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Alastor knew that, technically, Vox was a smart man. A competent man, even. Establishing and maintaining a business in Hell was a tall order usually only Overlords could afford in the perpetually unstable political and economical landscape, running on the right of the might. The fact he was able to build it from the grounds up, before growing into a powerhouse in his own right, was an impressive feat, a testimony to his cunning and resourcefulness. Those were the objective facts — facts ever so easy to forget, with how much Vox resembled a puppy whenever Alastor appeared in his vicinity.
And even more so, when he was consistently ignoring such crucial details like possessing a body that also needed maintenance.
It's been a while since Alastor cooked for Vox — for the first time and, as he sometimes considered in shame, maybe the last time. He went to great lengths to ensure Vox wouldn't end up thinking that the reason for it were his less than stellar table manners. Well, in reality they were... But not by the virtue of provoking offense. As much as Alastor would like to pretend otherwise, the truth was the exact opposite. And the only offense he felt, was toward his own repulsive thoughts and impulses. Said impulses were also what guided his efforts to reassure Vox and prevent any discomfort and self-consciousness to the best of his ability. He was quite certain he should avoid watching Vox eat (and especially feeding him himself), if he wanted to keep this newly discovered, disgusting part of himself at bay. But if it ever happened again, due to factors outside of his control, of course, he wouldn't want to lose the opportunity to—
Anyway.
The point was: Vox got caught up in another of his workaholic benders. And Alastor was torn on the matters of his potential intervention and what form, if any, should it take. Tackling the man and dragging him from his office would be easy enough. It felt more like a civil duty than anything else, once Alastor had a look at his bloodshot eyes, barely visible under the visual noise. The problem was what he should do next, once Vox would be secured in his tentacles and no longer liable to cause any more harm to himself.
"Not that I don't appreciate the company, you know, but all this staring is kind of getting to me..." Vox glanced up from the papers he was trying and failing to read and at Alastor, seated at the top of his desk. "Do you need anything from me?"
"When was the last time you slept?" Alastor asked, without even waiting for him to finish speaking.
Vox went silent for a second. The snow completely obscured his face and the room filled with static. Once it appeared again, one of his eyes lagged behind the other, slightly glitching out every now and then.
"Monday—? Wait, no. No, I had a nap in the office just yesterday."
"Was that a 'nap', or did you just pass out at your desk?"
The scrutiny in Alastor's voice didn't seem to reach Vox, but, to be fair, not many things did in his current state.
"Same difference."
"And your last meal was...?"
"Just a few hours ago, actually!"
"Vox. Coffee does not count as a food."
All he get in response was a sheepish smile. It only grew more apologetic, when Vox's stomach decided to damn his owner with a miserable groan that wouldn't be out of place in Alastor's choir of captive audience.
"I just need to finish this batch of contracts—"
Alastor was no longer listening. What was there to hear? More excuses? A fervent monologue about the benefits of swapping a bed for a chair and rejecting the concept of showering? Vox didn't even have the biology necessary for producing body odor, he should not smell like that.
"What you need, pal, is a break."
The floor around Vox's desk sank into darkness and Vox — alongside it. Be it from sleep deprivation, or his eyes finally giving in after hours of reading tiny print, he didn't react right away. And once he did, it was far too late. Black tendrils tied themselves around his squirming form and dragged him into the gaping maw of the portal, as he screamed in vain...
...Only to gently drop him on freshly starched covers of Alastor's guest bed. Alastor followed behind him, with a pleased twirl of a cane. He nimbly landed on the floor and, deaf to the sound of Vox's confusion and protests, used a few more tentacles to tuck him in.
"There we go!" He exclaimed, giving his handiwork a look-over. "Now, be a good boy and stay there, while I go do something about the laments and pleas of your conceived stomach, before it starts to digest itself."
Vox froze, sending sparks all around. He quickly recovered though and shook his head, aiming to clear up the snow — and a faint blush — from his screen.
"Look, I appreciate the concern, I do, but I can't take a break right now, I have to—"
"Oh, but you just did!" Alastor said nonchalantly, spinning around to march toward the door. "Try to catch some shut eyes. Toddles!"
