△ on the air △

Valentino stood in silence, nursing the last of his cigarette while Alastor carefully explained everything he was about to do. Step by step. There wasn't any sugarcoating it. Cut him open. Search through flesh and muscle. Be thorough. Make absolutely certain there wasn't so much as a trace of Dimitry left inside him. He wasn't sure if knowing the details actually made him feel any better.

He found himself smoking more slowly than usual, his eyes fixed on the cherry ember as it crept steadily down the paper. The room stayed quiet around them, save for Alastor's voice and the occasional crackle from the burning cigarette. "I have some Valium," Valentino said after a long pause. His eyes finally lifted from the cigarette. "Something's better than nothing, right?"

He wished he'd thought ahead enough to get something stronger. Opioids would've been nice. Part of him almost wanted to make some sarcastic remark about Alastor forgetting to put those on the supply list, but the joke never came. He just didn't have the energy for it. Instead, he crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and stepped over to his bedside table. He pulled open the drawer, rummaged around for a moment, and came back with an orange prescription bottle. After shaking a small handful into his palm, he tossed them back and chased them with whatever drink happened to be sitting on the nightstand.

"I got it, I got it," he waved a hand towards Alastor. "No stopping halfway through. Trust me, I don't wanna relive this more than once either." He tried to laugh. It didn't really land.

"So..." Valentino anxiously touched at his face. "You have permission to restrain me if it comes to that, okay?" He shrugged one shoulder. "If I start fighting you... Not that I expect to. I'm pretty good at managing pain but, y'know... I'm kind of a virgin when it comes to having somebody dig around inside me with a knife." He punctuated it with a wink. Normally, it would've carried all the easy charm and confidence he was known for. This one felt thin. But before the silence could settle too heavily, his eyes drifted up toward Alastor again.

"... Also. You look cute with your hair tied back." One of his hands reached out, absentmindedly straightening the little red-and-black tuft at the back of Alastor's head. "You should wear it like that more often."

His fingers lingered for only a second before falling away. And when there weren't any more distractions left, with a quiet sigh, Valentino climbed onto the bed and stretched out flat on his back. Two of his hands intertwined neatly over the center of his chest while the other pair rested loosely at his sides. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment.

"Oh... Valexa." A soft electronic chime answered him. "Play..." he hesitated. "...Whatever. Just put on a random playlist."

Another confirming beep sounded through the room. A moment later, upbeat chart-topping pop music spilled from the speakers.

"Valium is better than nothing, yes," Alastor agreed, watching as the other stepped over to down the pills and finding it satisfactory. He knew he was being a bit of a stickler when it came to this entire process, but this was not like one of his kills where he did not particularly care what happened to his victim. Right here and now, he knew that he would be careful with his treatment of Valentino, and he was doing his utmost to communicate that. To establish a trust that went beyond anything they had done up until now.

Alastor listened to the other, and offered another small nod.

"I can do that."

He had his tendrils at his disposal. And he was more than strong enough, but he'd hoped he would not have to, at the end. That he would find whatever remained quickly and efficiently, tear it free, and then work on the mending. In fact, he was going to internally manifest that that would be the case. Easy. Simple. Quick.

Hardly hearing the music, having long since learned to somewhat drown out the drone of any music that did not suit his interests, Alastor instead leaned over once Valentino was on the table.

"I will take care of you," he reiterated. There was no missing the other's trepidation and anxiety, and it would not do him much good to fret too much, even if it was likely involuntary. But Alastor leaned to press a steady, lingering kiss right to Val's mouth, entirely aware that the physical sometimes meant more to the moth than mere words.

It was only after he pulled away again that the blade was taken up in hand, and while he hovered a bit, pressing with hands to coast palms over the flesh of Valentino's abdomen and belly, any hesitation was simply to permit the pills the other had taken to take root. Enough that when he finally began to make an incision with the blade, he hoped that it would not be unbearable.

But his focus was singular, the knife cutting through the first few layers of flesh, ears perked upright to listen for expressions of pain. Not that they would stop him, but he wanted to be aware of them all the same.

"Th' floor? Really?"

He'd already made it back to his room by the time Alastor came back with their unfortunate subject, and the first thing Worth said was in the tone of a disappointed mother who'd just mopped this goddamn kitchen. He strode over from the bathroom where he'd been doing some last minute preparations and made an exasperated gesture before swooping down and getting an arm under the sinner's shoulders.

"We have a table. Let's get him on th' table."

