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Vox isn’t one for theatrics the same way Alastor is, but he still knows how to put on an act.
It came naturally around the other Vee’s, especially when they were part of the majority of demons who’re still convinced Vox and Alastor can’t stand each other. It’s a simple arrangement in any other scenario, to act as though he truly does hate the Radio Demon, because it’s not hurting either of them — but it’s different when hell’s premature extermination is being broadcasted live, and he has to watch Alastor fight Adam of all angels and just act as though this is perfectly fine.
Perhaps he’s being a little too obvious that he’s putting on an act, because Valentino and Velvette don’t seem nearly as interested as he’s making himself out to be in comparison. Velvette has been idly scrolling on her phone the entire time, occasionally glancing up when Vox seems particularly enthusiastic about Alastor’s suffering, and Valentino has had eyes on him and only him with a lit cigarette between his fingers since the broadcast began, studying his every move.
Internally, his systems feel as though they’re moments away from a forced shut down so that his levels of stress don’t hit a critical point that damage him, but he’s forcing himself to stay online in case something horrific happens to Alastor and he needs to make some sort of an excuse to leave to drag him away from whatever clusterfuck he’s gotten himself into this time. He knows the other overlord is more than capable of handling himself in any other scenario, but this is Adam they’re talking about, and even a demon as untouchable as Alastor can’t resist the damage of an angelic weapon.
He’s barely connected to his own body when he watches Alastor’s staff snap in half before being struck down by said angelic weapon and his body is flung across the rooftop as if he weighs nothing. It’s wired into his system to celebrate his partner's lowest moments around the Vee’s, but he promptly shuts up when the broadcast suddenly cuts off and he’s snapped violently back into the present moment.
Vox feels dizzy. He has to leave.
He turns back to the Velvette and Valentino, not sitting back down, and instead masking just how terrified he was the same way he always did around them. He puts on the best smug grin he can muster up as he faces them.
“How about I go and get us some drinks to celebrate, huh? Looks like hell is about to belong to us.” He’s surprised his voice doesn’t even start buffering and glitching out, that static doesn’t punctuate his words as he gestures vaguely.
“Sure, but be back soon, okay Voxxy?” Valentino drawls, that sick perverted smirk on his face. Vox wants nothing more than to beat the shit out of him, but he has more important things to worry about right now. Getting his revenge on Val is something for him to worry about later.
“I’m not promising shit,” Vox shrugs as he buries how disgusted he is at the concept celebrating Alastor’s potential demise. Even the thought of it being a possibility at all that he could be… gone, sets his panic off again, and he has to get out of here.
He doesn’t say another word, not even when Velvette and Valentino start shouting to him about his lack of a proper departure, because the moment he’s out of that room he finds the nearest camera and jumps straight in. The princess’ hotel is absolutely destroyed by now if Adam and his execution angel’s immense power is anything to go by, but there has to be something technological nearby, just enough to get him there fast enough to find Alastor.
Somehow, his radio tower that resides next to the hotel is still somewhat intact, and despite the technology it contains being dated, it’s enough for him to glitch over and emerge in a frenzy. The place is looking worse for wear — there’s scattered papers all over, pieces of the wall are missing, and the building is at a slight angle.
Vox isn’t sure he would’ve heard the quiet whimpers and groans of pain if his hearing wasn’t so sensitive due to his antennae, and maybe being tuned into Alastor’s frequency helped a little too. He shoots up immediately, checking under every surface because the voice sounds so familiar that his partner has to be in here somewhere.
“Al? That you?” he calls out, frantically searching anywhere he can get his hands on for any sign of him. He receives no verbal response, but hears another pained whimper, closer than before — there’s not a doubt in his mind now that the source of the noise is Alastor, and checking beneath one final surface reveals none other than the Radio Demon himself. Vox drops to his knees in front of him, trying to get a good look at him to assess the damage.
