Archive of Our Own

For the first time in a long, long time it is completely, entirely quiet.

Vox has been relegated to the basement deep in the Tower, far away from any machines. It's for your own good, the others had said. We can't trust you not to pull what you did again. So they locked him away, all low tech and rubber in the walls, a makeshift prison. It's a nice one, of course, old Voxtek offices renovated and prettied up because it's Val and Vel and they would hate to have to step foot inside an ugly, dark hole just to see him. And he's still a Vee, and no Vee would ever be caught dead in anything less than the best.

Vox doesn't blame them. In their place, he would do the same. Maybe. They might be nicer than he is, actually. He probably would have killed them in his place. Or forced them to give him their souls, taking all their power for himself. So he can't be too angry about it, but by god if it isn't boring. All there is to do is the endless fucking paperwork that shows up every morning in one big fat stack, because despite being the center of all of Hell's technology, he's always insisted on keeping paper records as well. It helps when they hire Sinners from earlier decades, because leave it to some guy from, like, the 1800s to figure out how to fuck up a perfectly good computer. His systems were supposedly idiot-proof, and yet stupidity prevails.

And okay, Vox will be honest—something he rarely is—despite all the talk about the future, about upgrading, bigger better newer, he's still just a guy from the fifties. There's nothing like a good ol' stack of paper beneath his claws at the end of the day. So sue him. He can be a hypocrite on occasion.

Sighing, Vox cracks his back and stretches, sitting back in his chair. The room is cool, big and empty and still so, so quiet. Maybe he'll ask for some music next time he sees the others. He's only had his body back for two days now, and it's taking some getting used to; aches and pains where he didn't used to have them before. They're bone deep and happen at random, and he figures it's because he was so close to all that pure, unfiltered angelic power. Like radiation, or something like that.

He drums his claws on the desk, thinking about what to do next. He's sick of papers for now. After begging and wheedling, he'd managed to get the others to bring him some books and strangely enough, some tiny model ships he hadn't asked for but quickly warmed up to. A few of them now stood proudly on the edge of his desk now, stark white sails gleaming in the lights. Maybe he'll start the newest one.

A headache begins to make itself known behind his eyes, the lights suddenly burningly bright and he groans, pressing his hands into his eyelids. It's a phenomenon that seems like it should be impossible but somehow is, TV head and all. It's more like an unpleasant fluctuation of energy, the wires in his head pulsing uncomfortably.

Here's the thing: Vox is so, so tired. The weariness is all-consuming. The crash after the high is always the worst, and this has been the worst yet.

He's so wrapped up in the discomfort behind his eyes that he doesn't notice the change until it's buzzing through his head, making the headache worse and pulling up a well of buried emotions.

Surely he's imagining it? It can't be. Vox's mouth twists down into a frown, torn between hoping it's really Alastor and hoping it's not and to never see the man again.

After all he's only spent what, most of his nights awake since his defeat, laying and staring up at the ceiling in the subpar bed thinking about everything that he had done and everything that had been done to him. Vox could trace it all back, back, back, a fucked up tree with twisted roots at the beginning of his time in Hell. From the day he'd laid eyes on Alastor to the day that he'd stood atop the most powerful machine Hell had ever seen and cried, the world spinning to a stop as he realised that Alastor could–or maybe it was that he would never give him what he wanted.

The longer he sits there, the colder the room feels and he feels a shiver run up his back, the thin fins—more like spines, really—protruding from his upper spine flaring in response. He shivers again; he tends to run on the cool side, his internal systems upgraded to maximum efficiency, but he's also just a man, and a bit shark too, and the fleshier bits are still subject to things like temperature changes. Vox knows what's happening; sure as he knows when a storm is coming on.

Prickles run up his arms, the temperature dips and he lifts his tired, tired head to meet Alastor's gaze.

He looks the same as ever. He's standing in front of Vox's desk, looking down at Vox, expression unreadable. He almost glows with the harshness of the old overhead lights (cheap, industrial, hastily installed) behind him. It makes it so that it's hard to look at him without squinting, his face cast in shadow. Ironic, almost. Vox, looking up at Alastor, stuck in his shadow. Maybe he was always going to end up here, he thinks wryly.

