Chapter Text
Two weeks after his failed attempt at control, Vox bought himself a pair of new shoes.
They were tailored from hellborn cow skin and dyed a deep blue. His old pair was a slip-on ankle boot with a slight heel that gave him a few inches of height. His new boots lost an inch off the heels, in favor of laces that had a neon blue aglet at the ends. They were a size smaller than he needed, the collar bound tightly around his ankles, forming tiny pricks of blisters. They weren’t tight enough where the pain wasn’t bearable-but just enough to where his blisters could reform with ample time to heal.
Two months after his failed attempt, Vox would try to move on from Alastor.
Keyword: try.
Alastor wrapped his hands around the wooden handle of his kitchen knife.
The wood was slightly chipped and worn from use, but not enough to be disposed. If he cared enough, he’d snap his fingers and mend it without much of a sweat. But Alastor had an affinity towards older things. They carried a lived-in charm that opposed the new, constant flitting of trends that new technology possessed.
The hotel had grown in numbers quite a bit since Vox’s failed doomsday attempt. It would be a good thing if Alastor cared at all for redemption and whatever hopeful tale Charlie would prattle on about. But, at the moment, he was neither irritated or content, just in a state of pretense. He was now fully on his own; his soul glowed and floated without the invasion of Rosie’s gold rope. It was an exhilarating feeling that Alastor planned on using it to its fullest extent.
The kitchen was closed off from the lobby. From the kitchen, the sounds of chatter and music were muffled by the kitchen’s doors. From what he could hear, a soft song was playing. It was a nice choice, compared to the electronic hullabaloo nonsense Cherri Bomb or Vagatha would sometimes blast. Hm. Is her name ‘Vaggi’ now? The thought marinated for a brief second before Alastor concluded he didn’t care at all. Alastor hummed as he tossed the chopped vegetables into the pot. They sizzled as they made contact with the boiling water.
Memory was a strange thing in Hell. Time moved quickly yet slowly-forever never ending, unlike his time on earth. Yet, even he wasn’t capable of escaping nostalgia’s quiet grip. It washed over him in waves. First, he felt it when he flitted between the vegetables he chopped. He felt it from the heat from the stove, the way it felt heavy around his face. Before he knew it, he was once more trapped in a memory he thought he’d long forgotten.
Alastor met Vincent sometime when Hell felt a degree or two hotter.
It was a placebo, really. The temperature in Hell never really changed from a crisp 444 degrees Fahrenheit.
Relying on the months grew pointless and redundant; however, it gave some sense of normalcy in the grand scheme of things. The weather in Hell was always hot; sometimes there would be an occasional scream of rain-but it remained stagnant throughout eternity. Alastor believed the constant normalcy was another form of torture of boredom. Nothing was worth changing in Hell, not even the weather. But, to keep track of time, Alastor supposed it was sometime during May or early June, when time felt a lot slower.
If that was the case, then it was the start of summer, when Alastor met the frightening laughter of the idiot.
The fall from Hell was no easy feat; it was a pull that wanted you to bleed. Alastor quite enjoyed the pain from the fall; regeneration came quickly after. When Vincent fell down, his screen immediately cracked. He screamed and shouted curses, clawing against the glass that was once his face. But he never told Alastor that. As far as Alastor knows, Vincent came down graciously with minor scraps and no broken screens.
And so, subsequently, it was also the start of summer when Alastor would first refer to Vincent as a dog.
Vincent punched him in the face the first time he said that to him. Alastor just laughed and pushed him harshly against the wall adorned with flowery wallpaper. A well of pride blossomed in Vincent’s chest as he watched a trail of blood seeping from the nose he just punched.
“Come now, Vincent. I’m only teasing.” Alastor huffed out as he rubbed his face from the punch. In all of his years in Hell, he had never let anyone get away with even a brisk touch. He should rip Vincent to shreds for daring to land a hit on him-but Alastor didn’t. Maybe he was feeling particularly pleased that day, perhaps the meal he had hunted prior was quite palpable, that he let Vincent go without much of a scratch.
