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The sink faucet and the faint sound of music from the other room is all you can hear as you brush your teeth. You don’t usually play music before bed, but this isn’t an exception to that rule, because it’s not you playing it—the song is mildly garbled through a tinny radio filter, the faint echo of static carrying the melody. It’s not your old radio, if that narrows it down any better. Although, “your old radio” can refer to a lot of things in this case.
You wipe your mouth with a hand towel after washing it out and lean against the counter for a moment. Roughly a minute is spent distracted, gazing into the mirror. You’re wearing a Velvette-branded t-shirt and deep blue sweatpants that only match a little. The hat is gone, leaving your antennae to lurch lazily over your monitor. Digital eye bags that you have to put a touch of conscious effort into concealing reveal themselves when you’re this exhausted. Exhausted, but not quite sleepy. Vastly different. And ever the night owl, you’re a bit apprehensive about getting in bed just yet. You let yourself savour the day behind you before it comes to an end.
When you leave the bathroom, you shut the door and take a moment in front of it to stretch your back. Your bedroom is hardly three full strides away, and takes mere seconds to reach. This door is ajar, the gap allowing that soft, fuzzy music to inch through. Careful not to let the door creak and startle your radio, you push it open slowly, and fortunately succeed.
On the side of the bed opposite to the one you never outright claimed, but simply adapted to, is Alastor. Today the name is the same, although plans to test the waters are tepidly brewing. Changed only in the comfort of your home is the way she’s referred to. A request made under a haze of interference so thick you barely heard her the first time she asked. Asking her to speak up was a chore that almost involved writing it down. But you accepted the decision with open arms, even if hers were caged to her back, in the moment a self-soothing habit more than a casual stance.
She’s on her side, turned away from you and towards the curtained window. Ears more pinned than relaxed. The ocean blue comforter is tucked between her right arm and her ribs, fist assumedly balled up against her heart with how her forearm is bent. Lost in thought, maybe? She doesn’t like falling asleep first and actively avoids it, especially if you’re not in bed yet, so you cross that off.
She doesn’t turn to face you, so the thoughts this time must be good. Or bad. It’s usually bad. You’re quiet in movement and in voice as you step closer to the bed. “Hey, doe,” are the words that slip first. You always called her that, even when you’d taunt her, but now you worry it’s too on the nose. Either way, the only response it elicits is music quickly fading out; the only remnants of it are a frequency playing on your signal, not audible yet still heard.
You tab out to command prompt momentarily to switch the lights off. One small lamp stays on, one of those that you can adjust the brightness on and so is kept as dim as possible. The Radio Demon, only able to sleep soundly with a nightlight? How old is she? It could’ve made you laugh when she first told you. But those are quips a far more immature Vox would make to an Alastor that used to like him much less. The impulsive thoughts still linger and actively develop, but the difference is that you can hold your tongue.
You’re under the covers and beside Alastor in one swift motion. Your pillow is specially made to be able to rest on your side, and so you do just that.
Small inhale. “Good evening,” she whispers, and her tone is somewhat clear of the filter provided mostly by the staff several feet away from your bed, against the wall. Her voice isn’t affected to the pitch she lets it find during the day (at least, when she’s talking to you), but over time it has become naturally lilted. Slightly. The enhanced hormones distributed in Hell work fast, but they don’t work in every way all at once, not for every person. As far as you know.
“More like good night. It's, like, 11 PM.” You can see the way your breath on her neck makes her twitch slightly. The back of it is exposed, because tonight, unlike her usually somewhat refined sleepwear, she’s dressed in a simple t-shirt not unlike yours. In fact, the shirt is one of yours, evident by the loose fitting fabric and the cyan dye that doesn’t suit her. It makes you…feel things, the warm stirring of insects you’re embarrassed to find in your stomach at your big age.
You raise a clawed hand up to her waist, but you don’t touch. It’s a question you don’t have to vocalise; may I? An arm raises to give you access, and you slot yours in right under it, moving in to press close against her shoulder blades. The position makes her relax, but not enough. “Something on your mind?”
The smile you can only see a glimpse of from here tightens at the corners. There’s the thinnest hum of static, almost upset at the question, yes of course there’s something on my mind you stupid fucking idiot picturebox—but it eases, and so does tension in her form you didn’t fully realise. Her hand trails down to cup the back of yours.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” you echo. With an Alastor more receptive to teasing, this would evoke a sharp burst of static. “Like what?”
“It’s…complex.”
Nothing you can’t find a response to. “I’m good with complex.”
“Of this caliber?”
“I’m not gonna know if you don’t tell me. You’ve gotta tell me.”
There’s the sparks of a growl that doesn’t manifest, and so it just comes out as a childish whine. As she splays fingers against yours, her thumb slots between yours and the rest of your hand. A sort of hold. She never holds your hand. A juvenile, puerile act, that’s her words for it. But she always acts like she wants to.
