△ on the air △

"That would have been quite the adjustment overall, I imagine. The hooves, too, I'd think would take some getting used to."

The reminder of the ones one the back of his neck had René jerking, a hand coming up reflexively to cover them before he forced it back down. "Let's... not ruin such a lovely evening," he suggested, slipping into the water to combat the wave of cold that had come over him. They didn't always bother him so much, but he was already feeling nostalgic and there were some memories he didn't want to turn over if he could get away with it.

"Considering I've only ever died the once, I'm not very inclined to find out if my body fully regenerates everything if I were to die again. We Sinners are persistant, but that does not necessarily mean that I'm especially enthused about the idea of permitting anyone to get one over on me in that way. To that end..." He shrugged. "Maybe the scars go. Maybe they don't. I'll never know!"

The ending of the statement was spoken cheerfully, with a toothy edge to it that was more of a threat to the general populace. Alastor was staunchly against dying unless it was by his own hand. (Or Vox's, actually.)

"But I've grown accustomed to how I look."

A bit obnoxiously, and as he assessed the other's nervous gesture, his lanky legs extended so that they would set themselves right into Rene's lap. Nude or not, it did not matter. A nice place to rest his hooves was just that.

"I see," he spoke plainly. "That's not an unlockable event until Chapter Two, I suppose."

But he would not press needlessly. He could be obnoxious in many other ways that did not risk sullying the moment. And in the meantime, he was going to reach to find his drink which he'd set aside, sipping at the remainder of what he had in his glass to feel the pleasant warmth both inside and out.

"They do. It's rather gruesome when it happens. I used to be concerned that they'd fall off entirely, but they don't seem to have that specific trait." And he reached up, to give a little tap-tap on one of them with a claw, as if to demonstrate.

"I suppose you do have nice enough fluff for the both of us," he added, trailing a fingertip curiously along Alastor's outstretched arm fuzz and down to one of his claws, "though balanced with an equivalent sharpness."

He waved his hand and gave a soft laugh. "Oh, well, you're welcome to take your time on them-- I'm hardly going anywhere for the next eternity."

René looked down, the scar on his abdomen and his hip in view. "There's only so much to tell, I'm afraid," he replied, brushing a hand along the one on his throat. "This one was where the vampire who turned me bit me," he explained, hand trailing down to his hip next. "This is from his hand as he grabbed me from the grave he'd crawled out of. They healed once the others in my battalion managed to cart me off to the field medic's tent."

Then it was the one just a little off centre between the bottom of his rib cage. "This one is from my first death, I was stabbed in a battle, and all of a sudden I'm something like twenty miles away, confused and panicking, surrounded by dirt, desperately crawling out of the ground, fangs in my mouth and a hunger I didn't know how to name gnawing at me."

The longer Alastor permitted the heat of the water to settle past his fur and into his muscles, he found himself not so tense at the thought of sharing such a space with Rene in such near vulnerability. It benefited him to the point where he did not seem to react in any considerably negative way to the touch that tickled lightly at the fuzz on his scarred arm, and claws turned after a moment to flex with the light prodding.

Once he could break free of his hesitations, Alastor was certainly prone to preening, his ears settling back against his head, though this time out of relaxation rather than tension.

"I try to keep people guessing. Though I will admit, trying to figure out how to care for claws the first few years down here was a journey of trial and error. They tend to grow a bit unwieldly if I don't tend to them regularly. My fur is not quite so stubborn." None of his hair grew any further beyond where it was now - and in the spots where he was scarred, Alastor might have even had thinner patches of fuzz that exposed them rather starkly.

But with the attention soon off of him and onto Rene's scarring, the radio demon turned his attention to each that the other pointed out. The evidence of fangs and death; each scar with a different story. Not like his own - all from one source that was then scored over by his own hand. Much less interesting, he thought.

Alastor could sense, however, the evidence of something deeper than what Rene was alluding to as the brittle laugh escaped him. And he knew there must have been more to it.

