△ on the air △

✘ - " Should I? " It wasn't a matter of whether or not he felt like it. To him, it was much easier to operate in a way that didn't have people constantly questioning his mood. His reactions, or lack there of to things. Made it easier to fit in and move silently without suspicion at all. Rarely did anyone ever see pats the countless masks of fake emotions.

Alex hummed. " I suppose it is lucky or maybe I just know better, who knows, but I do try to make a habit of not offending the people I genuinely care for..." He rested on his head on the others shoulder with a sigh.

" Oh? Bite hm? Will you hurt my feelings? " Alex teased him gently. There was only a few very specific ways to do that in a way that mattered at all. Which feelings would be hurt? At this point in his life he could laugh the thought off.

"I wouldn't put it past myself, honestly. I've done worse to people I've believed myself to be... close to."

Hartfelt did not think he needed to elaborate, but the implication would stand, hopefully eased by the fact that he did not foresee such a situation occurring between them, leaning to nibble, slightly, at a spot near Alex's jawline. A strange, physical display of affection he could not quite contain.

"But for now, I'd not consider it to be a major concern. I just know that I have been described as mean, on occasion. That you've not agreed with that assessment thus far is a good sign, I suppose."

Perhaps it was not just feelings that Hartfelt was capable of hurting, however. Physical pain had never quite been off the table, if it meant accomplishing something he found to be of importance.

But, he thought, that did not apply here.

At least, not yet.

"If you have FOMO, however, I could bully you, on occasion."

FennelPelt didn't answer him at first as she pushed through the curtain of ivy that shrouded the medcine cat den entrance. " Not having enough to do with my own clan is the mark of a good medcine cat having done well in keeping the clan healthy and strong. " There was a hint of amusement in her answer while her tail flicked gesturing to a spot Stagtooth could wait while she began working on some herbs the scent of many different plants flooded the space mixed with a hint of burned wood thrown in.

" We have always been here as have the other clans. " The she-cat answered her paws carefully mixing the marigold pulp she chewed up with two other herbs she had fetched from a store covered by a sheet of dried leaves. " We need not fear any aggression or displeasure from the other five clans at our presence. " She continued before the rustling of her dens entrance marked the arrival of a small framed tortoise shelled tom prompted FennelPelt to fetch a leaf wrapped bundle to hand off to the cat.

Or, it was a sign that the clan was passive, not wanting to brush against any other clans in ways that meant skirmishes or battles were more likely. Were they pacifists, he wondered? Was that why he'd not recalled seeing them anywhere nearby? Stagtooth had no real explanation for that, watching the medicine cat with a bemused expression as she carried on.

"And why not? Have you never been concerned that another clan might want to take your territory for their own?"

Perhaps she was not the right cat to be asking. She was not the leader - not even a warrior. What good information could she possibly give to him, if any?

Stagtooth observed the strange tom's entrance into the den, bristling slightly in awareness for how vulnerable he was to any of the other cats within the camp. If their leader, or any of the warriors, saw him as a threat, there would be very little keeping him from being torn apart, save for his own strength and ability. But cocky as the ginger tom was, he was not so foolish to think that he could take on an entire clan's worth of warriors on his own.

He lifted his paw obediently when prompted, though he still did not look overly pleased by it.

He could almost see it in his head; Alastor in something like second-hand coveralls, darting around the bayou and letting the swamp reveal itself to his curious mind. "Herons always seem like they've seen far too much and they're just wondering why on God's earth you're interrupting them. At least when they have their necks extended-- compressed they always seem rather embarrassed about themselves." Elegant and quiet as they moved around the rivers and marshes, but mercilessly swift when they struck. One of many avian delights in the world, in his opinion.

"I liked climbing the hazel and oak trees around my father's lands, and a few of the old maple trees that were big enough-- especially in Autumn with the leaves all gold and red. The apple trees too, come harvest time or when they were in bloom." And if he helped himself to the odd misshapen fruit too imperfect for his father's table, well. That was just efficiency to get the seeds so they could be re-planted to increase the orchard.