As soon as he left the room, the confidence he was projecting deserted his body like a burning bomb shelter. Because he was burning, all right, at the prospect of having... That... Kind of thoughts make home in his head again. The very idea of sitting in front of Vox, while he'd be satiating his hunger set his face aflame. He could imagine perfectly how he'd be tearing the dish apart the moment he'd get his hands on it... Goodness, hands, maybe he'll be so famished, that he won't even use cutlery!
Alastor cleared his throat and straightened his back. No. No, he was above this. He was going to prepare a nice, warm meal and then he was going to excuse himself. But then again... What if Vox used his absence to slip away? He entered the kitchen and grabbed his apron with a hum. Even Vox wouldn’t be this unreasonable... Would he? He stood there, with arms on his hips and head deep in thoughts, pondering both about how he should approach his predicament — and to lesser extent, what to cook for dinner. As he did so, his eyes slide absentmindedly across the counter tops and shelves. Until they reached a massive pot resting in the sink. The sight lighted a glimmer of inspiration in them.
Soup! He was going to make soup!
Without a minute to waste, Alastor rolled up his sleeves and got to work. You couldn't exactly eat soup with just your hands. Even Vox, messy as he was, wouldn't be able to make much of a spectacle out of himself, some spilling aside. The pleased noises he made while eating would still pose a challenge… Still, soup was such a perfect comfort food. No roast or fillet, no matter how expertly prepared, could compare when it came to warming up the body from the inside out.
A shiver went down his spine, with the image forming in his head of Vox finding comfort in his cooking, having it be what finally breaks through his restless frenzy.
He shrugged it off so pointedly that one would think he was expressing offense at not just his body reacting in such a way, but the very universe, for saddling him with it. So pointlessly dramatic. He was simply taking care of a friend, who had proven, yet again, to be helpless on his own. No need to fixate on it so much, truly!
Alastor took his time preparing everything, with the goal of allowing Vox to nap for a while longer, before he'll get some proper sleep after the dinner. And beside, you can't rush perfection! He decided on an onion soup, with plenty of cheese for some extra protein. A simple choice — but a classic one. He didn't exactly plan on hosting a dinner tonight, so he wasn't prepared to bake fresh bread rolls to go with it. Vox would have to make do with those he still had in the pantry. Still, he kneaded some dough and set it aside for rising to replace them tomorrow.
While he worked, his thoughts again wandered toward his (somewhat unwilling) guest. Vox was a ni.... Alright, he wasn't a nice young man. He certainly appeared childish and having a picture box for a head would make anybody's age hard to guess. But as far as Alastor knew, they were both born in the same decade. And only someone blind and deaf could call him nice. He masked his short temper and sadistic streak well enough... But as soon as he was out of the sight of those whom he hoped to win over, they were on full display, alongside a plethora of other character flaws. He was a man. Though that hardly won him any favors with Alastor.
And yet... And yet, Alastor liked his company. It was shockingly hard not to. For all of his failings, Vox was ambitious and hardworking. He never gave up and he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. In the nihilistic pit of apathy that constituted Hell, Vox shined like a beacon. It was no wonder that he drew so many people in. After all, who wouldn't be captivated, even if only for a little while, by a promise of something... Not even better. Just something, anything. Any kind of dream or hope. When everything seemed to head for destruction and decay, Vox's unyielding determination to look toward the future was exhilarating.
At one point or another, Alastor might have started to want to protect that. For his own amusement if nothing else! Hell would be awfully boring without Vox around. So awfully boring...
But here he was, constantly trying to work his way into a coffin. And if wasn't that damn inconsiderate of him!
Once everything was ready, he called his Shadow back from the guest bedroom and told it to start setting up the table. It wasn't too thrilled to be leaving Vox alone, now that he was happily snoring away. A quick peer into its memories made Alastor nearly drop the bottle of white wine he was holding right into flames. Fortunately, he got to avoid setting himself and his whole kitchen on fire — although it would be hard to tell, given the heat that overtook his face.
"Do you have no shame?" He scoffed at the Shadow, as his ears fell down, twitching in equal part with anger and embarrassment.
