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Summary
Something was wrong. Alastor had been weird ever since he’d given himself up to Vox earlier that day: unusually quiet, but always with that smug grin on his face that told Vox he was doing it just to piss him off. This though? This was different. The grin was still wide and smug as long as Vox was looking at him, but if he looked down at his desk for long enough, pretending to be studying his approval ratings, he could see in his periphery how that grin turned smaller, tighter, hanging on like one last thread of sanity.
Vox was going to have to do something about it if he didn't want to lose his precious prisoner. And if Alastor wouldn't hold still for medical treatment, he might have to give him something else to think about.