Work Text:
Vox waited until he was alone in the room before rummaging through his wardrobe drawers. Although the weather in Hell was never particularly cold, it was a custom to wear a sweater at Christmas. A custom he had observed for a good many decades. So he pulled out all sorts of outdated outfits until he found it: piled at the back, an old blue sweater with Shock.wav embroidered in the center. He held it up to him with a small smile that faded when he spotted a hole in one corner. He frowned at the sweater. Sure enough, moths seemed to have made a meal of one of Shock.wav's teeth. Oh well! He had to redo that part anyway. He'd had his teeth replaced two years ago, and he didn't look the same anymore.
He laid the sweater on the unmade bed and went to the dresser. He took out a long box containing needles, thread, and yarn. Then he returned to the mattress, sat down, and unfolded the sweater over his knees.
“Now, baby, who made that ugly hole, huh? Daddy's going to fix it right away.”
As he sewed, the image of Velvette scolding him flashed into his mind. Of course, she was a much better seamstress than he was, so she would have found it absurd that Vox was trying to sew his own clothes, had she known. Luckily for him, she was usually very busy. And when she wasn't, she was glued to her screens. So there was no way she knew what was happening at that very moment in the darkness of his room.
When he was satisfied with the result, he slipped the sweater over his head. Since his body hadn't changed much since he'd arrived there, it still fit him just as well as it had the first day. In his opinion, it suited him quite well. He smiled down at his own chest, as if the garment could sense his good mood, and stood up.
Although later would be Christmas Eve, everyone at VoxTek was working like mad. Vox walked among his employees wearing the famous sweater. Only the newest members managed a look of surprise. The rest knew the rules: they couldn't make fun of the boss's attire. Not even if Valentino or Velvette asked for their opinion with the intention of humiliating their partner. Not even if the garment in question practically begged for a laugh. Dead silence.
When Vel saw it, of course, she was furious. Like every year.
“For Satan's sake, you can't keep using that thing, let me design something new for you, for the love of Lucifer.”
Vox shook his head calmly.
“It's a tradition, Vel…, you wouldn't understand.”
"It's your love of cringe that we don't understand," Valentino remarked, arranging some gifts under the tree they had set up in the main hall of Vee Tower.
On the other side of town, Husk and Niffty were finishing cleaning and preparing the room where they would celebrate Christmas with Alastor. It was clear the Radio Demon couldn't care less about the holidays, but, at the same time, he was a man deeply attached to rituals, and the business of exchanging gifts under a huge pine tree didn't displease him. Besides, he always found it amusing to have an excuse to force his slaves to perform some arbitrary task. So there he sat, wearing a red sweater that depicted his own face in its demonic state, watching them work, with no desire to lift a finger to help.
From time to time, Husk glanced at him with a look that could be either worried or uncomfortable. Several bottles of whiskey had already been downed when the cat tackled the elephant in the room.
“Why do you keep using that old thing, Al?”
Alastor tugged at the edge of the sweater to smooth it over his belly.
“Because it looks splendid on me, dear.”
“Oh, come on. You usually dress badly, but this is extreme.”
“It's a tradition. I respect traditions.”
“To hell with traditions, I know why you use that.”
Perhaps the alcohol had almost loosened Husk's tongue a bit too much. While a single firm look from Alastor was enough to shut him up, the damage was done. A pointless nostalgia settled over the radio demon.
He'd like to say he'd knitted that monstrosity of red wool himself. However, the one he'd knitted was more in cooler colors, with slightly wider shoulders and more meticulous details. It had been at least 50 years since he'd seen his little abomination. Was it still being used, or was it gathering dust somewhere?
Bah! Mr.-I-am-modernity-and-change would surely have thrown it in the trash several decades ago! How irrational it was that he, on the other hand, continued to wear that trinket woven by his hands.
Demons in hell, like humans on earth, cling to the most outlandish habits, in memory of the least important deeds.