"I would watch the squirrels and stoats rushing about getting ready for winter, and all the different birds that liked to nest and chatter away." It hadn't been an easy childhood-- long hours, hard work, the sun and elements a simple but ever-present factor to deal with, the others his father employed not always the kindest to a young child, but often kind enough, and a few of the oldest had his father's quiet trust to watch over him.

René did find himself surprised by the admission; Alastor seemed a natural performer, but he supposed it made sense if his audience were lacking or otherwise off-putting with their response. "Well, I will take it as quite the boon to get my own private performance, in that case." He would reach out to the banjo to drag his nails across those strings, careful not to make it screech.

"Ugh. I had such poor eyesight too," he recalled, shaking his head. "I did not get glasses until I was about eight or nine, I think. By then, I was stubborn about not needing them." But his mother, who had practically begged his father to buy them, had insisted that he wear them, and Alastor had no backing to refuse her.

And yet that had not stopped his father from smacking them off his face whenever he so much as exhibited even an inkling of disobedience. The memory alone forced him to smother it immediately, turning his attention back to Rene as he gave another stretch and settled back on the bed to listen, thinking through what it might have been like to live in a place where the trees did change color. To any color aside from brown, anyway.

"That sounds nice - I'd always heard of places where the trees change in color by seasons. That never quite happened around me." Not that he could recall, anyway.

Alastor rolled onto his side after a moment so he could more properly watch his present company, looking like a rather lanky, lazy cat, his hair still curled form the bath and his limbs sprawled against the sheets. He made no move to stop Rene from fiddling with the banjo, its strings taut and clean - obvious care in its form and figure as Alastor had a tendency to give to instruments which he favored.

His ears perked slightly at the mention of dancing.

"I will always take an opportunity to dance. Your skill level would not be a deterrent whatsoever. I'm quite adept at meeting my partner where they are at." And he stated so rather proudly, smug in his crowing. "I would show you my ribbons from past dance competitions, but given that I've been dead for so long... I have my doubts they still exist out there." The thought amused that they might be in some sort of museum or acting as a collector's item -

Or perhaps they were just in the trash.

He did keep an eye on Alastor's reactions as he continued to stroke through his hair, trying to watch for signs of annoyance or discomfort-- and yes, definitely avoiding those antlers for now. He had enough experience with supernatural creatures to know that certain places could be more sensitive than others (horns and other similar adornments) and if this were a different kind of drunken encounter he might have considered it just to see the demon's reaction.

But he didn't want to. He liked the tired acceptance that seemed to melt over Alastor's features and settle over the two of them, he liked being allowed to trail his fingers over what felt like old wounds with old stories, and some part of him recognized that he was also touching some soft and hidden spot that was likely unseen by the general public.

He didn't want to ruin it.

"Poetry? Stories? I didn't know you were such a creative writin' nerd!"

Genuinely surprised there. He hadn't been familiar with Alastor's talents in real life other than murder, and admittedly hadn't tuned in to Alastor's actual radio show down here just yet. A little too busy most days, and then a little too busy NOT being busy when he wasn't. But all at once he made a mental note to actually listen sometime. Especially if it wasn't just the horrific screams of the damned and dying.

"Feel free to take th' idea, I won't copyright claim ya. Or, yanno, if ya feel like namin' a freakishly handsome doctor character after me that would be kinda choice. My guy could jus' come in an' say, 'He's dead, Jim.' An' then like... a really dramatic church organ sting plays."

Although Alastor's last little addition was a little strange to him, a look of very gentle concern crossing his face.

A smart man, Worth was. Alastor was consistently touchy in terms of permitting anyone this close. The inebriation helped, certainly, but it was not an end all. The other's consideration for his comfort level was another piece of the puzzle - and drunk or not, if Worth had seen fit to turn this moment into something that probed at or otherwise made Alastor feel as though it was not safe (or a place where he would be mocked, belittled, or condescended to), then the radio demon would have no problems with turning teeth onto that hand and crunching them right down to the bone.

It was lucky that the doctor had more sense than he seemed to, at first glance.

