Archive of Our Own

Vox looks up from the mixing board he is installing as Alastor materializes in his apartment without knocking—as is tradition—and immediately stops dead.

"My dear," Alastor drawls out slowly, his voice climbing half an octave with horror. "WHAT in the name of all that is unholy have you done to your home?"

His cane sweeps across the room in complete disbelief. "This was—I was just here a week and a half ago! You had the mid-century aesthetic! The clean lines! The tasteful minimalism! Where did it all go?"

Vox grins, amused. He knew this is how Alastor would react. "It's called evolution, Al. Staying ahead of the curve."

"Evolution? This isn't evolution, this is a complete demolition!" Alastor steps further inside, his cane clicking against what appears to be shag carpeting. Orange shag carpeting. "Is that… is the floor fuzzy?"

"Shag carpet," Vox responds smoothly. "Very contemporary. You should feel it—it's like walking on a cloud made of style."

"It's a tripping hazard! A textile nightmare!" Alastor pokes it with his cane like it might bite back. "You had hardwood! Beautiful hardwood! Why would anyone replace hardwood with… with fuzz?"

"Because hardwood is over, Al." Vox leans against his mixing board. "This is what's in! What the people want. Texture, boldness. Commitment to the aesthetic."

"Commitment to insanity!" Alastor spins in a circle, taking in the full horror with dismay. Chrome furniture at aggressive angles where sleek teak pieces had been. A lava lamp bubbling away where a tasteful lamp had stood. Terrible, awful patterns everywhere. "You've let the decade consume you entirely! And in a week and a half! This is what happens when one pays too much attention to trends!"

"Some of us understand that media is about staying relevant. You can't sell the future if you're living in the past."

"Some of us were fine with your previous relevance!" Alastor gestures about wildly. "The sixties were tolerable! This is—what even is this?"

"The seventies, Al. Try to keep up. Though I understand if it's a bit much for someone who still dresses like he's waiting for the stock market to crash."

"Keep up? I was here ten days ago! You had a skinny tie collection!" Alastor points at where a vintage tie rack had been. "Speaking of, where exactly did they go?"

Vox's expression dims with genuine nostalgia for just a moment. "Yeah, I miss those ties. Beautiful craftsmanship. But they're done now. Finished. It's all wide collars and bold patterns now. That's the game!"

"Why would you—" Alastor stops mid-gesture. "Did you replace your entire wardrobe?"

"Most of it," Vox says with a casual shrug. "Had to. Can't be on television looking like yesterday's news."

Alastor's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

"MOST OF IT?! In ten days?!"

"Stylists have finally been importing ideas from the living world," Vox explains, brightening again. "This is what's coming out on the other side. Bell-bottoms, platform shoes, patterns—it's the whole—uh—vibe now. You adapt or you become irrelevant. And I don't do irrelevant."

"YOU become broke! Do you know how much—" Alastor stops, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is madness. Ten days ago you had taste. Questionable taste, but taste nonetheless."

"I have excellent taste," Vox counters. "You're just not ready for it yet. Give it a few months—you'll come around."

"I will absolutely not—some of us like retaining basic dignity!" Alastor approaches the jumbo lava lamp with the fascination of a scientist observing a particularly repulsive specimen. "What is this contraption? Is it alive? Should I kill it? I feel I should kill it."

"It's decorative," the TV demon says. Then—his expression flickers—just a brief moment of is this too much?—before smoothing back into confidence. "It's called a lava lamp. Very popular, in-demand. I had to outbid three other demons for this one!"

"You paid for—" Alastor stares at the bubbling monstrosity. He taps the glass with his cane, tilting his head. "Does it do anything useful, or is it purely ornamental torture?"

"It looks good, sets a mood. Not everyone can pull off this kind of bold aesthetic choice."

"It looks like an experiment that should have been stopped on moral grounds!" But Alastor is grinning even larger now, circling the space with horror. "Chrome furniture! Patterned nightmares! Fuzzy floors! Chum-o-mine, I'm staging an intervention. You've been possessed by the zeitgeist, and I fear it may be terminal."

"The zeitgeist pays very well," Vox replies smoothly. "You should try it sometime."