A hiss, a crackle, and then Alastor speaks. "Hello, Vox." It's a surprisingly tame greeting, like he's speaking to an acquaintance or someone on the street. Vox would have expected more derision, or glee, anything. Perhaps Alastor is simply over him now; Vox wouldn't blame him for that, either. He's kind of over himself right now. He sees Alastor look him up and down, taking in the plain white T-shirt and simple black pants he's wearing, the general disheveled, tired air about him.

"Alastor," he replies blandly. A thread of unease rises in him. "What are you doing here?" He straightens up, once again sitting back in his chair. Partly to put a little space between them and partly because his back is starting to ache from leaning forward. Alastor's eyes follow the movement. To his surprise, Vox finds that he doesn't have any feelings about it; having Alastor's full attention. Before, he would have relished in it. Now, he's just tired. After having seen Alastor look at him in almost every different way he finds that there's nothing more he wants from him. The expression he'd had on his face when he'd told Vox that he thought he was broken from the start lives behind his eyes when he tries to sleep at night. He supposes he should just be glad he isn't being tortured on live broadcast.

"Quite a nice place you've got," Alastor replies instead, glancing around the room, his eyes casting over the plain blue-painted walls, the sitting area, the messy desk. The lights overhead buzz, and one flickers intermittently. His expression twitches ever so slightly, lip curling up to show his disdain.

Now this is more like it; the thinly veiled derision. Vox settles a bit, relaxing back into the chair. He knows the game now. Alastor will mock him, and he will react, and then they will fight and Alastor will leave Vox in a bloody broken-glass heap on the floor.

Vox gestures sardonically. "Yup," he says flatly. "Definitely where I wanted to be right now. Did you want something?"

Alastor's eyes drop to the model ship; he picks the one with white sails up, red claws holding it gently to Vox's surprise. Then again, he always did like pretty things, always touted the importance of a well-made item, put an emphasis on elegance and beauty. He watches as Alastor turns it in his hands, inspecting it closely. He had spent hours on it, refining the details, making it perfect. He had to make sure it was all aligned correctly, that everything was accurate down to the smallest thing. Otherwise, it would be wrong— imperfect, and he couldn't have that. Anxiety thrums through him as he remembers who is holding it; that Alastor may just as well smash it, ruin it before him and he glances from his face to the ship and back. It's not the first time he's destroyed Vox's things. And he still hasn't answered the question.

Eventually he sets it down with a soft click of claws on metal, the sound sharp in the silence. Alastor looks like a flash-frame, sharp and bright and a little washed out. It kind of hurts his eyes. He can't quite look away though.

"I suppose," he starts, then stops. Is his voice softer than usual? "It has been so very boring without your inane chatter in my ears, or your annoying little drones following me."

Vox can't help but roll his eyes. "I'd have thought you'd be like, over the moon about that though." He lays back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling instead and squeezing his eyes closed. Fuck, he really does have a headache now. It's probably a side effect of the whole violent beheading thing. Figures.

"Besides," he continues. "I'm in basement timeout until Val and Vel oh-so-graciously decide I've been enough of a good boy." Alastor hums in response, and the conversation falls flat again. Vox is feeling wrong-footed again. By now they're usually in full swing, trading insults as Alastor winds Vox up to the point of blinding rage. God, he was so stupid in hindsight.

There's a faint rustle and then he feels Alastor's presence close beside him. The man has an almost tangible aura, something that radiates off of him in such a way that you can feel it in your bones and a prickle down your spine. It sets off an old, primal instinct that tells you that you are in danger, that there is a predator near. Then the smell hits you; a musk of something earthy and deep. It's familiar, it's Alastor, and he missed it once.

There's a tap on his screen. Vox cracks one eye open to look at Alastor who is now leaning over him, looking down with an expression one might almost call concern.

"Is there something wrong with your frivolous, shiny head?" Alastor asks, moving his head to peer at Vox from different angles, poking his monitor in various places.

Vox sighs. "Oh, you know. Being violently decapitated doesn't really agree with me." He bats the offending hand away, then shoves Alastor's face away as well. The other huffs, flicking an ear at him in reproach.

"So you're just…" Alastor gestures around the room. "Wasting away down here?"

"Pretty much."

Alastor's gaze fixes on him, looking at him like a problem he can't quite solve. Vox does a slow spin in his chair, watching the world melt together with the red of Alastor as the only thing his eyes can really catch.

After a few revolutions, he's gone.