[ @burningfeathersx ]

✔ Indie Biblical OC!Lucifer; 23 yrs. experience. 15+ yrs this character. ✔ Open/Multi-Verse ✔ OC & Canon Friendly ✔ Flexible Narrative Style; para/script/long/short/whatever ✔ Mun & Muse of Age ✔ Open to all types of character relationships, even negative ones.

He was pleased at Alastor's approval for the scent, preening a bit at the praise. "I'll write down which ones I used, you might be able to find a perfumer down there to make something for you. I've tried making my own a time or two, but I wouldn't say it's a talent of mine." He liked scents, nice perfumes, colognes, but distilling them from scratch wasn't something he had found the patience or focus for.

René appreciated the time Alastor took to think it through, and smiled more earnestly at the request. He nodded, continuing to strip his shirt off once Alastor joined him in methodical dishevelment, similarly folding it and setting it aside. "Agreeable. I'll ensure if I do have anything to say, it will be florid and detailed in its praise." He supposed some level of self-consciousness may well exist, being changed so by death, though Alastor certainly didn't seem outwardly bothered by it.

His trousers and boxers followed suit, set away from any potential splash zones. He only had a few scars, ones acquired before or during his first death: two round burn marks on the back of his neck, about an inch in diameter each; the ragged line of scarring across his throat from where Clemenz had bitten him and René had subsequently been stitched up; some claw-like marks on his left hip that went down onto his thigh; and the puckered stab wound a little below his solar plexus from where he'd been stabbed by a bayonette during his first death. It was the only one to leave a permanent scar.

He perched on the edge of the bath, at ease with his own nudity, and dipped a hand in to test the temperature; a little hot, but in the pleasant way that a bath should be, and would allow it to cool to a more gentle warmth as they sat.

The revelation of Alastor's body did have his attention, but René did ensure he wasn't leering. A quiet appreciation, as if admiring a sculpture, letting his eyes trail over fur and the contours of flesh as it was revealed.

Hands steadily undoing the clasps of his shirt and pulling it off to then set aside, Alastor was not in much of a hurry. His body mottled in scarring and the massive brand emblazoned on his back, he was doing his utmost to not paint them as worth paying much attention to. But beyond that, Alastor too had a few large spots along his hips, a red stripe along his back leading up to the fluffy tail which was slightly bristled in response to being so exposed.

"I was of average height, thank you," he quipped absently as he completed the disrobing, clothing all set neatly aside as he took a moment for his own wandering gaze. Rene's body was similarly appealing - but Alastor was not going to ogle. He was not the sort, too preoccupied with stepping carefully on pointed hooves to the edge of the tub to find purchase. He had never been one to appreciate tiled floors, no matter how necessary they were. Hooves made it far too easy to slip and slide (as he'd done quite a few times after first descending into Hell.)

He'd been in the middle of settling into those bubbles on the other end of the tub before his ears caught the sudden shift into the flow of French that Rene began to grace him with, eyes locked squarely onto the vampire as he carried on.

He'd said complimentary, sure, but he'd not anticipated the near bombardment of overly saccharine sentiments in the form of such poetic rhythm. It was clear that he was significantly flustered, but he would have to use the heat of the bath as an excuse, glancing away after a moment with a scoff.

"One might think that you were after something with all of that fluff," Alastor hummed, his gaze returning to look at Rene sidelong. An arm came up to rest along the edge of the tub as he gave a stretch of his lanky legs and sharpened hooves. (They needed a bit of trimming, but he'd not quite had the time lately.)

Not even Vox had ever made such an effort to impress or otherwise woo him.

...Dangerous thinking. Maybe.

In the shroud of the bubbles, at least, he did not feel quite as exposed.

If he sent any more texts trying to explain himself, he'd probably come off as whiny and annoying and Alastor already barely tolerated having a modern phone in the first place!