After staring at it for a moment, Alastor settles onto the chrome sofa, immediately making a face of supreme discomfort. "Ugh. This is deeply uncomfortable. Why is it so angular?"

"Angular is in and soft is out. Chrome reflects light better, makes for better television."

"It's medieval torture dressed in chrome!" Alastor shifts about, attempting to find a comfortable position. "I'm sitting on geometry here. This is not what furniture is meant for, my friend!"

Vox laughs; he is enjoying this way too much. "Get used to it."

"One does not simply 'get used to' sitting on mathematical abstractions!" Alastor stands with obvious relief, letting out a sigh. "What else have you done? Please, for the love of all that remains sacred, tell me you didn't touch the kitchen."

"Added a fondue set—"

"A what?"

"Fondue! Ya melt cheese, dip bread in it—"

"I know what fondue is! I'm questioning your judgment in acquiring such a device!"

Alastor and Vox are in the kitchen now, staring at the bright orange fondue set.

"…Why in Hell's name is it orange?"

"Because orange is the color of the decade! It's bold. It's confident. It makes a statement."

"It makes me want to gouge out my eyes!"

"That's just because you're not ready for it yet," Vox replies. "Give it time."

"I’ve given it enough time as it is!" Alastor picks one of the prongs up between two clawed fingers, examines it with disdain, then sets it down. "We're burning this. Tonight."

"We are nah-haaat—"

"We absolutely are! Along with that hideous lava lamp contraption! And most definitely the shag carpeting!" He returns to the living room, trying to step on the rug and failing. "How do you even walk on this without falling? I feel as if I’m traversing a very unsettling orange meadow!"

"With style and confidence," Vox snaps a finger at the other, winking.

"Oh, with something alright!" But Alastor is laughing, genuine and warm. A cluster of static chuckles emits from his staff. "Though I suppose if anyone can make aggressive modernism work, it's you, pal. You've always had a flair for the aggressively contemporary. Even if your taste is objectively, demonstrably terrible."

Vox brightens at that. "My taste is visionary."

"Your taste is loud! And changes with alarming frequency!" Alastor gestures at the chrome mixing board with his cane. "And what's this monstrosity?"

"…An audio integration system. Adding—uh. Radio to my television broadcasts."

Alastor's eyes light up immediately, his entire demeanor shifting. "Radio? On television?"

"Yeah, like…uh. Background music. Ambient sound. Maybe some voice-over work, sometimes." Vox keeps his tone as casual as he can. "Thought you might want to…collaborate."

"Collaborate?" Alastor moves closer, examining the equipment. "You want my voice on your television?"

This is it.

"If you're interested." He tries to keep his tone cool.

"INTERESTED? My dear fellow, I'm intrigued!" Alastor's fingers trace the mixing board's controls with... surprising delicacy. "Though I must say, I'm rather disappointed you didn't consult me before installing this. I could have suggested better positioning! In fact, this entire room is an acoustic nightmare—all these hard surfaces will create a terrible echo. It's a crime against sound quality itself!"

"Well—I was going to ask—"

"After you'd already installed it, yes!" Alastor's grin is a bit warmer now. "We'll fix it. I'll come by next week with proper acoustic materials. We simply can't have my voice compromised by your fashion disaster of a living room. The horror!"

Vox's smile matches Alastor's in its warmth. Then a thought crosses his mind.

He had almost forgotten. Almost.

His grin shifts to something sharper, more predatory—his expression turning gleefully malicious.

"Speaking of fashion disasters and next week—remember that…bet we made?"

Alastor pauses mid-examination of the mixing board. His brow furrows. "What bet?"

Ha. Acting like he has no idea.

"The bet. About Rosie's cannibals finishing the west district renovation. I said they'd finish in under a month, you said they wouldn't."

"Oh." Alastor's smile freezes in place. "Oh dear."

"Oh yes. They finished yesterday. Twenty-eight days. I won."

"That's—surely there were building code violations—structural inadequacies—"

"Nope. I checked! Personally. Very thoroughly." Vox turns fully toward him, crossing his arms. "All up to code. I won the bet, Al. Fair and square."

