Feverish Fatale

The first time was a mistake. Vox had planned on Valentino and Velvette never seeing him sick. It wasn’t a weakness he could afford as leader of the Vees. Even one moment of him not clearly being in charge could lead to a takeover… or worse.

So when he woke up congested and groggy, cursing ever having to interact with the germ infested public, he knew what kind of measures he had to take.

First, of course, was attempting to ignore it. When an extra hot shower, putting on his sharpest suit, and pouring two cups of coffee down an increasingly tender throat didn’t work, Vox moved on to adjusting his schedule.

He had Ethan move his meetings from in-person to video call. This lasted all of two calls before that tender throat turned painfully scratchy and the congestion was impossible to hide no matter how many adjustments he made to his vocal processesors. He’d managed to stifle a handful of sneezes successfully, but the pain that ricocheted around his head meant that further attempts were diminishing returns.

Video calls moved to emails, to rescheduling to next week, to entirely canceling if Vox didn't particularly like the person. Not always the best business move, but Vox had just as easily told people to fuck off when he wasn’t fighting off increasingly bothersome fever chills.

He finally emailed Ethan that he would be doing paperwork for the rest of the day and that he was not to be disturbed. Then he locked his door, fully intending to do paperwork. There were contracts on top of contracts for him to review, prototypes to sign off on or make adjustments to, financial reports to double check. The day needed to be anything but a complete waste. And besides, what kind of successful business man was he if he couldn’t work through a case of the sniffles.

Vox rubbed at his eyes, scrubbing across his screen where his sinuses would be, trying to ease the heavy ache behind his screen. The words on the soul contract on his desk swam in and out of focus. Half of them didn’t even make sense anymore.

Maybe he just needed a break. It was mid afternoon already and he had declined Ethan’s offer to bring him lunch, claiming to be far too busy.

Too busy. Queasy at the thought of food. Same difference.

Vox stood, bracing his hands against the desk as his office tilted and swirled and his knees threatened to buckle. He had a couch, mainly for Valentino to drape himself dramatically on, he just had to get to it. Take a twenty minute power nap. Then he could get right back to work.

He shuffled across the room and dropped onto the couch. There was a heaviness in his chest that made laying down uncomfortable, so he sat instead, head tilted back, which also wasn’t comfortable.

Vox didn’t care. He just needed to close his eyes for a few minutes.

Something was pinging. An annoying repetitive noise that pierced Vox’s brain, pulling him from a dreamless sleep that was probably more akin to being passed out. As he dragged himself from exhausted darkness the ping was accompanied by a flashing light that made him wince. Which isn’t exactly useful for blocking out internal notices.

Ethan was calling him.

When Vox didn’t feel like hot garbage he was going to teach that eel what “do not disturb” meant.

”I know you said to not disturb you, sir,” Ethan said as soon as Vox answered. “I’m very sorry—“

”If you were sorry you wouldn’t have done it,” Vox growled, low and dangerous. Then he muted himself to cough and wheeze, missing most of Ethan’s nervous chattering.

“—busy but Mr Valentino and Miss Velvette—“

”We said we’d rip him limb from limb.”

”Our Voxxy isn’t too busy for us.”

The voices overlapped into a nearly incomprehensible jumble. Or maybe Vox simply couldn’t focus.

“What?” He unmuted for a moment and then immediately muted himself again to sniff wetly and wipe his screen with his sleeve.

”Ugh.” Valentino grumbled and there was what sounded like an eel shaped assistant being shoved violently away. “Your slimy little gopher tried to stop us from seeing you. Like we’re common nobodies.”

”I’m busy,” Vox said, slow and patient, hoping that he didn’t sound as wretched as he thought he did. “You know, paperwork doesn’t do itself.” He wasn’t actually sure they knew that, given their penchant for letting Vox finalize the bulk of their contracts.

“That gives me an idea for a film,” Valentino said and Vox could imagine his salacious grin.

”So creative,” Velvette responded, with what sounded like an eyeroll. “Vox. You gonna let us in?”

”I’m—“

”Busy. Yeah yeah, your boring papers can wait, Val and I need help.”

Vox muted himself again to groan. Fuck. Fuck them, fuck himself, fuck the fucking fucker who got him sick.

”Give me a minute.”

He could hear them chatting, joking about how he was probably jerking off, making plans for later, something about a club.

Vox only listened so that he knew when he was taking far more than a “minute” to get himself together and get back to his desk.

His desk, which was so far away. And his legs, which wobbled with every step.

He was taking too long. They were going to notice something was wrong. They’d start to ask questions. Question him.

The desk was still on the other side of his overly huge office. Who the fuck even builds offices this big.

He couldn’t walk there. Ridiculous to expect anyone to walk twenty feet really. So Vox jumped through the cameras.

Bad.

Bad idea.

Vox rematerialized and immediately pitched over his wastebasket to gag as his stomach twisted and lurched. Saying no to lunch had been such a good idea, Vox decided, as the only thing that came up was a little spit.

He still shoved the can under his desk before he steadied himself, clearing his screen of any hints of distress and making sure his suit wasn’t askew in any way before unlocking his door.