It scoffed right back at him. Apparently blind to how its behavior would reflect upon him, if Vox woke up and found it curled up on his chest. He slept through it all, thanks Satan. The damned thing even began to play with Vox's antennas, pulling them forward and letting them bob against one another. It was, admittedly, rather silly looking and he chuckled softly on his way to the bedroom. However, just when he was about to open it, the memory reached the point when the Shadow crawled up on the covers. It tucked its head under the picture box, rubbing its cheek on Vox's chest... He stopped watching right away.
He already knew Vox stayed asleep. There was no need to waste his time.
"Rise and shine!" He boomed, making his guest jump up on the bed with a yelp. "Although with your screen you must know already all about that, hm?" He laughed at his own pun and leaned down to untangle the seemingly boneless mass of... Well, Vox, from the blanket.
Whatever dam was stopping days, if not weeks, of poor sleeping and eating habits from taking him down under, broke. Vox looked like every possible ad for insomniac medicine rolled into one. His eyes seemed purple from afar, with how completely they were coated by spider webs of blue, broken veins. He blinked up at Alastor with so much pure, unadulterated woe that for a moment he considered letting him go back to sleep. He already toasted the bread rolls, though. It would be such a waste to let them cool!
"S-hz-shit… Alast-tz-tor...?" Vox mumbled, as he was gently coaxed out of the bed and on his feet by both the man and the Shadow. "Can I go b-b-back-xk to work now...?"
He let out a single syllable of a laugh.
"Hardly! But you can have a proper dinner with m—" He bit down on his tongue. Vox was in no condition to try and split. The reasonable — the responsible — thing to do would be to make up an excuse and leave him to it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a weak chuckle.
"Usually the dinner comes before th-tx-throwing someone on your bed..."
"It was a guest bed, Vox," Alastor corrected, rolling his eyes. Vox’s jokes were always so crass. Still, he added with a wink, if only because teasing the picture box was always amusing, "Beside, I'd thought that by now you'd realize there's nothing usual about me, my dear fellow."
A blush spread over Vox's screen and Alastor relaxed a little.
Lately Vox was... Affecting him in ways Alastor never experience before. Still, at the end of the day, he was the one in control. Always the one in control. He was able to steer Vox in whatever direction he wanted with just a word. And he was fully aware of his capacity to do so. It was ridiculous to imagine that Vox would be able to do the same. He might have been a shark behind a desk, but in front of Alastor? He turned into a puppy, a needy, loud and desperate to please puppy.
Perhaps he overreacted. He couldn't control what thoughts appeared in his head, but he proved himself to be a master of disguising his feelings and tampering impulses through all of his life. It was a skill that fallowed him into the grave, as the world around him flipped and he went from resisting the urges of a predator, to those of a prey. The thought of making a fool out of himself in front of Vox mortified him — but Vox was much too thoughtless to ever notice anything beyond the surface. Oh, he could read and manipulate common scums well enough. But there was a world of difference between selling dreams to the desperate souls who wore their desires out in the open and deciphering intentions of the enigma that was Alastor.
He... might have had his moments, every now and then. Moments, when he caught what Alastor wanted, before he even voiced it. When he seemed to know just what to say and do, to make Alastor laugh. To make him forget, if only for a little while, the invisible strings wrapped around all of them.
All the more reason to keep him alive, no?
Despite his instantly proclaimed wish to get back to work, Vox followed him through the corridor. Something to do with his newfound obedience might have been the smell of food coming out of the dining room, stronger with every step they took. When they reached the table, Alastor could actually see red saliva dripping comically from the corner of his mouth. He didn't fault him for it.
The meal waiting for them was simple. Just a vase of soup, neatly poured into modestly decorated dishes, with a plate of bread to the side. One course, truthfully more suited to be an entrée, than a proper dinner. And yet, simple or not, Alastor knew that he outdid himself.
The aroma, strong enough to reach them from the other side of the house, promised a rich, savory taste. It wasn't overwhelming, though, thanks to the soft, bitter notes breaking it up. The soup itself glistened in the light. Tiny pearls of fat drifted on its surface, making it appear peppered with glitter. When Vox, encouraged with a pleasant nod, plunged his spoon through it, it emerged filled with not just broth, but melted cheese as well. By now, it turned into a creamy perfection and cascaded down in golden ropes, like a long necklace, luxurious and decadent. The sight of Vox struggling to eat them in a clean snap of jaws and restoring to messily slurping them down made a chuckle escape Alastor's lips. His heart fluttered at the sight of the blush shining over his screen — and then tightened with the quiet, happy sigh that followed it.