Alastor's left eye twitches. "The terms were rather vague, as I recall—"

"The terms were crystal clear. One full evening of activity of the winner's choosing—that's me, by the way—complete with appropriate attire for said activity, and the loser—that's you—cannot refuse under any circumstances. Your words, actually. You were very insistent about the binding nature of Hell's wagers. Quite the little speech you gave about honor and integrity."

"I was speaking theoretically—"

"Theoretically binding is still binding. You know how Hell works, Al."

"I—"

"And I know exactly what activity I'm choosing." Vox's face is one pure malicious delight. "Disco!" He splays out his favorite jazz hands.

Alastor stares at him.

Then:

"What."

"Disco! You know, those clubs with the spinning lights and the loud music and all that polyester you hate so fuckin' much—"

"I know what disco is! You have mentioned it before, and sadly it's hard to miss. I'm questioning your sanity and judgment! Your basic fitness to make any kind of decisions!"

"My sanity is fine. My desire to see the great and powerful Radio Demon attempt the hustle is excellent." Vox is clearly having the time of his afterlife, grinning wide and wicked. "We're going to a disco. Tonight! And I've already got your outfit picked out. Burgundy, since I know you're particular about your colors. Very thoughtful of me, I know."

"Absolutely not—"

"A bet's a bet, Al. You can't refuse, you said so yourself when we made the wager." Vox tilts his head with mock sympathy, his face dripping with false concern. "Unless the great Radio Demon doesn't honor his word? That'd be terrible for your reputation. Bad for your brand. Can you imagine what the other overlords would say?"

Alastor's grin looks extremely pained, crimson eyes staring flaming holes into Vox's screen. "You're enjoying this."

"Oh, I'm fucking loving this." Vox’s expression brightens even further. "Do you know how hard it was to keep a straight face when you kept insisting they'd never make the deadline?"

"You're a sadist."

"And you're going to a disco." Vox moves toward his bedroom, gesturing for the stag demon to follow. "C'mon. I've got your outfit all ready, it's very now."

"You seriously have an outfit—how long have you been planning this treachery?!"

"Three weeks!" Vox calls from the bedroom. "Had to find just the right pieces! It's been great! Very therapeutic!"

Alastor follows him with measured steps,  profoundly betrayed with it all. "I refuse! I will not attend a disco. I will not wear polyester. I will not subject myself to—"

Vox appears in the doorway holding a burgundy outfit. "A bet is a bet in Hell, Al. Those are the rules. Your rules, actually."

Alastor groans. "You're—this is extortion."

"Consequences." Vox tosses the outfit at him. "Get dressed. I'll meet you in ten."

—

Fifteen minutes later, two doors open at once. Exactly at once, somehow. They both step out—and freeze.

Alastor, in burgundy bell-bottoms and a sharply cut vest that dips just low enough to show the line of his throat, stands utterly still. His grin is fixed in place, but his ears have tilted back ever so slightly—a flicker of uncertainty Vox is almost never shown.

Then Alastor's eyes find him—and freeze too.

Orange bell-bottoms. Neon orange, loud enough to summon the dead. A white shirt plastered in various geometric patterns. Platform shoes with actual goldfish swimming lazily in the heels. Dinner-plate sunglasses tinted pink and electric blue. A chandelier-sized silver chain glitters at his chest.

Vox looks like a disco ball had exploded and decided to throw itself down into Hell. He looks absolutely fucking insane and is beaming with pride about it.

"Well?" Vox does a small spin, chain jangling, his goldfish heels splashing. "Whaddya think?"

Alastor opens his mouth. Closes it, then opens it up again. His radio static crackles faintly, betraying him.

"I—" he begins, voice tight. "You look like a traffic accident and migraine's offspring."

"Exactly!" Vox glows brighter, absolutely delighted. "I look amazing! Spent three weeks finding these goldfish heels. They're real fish, by the way. Had to get them specially enchanted so they don't die. Fuck, cost a fortune."

"You spent money on that?"

"So much money, Al. So-ho-ho much. I also considered a full sequin suit, but I thought that might be a bit overkill."

"This is overkill."