A few days pass, or at least Vox thinks they do. It's hard to tell how much time is passing, being cut off from all communications. He spends most of this time puzzling over Alastor's visit. It had been… good, if confusing, to see him. Something familiar, after everything has changed so much. He doesn't quite know what to do with the hardness in Val and Vel's eyes, his own new weakness, the shift in the world as he knows it. And some small part of his mind is still working over the news that redemption is real, and the rest is trying not to think about, well, everything else. His humiliating defeat, his stupid and clumsy (desperate) grab for power. It's easier to try and figure out why Alastor had visited. How did he even find him, anyway? Why had he been so… mild? Not a single biting remark, not a single threat or any hint of the person he'd been under Vox's captivity, sharp and angry and cruel, even. Not like Vox had been nice either, but Alastor had gone for the throat with his comments, known exactly where to cut and slice.

Stupid of Vox, really, to be such an open wound. Easy to manipulate, easy when it came to Alastor.

He's eating a mediocre dinner of cereal (Voot Floops, of course) hunched over the small two-person table when Alastor makes another appearance, melting into view at the opposite end of the small table. Vox pauses mid chew, blinks up at Alastor and then swallows slowly, dread curling up in his stomach and mouth going dry. This time he'll really do it, he thinks, and the thought brings up a well of fear in him.

He'd just been lucky last time, the novelty of his situation enough to stay Alastor's hand, and now he's going to die. Across the table, he's once again unreadable, his face half in light and half in shadow.

Vox braces for it; he knows Alastor's tactics all too well. He'll likely use the tentacles to restrain him, then those wicked claws to rend him apart. Then he'll take him through the shadows and to that blasted tower to broadcast his screams for all of Hell to enjoy. It would be a slow, slow death. He would want to take Vox apart, piece by bloody metal piece. He'd expressed interest in doing so before. Any moment now, the first blow.

It never comes. Instead, with a deafeningly loud screech of metal against the floor that makes Vox flinch, he pulls out a chair and sits opposite him, folding his hands in front of him like it's just another Tuesday and they're having a casual conversation.

He tries to pull himself together. "You're back," he says. It's such a stupid thing to say, but it's all his terrified mind can think of. "Um. Why?"

Alastor leans forward. "Is this just it, then? You're just going to give up and rot away down here?" He sounds almost angry, which is absurd, because what even is there to be angry about? Vox stares at him, brain slowly trying to catch up and understand. He takes a deep breath, tries to relax; he'd tensed up hard anticipating an attack.

"I don't know, maybe," he replies. "Even if I did, what does it matter to you?" More bitterness slips into the last part than he intends and he kicks himself internally. Way to act neutral.

"Because you- because I-," Alastor snarls, half formed sentences falling harshly from his mouth before falling flat. "It just doesn't make sense!"

"Doesn't anything," Vox mutters, and Alastor slams his hand down on the table with a sudden bang before leaning forward and burying his other hand in his hair. He seems distressed, which is something Vox has never seen on him, much less ever imagined that it was something he would be, or ever show, especially to him.

So this is what it looks like. Once upon a time, he would have revelled in it. Now he's just… mildly concerned. Should he do something?

After an extremely awkward silence Alastor speaks, still facing downward, each word sounding wrenched out from behind his teeth. It makes Vox anxious, this strange new behaviour from him, and he keeps himself from tapping his claws or bouncing his leg. "Vox. I… don't know why. But it seems that I. Well." His voice cuts off. Never has Vox heard him so out of sorts. As a radio presenter Alastor has always, always been well spoken, ready with the next word on his tongue. "I care about you."

Out of all the things in the world he could have said, this was not one of the things he would have guessed. And of course it's phrased like that. Typical Alastor, always allergic to any sort of emotion. "Uh," he says in response, eloquent as ever.

"It's an affliction," Alastor spits, and Vox thinks gee, thanks. "But it's one I find I have not been able to shake, despite my best efforts." He looks up from the table to face Vox, eyes darting around the room, alighting on him for only a few seconds before darting away. "And I… assume that you care for me, too. Or did, at the very least."

Vox opens his mouth to reply. Then closes it, then opens it again. He tries to say something but it gets stuck in his throat along with all the other things he wants to say, his head suddenly spinning. I did! Is this a joke? Not anymore. Are you fucking with me? Am I dreaming? I still fucking do, asshole. Why? Why now? It's not fair to come in now and say these things. I still do. Iwish I didn't anymore. I don't know why I do, after everything. I-

Lies and truth, confusion and bitter anger want to come spilling out in an ugly mix and he holds it all back. Not because he cares. But because there has simply been too much between them, and adding to the pile won't help. Across from him, Alastor watches, looking frazzled. It's almost convincing, the act.