“Al, hey, hey, it’s me,” he speaks softly, noting the way that Alastor’s ears are pinned to his skull, usually an indicator that he was either injured, sound was too much, or both, to which Vox is going to safely assume it was a mix of both right now. Honestly, he’s never seen the deer look worse. Alastor has always been untouchable to Vox, always just ever so slightly out of reach, and on the rare occasion where he has been injured, he recovers as quickly as any other overlord would. The difference this time is the slash from an angelic weapon caved into his chest, and his staff snapped in two that he’s still clutching close to his body; Vox knows the bare minimum of the deal Alastor has with a higher power that has him on such a tight leash, but what he does know is his staff is an extension of the very power that makes him an overlord, which is why he’s not healing nearly as fast as he should be.
That’s going to be a problem, one that Vox is going to have to deal with at some point. For now, he needs to at least get Alastor out from the space he’s closed himself into, and at the very least back to Vox’s apartment to patch him up temporarily and figure out what to do next — maybe he’d even accept some cuddles from Vark. The creature always seems to know what to do when Vox is injured, stressed, upset, anything of the sort, so maybe he would have a sixth sense for Alastor too given how much time he’s spent around him as of late.
Coaxing him out is going to be difficult, but he extends a hand and tries his best to smile in an attempt to put him at ease. “I need to bring you back to my place. Really not doing you any good by staying in that tiny ass space when you’re so injured, y’know. It’ll only take a sec; into one of your radios and right out the camera in my apartment, yeah?”
Alastor is unresponsive, and Vox can only imitate a sigh the best his mechanical body can produce before he rests his hand atop his, gently pulling him out and straight into the radio. It’s not a particularly enjoyable experience for Alastor, because this is far from something that he’s used to, but it’s the fastest way for Vox to get him home and they’re running short on time.
The second they glitch out of the camera, Alastor immediately doubles over and hacks up blood onto his freshly polished floors. Vox doesn’t even think of the damage to the floor that the bloodstains are going to leave, only that he seriously needs to do something, and that there’s not another second to waste. Despite how touch-averse Alastor is, especially in times of such distress, Vox has no choice but to lean down to hook his arms under his legs and pick him up — Alastor can’t help the shudder that goes through his system at the unwanted touch, and Vox can only mutter apologies over and over as he goes to set him down on the sofa to rest. He lets go the second that he’s able to.
Vox looks around, lost, as if he doesn’t know fully what to do to make himself useful. “Listen… I’m gonna patch you up, yeah? I know your healing is gonna be slower since your staff is broken, but you’ll be fine, gonna make sure you don’t bleed out on my sofa. That fine?”
He looks to Alastor and is met by silence once again. He’s not entirely sure whether it’s because he’s too overwhelmed and in pain to speak or because of another unknown reason, but clearly his confusion is enough for the other demon to manage a vital clarification; he gestures to his mouth and then his lack of staff, and then it hits him.
Oh, shit. Alastor is mute without his staff.
Vox shakes his head quickly, letting Alastor rest again as he takes charge of the talking. “Fuck, I didn’t realise that thing was the whole reason you’re able to speak… Just how fucking tight of a leash does this person have you on?” he mutters to himself, not really thinking about Alastor being able to hear him too, and grimacing at the way he tenses up at the reminder. “Shit, sorry, ignore that. Stay there, I’m gonna get the stuff to patch you up. Be back in a sec.”
He watches him for just a moment more before calling Vark over, watching as the shark flops to him before he directs his attention towards Alastor. He knows he’s just being paranoid, but he feels better leaving Vark with Alastor in the minute that he’s away than leaving him by himself. He’s grateful that he even decided to keep his first aid kit in the first place; not that long ago he’d been close to getting rid of it with how little he needed to use it. The last thing he wanted to be doing was making a mad dash for medical supplies right now, because it would be suspicious. Media lurks around every corner.
He walks back into the room to see Vark with his head in Alastor’s lap, and he can’t help the small smile that spreads across his face at the sight. Alastor is petting the shark idly just to keep his mind off of the levels of pain he’s in and the blood he can feel dripping from his chest, just waiting on Vox to return — his head snaps up in his direction when the click of his heels get closer, before he grimaces at the sudden pain in his neck.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here, Al.” Vox sets the first aid kit down on the table and opens it up, grabbing the things he’s presuming he’ll need before going to sit beside him. He reaches a hand up to his face, making sure he has fair warning that he’s about to be touched this time before Vox brushes a gentle hand over his cheek. “If Niffty didn’t kill Adam, I would’ve done it myself for what he’s fucking done to you.”