Alastor held in his laughter as he watched Vincent clenched his fists, assuming a fighting stance. Vincent was fresh from earth, still relying on his human instincts for self-defense. The clenched fists, the slight bend in his knees; it was adorably naive. In Hell, fights would be won from an extension of their soul’s power. Alastor would only have to wave his hand to rip Vincent to shreds.
He could kill Vincent. It wouldn’t take much effort at all. Perhaps he didn’t kill him because Vincent’s admiration was intoxicating. Vincent pried his way into Alastor’s life without fear, but with showers of praise and affection. Not to mention, the strange picture box had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen. It piqued Alastor’s interest. But, even so, he felt his antlers grow. He wanted Vincent to know he could kill him with a blink if he wanted to.
He was expecting fear, but Vincent stared at him with a faint light blue hue across his face, almost like a blush.
Within the next second, his demonic form shrank. Alastor tilted his head, reaching his hand out as if expecting Vincent to give him something. Vincent raised his eyebrows before instinctively reaching for the blue handkerchief folded neatly in his breast pocket. It seemed to be what Alastor wanted, because he flashed Vincent a smile with all his teeth. Vincent gulped at the sight.
“Good dog.” Alastor teased, carefully plucking the handkerchief from Vincent’s stiff hands.
“Fuck you,” Vincent responded stupidly. His eyes stayed glued on Alastor as he guided the handkerchief against his skin, wiping away at the blood.
“Ah-ah-ah.” Alastor clicked his staff against the wooden floor in time with his words. Of all things Vincent was, annoying him was an easy form of entertainment. His television box displayed only his most expressive features: his eyes and his mouth. “Only good dogs get treats! No need for such a vapid display of disgusting words, someone ought to wash your tongue with some soap-”
“How do you make your antlers so big?” Vincent asked, staring at where Alastor’s antlers would be. Reflexively, his ears twitched at the sudden attention. To Alastor’s disdain, Vincent immediately took note of the sudden movement and shifted his focus to his ears.
“Can you hear better with those ears? They’re huge, kind of cute, honestly. People think sharks don’t have ears-but they do. It’s kind of like a USB socket. I’m sure you’re interested in how I can hear things.” Alastor was not. “My ears are actually internal. I figured this out when I realized I could pick apart my own head. I haven't fully scoped everything out yet-but once I figure out the parts, I’m sure I can finally start seeing color.”
Vincent flashed his sharp fangs into a smile once he finished his spiel. His eyes were wide, staring at Alastor expectantly.
Alastor blinked once. Kind of cute. Then twice. He was processing the mouthful of unnecessary information Vincent babbled on about. He was truthfully half listening, instead shifting his focus on the interior of one of Rosie’s spare rooms. The wallpaper was lifting at some ends, although the color was quite nice, a pinkish red-
“Alastor!”
Alastor was not a man who flinched. He was, however, caught off guard. His ears flickered slightly at the harsh tone of Vagatha’s words. Clearly, she’d been calling for him for a moment now. Yet his focus was elsewhere, as if he were reminiscing about his former friend. No, that couldn’t be. He hadn’t noticed her presence because she simply wasn’t fragrant enough to call for his attention; that must be it.
“Ah, Vagatha! Supper is not ready yet, I’m afraid.” Alastor idly glanced at the pot as it boiled. His hand was still gripping his knife.
“My name is Vaggi.” It was a deplorable name, truly. She went through all that trouble to discover a new name and landed on the same one she’s always had. Only now dropping the ‘E’ at the end, it lacked in creativity so much to the point where Alastor would sometimes not address her at all.
“Sure!” Was all Alastor that responded with.
Admittedly, he was a bit out of sorts at the moment. He’d somehow managed to think back to a memory of him and Vox. Alastor gently placed the knife against the chipped cutting board and switched his hands to grab the ladle. The soup was beginning to form into a thicker paste, and the vegetables were beginning to become slightly mushy. The air smelled slightly heavier from the smoke; it lingered in the air with hints of garlic and crushed tomatoes.
