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If it had been any other morning, the steady rainfall pattering against the penthouse windows might have been a welcome, soothing sound. Alastor would have awoken to the gentle thrum, stretching languidly into the overstuffed pillows. After a quick glance over to the time on the bedside clock, he’d roll over to press his body against his darling Vincent for a brief snooze before their 6am alarm.
But it was not any other morning. And the rain was not soothing. The relentless pitter patter mocked Alastor as he lay there in the dark, sweating through his pajamas, regretting everything he’d chosen to eat the night before.
It couldn’t be food poisoning, Alastor thought as another cramp wracked his midsection. He and Vincent had dined out last night, but with the amount of sampling they had done from each other’s plates, his partner should be similarly afflicted. Alastor glanced jealously over to the other side of the bed, where the darkened, sleeping screen of his companion was just barely visible in the low light.
Perhaps just an old-fashioned poisoning, then. Something slipped discreetly into his drink when he wasn’t looking. It would make sense for him to be the sole target - for as much as Vincent was making a name for himself as a CEO and an overlord, thanks in part to their budding partnership, Alastor’s list of enemies was still much longer than his. Still, the prospect of someone getting close enough to dose Alastor without Vincent’s eagle eyes spotting them was far-fetched indeed.
Which left only one other possibility, and that was that Alastor was well and truly sick. He had always taken ill fairly easily when he was alive, of course it would be just his luck that this predisposition followed him to hell too.
Alastor swallowed down a groan when his stomach rolled again, making him squirm in discomfort. Beside him, Vincent lay still as a stone. Alastor was at least grateful for how heavily the other man slept. He hadn't even stirred during the several times Alastor had scrambled out of bed to rush to the bathroom during the night.
Speaking of which, it seemed Alastor's hopes of being able to fall back asleep were to be dashed, as another cramp and an ominous noise from his stomach had him crawling out from beneath the sheets yet again. His damp pajamas clung uncomfortably to his frame, and he shivered as he hurried across the room.
…………………
Alastor felt marginally better as he made his way back to bed a short while later. He was still horribly weak and nauseous, but with a cautiously optimistic feeling that his body was finished punishing him – at least for a few hours. As he passed by the window he nudged aside the heavy drapes to glance down at the dark street below. It was mostly empty, save for a single demon hurriedly making their way through the downpour. In the twilight it was hard to tell if this was an early riser on their way to work, or a drunkard just finishing up another night of debauchery.
I'll be joining you soon enough, Alastor thought with an inward grimace, picturing the mad dash through the rain that he and Vincent would have to make once they'd gotten ready for work. Storms usually didn't bother him, but he was already so chilled to the bone that the thought of venturing out in this weather sent another shiver up his spine.
The sheets on his side of the bed had cooled unpleasantly by the time Alastor slipped back under the covers. His eyes flicked over to the clock on his nightstand. It was about a quarter past five. Alastor sighed. Well, forty five minutes of rest was better than no rest at all, he supposed. With the immediate threat of being sick seemingly past, he allowed his heavy eyelids to fall shut as he sunk down into the oversized pillows.
…………………
The next thing Alastor knew, he was being roused by the feeling of a familiar hand pressed against his forehead. He growled softly as he reached up, his claws ensnaring Vincent’s wrist.
“If you’re fond of this hand, I suggest you remove it from me before I remove it from your arm.” Alastor hissed between his teeth, irritated at being disturbed from the only rest he'd managed to get this morning.
“Ope,” came Vincent's soft response as he tugged his hand gently out of Alastor's grasp. “Not in a very touchy-feely mood today, huh?”
Alastor grumbled out an incoherent response, dragging his hand down his face and finally peeling his eyes open. Vincent was sitting up, worry etched in the pixels on his CRTV screen as he hovered close to Alastor. The banker's lamp on his nightstand had been turned on, casting a warm golden glow onto the wood paneled walls of their bedroom. Outside, a low rumble of thunder punctuated the continuing rainfall. Alastor spared a glance at the clock. It was five after six.
