Chapter Text
"Alastor!" Vox turned up his volume and flashed his screen neon pink a few times to ensure he was seen and heard over the chaotic nightclub's strobe lights and music. "What's a noxious man like you doing in a place like this?"
Alastor turned, his brows raising at the sound of his name and flattening down again as he saw who had said it. "I've been wondering the same thing since before I arrived! Compared to the rest of the crowd, it seems I'm a bit..." Alastor watched with his smile curled into a near sneer as a couple of glow stick-wearing dancers stumbled by, one topless and the other bottomless. "...Overdressed." Cue laugh track.
Vox leaned toward Alastor, casually stretching one leg out from his booth and resting his elbows on the table. "Well, if that's how you feel, that's an easy problem to fix." Leering, he dragged his gaze up and down Alastor's thoroughly clothed body.
Alastor endured it with only the twitch of a grimace at one corner of his mouth. "Easy? Oh, no." Alastor waved his microphone cane vaguely toward the club crowd. "Even if I could find a clothier's shop open this late, I'd never fit everyone inside."
"It's like you think it'll kill you again if somebody sees an inch of skin any lower than your chin." Vox gestured at himself; he'd shed his own jacket and bowtie, folded down his collar, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "Look at that! It didn't do any damage to me."
Alastor shrugged mildly without so much as a glance toward Vox. "Only to your fashion."
"Ha! Speak for yourself!" Vox remotely seized control of one of the club's roving strobe lights and focused it on the frayed hem of Alastor's coat. "I wouldn't stoop to polishing my car with a rag that tattered. Why haven't you tossed that old thing out, afraid you won't be able to buy a new one? Maybe no one told you, but the Great Depression's actually been over for a few years."
"You know, the so-called 'music' in this place is so loud I can hardly hear a word you're saying!" Alastor said. "I wish they'd turn it a little louder."
Before Alastor had a chance to walk off and bask in the triumph of that zinger, Vox scooted a little closer to the edge of the seat and said, "I'm glad we crossed paths tonight, I've been meaning to track you down."
Alastor cut in and said, with faux patience, "It shouldn't have been that hard, even for you. I've been on the same stations for the last eighty years."
Derisively, Vox said, "Yes, I know." He quickly went on, "I just got some new equipment, you see"—he ignored how Alastor rolled his eyes—"and I've got a little proposition for you."
"What sort of proposition," Alastor asked, with a tone that suggested that no proposition of Vox's could ever appeal to him. Then Alastor registered Vox's current posture—perched on the corner of his booth seat, one leg under the table and the other stuck out into the aisle so that the bulge in his pants was turned directly toward Alastor—and he said, "Oh, you meant you're propositioning me. No. Not interested. At all. Ever."
"You haven't even let me describe my newest accessory."
Alastor sighed dramatically. "Listen. I know how unreasonably proud you are of... switching out your sausages. But I've had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing the inside of his work briefcase"—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the fluffy pink dancer on the main stage (that probably explained why Alastor was in the club, must have been sent by the princess to baby-sit the hotel's most valuable asset)—"and so I can assure you, there is nothing you could have wired to your groin that is either novel to me or appealing to me. Enjoy your evening." Alastor spun on one foot and trotted off.
"It's a microphone."
Alastor stopped five steps away.
Then he kept walking.
Vox shrugged like it didn't make a bit of difference to him and returned to surveying the crowd.
###
"As in a microphone-microphone? Or just some unfortunately microphone-shaped toy?"
Vox almost missed the question, coming from behind him as it did as he waited at the bar for a friend's drink. But that hiss of low-fidelity distortion would catch Vox's attention even in sleep mode. He turned around, leaned back on an elbow, and said with a smirk, "A microphone-microphone. Fully functional."
Alastor's gaze darted down to Vox's pants and back up so fast that Vox would have missed it if not for the way the the shadows on Alastor's face shifted when his glowing irises moved. Brows arched, Alastor said, "Kind of makes the whole thing difficult to use, don't you think?"
"Well—"
Alastor leaned past Vox to snatch up a drink. "But, if this is your way of informing me you've taken a vow of chastity to dedicate more time to your broadcasting duties, then you have my congratulations! It can only improve your output." He offered Vox a tight-lipped smile before turning away with his drink and vanishing into the crowd.