"I was a writer before I was a radio host," he replied. "Radio wasn't exactly commercially available until after the war... I had to make do with being a journalist, writing about the soldiers coming back to the home front." A lesser known fact about him, really. "It was not my favorite topic, but it kept food on the table. And I did hear an interesting story or two... but I was only ever critical of the conflict. Not everyone was fond of it." And eventually they had stopped allowing him to write opinion pieces on it.

But he snorted a bit at Worth's suggestion for his own character in the aforementioned play.

"I will keep that in mind."

The last question seemed to be well timed - in that Alastor was beginning to drift further with the calm ministrations against his head and ears, otherwise he might not have deigned to give an answer at all.

"There are obligations," he muttered, somewhat cryptically. "It was not my first choice of venue. I've got leeway to do what keeps this place running and in tact, but..."

And he left it there, falling silent, save for a subtle buzz of feedback and white noise that accompanied what seemed to be a light doze. It would not take much to wake him again, but left alone, he would remain that way for at least a good few minutes.

The Britt startled at the stranger's shout, but did not move a muscle to return the gun to the way it was. He felt much safer without the danger of it firing during this exchange, accidentally or not.

"Calm your bosoms, you'll get it back," he snapped, quickly cocking the rifle. Not to point at the man - futile without the magazine, anyway - but the tree trunk and the slab of red painted across it.

"I do mark them. Bloody yank muppet... Hold on, I'll lower the net as slowly as I can."

It was only fair. The man had answered his question, after all. And Pendleton really did plan on returning the rifle. After the situation was de-escalated, and no adrenaline- or testosterone-fuelled hormones could urge them to act irrationally and violently.

Pen stored the rifle over his other shoulder, stepped beside the tree and used a protruding root as a foothold to climb onto the lowest branches, where he could reach the trap's mechanisms. They were carefully untied and loosened, and the man cranked a repurposed winch to lower the net and its captive back onto the ground.

Pen jumped back down, nearly tripping and falling on his bottom as he did, unaccustomed to the added weight of the firearm.

Alastor knew he was not in much of a position to demand anything, but his disdain for his current predicament was overpowering as he struggled against the strength of the net. He could not lose his weapon, he thought. Beyond it being one of the only things had kept him alive for as long as he'd been, there was a bit of sentimental value, too, a few small tally-marks etched into the wood finish. Losing it would mean losing too much - but he was not about to beg this stranger for leniency.

He would have rather died.

"Not marked well enough," the lone wanderer continued to complain in an angry mutter. In truth, he had simply been distracted, loathe to admit that reality to this accented trap-maker.

He watched, however, as the other drifted to climb up the tree, twisting in the net to keep an eye on him as though ensuring the man did not see fit to cut him down before he was ready to hit the ground. It was a surprise to be lowered rather gently after all, until he lay on the ground in a tangled heap, his foot still in more pain than he would like to admit.

"Yes, yes, just get me out."

It came as a grouse, but a somewhat muted one. Until he felt the freedom that came with being rid of the net, eager to get back to his feet. From there, he presumed that this other man would not be prepared to handle an assault from the front with his knife, and Alastor had been about to reach down to snag the weapon from where it had been placed back into its small holster -

Only for a sudden sear of pain in his foot kept him from placing weight down onto it properly, and no sooner had he stood did he fall over as he tried to take a step, fumbling into the dirt with a loud swear.

"Goddamn you," he hissed, not clarifying whether he meant the offending foot or the other man, glancing down at himself in frustration. Could he not walk? If that were the case, he was in trouble.

This time around Vox was quiet. He couldn’t confidently say if it was uncharacteristic or not for the way he’d changed so dramatically over the decades. The boisterous optimism he’d demonstrated to Alastor with his babbling dreams and ideas had transitioned into something quieter and grumpier only rearing its head in rare moments when he found himself getting carried away- catching himself and dialing it back to something more composed.

Then after recent events there hadn’t been much dreams left to go around at all.

Until he suddenly found himself in Alastor’s arms.

His pulse continued, a steady solid beating in his throat as he followed, and Alastor pulled him onto the bed that probably hadn’t been properly used in over seven years. Somehow the dusty dank of the abandoned house didn’t put Vox off at all after his years of streamlined opulence in Vee Tower.

