ass eyes and Vox moans, pressing his crotch between Alastor’s legs and leans down, content with swiping his tongue all over that lovely neck. This is something safe he’s allowed. If he’s really good, he can even rut against Alastor, as long as he doesn’t get the man dirty. Once they kiss, Vox is going to make a mess out of this man.
Alastor angles his head to give Vox a better area to work with, and Vox relocates both his hands to the man’s waist, holding on tight enough to bruise. Vox can’t taste much today which is a fucking shame. Alastor isn’t always in the mood for giving Vox a little reward, so he needs to make good use of this even if he can’t taste most of it.
“Hmm.”
Alastor lifts one leg and puts it around Vox’s hip and Vox can’t get his hand there fast enough to hold it steady. He’s licking and suckling as hard as he can – as good as he can – and this sure would be easier if he could properly breathe through whatever classifies as his nose these days.
“Are you alright, dear? Your fan’s whirring up a storm.”
Yes, Vox noticed, but he decided to ignore it. Alastor is in the mood and you do not waste one of those. It might take months for it to come back and Vox would rather not wait that long.
“It’s ‘cause you’re so hot. I’m good enough to give it to you.”
Vox can practically feel the man roll his eyes and fuck, he’s messed up. Alastor removes himself from the situation completely and so abruptly via shadow that Vox is licking the air for a solid three seconds. Damn it.
“Give me the flu, more like. How long have you been feeling under the weather?”
Alastor uses a delicate claw to poke against Vox’s brightly-lit screen.
“I’m not feeling under the weather, I’m fine. If you drop the trousers I’ll show you just how well I’m feeling.”
That causes Alastor to roll his eyes so hard his whole body follows.
“Nothing but problems. My, my, if you won’t cooperate, I can just hound Husker for the week. I’m sure he’s missing me so terribly. His fur is so warm and soft at night, you know? A true delight to wake up buried face-down inside it –“
“Okay I’m feeling the worst! I’m dying!”
Alastor purses his lips and climpers his lashes. “My, my, are you? Whatever ails you so, my useless darling?”
Vox starts to pout and stomps over to the bed. He’s stepping super loudly, so that he can annoy Alastor who has never expressed any discomfort regarding loud noises. Once he arrives, he tosses himself on the bed like a sack of wet potatoes. No, you wouldn’t throw wet potatoes on a bed. Whatever, it’s the imagery!
“I’ve a headache,” he mumbles when he feels the bed dip slightly next to him.
“Turn around,” Alastor orders and Vox does as he’s told. But he’s also a stubborn old child, and doesn’t look at Alastor. In a show of great care, Alastor plaps his entire hand straight over Vox’s face, uncaring of whether or not he’s hitting any of Vox’s eyes. He’s so considerate, he should become a nurse. Oh no, Alastor in a cute, short pink nurse uniform...
“Hmm,” the demon concludes, “you have a fever, dear. Were you planning on letting me know?”
“Don’t have a fucking fever,” Vox insists. He’s big and strong and a man! Illness is for wimps.
For the third time in approximately five minutes, Alastor is rolling his eyes again.
“Sleep, you degenerate. Do it of your own free will, or I will force you.”
My, that’s the most convincing argument Vox has ever heard in his life! He closes his eyes immediately without any further protest, and assuming a corpse pose. Alastor slaps his hands in mockery but Vox won’t budge.
“Silly picture box,” Alastor mocks him, “good boy.”
Vox very much does not whimper. He’s also not hard. Good that that’s clear.
Vox wakes again later. Huh, he can’t remember falling asleep, but that’s normal, isn’t it? He feels like proper shit, now. He shouldn’t have slept, he felt better before he did.
“I made soup, silly man. Sit up, if you’re able.”
Vox blinks the sleepiness out of his eyes and sees Alastor sit next to him still – again. He’s holding a bowl with steam coming out of it. He pulls a face. He’s not hungry, really. He tells Alastor as much. It’s a pity, too, because he’s usually all over Alastor’s cooking – mainly ‘cause it’s Alastor’s but hey.
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. Did I ask? You’ll eat this soup even if I have to cut open your stomach for it. Sit up, or get sat up.”
Yeah, he should really go into nursing, he has such a nice, soothing aura about him. Vox clambers up into a sitting position and he notices his clothes have changed. Puzzled, he looks to Alastor. There’s no way... right? Gods, and he was asleep for it!
“Don’t be ridiculous, I asked that clean sinner downstairs to do it. You know, the one that’s perpetually stuck in a toilet.”
“You fucking didn’t. You’re threatening to cut that dude’s ass off every time you come here.”
Alastor smiles coyly. “Who, me? My, Voxxy, I’m an upstanding citizen! I would never! Now eat your soup before I force it down your throat.”