Vox decides to roll with it, see it play out. If this is a new way to fuck with him, well.

"Yeah," he says, swallowing back the lump in his throat, "I did."

Alastor's left ear twitches, a simple break in his composure that helps to convince Vox more of his sincerity. It happens involuntarily, and he only does it when he's truly off balance. "Do you still?"

Vox hesitates, that flood of words returning to the back of his throat. What ends up coming out is the truth, or a version of it. "I could." He watches as Alastor lets out a breath, seeming to relax. He hadn't realised how tense the other had apparently been, and it makes Vox relax in turn, having also tensed up at some point. A knot he hadn't known formed loosened up in his stomach, and he shifts in the chair. He wants to get up, to pace and think noisily, but it's the kind of moment that is still and quiet and slow, so he doesn't.

He tries to keep himself from hoping, painful as it is, but it's a futile effort. The truth is, he's not over Alastor. Seventy years is apparently not enough time, and despite all the bad blood between them. In his defense, he'd fallen fast and very hard, something he hadn't quite known he'd been capable of at the time. It'd been a shock, to say the least.

Apparently Alastor is going to make Vox keep the conversation going. "So. What exactly do you… What is this, Alastor? Why- what do you want?"

"You," he says firmly, voice clear. It's the most decisive he's sounded the entire conversation. The floor drops away from under Vox, or it feels like it. Everything suddenly seems very far away, and there's a rushing in his hearing that drowns everything out. He tries to get himself together. A thousand thoughts and feelings clamour for attention. The one that makes it to the top is anger. How dare he come into Vox's neat little life uninvited and say what he'd always wanted to hear? How dare he?

"You can't just. You can't just come in here and say things like that," Vox says, trying and failing to keep all anger out of his voice. "Fuck."

Alastor's ears pin, and his eyes bore into Vox. "I see." He gets up to leave, and Vox jumps to his feet along with him automatically. Panic and fear burn through him, and he forces himself to focus on the present becuase otherwise he'll be back in that bar, watching the back of that same red coat disappear out of sight.

"Wait, don't go, just," Vox stammers, mind racing, trying to think of the right thing to say. Anything to make him stay. Alastor can't leave, not again. This time he won't let him. "Stop, Al."

He turns. Relief washes over Vox, and he becomes aware of himself again. He's trembling, frozen in place with one hand outstretched after Alastor as if to grab him. Lowering it slowly, he takes a step backwards and braces himself on the table, trying to steady himself. "Listen. Listen, goddamnit, that's not what I meant. Well, it kind of was but it wasn't everything I had to say. It's just that. It's a lot to fucking process, you know?" Alastor nods quickly, a sharp little jerk of a movement. He still looks like he's one step away from fleeing; the image of a deer darting away into the forest enters Vox's head, white tail flashing as it goes. "But Al, what do you even want? We wouldn't be good together. It would end in disaster, you know it would. It already did. What would even be the point?" He sighs. "You hate me. I thought you did, anyway. You certainly made that clear. Is this just a joke? Did the Princess put you up to this?"

Alastor takes a step closer. Vox leans away ever so slightly. He continues to approach anyway until he's standing just before Vox, close enough to touch. And he does, reaching up to rest his hand on his shoulder—Vox twitches at the unexpected touch, but Alastor doesn't pull away, gripping gently but firmly, seemingly just for the contact. His hand is warm. "I... know that I want you. In whatever capacity I can give. I'm not one for… things like romance, or carnal pleasures." He pauses, eyes darting to the side for a split second, and an ear flicks—this is obviously a sore spot. He continues. "And I know I haven't been very good at all to you. We haven't been very good to each other at all. It's Hell, so it was natural. I have always tended toward violence before I ever considered anything kinder. But I- I want to be good to you now."

Vox thinks about this. He looks at Alastor's face; steady, that smile pressed into something small and tight, and then down at the hand on his shoulder, red claws pressed gently against his body, stark against his white shirt. He slowly reaches his own hand up to meet it, pressing it over Alastor's hesitantly. "…Okay," he says softly. "You, uh, you know where I stand. That I-I've always cared. What now?"

