[There was an impossible amount of overthinking happening between now and then, and more than once he saw Velvette and Val give each other questioning looks when Vox didn’t answer their questions right away. Or the meeting with Carmilla that resulted in incomplete PowerPoint presentations. Or Zestial asking about blahblaholdpeoplestuff. Not that he needed to answer to any of them; he was in charge now, he was a god. But he did explain that this new role took a lot of work, more than originally planned, so presentations and questions needed to fuck off for the moment.
Really, his mind was just wrapped up in Whatever The Satan Just Happened. Alastor just roaming (mostly) free, a threat of death that they both knew probably wasn’t going to happen now, an order ignore, a date for tonight. A date. Was it a date? Shit, should he bring something?
He was overthinking it. He knew he was overthinking it, and when the hour came (and he cited a headache and piles of work to Val, not tonight, babe), he had a bottle of unopened whiskey on the table a box of cigarettes on the nightstand. Two whiskey tumblers star next to it, waiting for them.
The infamous last meal.
Vox played with the idea of leaving his coat off, maybe sitting with his shirt open or the tie off, or-or-or- But he ultimately decided that the full experience led to a good story, and that included the slowburn of everything. Jacket, tie, it all stayed on. Certainly it had nothing to do with how good it felt when Alastor took it off him.
He did pour himself a drink, though.
And then had another one.
And a third just because.
He wasn’t worried. He wasn’t. He was in control of this situation. This was fine. This was fine, as he sat on the edge of his bed, swirling amber in the bottom of his tumbler.
Alastor would come.
It wouldn’t fall apart again. Maybe they would only fight half of the time. That would be considered a vast improvement.]
[ There was certainly enough to keep him busy. True to form, Alastor had no difficulty avoiding notice. The building was large enough to avoid bumping into anyone without much effort, and there wasn't anyone present who had reason to be looking for the Radio Demon. It made matters simple enough, and it gave him time to organize his own thoughts.
This was all a terrible idea. They weren't meant for this sort of closeness. Alastor wasn't built for something like this. Their efforts had proven that much. But that was only him overthinking things, because Vox had made it quite clear that he wasn't looking for anything serious. He was wishy-washy as one could be, and it seemed that he wanted Alastor to take it seriously without being willing to do so himself. And that was better, because neither of them should be putting themselves in a position such as this to begin with.
But none of that was stopping them, and Alastor was nothing if not punctual. The knock on the door came right on time, and he pushed the door open and stepped in. His own jacket had been taken off and was draped over one arm, giving him the appearance of someone who was returning home at the end of the day. He felt somewhat exposed without it, perhaps a bit too casual and too comfortable for his own liking, but Vox was the only one here to see it. They'd known each other for decades, and it was that which allowed him to behave in this way. ]
I'm here... I didn't keep you waiting long, did I?
[Dammit. He shouldn’t have worn his coat after all.
There was an awkward moment where he didn’t know if he should get up or stay there on the bed, then silently berated himself for overthinking. He wasn’t nervous – why would he be nervous!? Ha! ha. – but there was something more than the normal electricity buzzing under his skin. Finishing the drink in the glass, he set it on the nightstand beside the bottle.
One hand held itself up, the hologram project of a clock interface showing up, accurate to the second. It cast a soft blue glow across his coat sleeve.]
You know you’re on time. It’s part of the business.
[Broadcasts couldn’t be late, after all; inconsistency resulted in lower audience scores.
His fingers curled into a fist, making the hologram disappear. Phones were already turned off. One cable slid out, snaked across the floor and locked the door. No one could interrupt them. Nothing could happen. The only one who could fuck this up were the two people in the room.
So, that meant that there was still an eighty-three percent chance of it being a disaster.
He pointed at the bottle and the cigarettes.]
I think I got your favorites.
[Except he knew for sure he did. Perfect. He remembered those little details as much as he tried to forget them, but they came in handy now.]
Unless you already had dinner.
[There was a small smirk. How could there not be?]
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no subject
Really, his mind was just wrapped up in Whatever The Satan Just Happened. Alastor just roaming (mostly) free, a threat of death that they both knew probably wasn’t going to happen now, an order ignore, a date for tonight. A date. Was it a date? Shit, should he bring something?
He was overthinking it. He knew he was overthinking it, and when the hour came (and he cited a headache and piles of work to Val, not tonight, babe), he had a bottle of unopened whiskey on the table a box of cigarettes on the nightstand. Two whiskey tumblers star next to it, waiting for them.
The infamous last meal.
Vox played with the idea of leaving his coat off, maybe sitting with his shirt open or the tie off, or-or-or- But he ultimately decided that the full experience led to a good story, and that included the slowburn of everything. Jacket, tie, it all stayed on.
Certainly it had nothing to do with how good it felt when Alastor took it off him.He did pour himself a drink, though.
And then had another one.
And a third just because.
He wasn’t worried. He wasn’t. He was in control of this situation. This was fine. This was fine, as he sat on the edge of his bed, swirling amber in the bottom of his tumbler.
Alastor would come.
It wouldn’t fall apart again. Maybe they would only fight half of the time. That would be considered a vast improvement.]
no subject
This was all a terrible idea. They weren't meant for this sort of closeness. Alastor wasn't built for something like this. Their efforts had proven that much. But that was only him overthinking things, because Vox had made it quite clear that he wasn't looking for anything serious. He was wishy-washy as one could be, and it seemed that he wanted Alastor to take it seriously without being willing to do so himself. And that was better, because neither of them should be putting themselves in a position such as this to begin with.
But none of that was stopping them, and Alastor was nothing if not punctual. The knock on the door came right on time, and he pushed the door open and stepped in. His own jacket had been taken off and was draped over one arm, giving him the appearance of someone who was returning home at the end of the day. He felt somewhat exposed without it, perhaps a bit too casual and too comfortable for his own liking, but Vox was the only one here to see it. They'd known each other for decades, and it was that which allowed him to behave in this way. ]
I'm here... I didn't keep you waiting long, did I?
no subject
There was an awkward moment where he didn’t know if he should get up or stay there on the bed, then silently berated himself for overthinking. He wasn’t nervous – why would he be nervous!? Ha! ha. – but there was something more than the normal electricity buzzing under his skin. Finishing the drink in the glass, he set it on the nightstand beside the bottle.
One hand held itself up, the hologram project of a clock interface showing up, accurate to the second. It cast a soft blue glow across his coat sleeve.]
You know you’re on time. It’s part of the business.
[Broadcasts couldn’t be late, after all; inconsistency resulted in lower audience scores.
His fingers curled into a fist, making the hologram disappear. Phones were already turned off. One cable slid out, snaked across the floor and locked the door. No one could interrupt them. Nothing could happen. The only one who could fuck this up were the two people in the room.
So, that meant that there was still an eighty-three percent chance of it being a disaster.
He pointed at the bottle and the cigarettes.]
I think I got your favorites.
[Except he knew for sure he did. Perfect. He remembered those little details as much as he tried to forget them, but they came in handy now.]
Unless you already had dinner.
[There was a small smirk. How could there not be?]