"Nah, this is perfect." Vox strikes a pose, his chain catching the light and reflecting it directly into Alastor's eyes. "You're going to hate every second of being seen with me dressed like this."

He would.

By Satan himself, absolutely would.

Except—when Alastor shifts, the light hits the edge of his throat, and there is color there, a faint pink Vox isn't used to seeing.

The TV demon's screen flickers, eyes widening slightly—before he forces his gaze away.

Just surprise, he tells himself. That's all.

Alastor clears his throat and twirls his cane once. "Right then! Let's… teleport there, shall we? Will save time."

Vox walks toward the other slowly. "Nope."

Alastor blinks. "No?"

"No teleporting. We're walking."

Alastor's smile goes tight. "Walking. Through Pride. In public."

"Exactly." 

A pause.

Alastor adjusts his vest, eyes sharp again, ears flicking forward. "Very well! If you insist. Not because I have anything to hide, of course."

"Of course," Vox says, his face showing exaggerated innocence.

He crosses to the door and, with an exaggerated flourish, throws it open. Light from the street spills across the orange carpet.

"Come on, Al!" Vox brightens with mischief, shaking his chest with fervor. "Let's get groovy!"

Alastor's eye twitches violently. "I will never 'get groovy.'"

"That's the spirit!" Vox laughs. "After you."

Alastor hesitates only half a second—then lifts his chin, squares his shoulders, and walks out as if he owns the street. Pride incarnate, polyester and all.

Vox follows, grinning to himself. For all his bluster, Alastor's ears are still faintly pinned back. He'd never admit it, but Vox can see it—just enough to make his circuits buzz with delight.

"The disco awaits," Vox announces as the door shuts behind them.

Alastor doesn't look back. "I maintain my previous statement regarding 'grooviness.'"

"That's what they all say," Vox replies, warm laughter in his voice.

—

They make it two blocks before it happens.

A scrawny imp crossing the street looks up, sees them, and freezes mid-step. His eyes go wide, mouth falling open. He stares at Alastor. Then at Vox—really stares at Vox, taking in the full catastrophe of his outfit. Then it goes back at Alastor once more.

"Is that—" he whispers to himself. "Holy shit, is that the Radio Demon?"

Alastor's cane crackles with static, radio frequencies warping the air around them. His eyes flash red, pupils turning to radio dials for just a moment.

"Problem?" His voice layers with thick radio distortion and the faint screams of past victims.

The imp squeaks and runs back across the road, almost getting bulldozed by a passing car.

Vox watches all of this in absolute awe.

HOLY FUCK!

This is perfect!

This is exactly what he'd wanted—Alastor knocked down a peg, forced to be seen in public looking ridiculous. Well, by Alastor's standards anyways. Everyone else with eyes can see that somehow the stag demon is pulling the look off—and really well at that.

The guy could've been a model in another afterlife, seriously.

...Vox compartmentalizes that last thought.

And well. If Vox is the one who is really looking ridiculous here, it would only add to Alastor's humiliation by association.

So it all works out.

They continue walking.

"Sheesh. That was unnecessary," Vox declares, his chain jangling with each step.

"That was entirely necessary," Alastor corrects, placing a hand atop his own chest. "I will not be gawked at like some—carnival attraction."

"You're the Radio Demon in polyester walking next to…" Vox gestures at all of himself. "This. You're kinda asking for it."

—

The disco is exactly as terrible as Alastor had imagined, and exactly as amazing as Vox had hoped.

"This is a nightmare," Alastor announces upon entry, his voice barely audible over the pounding bass. "A crime against music itself!"

"This is awesome!" Vox takes in the chaos—dancing demons, strobing lights, music so loud it vibrates through both their frames. His goldfish heels catch every light source, sending little sparkles across the floor. "Look at it! You're going to hate every second!"

"I already do! Profoundly!" Alastor looks around at the crowd, his permanent grin straining. "I think I'm going to be sick." He takes a step toward the door. "I believe I'll just—"

Vox grabs his arm, electricity crackling. "Oh no you don't. Bet's a bet. You're staying."

"This is inhuman—"

"We're in Hell, Al. Humanity's long been left at the door."