He notes the twitch of a smile at the corner of Alastor’s mouth, and Vox can’t help his own grin in response. It’s incredibly uncanny to see Alastor without his usual wide, terrifying smile that Vox is so used to seeing, but the man is in so much pain that he can’t even muster up the ability to put on an act right now. He leans in closer, helping him shrug his coat off of his shoulders before beginning to unbutton his shirt.
Alastor doesn’t look down, and Vox bites back a growl at the sudden wave of possessiveness and primal urge to protect upon seeing how deep the wound in his chest is. It’s not the worst injury Vox has ever seen, god no, he was a terrible man in life and even more terrible in hell, but seeing it carved into Alastor of all demons has his mind running at a million miles an hour. He finds himself in complete autopilot once more as he goes to grab the medical supplies he’d already set out and a few more things that he’s sure he’ll need on top of that, one hand cupping Alastor’s cheek again in a feeble attempt at comfort as he starts to wipe away the blood that crusted around the wound.
It’s worse knowing that Alastor can’t really make any indication verbally to let him know that he’s in pain or that he needs Vox to stop. All he has to go off is his body language and the whines of pain that sometimes slip out involuntarily despite how the other demon would rather be caught dead than being heard like this, but Vox doesn’t mind: Alastor’s seen him at his worst, so this doesn’t phase him in the slightest, even when he can’t help choking back a sob at the pain of when he starts to disinfect the wound.
It’s about to get a hell of a lot worse. Vox grimaces.
He looks back up at the deer, watching his face, how he’s broken out into a cold sweat. And here Vox is, trying to help but only making it worse. It was for his own good and yet he can’t help the heaviness of his heart watching the man in pain like this, partially by Vox’s own hand.
“You need stitches,” he says bluntly, holding up a needle that was already set up to do exactly that. Alastor barely seems phased by what’s happening anymore, ears still not moving from where they’re flat against his head aside from the occasional twitch when something hurts a little too much for him to mask. Vox rests his hand against Alastor’s cheek once more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, even though he has nothing to apologise for. That bastard Adam was the one who needed to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness, but he can’t now, considering that he’s deader than every sinner in hell. Alastor shakes his head ever so slightly before leaning his head into Vox’s hand, giving him the best smile he can muster up, even when it looks like a great effort to do something so small.
Vox smiles back at him, weakly, before he drops his hand and concentrates on getting him stitched and bandaged up as soon as possible. Alastor has absolutely been through worse pain, but it doesn’t mean that it’s any less painful when the needle penetrates his skin, tensing up with the pain that shoots straight up his spine. The TV overlord murmurs apologies the whole time he stitches his skin back together like a fucked up science experiment, but Alastor decides it’s the healthier option to disassociate from the situation completely until the pain finally stops being so sharp and there’s Vox’s hands gently lifting his arms up before wrapping his chest in bandages.
He zones back in when Vox finishes putting away the medical supplies back into the first aid kid and leans in a little closer, and he notes the way his screen’s brightness is dimmer than usual. All out of consideration for Alastor’s wellbeing, of course.
“Done with all that now, you can relax. Well, I mean, relax as much as you can after being struck by a fucking angelic weapon,” he sighs synthetically, raising his arm a little. “Touch fine right now?”
Alastor has to sit and think about it for a moment — the touch to his cheek had been fine, but he’s not so sure about being wrapped up in Vox’s arms, even if the comfort is deeply needed right about now. Everything is still so incredibly overwhelming that he can’t even unpin his ears from their defensive position, both because he was in pain and because at least it was helping to block out a little bit of the sounds that were really driving the final nail in the coffin right now.
Vox notices Alastor’s hesitation. “I’ll put my arm around you and you can like, headbutt me if you hate it, yeah? Just try to not crack my screen with your antlers this time, babe,” Vox jokes, an easy smile on his face. He nods, and Vox does just that, wrapping his arm around his shoulder and Alastor doesn’t immediately hate it, not at all. In fact, he leans into it, the exhaustion in his bones suddenly sinking in all at once and all he wants to do is cave to the inevitable shutdown he’s been holding off for hours; he finally goes boneless in Vox’s embrace as the man gets the hint to wrap him up properly in his arms.
