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He found Vox sprawled on the couch, heeled feet propped up on the arms rest while the boxiness of his head rested on a cushion. The hands were tucked over the stomach, the juts of dark blue knuckles and fingers stark against the soft pale turtleneck he was wearing. The other man stared up at the ceiling, seemingly lost in thought, except for --
Alastor popped up besides his head. "Surprise!"
Vox shouted out a curse, and Alastor swiftly caught him before the other man could roll off the couch. "Careful there, my dear. I don't think your head's meant to take another blow!" And indeed, a spiderweb of cracks emanated from Vox's left eye, the smallest splinters joining the deeper crack that cut down to where the edge of the mouth formed. He set Vox carefully back on his cushion.
"Damnit, Alastor, would it kill you to be less of a fucking creep?"
"...yes?"
Vox rolled his eyes, although a faint smile was already tugging at his mouth. That was not a recent development, Alastor had observed: even in the earliest days of their partnership, Vox couldn't seem to stop smiling around him. A spark of blue zapped up his antenna as Alastor crouched down next to him, eye-level with his head.
"I assume you took care of your attacker, then."
"Oh yeah. Fried him right in the gut." Vox made a punch-in-the-air gesture that was oddly childlike for a man physically trapped in his late thirties. "They've got to stop assuming that my face is up for free grabs. I feel like I should tape a sign on my back. Don't kick me; you'll get electrocuted. Like a little pet at a zoo."
"You are oddly sharklike for a man with a TV head." Alastor flicked the tips of the antennae, watching with perhaps a tad bit too much fascination as the stalks wobbled back and forth. Vox slapped at his hand.
"What did I just say about touching?"
"But you're so reactive! Look at you light up!" The thought of Vox in a little tank should have been ridiculous, but the image had its peculiar merits. Alastor shook it off. "I would almost sympathize with those curious about your anatomy."
"Almost?"
"Well, I'd kill them for touching you." In the then, he had noticed Vox go still at his words, the blueness of his screen saturating into a darker purple, and it had made something tight clench in his stomach. He reached out again, gently stroking one of the stalks of the antennae, and the tightness shifted up into his chest as Vox minutely relaxed. The heavy head tipped; Vox's eyes had sagged, almost sleepily, and they had simply stared at each other. At this proximity, Alastor make out the faint outline of his own reflection on the other man's screen. Another spark ran up, dancing across his gloved palm. Any closer, he thought, and the fringe of his hair would brush the top of Vox's casing.
Vox's lips had parted; Alastor spotted the fuzzy shape of a blue tongue resting on sharp teeth. Alastor scraped the underside of a claw against the antenna, the tip circling around the small red orb. Vox stared up at him, pliant, trusting, warm in his soft sweater and the gentle ambience of the room. It was a slow day in Hell; quiet, for once. Amidst the old tomes and older rugs, Vox had blended in seamlessly.
Alastor carefully withdrew.
Disappointment flitted across Vox's face, although his expression brightened as Alastor idly traced the outline of his screen. There was no rush, Alastor had remembered thinking in the slow warmth of the room. There was no rush for anything. They had many years ahead of them.
"Well, I didn't call you here just to laze upon my couch!" Alastor straightened, snapping his fingers. A small object dropped into his palm. "I figured a little pick-me-up would perk your antennae back into its normal shape."
Vox's antennae did perk up, predictable as it was. "Are you going to cook something for me?"
"And watch you try to swallow the entire icebox? No, but perhaps -- " Alastor held out his hand, and the tightness unfurled into a sharp pang of warmth as Vox stared wide-eyed at what rested in his palm. "This may add a bit of brightness to your day."
Vox reached up, slowly, taking the small top hat in his hands. It was of plain burgundy felt, adjusted to the perfect size that it could rest comfortably between the pair of antennae; Vox's claws grazed the seams of Alastor's fingers as he gently lifted the hat. Alastor made himself stand absolutely still.
Vox's face softened, and Alastor couldn't deny the kick of warmth as it crept up the back of his neck. He watched long, careful blue fingers place the hat between the antennae stalks, rotating it slightly. He should look ridiculous, Alastor thought, in his baggy sweater and baggier slacks and the way his blue tongue poked out and how his eyes shimmered with delight as the hat stayed in place, how his screen literally brightened, the soft blue light pooling into the heavier tones of the walls --
"Thanks, Al," Vox said quietly. They stared at each other a moment longer, and Alastor thought the soft contentedness in the other man's face might have been reflected on his own.
.
.
.
It was the softness of the light that ticked him somewhere deep in his brain as he stepped into the lobby, blinking up at the string of orbs. Usually they were rather obnoxiously draped over the chandelier, but today the string looped around the statue of Dazzle, the light glinting from an outstretched claw.
Ah. The anniversary of the little dragon's death. Frankly, Alastor wasn't sure what the 'anniversary' was measured in -- it certainly hadn't been a year -- but he let himself drift up the stairs. It was rare that Charlie let grief sink her down, but the occasional bursts only made it all the sweeter. More pliable to a helpful suggestion. Perhaps the Princess had gotten wiser on the matters of Sinners and Heaven and Hell, but when it came to emotional morsels...Alastor's smile widened, ever so slightly.
Maybe he would ask her to go on a walk. Occasionally she did accompany him, although it was usually a visit to Rosie's or a brief tour of Carmine's factories. Away from the cloying claws of her father and the residents, Charlie was often more -- well. She was never less kind-hearted, but sometimes she voiced little disturbing thoughts bottled up in her brain. I really wanted to kill Adam. I don't know why I feel so guilty. But when he killed Sir Pentious -- I really -- I -- and he imagined her shoulders shaking, trying to exorcise those insidious little thoughts out.