Maybe it had a lot to do with his current predicament. Despite everything that happened, Vox opened himself to Alastor’s reaching pull. His hands found the other demon’s body again, tugging him closer.

“Conversation hour is over, got it,” he acquiesced with little argument, feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. Fighting back the urge to murmur how crazy this all was, how insane it made him feel, how stupid they both were.

The developments, the unreasonable truth, the sensation of Alastor’s body siding into his. A soft sigh escaped him against his will as he allowed Alastor to nestle closer.

“Sorry about the shine,” he lowered the brightness of his screen automatically. “I can turn it off entirely if you need me to.”

The lack of fuss that came when Alastor dared to settle there in comfort was nice, not feeling compelled to explain himself or to justify the things he'd said or done. He was not in the right frame of mind to do so, and very rarely was capable of it. Even now, his head reeled with what this could possibly mean for the present - for the future. Where did they go from here? What happened now? Did they wake the next day and pretend nothing had occurred? Like this hadn't shifted the entire paradigm?

Like an infestation of angry wasps, Alastor's thoughts threatened to swarm him until he could see and hear nothing else. What did this mean for the hotel? What did this mean for Vox's entire empire? (Or what remained of it?) What did this mean for his deal? For all of his plans? What if Rosie found out? What if anyone found out? What would they say? What would they do? Was he ready and willing to self-sabotage by permitting this? What was he thinking-

Vox's voice reached his ears, permeating the swarm with his low tone as Alastor's attention was pulled up towards him once again, blinking once or twice as though he'd forgotten where they were.

They were - here. And alone.

And so much of those questions would have no good answers. And those that did could wait.

With some effort, he realigned himself, his focus singular on Vox's words as the muted apology came and was immediately met with protest from Alastor's mouth.

"No," he said plainly. Decisively.

"Don't."

Because the radio demon was squirming closer, leaning his head up to press his face - perhaps a bit obnoxiously - against that screen, drawn to its color and its warmth as he shut his eyes. His arms tightened around Vox, as though concerned he might disappear at some point (ironic, for him, all things considered) and Alastor rooted himself there, uncertain if he'd be able to truly sleep.

But that did not matter.

He just wanted to absorb what he could of the moment, uncertain and unwilling to contend with the belief that it would be short-lived. That he'd open his eyes and it would have been another of his long list of nightmares inflicted upon him for his hubris.

Alastor wanted this to be real.

Sometime later, after Sir Precious had gone to see his kits, given them a meowing lesson and then sauntered off to speak with the medicine cats, the kits themselves were chasing each other in the middle of the camp.

"Stop! Look!" One said, nose pointed towards the sleeping heap at the edge of their meadow. The other two meowed in excitement.

"Big Warrior cat."

"Tagtooth!"

Happy to see their heroic saviour, the trio ran towards Stagtooth, their clumsy steps becoming slower as they came close to the large tom. From there, they surrounded Stagtooth, sniffing, pawing and meowing to him. They tried to get the Warrior to play by pouncing and rolling in front of him. Look how impressive we are, they seemed to say.

"I'm sorry, Stagtooth. I hope they weren't disturbing you too much." The oldest kittypet's voice came from the direction of the medicine den.

Precious tiptoed over and tugged one of the kits towards himself so he could bathe his short fur, earning squirms and frenzied mews.

"No, papa, no! No bath!" the kit objected, utilising a word heard and learned at their kittypet home. "Can do it myself!"

"Oh, right, because you're so big now," Precious said with a roll of his eyes, gaze then turning to Stagtooth. "The queen has begun weaning them."

As teasing as his tone was, Presh had to admit that his kits were visibly growing, bigger and more energetic and skillful every day. Their eyes were now bright, and could see things clearly. They had little claws and upturned ears. Presh looked at them warmly, patiently swatting them away when their little teeth tried to puncture both him and Stagtooth as they played.

"I've come up with temporary names for them, like you suggested, Stagtooth. Egg, Moon and Pebble. So they can... fit in a bit better until we return home."

Stagtooth, at first, did not budge. But when his ears detected the kits in close proximity, showing off the 'moves' they'd begun to pick up from the other, older kits and no doubt the apprentices, the ginger tom opened an eye to peer at them with some amusement. With a small grunt, he rolled over onto his side, seemingly unbothered as the kits clambered up and down on his much larger body.