"Then I'm leaving—"

"Too late, you're already here. Now stop trying to escape and cmon’!"

Alastor's eyes sweep the crowd and something in his smile goes even more strained, if possible. Everyone is dressed like… like this. Wide collars and platform shoes and disgustingly hideous patterns. He'd thought Vox was an aberration. A particularly enthusiastic victim of temporary insanity!

But no.

Everyone looks like this.

The sixties he could handle. He'd even adapted, somewhat. Clean lines, mod styles, even the go-go boots had a certain… logic to them.

But this?

This is madness. Mass delusion. A collective psychotic break expressed through polyester and platform shoes.

And they all look so confident about it.

They push into the crowd. Vox is already moving with the music as he struts forward, his movements loud and proud, making him utterly impossible to miss. Usually, he'd be more self-conscious—checking out angles, monitoring reactions, calculating for optimal positioning.

But tonight?

Tonight he is having too much FUN!

The music is loud, the lights are wild. And Alastor looks absolutely miserable in that burgundy polyester.

Perfect.

An aquatic-like demon near the bar looks up, sees Alastor, and does a spit-take.

"Fuck—is that—" Then his eyes land on Vox, expression shifting from shock to something like awe. "Holy shit, man! That outfit is far out! Where did you score those kicks?"

Vox pivots toward his complimenter, throwing his arms up in the air. "Custom-made after three whole weeks of searching! The fish are REAL!"

"That's outta sight! You're really rockin' that look, daddy-o!"

"Thanks, man!" Vox tries the slang on for size. "It's pretty groovy, right?"

The demon laughs and gives him a thumbs-up.

Alastor stares, nose scrunching. "Did that demon fellow just… compliment you?"

"Yeah! Great guy, right?" Vox is already moving toward the bar. "When in Rome, Al."

"We're in Hell, not Rome, and you sound ridiculous—"

"You're just jealous of my radical vibes."

They make their way to the bar and order drinks. Alastor gets his whiskey in an offensively garnished glass with a tiny umbrella placed in it. Vox gets something electric blue that matches his terrible aesthetic.

Another demon—a lizard in a sequined vest—stops next to Vox. "Brotherrrrr, I gotta say—that shirt is absolutely mind-blowing! Where'd you get it?"

"Right?" Vox gestures enthusiastically, his chain jangling some more with him. "Little boutique in the entertainment district! Designer's totally OFF the wall, but in the best way!"

"Man, that's righteous! You got style coming out of your—uh—TV! Real slick!"

"Hey, thanks, cat!" Vox beams, fully committing to the slang even as it comes out slightly awkward. "Just trying to keep it fresh, you know?"

The lizard wanders off, whooping.

Alastor stares at Vox. "Did you just call him 'cat'? Are you having a stroke?"

"It's the lingo, Al! Gotta speak the language!"

"You sound like you're having a medical emergency—"

"You're just not hip to it yet—"

"I'm going to vomit," Alastor announces, pointing downward while staring at Vox dead in the eye. "Right here. On these abominations you call shoes."

"Not on these sick kicks!"

"I'm not going to respond to that!" The stag demon looks toward the exit again, his saving grace. "Surely the bet is fulfilled by now—"

"HEYYYY! We haven't even danced yet." Vox grabs his arm, tugging.

It is a serious wonder that Alastor hasn't obliterated him yet. That he even lets the demon touch him at all.

He twists his head, looking anywhere but at the other. "I refuse to dance. I'll break the bet. I'll accept the social consequences—"

"Too late!" Vox is already pulling him toward the floor.

The music is deafening and the lights are even more chaotic out here. Demons are gyrating everywhere in outfits that make Alastor's brain pound.

And Vox is dancing.

Not carefully or self-consciously. Just—dancing—flowing with the music, his ridiculous outfit catching each and every every light, his goldfish heels splishing and splashing, the chain doing its own thing at this point. He spins and moves and laughs, pure joy radiating off him.

Alastor attempts to dance and fails spectacularly, looking absolutely miserable.

And feels profoundly, existentially out of place.