"Maybe it's because I didn't have anything but coffee in days... But this might be the best soup I've ever eaten," Vox said sheepishly.
"And yet here you were, fighting me as if I was trying to feed you weeds and swamp water. I’m hurt, my dear, you wound me deeply," Alastor teased playfully.
If Vox was focused on his own embarrassment, he wouldn’t notice Alastor’s own.
"I must have been delirious with sleep deprivation," Vox concluded between gulps. "I gotta say— Mmm— I've eaten in the most expensive restaurants the Midwest had to offer, but— Ulp! I can't remember ever tasting something this delicious!"
Alastor waved his hand dismissively. It did nothing to mask that he was preening under the prises.
"Oh, this old recipe? It's just a little something my mother threw together and I perfected over the years."
Soup splashed around as Vox noisily sucked in more strands of cheese.
"Ummmf! If that's her throwing things together, then I can see why you're so sure she went to Heaven. If I were a God, I wouldn't want to pass on her cooking either!
Alastor's smile was threatening to curl behind his ears.
"Take a bread roll."
That Vox did. He took a bite, humming appreciatively at the satisfying crunch and then tore the rest to pieces. Some scattered across the table — but most landed in the dish, sinking in the broth. Vox barely waited enough to let them soak, before scooping as much as he could fit on his spoon. A few morsels fell off and send flying a shower of droplets to stain both his sweater vest and the tablecloth. He didn't seem to mind, stuffing his face with the giddiness of a little boy let loose in a candy shop.
And just like a little boy, he had eyes bigger than his stomach... Or at the very least, throat. After swallowing heavily and panting with strain, he raised a fist to his chest. He gave it a couple of hits. That seemed to help the food to move down — but at the same time, something else raised up. He muffled it with his fist, but Alastor could still hear a quiet rumble of an escaping burp. He immediately excused himself, of course, and somehow that made it even more endearing.
Alastor's ears fell back. Willing them to stand upright was enough to send a jolt of strained pain through his muscles.
The thought was clear and realized in his mind, in sharp contrast to the other feelings looking at Vox elicited in him. Those, frantic and sticky with guilt, seemed utterly foreign to Alastor. They were sudden and intrusive, and, as intruders, were easy to push aside. It didn't make them less upsetting, but it made them less his. They stood in opposition of who and what Alastor, the Radio Demon, was. They were nothing more than a regrettable quirk of the body, a result of some chemicals suddenly going awry. This, however, the pride of cooking, the endearment at the sight of Vox being his ridiculous self, that belonged to him and him alone. It was so real, that he felt the weight of it pressing on his chest. He wished it would smoother him entirely, so that he wouldn't have to burn with shame anymore.
While Alastor fed his inner turmoil, Vox did the same for his stomach and, between the two of them, visible arrived at much more pleasant results. He finished his bowl of soup and then, seeing the vase at the center of the table as an encouragement, poured himself another one. It disappeared down his gullet with as much enthusiasm as the first one and left behind a look of contentment on his screen. He wiped his bowl clean with a freshly picked up bread roll, which he then tossed into his jaws, before licking a few droplets and crumbs off his claws. Finally, he slumped on the chair, fully satisfied.
"Goodness, I feel like a water balloon filled with soup!" He laughed softly, as if, true to his words, he feared he’s burst if he strained himself too much.
Him speaking up snapped Alastor out of his head. Just because he was at war with himself, didn't mean he was about to forgo his duties as a host. Only an utter boor would ignore a guest they invited for dinner... And, sure, the sound of Vox's laugh wasn’t enough to soothe his nerves. But it was nonetheless a nice balm on them.
"After just two servings?' Alastor tutted in disapproval. "My dear, if I had the time to make you a proper meal, then by now we would be barely halfway through it!"
"Hey, not all of us can congratulate ourselves on being able to fit in entire demons and still have the space for desert." Even though he tried to be discrete, Alastor noticed how he rubbed his middle under the table. "Personally, I never got the appeal of having a dinner be this huge, multi-dish event. Eating in general feels like a waste of time to me, but stuff like dinner parties and such? You just have to sit there for hours. And god forbid you talk, while you're at it, or you'll make a cad out of yourself!"