Just as he was ready to sulk some more, the presence of the other overlord did not go unnoticed, but Vox still startled by Alastor's voice.

"Mother FU-!"

Vox swerved his chair around and squinted at Alastor, crossing his arms while trying not to look like he was self conscious about his very clearly messy depression cave.

There were a lot of discarded empty take out boxes, energy drink cans and the like strewn about. Not exactly caring about cleaning up after himself. Clothes weren't looking much better. His suit jacket had been discarded and he was still a little damp from his earlier swim in the shark tank when he couldn't even be bothered to fully dry off.

"Could've warned me you were coming over, you know, I might've...I dunno, attempted to call someone to clean up," he muttered at the end, screen dimming.

"Look, after everything went down, I was delegated to fixing everything and what Vel and Val don't have time to deal with. They're essentially running my side of the company on top of their own. I have to prove to them I can still do this. Bring my approval rating back up. Even if I have to stay in the shadows for who knows how fucking long -"

Vox knew he was rambling, a bit too high strung in the moment while trying to defend himself. He brushed back at his antennas, chuckling nervously. "I'm back up ten percent. So it's working! People are trusting me again, because I get the work done. I always get the work done."

He was behind on emails. They were always fucking endless. But Alastor was here. His eyes flickered, bordering on manic.

He'd anticipated catching Vox off guard. It was a bad habit to simply pop in when he so felt like it. But his hands were not empty - he'd brought along a pair of coffees and a small bag of dark chocolates and a few other sweets along with him, stepping closer as the television seemed to rattle on with his explanation and excuses. Alastor set his goodies down and leveled a stare at Vox as he carried on, breathing out a steady exhale.

"I don't think me warning you would have made much of a difference," he said.

The radio demon's ears set back against his hair as he moved to the bag that he had brought, plucking from it a small chocolate bar. This one was a milk chocolate - not quite his tastes. But then, it was not for him.

And he offered it to Vox.

"I don't need a drink. I need you to take a moment to breathe. Or whatever it is that you do." Fans. Whatever it was.

"Eat this."

Vox rubbed at his screen to work away some of that eyestrain of a headache. He'd downed a few pills with his coffee earlier, but they'd only taken some of the edge off.

For now, he supposed, he'd click away from the cameras and pull himself away from company emails and HR bullshit from Val's side to stay focused on the conversation.

[txt] no of course not. I haven't visited anyone in person-person in months, really. I've had visits to ME, but...I think you're the first one to have caught on.

Alastor did not care much about the logistics of the holograms. He'd hear about it later, surely, snuffing in frustration at the stupid phone in hand before deciding to not respond. Instead, he gathered a few things for himself and paused, however briefly, to inform Husker that he would be absent, for a time.

An undetermined amount of time that he would not elaborate on.

But the next time Vox heard from him, it would be very much in person, the swell of inky shadow finding its way to Vox's proverbial dungeon in which he'd secluded himself. Alastor had not bothered to dress himself in any real formal manner, knowing that it was only Vox who would see him, having pulled on a rather over-sized blue-grey hoodie for the sake of comfort.

Probably for the best. Once he made himself present in the screen-filled room, he could sense that this was not the time nor place to expect formality anyway.

[txt] makes it so i can practically be everywhere at once without stressing out. I've been working ever since I got my body back, I can't leave my room without everything going tits up.

[txt]: I am worth more than a phone call.

Huffing to himself, Alastor wanted to be irritated. But the last bit of Vox's second message was enough to give him some significant pause. He'd never thought the other to be so timid about returning to form.

It was enough to throw a few red flags in the back of his mind.

[txt]: You're not avoiding me specifically?

As the deer's ears perked noticeably, Vox's eyes settled on the red of the Radio Demon's pretty helpless to look anywhere else. Vox engaged in the staring just as well, unable (or maybe unwilling) to break the connection, and only feeling more confused when Alastor suddenly elected to break the spell, stepping away.