Valentino and Velvette poured in, talking over each other as they rushed to explain what they needed Vox to fix for them. None of it stood out as hell shattering or anything that would ruin their businesses or their standings as overlords, so it must just be the usual petty bullshit.

At least, that’s what Vox hoped he was getting out of the rapid fire jumble of words that hardly even sounded like english. And with Valentino it might not be, depending on how riled up he was.

Vox stood at his desk, using it to hold himself up and hoping they’d both run out of steam and he could grumble about talking one at a time. Something they needed constant reminders about.

They both ended at the same time and stared at him.

Vox raised an eyebrow.

When that failed to prompt anything he carefully sighed, wary of triggering a cough. “One at—“

They both started talking at once again. Loudly.

Vox briefly thought about escaping through the cameras, up to his penthouse, where it was quiet and he could lie down again. He didn’t care how worse it made him feel.

But that would be suspicious.

No. He needed to stay put and stand tall and figure out what the hell his partners were complaining about.

Vox tried. He focused on Valentino first, but Val’s four arms rapidly gesturing made him dizzy. So he turned his attention to Velvette, who was blissfully still, but mumbling at her phone. And there was a growing buzz in his maybe sinuses.

He couldn’t sneeze. Not now. Not in front of them.

Unless they were both too distracted. They didn’t listen to him before. Velvette’s eyes were glued to her phone and Valentino could barely see a few feet in front of himself half the time when he wasn’t upset.

Vox’s claws curled against the desk, arms trembling under his suitcoat. His head felt heavier than before, congestion thick. He took an experimental, quiet, sniff and felt a dull throbbing ache. Stifling was going to suck.

But the alternative was worse.

He let the burning buzzy sensation build and then clamped down at the last moment with a barely there shudder and shoulder twitch. “Hgnk.”

“Um, what was that?” Valentino asked, now laser focused on Vox, lower limbs popped on his hips and upper ones folded across his chest.

Shit shit shit shit shit. “It was… fuck you!” Yeah. That was an appropriate response.

Valentino cocked his head, eyes narrowing. Velvette looked up from her phone, frowning at him.

Vox swallowed, refusing to wince. He was losing control. He would not lose control. He… had to do something. Because now Valentino and Velvette were looking at each other. And Vox knew what those looks meant.

He made to push away from the desk, to take a commanding stroll around the room, to reestablish dominance. But the moment he took a step his leg faltered, shaking like one of the disgusting jello desserts he was fond of when he was alive.

He could do this though. He could power through. He just needed another step. And then another. Then they’d stop looking at him like that.

Vox took another step, around the side of the desk. He projected confidence and control. He’d assure them that he could handle all their problems.

Even the one where the room was getting darker.

Valentino darted forward and caught Vox before he hit the ground, settling him across his lap while cradling him with three arms and using the fourth to press against his casing and caress his dimmed screen. He sucked in a breath. “Babydoll, he’s burning up.”

Velvette crept closer until she could kneel next to them. She studied Vox’s screen, frowning at the faint hint of cyan across the middle like a fever flush. “Never seen him sick before. Didn’t know he could get sick.”

Valentino shook his head with a squeak. “Me neither. My Voxxy’s always been—”

”’m fine…” Vox’s screen brightened slightly as he struggled to open his eyes and push himself away from Valentino.

“Oh, mi amor.” Valentino pulled Vox close, despite his weak struggling. “You’re not fine.”

”Yeah, V. If Val wasn’t there you woulda taken a nasty header.” Velvette huffed and started typing on her phone. “If you didn’t insist on working all the time… and why didn’t you… know what? Never mind, men are all the same.”

Vox tried to turn toward her, but Valentino held him firm. “You were telling me your problem,” he rasped against Valentino’s ruff. Then he coughed, unable to hold back.

”What? Oh,” Velvette waved the idea off. “Nah, we just wanted you to yell at some people.”

”Don’t you even worry about it,” Valentino added. “We can handle everything.”

Vox tried to push away again. He just needed to get his feet under him, but then Valentino swooped him up, easily standing with Vox still held securely in his arms.

Vox twisted, equilibrium completely lost. Val was muttering in spanish, not letting him go. Velvette was still focused on her phone.

”No photos,” Vox mumbled, slightly whiny. He could still control the situation.

Velvette looked up, blinking at him. Then she reached out, hand pausing for a second before she placed it on his concerningly warm and sweaty arm. She gave it a squeeze. “No, babe, I’m not… here, look.”

She held the phone in front of him, though she wasn’t sure how much he saw given how squinty he was. “I figured you wouldn’t want anyone in your business, so I blasted an email out to any employee between here and the penthouse saying that we were very disappointed in them and they needed to all leave now without the rest of today’s pay.”

Valentino snorted.

”Give them another thirty seconds and we won’t run into a single damned soul.”

“Oh.” Vox’s eyes fluttered and he sunk into Valentino’s arms, any remaining fight draining out of him.

The walk to Vox’s bedroom was uneventville as promised. Valentino headed straight to the bed, sitting on it with Vox still in his arms. He glanced at Velvette, unsure of what to do and not wanting to just dump vox across the blankets.