“Did the alarm not go off?” He mumbled sleepily. It was unlike him not to wake at the first sound of the shrill chime. As he spoke he registered how disgusting his mouth felt, like his tongue was coated in oil. And his limbs felt impossibly heavy. Perhaps he would have been better off just staying awake after all.
“It did,” Vincent replied carefully, picking at the duvet with his claws. “You didn't even budge. And then I noticed that you're completely drenched – I thought the water bed sprung a leak. Are you feeling okay?”
“My stomach’s just in a bit of a tizzy. Nothing to fret about, my dear,” Alastor grunted out as he pulled himself up to sit against the headboard. The movement jostled his sensitive insides, and he swallowed heavily as he reached a hand up to clutch his midsection.
Panic flashed across Vincent’s face. He pushed the covers off of himself. “Shit, do you need to throw up?”
Alastor held up a hand, shaking his head. “Not at the moment. It seems to be taking an intermission. But who knows what the morning will bring?” He tried to flash Vincent a reassuring grin, but he could feel how strained the edges of his smile were.
Vincent visibly relaxed, probably no longer worried that Alastor was about to redecorate their bed. Slowly the relieved look on his face morphed into a mixture of confusion and hurt.
“Wait… have you been feeling sick all night? And you didn’t wake me up?!”
Alastor’s eyes snapped down to his lap, refusing to meet Vincent’s accusatory gaze. “I didn’t see a reason for us both to suffer just because I’m ill. I was managing just fine.”
Vincent slumped back against the headboard with a heavy sigh. “Bambi, we talked about this. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me when something’s wrong.”
Alastor huffed. “I really don't think there's much you can do to help with this.” He made a sweeping gesture down his body. “It just needs to run its course. I'll be good as new in no time!”
Vincent looked unimpressed, his mouth set in a tight line. “Well, I can at least do this,” he said as he twisted around to pluck his cordless phone off of the receiver.
Alastor squinted as he watched Vincent slide the antenna out. “And just who are you calling so early in the morning?”
“Ethan. I'm having him cancel today's radio broadcast and all my morning meetings so I can stay home and take care of you.”
Alastor crossed his arms like a petulant child. “No.”
Vincent gave him a withering look, one claw poised above the buttons on the phone. “The fuck you mean, ‘no’? You're not going to work like this.”
Alastor tapped his claws impatiently. “So I'm a little run down… I've gone out in worse shape before. Besides, there can't possibly be anything left in me to expel at this point.”
“Famous last words,” Vincent replied with a smirk. “You really wanna risk puking your guts out on live radio?”
Alastor's smile tugged at the edges. “Now wouldn't that be a skit to remember! A little vaudeville for the unwashed masses!”
“Al…” Vincent warned, his tone laced with a hint of irritation.
The sad truth was, Alastor knew his partner was right. As much as he wanted to believe he was on the mend, the lingering chills and nausea rolling through his stomach brought the promise of more misery to come. Alastor let his head fall back against the headboard with a soft thud, closing his eyes in resignation. He really didn't need Vincent here playing nursemaid all day, but he'd always been hard pressed to change the man's mind once he had it set on something. It was one of the qualities he most admired about Vincent, that is, when he wasn't on the receiving end of it.
“Oh, alright…” Alastor muttered. “Tell Ethan there's a case of pre-recorded material in my studio. I keep it on hand for emergencies.”
Vincent nodded, turning his attention back to the phone. “Can do. I'll call us in, and then how about I run you a hot bath?”
Alastor wrinkled his nose. The thought of stewing like a lobster at a seafood boil in his current state was the last thing on his mind. “No need, I'd rather take a shower.” He hauled himself out of bed before Vincent could protest.
From inside the bathroom Alastor could hear the faint sounds of Vincent's conversation with his assistant. As much as he always enjoyed listening to the man break out his “CEO voice”, the shivering had returned in full force, and the sooner he washed up the sooner he could lie back down under the blankets and go to sleep. Alastor reached into the shower to turn the tap on so it could warm up while he disrobed.
Alastor was halfway through unbuttoning his pajama shirt when Vincent, finished with his phone call, wandered into the bathroom.