Alastor understands the 1930s; hell, he'd lived them for a few years! The forties and fifties had been manageable. The sixties, with their clean lines and structured rebellion, had made certain sense.

But this?

This chaos of color and pattern and flared pants? This collective agreement that goldfish in shoes is acceptable? This is completely incomprehensible.

Another demon dances past Vox and stops. "Hey man! Your threads are absolutely killer! Total dynamite!"

"Thanks, brother!" Vox winks, trying another bit of slang. He gestures down at himself. "Just laying down the style, ya dig?"

"Totally dig it! You're one cool cat!"

The demon dances away.

Alastor stares. "Oh, please stop talking like that. You sound like you're having a seizure."

Vox chuckles, glowing with happiness, moving with the music. "This is disco! You're supposed to sound like this!"

"NOBODY should look or sound like this! This violates natural law!"

"That's because you're stuck in the past!" Vox spins again. "This is now! This is the future!"

"If this is the future, I want a refund!"

Another demon—a bird-like demon in platform boots—dances by and calls out: "Those fish heels are absolutely boss, man! Stone cold fox!"

"Right on!" Vox calls back, radiating delight despite the slightly wrong slang. "Just keeping it FUNKAYYY!"

"Far out!"

The bird demon gives him a peace sign and dances away.

Alastor looks like he is having an existential crisis. "They're…they keep complimenting you."

"Because I look great!" The TV demon gives another spin. "This is my decade now, Al! This is what I'm great at!"

And he is. He is working the crowd, making conversation, his outfit a beacon that draws attention from all sides. His usual neurotic edge is completely gone, replaced by pure showmanship.

Vox knows how to perform. How to command attention. How to make people watch.

And right now, every demon in this disco is watching him.

"You're insane," Alastor deadpans.

"PSSTTT! You're one to talk!" Vox grabs the other’s hands, bright and eager, trying to make him move with the music. "Come AHNNN! Loosen up! Dance!"

"I don't—this music has no structure—"

"That's the point! Just move!"

They move—Vox with confidence and joy, Alastor with the grace of a malfunctioning animatronic and the existential dread of someone who'd been dead for forty-three years and still can't fathom flared pants.

Then someone in platform boots collides with Alastor from behind.

He jerks forward, directly into Vox.

They too collide.

Vox's hands come up automatically—just a reflex, just for balance—and catch Alastor by the waist.

The song changes.

…Neither of them notice, not really. 

Something slower has come on, with a long easy guitar line that doesn't ask anything of anyone. The dancers around them shift with it, bodies adjusting, finding partners, slowing down.

Vox doesn't slow down because Vox isn’t moving at all.

Alastor's hands have ended up on his chest. They're just sort of—there—like they landed and forgot to leave.

It is possible that several seconds pass.

Vox becomes very suddenly aware of approximately nine thousand things all at once—the warmth coming through that burgundy vest, the fact that Alastor is looking at him, the fact that Alastor is still looking at him, the disco ball throwing little coins of light across everything, his own goldfish heels which choose this moment to splash—and his processors, which have never once failed him, produce absolutely fucking nothing useful. No calculation. No angle. No next move.

Just—

oh.

Like stepping on a stair that isn't there.

Alastor blinks, looking down at his own hands like he's not sure how they got there. Then his eyes trail back up once more.

Vox just looks on back.

Around them the song keeps going, unhurried, unbothered, like it has all the time in the world.

"Your outfit is ridiculous," Alastor murmurs.

It is the fourth or fifth time he's said it tonight. It comes out… smaller this time. Quieter. Like he just needed to say something.

"I know," Vox replies.

"You still look like a traffic accident."

"I know."

"Everyone keeps complimenting you."

"I know."

Something flickers across the stag demon's face that Vox cannot name and has definitely never seen before.

"I don't understand any of this," Alastor says. Very honestly. Like he isn't really talking about the outfit anymore.

"...Neither do I," he admits.

Because…he doesn't. He'd worn this outfit to be ridiculous, to bother Alastor and make a spectacle.

But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being about that.

And started being about the way Alastor is touching him anyway.

Another demon dances past—too close, looking at them with abundant interest. "Yo, is that the Radio Demon in bell-bottoms?"