Vox opens his mouth wide on that command. Alastor gets so creative when he gets pissed and Vox would rather not stand in his path for it. After the first spoon, Alastor sits back and climpers his lashes again. Fuck him straight to Heaven.
“Amazing. Best soup I’ve ever eaten. It’s better than the lifeblood in my veins. Please, Nurse, I want more.”
Mockingly, Alastor pats Vox’s screen. “Such a good boy. Here’s the bowl, don’t spill it!”
He plops the hot bowl into Vox’s unprepared hands and he’s so tough he doesn’t even cry. Alastor, meanwhile, ta-ta’s himself out of the bedroom and Vox should may re-evaluate certain life choices. He won’t, of course, but maybe he should. At least the soup really is quite good. If Alastor’s good at one thing, it’s – a lot of things, honestly, but cooking is definitely one of them.
He eats the soup and puts the bowl on the nightstand after. Then, he examines himself. He’s not completely redressed, but he’s lost his trousers, his suit jacket and vest; and the shoes. Sure, it would be more comfortable to be in his pyjamas, but he also gets what a hassle it can be, to get a sleeping person into anything resembling clothes. It’s touching that Alastor undressed him this much at all.
He’s contemplating getting up, but his head feels really heavy. So, with a sigh, Vox decides to lie back down. The first round of sleep made him feel worse, so maybe the second round will fix that. There’s not much else he can really do, so might as well get to it. Most effective way to cure yourself is sleep, anyway. And Alastor might castrate him if he catches Vox trying to sneak outside.
It’d be only nice if Alastor were in bed next to him, but at least the man’s just behind the door. It’s something, at least.
Next time he wakes everything’s hazy. He feels like he’s burning up, and his head is downright killing him. He whimpers, wanting something, but not knowing what or even being able to communicate it, and he might even be crying. It hurts so much, and he wants it to stop, please please. There are cold fingertips on his too-hot face and he whines.
“Hush, hush, my love. It’s okay, it’s all okay, I’m here. Shh, shh, calm down, yes? Sleep, darling, all will be fine. I know, I know, it hurts, I know. It will be better when you wake up again. Just rest, will you? You’re so good for me, yes?”
There’s something wet and cold on his forehead and he doesn’t like it, it hurts, but the voice is so soft, so kind and nice.
“You’re doing so good, my love. Rest now, hmm? If you’re good, maybe I’ll even kiss you, hmm? You’re my good boy, aren’t you?”
“Mama,” Vox whines because he really wants his mama.
“Mama. Yes, of course. Mama’s here? Sleep now, darling, Mama’s watching over you,” the voice says after a quick hiccup and Vox does. He’s crying, but the soft fingertips lull him to sleep.
When he wakes up again, it’s getting light outside. Oh... did he sleep the entire day? He’s turned his head and is staring out of the window like he’s never seen the morning before. Taking a quick stock on himself, he does feel better. His head’s still a little heavy, but it feels more bearable than it did before. He still doesn’t want to get up, but it’s okay if he spends today in bed still, right? He’s just combated such a life-threatening illness, everyone will understand.
His chest is weirdly heavy, he notices. Vox turns his head and looks down. There, sprawled all over his chest, lies a sleeping Alastor. His hair is in a little disarray, and he’s clutching a towel in his hand. He has some eyebags under his eyes, but his dace seems relaxed otherwise. At the sight of that, Vox smiles softly. He raises a hand and softly brushes the fingers through the red hair. Alastor hardly reacts; he just makes a low pleased sound at the back of his throat and nuzzles deeper into Vox’s chest.
It sucks being sick, but this view kind of makes it worth it.
“Vox?” A sleepy voice asks and Vox retracts his hand.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t want to wake up.”
Alastor blinks at him with bleary eyes, before he lifts himself up a little. He bumps his head against Vox’s, in a clear attempt to feel his temperature. Vox can’t help but blush a little.
“Hmm, feels better. How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Vox says, “better.”
Alastor nods and sits up, rubbing his eyes. He looks really tired; Vox isn’t used to that.
“Good. Then I’ll, hmm, make breakfast. You like waffles don’t you? Insolent child.”
Vox wraps his hand around Alastor’s arm before the man can get up, not that he seems to be in any hurry.
“Okay,” Vox says, “but first, stay a little longer.”
He just tugs the slightest bit, but Alastor goes willingly, nuzzling against Vox’s chest again.
“Hmm,” the demon mumbles, “gotta make sure you’re good again. It’s better when you’re healthy, Voxxy. Let’s stay a little longer.”
He’s dosing off as he says that, and Vox slowly puts his arms around the man.
“Yeah,” he whispers, “let’s stay a little longer.”