He could take her hand, then. Let her palm rest in his. These are hands that kill, he could murmur, letting her examine his long, slightly clawed fingers. Your hands are not. They look the same, Charlie. My hand is no more monstrous than yours. He wished he had seen her fight against Adam; the sight of her pale fingers stained with red and gold would burn in his brain. He wondered if the rest of the Hotel would turn away, disgusted at her hypocrisy of pacifism. She would be all alone.
Alastor paused in the hallway.
There was an allure, he thought, to the visual of him whispering in Charlie's ear, letting his finger brush aside a strand of gold. The shadow to her light. He imagined sitting on her bed, watching her shake under the covers. The right words would always break the right person. And whose fault, he would say quietly, was your little pet's death? It was an angelic blade that sunk into the creature's chest, but it was someone else that chose him to do battle. Charlie would shrink in further, mired in her own guilt, and there he would reach out his hand. Not even for a deal. He had a small pick-me-up for her, after all --
"Alastor?"
Alastor blinked at the sight of Vaggie in a nightdress, standing outside the bedroom door.
"Vaggie," he greeted her, feeling his mood sour instantly. Recently, the sight of Vaggie only made him more irritated than usual. He wasn't sure why. They had never gotten along, but these days -- Alastor carefully set his hands behind his back, letting his thumb run over the edges of his gift. "What keeps you up at this hour?"
"I'm getting Charlie a glass of water." Vaggie frowned at him, one eye pinching in suspicion. "What the fuck are you doing outside here? Is there another attack? Did Niffty get stuck in the chimney again?"
"Nothing of the sort!" Alastor showed all his teeth. "I imagined that today would be a bit of a difficult day for Charlie, after all, and I only wish to offer her consolations. Just a quick drop by! I wouldn't want to impinge on your time."
Vaggie stared up at him.
"The hell? No."
"No?"
"No, you're not going in there while my girlfriend is goddamn vulnerable and grieving," Vaggie snapped, her hair rustling behind her back. "Alastor, you literally reek of dead bodies and sketchy shit. You want to tell Charlie something, you can save it when she leaves the room." The former Exorcist never moved, but Alastor assessed her position -- feet wide, stance guarded, ready to attack. As if Alastor would demean himself into physical blows. "She doesn't need your claws in her head. Your shitty ass deal was enough."
Alastor let his laugh echo in the corridor. "Do you truly view your own partner as some sort of damsel in distress? Dazzle is a pet. Scarcely sentient."
"Dazzle's been at her side for centuries. And it's not like you would know, either." Vaggie glared at him. "Losing someone you've been with for a long time."
Alastor's smile tightened, the faintest suggestion of antlers elongating from his skull. "I don't believe it's in your capacity to say whether I can visit Charlie or not. If I wanted your opinion, my dear, I would simply ask a -- "
Before he could finish the sentence, a voice spoke through the door, clear and quiet: "Vaggie? Is someone there?"
The gaze Vaggie sent towards him dripped with poison, but her own response was calm. "It's just Alastor, hon."
"...oh. What does he want?"
"He just wants to talk to you."
There was a pause, then, and Charlie's next words pressed a tiny fissure of -- he refused to call it hurt, but it did pinch rather uncomfortably in his insides. "Can you tell him to leave for now? I'm a bit tired."
"Sure, love." Vaggie looked up at Alastor. She didn't gloat. She didn't smirk in victory. She stood there, all five feet of her, her stance never changing. There was no hint of wings or teeth or her usual spear, but Alastor didn't doubt that she would try to rip him to shreds, should he attempt to step past her.
Alastor inclined his head. "I would never impose, darling. Another time."
He dissolved into the shadows, materializing on the slope of the knoll.
Behind him, the light of the Hotel poured over the lawns. Alastor let himself walk for a bit. He would have to stroll alone this time -- not that he minded! There was nothing wrong with a walk to clear your head. He had gotten used to the babble of company, but everyone needed a break now and then. He hummed to himself; it was a vague dancing tune he had grown fond of during the seventies. The seventies were a good time. The eighties was...fine. The nineties was a little less shiny, but it was no worries. He had all of eternity.
There was a small bench on the sidewalk. Alastor let himself sit at the edge, listening to the low murmur of the city.
Harsh blue light pooled at his feet, emanating from an enormous TV screen in a shop. The screen was affixed high enough that its light scattered across the span of the street, like a miniature moving-picture billboard.
His gift for Charlie still rested in his hand. Alastor held it up in the lighting, letting his thumb brush over the serrated edges of a key fob. It was carved into the small shape of a dragon. It had taken him a while to carve it from wood, but he had managed. This close, dark grains were speckled with the deep red tint of the paint.
" -- coming to you from Voxtek! Just think about it!" A grating, loud voice issued from the speakers. On the screen, Vox stared directly at the camera, his smile twisted and dripping with pixellated bars of blood. "Think of someone you hate. Think of someone you loathe. A coworker that won't shut the fuck up. Someone who owes you money. Your ex-partner. Pick one, any one!" Vox's eye spiraled into a flash of hypnotism, and Alastor saw the little top hat shift between his straight and crooked antennae. The hat had changed; it was of black felt, dotted with a speck of white paint. "Set them up with this app -- yup, you got it, set em off on a goose hunt. Crash their stocks. Slash their tires. Do whatever the hell you -- " his voice kept going on and on, weaving together frankly outrageous statements with a liquid grace. There was nothing soft about him. His suit was sharp, the bowtie's color stark against the white of his shirt, the sparks jolting up and down his antennae.
Alastor sat at the bench, feeling the small shape of the dragon rest in his palm, watching Vox pace across the television. His thumb rubbed back and forth over the snout in an unconscious mirror of the other man's actions. The tightness rested in his chest, not quite going away.