Vagatha was talking again, he noted as he hummed an old song. He briefly listened, but the conversations in Hell were always so consistent and rarely worth responding to. In favor of stopping her babble, Alastor tapped his ladle against the metal pot.
“My dear, would you like a taste?” Alastor twisted his head 180 degrees around to face her as he kept his hands busy with the stove. There was a moment of silence again as Vagatha listened to the opportunity he presented. To his satisfaction, she began mindfully making her way towards the pot. Alastor lifted the ladle and offered it for her to take. As Vagatha tilted her chin to taste his dish, his mind wandered once more. Alastor would sometimes allow others to taste his cooking, although he knew it would be delectable nonetheless. In the past, he’d ask Rosie or Mimzy. There was once a time when that question was directed towards Vox.
His ears flickered as Vagatha made a pleased noise of approval. Alastor’s smile twitched for a brief moment. Vox’s static would buzz comically when it would tune to his mood. Whenever he tasted Alastor’s cooking, his screen would flash into a bright blue, and his frequency would roll like soft waves. Rarely would he allow Vox the satisfaction of being thought about for a mere fraction of a second. Today, Vox seemed to be a present force in his mind. How disgusting. Perhaps it was because Vox had once again failed that the impression of him was still in his mind.
“Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Vagatha said as she handed the ladle back to Alastor.
Ah. How rude. “Pardon?” He asked as he turned the dial on the stove to a low simmer. What Charlie saw in her, Alastor couldn’t see it.
“Normally I wouldn’t want to know what’s going on inside your head-but you’ve been acting weird.” Her investigative glint was admirable at some points, but at the moment, it was a mere nuisance.
Alastor leaned his hip against the kitchen countertop, fully turning his body towards Vagatha for the first time tonight. “Hmm…not once have we ever shared our feelings together-and we most definitely won’t be starting today!” Alastor wasn’t particularly keen on eating something cooked tonight; he was craving the wetness of flesh and raw meat. After supper was served, perhaps if there were leftovers, he’d stop by Rosie’s and give her some. He did enjoy her presence, but mostly he’d love to gloat the freedom straight to her face.
Vagatha was muttering a string of cusses for reasons Alastor didn’t care to figure out. He hummed as he summoned his shadows to prepare for the night. They hovered around the kitchen like diligent servants as they picked up several plates and cutlery. As the hotelier, the only “task” Alastor found enjoyment in was cooking. And that wasn’t even meant to be his job. Greeting and managing the expenses or whatever hoteliers do was all too boring.
“I believe I have finished my duties and this conversation has grown quite stale.” Alastor patted his sleeves to remove any lingering dust that could’ve lingered. “If you would be so kind as the hotel’s manager to transfer it to the chafing dish.” He could do it himself, but he didn’t want to. And Vagatha was capable enough for the job!
“Alastor.”
Torture does exist. He was merely a centimeter away from the kitchen doors when Vagatha called for him again. Must he be trapped in this kitchen any longer? He twisted his head behind his back once more, not bothering to give her his full attention. Ooh! If he kept doing that, perhaps his head would fall off. It would save him from this dreadfully boring conversation.
“There’s a delivery for you outside the door. Is what I’ve been trying to say for the last horrible minutes.” A delivery? How peculiar. “Can you hurry and get it, it stinks. Charlie’s saying it doesn’t look good for the guests.”
He hadn’t ordered anything, perhaps from Rosie? Well, that couldn’t be-she wouldn’t deliver a package that smelled sour. Especially not without telling him first. What a surprise, perhaps the day would not end monotonously.
“Well, we couldn’t do that to our poor guests, can we? I’ll get it out in a jiffy.”
It was a deer carcass.