He was growing accustomed to it, it seemed. That alone, though it went unnoticed by Stagtooth himself, drew a few eyes from some of the other warriors and the queens, to boot. Not once had they seen him engage in such a way with kits before. A novel experience, by all accounts.

But the ginger tom was not paying much attention to that, glancing up at Precious who had come along with them, and he gave a small nod at the names that had been granted.

"Perfectly suitable for clan cats," Stagtooth agreed. "They'll be Eggkit, Moonkit, and Pebblekit. And-" He paused, as though considering what he wanted to say before he carried on.

"Well. If they decide to stay. Or if you do... they will have the opportunity to earn their warrior names."

Though it was not just up to Precious, Stagtooth remembered, rolling back onto his belly so that he could sit up, sparing a glance over at Morningstar who had paused to also observe the kits in their afternoon revelry. The clan's leader, however, gave nothing away in his expression.

He took in a breath and released it before turning his own emerald gaze back towards the kittypet.

Pentious' hurried mood sobered as Alastor kissed him, recognising the other's effort to stay cognisant and present. He took Alastor's hand for a moment, and placed an additional peck over his knuckles.

"Only if you are careful too, dear," he said. The disguised serpent still wanted to give his companion a moment of respite from his own fussing, although at the same time he felt worried about leaving Alastor alone when he was feeling poorly.

A small moment alone could let him recharge. Hopefully.

After Alastor left, Pentious effectively emptied their room out of their things, before returning the keys to the reception and the young lady running it. He thanked the lady for the motel's great service, feeling a bit emotional to realise she may have been the last human he would properly talk to during the precious few moments left on Earth.

Afterwards, he made his way to town and dug out his phone to film whatever he could see. For the eggs, everything would be completely new and exciting, so Pentious was not particularly picky about his subjects.

"That's grass. That's a dandelion. That's a tree. That's the sky. Those are the clouds. Out there is a riverboat. Those are shops. In that window you can see a raincoat, because on Earth, rain is not acidic but only water."

He turned the camera towards himself, shakily.

"And that's me. Hello! Not quite as formidable as usual, but still very much myself. Observe my lack of sharp fangs and my protruding nose. This is what boss looked like alive...." He monologued his way down the streets, taking many more photos and videos as he did.

Once he reached the spot he and Alastor had agreed to meet back at, near where they would be fetched back to Hell, he stopped and decided to take a look at all of his gathered images. His eyes fell on the one he had taken with Alastor, in front of the mirror in their motel room. It wasn't a professional portrait, but one so significant that Pentious definitely wanted to print a copy. He touched Alastor's screen face with the pad of his finger, as if giving him a pat on the head.

Not wanting to venture off to complete his errands right away, Alastor opted to stride alone, venturing out of the area's more populated spaces towards the wilderness where they had drifted to find his childhood home. He would not go towards it now, knowing that there was likely nothing left of it, but Alastor found a quiet solace at the edge of a murky looking river, staring down into it with muted contemplation.

Where did he go from here?

That was the question, wasn't it? His mother had all but entirely betrayed him - had moved on. Had forgotten him. And now, surely, she was in Heaven, living free and without consequence. His next step would have to be to get up to see her. To question her.

And if necessary...

To seek retribution.

In the bare reflection of himself in the water, he could see the hint of his own shadow, peering over his shoulder in a loom, its hollow gaze narrowing at him. A challenge. 'Should we?' it asked him.

Yes.

But not yet.

Alastor was still bound. Too bound. If he wanted to have the leverage and to ensure that Rosie held up her end of the bargain, he would have to play things carefully... and patiently.

His mother was going nowhere.

With that in mind, the radio demon stepped away from the water's edge and carried on, recalling what he had been tasked to do and finding some flowers and beignets to bring back to their meeting place. The flowers he'd elected were an assortment of magnolias and other, smaller and more colorful buds tucked in between. The pastries were still warm when he spied Pentious from afar, nestled in a marked bag that he offered to the other as soon as he came within arm's reach. Alastor did not look fully recovered from his melancholy, but with fresh determination in mind, he was not moping.