“We’re off the hook,” he announced proudly. “You uh, want some company?”
Alastor flattened his ears. “Really, Vincent? I’m sick, and that’s all you can think about? When you said you wanted to ‘take care of me’, I didn’t know this was what you had in mind.”
Vincent’s face erupted in a cyan flush. “That’s not what I meant, dickhead! I was thinking I could, I dunno, wash your hair? Or just sit in here with you?” To illustrate his point, he closed the toilet lid and sat down expectantly.
Alastor shrugged off his shirt, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. In the silence that stretched between them, the cascade of the shower sounded almost deafening. It wasn’t that Alastor didn’t like Vincent’s company. Hell, he usually found the man’s affinity for following him around like a lost puppy quite adorable. But he hadn’t needed anyone to care for him since he was a young boy tip-toeing into his maman’s room in the middle of the night.
Vincent drummed his fingers on his knees, awaiting a response. “Or, you can kick me out of here if you want to be alone. Whatever you need. I just wanna help, kay?”
Alastor sighed, crossing his arms loosely across his bare chest. “I know. You could help by giving me some privacy. Just for a short while.” He kept his tone as soft as he could manage, not wanting to upset his well-intentioned partner.
Vincent flashed him a tired smile. “Okay, yeah… I get it, I know you don't feel good. I’ll be in the bedroom, just, uh, holler if you need me.”
Alastor nodded as Vincent made his exit, shutting the bathroom door gently behind him. He hurriedly kicked off his pants and stepped under the showerhead, shivering as the droplets hit his clammy skin. The water was only lukewarm - intentional, so as not to worsen his fever. Still, it didn’t exactly feel pleasant. Alastor rubbed his upper arms to try and warm himself up as the water streamed down his body. He couldn’t help but think back to that poor, drenched sinner he’d seen earlier in the street.
Looks like we both got caught in the rain after all, he thought to himself with a weak chuckle. Tipping forward slightly, Alastor rested his forehead against the cool shower wall, waiting for his stomach to settle. The movement of undressing had jostled it again. Throwing up still wasn't out of the question, but he supposed if it was going to happen, this was the second best place for him to be. He let himself stand idly under the spray for a few minutes, watching the water swirl around the tiled floor. When enough time had passed without an incident, he finally reached for his washcloth.
…………………
When Alastor was finished with his shower he emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in one of their oversized towels. It felt nice to be clean, and washing had helped perk him up a bit. He found Vincent in the bedroom, as promised. To his surprise, the TV-headed man hadn’t changed out of his pajamas. Even more surprising was that the bed had been stripped. The sheets were laid in a messy pile on the floor, the mattress left completely bare.
Alastor flicked one of his ears as he turned towards his wardrobe. “I was hoping to lie back down,” he probed, not sure if Vincent would even hear him.
“Trust me, you don’t want to get back into those sheets. They were kinda gross,” came the reply. “You’ll have to take the couch until the bed gets made.”
Alastor rolled his eyes fondly as he selected a clean pair of pajamas from a drawer. “Vincent, dear, do you even know how to make a bed?”
His partner scoffed. “I don’t need to, that’s what we have a cleaning lady for.” There was a brief pause. “She is coming today, right? It’s Tuesday.” There was a hint of worry in his voice, as if he were afraid they’d be roughing it without a bed if he’d gotten the date wrong.
“Yes, she should be around at some point,” Alastor said as he began to dress himself. “And just for the record, Niffty is my cleaning lady. You only benefit from her services because we live together,” he teased with a flourish of his wrist.
In the wardrobe’s mirrored door, Alastor saw Vincent approach him from behind with that smug, closed-mouth grin that meant he was about to say something crass.
“Hmm, does that make us… friends with benefits?” His pixelated eyebrows wiggled suggestively as he spoke.
“You're hilarious,” Alastor deadpanned. “I'm going to go lie down now.”
The small burst of energy Alastor had gotten from the shower was quickly fading, leaving his limbs once again feeling like they were full of sand. He hadn't taken more than three steps toward the living room before he felt a light touch on both of his shoulders. He stopped in his tracks.