The sight piqued his hunger in seconds; he felt his mouth water with saliva as he inched closer. Alastor halted when his eyes roamed over the rest of the body. There was a recognizably blue ribbon tied into a little bow wrapped neatly around the base of the deer’s neck. Tucked under the ribbon was a folded pristine envelope with a signature Vox symbol.
Enjoy.
Come to the V Tower.
-Vox
Oh, what a pitiful surprise. Alastor inserted his finger near the gaping wound by the deer’s heart. The taste was quite fresh, earthly. He could almost still taste the grass the deer munched on. He was quite ravenous, although being ‘ordered’ to visit the preposterous tower irked his ego.
“Still wanting my attention even after your humiliation, how pathetic.” The meal smelled like the early stage of rot and buzzed with a few flying bugs. Alastor hummed a satisfied static as he roamed over the dead animal. Vox hadn’t hunted dinner for him for over nearly seven decades now. Perhaps he’ll spare him some niceties and actually feast on his gift.
Alastor patted the blood on his lips with his red handkerchief. The meal was well enough to satiate his cannibalistic desires.
The V tower had revived itself once more, albeit with less of Vox’s signature blue hue, now replaced with a pinkish color. Alastor grimaced at the symbolism of it-that wretched trollop was now the head of the Vees. Velvette would’ve been Alastor’s preferred personal choice; her presence was the most tolerable out of the three.
Alastor was only here to fulfill Vox’s negotiation, a meal in exchange for a conversation.
Alastor made his presence in Vox’s room known the moment he reappeared from the shadows. Nothing much had changed since he was Vox's last prisoner. “I must say the dinner was quite a surprise.” He couldn’t help but smile wider the moment he saw Vox’s body flinch. Vox’s frequency buzzed in a slightly garbled tone, familiar and unpleasant as always. “And for you to get deer meat from earth! Which imp was pathetic enough to fetch it for such an idiotic Overlord?”
All evidence of surprise on Vox’s face was ridden in an instant. And instead, his cocky grin plastered across his screen. “I still have my ways.” Vox’s words fell from his mouth in such a way that made Alastor coil at the sight. Vox’s tone of voice was too smooth for a man who had just ruined his own reputation.
Alastor idly twirled his staff in his hands, mindlessly showing off his newfound strength in a careless manner. “I suppose some things never change. As always, you go through all that trouble for little ol’ me.”
“As you said so yourself, Al, some things never change.” Ah, that nickname. A symbol of their former closeness. Oddly similar to the nickname Vox had given to that floozy, pompous, revoltingly tall, pervert, utterly disgusting moth that Vox had somehow picked to be his partner. Val and Al. Alastor nearly bit his tongue so hard from the sheer similarity of it.
Vox’s buttery voice filtered in once more, beckoning for Alastor’s attention. “Anyway, while that may be true, some things fortunately do change. It’s part of the reason why I requested your attention in the first place.”
Alastor simply blinked owlishly in acknowledgment, silently urging Vox to continue.
“You and I have been at each other’s throats for nearly a century now.” Alastor inwardly groaned at the newfound business-esque cadence Vox had just put on. Ah, well, he has nothing better to do than let Vox do his little proposal. Role-playing as a capitalistic CEO in Hell, Alastor couldn’t think of a more mundane waste of time. “…And I believe that in order to move forward, there are some circumstances that should be implemented. I am hereby announcing that from this day forward-” All of these filler words, does he never just get to the point? “-I will be getting over you.”
…
What?
“Pardon?” Alastor tilted his head as he took a few steps closer towards Vox’s desk. He ignored the strange feeling in his chest when the other leaned back slightly.
Vox’s eyes followed Alastor’s every movement. From every flick of his wrist, each tap of his staff, Vox would watch him. His frequency would invade Alastor’s own, like little vibrations of electricity that would travel all over Alastor’s body. Right now, Alastor focused his eyes on Vox. Closer, he could see the new marks on Vox’s upgraded body. His eyes trailed over the undone bow tie around Vox’s neck, yet each button on his dress shirt was buttoned to the top. He looked disheveled, like a pig wearing lipstick. The figure below him swallowed comically once Alastor placed himself directly in front of Vox’s desk.
