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"I can't process what I'm feeling now"

That was how he handled the things that hit a little too close to home, that dredged up the feelings he didn't have the adequate vocabulary for. How embarrassing. No thank you; I'll just be putting those away now.

As Vox leaned back, his grin widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling with delight. A series of cracks ran down his spine as he straightened up, using the hands behind his lower back as leverage to support himself. The edges of his grin tightened slightly as it applied pressure to his chest, but he refused to stand in anything less than perfect the posture he was known for. Even if the position of his chest caused the stitches beneath his outfit to pull taut and painful across unhealed flesh; it was an acceptable consequence, especially without his corset to further brace his shoulders.

"Well! I could take a look, if needs must. Believe it or not, just because I predate cable doesn't mean I don't know my way around electronics," he said with a tilt of the head that resulted in his entire upper body canting to the left. "...It also doesn't mean I don't have it."

Cable, he meant, as he brought a hand out to gesture over the edge of the loft.

"If you need something to do. I don't want you going out until you're functional enough not to end up on the receiving end of an angelic blade," he said, but paused, bringing his hand in to his chin, eyes drifting to the side. "I think the television still works. I admit this place was in quite a state when I first came here after my absence!"

A shrug with both hands before he turned and promptly strode away from the bed again. He didn't go far, just over to the railing that lined the loft area, where he turned to lean back on it. He took his cigarette tin from his back pocket, pulling one out. He didn't smoke much anymore, in much the same way he didn't drink that much anymore. Usually when he was in pain. Which was, often, now... The tin clicked shut beneath his claws as he slid the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, his other hand raising. Slim, crimson digits snapped, igniting a flame above his fingertips as he used it to light the end of it.

Deep inhale. Heavy, smoke-filled exhale. A revealing sigh, perhaps, as tired as it sounded. His skin was crawling, and it was all he could do to keep himself from shuffling, from bringing his hands up to claw at his own arms until he found bone, or whatever little crawlies were squirming beneath his skin. Until he could get the feeling to stop. A consequence of the drugs Vox had kept him on, he knew. It wasn't his first time in withdraw. Far from it, in fact, and the nicotine—or whatever Hell equivalent existed—did nothing to actually staunch that feeling, but the chemical pleasure curling across his nervous system after the smoke hit his lungs was a welcome reprieve, all the same.

When his eyes opened again, he held the tin up towards Vox. Want one? That gesture said. A gesture he'd made a hundred times over to Vincent over the years. He didn't wait for a response, tossing it to him. Maybe it was a quiet test to see how his reflexes were like this, how Vox's nervous system was recovering, if he could move and catch the tin or if it would thump from his chest, into his lap, instead. Vox didn't need to know that was what he was doing.

With his hands empty, Alastor took the cigarette between his fingers after another drag, exhaling another lungful of smoke as his other arm crossed over his chest so he could rest his elbow in his palm. He felt overdressed for this; like his coat should be gone and his sleeved rolled up to the elbows, his bowtie loose, his collar open. Not fully dressed in a stuffy suit. Maybe it wasn't the suit that was stuffy; maybe the skin was too tight around his bones. Withdrawals.

"I might be able to get the wifi from the building next door." He meant wifi password, but the fact he knew what the wifi was or that it needed a password at all was probably an achievement in itself. He knew your cellphone was working, Vox. He'd felt the signal from it the moment he stepped into the apartment. Still, the fact he was beginning to grasp the concept of wifi did not mean understood the concept of data, or how it worked. Or he was selectively pretending he didn't. Impossible to tell which when both were equally as likely.

"Either way, I have time to kill," he said, and maybe there was a slight roll of the eyes, thinly veiled disdain as he spoke so casually. He didn't say outright what he was needed for after that time was up, but it likely wasn't hard to guess. If anything, irritation in the set of his brow probably made it more obvious than anything.

He hated that fucking hotel. He hated the patrons. He hated the people who ran it. Them more than anything. The only decent ones there now were the ones he'd summoned. But he couldn't just tell Vincent Vox that. He couldn't. To tell him he hated them would open the conversation up to why. To why he was still there. To why he went at all. That would lead to Rosie, and he couldn't talk about it.