"Here we go," he said aloud. "Fresh. The line for them was a bit egregious. I'd not realized how popular they'd gotten as tourist treats."

And, as a brief thought that he did not want to pass up, he plucked one of the smaller, yellow flowers from the bundle he'd gathered and tucked it behind Pen's ear. He would not be able to maintain it that way for long, but it was cute while it lasted.

"Ooh!" She said with a round gape in her mouth, she wasn't sure it sounded good. The bitterness of coffee was a secondary trait, she was more so after the effects that it had on giving her energy and focusing on the impossible tasks she set about accomplishing throughout her day.

But this was about bonding with Alastor...

"Maybe after the mocha you can make it the way you like it. I'd be... curious to try?"

If she sounded uncertain, no she didn't!

Listening to Alastor share details about his preferences Charlie nodded enthusiastically. He also had knack for talking without ever really giving away anything too personal. A hard nut to crack, that one, no doubt about it.

"If you insist, but I will not be held personally responsible if the bitterness assaults your senses as it tends to do to all others who make the attempt to enjoy it."

But the mocha first. Working with the coffee to put together the final touches for it, he certainly did not skimp on the chocolate for her, and eventually, with some finesse, he delivered it in a neat cup, topping it with some whipped cream and a few chocolate shavings for presentation.

"Here you are. One mocha. If you do not like it, I will be offended, so keep that in mind."

Whether he was joking or not, he would not say.

"I did not know you could do that," he added to the whole... breathing fire bit. He'd not observed it himself - even in the battle against the exorcists, he'd been decidedly... occupied.

"I would not dream of that. It is such a mess when the ship crashes. And that is not only in regard to the metal," Sir Pentious joked back. Perhaps he wouldn't be so open to implying his ship could plummet to the ground, but with the deer having caved in one window already, he felt a quick jab was deserved.

With amusement, he observed Alastor's easy manner of existing in a space that wasn't even his. In comparison, he was fidgety and a bit uncertain, so unaccustomed to improvised socialisation.

"How lucky. I am partial to some Sssscotch, myself." At least Scotch-style, with Hell's resources.

Sir Pentious followed Alastor's descent after making sure that each egg was in proper attendance for the take-off, hands joyously lifted over his chest. Like a proper host, he waited for Alastor to take a seat before sitting down on one of the comfortable velvet seats himself. How long had it been since he welcomed a personal guest on board? Or enjoyed a drink while actually seated, for that matter?

As if reading his thoughts, Frank arrived with the requested tray, two glasses filled with ice spheres, and a new bottle of whiskey.

"MacHellan, local to my turf," Pentious said. "Smoky, spicy and oily. Good choice, Frank."

"I go by colours," Frank said with a pleased smile, surprisingly nimble hands pouring the two Overlords their whiskey. Pentious lifted his glass and nodded to Alastor, doing a bit more than usual to ensure he did not spill.

Alastor would have to pretend that Pentious did not just say that, not wanting to imagine the heinous scenario in which they did end up crashing to the ground. There was something to be said about the moderate faith the audio demon had in the serpent to not kamikaze them for the sake of the bit. Nervous or otherwise, he would give nothing away, watching as the little egg delivered the requested drink and releasing a small snuff of amusement at the goofy thing's honesty as to how he seemed to sus out the correct drinks.

That did not surprise him. They did not seem particularly smart, those eggs.

With his drink in hand, Alastor sipped at it to still whatever nerves about being so high up had broiled up in his gut, finding it easier to contend with as the warm bite of the liquor coated his throat and stomach, setting him more at ease.

"My health? You'd be the first to be so concerned about it," he replied with some wry amusement, but he lifted his own glass all the same in a gesture of mutual appreciation.

"I don't think we deviate from cheers very much. But tell me-" Alastor continued, not wanting to get carried away with too many pleasantries when he knew precisely where he was going and why. If he wanted to find out as much as he could about this territory he was going to, he would have to probe for more information beyond just what his eyes could perceive.

"How long have you held onto this city in the sky, as it were? Did you fashion it from the... cloud, up? Or has it been there prior to your arrival?"