Work Text:
A sudden knock at the door startles Alastor at his kitchen table.
After a moment to collect his wits, he sighs. The flighty display his hell-found ears are making embarrasses him, even though there’s nobody around to see it. Two clawed hands comb his frazzled hair back in place until he can breathe smoothly again.
His habitual hypervigilance comes with a price: even tucked into his home for the night, he never relaxes his guard.
“Come i~i~iin,” Alastor calls, voice unaffected. There’s only one sinner in hell who might still dare to approach his den at this hour, and he’s got his own house key. There’s no need to go to any trouble for the rascal.
True to form, his square-shaped problem busts in the door like he owns the place. Alastor very politely avoids wincing at the impact.
“You will not BELIEVE the gar-baj-i-o I had to handle today. I was just getting everything ready for the big mag shoot when some nosebleed blew in from stupidsville, bashing ears about challenging me, ME, for my studio! You think you make it clear that the ship’s too big, but some folks are just achin’ for a breakin’, feel? Like. I have other shit to do today than babysit every candy ass with a peashooter and a dream. Fuck, but it’s annoying.” A heavy canvas bag slings onto the countertop, fluttering a few stray papers from Alastor’s latest script around. One slips to the floor.
Heedless of the disarray he’s just introduced into Alastor’s regimented living space, he trots to the icebox for a soda. Alastor hasn’t got a taste for the stuff, but Vox slugs them down like water, and since one of them does prefer to be a gracious host, there’s always a six-pack around the house. Alastor tells himself that it’s cheaper than darjeeling.
“Hello to you too, Vox. Don’t neglect to make yourself at home on my account.”
“Oh, um. Hey, bean.” He waves, as though they aren’t in the same room, maybe a foot apart at most. Against his better judgment, Alastor can’t keep the top curl of his smirk from rising in fondness. Hastily, he turns back to his manuscript, scratching away at the pages that didn’t get knocked onto the floor.
Vox sips his drink.
“So. Whatever became of him?” Alastor asks, still staring at his page.
“Hmm?”
“Or her. Or your problem creator.”
The design on Vox’s screen clicks its tongue. Alastor’s not sure he’ll ever understand the physics of it. “Glad you asked.”
He zips open the canvas bag to reveal several clear, clingfilm-plastic ones.
“For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Alastor laughs. The body parts are a bit soggy from the trip, but any meal a cannibal doesn’t have to prepare himself is a rare treat. Better snacks make more time to write for his shows.
“Oh? Shouldn’t I?” Vox withdraws his victim's spleen from a container and sets it on a napkin.
They share twin looks of mirth for a moment before something strange happens. No words pass between them, but Alastor has the strangest idea in his head that Vox thinks he should eat.
He blinks a few times to dispell the feeling.
“Are you hungry?” the picture box asks.
Deja vu, much? Truth be told, Alastor did skip lunch today, but he’s never tolerated being doted on at the best of times. He'd rather not give Vox the wrong idea that all this pleasant food means anything.
“Later,” Alastor says, and that’s that.
Until. Vox uses a claw to carve a fishy shape into the side of the meat. “C’mon, I know you won't ‘tuna down’ dinner!”
It’s not until the spleen chunk is halfway into his mouth that Alastor realizes what he just did. The two overlords briefly stare at each other. The organ makes a squelching noise as he chews.
“How utterly fascinating,” he screeches. Leftover gore dribbles down his lips in rabid froth.
Vox steps back one, two steps into the counter, startled by his companion’s interest. Alastor never just acquiesces on the first request; by now he’s gathered a whole army of tactics to elicit his intended reactions, half of which don’t even come close to working on the Radio demon, and really just serve the purpose of making Vox feel like he at least tried to help a fellow workaholic out of a stupor.
“Um. Are… are you alright?”
“Say that joke again.” It isn’t a request.
“I don’t… um. I can’t let you tuna down dinner?”
Alastor’s antlers fizzle and grow, crackling towards the ceiling in the way that normally spells death to all living beings in melee range.
Vox just rolls his eyes. “Man, I don’t know what you want. How about you back the fuck down and use your words, huh?”
Just like that, Alastor’s antlers freeze. His green, dialed in expression blinks once, twice, and. What? Since when did Alastor’s evil-eyes change colors? He’s not moving, either. Worried, Vox waves a hand in front of his friend's face, mindful of the flared teeth. After a concerningly long pause, Alastor seems to snap out of it.
"I... don't... want to talk," Alastor explains. Then he does that blinking rapidly thing again. Is this a new Alastor-ism?
"You're flipping my lid, chief," Vox sighs. "Look. Whatever. I'm glad you aren't starving yourself, but was the tantrum necessary?"
"...you don't actually... Vox." That's Al's 'this is important' voice. He recognizes it from his friend's late night broadcasts, the ones sinners don't think twice to mention in daylight conversation but check behind them before discussing at night.