Vark starts to nudge Vox’s side with his head — while it’s not an official on paper thing, Vark is a very trustworthy companion and intelligent when he wants to be, acting as hell’s best equivalent of a service animal. He helps alert Vox to when he’s about to crash, lays by his side for comfort when he’s seizing or on top of him when he’s so overwhelmed all he can do is meltdown. But the fact was that he only alerted for Vox, so being alerted because of Alastor warms his heart a little, knowing that the shark had become just as attached to Alastor as he had to him.
“Shutdown, huh?” He looks down at Vark as Alastor remains unresponsive and hollow. Vark headbutts his arm twice as some sort of agreement, and he pats the shark's head as a job well done. “Thanks, buddy.”
Vox peers down at where Alastor remains still, though he can feel his breath on his neck indicating he’s still awake. Yeah, definitely a shutdown for sure. Vox doesn’t blame him one bit after the horrible few days he’s had, especially when he’d been so gravely injured today, but he can’t help his surprise knowing that Alastor is willingly being so vulnerable as to unmask around him. Sure, it’d be almost impossible to continue to mask at this point, but Vox would like to take it as somewhat of a win.
“Gonna take you to bed, okay Al?” He keeps him up to date on every move he makes even though the man won’t be responding anytime soon, not wanting to make him sink even deeper into the shutdown. He shuffles Alastor into his lap properly, wrapping his arms under his thighs to hoist him up and walk down the hall to Vox’s room, not daring to let go even once with the way the other overlord is hanging off him with his arms loosely around his neck, limp. With a click of his fingers they’re changed into more comfortable clothes to relax in bed and for Alastor to hopefully get some sleep, readjusting his hold on the other overlord when he pulls the covers over them in bed.
“You. Sleep. You need it.” He runs his hand through Alastor’s hair slowly, lightly scratching behind his ears to try and get him to doze off. Vox smiles at the involuntary purr he can hear from him after he starts petting him, taking it as a silent victory when the sound stops and is replaced by the sound of sleeping.
“Love you, even if you’re a reckless dumbass,” he mutters into where his screen rests atop his head, before letting sleep claim him too.
Vox wakes up early to make breakfast for them the next morning. He’s sort of banned from the kitchen after the last time he’d cooked had been so abysmal that Alastor had claimed he could feel his ancestors shudder at the mere sight of whatever concoction he’d created, but he figures it’s pretty hard to fuck up making eggs.
He hears the clicking of hooved feet walking across the kitchen tile before a pair of arms wraps around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. Alastor hums affirmatively, and Vox relaxes back against him at the approval of his cooking.
“Glad I didn’t offend your whole bloodline this time,” Vox remarks, laughing to himself, enjoying the way he can feel Alastor’s chest rumble in silent laughter. “It’s pretty hard to fuck up eggs.”
He moves a little to reach over to grab the plates, Alastor still clinging to him and refusing to let go as he moves about to serve up breakfast. “C’mon, get off me now, clingy bastard,” he teases, grinning so that Alastor knows he doesn’t mind really. He does let go though, going to sit at the small table in Vox’s kitchen, giving him a smile when he sets down the plate in front of him. He’s ravenous, immediately digging in before Vox can even sit down with his own plate, and he just laughs quietly at the sight.
“Shutdown wiped you out, huh?” He laughs quietly as he watches Alastor practically inhale half the plate within a matter of seconds. He glances up, before going back to eating without a response, and Vox tucks into his own food.
He was right. At least it’s pretty impossible to fuck up eggs.
Alastor conjures up a pen and paper when he’s finished eating, taking a moment to write something down before sliding the paper across to Vox, who’s still in the middle of breakfast.
‘I need to visit Lilith.’, the paper reads.
Vox reads it twice before looking back at Alastor, suddenly incredibly confused as he puts his fork down. “Huh? Why do you need to see the Queen of Hell for? Especially when Lucifer is pretty much around the corner.”
