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Alastor seethed in his chair, tied up and frazzled. His hair stood on high end, tux torn and singed—
Fuck, if only he could mount the bastard on the wall like his television brotheren. Maybe he’d learn to shut up for once in his life. Scarf down the ego he indulged himself in day in and day out.
Today, Vox came early.
Strange.
The electrocutions from past days had been swift and persistent. A shock here, a volt there. But there had been a consistency to Vox’s performances: he never dallied on things so menial as to civil conversation. No, no. He’d pounce upon Alastor like an intoxicated bear— clawing and tearing away what separated them—draining Alastor's power and life like a siphon, cackling and bleeding in each other's presence, feeding off of their shared mania and hatred.
No. Not today.
Vox dressed, confident (even in the nude), prowling over to the chair and tugging at the wires holding him. Or maybe it was rope, Alastor had lost feeling after the first hundred zaps.
“Bored already, Vincent?” Alastor teased, tasting the name like a fine wine. A pixel in Vox’s screen ticked, the most emotion he’d seen from him since he’d decided the deal.
Vox said nothing, unbothered by the jab, and proceeded to scan Alastor to the toes. He lay completely and utterly bare before him. His little plaything, no matter how much he despised himself for being so gullible, so naive as to a plan that could swing his way.
Silently, Vox removed the ropes, transfixed on Alastor’s bloodied gash spiderwebbing the length of his chest. Oh, well isn’t this grand? Alastor mused, Vox finally came to his senses and realized the greater potential he had before him, other than a sack of rotting flesh and limbs.
A spark of concern danced along his thoughts before fizzling into dust. He wouldn’t be concerned for his well-being, after all— if he can survive Charlie, surely he can survive a few weeks with the sentient television.
Moments passed in silence, Alastor’s black heart pattering between his ribs. What is this man doing? What is he thinking that perplexes him so much that all he does is stand there? A possible torture method? A way to lower Alastor’s guard?
Absolutely riveting, he is.
“Too shy to speak now? Have you regressed seventy years already?”
“Shut up,” Vox ordered flatly, lifting a palm to the air.
Alastor’s ears pinned to the back of his head, tense and twitching. Alastor never took orders from anyone except himself (and Rosie)… but something in Vox’s tone made his tongue lead.
He sounded… daresay… concerned.
Vox massaged his temple (or what would be on the screen, of course Alastor wouldn’t know, he’s not very tech-savvy), sighing through his nose (again, don’t know how that works, it just does). He murmured, “I thought you healed faster,” Vox bit between syllables, glaring holes into Alastor’s horns. Great, now he was expecting the prisoner to heal quicker? What is he… a charity case?
Alastor refrained from bucking in his chair. Oh, wait, ah. The restraints were gone. He had free roam of the headquarters— or whatever Vox called this sorry excuse of a fortress. He stretched his legs experimentally, relishing in the grounding ache of strained joints and tendons.
With sudden chipper gratitude, Alastor got comfortable in his chair, slouching back just to annoy him. “I don’t know what you mean by that,” he hummed, tilting his head to the ceiling. Wires and sapphire data streams snaked through every crevice. No wonder Vox had such control, he’s anywhere a screen is.
So… absolutely all of Hell.
What a predicament.
Perhaps Alastor hasn’t thought this through enough.
“Yes, you do,” Vox hissed, reaching out and poking Alastor’s wound. Hot white pain flashed in his vision, peppering the corners in white and black stars that danced. He stifled a wince, shoulder locking and curling defensively. Panting, his eyes snapped to Vox’s distant stare.
Alastor allowed his chest to rise and fall in shallow breaths, inching away from Vox as much as possible. A cowardly sort of rage coursed through his veins. A new thirst for blood and vengeance fueling him to—
His shadow sputtered.
Oh…
Alastor snarled, arms wrapped around his sides defensively. Vox must’ve drained him more than he’d anticipated. Incapacitated until the fucker left the room, left the Ring for God’s sake. A low, pitiful sound escaped him. Feral and dark. An opening to the agonizingly long, bottomless pit that was his soul.
“You aren’t healing.” Vox’s voice jolted Alastor out of his haze. The Overlord’s back turned to the TV head. If he just made himself a little smaller, Vox would think he’s a lost cause and leave him alone for the rest of the foreseeable evening.
Alastor would punch himself in the gut later for fancying such… such lowlife thoughts.
Vox proceeded to grab Alastor by the shoulder, hiking him up onto two legs. Right, he had those.