Alastor relaxes, shoulders visibly relaxing. "I think. How about this," he says, tangling their hands together and leading Vox over to the couch. They sit side by side, knees touching, still holding hands.

"Why don't we just try it for a little while? Perhaps a couple months, see how it goes? A trial run, if you will. We can even shake on it, make it official. No tricks."

Vox swallows, throat dry. "Yeah, yeah that sounds fair."

"Wonderful," Alastor says, and snaps his fingers. A pen and paper materialise, and he starts writing. Vox tilts his head over Alastor's shoulder, not quite touching but still close enough to hear him breathing and smell him. He'd never been allowed to get this close; in a way this is to see what Alastor will do. Instead, he surprises him by shifting just a bit closer, so that the bottom of Vox's screen rests atop his shoulder. He's writing out the terms. They're simple with no loopholes. Neither of them are slated to gain anything; it's just agreeing to a few rules: Neither party will use information gained during this time against the other, either during or afterward, during which a second agreement can be discussed in the event of hostility. Neither party will attack the other, or associated persons, nor make deals with the intent to harm. And so on.

Alastor signs it at the bottom and passes the pen to Vox, whose claws look massive on it compared to Alastor's own. He looks over it quickly before signing his name in a quick scrawl and the moment he finishes the x, their names burn gold for a split second. The room fills with the presence of deal magic, weak in comparison to soul deals, and lingers in the air. They're bound now, however loosely. Vox can feel the gentle pull on his soul that tethers him to Alastor. It's rather soothing. A tangible reminder of his presence, and his continued presence, only for him. He glances down. Their hands are still entangled, knees still brushing. Alastor is warm. He wonders if he's just as confused and scared as Vox is. Probably. It reassures him to think so. Despite the airs and monstrous appearance, Alastor is a person, once human, same as him.

He shoots him a soft smile, suddenly a bit fond; Alastor smiles back, softer at the edges.

It gives him hope that maybe, just maybe, things will work out.

Vox lets out a long sigh as he lights his cigarette. He's just getting off a long day of work, and had finally managed to peel himself away from the masses and flee up to his room. Despite having assistants and assistants for his assistants, he ends up having to do most of the work anyway. Serves him right for hiring anyone who so much as breathed near Voxtek. But then again, more souls meant more power, and they could afford to hire a few idiots. And on top of it all, he has a bad headache.

He brings the cigarette up to his lips languidly, letting his thoughts go as he slips into a haze, half awake and the nicotine burning through his system slowly. His mind inevitably turns toward Alastor. Where has he been? He hasn't heard from him in a while and doesn't know what to do with it. Tries to stave off the fear that Alastor has gotten his fill of entertainment, or grown tired of him and is done again. He pushes away from that line of thoguht and takes another drag. Closing his eyes and leaning the corner of his head into his other hand, he's hunched over, arm propped up on his knee. Below the balcony, Hell chugs on. Perhaps he's busy with the Princess' shitty hotel, he thinks, amused at the image of Alastor sitting in that therapy circle, singing and clapping.

The cigarette's almost down to the filter when he feels the slow creep of coldness that signals Alastor's arrival. A second later, the man himself is standing next to him. He sits at the other end of the sofa Vox is on, and he slides his gaze toward him.

"Hello, Vox," Alastor says, voice softer than usual and stripped of the filter. Vox replies with a low hum of acknowledgement.

He still can't quite believe that Alastor is here, that he wants him, and is willing to stay. It still doesn't feel quite real, and so every time he sees Alastor he savours the minutes, waits for the moment red claws come flying for his screen and is surprised every time when they aren't. Alastor fumbles around in his coat for something, and withdraws his own cigarette and holds it out for Vox to light. He obliges with a casual flick of his wrist.

The minutes slip by quietly, neither of them willing to break the silence. They're sitting side by side, just close enough to touch. Vox's fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, but he ruthlessly clamps down on it. He's not sure touch would be allowed, and Alastor hates to give things away. After all, isn't that why they went wrong in the first place? Vox asked for too much, and Alastor wasn't willing to give. He knows better, now.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Alastor look toward him, then away. A moment later a song starts up, and Vox blinks in surprise as he recognises it. He turns to meet Alastor's eyes, and that jagged smile softens just a bit. Some unnamed emotion rises up in him—fondness, maybe, and he has to look away as it burns in his chest.