Alastor doesn’t make a move to write anything else, and says nothing. His body language suggests he’s uncomfortable. And then it suddenly makes sense.
“That’s who your contract is with?!” Vox can’t believe what he’s hearing, well, seeing, as Alastor lowers his head in shame and nods. “Fucking hell… And that’s the only way you can fix your staff?” He asks. Alastor nods again.
Vox pauses as he mulls over his words, not wanting to say something out of line about the literal Queen of Hell. Not like he really cared when it came to the Princess, but still. “...She’s someone you can just… meet?”
Alastor takes the paper back and starts to write again. ‘It’s within our contract that I am allowed to request her presence in the case of an emergency.’
“Huh… I see. Damn, guess I know less than I thought.” Alastor leans over to pat his shoulder as a comfort at how dejected Vox seems at the knowledge. “You plan on leaving now…?”
“Let me know if shit goes wrong,” he responds to the nod he receives, and covers the hand on his shoulder with his own. “And be careful. You’re still recovering, dumbass.”
Alastor rolls his eyes, because of course he does. At least he’s in somewhat good spirits again, enough to act like himself. He gets up to set his plate in the sink, snapping his fingers with the limited magic he has left to get himself dressed into something more presentable, wincing at when his shirt sat a little too tight against the wound in his chest.
“What’d I just say about being careful?” Vox sighs, waving him off. “Just… come back as soon as you’re done dealing with her, okay?”
Alastor shoots him a practised smile and nods without a word, waving before he uses up his remaining energy to teleport himself to his radio tower.
He’s gonna be the death of me, Vox thinks as he finishes his eggs.
When Alastor arrives back in the entrance to Vox’s apartment, his knees give out and he promptly collapses to the floor with a loud thud.
“Huh? Al, that you?!” Vox shoots up almost immediately, disturbing Vark from his afternoon nap sprawled across his lap. He mutters a quick apology to the shark before beelining for the entrance only to find Alastor sprawled out on the floor, and immediately he panics; he crouches down in front of him, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Al, hey, hey, what’s up? What the fuck did she do to you?!”
Alastor groans before finally rolling onto his side, staring up at Vox blankly. “I can talk again. Hurrah.”
Vox is quick to grin, offering out his hands as a sign he’s about to touch him, and when he receives no complaint he helps him sit up. He does, however, notice the way Alastor looks as though the touch had burned.
“So it went well then…?”
“About as well as a meeting with her can go,” he sighs, manifesting his staff just to help haul himself up. He winces in pain — Vox guesses the wound he’d received must be causing him problems again, but follows him up anyways, hand hovering over his lower back as Alastor uses his staff as a cane for support as they walk to the sofa. Vark comes over and starts sniffing at him, and Vox gently pushes him away to make room for himself to sit down, keeping a little bit of distance between him and Alastor for now considering he’d looked about 5 seconds from a mental breakdown when he’d touched him not even 2 minutes ago.
“Now you can talk again, you can rest.” Vox is firm, making sure it’s abundantly clear he can’t just return to normal until he’s fully healed. There is literally a gaping wound from an angelic weapon carved into his chest, held together by careful stitches that Vox himself had sewn.
“Yes, yes, I know!” Alastor’s voice is raised, and the static is more prominent than before.
“Shit, well my bad for trying to tell you to fucking look after yourself for once!”
Alastor’s ears pin back against his head just like yesterday, and the Vox feels the regret sink in immediately.
“Shit, Alastor, I didn’t mean to yell—“ He reaches a hand out to clasp his shoulder, and the deer emits a sound equivalent to a record scratching horribly.
Oh, fuck. Vox has made a big fucking mistake.
The other overlord can’t stop the way he immediately curls into himself, hands holding his ears firmly against his head to ensure the most sound possible can be blocked out. It’s all too much, everything is too much and he’s just so tired! Shouldn’t Vox know not to do these things? Had his body language not made it abundantly clear?