"I don't what?"
"I think you're packing a little something extra today, courtesy of," Alastor lifts up the half eaten organ, "this houseboat."
Wow. Phrasing. Vox's screen flashes bright blue... before a bulb bursts in his cathode ray tube. It's no loss in comparison to the chasm opening across his chest, across which Vox finds himself halting the construction of a bridge of hope. "Alastor. You're not being yourself tonight."
"That was my point exactly," Alastor explains, heedless of his own implications. "Twice now tonight we've acted in total accord. Does that seem typical to you?"
"...Come to think of it. No. Are you sure you aren't just being cooperative for a change? Like as a bit?"
Alastor doesn't move. By contrast, Vox's entire face is twitching.
"Yeah, okay. Point taken." He taps his head for a moment, brainstorming. "You have been, um. Blinking a bunch of times. Is something in your eye?"
Alastor shrugs, trots over to his front door mirror (all the better to check his fashion with). His ruby reds seem just as jaundiced and dull as they were yesterday. Vox follows to peek over his shoulder, which at this point Alastor is so used to that he doesn't even register the motion of someone at his unprotected back as a threat.
"I don't see anything. Ugh! I wish this made more sense!"
Like lightning, that inexplicable feeling of a cracked egg along his neck is back again. Alastor blinks like crazy to rid himself of the headache inducing sensation when he notices it, and then it finally clicks.
"Perhaps it's not my eye we should be studying," Alastor notes. Red and black rings pulse through Vox's left eye like some kind of infection.
"Oh." No sooner do they notice it than the rings fade away entirely, restoring Vox to normal enough (for a sinner).
"Can you do it again?" Alastor asks.
"I'll try."
They stare at the mirror, shoulder to shoulder, as Vox squints.
"This is very productive," Alastor assists.
"Hey! You try making your eyeball do weird eyeball stuff!" This phrase seems to be the magic word, because again, Alastor feels bombarded by the phantom sensation of drum batons on his head. Alastor stares deeply and fully into the mirror, as though he too can summon strange shapes into his eyelids. Alas, all he can summon are his radio dials.
"...I know what this is," Vox gasps, pulling away and covering his eyes. "Aww yeah! New power! Woo-hoo!"
A few blinks more and Alastor's back to himself. Ideas crowd his mind like lemmings on a cliff, just waiting for a television producer to psuh them off and frame it like a natural part of the narrative. There's a lot of deviltry Alastor can accomplish with access to a hypnotic tube in his pocket- that is, if it works.
"It's perfect."
"You know, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
Too real, dial it back. "This is exactly what you need to win that Golden Globe you wanted," Alastor laughs. "The judges won't be able to say no!"
"Ah ha. Ah ha. Real funny. Seriously though, glad we figured this thing out. Jeez. That could have gone moldy quick. But I bet it'll be a cinch in a fight! Um. If I figure out how it works." Now he's back to squinting in the mirror again. It's almost... amusing.
“If you’re that worried, why not try it out on me?”
Vox forgets the mirror and turns to Alastor. His hackles are up, like he's expecting an attack. “What. Whoa, whoa. What???”
“You heard me,” he says with lidded eyes. "Hit me baby, one more time."
He's serious. Wow. Vox hugs his arms to his chest, thinking about it. If he really does have a new mind-bending power, that could change the game. Practice with his closest ally in secret may just save their lives someday. And Alastor actually wants him to, like, hypnotize him? That... That sure is something. Why would the Radio Demon want that? Does Vox even want that? A disturbing swoop in his gut gives him a very vivid suggestion of exactly how much he does want that, at least until he shakes the thought aside for clearer ones. What wouldn't anyone down here give to have the Radio Demon, the most powerful overlord, at their beck and call? What wouldn't Vox give?
Well. Their friendship, for one thing. He can't imagine what life in the media district would be like without them side by side. "What if, um. This thing accidentally hurts you? Is that. Okay?”
“I feel fine now. And It’ll take quite a sight more than a pretty lightshow to hurt me," he goads. "Besides, aren't you always begging me to watch TV?"
"...I. Um. Wow. Okay. What do. Uh. What do you want me to make you do?"
Alastor taps his face for a moment. "Hmm. It's your ability, I don't see why you can't choose. Consider it an incentive," Alastor grins. "Because if you don't manage to keep me under, I'll return the favor threefold. Whatever you tried to do to me, I do to you."
They stare at each other, sizing up the competition.
"Okay then, snake. Let's rattle."
"Ah, one other thing."
"You and your conditions," Vox sighs, flexing and gripping air with his claws. "Yeah?"
"Keep your hands to yourself, if you don't mind my saying so."
"Th-that goes without saying," Vox nods frantically. Well, it didn't, but. He's not interested in forcing his first time with Alastor. He still hasn't figured out which side of the fence Al sits on to approach the topic, anyway.