”He needs his pyjamas,” Valentino decided, starting to fuss with Vox’s bowtie.

Velvette watched Valentino work at the tie one handed for a few moments before rolling her eyes and snapping her fingers, dressing Vox in a two piece matching blue pyjama set. “This is easier for now,” she said as she also snapped Valentino and herself into appropriate sleepwear.

“Do you think he needs medicine… or, like, a doctor?” Velvette wrinkled her nose and when Valentino shrugged she disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and then returned with a couple of damp washcloths. “These might cool him down.”

Valentino took the wet clothes and draped one across the top of Vox’s casing, careful that no water ran into any ports or vents, and then started wiping down Vox’s neck and chest. He smiled when Vox made a soft, content noise. “Ay, yeah, that feels good, papi, doesn’t it?”

Velvette brought a glass of water from the kitchen, setting it on the bedside table in case Vox needed that as well. Then she fiddled with her phone. “You want food?”

Valentino blinked up at her. Vox groaned.

“Yeah, well, neither of you have probably eaten all day. I’m getting him soup. Val?”

Valentino thought for a moment. “You wanna do tacos?”

”Ooh, from that place at the edge of the cowboy district?”

”I could go for texmex. Order extra queso, babe.”

“Yeah, of course, since we’re, like, basically on vacation until he’s well.”

Vox floated on the edge of falling asleep, listening to them laugh and make plans and order everything they’d need to stay with him for multiple days.

It was… nice. Comforting. Like the pyjamas and the cold compresses. And not what he expected or planned for.

They fed him soup and kept the compresses cold and bought him extra soft tissues even though he doesn’t have a nose and curled next to him in bed until he felt better.

Vox kept waiting for the inevitable. For the scorn, the humiliation, the declaration that he was unfit to run their company.

Maybe it was too soon, he was too pathetic while dripping mucus and unable to stand. Weak and needy. A mercy to wait until he was back on his feet, for even more devastation when they tore him down.

But there was nothing. Vox got better and everything went back to normal. Like it never happened. Not even a snide, offhanded comment.

Alastor had never been good at taking breaks. He didn’t rest until his work for the day was done—and he always insisted on completing it by himself, even if he really should have been resting instead. Even though his voice was scratchy and he’d been sniffling all morning, he pushed through it for as long as he could. Charlie’s concerns about his health were dismissed when they saw each other in the morning, and no one dared to challenge him when he said he was fine. Charlie didn’t bother arguing and handed him a folder full of papers, asking him to look through it. He was in charge of sorting through all the forms, mail, and job applications (though they hadn’t gotten any yet) that the hotel received. “This is far from strenuous work, dear,” he told her. “It’ll hardly take any effort at all.” Giving her an unusually tired grin, he disappeared from the parlor.

In another part of the hotel, he opened a door labeled “Staff Only” and entered a small, modest-looking office. It was really only used for filing paperwork, and was where Alastor sometimes worked when he didn’t want to stay in his room. He sat down at the desk and briefly skimmed through everything in the folder, picking out the junk mail and obvious scams before getting to work on a stack of forms. All of his sniffling was getting less and less effective as a thick congestion settled within his head. He soon summoned a box of tissues and blew his nose, already hating how sick he sounded. He kept a few on hand, frequently scrubbing at his itchy, reddened nostrils.

As he filled out the next form, the ticklish feeling kept building. His eyes closed involuntarily as he tried to steady his breathing, raising a tissue up to his face in anticipation. “Hh… Hih—Hhehkt-kzzshhu!” Alastor grimaced at the lingering pain in his throat—and the headache he was beginning to feel take root between his eyes.

It was hard to focus with how often he sniffled and coughed. Each time he got distracted, it seemed harder for him to get back to his train of thought. The next document in the pile listed all of the hotel’s expenses from the previous month. As long as most of the repairs and maintenance the hotel required could be done using magic, going over budget shouldn’t have been an issue. He read over the numbers multiple times, but it took a painfully long time until he was sure he didn’t skip over anything. All he could think about was how much he wished he was still in bed. It was too cold in the office. His chair was uncomfortable and the lights were too bright. He rubbed his eyes and tried to move on, but there was no use in rereading the same paragraph over and over. Maybe he just needed to close his eyes for a little while and let his mind reset. “Just for a few minutes…” he mumbled to himself, putting his pen down and resting his head on his arms.

Charlie glanced at the clock on the wall in her room. It had been a while since she’d seen Alastor that morning, and she was debating on whether or not she should go see how he was doing. He was probably still busy, and she didn’t want to interrupt him, but she was a little worried. He should have taken the day off. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to check on him for a minute, just to see how he was feeling, so she headed down the hall towards the office.

When she knocked on the door, she received no answer. Slowly opening the door, she found Alastor at the desk with his head down, asleep. Used tissues were crumpled up around him. She put on a soft smile despite the growing pit of concern inside of her as she shook his shoulder. “Al?”

