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Alastor knows Vox is working up to something with his little speech. He can feel it in the airwaves; in the way Vox’s signal oscillates wildly despite his steady smile. His Picture Box is always so noisy, even when he tries to be quiet. It’s building word by word for the little case that Vox is making towards something Alastor is sure he’s going to dislike.
He’s seen it coming for the last six-months, the growing, writhing expectations from Vox. The way he clings harder, asks for just one more drink or one more dance. The longing little gazes Vox thinks he doesn’t see. This always happens, useless emotions from others spreading like weeds, the closer he allows them to be to his person, like what he gives them is never enough. For once, he wished it could be different. For years, he thought maybe it would be with Vox, that maybe Vox was like him.
Now he can watch that illusion fracture in real time as Vox opens his mouth.
“We could be partners!” Vox finishes a shy smile spread across his glowing screen, his hand outstretched in perfunctory victory.
Alastor swallows down his bitter feelings. Vox should know better. Alastor had taught him better! It was too late now. Alastor’s smile twists up and lets out a manic laugh.
“Us? Be partners!” He cackles louder as Vox’s screen washes in static. It brings him a twisted delight as the tears gather in Vox’s eyes. Good, Vox should feel as small and bitter as he does from this exchange. “How pathetic.”
There, that should do it. Burn those wretched feelings to ash before Alastor can live to regret the inevitable ending they always force him towards. He won’t bow to anyone’s expectations. His life and afterlife had given him more than enough of that.
Alastor’s heart twinges as he sees the look of devastation on Vox’s face. It sickens him this infestation of feelings Vox like an invasive species trying to root inside him. He shoves them down. It’s the right choice. Now all he needs to do is watch Vox burn down everything. Vincent always did have a fragile ego.
Alastor takes a swig of whiskey and signals the bartender for another. After Vox storms out he’ll treat himself to the whole bottle and forget this wretched day happened. The frequency in the air twists and Alastor watches in anticipation for the thunderclap of Vox’s little tantrum to hit.
It doesn’t come.
Vox drops to his knees on the dirty floor of the bar, his hands folded together like a prayer. “Alastor, please.”
The world shrinks.
Alastor blinks in surprise. This wasn’t supposed to be how it goes. It’s pathetic, Vox groveling like a worm. It inexplicably makes his heart speed up. The tears are still in the corner of Vox’s eyes. Alastor wants to bite him, wants to swallow him whole. He takes another swig of whiskey to tamp down the instinct.
“We can change the terms, I… I could give you my soul in exchange for partnership! You’re worried I would use you and throw you away, right? Well, that would fix that! I know we would be great together!”
Alastor’s ears shoot up. Vox was offering himself up on a silver platter. Alastor shouldn’t indulge him. For once in his afterlife, he should let a sucker go. But it’s Vox who is staring, who debased himself for Alastor. The feeling of power and control swells in him. He hasn’t felt like this… not since before Rosie, not since he pinned the first white man who dared to lob those filthy words under him and cut out his heart.
It’s intoxicating.
He should let Vox go; he was prepared to do it moments ago; he would have relished it. How quickly things change. Now Alastor has had a taste and can’t bear the thought. He is a selfish creature afterall.
Alastor smiles and reaches out his hand, “Let’s talk terms, old pal.”