He wasn't especially strong but he would definitely be able to assist the poor guy long enough to help him sit on the examination table and swing his legs up, however painful it might have been to move. The couch might have been better just for comfort's sake, but he wanted to be standing for this and, for once, prioritized practicality.

As soon as the little bunny-goat man was prone and lying back, Worth would rest one hand on his head and one against that bleeding wound in his side. This is usually where he'd ask someone's name, so he at least knew how to address them-- but something in him thought that might not be a great idea.

Just in case.

"Right then, so. Th' plan here is: we're gonna fix you up. Or, I am actually. Okay? So don't ya worry. I know it looks bad--" He picked up the hand pressed to the man's side to peek at the wound and grimaced. "But if we're quick about it I think you'll be alright."

There was a LOT of easy confidence in his voice that he didn't feel, but he also didn't hesitate to get started. Coat was off so his sleeves wouldn't get in the way and he'd actually remembered to wear gloves for this, so hopefully whoever this was felt special. He had no idea how quick these types of wounds could kill, if a sinner's power level had anything to do with how long they lasted after an angelic weapon; he didn't know a lot of stuff. So he got busy pulling any restraining fabric out of the way and then trying to urge their little test subject to roll onto his side with a few more murmured words of encouragement.

He'd set a little shoebox onto one side before they'd come in and reached for it now, jangling and heavy as he set it down again with a couple dozen sterile surgical tools, pulling out a small retractor and a few forceps.

"Yanno, it occured to me earlier that I shoulda bought that manual suction unit thing a while back. Was lookin' at it on th' website an' thought to myself; it would at least come in handy for boils and pustules an' all that. But really, I said to myself, how often do I need to suck things?"

He paused. "Out of people's bodies, I mean."

"I didn't see the table."

Or he hadn't cared enough to pay attention, even if he should. When working with his contracted sinners, Alastor had a rather bad habit of being forcefully nonchalant, like a cat who enjoyed playing with its meal before actually delivering the killing bite. But at least, when prompted, he did move to assist in pulling the sinner up and onto the table with little to no regard for whether or not his handling was comfortable or painful. It would not matter, soon enough, and Alastor stepped back to observe, beginning to do a bit of a circle like a waiting predator.

The sinner was glancing up at Worth with about as much trepidation as he'd looked at Alastor himself, not at all soothed, but having little to no choice but to lay there and shut his eyes, trying to will himself to calm.

Alastor did not have much to contribute to the doctor's babbling, his head tilting as he tried to imagine what device Worth was speaking of. But without any real medical knowledge himself, save for anatomical knowledge which was likely not especially helpful, there was not much he could do. He often had to understand how a machine or something akin to one worked before he could manifest it for proper function, otherwise he could only produce something that looked correct but might not have worked properly.

"Is that what you plan on doing?" He decided to ask, being a bit nosy and leaning over the sinner's prone form to give him a bit of a sniff. Already, he could sense the holy taint beginning to root into their patient's bloodstream like a toxin, and it made him wrinkle his nose. He did not think Worth to be especially aware of how its scent might permeate the air, but then, Worth was not a sinner.

"Talk me through your... process."

Just in case. One never knew - and Worth was not going to be down here forever. Alastor would not put it past Heaven to launch another attack, and if he wanted to skirt certain death, he would have to know how to manage such wounds.

Though it would be denied if ever brought up, the sensation of Alastor's teeth grazing the tender organ of his tongue issued a literal whimper from out ox Vox's mouth. A noise not quite successfully muffled by another layer of kisses, as Vox swiped forth, and the hand fisting Alastor's hair slipped down to cup around the narrow edges between Alastor's neck and jaw, like he couldn't quite make up his mind, which part of Al to clutch onto.

He might have happily died by suffocation if it meant carrying on kissing Alastor, though admittedly given the placement of his gills, Vox probably had the advantage here. It didn't stop his breath from coming out in quicker pants as his homeostasis contended with his excitement- Vox just wished that all the rushing blood wouldn't cause an embarrassing system fritz again.

He stood in a similar daze, melting back into Alastor's embrace, and lowering his hands to hold him steady. Mutually grounded, mutually at a loss for words.

Vox's eyes turned wide at the sudden explosion from Alastor, though for once not at the receiving end of that wrath. He just blinked in shock at the 180 of demeanor, but surprise quickly slipped into fond amusement, his thumb rubbed almost absently against Alastor's hip, Vox scoffed a laugh.

"Yeah," he chuckled. "I guess I wouldn't mind taking you up on that offer for a nap earlier."

