#xtrustme

How long had he been here now?

Alastor was usually keenly aware of the time, kept his broadcasts occurring on a regular schedule without need of checking the time… but the truth was, the time had bled together. Once Rosie had made it abundantly clear just how isolated he was out here, time had become somewhat meaningless.

He had tried to broadcast… once. Felt the glowing vines of energy snare his throat and choke his words before he could say a thing. A part of him wondered what that had sounded like in the Pentagram; just a speaker flaring to life for a moment? Some technological glitch? Someone getting their hands on his old broadcast tower and screwing with things they shouldn't be? He didn't think he had even gotten that far; maybe a few of the signals, maybe enough to bring a radio or two to life, but the full network? No; this place was intended to keep that from being easy. That was the point.

A low growl escaped between his teeth, that smile present even now, curling at the edges of his lips with that slow boiling anger. This cabin had always been a cage, though he had not always seen the bars for what they were. A cage for those he'd butchered; a cage he'd walked himself into all too willingly with their blood on his hands. A cage he'd been sent back to… how long ago?

Before he could dwell on the length of time it had been, his ears twitched up from where they'd been laid back. Not pinned back, despite his irritation, but with no audience for which to perform for, they were relaxed, and he had one leg crossed over the other, a whiskey glass held loosely in hand. It wasn't any sound, wasn't movement… but sensation. The crackle of energy along the fur of his ear. Static? His eyes opened, crimson burning in the low light of the cabin, sweeping the room.

The fireplace had guttered by now, burnt down to a low flame, barely enough light to cast low shadows with which to navigate the room by. His ears twitched again, tried to pick up the sensation again. Another annoyed sound escaped him behind that forced grin and he settled back into the worn armchair, eyes closing again. Maybe it had been his own power, maybe it had been his staff, maybe Rosie's influence; this cabin was dated, even for him it was dated, and it didn't look like it, but it was insulated against the outside. There were no signals that were strong enough to reach him here, not from the city at least.

Then something else, and his ears twitched again, standing to attention now, sensing, listening.

[💼] So Valentino's favorite little punching bag and Vox's best little assistant. I think Ethan followed Vox in life. I headcanon he admired him in the show business stuff, the tv stuff. He was likely just some intern, a nobody at first that just admired seeing this man move up. He idolized him, in a way. Thinking some day maybe he could be just like him.

As Vincent strived for the bigger and better, Ethan started to get more and more involved. After all, a young naïve intern is easy to manipulate. Getting promotions he could only ever dream of. But there was always something off about how Vincent climbed the ladder of fame. Something that Ethan could never confirm. At least not until the studio head was killed and he witnessed it from a window. The man falling, getting electrocuted. Seeing Vincent coming in from the rooftop.

Instead of being killed like the rest of them, he volunteered himself to help Vincent run things. Something about this felt wrong, but in some twisted way, he was getting the job he always wanted. He was getting to produce things, to manage things, to be someone and get his name out there under Vincent.

And as things progressed into Vincent's movement, Ethan was all in. He watched Vincent rise to the top and he was there for it. This man was his idol and he would do anything to see his dream come true. He could ask him for anything and he would do it. Someone needs to be taken care of? Ok, he'll get it done. Some numbers need crunching? On it. You want coffee at two in the morning? He's gunna go grind those fresh beans. He's as loyal as they come and knows far too much about Vox for the man to be comfortable with.

So when Vincent got electrocuted, it took all of his following with him. When Ethan woke up in Hell, he was already dedicated to Vincent. He was already loyal and would easily still do anything for the man.

But that faith started to waver over the years. The higher Vincent rose, the more he became Vox, the less Ethan started to believe. It's too late, he's in it too deep now. He knows far too much and he's too valuable for Vox to just get rid of, but he knows one wrong move and he could be gone.

"It's scary, yeah. When you been through what I have," comes Alastor's vulnerable reply. He's already several Sazeracs in, and the bourbon and absinthe naturally loosens his tongue. His perpetual smile is absent; instead, he looks tired, contemplative, but young, too. So young when he died and still feeling like a cornered prey-thing.

He rests a cheek on an open palm and turns to study his companion. Without his top hat and shades, one can see how wan his countenance really is.

"When I was alive, the whole country was out t'get me just 'cause I didn't look a certain way, and here? I had t'bite 'n claw for every bit o' power 'n status I have. I wasn't planning on... this." On opening his heart so completely to another.

He looks so fragile in his arms doesn't he? A dainty sort of King with his King Consort. They've certainly have been caught in the media as of late. But have only recently gotten serious. Serious enough that Lucifer cares about him to let him in. Serious enough that he gets a title and room at the palace now.

It's everything a person can want.

So, why is he scared, he wonders just how much Alastor must have hurt him to be so scared. He felt that way too at first. After all, losing his wife in a vanishing act is bound to leave its scars.

"I'll keep your heart safe, Vox. I promise you that. Nothing will get in the way of us, as long as you want me, I'm here." He vows softly, and nuzzles against his screen.

Vox had told him Come here. I wanna show you something. No explanation, no hint of tone, just that flat, controlled voice that gave nothing away. Valentino followed anyway, the night air cold against the bruises blooming along his ribs. His heels clicked sharp on pavement as he trailed behind, trying to guess what the hell Vox wanted with him of all people.

Some twisted tech demonstration? With Vox, it could've been anything.

But then they turned into the alley, and Val's breath hitched.

The man lying on the ground wasn't just a corpse, he was that client. The one with the fists that never hesitated, the one who always paid extra to make sure Valentino couldn't move the next morning. His jaw was crooked now, neck bent at an angle and a rare angelic blade in his chest that screamed finality. A smear of blood trailed behind him like he'd tried to crawl away.

Vox didn't say a word. Just stood there a few paces ahead, hands in his jacket pockets, cigarette burning in a harsh neon-red glow that cast his face in sharp, dangerous lines. Val swallowed hard. His throat felt too small for any sound. He wasn't used to this, violence for him instead of at him. People didn't care if he got hurt. They never had. If anything, they counted on it.

He stepped closer, cautiously, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast. His eyes traced the body again, the dark pool spreading beneath it, the unmistakable finality.

"You… did this," he murmured, voice barely above a breath, "for me?"

Something hot and overwhelming cracked in Valentino's chest. Gratitude, disbelief, a twisted sense of being… valued. It felt like someone had reached inside him and flipped a switch he didn't know he had. He let out a laugh, half stunned, half touched. "…That's… really fucking sweet," he admitted, voice softer than he meant it to be.

And for a moment, Valentino felt something he hadn't in a long, long time: Protected.