His ears raised lethargically as he sat up with a wet, stuffy sniffle and a gravelly “Hmm?” He looked a little paler than before, apart from his rosy cheeks and nose. His crimson eyes were glassy and dull, and his usual exaggerated grin was small and wavering. So was the rest of him, shuddering periodically with feverish chills. Blinking away the haze of sleep, he glanced down at the unfinished paperwork before him. “Mby apolog—” He cut himself off with a rough fit of coughing that made Charlie wince in sympathy. He cleared his throat before continuing, “Apologies— I mbust have lost tragck of timbe.” The strained sound of his voice was enough to make it obvious that it hurt to talk.

“Poor thing…” Charlie frowned, her hands held close to her chest until she reached out to touch the side of his cheek. “You feel a little warm. You should’ve just told me you needed a break today.”

He sniffled more, rubbing at his nose as it started to itch, filling with even more congestion. “I didnd’t—snrff!—feel that bad earlier. I just need a little rest, and then I can get back to the paperwork.”

“Don’t worry about the papers—I’ll finish them later. Do you want to go back to bed?”

Alastor hesitated, but nodded, sparing his throat the effort of speaking. Not that he would have been able to say much anyways, a few airy hitches escaping him as he grabbed a few tissues and buried his nose into them with a harsh, static-filled sneeze. “IH-IHNG’KZZHHHIEW!” He turned away from her and gave his nose a dense blow, pushing aside how much he hated drawing attention to his illness.

His muscles protested as he stood up, stuffing the tissues in his pocket for the moment. The shift in height made his head throb, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even resist when Charlie put a hand on his shoulder to help steady him, something he normally would have quickly pulled away from. She grabbed the box of tissues and guided him into the hallway, making a mental note to tell Niffty to disinfect the office later. If she had only been more insistent on giving him the day off, then maybe he would’ve stayed in his room and let himself rest. Or maybe she should have checked on him sooner and sent him to bed when he didn’t feel quite as bad.

Alastor pawed at his nose for a moment before stopping with a shuddering breath. He reached for another tissue, holding onto the wall with his free hand as if the force of his sneezes would be enough to throw him off balance. “Hh—HIHGK’KZZZHHH! H-heh… HIEHKZZ-shhieww!” Charlie could feel him trembling a little. They soon reached Alastor’s room, where he discarded the used tissues. He was far too tired to take the time to change out of his clothes, only taking off his shoes and coat before he climbed into bed and pulled the covers up until only his head was poking out.

No, Alastor’s primary task now was guest-oriented. Just lovely. After the battle, denizens of Hell flocked to the hotel with new interest. Only a scarce handful seemed actively committed to bettering themselves. Most of the new guests were curious about the sort of folk who would have the gall to stage a revolt against the angels. Alastor, an appreciator of fine entertainment himself, could not fault them for seeking out an opportunity for first-hand gossip. However…

With an increase in attendance, there was far more to do. Requests poured in at an unprecedented rate. Every moment of the day, there were problems to address -- and half of them were attributed to the misguided efforts of the staff. 

“Sorry, Alastor..” Charlie mumbled, and not for the first time this week. She fiddled with the handle of a sopping wet mop as they both stood in ankle-deep water in the laundering facilities room. “I was trying to fix one of the washing machines, you know they get so much use, lots of uh, stains to wash out, and-”

“My dear.” Alastor felt his eye twitch, but as always, maintained a wide grin. “Is there a reason you did not alert me, your Facilities Manager, of such an issue?”

“W-Well..” 

He was no stranger to nerves in his presence, but Charlie was usually more forthcoming with him. He sloshed into her space to throw an arm over her shoulders. “Come now, you can tell your old friend Alastor!”

Charlie fidgeted, and then gave him a sheepish smile. “It’s just.. you’ve been doing so much lately, and you look tired, so I wanted to help.”

Alastor froze, static on the dial, for a split-second. Long enough for Charlie’s smile to fall. “‘Tired,’ you say? Perish the thought!”

He straightened up and, to his great dismay, twitched his hand to twirl his staff. Unfortunately, there was no staff to twirl. It remained broken beyond repair, tucked away in the pitiful remains of his radio studio. It was the only place untouched by his Majesty’s rebuilding efforts and Alastor had yet to amass enough power to repair it. And groveling to the King with a request for renovations was out of the question. 

“The word was banished from my dictionary long ago, and besides, how could anyone feel tired with the surge of new patrons invigorating our newly renovated hotel?” He threw his arms wide, spinning with a flourish as the water at his feet flared in an artful splash. “Why, I’d say I’m more energized than I’ve ever been!”

“Really?” Charlie chirped. Her eyebrows tilted upward in a disgusting display of sympathy. Alastor could tell she was picking her words carefully. “I heard about your fight with Adam-”

Alastor laughed, suddenly and very boisterously. “A trifling matter! Forgettable, really.”

“Maybe, but-”

“Forgettable,” he insisted. His voice fell to a low gravel as he spoke through a gritted smirk. The whine of static crackled through the air. “I would like it to stay that way. Am I understood?”

Rather than become frightened, Charlie wilted with obvious disappointment. He narrowed his eyes as she sighed and held one arm with the other. “All right, Alastor. If you say so.”