Or maybe it's the smoke. He takes a long and deep drag of it and holds it in his lungs for a second longer than usual and lets it out in a harsh breath, feels it filtering out his gills. The cig had not, in fact, helped his headache, but he does feel more relaxed now. He drops the end into the ashtray (shark shaped, of course), and tries not to fall asleep with Alastor's soft music playing in the background. Alastor's the only one smoking now, and the scent of it wafts gently over him.

He ends up losing the battle, and startles awake a few hours later. Alastor is gone, but something soft slides down as he sits up. Blinking down at it, the blob of colour resolves itself into Alastor's coat. He clings a little closer to it, the smell of Alastor washing over him, and that emotion returning to his chest, that dangerous one that feels a bit like love.

He's not sure how he didn't notice since he's been in his office all day, but somehow Alastor has managed to deliver Vox a letter like the old-timey loser he is. He'd just finished the last email and blinked back to himself, letting the world of numbers and data, emails and endless papers to sign off on fade away before noticing something new on his desk. He reaches over and slides it in front of himself, eyes taking a tired, sluggish moment to focus on it as it resolves itself into the rectangular form of a letter, dark lines on the front suggesting his name.

Despite not quite understanding why Alastor clings to the old things like he does, he does appreciate the simple beauty of a letter, personal in a way a text or an email isn't. The envelope is dark red and his name is written across the front in dark, looping letters. How Alastor manages to make the word 'Vox' look so nice in such few letters is a mystery to him, and one of his many talents that he has grown to appreciate. He flips it over to reveal a simple but tasteful wax seal set in the design of his signature cathedral radio. Carefully prying off the seal, he sets it aside. He opens the bottom drawer of his desk and withdraws a small box, plain and unassuming. It's the first time he's taken it out since they got together, and holding it now feels almost surreal.

In the past, Vox has only taken it out to look at the things inside when he feels horrible about everything, and looking at them often makes him feel worse. Sometimes it made him angry, and he had to go blow off steam by harassing Alastor, or fucking with Val and Vel. But mostly, it just made him sad.

He opens it up, the lid swinging back and falling into place with a soft click. Inside is the photo of them, among other things, the one from that disastrous night— his half, anyway. It's old and worn, and he's pulled it out and looked at it far too many times to count.

Vox knows he shouldn't take it out; there's no point in opening old wounds, and all it'll do is make him upset. He finds himself reaching in anyway, the same way he's done a thousand times and gently grabbing it between two slightly shaking claws.

It's Alastor, the same as he is now, but he had looked so much lighter, then. The way he had looked at Vox; with sheer fondness. He hadn't known how good he'd had it back then.

That's the part that stings the most. Whenever he pulled out that picture, it's the thing that gets him every time, like a knife to the heart. Twist and pull, inch by inch. Because there had been so much love and care then, and he hated to see how it had all gone to rot like it had.

Pushing the thoughts and the picture aside, Vox gives himself a sharp shake and takes a deep breath, letting it filter slowly out through his gills before quickly grabbing the seal and setting it inside. Stop chasing ghosts. You're better than this, Vox, getting all emotional over something so stupid. He sets the box off to the side, now vaguely disgusted with its presence.

Returning his attention to the letter he wastes no time in pulling it out and unfolding it, having wasted too much time being mushy over things he can't even change. The paper is thick and smooth under his claws, and Alastor's looping scrawl is dark against it.

Dear Vox,

Change of plans for tomorrow. Come see me at my place, the one at the edge of town.

And wear something nice, not that horrible, tacky suit of yours. [Vox makes a face at this; he's one to talk, with that tattered coat of his. Not to mention the ever-present smell of death that hangs about him.]

I am ever surprised that your collegues have not burned it yet. [Ha! Joke's on you, Al. They've already tried.]

How is it that you've made such fashion-forward acquaintances and still have the nerve to dress like that?

Be there at five, and be on time. [He was late once. And it wasn't for lack of trying; that had been a truly horrible day and even now it pains him to think of it.]

Yours,

Alastor.

He sits back in his chair, still holding the letter and feeling quite like a schoolgirl who's just gotten a note from her crush. Of course he's more dignified about it than a schoolgirl would be, but he knows there's a dopey look on his face. Alastor took the time to write him a letter. And despite half of it being making fun of his wardrobe choices, the fact remains. He reads it again, and then folds it back up carefully, preserving the crisp creases and slipping it back into the envelope. Rearranging the contents of his box to set it at the bottom, he lays the scrap of photo on top, the Alastor of the past smiling up at him before he closes the lid and sets it back into the drawer.