That such a simple gesture could render Vox silent and still was so baffling to him that Alastor was still not certain about this - about any of this. Not necessarily because it was Vox, but because it was... anyone. These were uncharted waters, and he was doing his utmost to navigate the deep end with little more than his own flailing limbs. He'd known for many years now that he must have harbored something- something that kept his eyes searching for Vox, no matter the veneer of malice that his true gaze had always hid behind. And now...

It was within arm's reach.

He just had to... grab it. And hold onto it.

But that felt difficult.

"I suppose, now that you mention it..."

Sleep sounded much less daunting than whatever he might have to figure out after that.

Regardless, with some reluctance, he parted them for a brief time, his hand reaching down to snag the large claws of Vox's to lead him back towards the ladder and down into the house proper. The halls felt a bit too warm now, like they were beginning to box him in. But Alastor swallowed back the fear - he had to. He could not go back on this now, lest he be seen as a coward.

And despite himself...

The contact between them had brought forth a soothing sensation that he was loathe to give up so soon. There was little doubt that if he were to abscond now - to flee as he had all those years ago - that there would be no mending it again. He would not get another chance.

Hold onto it, he told himself internally, guiding Vox down the hall towards the bedroom, and, more quickly than he really should as though to stave off the nerves, pulling the television down into the only slightly dusty sheets with him.

"...Don't ask me to explain myself any further," Alastor murmured in the quiet of the room after a few moments, turning his gaze away in embarrassment. He hated coming across as any manner of shy. He was not shy, illustrating as such as he forced himself in close proximity to the other to absorb what warmth he could while they were hidden away where no one else could see.

This was just... not his wheelhouse.

"Connection does tend to form when one lets themselves share a little of that vulnerability," he replied, then settled in to listen to Alastor play and sing, delighted.

The contrast between the lyrics and the composition gave him a pleasant little thrill, that still deeply human part of him reveled in the juxtaposition of the macabre sentiment and in the vivid, lilting staccato of the banjo.

Once the tune was done, he would applaud, whistling as one might in a rowdy (but not vulgar) bar.

Alastor would have to not spend too much time imagining Rene in a wig and dress, though he was not certain whether the imagery was comical or alluring. Depended on the dress, he supposed, brushing the matter aside for later exploration as he plodded on through his song, finishing with his typical flourish and offering a half-bow from where he sat as the other seemed to provide the satisfying applause that such a feat of musical prowess truly deserved.

(In his opinion, anyway.)

"They are strong beasts of trees," Alastor agreed, setting the banjo aside for the moment to flex his claws slightly and stretch them from how they'd been turned and coiled to play the tune correctly. "I used to climb them when I was younger, looking to see if I could find snakes or lizards amid their low branches. Sometimes, I would upset the herons - although they were much more patient with me than I think they had any right to be."

He smirked to himself as he brought about the memory, but it vanished from his features as he moved on from it, not wanting to delve too deeply into his childhood days, lest something much more unfavorable crop up from his reminiscing.

"I don't sing publicly as much as I used to," he decided to mention instead. "At some point, people began to feel a bit entitled to my talent - and it became much more a chore. But every so often, it's nice to indulge a bit once more. It's not quite as enjoyable as sharing stories and gossip on the broadcast, but it's not far off."

Alastor had not sang on the radio for eons now. He'd tried it, once upon a time - but had grown a bit exhausted with it, wanting to hear and share more of the greats that already existed. And he did not think his listenership minded.

‎ ‎ ‎ Diurnal; nocturnal; crepuscular. The word for an animal like Vox doesn’t yet exist, something he would proud of. He wakes for a week, then sleeps the length of the day at the week’s end. Failing that, it’ll be a fortnightly resting period. He peppers naps throughout his waking period, anywhere from a short five minutes to a few uncaught hours. When it comes time to sleep, uninterrupted, he slips into rest as if it were his final one. In Alastor’s bed, he is an unmoving lump save from the ambient noise that surrounds him, so copious and many he would play the part of an ecosystem by sound alone. He sleeps prone and deeper still with Alastor’s added weight, right up through the morning.

‎ ‎ ‎ Alastor’s voice does nothing to stir him. He searches sleep so deeply that his antennas are both lip on his head, bulbs hung down like baubles tied to limp strings. One of his arms, having wiggled free from under his chest, is stretched forwards, and a sharp claw on the end twitches in vague recognition that he’s being spoken to, somewhere far off. One of his antennas rise up, though leaned over like a windblown tree, the bulb too heavy to carry proper.