Indeed, it was forgotten.

--

And as the days following the battle became weeks, and then a month, Alastor was certain everyone else had forgotten it too. Everyone, except his shadow.

The thing had been a pesky nuisance ever since the battle. It was easy to ignore at first; the odd darken-the-room-menacingly here, the occasional knock-a-small-object-off-a-shelf there. It was unusual for it to rouse without due cause. He was so busy, he hardly had time to think much about it. Ever since that confrontation with the angels, Alastor did his best to keep his mind occupied.

Nevermind that there was a sluggish, creeping sense of fatigue he was trying to ignore.

So what if there was a gradual weakness and chill in his bones?

All par the course. Soon he’d regain enough power to restore his staff and once he was powerful enough for that, all this malaise would disappear. It was all going smoothly.. In fact, with his Highness regularly visiting his daughter, they’d gone weeks without any retaliation against the hotel from outside forces. 

Everything is fine.

Alastor tried to impart this to his shadow, glaring at its dark, undulating blackness while it slithered restlessly along the fireplace mantle. He’d retired to a poshly decorated sitting room in the far corner of the top floor, sipping tea on one of the plush couches. This was a new addition to the hotel, and rarely traveled because few knew about it. It was unusual for Alastor to cloister away like this, hiding. But.. he just could not stomach another bout of inane small-talk with a guest or become a vulnerable target for one of the staff to spot him and add yet another issue to his full plate.

He blinked in the warmth of the fire, the soft crackling of burning wood. The faint scent of smoke as it wafted up the chimney. I’ll have to get it swept soon, he thought muzzily. His grip began to slack around his teacup; he didn’t notice the careful guidance of his shadow keeping the cup from tipping. Nifty will be excited to hear that. She loves the chimneys..

“Oh, it’s you.”

Alastor startled awake with a clatter of his teacup, steadied hastily with a combined effort of corporeal and incorporeal hands. While alarmed to realize he’d fallen asleep, Alastor hastily suffocated the feeling. He turned a poised, straight-spine smile to the visitor, and Alastor’s mood soured further when he saw who it was.

Lucifer squinted at him. “Uh. Were you.. sleeping just now?”

Alastor affected a chuckle and took a sip of cold tea. “Hardly. I simply wasn’t expecting to behold your intimidating presence today, your Majesty. All five feet and four inches of you.”

The eyeroll was as dramatically delivered as anything Lucifer did. He straightened his hat as he strode into the room. “The height thing is so played out. Try something creative.”

Unfortunately, freshly-woken and groggy, Alastor didn’t have any quips on hand. He could only smile.. and then stiffen when the King invited himself to a seat and started helping himself to the teapot.

“Pardon,” Alastor said pleasantly. “But what do you think you are doing?”

Lucifer regarded him with lidded eyes and raised brows. “Driiiinking some tea. This is my personal parlor and my vintage custom tea set, so. You know. Really I should be asking what in the unholy hells you’re doing here.”

Fuck, thought Alastor, frozen behind his grin. This is his designated space? Is that why there is never anyone here? Why wouldn’t he include a sign, the imbecile, if he didn’t want visitors? I suppose this explains why the teacups have ceramic ducklings on them…

He took seconds too long to answer, and Lucifer quirked a look at him as he stirred sugar into his tea. “... what, no witty one-liner todaAYYEEGHH-!!”

Alastor couldn’t hide a flinch as Lucifer spat out the tea. An unwelcome throbbing in Alastor’s head made itself known, fuzzy from startled sleep and now aggravated by the noise. His smile widened as he tilted his head. “Not to your taste?”

“That is shockingly bad!” the King spat, and wiped his tongue on his sleeve. Alastor’s expression masked a grimace. “Is that flavor even legal?? And it’s gone cold! What kind of psychopath sits around drinking tepid tea? You, I guess, but I thought even you could make a better cup than this..”

Lucifer heated the tea to steaming with a wave of his hand. Alaster doubted it was even the same tea flavor as before and resigned himself to his final cup. He glanced down at the cold liquid and with a flex of his fingers, subtly heated his own tea. Or tried to, as Alastor realized the effort was far more taxing than it should be. He gave up before he could achieve any real progress. His shadow fluttered anxiously. 

What did that nap do to me?

“Why so quiet, bellboy?” Lucifer asked, a casual leg thrown over his knee as he slouched into his armchair. “It’s weird for you. Normally you’re all, ‘I’m the illustrious host, blah blah. Stop eating all the complimentary mints, blah blah.’”

He accompanied his poor impression with a shape-shifted hand in the likeness of an Alastor-inspired puppet. Alastor lifted his chin and resolutely ignored the ache in his head. “If you would like to contribute to the hotel’s fund, you may partake of all the mints you wish.”

“Wow, you’ve got balls to say that when I rebuilt this place from the ground up, Mr. Facilities Manager.”