Something in Alastor's expression goes very still.

Very dangerous.

His antlers begin to grow.

Static crackles through the air.

Alastor's eyes flash red. His shadow form manifests—massive, tentacled, absolutely terrifying. His voice booms across the disco, layered with distortion and the screams of countless damned souls:

"THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS NOW CLOSED! EVERYONE OUT!"

The disco empties in approximately five seconds.

Suddenly, they are alone. Just them on an empty dance floor, disco ball spinning overhead, music playing for just two.

And Alastor is still touching him, twisting back to meet the TV demon's gaze like nothing has just occurred.

"Did you just evacuate an entire disco?" Vox asks, his voice modulator glitching.

"They were interrupting," Alastor says flatly, rolling his eyes with a smiling scowl.

"Interrupting…what?"

"I—" Alastor stops, mouth slack. Then looks down at where they are still standing far too close, at Vox in his disaster of an outfit.

The demon pulls away abruptly.

The loss of contact feels like a system failure.

"Al—"

"Perhaps we should go," Alastor interrupts, voice carefully neutral. "...I've fulfilled the bet, attended the disco. I wore the ridiculous outfit. I danced."

"Uh—"

"The evening is complete." Alastor is already heading for the exit, reaching the door rather quickly. "I trust this satisfies the terms of our agreement."

Vox stares after him, processors in complete chaos.

What the hell.

"Yeah...Terms satisfied."

—

They walk back in silence. Very unusual for two of the most talkative demons around.

Vox's goldfish heels splash with each step. His chain jangles, the awful outfit catching on every streetlight.

When they reach Alastor's home, the stag demon breaks the silence.

"Thank you for the evening," Alastor says formally. Again, not looking at Vox. "It was… educational. In the most torturous kind of way."

"Al—" He reaches out, but the other steps away slightly.

That is enough for tonight.

"Same time next week? That jazz club, better acoustics. Should be much more…tolerable!"

"...Yeah. Next week."

Alastor nods and vanishes into shadow rather than just walking through his own front door.

Vox stands alone in his stupid outfit.

And his processors start screaming even more.

He teleports home, collapsing onto his chrome sofa.

He stares down at his goldfish heels, them looking back up at him in turn.

"Fuck," he mutters.

He'd spent weeks planning this. The outfit, the disco. Finally knocking Alastor down a peg or two.

He'd had fun…real fun. The most fun he'd had in…well. A very long time…

Maybe ever.

Until that moment on the dance floor.

He replays it. Alastor's hand on his chest. The way he'd looked at Vox—at him in this outfit.

The way demons had complimented him all night long and Alastor had gotten progressively more out of place and confused.
The way the demon had cleared the entire disco.

And—

Vox has a thought.

A terrible, horrible, hell-ending thought.

And his processors won't stop confirming it.

1963:

{Alastor laughing at one of his jokes in the radio tower. That genuine laugh he so rarely gives him.}

Another file. Last month.

{Alastor fixing his tie that he was ninety-five percent sure he'd put on right. He tries purposefully putting it on lopsided the next day and Alastor just gives him a look.}

Another.

{The flattering red suit jacket he'd bought after staring at it for weeks and had it immediately returned.}

Twenty-two years of "coincidentally" running into him.

His processors show him the calculation.

The calculation completes.

Twenty-two years.

That laugh. That goddamn laugh. Those eyes. That smile. That neck—

No.

Vox stands up slowly.

He walks to his coffee table, lifting it up with both hands.

And walks it over to his new Zenith Chromacolor II TV and introduces them to each other at high velocity.

The sound is spectacular.

His processors keep calculating. Keep repeating that laugh.

The chrome lamp becomes a baseball bat. He swings once, twice. The metal folds in on itself.

The calculation won't stop.

Those chrome chairs, the specially ordered ones.

He picks one up and swings it into the wall. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six. SEVEN—

The chair comes apart in his hands.

He grabs the matching one and throws it through his window, shattering the glass every which way. What is left of the chair tumbles seventy stories down.

The orange shag carpeting. He grabs a corner and pulls. Then he is just ripping it up in strips, tearing through it.