‎ ‎ ‎ Flick; he emerges. His ambient noise becomes a roar of life. His gills inhale deeply like they’ve been starved for air and every muscle from his lower back to his shoulders tense, and he lifts his head. His screen asserts its usual lurid blue slowly, roaming into the shades of a dark and warm ocean. His pupils appear blurred in his eyes, and he blinks one at a time.

‎ ‎ ‎ Promptly, he complains, “Ugh… my head.”

‎ ‎ ‎ His bent antenna dips to a recurring sound. Alastor. Vox musters the effort to roll onto his back, groaning quietly. His hands lock together on his lean belly while he squints at the ceiling.

‎ ‎ ‎ “And here I was…” He pauses to yawn, the enormity of his mouth gulping up the space his eyes are supposed to be. They return with a few extra frown lines, and he continues, “…hoping this was just some fucked up nightmare.”

‎ ‎ ‎ It wouldn’t be. What disturbs him most turns out to be real, and that’s how he’s always progressed, but he can’t figure out the height to jump this hurdle. He’ll have to dwell on it longer. He shifts to push himself half-up, the thick, single-lined protrusion of his spine hitting the headboard while he raises up his arms and unleashes another loud yawn. Off go his eyes again, but they come back more cognizant, trim pupils focusing on Alastor in a dull assessment. It doesn’t take him too long to connect the dots.

‎ ‎ ‎ “Did you sleep on me? Geez. With all that complaining about privacy, you hypocrite.”

While Alastor might have exhibited a much higher display of impatience for anyone else, it is quite the benefit to Vox that he is not outright leaping onto the television to get him going. It likely makes a bit of a difference that he himself is still a bit tired, and somewhat missing the warmth of another body amid the sheets. But that is not something he is about to admit to himself, let alone Vox. Instead, he simply watches the other's strange, but interesting start-up routine, his own messy ears perking upright once he is aware of the other's breathing and the familiar blue light of his face.

Of course, his expression shifts into something just a bit more put upon as he is acknowledged with all of the sourness that Vox can seemingly muster on such a morning.

"You decided to take up space in my bed. It's my right to lay upon it, no matter who is in the way," his own voice comes as a bit of a throaty retort. There is still clear exhaustion in it, but he does his utmost to not acknowledge it. "If you do not want to be used as an impromptu mattress, then you will take up less space next time."

Next time. As if there is a next time. Why would he say that? Even Alastor does not know.

"Up. I'm hungry. And then we are running errands. The bistro I like to go to stops serving breakfast at a certain time and if we want the good coffee, we will not miss that window."

We. Alastor is hesitant to just let Vox wander about the hotel - or even the city - unmanaged and unmonitored. Even now, he knows that having anyone realize that the radio demon has been harboring what could feasibly be considered his worst enemy will be jarring enough. He does not want to face that reality without food in his belly, no matter how inevitable it is.

He pauses, however, squinting slightly at Vox with a tilt of his head.

She didn't have time to feel bad for him over his lack of playing before he hit her with another thing she hadn't realized she'd been doing.

"Is that how it came off?! I'm so sorry, Alastor... it was never my intention to talk to you like a child. Clearly, you're an adult." It wasn't actually clear at all. Between his size and the other bits he'd mentioned, he seemed like the youngest of the bunch -- at least to Pomni, he did.

"I... guess it's a little of all of the above? You're this cute little animal, and it makes me think that you could be younger than the rest of us, but if you say you're one of the oldest ones here--" which she still had a hard time believing, but Alastor knew himself better than she did-- "I have no other choice but to take your word for it."

Starting right after she reached out to pet one of his ears.

"Sorry," she exhaled the word through a soft smile. "You are really cute like that." Like a pet for the circus members to dote on and pet at will. That was the wrong way to think about him, though. She knew that now. While she had been encouraging the others to think of them all as people, she'd been thinking such a terrible thing about Alastor... was she really that shallow?

"I'd still like to hear more of your music," she said, correcting her tone to be the same as she would have used with any of the others at the circus. "But I'm guessing it's not as easy to practice when you've got little hooves instead of fingers." Maybe they could come up with some other instrument for him to play that used a bow or something of the like to play instead.

Admittedly, there was a satisfaction in hearing Pomni somewhat fumble over herself to apologize. Since his arrival, it had been one after another, being approached by the other residents as though his short stature was an indication of near infancy. Luckily, he was verbose enough to disprove that with some chastising, and he found it rather pleasing to see the others scramble to fix their perception.