Vox scowled after him, then turned back toward the bar, thunked his crossed arms down on the bar top, and muttered just above mute, "You just wish you could switch out your dick for a microphone."
###
It was another hour before Alastor came by again, this time to corner Vox on a balcony overlooking the dance floor.
Vox heard the buzz of discontent dead air and turned before Alastor could speak, grinning. "Back again! Curiosity get to you? Or did you finally get enough liquid courage in your system to admit how much you want it?"
Alastor stopped well out of arm's reach, laced his fingers tightly on top of his microphone cane, and snapped, "What kind."
"RCA Corporation," Vox said. "Unidirectional Microphone. Type 77-B1. Not a reproduction—the real thing. Imported at great cost from the living world and painstakingly restored. Original finish, black and chrome."
Maybe Alastor could keep his smile on, but his eyes widened a bit more with each new detail. There was a pop of static and a garbled murmur of excited phantom voices when Vox said "77-B1."
But when Vox had finished, Alastor glanced away and lifted a hand as if casually examining one of his gloves. He said, with strained disinterest, "It's got nothing on the Type 77-A."
"Ha!" Vox leaned forward with a sneer, attempting to loom over Alastor with his massive flat screen face despite the fact that they were the same height. "Don't give me that bullshit, not even you prefer the 77-A. It looks like a grenade stuck in a soup can!"
"And the 77-B1 looks like an oversized capsule pill."
"The only thing the A's got on the B1 is that it's almost as old as you. I know 1940 is younger than you like, but you know damn well the 77-B1 is better in every way. It's sleek. It's sophisticated. It's streamlined. It's just the right size"—Vox pantomimed curling his fingers around an invisible microphone—"to fit into your hand. And you know you want to try it out."
Alastor stared wide-eyed at Vox, wordless static hissing between his clenched fangs. And then he magically banished his microphone cane with the same sort of furtive guilty motion as a married man taking off his ring before approaching a woman at a bar. "All original parts?" he asked warily. "We're not talking the shell of a hollowed-out 77-B1 stuffed with the guts of some podcaster's microphone, are we?"
"I'm fairly certain I heard McCarthy say 'communist' with less venom than you say 'podcaster.'"
"That doesn't mean anything to me."
"I know," Vox said patronizingly. "All original parts, also imported. It would probably be improved with parts from a high-quality 'podcaster's microphone,' but I know your preferences. Admit it—you want the 77-B1. You're almost hungry for it."
Alastor, who'd been unconsciously licking his lips, pulled his tongue back into his mouth. "The 77-A would still be better," he said, but without any real conviction.
"You're a stubborn old man. But fine, I've got one of those monsters back at my place. If you come over, I'll switch it out for you."
Alastor froze, out of witty retorts.
Vox took the opportunity to forge onward. "Hell, I'll let you try them both out if you want."
Naked longing gleamed in Alastor's eyes. All he managed to produce was a metronome sound effect as he turned the opportunity over in his head.
Growing more confident in his pending victory, Vox allowed himself to relax. He smirked lecherously, patted his thigh right next to his groin, and said, "I would have thought eight inches would be enough for anyone—but hey, if you're that desperate to take the eleven-and-a-half inch beast for a ride..." He gave Alastor an indulgent shrug.
Without breaking his smile, Alastor first looked confused, then horrified, then disgusted. "Right. I almost forgot what you're using that poor thing for." He shook his head, turned away from Vox, and headed toward the stairs down.
Vox watched him go, shoulders slumping.
He turned to lean on the balcony railing over the dance floor.
He kicked the railing with all his strength, then muffled a pained curse and grabbed his foot.
###
"So, to recap: he's got one of the most spectacular microphones ever invented," Alastor said.
"And just to clarify," Angel said, "the microphone isn't a euphemism? Because if you're actually talking about a hookup, you can just say that—"
A game show "wrong answer" buzzer sounded. Testily, Alastor said, "For the third time, the microphone is not a euphemism. It's a real microphone!"
"Okay, all right." Angel sat back from their small table, holding one set of hands up defensively.
"And to try it out, all I have to do is... go somewhere more private with him," Alastor said. "And I'm certain he'll be doing his level best to make sure that is a euphemism."