Alastor’s lip curled and he set down his tea to fold his hands primly on his lap. “Be that as it may, Morningstar, I was here supporting your daughter in her ventures from the very beginning-”

He paused, suddenly aware of a twinge somewhere in the center of his head. His nose, he realized, as the sensation began to crystalize: a consuming, fast-rising tickle. It was a latent reflex, dormant for so long that Alastor struggled to realize what was happening when his thin nostrils flew wide with desperate breath. He could feel his expression warring with itself, wanting so badly to frown as the feeling overtook him. 

“Ehh-..” 

A sound broke free, his squinted gaze blurred with tears. He could just barely discern the stark edges of his shadow, stretched far across the upholstery and back wall as it undulated with the firelight, twisting erratically as the sensation reached its crest. Alastor shivered with a bolt of panic; he couldn’t quell what was rising from within him. It’s coming-.. it’s- 

“-ig’zztish!”

A sneeze. Alastor remembered a breath too late. The whole production couldn’t have taken longer than a few seconds, but the mortification of indulging this in front of Lucifer Morningstar would burn inside him for centuries. Case in point, Lucifer choked on his tea.

“Waaaait, wait wait wait!” he spluttered through guffaws. “Was that what I think it was??”

Ignore him, don’t give him the satisfaction, Alastor counseled himself, jerking a blood red handkerchief from his sleeve. It was something he kept on hand for spot polishes and style, not usually… sternutatory-related matters.

“Just now? That little squeak? Ahahaha!” Lucifer leapt up from his seat and made a show of searching the room, a hand held to his forehead to shield imaginary sunlight. “Was that a teeny tiny mousey I heard?? Stuffed animal, perhaps?”

Alastor narrowed his eyes to a glare, but damn it, he couldn’t reply because… because…

Lucifer caught on immediately. “Oh ho, a repeat performance! Yes good, love an encore.” He perched himself on his chair, head cradled in his hands, watching avidly. “Go on, don’t be shy!”

I will kill him, Alastor steamed to himself. I will kill him, slice him, dice him, and roast him over a spit, King or not. But all the ire in the world wasn’t enough to fight back the encroaching tickle. It began in no specific location, just a general prickling urge, before it ballooned into a completely uncontrollable force. Attempting not to breathe backfired in a gasp even more shrill than before. Alastor barely had enough time to rush the handkerchief to his face.

“-mpzZSH’iih!”

“Aw there it is!” Lucifer cooed, in the same way he might do to Kiki. “Bwess you, Alastor!”

Abruptly, Alastor had enough of a spectating audience. Between one moment and the next, his shadow swallowed him from the room and.. suddenly he was toppling to the floor. Drat, he thought to himself, sprawled undignified on a lush carpet rug with a dripping nose. My teleportation is compromised as well?! 

He was not in his bedroom, but a random guest room directly beneath Lucifer’s parlor on the floor below. Grand. His nose twinged and Alastor tented the kerchief over it and blew forcefully before it could start up with its tricks again. He remembered that much from his life before. He also remembered blowing one’s nose was not to be done in the company of others. Just wonderful. Wonderful!

This is fine, he assured himself, despite all evidence contrary. Everything is fine.

--

And for a few days, it was. Mostly.

Fortunately, Alastor did not see the King again after the tea incident.

Unfortunately, Alastor’s encroaching plight did not ease. It just got worse.

His head, continually at some level of ache nowadays. His eyes, always itching to close for longer and longer blinks. His throat, perennially dry and scratchy to the point of painful. Aggravated by some wretched drainage from his sinuses. And that brought him to the most dire symptom -- the sneezing. Fucking hells, the sneezing. 

It was all he could do to stay ahead of his sniffles, heavier and wetter as the days passed. Uncomfortably unseemly, even when he was locked in his bedroom or his studio without the threat of someone witnessing him flashing his handkerchiefs. Alastor barely had the energy to keep conjuring them, but he absolutely refused to make use of his coat sleeve. Because when they came, the eventual sneezes were not.. especially tidy. He’d been successful thus far in avoiding detection, but as with all things, his luck ran out. 

And at just.. the worst possible time too. 

It happened during one of Charlie’s staff seminars -- an event of mandatory attendance. He stood in the middle of the assembled group; Husk and Angel Dust to his left, Vaggie to his right, and Nifty at his feet. The proximity didn’t prickle his skin the way it used to, which he couldn’t decide was a good or bad sign. Regrettably, something else was prickling -- far up in his sinuses, the faintest start of a sneeze. Alastor turned to excuse himself, and paused when Charlie called his name.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her expressive eyes beseeching. “We only just got started! I haven’t even gotten to the exercise yet..”

“Ah.” Alastor’s faculties were not as sharp nowadays as he wished they were. He mentally scrambled for an excuse as the tickle lurched forward at hesitating degrees. “I thought it prudent to check on the lobby. Wish so many guests, it wouldn’t do to keep any potentials waiting!”

He barely fended off a wince at the sound of his own voice. It was dulled with an insidious congestion clogging somewhere he couldn’t reach. It was a balm, however, to lean into his static. The fuzzy quality disguised how hoarse he’d become.

“Oh! That’s a good point, hmm..” Charlie trailed off in thought, no doubt searching for a solution. Alastor began to sneak away, only to freeze when Angel spoke up.

