Addicted to the sorrow

And Rosie is there. She knows who he is, what happened, her voice is oh so familiar.

And Alastor thinks, he knows, that she did something to bring him here. He knows she's more powerful that she let out, he feels it, and once he manages to pull himself together, his first fully formed realization won't be "I died" but "I made a mistake."

Not now. Now, Rosie is here. It's okay, dying is such a cumbersome transition, Alastor will adjust very quickly! In the maintime, does he want some tea, maybe a snack while they're at it?– Oh, the poor thing, Rosie must have figured Alastor would be frightened, here, it's okay, she'll hold him, talk softly in his ears so he can focus on her voice and not the dozens of frequencies, she'll caress his forehead gently – there's nothing there, the bullet is gone, Alastor is just imagining the pain, it will pass

Not exactly like what you wrote, of course, but my take on a similar concept!

"Warning

Alastor's eyes lock onto the screen; he knows the movie as one close to his time period, and for once, he has nothing to criticise. The time flies by. They spool in the solace of this undiscussed living situation, letting their minds drift.

Immersed in the moment, Vox forgets his life-long mission to pretend he doesn't care what Alastor is doing. His eyes accidentally flick towards Alastor's direction, and instead of being met with a sharp glare curved by the malice leaking from his smile, he's met with the sight of Alastor resting comfortably on the sofa. His arms are tied, but he had made a nest with the pillows strewn about. There's no malice in his gaze as he stares ahead at the TV, engrossed movie. He looks... soft.

His eyelids hood his eyes gently with oncoming sleep, his brows fall against his face in a calm line, his ears gently lay against his head, and his mouth is relaxed. With the pillows huddled around him, and his body tucked into the warmth, Vox can't help but shakily exhale at the sight.

It's so far removed from the dreaded Radio Demon he has learned to detest. The unforgiving veneer draped over a memory long buried for it was too dangerous to be left alive. Vox had almost forgotten what the forbidden picture looked like. It had rotted under his touch when he had reached for it gently. It had burned and seared everything in its vicinity as it had crumpled before him. He had almost forgotten how much he loved it.

At the acrid thought, Vox purses his lips into a thin grimace and averts his gaze. He stares pointedly ahead, giving faux attention to the film running on the TV, not really paying attention. The hurt swells in his chest like a rising flame of a past ruined in its blossoming, and he can't stop himself from biting out "Piece of shit."