The jumbo lava lamp, the one he'd bid on at 2 AM. The fondue set. The wall art, throw pillows.

All of it.

He goes through them systematically.

His processors show him twenty-two years, four months, thirteen days.

Twenty-two years of this. Of being—

He slams his fist down on the sofa's chrome armrest.

Again.

The armrest bends.

Again.

A crack appears.

Again.

His right heel snaps.

He stumbles. Stares down at the broken platform. Water is leaking out. His goldfish flop onto the torn carpet, gasping.

He kneels down, picking up one of the tiny orange enchanted fish. It wriggles in his palm, staring up at him with tiny accusatory eyes.

Everything goes very still.

Very quiet.

The fish keeps staring.

And—

He screams.

"FUCK!"

It isn't a word. It is a pulse, a pure electrical charge.

Every bulb in the penthouse detonates, the remaining screens exploding with them. All the windows in the room turn into spider-webs of fractured glass.

The mixing board—the one thing he hadn't touched—lets out a screech and goes dark.

The entire floor's power grid surrenders.

Darkness crashes down.

Vox sits there in the ruins, surrounded by broken furniture and shattered glass and torn carpeting. Wearing a patterned jumpsuit absolutely covered in orange lava lamp wax and carpet fuzz and sparking coolant.

Still holding the fish, lit only by the glow of his own screen.

His processors keep running the calculation.

And running it.

And running it.

With the same result every time.

The thought has come to a realization. A terrible, world-ending realization.

All while wearing the most ridiculous outfit Hell has ever seen.

═ 

The outfit lies on a chair.

Alastor sits at his desk with his notebook open.

He should write about tonight. Document and process it.

His pen hovers over the page.

Tonight I attended a disco. Vox wore

He stops.

How does he describe that atrocious outfit? That confidence? The way everyone had dressed like that, and Alastor had felt like he'd woken up in an alien world?

The way he'd… enjoyed it?

No.

No, he hadn't enjoyed it.

He hated every second. The music was terrible and the lights offensive, everyone was dressed in colors that shouldn't exist and patterns that were painful to witness.

Except.

Except that moment on the dance floor when Vox had been right there and he touched him and for a brief, inexplicable moment, the chaos had felt…almost tolerable.

He tries again.

Tonight I

He stops.

I had

He can't write it.

Can't admit it.

He'd had fun.

At the end, just at the end. In that brief moment before he'd—not panicked—and cleared the disco.

He'd enjoyed standing too close to Vox on that dance floor, surrounded by incomprehensible fashion and terrible music, and that is...

Alastor stares at the barely filled page, radio static crackling involuntarily.

He can still see those goldfish heels catching the light, remembers the way Vox had smiled when other demons complimented him. Still remembers that brief, horrible moment of not wanting to leave. Of wanting to stay there. With Vox…in a empty disco of all places.

Enjoying himself.

Alastor closes his notebook without writing a single word more.

Stands, walks to the chair and picks up the burgundy vest.

Folds it mechanically.

Places it in the back of his wardrobe.

Sits back at his desk.

And pulls out the notebook once again, staring at the same page.

That's… concerning.

That's very concerning.

That's—

He can't write that. He can't even think about it properly. Just sits there, surrounded by radio equipment and the memory of those stupid heels and the feeling of Vox under his palms and the terrible, terrible realization that he'd enjoyed it.

And that is worse than anything else that had happened tonight.

"Next week," he says quietly. "Jazz club. Better acoustics."

He tries to imagine it—quiet lighting, clean instruments, the sharp rhythm of a double bass. Something normal, something that he can control.

He will wear something respectable. Vox will come dressed like a neon disaster again, no doubt. They'll argue, they'll banter, restoring proper equilibrium. That is how things work between them. He rather...enjoys it, though he always gives Vox a hard time.

Though he will never say as much.

He shuts the notebook. Turns off the desk lamp with a pull of its cord, hoping that it will put an end to this line of thought.

Yet…Even in the dark, the quiet…He can still hear the faint sound of the disco's music, muffled under it all.

And even worse, the blue light of Vox's reflection lingers on the edge of his mind—laughing.