It was more than a bit pathetic how quickly he was falling for these wiles again, but again Vox wasn't keen on self reflection in that moment. He just wanted to enjoy this for all it had to be- his first time feeling a little bit less than shit after the epic storm from last month.

Maybe Alastor was right and the clothes had something to do with it. Or maybe it was something else.

Finally, he slides into the view of a mirror hanging not too far away, even though the glass is as dusted and warped as most mirrors in Hell, he can see the look is a classic, not all that different from how he used to dress himself. Which was something to consider.

"So, you really liked how I looked back then, huh?" he adopted a teasing tone as he stepped into the shoes he'd been permitted to select before giving Alastor his requested turn, arms spread to the sides as if to indicate 'go ahead, look at me'.

"How long have you been pining for me?" he couldn't help giving another jest about it all.

Alastor's refusal to be pulled into the other's stare was the main reason why he'd eventually put space between them once again. If he were not careful, he would have found himself staring for a lot longer - and that would have given further insight into his own state of mind regarding this stupid exchange.

That was the last thing he needed.

The clothes were indeed reminiscent of the style that the television had worn, once upon a time, when Alastor much more closely aligned him with his actual name. When he, in the radio demon's mind, was much more Vincent than Vox. And being called out on it made his fur bristle at the back of his neck, his brow furrowing in a dull and slightly tense look at the other.

"Hush, you're going to wrinkle the fabrics," he stated plainly, as if either of those things had any correlation to one another. Avoidance - good at it in his years of practice. But if Vox truly understood that there were quite the number of things Alastor harbored beneath the surface of his flesh, then he was not so sure the other would be joking so cavalierly about it.

Not the time, not the place. If ever.

Instead, he turned his attention back down to himself, plucking slightly at the ridiculous shirt he was still wearing.

"Now I feel underdressed. Must I continue to wear this?"

"I guess it was kind of like a tracker. He always seemed to know where we were, what we were doing, even what we were thinking." Valentino hadn't really put all the pieces together until he'd become an Overlord himself. Understanding how powers manifested made a lot of things from his past look different in hindsight.

"But sometimes it would just hurt." His expression tightened. "It'd sting our insides." The thought alone nearly made him gag. He quickly flapped his hands in front of himself as if physically trying to shake the memory away. Just thinking about the sensation made his skin crawl. The faint wriggling beneath his flesh, the feeling of tiny legs moving where nothing should have been moving at all. It still made him sick.

"I know it's probably gone," he said after a moment. "It probably disappeared when he died." His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "It seemed kind of similar to your little..." He gestured vaguely. "Guys. The little shadow people you make." Whatever they were called. "So logically, I know it's probably not still there. But there's still a part of me that's scared it is. And I need a real answer, not a probably."

The hurried way in which Valentino began to press was probably not anything he should not have expected. It seemed, in much the same way that he himself would have jumped at the chance to have his brand entirely burned from his flesh to free him from its oppressive grasp, the moth was just eager to be free. If not of the thing itself, then of the lack of knowledge as to whether or not it was actually there.

Alastor could not find any real reason to delay, if that were the case, meeting Valentino's gaze as he found it fixed upon him.

A brief bout of silence was what he could offer, at first, thinking through logistics.

"A blade, obviously. Big. Sharp. First aid - because I'm not especially interested in seeing you bleed for longer than is strictly necessary. I'm not a healer - I can't rush the process by which your flesh will knit back together afterwards - and I'd rather you not suffer through a full death if I can help it."

Care offered in his own way, even if it felt a bit clinical to speak of.

"Beyond that... a comfortable place to be. A bed, if you don't mind the sheets on it being sullied. And then an angelic blade. Separate from the one I'll be using to cut into you. That, I will use to destroy anything that does remain." It would have to be holy. To ensure that it did not make any sort of return.

"...You're sure you want to do this?"