—

The next night he shows up outside Alastor's door at five pm sharp, wearing a simple blue and grey suit and holding a bouquet of red flowers. Giving the door a couple knocks he steps back to wait, looking around idly. The building is situated in between several others, a narrow alleyway seperating them. The exterior is plain and unassuming, cracked brick and dark windows that reflect the skyline. It's been a long time since he was down in this part of the city and it hasn't changed much. Something explodes in the distance, and the sound of gunshots start up a moment after, but otherwise the street is dead silent. A lone car turns onto the street behind him, headlights painting everything bright white for a split second. He taps his foot impatiently, puts the flowers in his other hand. The night is cool, and he can feel it through his clothes. His neck is more achy than usual, and he rubs at the spot in the hopes it will soothe.

Where even is Alastor, anyway? What a fucking hypocrite, getting on Vox for being late once and now he's been standing out on the porch for the last five minutes. Of course, right as he thinks this, the door opens, warm light spilling out. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust and he's barely got time to react before Alastor grabs him by the shirt— rather roughly, he might add, nearly making him drop the flowers— and drags him through the door.

"Hey, grabby much?" Vox grouches, batting Alastor off and straightening out his suit. "What's the rush, anyway? Also, I was on time. You were late. 'Be on time!' he says."

Alastor scoffs at him. He's dressed up too, having changed out his shirt for a pale cream one, a deep maroon pinstriped waistcoat and a simple black jacket overtop it all. He's even wearing a proper tie. "Shall I give you a medal?" He motions toward the kitchen at the other end of the hallway and Vox follows just behind him. The interior is much the same as the last time he saw it and he glimpses snatches of each room as they go. Does he still have the things I gave him? Doubtful. He probably burned them as soon as he could. No room for sentimentality in Hell or something. And Vox was always the more materialistic of the two, anyway.

"Just saying, next time I'm late I better not hear anything from you. And besides, it wasn't even my fault last time! There was a sudden shitshow I had to manage."

"Don't you have an assistant? That slimy little eel fellow, right?" Alastor responds, pushing the door open and letting Vox through. Inside, he's greeted with the sight of food ready to be cooked and a table all set for two. Now that they're in the room he can smell it; he's done his best to give himself a sense of smell but it's not as strong as it used to be. There's fish for him and some kind of meat—definitely Sinner— waiting on plates next to the stove. Next to it there's some kind of salad.

"Oh. Yeah, I do but he's useless," Vox says, still taking in the whole scene before him. "So this is what all the cloak and dagger was for. You could have just said, you know. It's not like it's the first time you've cooked dinner for us." Alastor motions him toward the table and he hesitates, looking toward the stove. "Do you want me to help?" Despite the allegations, Vox can cook! He just prefers to eat whatever's fastest so he can go back to work sooner. That's all. He's practical, not stupid, thank you very much.

"No. And where's the fun in that?" Alastor says, hanging his coat on the back of the chair opposite Vox and moving toward the kitchen. "It's far more entertaining to watch you go into things blind." HIs eyes flick back to Vox, catching on the flowers. Something unreadable flits across his face before he says, "And put the flowers in the vase on the table."

Vox huffs out a wry laugh as he takes his own coat off and rolls the sleeves of his shirt up, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "So what's on the menu?"

With a flick of his wrist, Alastor starts up some random jazzy tune to play quietly in the background as he gets to work. "Fish for you, all the way from Envy. It's supposed to be quite good, or so the person told me. Some unfortunate soul for me; not from Envy, just a run-of-the-mill lowlife, but they should cook up nicely anyway. A salad on the side as well."

"Sounds good." He gets an ear flick in acknowledgement and then it's quiet for a bit, the sound of frying food and light jazz filling the room. Vox idly watches Alastor move about the kitchen, letting his thoughts wander again and rubbing at his neck, still trying to quell that persistant ache. He could close his eyes and it would spin all the way back through countless dinners eaten sitting in that very chair. Sometimes Niffty and Husk joined them, sometimes it was Rosie. Alastor would cook in the kitchen, same as he is now, and there would be music playing. It's the same, but just a bit different too. He feels out of place in the kitchen now, all bright blue and shining glass, no longer warm-coloured and softer around the edges as he once was.