Angel propped his chin up in a hand. "Hm. Weirdo trying to lure you out of a bar by promising candy. If it was anybody but you, I'd say don't risk it. But if he gets handsy, you can take him in a fight easy, right?"
Alastor squinted an eye uncertainly and made a so-so gesture with his hand.
"You fuckin' serious?! Hooboy, that narrows things down to half a dozen suspects—"
"Stay on topic," Alastor snapped.
"Okay," Angel said. "If you're not sure you can escape if you go home with him, then tell him you're only willing to meet up to see this mic in public." Angel snapped a finger. "Problem solved. Maybe he'll go for it, hope he can wring a second date outta you to show off the rest of his collection or somethin'."
Alastor hesitated. "Seeing it in public is... not an option."
"How come?"
Volume descending on each word, Alastor said, "Because the microphone is his..." mumble, mumble.
Angel leaned back in his chair, cackling with laughter.
Alastor grit his teeth and patiently waited for it to die down.
"Y-you—! You said the mic wasn't a euphemism—"
"It's not, it's— He has a literal, actual microphone! It just happens to be on his..." Alastor furiously gestured with both hands toward his crotch.
Angel cracked up again.
"Angel."
"Al," Angel said. "I know you're a virgin but I didn't think you were this fuckin' naive. He doesn't have a mic dick, he's telling the stupidest lie I've ever heard to try to trick you into letting him wave his cock in your face."
"Without completely giving his identity away," Alastor said wearily, "I have good reason to believe he's telling the honest-to-God, unadulterated truth in order to trick me into letting him wave his... thing in my face."
"Huh." Angel leaned his chin in his hand again. "Takes all types, I guess."
"Unfortunately so."
Angel's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, sat up, and said, "Love to play advice columnist longer, but my next dance is in a couple minutes."
Alastor waved him off, dismissing him.
"But I don't trust Mr. Microdick's story as much as you do," Angel said, unzipping the windbreaker he'd pulled on over his costume. As he headed toward the staff door, he yelled back at Alastor, "Go ask him to prove his claim and report back to me after the show, got it?"
Alastor sat at the table a moment longer as he thought that advice over; then twisted around, looking for a flat screen TV through the crowds.
###
"Prove it."
Vox—now seated back at the booth where he'd started—grinned up at Alastor. "I thought you might be back." He casually set his phone down on the table before Alastor could see Vox's text messages whining to Valentino that Alastor was never going to come back.
"No banter, just proof," Alastor said. "I have no concrete evidence you even own an RCA mic, 77-B1 or otherwise."
Vox's smile partially waned, but he shrugged with exaggerated casualness. "Fine," he said. He picked his phone back up and scooted further beneath the shelter of the booth's table.
Alastor tensed. "What are you...?"
"You want proof, don't you?" Vox unzipped his pants.
After hastily snapping a few dick pics and deleting the less impressive ones, he pulled his phone over the table again and held it out. "There. Is that proof enough for y—" Vox looked around. "Alastor?"
Alastor had vanished.
Vox flopped his screen down on the table and sighed.
###
"Well?"
Tersely, Alastor said, "I'm convinced."
Angel laughed in surprise. "You see something new every day."
"So what do I do?" Alastor asked. "Do I... go for it or not?"
Angel shrugged. "Can't answer that for you."
Alastor stared at him. "That is— I'll have you know that getting an answer to that question is the only reason I shared this with you."
"And I appreciate the trust," Angel said. "Really. Truly. But that one's a personal decision. I ain't taking on that kind of responsibility."
Alastor slouched forward in his seat, crossing his arms on the table top.
Angel asked, "How well do you know the guy this mic's attached to?
"Not very well and far more than I would like."
"So you can't even stand this guy?" Angel spread his arms like this solved the whole problem.
Alastor smacked a hand on the table top. "But it's an RCA Type 77-B1!"
"You keep saying those numbers and letters like you think I know enough about mics to be impressed."
"Imagine the most perfect specimen of masculine anatomy that the human race has ever produced," Alastor said. "And coat it in drugs."
Angel considered this metaphor. "How hairy is this 'specimen'?"
"Er," Alastor said. "Whatever degree of hairiness you find most appealing."