"Something entirely foreign to you, I'm sure," Alastor said, with calculated mockery.
Vox’s screen went almost white with embarrassment. But surprisingly enough, it didn't last long. He stifled a hiccup and looked down, to fiddle with his sleeves.
"That's not how I think about your food, though," he said almost apologetically.
"Obviously." And although Alastor rolled his eyes, a part of him didn't find this cheap platitude entirely unwelcomed.
"No, I mean it. I can't imagine ever getting bored of eating it."
Alastor's smile didn't soften... But it gained a certain understated brightness to it.
"Does that mean you’re up for another bowl?"
Vox snorted.
"I've walked right into that one, haven't I? But nah, I'm good. I'm still more or less on the comfy side of stuffed, any more and I'd start feeling sick."
"More or less?" Alastor glanced down, to where Vox was pressing a hand against his stomach.
It had to feel amazing, he thought, to have it filled with a warm, hearty meal. To have bubbly, happy churning replace painful cramps and growls, echoing through his insides. Vox wasn't really used to eating as much as his body realistically needed, so this sensation was probably a bit new to him. The weight in his stomach had to seem too heavy, stretching the small confines of his casing beyond what he usually experienced by the end of a meal. It was so easy for Alastor to imagine dragging his chair closer and shooing Vox's hands away from where they rested. He'd replace their clumsy ministration with gentle massage, rubbing slow circles until Vox would turn into obedient putty underneath his fingers, focusing all of his attention on two goals only: rest and digestion...
"Um, Alastor?!"
Alastor's tail stood in alarm. So did his ears, aroused by Vox's slightly hysterical call. Hysterical and seemingly unprovoked. But then something caught his eye. A movement, in a place where there wasn't supposed be any. What at first glance appeared to be just a shadow, cast by branches and dry flowers decorating the table, turned out to in reality be long, willowy fingers. Aiming to do exactly what Alastor was just daydreaming about in the safety of his mind.
Reality curled around the three of them — two demons and one disobedient, cackling specter. It was kneading Vox's bloated belly, just like Alastor did the dough an hour ago. Its two-dimensional fingers sank into the soft flesh and Alastor almost hoped it would clench them, piercing it cleanly and bringing carnage, as was in its nature. That, if anything, would have been easier to explain. Not to mention, much less humiliating.
His smile stayed in its place. It didn't shrink. It didn't falter. If anything, it stretched a little, as Alastor looked up from the offending sight and at Vox's face. He chuckled slightly, obviously unbothered. Why would this bother him? There wasn't anything to worry about. All that occurred was just a little disturbance. Like a naughty cat jumping on the table and trying to steal a fish from a guest's plate. The kind of thing you shook your head at, annoyed at worst, before apologizing for not training it well enough.
"Ah, would you look at that," he said. Inviting Vox to join him in a sense of camaraderie. We both know this shouldn't be happening. I'm with you, this is ridiculous! "While I was preparing the meal, I tasked it with looking after for you. But it's such a simple minded creature... And so overly enthusiastic, at times!" He waved his hand, thoroughly amused with the Shadow's antics. "It seems that it took to its duties a little too seriously." He laughed again and playfully wagged his finger at Vox. "With all of your whining it must have thought you're in dire need of help."
He ignored the Shadow's sneer and the way it wrapped its wispy tail around Vox. Instead, he focused entirely on Vox himself and his reaction. His eyes darted between his torso, the creature assaulting it and Alastor. They were wide, with small, frantic pupils. His expression, as was often the case, could be split in the middle and read in two different ways. Mouth turned down on one side, but showing teeth all the way to the gums on the other. Both set against the bright blue of a blush. He was agitated, but thrown off enough for it to not morph into anger. Into repulsion. Good. Alastor could work with that.
“Look at you,” Alastor continued, brute forcing a laugh. “Relax! It’s not going to eat you!”
The blush on his screen deepened. Yes, perfect. If Vox was being unreasonable, then Alastor wasn’t. Alastor was the one acting appropriately.
"I was— Wasn't I really this whin—" He starter, trying and failing to match Alastor's demeanor.