Alastor’s eyes zeroed in on the details of Vox’s screen. Vox did the same, focusing on every detail Alastor would show him. Then, Vox’s voice broke through the silence once more. “I’m going to move on from you. From now on.”
Alastor hummed in response. Vox’s voice was a powerful tool, but to Alastor, it sounded like the bleat of a little lamb right now. Move on? What would that entail? Another one of Vox’s meaningless mind games? He perused through the contents of Vox’s desk, fluttering his talons against the blue pencil sharpener as he pondered on Vox’s announcement.
“I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at, sweetheart.” He lifted a pencil from the pile, feigning interest in the sharks adorned on the sides of the lead. Alastor adjusted his monocle as he brought the pencil closer. It did look like the sharks didn’t have any ears, just a smooth curve that dipped by their fins. “Still obsessed with sharks, aren’t you, Vincent?”
“What-” Vox had the nerve to sound confused. “Would you focus?” Abruptly, Vox’s hands wrapped around the pencil Alastor was inspecting. For a fraction of a second, Vox’s talons grazed against Alastor’s. The touch felt cold. Alastor stifled the static noise threatening to escape from his mouth.
“I am telling the truth, I WILL move on.” Vox continued once more, sounding like a child stomping his foot. He was crossing his arms against his chest now, perhaps in an attempt to appear more stern. There was a bright, blue light across where Vox’s cheeks would be. Alastor never understood why Vox’s screen would do that sometimes.
Alastor kicked the leg of the chair behind him closer as he sat down. “Is that all you requested of me for?”
“Yes, well, I figured since this is a pretty big deal for the both of us-I ought to let you know.” Vox shrugged his shoulders and leaned back against his unnecessarily much larger chair. It seemed that everything in this room served as a ploy in establishing Vox’s dominance. So tacky.
“Pray tell, where will you be moving on to? Another district, perhaps, given quite literally nobody likes you here?” Alastor taunted. His spine was straight against the smaller chair’s backrest. “Although I must say I’m not sure there is an area in Hell that would still have an iota of respect for you.”
“No, no.” Vox’s screen glitched in what Alastor assumed to be frustration. “It means from now on, I will be leaving you alone. I won’t obsess over you, I won’t send my drones to watch you, I won’t listen to your frequency like I did before-”
“Well, there is more than one way to skin a cat.” Alastor’s tone had more bite than sarcasm than he intended to. It seemed as though Vox had unsmoothed his own brain and developed some semblance of self-respect. He crossed his legs and languidly laced his hands around his staff to ground himself. “Thank you very kindly for the forewarning. I will so ferociously miss the constant invasion of privacy and harassment that only you can possess.”
“I mean it, Al.”
“Yes, yes, I believe you.” Alastor hummed, thinking back on the supper at the hotel. Vox was nothing if not a liar; he truly didn’t believe whatever nonsense he was going on about. He hoped there would be some leftovers for Rosie. If not, perhaps he’d hunt some wayward sinner and bake them into a dessert of some kind.
“I mean it!” Vox’s static vibrated a bit more intensely with his volume.
Alastor tilted his head, looking straight into Vox’s silly, large eyes. They took up more than half of his face whenever he’d feel a heightened emotion. It was amusing to watch. “I’m sure, sweetheart.”
Again, Vox’s eyes widened for a moment. Twinkling and glitching, revealing every emotion Vox was so keen on keeping in control. When Vox didn’t speak as Alastor assumed he would, he twirled the staff in his hands and tapped it twice on the Vox’s floor. At the command, his shadows twirled around the soles of his feet.
“I’ll be on my way now, if that is all you needed to inform me about. Good luck with your little plan for ‘moving on’ now. Do tell what place you’ll move to when you find it!” With a wave goodbye, Alastor melted into his shadows, leaving Vox to do whatever he does nowadays.