“Don’t we got dat sign on the desk? The ‘be right back’ thing?” he mused. Charlie lit up; Alastor clenched a fist and tried his best not to spike the fluffy spider with a glare.

“That’s right! And we have the desk bell! We’ll hear it if someone needs us.” With a big smile, she flashed Alastor a double-thumbs up. “No need to go, Alastor, the hotel will be fine!”

Alastor grinned and took a stiff step back into formation. “Superb.”

And so as Charlie settled back into her seminar, Alastor resigned himself to Plan B: do not sneeze under any circumstances. The success rate on this particular strategy was abysmal. He clenched his hands together behind his back as the tickle crept ever forward, beginning to dampen the inside of his nose with irritation. Alastor forced his gaze ahead of him, staring sightlessly over Charlie’s head. Don’t, he instructed himself. Don’t breathe a sound. No sooner did he command it, a bead of moisture skated teasingly down the side of his septum and he sniffled on reflex. 

From his periphery, he caught Angel Dust shooting him a glance. Alastor swiveled his head with a sharp grin. It was an expression meant to intimidate, but all he got in return was a raised eyebrow. Hm. Perhaps he was getting soft. And, he realized, this waning reputation wouldn’t be helped by the inevitable sneeze on the way. 

He turned his attention forward again and raised his chin just enough to try and combat gravity. Not working. 

Next, he tried breathing in through his nose and out through his teeth. No, that was worse. It fanned the sensation into further frenzy.

Alastor’s eyebrows twitched, his expression fighting to weaken. He fought to maintain a grinning grimace, even as his eyes watered and closed. Even as his chest jumped with yearning breaths. Damn this infernal itch, he cursed muzzily. Not now. Not now! 

But it seems even the terrifying Radio Demon couldn’t win against a sneeze even in the most dire of circumstances. He felt the tickle expand, inevitable, and he fumbled for his handkerchief. It came over him so powerfully he couldn’t even conjure fresh linen. Alastor tented the fabric over his mouth and bobbed forward with relief.

“H’MMPHzzsh!”

Goodness.. that was more ferocious than he’d expected, likely from the attempt to ward it off. There was a flurry of surprised sounds around him, and a bright, “Oh! Bless you, Alastor!” from Charlie.

“Pardid be,” Alastor responded without thinking, manners too deeply ingrained to resist despite his mortifyingly stuffy voice. Without removing the handkerchief, he wordlessly shuffled through the group toward the exit. “A bobent, I-..hh!”

He trailed to a stop as another tugged at him. A ratcheting series of hitches tilted his head back by degrees and then a moderately less disastrous but no less ticklish, “ih’pzzshh!”

“Gesundheit, Smiles,” was Angel’s contribution. He was smirking, the bastard; Alastor could hear it in his voice. “Dat’s a pretty cute sound for somebody so scary, ya know?”

This was the same curse that followed him in life, actually -- a man of intimidating bearing, haunted with a sneeze unbecoming of his stature. Frustrated, Alastor rubbed his nose through the handkerchief to satiate any further tickling before it could crystalize. No luck, however. Yet another was fast on the rise.

“You’re not getting sick, are you?” asked Vaggie. Alastor shot her a simmering glower from over the red fabric of his kerchief, but couldn’t manage a proper retort before his eyes began welling shut once more.

“H!..hof course dnot! -hh’√IZ⟆H!”

Ah-

His shadow twisted strangely against the carpet, expanding like a shroud to briefly darken the room. It gave the impression of lights flickering. That.. was a new development. Husker flinched from the display, and Alastor took some smug satisfaction in the knowledge that he was at least still properly afraid of him.

“The fuck was that?”

There was absolutely no way Alastor could continue without blowing his nose at this juncture, so he gave himself the liberty of a couple soft exhales while the others gathered their bearings. With a considerably drier sniff, he tucked his handkerchief back in his sleeve.

“Just something to keep you all on your toes,” he assured, talking directly out of his ass. Hell only knew what his shadow was up to, but Alastor couldn’t let on he wasn’t in control of himself.

Vaggie, arms already crossed, cocked a hip. “Cool, Alastor. Maybe.. don’t?”

Now that she’d told him not to, he wanted to do it on purpose. Judging from the ominous tingling somewhere behind his eyes, his nose was prepared to grant that wish. “What’s a little jumpscare between friends?”

“Pretty sure Nifty’s already got the ‘friendly jumpscares’ down pat,” Angel said with a pointed gesture toward the small demon. She gazed up at them all adoringly, all innocence, despite the slightly unhinged glaze over her eye.

“I think if we all continue working on our trust exercises,” counseled Charlie, “we’ll accidentally scare one another less often. It calms your nerves when you know you’re in safe company!”

“HI⎷ZZ⍱sh’ih!!”

Everyone screamed as Alastor’s shadow spasmed, coated the room in blackness, and burst a couple lightbulbs. By the time light returned, much dimmer this time, he had reproachful glares angled his way. He sniffled behind his handkerchief with a cheery smile.

“Pardon me.”