His thoughts continue to spiral and suddenly he’s heaving, his chest feels like it’s caving in and he can’t fucking breathe and the only thing he can do to make it better is to dig the claws of his fingers into his scalp. The shame of his final straw being a raised voice and being unable to cover it up and wait til he was alone to break down is just making things worse; he’d been brilliant at masking in life, taught to him by his mother. It almost felt like he was betraying his mothers teachings, the effort she’d gone through to protect him… All her teachings are for nothing, clearly, because he—
“Al,” Vox murmurs, facing him with Vark in his lap who somehow manages to look worried. “Hey, hey, stop trying to claw your scalp off. That’s not gonna help, babe.”
He hears, but he doesn’t listen, of course. He whines pathetically and digs his claws further into his head. Vox doesn’t really have much of a choice other than to pry his hands off himself even as Alastor just gets more and more distressed at the touch, holding his hands gently in his own.
“I know, I know. It hurts, I get it. I’m sorry I can’t let go, you know I just don’t want you hurting yourself, okay?” Vox smiles, even though it’s strained. He’s never actually seen Alastor have a meltdown like this before. It’s interesting, in a weird way, to see how differently their traits present in each other.
“Take your time working out your emotions, Al, Vark and I are right here.” He looks down to the shark in question, who slaps a fin against Vox’s thigh enthusiastically. Poor thing just wants to help. Nothing much he can do until Alastor calms down from hysterics, unfortunately, which takes a goddamned while. Alastor will never, ever admit in a thousand years that he’d been crying and shrieking pathetically while Vox held his hands with such care so he wouldn’t harm himself. He feels so incredibly pathetic when he finally gets a grip again, even as his breaths are still shallow, the tears and the spiralling thoughts and overwhelming emotions start to come to a stop.
Vox can read his mind.
“Stop. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s stupid. We’re both autistic, babe, you think I’m gonna judge you over a meltdown?” He laughs it off, though he promptly stops when Alastor tiredly tilts his head to the side, as if confused.
“Wait, wait, nobody ever told you you’re autistic?”
Alastor shakes his head, and opens his mouth to speak, without the radio static and the exaggerated accent. It’s a surprising show of vulnerability, even after the last twenty minutes. “Being different in the 1900s as a mixed race man was a death sentence, Vox.”
“Oh,” Vox nods slowly, realising that now, “yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Alastor slowly retracts his hands from Vox’s, and he lets him go so that he can at least preserve some of his dignity and wipe his tears. Christ, his head is pounding. How pathetic.
“You’ve gotta be tired after that.” Vox leans back into the sofa, hugging Vark to his chest. Alastor hums, closing his eyes and unfurling from the ball he’s curled into a little. His joints feel stiff and his eyes burn, and his tongue feels like cotton wool in his mouth after saying a singular sentence. He doesn’t even have the energy to write down his words, either.
“Bed?” Vox asks plain and simple, sitting up, “might even let Vark in the bedroom tonight. He’s worried about you.”
Alastor huffs through his nose in amusement, and doesn’t complain at the thought of going to bed. His clothes are itching against his skin in a way that’s moments away from sending him right back into a meltdown, and Vox seems to gather that much, snapping his fingers to change them both into comfortable clothes again.
“C’mon, let’s get you to bed, grandpa,” he teases, ushering Vark off his lap and standing up to hold out a hand for Alastor. The deer glares at him before standing up on shaky legs, finally taking the others hand after a moment as he leads him back to his room (or, with how Alastor spends more time at Vox’s apartment than the hotel at this point, their room).
He allows Alastor to climb into bed first before sitting beside where he lays, laughing when Vark jumps onto the bed and makes himself at home right on top of him. Alastor looks at him like he’s pleading for help.
“Oh yeah, he does that,” he shrugs, “he’s trained to do deep pressure therapy after stuff like that happens to me. You can just shove him off if you hate it.”
Alastor would love to say he hated it, but he actually found it rather relaxing to have Vark sprawled on top of him as a comforting weight. He can’t help the way his eyes start to feel heavier by the second.
“Get some sleep, Al,” Vox whispers, running a gentle hand through his hair, being careful to not press into any sore spots after the minor damage he’d done earlier. “You fucking deserve it.”
He supposes he does, he thinks as he drifts off.
Vox was right at breakfast this morning. Alastor will be the death of him, and maybe there’s peace in that, seeing him peaceful for the first time this week.