"Alright. Okay. Going to start now. Just, don't go anywhere, 'kay?"
Vox squints again. Alastor puts a toe out of line, as a demonstration of how strongly he feels affected right now. What was it that triggered the first few episodes again? He'll probably be on the right track if Alastor starts blinking.
Vox gets distracted by the soft tap of hoofclaws on hardwood flooring.
"Are you fucking dancing? Stay still," Vox snarls.
It takes a few seconds, but the pitter patter of hoofbeats slows, stops. Vox watches Alastor's face for any sign of a joke, but to his astonishment, the red rings are back in his eyesockets. Their swirls remind Vox of a transmitter. Are those what his waves look like, or are they Alastor's?
"Can you hear me?" he checks.
Alastor continues to stare. His back leg wobbles a bit, but there's no other change to him. Vox thinks he could get used to this. Alastor's smile got stuck in a genuine grin, and Vox is both flattered that he's able to tell and a bit enticed by the role reversal of it all. Alastor's never had hypnotic powers (unless you count lulling listeners into a horrified stupor). Perhaps this tool will give him something to stand on equal footing with Alastor, as he grows in intensity.
He genuinely would like nothing more. And for now... heh.
"Touch your nose," he says. Alastor continues to stand there, like a wind up toy without its keyspring. Vox frowns, squints, tries again. Alastor's still as a statue.
"Hmm. Maybe you're fighting back. Or... Hmm. I need you to move and touch your nose. Use only your right arm," he tosses in.
Still nothing. The happy face is a nice look on Alastor as he plays patsy. But... what would it look like reversed?
"Frown," he orders. Alastor stubbornly keeps smiling, like a Barbie Doll someone left out in the sun to melt.
Why won’t he move?
Vox does have a guess. He thinks that the stay still command was so strong that it is overriding all the other ones. If he had something sufficiently meaningful to disrupt that command, maybe then he could see how the power works.
"Stop smiling."
Nothing.
"Jig for me."
"Skip in place?"
"Make a joke!"
"Tell me where your powers come from."
"Confess!"
"Chew your tongue."
"Tell me what you REALLY think of me."
"Close your mouth."
"Do something," he squawks. If this keeps up maybe he really will have broken Alastor. Hell, is Alastor even conscious in there?
Alastor's feet slowly, delicately start to shift along the tiled floor. After a measure, Vox identifies the first steps to a massively slowed down Lindy Hop. Yup, that's something the real Alastor would definitely rub into his face.
"I... I really did a number on you, huh. Can you feel the effects coming off? As soon as you can tell me, let me know if you're still affected and roughly by how much out of 100 as a percentage?"
Nothing.
It's almost like Alastor's sleepwalking, really- oh. That's good.
"Well. Since you can't tell me no... and you're going to return the favor... Go get on your PJs and get ready for bed, then come back here to look in my eyes." With stilted, halting steps, Alastor hops to it, but Vox waits patiently in the foreroom.
It takes a minute, but he emerges from his side bedroom in red spider-silk thread pajamas. There's little kittens hand-embroidered on the edges.
"Oh, oh my god." Vox snaps a polaroid quickly, too quickly for any interference on Alastor's behalf. "Do you know how cute you look? Are you KIDDING me? Don't answer that."
Alastor manages to snarl a reply. It isn't in words, per se, but its meaning is crystal clear, and so Vox redirects his attention to subduing him.
"Hush. Don't struggle," Vox tries. Provocation attempt 1 failes due to a lack of evidence.
"Hey, you signed up for this," he notes, waggling a finger. Attempt 2 only results in Vox's hand being bitten.
"I did say to tell me when it was coming off, but I also specifically requested a percentage out of 100, and I believe I am owed a number."
Alastor thrashes and bucks a bit more, ever the pragmatist. Vox has always liked that fighting spirit about him.
Maybe that's why he's brushing his teeth next to Alastor. That's why he's tucking Alastor under the covers. That's why he's making sure they each have a full glass of water and a partitioned section of the bed, all hands free. Alastor may not be fully aware of this red carpet treatment depending on how this power shapes up, but having everything he could want attended to is Vox's version of heaven, so hopefully Alastor will wake up with pleasant dreams.
Now for the piece de resistance. Alastor's still a bit too loud for his bedtime, but Vox thinks he has the hang of this now.
With feeling, he gives one more short "no. Relax."
Alastor's snarling, scratching, and otherwise misbehaving twangs to a halt. His entire body melts into the covers like butter. It's funny how he drifts straight to the edge of sleep, eyes fluttering with exhaustion. His mouth is delicate and small, not his big toothy grin. Vox could almost consider it a good night kiss blown to his face, if Alastor were ever inclined for such things.
"See you in the morning," he laughs.
It's the most humiliating thing he'd love his rival to do to him threefold.