She, at least, had enough propriety for him to not immediately swat at her hand for reaching out to pet him. (Beyond that, it did not feel terrible.) What he did offer was a slight roll of his eyes, though it was not very thorny.

"I was a middle school teacher," he began, recalling the very same story he'd mentioned to Jax upon the rabbit's probing. "Computer classes, mostly. A lot of what I do now is hobby work I'd never quite had enough time to fiddle with before or after my actual day job. Kids. They take up quite a bit of your time for nowhere near enough pay."

Stories and anecdotes he'd pulled from his data banks. Alastor truly had no idea what it was like to be a teacher. Or to be around children. He was making it all up.

Shaking off the contact between his ears and Pomni's hand for the sake of his general aversion to touch which he'd side-lined, for the moment, he glanced at her as she mentioned his hooves, turning his gaze down to them and wiggling his little cloven digits.

"Mm, yes. It's taken a bit for me to get used to them. And I can't always reach the tallest of the frets," he continued with a small scowl. "But if I think hard about it, it's not impossible."

Alastor's head tilted slightly at her suggestion.

"Wha--"

He froze in his expression of anticipation for a few moments, hanging on a final thread of excitement before Alastor's words inevitably sank in and he fell, landing on the wide and soft cushion of a rather mundane and seemingly unremarkable secret.

His ears tilted down, his tail relaxed a little, he blinked a few times. Not especially disappointed, but feeling probably the same way he might feel if someone revealed they hated chocolate. They were allowed to hate it, of course. A bit unfair though, maybe. It wasn't like chocolate (or dogs) ever did anything to anyone--

He stopped then, an idea dawning on him that probably reflected in his whiskers twitching and his eyes focusing on Alastor's face again. A kind of shrewdness shone in his gaze as he thought about the fact that Alastor had been reformed in this new Hell as a deer-like creature.

And that this was supposed to be, as common as it sounded, something that the radio demon hadn't told anyone else.

Alastor hadn't said he was afraid of dogs though. He just said he didn't like them. He hated them. They were disgusting.

Hmm.

He shrugged then, lacing his hands behind his back and giving a satisfied nod and a small, satiated smile.

Yes, he was happy.

"Yer secret's safe with me."

Unremarkable to anyone who did not understand the significance of such an aversion, sure! But Alastor had never agreed to elaborate on why it was a secret or what one could feasibly do with the information. A secret had been promised and a secret had been delivered, his gaze meeting Worth's as though challenging him to say anything about it that could ostensibly be construed as mockery. The skinny doctor did not seem like the type, but one could never truly know for sure.

Still, he settled a little when it seemed as though Worth was not about to laugh or otherwise be cruelly observational, his ears lifting slightly from their earlier defensive posture.

"Good," he replied. "The last thing I need is the entirety of the Pentagram deciding that their little strange hell beast is the exception to the rule and they must introduce me to them in order to change my mind."

His nose wrinkled, upsetting himself by the very idea as a concept.

"Eugh."

It forced him to give a little shudder of disgust before he corrected himself, glancing back at Worth.

As Alastor re-dressed himself, Vox watched. He didn't have to pretend like he was more concerned with his own clothes this time around. Instead, he peered at Alastor as he got himself situated, with hands slipped into the pockets of his new slacks (technically not yet purchased, but also the employees had all mysteriously scattered since their arrival at the boutique).

It was a bit surreal seeing Alastor in a new outfit. He'd grown so familiar seeing him one way. This was a bit unexpected...

He looked good. The bastard. Vox frowned, fighting real offense.

"Oh yeah? So who are you dressing for right now, then?"

"For the adoring public, of course!"

It was a facetious answer. Alastor did not dress for anyone but himself - most of the time. But it was a hidden truth of his own which he would not reveal that he was absolutely looking to wave a red flag in front of the bull, so to speak.

He wanted to catch and keep Vox's attention. For however long he needed to.

"Now that you look presentable, and I look much nicer in comparison, I'd be remiss if I allowed us to pass up the opportunity to venture forth for a decent outing. Perhaps convince the rest of Hell that you and I are not about to ravage the place for the sake of old grudges? That would make getting a snack much easier."

Alastor was always looking for a means to get himself something to eat, and he turned, practically batting his lashes at the other as his tail gave a little wiggle.

"That is, if you're interested."

He would only be moderately offended if Vox were not, but he had a hard time believing that the television would turn him down flat. He might fuss and moan about it, but eventually, he would surely agree.