It was still embarrassing, but less so when he appeared in control of these antics. And Alastor supposed he should be grateful it was only the staff and not a gaggle of hotel guests that witnessed him falter. Or worse, that top-hatted buffoon-

The staffroom door busted open, and a sing-songy voice erupted, “Char Charrrrr! Daddy’s back from his palace meetings and picked up take-out from that place you liiiiike~!”

Alastor took the distraction as a means of escape. He called his shadow to him, melting into the inky depths, though not before catching the glowing gaze of Lucifer. The effort of teleporting a few halls down brought him to one knee, but it was worth the speedy getaway. 

Maybe.. it would be best to lay low for a while.

… Some of the other Overlords were chatting in the hallway as they slowly filtered into the conference room. Maestro was talking with Zestial, who had Carmilla at his side. Zeezi was the first to choose her seat. It was impressive that she even fit in the chairs, given her gigantic size. Valentino was there to represent the Vees, dressed in a purple coat instead of his usual red, and wearing extravagant gold jewelry. Vox had yet to make a public appearance since the “incident,” as they were calling it. Alastor’s gaze stopped on one person in particular: Rosie. They hadn’t seen each other since the day he broke out of their deal, and while they had settled their little argument peacefully, he still wasn’t in the best mood around her.

The two headed over to an empty pair of seats, passing Valentino along the way. The moth demon’s eyes trailed up and down Alastor. “Ay, you look like shit.”

He gestured at Valentino’s face with his staff. “Brilliant observation. Glad those glasses seem to be working.” The end of his sentence was cut off by more coughing that left his throat aching. As he sat down, he heard a teasing “someone’s feisty.” He tried clearing his throat, his smile sharpening into a slight wince at the lingering pain.

—————

… While everyone else seemed to be distracted, Alastor slipped away into the restroom, where he could properly deal with his nose without being seen. As soon as he stepped into the brightly-lit room, the faint burning in his sinuses flared up again, turning into an unbearable itch. He reached for the paper towels—they were coarse and stiff, but grabbing them was quicker than fumbling for a dry section on his handkerchief—covering his face as he took in a gasping breath…

There's a pang of something - a cousin to guilt, perhaps - hammering beneath Lucifer's nest of crumpled sheets and pillows, right where the open button of his nightshirt sits against his rattling chest. The stolen blankets suddenly weigh heavy on more than just his fatigued body, the ache pounding in unspoken remorse as Alastor fumbles for a quilt of his own.

Well, shit. He didn't have to make him feel bad about it. Watching the Radio Demon sniffle and sneeze his way across the room like a plague patient on death's door is supposed to feel like a well-earned victory, not the shared burden of defeat. The unbuttoned top doesn't help matters. The undone bowtie draped over his flushed neck. The wavy curls of damp hair stuck to his rosy cheeks. And, y'know, the whole attempt at an apology for sneezing in Lucifer's face.

"You could've just asked," Lucifer finally grumbles. "I'd've given them back. Probably."

Alastor shuffles back to his taped off side of the room, tripping over his once-pristine coat with a disgruntled sigh. The fabric audibly slaps against the carpet, and Lucifer realizes that Alastor had been using his fucking jacket as a handkerchief, too proud to ask him to pass the box of tissues sitting between them.

"Yeesh, that's a whole lotta sweat and snot." Lucifer's lips curl into a grimace. "Might wanna burn that thing."

"Niffty will handle it," Alastor sniffles.

"Seriously? That thing's a biohazard with sleeves. And it's twice her size. She'll get swallowed whole just trying to pick it up."

"She likes cleaning."

Yeah, no, Lucifer's not gonna let that slide. Consider this his good deed for the day, and unspoken apology for snapping earlier. A pained grunt trickles through his chapped lips, exiting his cozy cocoon just enough to reach for Alastor's coat. Copious amounts of fluid weep against his palm the moment he picks it up; his good deed mantra barely keeps him from dropping the soiled garment in outright disgust.

Alastor quirks a tired brow, monocle glistening in the low lamp light of their quarantine zone. "What are you doing?" The sigh devolves into a fit of wet coughing, static crackling with every heave of his chest.

If Lucifer heard his accent slip, he makes no note of it. "Cleaning," he mumbles.

By the time Alastor puts two and two together, Lucifer's breath is audibly hitching.

"Don't you dare," Alastor growls (rasps).

But Lucifer's past the point of no return; head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, nostrils flaring with a violent need. "hehh! hiehh!"

"Put it down or I'll... I'll..."

"hhHGHT'SHIEW!"

"hdt'zzshue!"

Ashes float to the floor, right alongside Alastor's hope for his clothes.

Lucifer's not done, hastily pinching his nose shut. "hhdt'ch! nnxgt! hep'tch! hh'h id'txch! nght!" He exhales with a whispered "choo," sniffling as he reaches for a tissue. "You're wel-" His fingertips meet polished wood. "-come."

Alastor holds up the box in one hand. A beat passes between them.

"You stole my tissues."

"You burned my coat."

"I didn't burn it, I incinerated it. That thing would've infected the entire hotel. Y'know, the thing we're trying not to do."

"And?"

"I need to blow my nose."

"Use your coat."