“Hands, dear.”
At once the feeling vanished.
“Right, sorry!” Vincent blurted out. “Just wanted to make sure you didn't fall over.”
Alastor sighed, turning to look over his shoulder at the other man.
“My love, I have a touch of the flu. Not polio. I can walk to the couch by myself.”
As Alastor exited the bedroom on trembling legs, Vincent trailed after him, stopping to grab the small bedroom trash can from its place next to the door.
Under normal circumstances, the penthouse living room was considerably brighter than the bedroom. The large picture windows offered a stately view of the city and ensured the space was always bathed in warm crimson light and neon glare from the surrounding buildings. The decor was an eclectic mix of mid-century styles; a physical manifestation of the eternal war between Vincent’s need to stay on the cutting edge of modernity, and Alastor’s desire to remain firmly rooted in his own time period.
Of course, with the rain in full swing, the living room was all shadows and gloom, as dim as the stormy sky outside. As Alastor got himself settled on the velvety pink couch, Vincent went to work turning on a few lamps. The media overlord paused by the credenza which housed Alastor's large cathedral radio. He fiddled with the dials until a light swing tune began to play, the volume just low enough to not be obtrusive.
“This station ok?” He asked.
Alastor pulled a throw blanket from the back of the couch to cover himself with. “That's lovely. Thank you.”
Vincent hummed approvingly, moving to set the trash can down next to the couch.
“Just in case,” he said with a sympathetic smile.
Without waiting for Alastor's response, he continued walking until he'd disappeared into the kitchen. Through the glass block partition that separated the two rooms, his form looked like a cloud of ink flowing through clear water. Alastor watched idly from half-lidded eyes as the shape moved and swirled behind the glass. After a few seconds, the sound of cabinet doors and glassware could just barely be heard over the brassy tune humming from the radio behind him.
Vincent emerged shortly, balancing a plate and two mugs in his arms. Carefully he lowered his bounty onto the coffee table in front of the couch. The shark-themed mug contained Vincent's usual morning coffee of course, overly-sweetened and a completely unacceptable shade of beige. The other one appeared to be filled with some sort of tea, and the plate held a small pile of saltines. Alastor regarded it warily.
“I thought maybe you'd be hungry?” Vincent said, shrugging his shoulders.
“I'm the opposite of hungry,” Alastor groused in reply. At least the crackers were odorless. He wasn't sure how much food smell he could handle at the moment. The tea might be worth a try, if for no other reason than to get some fluids back in him. He reached for the mug, handling it with the same amount of caution one might give a loaded mousetrap.
“I hope there's laudanum in this,” he said dryly.
Vincent rolled his eyes. “It's ginger - I’m pretty sure that's the one for nausea, right? You're better with tea stuff than I am.”
He was right of course, but Alastor chose not to respond. While Vincent slipped off to another room, Alastor took a tentative sip from the mug, wincing at the taste of what he could only imagine was half of their sugar canister. He promptly set the mug down.
Ah, well. There was a good chance it would've just come back up anyway.
Vincent appeared a few minutes later, lugging his portable computer over to the coffee table and plunking himself down on the other end of the couch. Alastor stared at the device with disdain. It was an ugly behemoth of a machine, one that allowed Vincent to carry the burdens of the workday home with him each night. To this day, Alastor couldn't see the appeal. Still, when the new technology appeared in hell a few years prior, Vincent had become smitten with the thing. Alastor supposed that was its one redeeming quality.
Alastor shuffled down until he was properly reclined, his head sinking into a throw pillow. He let his eyes fall shut while Vincent booted up his little toy, intent on trying to get some more rest while the man worked.
Things were peaceful for a while. Lying motionless on the couch was helping Alastor's stomach to settle somewhat, although he still felt incredibly lethargic and chilled. But, the only cure for his ailment was rest, and he felt a small sense of comfort that he was already doing everything he could, and the situation was now out of his hands.
The sound of restrained muttering from the other end of the couch pulled him from his stupor. Vincent was staring intently at his computer, fingers flying angrily over the keys as he huffed and sucked his teeth. Alastor observed him for a while, noting his rigid posture. His coffee remained untouched.