Angel nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. "I can't decide for you whether you wanna go home with this guy, but I can give you the question I ask myself whenever I'm contemplatin' hooking up with a grade A hunk of beef sirloin with the personality of overcooked Hamburger Helper."
"I'm all ears."
"The thing you gotta understand is, regrettin' doing something stupid ain't half as bad as regrettin' not doing something amazing. So the question you've gotta ask is, 'How long am I gonna be kicking myself if I don't jump on this opportunity?' Then decide if you're willing to live with the regret that long."
Alastor's glowing eyes brightened in understanding. "A-ha," he said. "Just like murder."
###
Valentino looked up from his phone as Angel knocked and pushed his office door open. Angel said, "Hey Val, I'm clockin' out. Drunk fucker just almost puked on me mid-blow job."
Valentino decided it was close enough to last call. "Sure thing, Angie baby." He set his phone facedown—Vox's woes could wait—pushed his seat out from his desk, and held out a hand.
Angel circled around behind the desk, plopped down on Valentino's knee, and held out a wad of bills.
Just from the thickness of the stack, it was less than Valentino was expecting. "You get more hundreds than usual or was the crowd stingy tonight?" He started rifling through the bills.
"Couldn't squeeze that many johns in between dances," Angel lamented. "Alastor kept bugging me about some fuckin' personal problem."
Sorting the bills by denomination, Valentino said, "Radio Demon Alastor?"
"No, Bulgarian Goat Herder Alastor." Angel rolled his eyes. "What was I gonna do, blow off the guy the princess sent to keep an eye on me?"
Valentino suspected Angel wasn't as irritated about the unscheduled breaks as he acted. "The fuck did he want?"
"Some guy with a microphone where his dick's supposed to be is trying to get it in Al's mouth. Al wanted to know if I thought it was worth it."
"Huh." Valentino glanced at his facedown phone, then continued sorting bills. "What'd you tell him?"
"Don't skip doin' something he's gonna regret not doin'. I think he's gonna go for it."
Which meant Valentino's phone might get a little peace and quiet soon. He split up the money and held out a stack to Angel. "Here."
Angel's face lit up as he accepted more than his usual cut. "Really? What's the occasion?"
Valentino gave him a crooked smirk. "A bonus for keeping my customers happy."
###
"All right," Alastor said.
Vox gave him a wary look. "All right?"
Alastor repeated, "All right."
Vox stared at him a moment longer; when Alastor didn't waver, Vox's face split into a victorious leer. "You certainly kept me waiting long enough," Vox said mock-chidingly, standing and rolling his sleeves back down. "Need to settle your tab before we go? I'd be delighted to cover it—"
"No one charges me," Alastor said.
"Of course they don't."
Clasping his hands formally behind his back, Alastor said, "Let's talk ground rules."
Vox briefly hesitated in the middle of pulling on his suit jacket. "Why, you have something really weird you want to try?"
Alastor gave Vox a tight-lipped smile and a "wrong answer" buzz. "No touching," he said. "I'm not going to grope it, I'm not going to suck it, and I'm certainly not going to bed it. I want to see it. And I want to test out the sound quality. If you're lucky, maybe I'll sing." Under his breath, Alastor muttered, "Depending on how self-conscious I feel trying to croon from between someone's knees."
Vox stared at Alastor, his disbelieving smile frozen on his face as he tried to free up enough RAM to make sense of Alastor's declaration. He echoed, "No touching."
"No touching."
"Not even a quick lick?"
"To a microphone?" Alastor asked in disbelief. "Most certainly not."
Vox's frame rate momentarily stuttered as he blinked. "Well," he said. "Forget about that, then."
Alastor turned to watch as Vox breezed past him. After a moment of uncertainty, Alastor followed him. "Sorry?"
"If what I wanted was for a low fidelity AM broadcaster to shout at my dick, I would've bought a cheap-ass analogue radio and tuned it to some blowhard talk show host," Vox said. "And he would've been half as annoying as you."
"Hold on, now!" Alastor said, speeding up to catch up with Vox. "I'm sure we can come up with something mutually acceptable. You could decide what I say into it?"
Vox scoffed.
"Or pick the songs!"
As Vox pushed his way out the door, he glanced back at Alastor, rolled his eyes, and turned up his volume so he could scoff even more loudly.
Alastor summoned up his cane and hurried out the door after Vox.