“You’re the only one I have ever told, Vox. You of all people should be able to figure it out, as well versed in my foppish perils as you’ve become.”
Ah. So that’s what this is about. Your arm tightens around her, fingers curl slightly to tug at her shirt’s fabric. “Well, tell me a little more about them. Talking it out usually helps if I can figure out what to say.” It’s not convincing her. “…If it’s not helping, we can sleep it off. Okay?”
Small inhale. “If you insist.”
“I’m not insisting.”
“I’m saying yes, darling…”
“Oh, oops, okay. Sorry. Go ahead.” You give a hum of not-quite-auditory static that seems to numb her a bit. “Floor is yours.”
You can feel the eyeroll, but instead of giving up out of sheer disdain for your irritating tone, she lets herself relax into it. The floor is hers, you’ve laid a blanket with pillows and snacks and it just barely manages to reel her in. Her hand grips around yours.
“Am I…am I doing this all right?”
Reassurance is something you’re not amazing at giving. Mostly because you are the one being reassured more often than not, an overthinker and paranoia incarnate since birth and long past death. To every boundary you set and every line you draw, Alastor is the exception, her presence the bridge and herself the passerby. You will give her anything she needs if you are the one she asks it from.
It’s reassurance that you don’t get the chance to give, not yet. “You are the only person to see the lot of it, and I understand you’re not exactly an…expert on femininity, but…I can’t help but…worry.”
The word is laced with interference, static that might be intentional because of the shame that act comes with for Alastor. She prides herself on her intuition, on her ability to predict and her inability to be predicted. It sure is unpredictable to see the Overlord of Radio worry, that’s for sure, but you see Alastor, not the Radio Demon.
“It’s…oh, I don’t know.” The accent manages to slip away as her voice lowers in volume. The clarity is dampened—no wonder she puts that voice on 24/7—but you’re a good mental translator. “I try to enjoy it. I try to be myself like you tell me I should be. But…it feels like I’m doing something wrong.”
Wrong is a word you’ve been trained to flinch at based on Alastor’s usage of it. A word self-deprecating and horrid, used to target parts of herself she could never have controlled, parts that she thinks are abnormal and bad and—and wrong. Your grip on her restricts further, cold torso pressed to warm back.
“You aren’t doing anything wrong, Al,” you’re quick to tell her, trying to keep your voice gentle. You can’t worry, because it’ll only amplify hers. “Nothing wrong at all. I promise. You’re just figuring things out, that’s normal.”
“But…how do I know this isn’t simply…a decision I’m putting too much emotion behind? I have no idea how this might affect…affect my life. Everything I know. I…I’m going too fast with it all.”
She’s speaking in words more distressed than you know her to use, and the tears pricking at the corners of squinted eyes don’t shock you so much as they drag your heart below your stomach.
“Hey, hey, relax. You’re not, Al, I swear. Calm down, okay?” She presses back against you, and her ears are pinned flat against her skull. She’s not nearing sobs, might not even fully cry, but you’re careful to tiptoe around a teary Alastor any which way.
Her head juts backward, and you get the hint. Your left hand is a bit hard to position, but you manage to rake gentle claws through her hair in time to sate her. Bits of tension melt back down with every little scratch. Like a puppy… “Easy, doe…that’s it.” Unfortunately, Alastor catches on and nudges you away with her shoulder immediately. So much for your puppy.
You don’t move away from her, but your hand leaves her hair. A whimper drags it back.
“Um. Apologies. Got…tangled up in it there.”
“Don’t apologise for that.”
She goes quiet for some time. Only a minute, maybe less. You assume she’s just trying to compose herself, which is why you’re mildly startled when she lifts your right hand. For an awkward pause, she’s stagnant. You’ve done something similar before, moved faster than you were thinking and got stuck when you had to choose what to do next.
She eventually moves it upward slightly. Only by a couple centimetres. A shaky breath leaves her mouth, but she doesn’t seem uncomfortable, simply…shy. With one more small movement, she presses your palm into her chest.
The area is soft. You’ve grazed it a few times before, but not…well, this is a special circumstance, because she’s doing it for you. She inches you to the left a bit and tries to get you to cup something. Your fingers are frozen, but there’s the ghost of a touch against her chest.
“Am I…” The sound chokes in her throat and she has to pause. Different idea. “Just…touch for a moment. Go on.”
You try to do so, attempting to unstiffen fingers that have no muscle memory for this scenario. When Alastor wears that suit of hers around, it’s never obvious, but the hormones sure have been…taking effect. Working. For lack of a better term, she has B-cups now, a descriptor that would be far too crude for her tastes. In the months since she’s started, they’ve grown slowly, and you can’t tell if they’ll get any bigger yet. Not a complaint!