“Vinny~” Alastor sing-songed as he reached a hoof out from under his blanket, prodding the other man's arm.
Vincent snapped out of his work-induced trance. “Hm? Oh, sorry, am I being too loud? I'm just trying to check up on some stuff, and these fucking idiots -”
“It's incredibly clear that you'd rather be at work right now, mon cher. Why don't you just go in? I promise I won't waste away here on the couch while you're gone.”
Truth be told, the sound really wasn't bothering him. In fact, the rain pattering against the windows had blended beautifully with the crackle of the old radio and the typing of Vincent's keys to create a wall of soothing white noise.
What was bothering him, was how out of place his dear Vincent looked in this scene. This was a man whose favorite pastime was stalking through boardrooms and terrorizing underlings. The view in front of Alastor right now was akin to a tiger in a cage.
“No way,” Vincent argued. “What kind of partner would I be if I just left you here to suffer?”
Alastor rolled his eyes. “A good one who listens to me and protects our shared interests.” He attempted to appeal to Vincent's business sense. “One overlord's absence is easy enough to explain away. But both at once? Who knows what will befall the company without us there to keep everyone in line…”
Vincent frowned, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You're implying there'll be some kind of coup? In one day?”
Alastor shrugged, glancing innocently to the side. His grin sharpened.
Vincent ran a hand down his face, fingers rubbing at the space between his eyes. “If I leave you by yourself, will you promise to eat something so you don't die?”
Alastor narrowed his eyes. “I'll… make an attempt. You won't get a better deal out of me.”
“Ugh. Fine. You're sick, I'll humor you.”
Alastor settled back against the pillow, a smug cheshire grin on his face as he watched Vincent put away his computer. The man disappeared into the bedroom, and a few minutes later the faint sound of the shower could be heard. With nothing but the ambient noise to keep him company, the radio demon was soon tugged into unconsciousness.
…………………
“-lastor? Psst, hey Al, I'm heading out now.”
Alastor blinked himself awake as he felt the back of Vincent's hand lightly caress his cheek. Without a second thought, the radio demon twisted his head to the side, his teeth making contact with Vincent's knuckles.
Not hard enough to do serious damage, of course, but enough to prick the skin.
Vincent yelped like a kicked dog, quickly hopping backwards out of the danger zone.
“The fuck was that for?!”
Alastor flashed him an irritated grin. “I warned you I'd be taking that hand if you couldn't keep it off of me.”
“Al…”
“Whaaaat? You're the one who wanted me to eat something so badly,” Alastor replied, staring up at his partner with big doe eyes.
“Yeah, but not me,” Vincent huffed, reaching up to flick the tip of one of Alastor's ears. It twitched involuntarily. “You're a piece of shit, you know that?”
“I do,” Alastor replied primly.
Vincent scowled. He'd dressed himself in one of his favorite suits: a deep navy ensemble with sea green accents. Alastor's eyes roved over him approvingly. He was poised, sharp, assertive. It was as if donning the clothes had transformed him from Vincent Whittman into Vox - the grandiose business persona he'd adopted in recent years. Of course, he'd always be Vincent to Alastor.
“Alright, I'm leaving. I'll call you around lunchtime?”
“That would be nice,” hummed Alastor, turning his head back to rest it on the throw pillow.
Vincent stepped over to the entryway. He paused to look back over his shoulder at Alastor, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob.
“And I want those crackers gone by the time I get home,” he said firmly.
Alastor wriggled a hand out from under the blanket to give him a mock salute.
And with that, Vincent slipped out. Alastor sighed, stretching until the joints in his upper back popped with a satisfying noise. Now that he was alone, an eerie stillness had settled over the penthouse. Behind him, the radio changed tracks to something low and slow.
Alastor reached out to pluck one of the saltines from the plate next to him. He held it up to the light, giving it a half-hearted glare.
“Over-processed junk food. What has my afterlife come to?” He said aloud to the room. But there was a hint of fondness in his voice. Slowly, he brought the cracker to his lips and took a small bite.