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Something wakes Alastor in the middle of the night, and it takes him a few blurry moments to orient his sleepy attention. There's a steady hiss of quiet white noise static, but likely it was the softly flickering glow of light reflecting off the ceiling above him. Strange. He turns over, surprised to see unfocused images shifting across Vox's screen.
Vox has a few different "modes" during the night, depending on his stage of sleep. His own sleeping face, while he's drifting off or waking up. Most of the night his television is in a kind of standby mode, little Voxtek logo bouncing lazily around his darkened screen. He will power off completely when he's in a very deep sleep, or after a particularly long and hard day.
But this is something Alastor hasn't encountered before. Vox is clearly still sleeping, sprawled across two thirds of the bed spread-eagled, chest rising and falling with his soft snores. And whatever this is that's broadcasting onto his screen certainly isn't his face.
Alastor props himself up on an elbow, curiosity piqued. There's movement on the screen, but the picture isn't coming through clearly. It's fuzzed with staticky snow, image scrolling on occasion, almost like an old fashioned analog signal that's not tuned in correctly. A strange sight indeed on Vox's sleek, "smart" television set (though Alastor is always quick to add that unfortunately a television can only ever be as smart as the man inside it).
After considering for a moment, Alastor reaches up to tweak at Vox's antennae. Vox huffs a breath in his sleep, but sure enough, the projected picture shivers and shifts as Alastor adjusts the aerials. How curious. Alastor's not often in the habit of sleeping, but he's certainly considered that he may inadvertently project a signal while he's unconscious. Perhaps Vox is broadcasting whatever he's seeing in his sleeping mind's eye?
It takes some trial and error, but finally the moving pictures begin to make sense. It doesn't sharpen to his standard 4k, image quality staying grainy and analog even as the lines become clear.
It's… them. But an iteration of them both from so long ago, they barely feel recognizable as the same set of people. Alastor looks much the same as he always does, excluding a few minor cosmetic adjustments. But Vox is always the easy tell of the time period, and this one is old. He's wearing his original picture box, large and clunky, dressed in the soft lines of a sweater vest and creamy bloused sleeves. They're both grinning broadly at each other.
A thud of deep affection thumps soundly through Alastor's frame, pushing a breath from him, aching. Somewhere deep in the rat's nest hoard beneath his broadcasting station, there's a torn photograph of this Vox. Alastor hasn't seen it in decades, buried away when he could no longer bear the sight of it.
But there they both are on the screen, young, stupid, smitten. It could have been any of a hundred different nights they spent together in some smoky, dingy bar or another. They're clearly drunk, Vox's hat and suit coat thrown over a chair, collar and tie loose. Alastor's coat is missing completely, and he has that limber-limbed quality he gets after too much rye, giggling as he clutches at Vox's arms.
They're dancing a lively Lindy Hop, and Alastor has just caught Vox off guard with a sharp swing out, but Vox snaps him back swiftly, nudging at his foot in the pass so he can catch his stumble in a low dip. There's no sound being broadcast beyond the soft hiss of static, but the Alastor on screen is clearly cackling his delight, dislodging a shoe as he kicks a hoof into the air. A good jitterbug is a bit like a good fight, you want a partner who can meet you beat for beat but still take you by surprise. Vox has always excelled at both.
The real Vox below shifts and heaves a loud snore, startling Alastor back into reality. The grainy video flickers but stays steady as he re-settles, and Alastor can't stop watching, transfixed. The wide-eyed, innocently lovesick expression on the box television is an achingly familiar sight. But what Alastor finds shocking is the look in his own youthful eyes. He's amused and delighted, of course, but he also looks so, so fond.
Alastor stares at himself staring at his fascinating, interesting picture box. He had thought he was so subtle, so deep in his web of self-denial. Did he really look at Vox with such shameless adoration back then, such clear softness? Perhaps it's just a fabrication of Vox's dreamscape. He has a funny feeling it's not, though.
Sighing, Alastor crosses his arms over Vox's chest, resting his head at an angle where he can continue to watch the dream projections below. Their vintage iterations have paused the dancing for a breather and a drink, and Alastor seems to be arguing boisterously with the barkeep. Vox doesn't wake, but one of his arms wraps around Alastor where they're pressed together, like an autonomous response.
It's an unusual thing indeed for Alastor to drift off to sleep while watching the telly, but he can't take his eyes off it, feeling just as transfixed by his idiotic idiot box today as he was almost a century ago. Perhaps their broadcasts mingle together while they're both asleep, as Alastor finds himself also dreaming of dances that leave him giddy and breathless.