CHAPTER 2 — “The Groggy Awakening of the Radio Demon”
For several hours the room stayed quiet, lit only by the faint glow from Vox’s dimmed screens. Alastor slept without moving, completely exhausted, his cheek resting against Vox’s chest.
By late morning, Vox had almost fallen into a half-doze himself—until he felt a tiny twitch.
Then another.
Alastor’s fingers curled slightly, brushing against the blanket.
Vox glanced down.
Alastor’s ears twitched once—just barely—followed by a long, slow inhale and a quiet, disoriented groan. His eyes remained closed for a moment longer, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to solve a puzzle in his sleep.
Then, finally, his eyes cracked open.
They were half-lidded, unfocused, glowing faintly and unevenly like a radio trying to catch a signal. For several seconds, he didn’t even lift his head. He simply stared blankly at the fabric of Vox’s shirt, confused and very, very tired.
A few heartbeats passed before Alastor managed a sound:
“…Hn.”
It wasn’t a word. It was barely a noise.
But it was definitely a sign of life.
Vox lowered his brightness just a little more.
“Well. Good morning… or whatever time you think it is.”
Alastor’s ears twitched again, but he didn’t react much beyond that. Instead, he slowly pushed himself up about two inches—enough to lift his head off Vox’s chest—before stopping halfway, clearly regretting the attempt.
He blinked heavily.
Then squinted.
“…Where…?” His voice was rough and unusually soft. He paused as if the rest of the sentence had fallen out of his mind mid-thought. “Why am I—…what…?”
He blinked again, slower this time.
Vox answered in the calm, matter-of-fact tone he used when dealing with broken equipment.
“You fell asleep on your radio desk. Face-first. And you didn’t wake up when I tried to move you.”
He adjusted the blanket that had slid halfway off Alastor’s shoulder. “So I brought you to bed.”
Alastor stared at him for a long moment.
Not angry. Not embarrassed.
Just confused.
Groggy.
Processing everything like his brain was booting up in the wrong order.
“…Radio desk,” he echoed quietly.
Another blink.
“…I… don’t recall going to sleep.”
“That’s because you didn’t,” Vox replied. “You passed out.”
Alastor opened his mouth as if to deny it—only for his words to crumble into a tired yawn he tried but failed to hide behind one hand.
He sagged back down onto the pillow.
His voice was still fuzzy around the edges when he spoke again.
“Did I… finish the broadcast script…?”
Vox gave him a flat look.
“You fell asleep halfway through a sentence.”
Alastor blinked once.
“…Ah.”
He tried to lift himself again, but his limbs clearly disagreed. His arm wobbled, and he slowly sank right back into the mattress, staring at the ceiling as though gravity had suddenly doubled.
Vox reached out and gently tapped his shoulder.
“Stop trying to get up. You’re barely conscious.”
Alastor frowned—though it was more of a confused wrinkle than a real expression.
“I feel… peculiar.”
“Tired,” Vox said. “That’s the word. You should try it more than once every century.”
Alastor didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy.
He just let his eyes drift half-shut again, still squinting like the room didn’t make sense.
After another full minute of silent blinking, he murmured quietly:
“…Did you… carry me?”
“Yes.”
Another slow blink.
“…All the way here?”
“Yes.”
Alastor processed that for a long, long moment.
“…Huh.”
It was the most neutral, confused reaction anyone could give, but Vox could tell it meant, I was that tired?
Really?
Alastor shifted just an inch closer to the blankets, pulling them under his chin. His voice softened even further.
“…My neck doesn’t hurt,” he muttered, as though surprised.
“Because I carried you properly,” Vox replied. “You’re welcome.”
Another long pause.
Then, so quietly Vox almost missed it:
“…Thank you.”
Vox raised an eyebrow—just slightly—but didn’t comment.
Instead, he leaned back against the headboard and let Alastor rest again. The Radio Demon’s eyelids drooped, head tilting slightly toward the pillow in slow motion. His confusion wasn’t gone; it was simply being overridden by exhaustion again.
Alastor’s voice faded to a mumble as he settled down:
“I… stayed up too late…”
“Yes,” Vox said.
“…Mmm. Didn’t mean to…”
“I know.”
“…I think I’ll… just… rest a moment longer…”
His words trailed off, turning into barely audible static at the edges of his whisper.
A moment later, his breathing evened out again—slower, calmer, the last of the confusion fading as sleep pulled him back under.
Vox glanced at him, made sure he was comfortable, and lowered his brightness once more.
“Get some more sleep,” Vox murmured.
And Alastor did—quietly, peacefully, still completely worn out, but finally resting the way he needed to.
