‹ (（ ﹙ ↯ ﹚ ）) ›

The firefly moves his hands to the flamboyant suit jacket, tugging it off of Vox's shoulders to start with. He pauses at the question and smiles big. "Oh, you were perfect out there, starshine!" He brings his hand back to the glass of Vox's 'cheek' to fondly pet him. "Very handsome. 10/10. No notes. That's what they say, right?"

Could've worked on that smile, but Lux holds back on that critique. As if he didn't look spaced out most of the time, himself!

Lux continues on removing the suit jacket and un-tucking Vox's undershirt so his gills have more room to breathe, humming thoughtfully.

‎ ‎ ‎ Vox remains mostly limp as Lux works on undressing him, his only movement an occasional brush of his hand or a light shift of his hips to readjust himself. Pet on the cheek and called good, he smiles small and puts aside his disgruntlement. “Good, good… ‘cause I seemed very….” Looking to his now-removed suit jacket, he narrows his eyes. “…Glittery?”

‎ ‎ ‎ He takes a greedy breath when air flows up beneath his shirt, cooling his sides, which he didn’t realise had felt so warm and stinging, like he’s scratched up the skin around the edges. Lux asks —would you do this again?

‎ ‎ ‎ He wasn’t under the impression it was a choice. Vox can’t be removed from the public. They’d tried that, initially, but he was too important, obviously, and had to be brought back out; and they didn’t trust him (his own partners, friends) but they let him out for the people to see and all Vox has left to think is that he might be forgiven. But, if he can’t remember….

‎ ‎ ‎ “I don’t think it’s up to me,” he murmurs, batting Lux’s fussing hands away so that he can instead pull him to his chest like a plush toy, legs pulling up to trap him in the embrace. “Can't just... disappear.” He almost smiles. “Like before.”

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.

‎ ‎ ‎ “You could’ve laid next to me. Like a normal person —oh, but you’re a contrarian, right? Just have to make sure you’re not like everybody else.” His murmurs continue at a lower volume, of his aching back and his dignity and his unfortunate fall from overlord to body pillow. He didn’t ask for a wide head and a big chest, but Alastor had invited him into the bed with two working eyes. He can’t complain now.

‎ ‎ ‎ He opens his mouth, and a strange, cut-short sound comes out, as if he meant to meh-meh-meh Alastor’s words. It snaps shut; he thinks better of it.

‎ ‎ ‎ He swings his legs over the side of the bed, palms flat behind him as he watches Alastor’s mouth move with a dizzied, slow-blinking expression. His antennas perk up at the mention of coffee, that lovely commodity. The last good thing in this horrible world. He’d have thought twice about nuking the block if he’d been offered some coffee then.

‎ ‎ ‎ As the sleep sheds from his weary bones, he’s starting to feel better than he had before. He’ll be sluggish for a couple days, but that rest was beyond well-deserved.

‎ ‎ ‎ “What,” he says flatly, trying to decipher Alastor’s sudden squint, and he gives himself a once-over; no, he’s not quite glorious. “You got better clothes for me, then? ‘Cause I can’t exactly wander on over to my closet.”

‎ ‎ ‎ Leaning back on his palms, his legs kick idly like a child on a swing. He asks, more playfully, “Do you even own stuff that isn’t red or black? Or grey? Or beige? Or, like, any not-boring color?”

{ @shokwav ➻ Plotted. }

It wasn’t something that he was used to from Vox. No, what Alastor was accustomed to was the ability to goad him, instant access whenever he wanted it. But that wasn’t what he received when he attempted to bait him, nor when he went through the process of calling Voxtek’s reception only to be denied a transfer. He wanted to let it go. But every few nights he woke up paralyzed, that rectangular face of bitter resignation always top of mind. Every time he passed a television it started a loop in his thoughts.

“I don’t care what happens.”

He never felt like he needed to see someone. Never. There wasn’t precedent, and so there wasn’t protocol other than to shut it down. And that didn’t work, so, a decision was made. It wasn’t his style to break and enter, but there he was in Vee tower, settled at the desk in Vox’s bedroom with a newspaper. He’d memorized the layout, knew which window to zap through. All there was to do was wait.

Sure enough, eventually Vox found his room. Alastor sat his paper down over the desk as the door opened.

“You’ve gotten awfully hard to get hold of in recent weeks. I was starting to think you’d been thrown out of your own company,” he said, finding that his tone was not quite where he wanted it. He hadn’t come here to taunt Vox. But what had he come here to do, exactly? What was it that he wanted to say? “Don’t bring out those claws- I’m not here to fight you.”

That much he knew.

“… Could you spare a moment? I’d like to… talk.”

‎ ‎ ‎ Bare minimum, they should trust him with the phone calls. No one in Hell expects good customer service, but they’d predictably understood where Vox’s rage would funnel were he allowed to connect with the populace —you know, the people you wanted to blow up? Like us, too? —and so Vox’s day-to-day is now the upkeep of himself, and the upkeep of the tower (also himself).

‎ ‎ ‎ He’d made them lunch, or something. He doesn’t remember what was on the plate, or what tools he’d used to cook it, if he’d cooked at all rather than using the microwave; what their reactions were or whether they’d enjoyed their meals. All he recalls is that his hand had brushed Valentino’s at one point, and it’d been the first time they’d touched that week.

‎ ‎ ‎ His floor is a grim and hollowed out skeleton of what it was before, its sinister pride somber and desecrated by its master’s own blight. The lights glow hesitantly, and any near his heavy steps snuff themselves out obediently, only to flicker on disobediently behind him. There is a dim path to where he walks, and the sliding doors of his bedroom click open like a rolling eye.

‎ ‎ ‎ “…Okay. So I’m going completely crazy, then.”

‎ ‎ ‎ Alastor wouldn’t waste time warming his seat for him —he’s not that nice. Whatever he says passes by Vox like dead air. He heads direct to his alcohol cabinet, swiping the first-seen bottle off the shelf and popping the cork. His cables drape down to the floor behind him, fetching him a glass, and he looks at Alastor once it’s full to below the rim.

‎ ‎ ‎ “You’ve got until I get really drunk to say your piece, ‘cause I’m sure you’ll be gone by then.” He takes a step forwards, then rocks back on his heel, nerves skittering across his back. He wants to take a seat, but that might make this real. Alastor might not disappear. He sips his drink cautiously. While the rest of his body is slack and ambling, his antennas are now perked straight and alert, not yet hidden under a hat.