But before he could finish, he got cut off by the Shadow's efforts bearing their first fruits. A knot tensed up in his belly loosened, freeing a pocket of air. It rushed up his throat and through his mouth, loud, rumbling and offensive. And so, so satisfying. It caused something warm to clench at Alastor's core, to hear just how full he made Vox. How his body was letting go off tension, as it prepared to turn the food into fuel it was so desperately craving.
Vox immediately started to grasp for any words of apology, stammering and stuttering through glitches. In his panic, he didn't account for the small after-burp that fallowed, much quieter, but just as deep. He froze as soon as it left his mouth, before slapping a hand over it.
It was adorable.
Alastor inhaled sharply.
“Vox,” he stressed, stern and judgmental. “I know you’re used to eating at crummy diners and bars, but there is certain amount of decorum I expect from my guests.” He covered his lips with a handkerchief, seemingly to hide his repulsion. Vox shrank in his chair, cowering under Alastor’s scrutiny. He didn’t want him to see his smile tremble. “I know I’ve put up with the rest of your disgusting behavior, but this is where I draw the line.”
If Vox was in the wrong, then Alastor wasn’t.
He said it, as if he didn't want to kneel in front of Vox and massage his belly until he'd get out all of the air he swallowed, while devouring the soup.
As if he didn't want to see Vox going completely lax with relief, not caring if his filthy, indulgent belches could be heard by anyone.
In this fantasy, Vox would basically grind his gut against Alastor's steady palms, eager and trusting that he knew just how to help him best. He'd be making all kinds of gross noises, moaning with pleasure as the food settled comfortably in his stomach, happy to burp out gas the moment it brewed in the process of digestion. He'd even tease Alastor with it, leaning in to gently bite and kiss his attentively listening ears between belches he'd blow directly into them—
The Shadow flew to the front of Vox's chair. Then, it lowered itself.
Vox stood up, as if somebody replaced his seat with burning coal.
For a second, it seemed like he was just as taken aback by his actions as Alastor. His mouth opened slightly and he turned toward him, probably intending to explain himself in some way. But then, the Shadow pulled on his slacks, tilting its head in a silent question. When Vox's eyes landed on it, glancing up from its position between his legs, they turned as round as the bowls they were eating from.
"I— I, ah—" A bright current jumped from one of his antennas to the other. "I— I’m sorry. I need to go."
Before Alastor got a word in, Vox already tripped over his chair, stumbling over his legs and his own breath as he blabbered about some kind of business meeting he had to attend immediately. Alastor barely managed to protest and tell him to hold on for just a second— And he zapped out of his dinning room. Leaving behind only the smell of ozone.
The explosion of whiteness made the Shadow disappear. As it did, its jagged maw twisted in a wail. The light hurt its intangible body.
But did it really? Was the reason behind its cry the short, concentrated flash? Or was it the shame crushing Alastor's lungs.
Vox couldn't have noticed. He couldn't, it simply wasn't how he operated. He must have just gotten too embarrassed, by being put on the spot like that, after he already made a spectacle out of himself the last time they shared a meal. It's not like Alastor himself gave him any clues. He acted... Normal. Like a gentleman. Like a good host. Vox simply panicked, because he knew if he stayed, he'd only humiliate himself further. Because that's what Vox did. He acted stupid and pathetic and he exposed himself for the creep he really was underneath the thin layer of polish he tried to cover his true, repulsive nature with.
The soup already started to get cold, but Alastor still brought a spoon to his lips. Somehow, he couldn’t force them open. So it just hovered there, in front of his face. The sight of it, a dish that was supposed to bring comfort, now felt like accusation.
He threw the spoon into the bowl. The soup splattered around, brown and dirty against the white table cloth. His hands were shaking, perhaps out of surprise at what they just did. He clenched them together.
In a few minutes, he would get up and clean the table. In a few hours, he'd calm down enough to summon back his Shadow and scold it for its behavior. And in a few days, he'd accidentally meet Vox in some bar and pretend that nothing had happened.
The arrangement he had with Vox already stood on a shaky foundation. He wasn't about to let it fall apart just because his mind decided to suddenly betray him. He would stay calm and collected, maybe distance himself a little, if it'd prove necessary. But ultimately, he would preserve the status quo. Maybe they needed some time apart — but they certainly didn't need a change. Things were good.
And whatever it was, that he was feeling, he would get it under control.