He's jolted back to awareness (when did he close his eyes?) when he hears something being set in front of him with a soft thud. He breathes in deep, the smell of real, homecooked food washing over him. Alastor is not a bad cook; he's not the most amazing either, but he's always done a pretty damn decent job. Vox sits up and pulls his chair in closer to the table, watching Alastor as he fetches his own plate and a bottle of wine and sits across from him. He pours for them both and then sits down with a scrape of the chair. Vox tucks into his fish; it's cooked well, tender and melting in his mouth. Vaguely salmon-esque in flavour. Across from him, Alastor lets out a pleased hum as he bites into his own dinner, daintily dabbing a smear of blood away from his lips after.

"This is great, Al. Thanks for doing this." He flashes the other a quick but genuine grin. Part of him still can't believe he's back here, after everything that's happened. He takes another bite, letting the flavour wash over his tongue. Man, he'd missed this.

Alastor dips his head ever so slightly. "It was my pleasure." And it seems genuine. The smile softens just a bit at the edges, and Vox's heart does flips.

He turns his attention back to his food, preparing another bite. "I missed this," he admits, bringing his fork to his mouth. Swallowing, he adds, "I wish-" before his voice cuts out. Alastor seems to understand, because he looks at him with something complicated in his eyes.

"I know," he says softly. "I know." They spend a moment just gazing at each other, something heavy in the air before Vox coughs and changes the subject to lighter topics. They finish the dinner far too quickly, or at least it feels that way. One moment he's laughing at something Alastor is saying and the next his plate is empty and Alastor is standing with his. He pulls himself to his feet and follows the other to the sink, where he rinses it and passes it over to be placed in the washer.

Vox doesn't want the night to end, to have to leave, and a brief fear seizes him that Alastor is going to show him the door next. Instead he is passed a glass of alcohol and they move to the sitting room to chat.

A few glasses in and an hour later Alastor's tie has been loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up. He is sitting sideways in his chair, legs dangling over the other arm. Vox himself is not doing much better.

He's zoned out, thinking tipsy, meandering thoughts that he forgets as soon as he thinks them when Alastor suddenly hops to his feet, startling Vox back into himself. A moment later a fun and jazzy tune that he recognises from long ago starts playing. Damn, he really is hitting all the stops on memory lane. He grins and shakily stands up, the room tilting for a brief moment before he recalibrates. Alastor offers him his hand and he takes it, taking a moment to marvel at the way his hand completely engulfs Alastor's.

He starts them up in the familiar steps they both know very well and Vox laughs as Alastor takes him through a complicated set of movements, ones that he could do no problem sober but certainly not well on his way to smashed, and he executes them to the best of his mostly drunken ability.

This here, being hand in hand,close enough to see the details of Alastor's face, the crinkle of his eyes and the way his smile looks when he's relaxed, surrounded by the smell of his familiar scent, is where Vox wants to be forever.

They do a couple more songs before Vox calls uncle and takes a break. He flops back down into his chair and to his surprise Alastor follows him, pushing him over to make room. It's not at all comfortable. The chair is definitely not designed for two people—much less one as big as Vox—and Alastor is really fucking bony. It feels like every single pointy bit of him is somehow digging into Vox's side.

"Don' make a big deal out of it," he mutters lowly, giving him a look that should be threatening but is wildly undercut by how disheveled he looks. Vox huffs out a laugh and accepts his fate, resting his head against the back of the chair. His heart is pounding and the rush is still running through him. God, he'd forgotten how intense dancing with Alastor could be.

Alastor sighs softly, leaning his head against Vox's shoulder. The point of one antler brushes the bottom of Vox's screen, and his hair tickles the side of his neck. He drops into sleep eventually, breaths evening out and Vox can feel the movement of it against his side. Sleep is also pressing at him but he stubbornly stays awake, wanting to savour the moment for as long as possible. He needs to memorise the feel of it all—the way he tucks himself closer in his sleep, chasing warmth, the way it feels to have him warm and breathing against him, despite all of the bony bits poking into him.

Alastor, Vox thinks fondly and shifts to get comfortable. He's a bit surprised to realise that he's happy. Well and truly happy, something he could have never imagined himself being in Hell, of all places. Who would have thought? For once he's not tired, but he falls asleep anyway, warm and relaxed with Alastor next to him.