Neither method is particularly helpful.

So while Alastor remains cool and even-keeled, Vincent sits there nervously, shaking like the purse chihuahua of a hot, blonde lawyer dressed head to toe in pink. Which isn't even entirely metaphorical! He is quite literally still trembling and has been since he first reattached himself. Sometimes his condition improves, sometimes it worsens. He is currently in a valley - working for so long on his leg has sapped all of his energy, so his ability to stabilize himself has lessened. And the anxiety? Well. That isn't really helping him be any less twitchy.

And another thing. All this yapping away from Alastor, and most of it seems to smack Vincent in the face before bouncing off his big, fat and flat-screen head. He doesn't actually internalize much of what is being said. The meaning, however, sticks with him. Rather, the QUESTION of the meaning sticks with him - it's all manner of kindness and care. Oh, I'll help! I'll fix you! I'll keep you entertained! I'll keep you safe!

Okay. But why?

It doesn't make sense to Vincent. So while he's sitting there nervously, shaking, feeling a not insubstantial amount of shame that keeps him from making too much eye contact, he also occasionally shoots Alastor looks as if he has five different heads that are speaking to Vincent in five different languages (none of which he understands).

He is, in fact, so lost in this loop of anxiety, shame, confusion, repeat, that he almost doesn't catch Alastor's offer of the cigarettes. But he does catch it. What he doesn't catch, however, are the cigarettes themselves when the tin is tossed at him. His reflexes exist! His hands go for it! His fingers just don't really do the thing where they work. He doesn't grasp it properly, and it just bounces out of his palms and onto the bed. Sparks discharge from his antennae out of a rush of embarrassment over the clumsy display. A deep grimace pulls at his lips. Vincent remains silent, irritably opening the case and plucking out one of its contents. Mirroring Alastor, the cigarette nestles in the corner of his mouth, and he snaps his fingers. He produces a cyan-blue electric arc between his thumb and forefinger, which he uses to light it.

His feelings now angling toward frustration, the emotion only compounds as Alastor goes on. His expression sort of crumples into something that suggests every next word from Alastor's mouth is more insane than the last. Furrowed brows. Mouth slightly agape. Befuddled. He is befuddled. And while it is so tempting to needle into whatever Alastor means by I have time to kill, Vincent has a more pressing inquiry.

"Okay," he starts, smoke bursting out of his mouth. "What I don't have, Al, and what I would like to have is a fucking clue what is going on here." His hand not preoccupied by the cigarette is clasped around that tin. His angel steel-tipped claws tap away at the case restlessly. "I mean, why are you fucking— heh... HEHEH-HEH-HEH..." Disbelief cuts off his words, splicing in exasperated chuckles. The heel of his palm presses into his face, rubbing at the corner of his eye, before he can pull himself back together. "Why do you give a shit?"

The question hangs in the air, accompanied by Vincent raising his head to reveal an incredulous, baffled expression.

Then Vincent shakes his head.

"Why are you— what is this?" And, as if to emphasize, he holds the cigarette up just a little higher. The tin in his hand is presented. Then both hands fly out to his sides, held out in a bewildered shrug. "What is going on? Why are you being nice? It's fucking weird." Because you shouldn't be nice to me! You should be twisting the knife like you love to do! Especially after last night! You should be twisting and twisting and twisting and— "I mean, whatever, protect your investment, I guess. Fix me up so you can use me however you'd— what do you even want me for? What can I possibly do for you?"

What is he good for now?

What is the point of him?

Is there a point to him?

"Is it— is it— is it— is it just FUNNY for you?" There's a crackling sound that erupts from his chest, humorless laughter, as it dawns on him. Is there really any other reason to keep Vincent around? He's entertaining. And, hey, he always was an entertainer at heart. See? It is funny. He is funny. He is a joke, after all. "Is that what I am now? Your personal clown? What, you got your fill last night, so you fucked off to go and giggle about it? Are you back for more of that? Lull me into a sense of security first... Gonna start poking me again to see what other DUMB, PATHETIC SHIT I say?"

Consider: Rosie just went through the soul owner equivalent of when your outdoor pet comes home smelling of somebody else’s perfume and wearing a different collar

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