Carefully, you cup the left one. Her shirt is thin, so it’s almost like you’re touching her bare skin. Something that would, under normal circumstances, turn you sputtering and stupid in moments, but you’re not that Vox right now. You don’t want to ruin a very emotionally vulnerable moment for Alastor because you only think with your dick.
A thumb runs over the area, and it squishes a bit to meet you. Alastor doesn’t react. She rarely does to these kinds of touches—at least, if the reaction isn’t shock you’re daring to get near her body. It must do nothing for her, which makes it easier for you to keep this objective.
“Do they—eugh—” The mere idea of what she’s about to ask you seems to disgust her, but she persists. “Do they feel…err, real?”
You stifle a giggle that, if vocalised, will get a fist through your screen. “Course they do. They are real. It’s not like you got breast implants, you worked for these.”
There’s a small rattle of static, almost like a verbal eyeroll. She trails her fingers to your wrist and stays there. “I get it, Vox. Mm…” A sigh escapes her. “Is it convincing? Am I a…am I enough of a girl?”
The word “girl” isn’t one she’s used much in the months since her quiet transition. The explanation was a bit lost on you, but you’d kept it in mind: not quite a woman, not quite anything, but certainly not a man and unwilling to stay one. So far, her efforts haven’t been for naught, but this irks you.
“Do you want to be a girl?” is the only response you can think of, because it’s indirect, not a yes or no to a very loaded question. You’re still scared of that fist through your monitor.
“Oh.” Is that all? Maybe she wasn’t ready to be asked that. Her hand tightens around your wrist and holds your arm flat against her body. “No.”
You don’t know what kind of answer you were expecting, but for some reason it still makes you frown. Then why are you trying to be? you want to ask, but if done incorrectly, that might sound aggressive. Your teeth gnaw against your bottom lip as you try to answer. “Then…you don’t have to be enough of a girl. It doesn’t have to be convincing. I mean—it doesn’t—gah, you know.”
There’s no snide little chuckle at your fumbling, which says plenty about how conflicted she must be. “But then—what am I trying to be? If I’m not a woman, what am I to the world if not a man? I at least know which I’d rather be.”
“You’re trying to be yourself, Alastor.” You’re not well-versed in this topic—at least you think you aren’t—so you’re not sure where you’re getting the words you’re about to say. Maybe something internalised, fronting only when it’s not in the form of a painful realisation of self. “You don’t have to be anything for the world. We’re in Hell, Al, everyone’s fucked up here. Does it really matter if you’re a little irregular, too?”
She doesn’t answer. You keep talking. “I’m—what I’m trying to say is, I mean…you don’t have to…it’s not all…black and white like that. Like, um…fuck, I don’t know, uh…”
Alastor interrupts you, because you’re not really saying much of anything anyway. “So…” Her voice is a whisper again, and one ear twitches against her head. “You’re saying I don’t have to work towards that if…if I don’t want to.”
“Yes!” You’re careful to keep your volume down, but you’re just glad you’re fucking coherent. “You don’t have to do all this just so you can become a girl. You…you can just…do as much as it makes you happy. Does that…?”
“Yes, that makes sense,” she finally mutters. The sliver of her smile that’s visible has gone from a line nearly pressed flat to a gentle curve. “I think I’m more at peace with it now. Um…thank you, my love.”
The pet name makes you giddy, and you instinctively squeeze her close to your chest. That’s what gets a laugh out of her, and you’re so relieved to hear that smooth, adorable sound. It’s the best thing you’ve ever heard, tied for first place with her gorgeous voice.
Alastor squirms a little in your hold, but just as you’re about to apologise and loosen your arm, she manages to roll over and face you. It’s breathtaking to see her so vulnerable, as if you haven’t seen it countless times before. Her dark red eyes are still damp with tears, but no more are forming. Her smile might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen. It hits just as it always does when you see her that this is yours, and willingly. You don’t own her; she can come and go as she pleases, or lock the door and throw away the key, never to return. She stays on her own volition. That’s what makes the static in your signal buzz so loud.
A dainty red-tipped hand presses its palm to the side of your screen. She’s cold as ice, which tells you you must be burning up. “Rest now, dear.”
“Okay,” you answer meekly. You’re a doting, doltish husband to a wife that could’ve done better. “I love you.”
Her smile widens, one of those that makes her eyes squint and her teeth show a little. “I love you the same.”
When you wake up in the morning, plans to change your radio’s name have diminished. Perhaps one day, but not yet—the two of you have yet to find one that she likes. You’re taking baby steps, hand tight around hers as you help her relearn to walk. For the day, she ditches the suit for a dress borrowed from Rosie. The day is spent inside, no trips or errands, and the only audience to witness the dip into foreign waters is you. This is yours because she lets it be. Such a beautiful sight wasted on one pair of eyes. You adore her all the same, though.