They wobbled, knees buckling. The rage only made it worse, it seemed. His head hung heavy like an anvil had been replaced with his brain. Like his body wanted to fall through the floor and only thin lines of string hooked his limbs and forced them to move. Puppeteering him to follow Vox in a haze of dizziness. Something wet fell along the floor while they walked, something crimson and thick and oily—
He’s right, Alastor’s sluggish revelation dawned, I’m not healing. How long had I not been healing? He’d lost count far beyond hours— maybe days without clotting.
He’d been dried and hung, just like Vox wanted. So why— why force Alastor to shuffle him down the hallway, across the gaping bedroom, and towards another room. A room he’d never explored in his time with the Vee’s? Unless—
Alastor’s mouth moved before he could shut it down. “You can’t possibly still have… feelings for me.” The execution was a dull blade of expectancy, but it hit its mark nonetheless. Vox’s slapping heels halted in their tracks, only briefly before dragging Alastor closer to the mystery expanse he now saw to be a master bathroom.
Vox’s laugh was sharp and deadly, though it too lacked an edge. “Ha-ha, funny.” The automated door eased open, a panel of smoothed steel and iron. Hiding the inside from view. Did Vox want privacy? Is that what he wanted so badly?
Vox, apparently, was still talking, “—so I won’t have to drag your sorry ass into the water—“ Alastor braced a claw to the cool, grounding wall. His breaths drew faster, demanding more and more air to escape. He lifted a hand to inspect it, marveling as it duplicated in two. A phantom limb; only to conjoin back a wink later. His arms and elbows trembled with effort.
He peeked at the ground, tiles stretching and contorting his vision. What has become of him? Become such a heap, a sack of miserable feelings and derailing thoughts. Could Rosie have been right? Had he truly gotten weaker? Or simply… softer?
The ground wanted to greet him head-on.
“Shit!” Vox’s voice echoed, ricocheting and bouncing inside Alastor’s skull.
Something braced against him, and he instinctively flinched and thrashed in its grip. Away away away—
“Stop fucking squirming or I’ll drop you!” Vox barked.
Claws, claws gripped Alastor’s shoulders, anchoring him to the ground once more. Cords snaked around the floor by the dozen, wrapping around his legs and cementing him upright. They didn’t suffocate like they usually did. They simply did their job of holding him vertical rather than splatting on the floor.
What are you doing, Vincent?
“In the tub, now.” He demanded, it wasn’t much of an ask. His legs shuffled with the tugs of the cords and guidance of a hand braced on the small of his back. Tearing away his excuse for clothing until there was nothing left but blistering skin and biting cold.
Alastor flopped hopelessly, tempted to drown himself in the warm, soothing water. It stung too, but that wasn’t the point here. The point is, Alastor sobered up, whipping to Vox and baring his teeth like an animal. “Don’t you—“
“Sit,” Vox interjected, dipping a finger in the water, testing it.
Alastor will NOT be ordered like some stray on the streets! His nose crinkled at the putrid scent of lavender wash and bathing tonics. Vox uncorking vial after vial, content when a wall of sudsy bubbles the color of robin eggs stood a mountain high.
Alastor, against better judgment, sat.
I will bite him later.
Vox sat beside Alastor the entire time he cleaned, silently scrubbing away the scabs and blood caked inside his skin. Scratching his scalp until it burned, and making an unnatural amount of eye contact that suggested this was more than a simple “I need you alive” moment.
When Alastor winced, Vox hesitated. Hands stalling in the air before snaking back once Alastor had settled back down in a slumping position. Roving deep circles that broke tense knots in his shoulders, loosening the muscles. On a handful of minute occasions— he’d found himself leaning into the Overlord's touch. Only to slink back against the wall once he’d been caught with such an affectionate gesture.
They failed to verbally express their opinions as Vox helped Alastor dress in something more fitting.
He didn’t question when Vox handed him an identical, tailored copy of his coat and trousers. Down to the notch, Sir what’s-his-face ripped it.
He didn’t question the trust silently forming between them when Vox seated him in a fresh chair, binding his wounds with utmost care.
Didn’t question the quiet look in his eye, like he’d relived a memory.
Didn't question the silent “I’ll kill you later” whispering past Alastor’s lips as Vox exited the room.
No, he didn’t question it at all.
But his heart backflipped at the thought of something happening between them. An old bond being retrieved from its dusty, attic box, and unhurriedly sewn back together. Piece by piece.