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Vox’s mornings started with caffeine and calibration. Not that mornings meant much in Hell— Coffee in the machine, diagnostics running in the background, his eyes locked on readouts the way some men stared at scripture.
The cup sat warm in his hands when the new plugin pinged on his feed. Some bright little piece of software, shiny enough to catch his attention through the haze of tired code. He clicked before thinking. A second later his entire tower practically coughed. Every screen in the penthouse warped, a ripple cutting down his center display, and blue light crawled like a bruise under his skin.
Vox hissed and set the mug down. His fingers hammered the keyboard, running checks, then running them again. Same results each time. Corrupted. He launched the process again anyway, compulsive, convinced maybe the next scan would come clean.
Nothing.
He stretched, joints stiff, shoulders pulling too tight. The smell of burnt circuitry curled faint in the air. His display blinked, guttered, and he snarled at it. “Perfect. Just fucking perfect .”
The tower answered him with a blackout that swept across the room. Screens dead, vents silenced. For once, true quiet. Vox sat in it, jaw clenched, coffee cooling beside him.
Then—another smell. Chicory, roasted deep, cutting through the acrid edge. A soft hum, low and steady, threaded into the dark. Porcelain clicked on wood.
Alastor hadn’t knocked, why would he? He never bothered to. He simply filled the space, humming as though nothing in the world could rattle him. A tray balanced in his hands, steam rising from two mugs.
Vox’s brow twitched. “You’ve got some goddamn nerve—”
“Computers crash,” Alastor said, bright as ever, sliding the tray across Vox’s desk. “People, too. Coffee steadies both.”
The aroma spread quickly. Vox’s own bitter brew sat forgotten beside him. Alastor’s smelled different—warmer, older, the kind that clung to a room and made it live in memory.
Vox pouted, hissing, “I don’t need babysitting.”
“Then humor me.” Alastor sighed wearily, already seating himself as if the suite belonged to him.
Vox stood too long before conceding. He took the mug, half in defiance, half because the heat felt good against his hands.
Alastor said nothing more, only sipped. The silence was weighted but not sharp. It left Vox unsettled, though at the very least, less frantic.
Later, they shifted to the lounge. Alastor had tossed a vinyl in the record player, something easy. The crossword book he’d conjured sat open between them.
“This is stupid,” Vox muttered, filling a square with jerky lines he called ‘handwriting.’
“And yet,” Alastor replied, marking another word cleanly, “you’re calmer. Curious, isn’t it?”
Vox ignored him. He sipped, scribbled, muttered again when his hand twitched from a jolt down his neck. The coffee steadied it. The warmth pushed through the glitches prickling under his skin.
He bristled at the setup, nonetheless. Old jazz rolling soft, Alastor humming, the crossword drifting in and out of his focus. An old book now rested in Alastor’s lap as he lounged, the demon pursuing the pages as one would an obituary. Vox hated that it worked. Hated that he wanted Alastor’s attention back on him.
But the light above flickered when an unexpected surge of power radiated from his body. A jag of blue shot across his chest, rattling the light fixtures until a single lightbulb fell to the ground and shattered.
He froze.
“Sorry,” he muttered fast, too fast. “I’ll fix— I’ll fix it. Just…”
The words tangled with static in his throat. His face tightened. “Fuck, man, I’m broken. You…You don’t need to play repairman.”
Alastor’s grin didn’t fade, but it thinned. He reached across, fingers tipping Vox’s chin up. Steady grip. His eyes caught the light like steel.
“A machine must be maintained with care, mon cher.” His voice lost none of its brightness, though the weight it carried seemed to soothe Vox’s aching joints. “You too.”
Vox’s throat closed. He tried to scoff but it came thin, shaky. The glitch from the virus affecting his display sputtered once, then faltered.
Alastor didn’t stop there. He busied himself in the kitchen—because of course he had keys to Vox’s kitchen, whether Vox knew or not. The smell of broth and herbs soon bled into the lounge, chasing away the acrid trace of burned circuitry.
“Soup?” Vox asked, incredulous from the couch.
“Chicken noodle,” Alastor called back, cheer sharp as always. “The simplest comforts are often the strongest.”
Vox pressed a palm over his face, muffling a groan. “You’ve lost it.”
“And yet you’ll eat it.”
The soup arrived steaming, Alastor setting it in front of him without fanfare. Vox glared, but his stomach betrayed him first. The broth was hot, rich, and eased down easier than he wanted to admit. Each spoonful grounded him in a way that a lonely power nap couldn’t, and he thanked Lucifer that Alastor came.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t use any spices. I know your poor New York taste buds couldn’t even handle paprika.” Alastor remarked. Vox let him have it.
Then came another mug of coffee, this one lighter, cream swirled in—Alastor’s doing. Vox blinked at it.
“What, you think I can’t make my own?”
“I would hope you can,” Alastor replied snarkily. “I would also hope you finally sit down and relax for once in your life.
Vox scowled, but he drank and shuffled his way to the couch.
After, Alastor reached for the remote and pulled up a movie without asking. The sharp opening notes of Jaws filled the room, clean and unmistakable. Vox stiffened, then frowned.
“Why do you know my favorite movie?” Vox asked, accusation infiltrating his tone.
Alastor’s grin was pointed. “A predator in water. Rather on brand, don’t you think? Especially because you share so much resemblance to a shark in particular. For instance, neither of you have a backbone!”
Vox huffed out a laugh despite himself. He leaned back into the couch, coffee in hand, soup warming his gut, the glow of the screen flickering across his face in a way that wasn’t just another stupid glitch.
The movie went on. Alastor didn’t talk over it, only hummed occasionally, one arm stretched across the back of the couch. Vox’s shoulder brushed it once, twice, then stayed.
The second mug emptied. The credits rolled. Silence came back, softer than before.
Vox let his head rest against Alastor’s arm, reluctant but no longer fighting. His screen flickered once more, but instead of sparking or shattering lightbulbs, it steadied, low and calm.
Their reflections lingered in the darkened glass. Alastor’s steady, a gentle smile warming his expression. For once, Vox couldn’t find it in him to recoil from him anymore.
“You don’t need fixing,” Alastor said, voice gentler than usual. “You only need to be treated right, Picture Box.”
Vox closed his eyes, coffee-scent thick in the air, and let himself believe it.