Chapter Text
The first thing Alastor was able to recognise was a buzzing in his head. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it was a stable noise filling his whole head and making the back of his eyelids white. Right, his eyes. Trying to open them was proving to be a difficulty, the said buzzing noise, almost like loud static, was making it surprisingly hard to move at all. With a great force of determination, he was slowly able to force one eye open. The sight that greeted him however made him stop his efforts, freezing in spot even without the annoying buzzing paralysing him. Instead of the long familiar room of the hotel that he’d worked hard on to fix up to his liking, his surroundings seemed to be a rather small room, definitely not from this decade.
Adjusting to what seemed to be the late morning light coming in through the cracks in between the curtains, he was finally able to open his other eye to observe the room properly. There was an impressive bookcase against a wall, filled with books, papers and a few houseplants. Next to that was an office desk, made of smooth dark wood. Though instead of perhaps a laptop or a computer you’d expect on such thing in this day and age, there were two messy piles of papers and a radio. The window above it was covered with yellow curtains which seemed to almost glow with the same morning sunlight that assaulted his eyes.
Slowly pushing himself up to a seated position, he felt the bedding under his hands. The bed he’d laid on was a moderately sized one, a bit stiff, but covered with a pleasantly soft blanket that made up for the stiffness in his back. With tired, blurry eyes Alastor looked around, trying to place the odd familiarity the space caused in him. Landing on a picture on the wall, his eyes widened. Even with the blurriness in his eyes, he was able to recognise the painting. Of course he was, he’d recognise it from anywhere, despite not having laid his eys on it in nearly eighty years. It was the only possession he’d brought with him to all four of his humble homes during his human years. It was the only possession he’d ever cared for and actually missed in his afterlife. It was the last thing his mother had ever painted. He could still remember as it was yesterday, how he’d ran back inside the house that was slowly being swallowed by hungry flames to grab the painting. How he’d clutched it, out of breath from the smoke, the adrenaline, the grief, all of it, as he’d watched that cursed house burn down, taking along any evidence of his first, but certainly not last, crime ever committed. Looking down at the painting he’d cradled with the gentleness of a newborn, the roses on it as bright red as the blood that had pooled onto the floor and seeped into the floorboards. The left corner now forever left unfinished, as white as his stepfather’s face had been after he’d brought the axe to his head. Caressing the ends, some of the paint that either hadn’t dried yet or had begun to melt in the heat staining his fingers, mixing with the blood and sweat. He’d spent a quarter of the money he’d had on his person to buy a sturdy case just for the painting, wanting to store it in some place safe until he was able to get his first home. Six month of sleeping on his studio’s floor later, he’d hung the painting proudly in the same first home’s living room.
Blinking away the tears he didn’t even know he was still able to produce, Alastor threw his legs over the bed. His feet had barely hit the floor before he went stumbling down. Groaning into the carpet, he pushed himself up, freezing once more. The carpet was dark red, also oddly familiar, but that wasn’t the alarming part. What was, was the pair of hands he was looking down at. Instead of familiar claws, they were soft, fleshy, fully human hands that, much like the painting, he hadn’t seen in decades. He sat back, staring at the offending hands laid on his lap, wiggling his fingers and flexing them. They were so.. small. Looking down at his full body, he realised that the hands were far from the only part of him that looked and felt incredibly small. His entire form was human. With the support of the bed behind him, he slowly attempted to stand once more, this time successful, despite the wobbling of his legs. As he began to move, his left hand flew to the bedside table as if on instinct, small slim fingers wrapping around something cold. Squinting his eyes, he brought the item closer to his face. Ah, right. That would explain the impaired eyesight. Setting the glasses on his nose gently, he took a better look around, his vision finally clear. As he observed the items around, he placed the familiar feeling at last. This had been his flat, the very last one he’d lived in before he met his end, in fact. Now that a couple questions were answered, he still hadn’t figured out the two main ones yet.
How was he here? And why was he here?
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Vox had always been a cranky sleeper. Well, no, he actually did very well with sleeping, it was the waking up that was the hard part. Especially in Hell, he’d always hated the annoying shrill of his alarm clock and the assaulting morning light as a human, but it was even worse as a demon. The electronic alarm clock on his bedside table buzzed inside his head, making it physically impossible to just roll over and force in a few more minutes of sleep. He tried to squeeze his eyes even more shut as he attempted to reach the bedside table, his entire body sluggish, presumably from the buzzing inside his casing. When he wasn’t successful, he groaned, shoving his face deeper into the pillow. “Val!” He yelled, voice muffled by the pillow. Groaning again at the lack of a response, he forced his head up. Opening his eyes despite the buzzing behind them, he froze at the sight of his hand halfway up in the air, reaching towards the alarm clock was wasn’t there. Flesh. Pale, human flesh. That’s what his arm was. Lowering his hand, he looked over his shoulder, expecting his violet lover’s sleeping form to greet him. Instead, it was pale blue bedding. Sliding the same pale, fleshy hand over the bedding, he frowned at how he was unable to focus on the beige blur. He blinked a couple of times, hoping that would help restart his vision, but it did nothing. With growing frustration, he brought the questionable looking hand to his screen.
“What the fuck..?“ Instead of what should be a cold screen, his hand was met with a sharp cheekbone, as soft and human as his hand. Flying up from the bed, and just barely catching himself as he stumbled, he looked down at his body, patting every inch he could. No gills, no smooth dark blue artificial casing that always let out soft sparks and hummed from the small wires underneath, no long blue claws, just.. soft human flesh. Touching his face, squeezing his cheeks and tracing the thin, soft lips, horror washed over his entire self. Frantically looking around the room, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar shapes surrounding him that his evidently human eyes were unable to focus clearly on, he clumsily stumbled towards what he’d believed to be a full sized mirror.
Confirming both that theory and his fears about his form, he was greeted with the sight of his very much human, though slightly blurry, body. Dark blue pyjamas covered his broad shoulders and narrow hips, dark brown hair a messy mop on his head. Running his fingers through his hair, he stared at his own reflection in awe. He hadn’t seen his human form in.. what was it, sixty years? Furthermore, this definitely wasn’t what he’d looked like pushing fifty near his death, this was him barely into his thirties, no grey hairs or crows feet to be seen. At least he didn’t think so, he still couldn’t make out everything without his glasses. Turning around, he took a better look around the room. It looked exactly like his humble bedroom from when he was still making a name for himself, before he’d earned enough to move into a house big enough to be able to be called a small mansion. Legs stil wobbly, he attempted to walk around again. If this was his flat, then.. Bingo. His uselessly small hands found the thick frames of his glasses that he used to keep on his dresser. Putting them on, he let out a sigh, the ability to at least see clearly now giving him a small amount of peace. Whatever was going on, he decided he couldn’t deal with in his pyjamas with a fuzzy mouth and grumbling stomach. He’d clean himself up first and then make a game plan.