Chapter Text
In spite of the dramatic tears and quitting of the hotel, one Angel Dust, infamous pornstar et cetera, was back at Charlie Morningstar's gates within the blood moon. Alastor knew this, mostly because of the subsequent screaming of the Princess Morningstar let out at his fated return; but also due to the fact that, now in that idle pre-dawn time he took his coffee, he was always joined by the absentee four-armed sinner.
Like this morning. Whereas Alastor was already dressed for the day (his morning show started at 5am sharp!), Angel Dust was leaning immodestly against the kitchen counter, dressed in a skimpy something Alastor was reluctant to call clothing, and likely hadn't woken up early so much as never gone to bed in the first place.
"Heh," snickered Angel Dust, nose buried in his novel of choice. He'd quit cellular devices after the whole mind-control spy episode, and now was diving head-first into romance novels of various levels of erotica. Charlie called it progress. Alastor called it harrowing, mostly because due to the aforementioned combining of coffee-time, Alastor was usually the first to hear about these books. "Guess what, Smiles? She ran off before he could ask her. Didn't even stay around long enough to listen! Man's quit his job and come running to the airport, and she just fuckin' flies off to Spain anyway!"
"Is this the young maiden Adelaide of the long-lost German royal line, or Ginny, the quick-to-fame starlet?"
"Addie," sighed Angel Dust. He flicked his fingers against the book's pages. "'M not even sure this one's worth the smut. They're draggin' out this miscommunication wayyy too long. I just want 'em to kiss!"
"Eugh," said Alastor, promptly losing interest. He made a carafe, selecting with careful precision a non-bloodied brew, and set to pouring out cups. By the time he was skirting around the kitchen counter he realized he was holding two steaming mugs and, glancing at Angel who hadn't noticed, slipped the accidental second next to the sinner's elbow.
"Eh? Thanks," Angel Dust said distractedly, not even looking at the cup before blindly fumbling and gulping down the liquid in one fell-swoop. Alastor supposed, to his fans and employer, this type of deep-swallowing ability might be seen as useful. Mostly it just looked like it burned.
"But seriously. I'm considerin' DNFing. Can't believe Cherri recommended this." With a theatrical sigh, Angel Dust slapped the book closed. "I'll have to introduce her to quality stuff. Red White and Royal Blue, y'know. Queer erotic shit slaps."
"Spare me," said Alastor.
But Angel Dust was already perking up. "Hey, wait. That's not a bad idea, thanks, Smiles!" Alastor hadn't said anything. "It could be like a kinda, a, a club! Yeah. Redemption-themed book club, where we all quit our digital porn addictions for written ones!"
Alastor said, "Seems counterintuitive."
Angel Dust, of course, ignored this. He leaned all four arms on the counter, breathing into Alastor's space and decidingly breaking the Five Inch rule Alastor had tried (and failed) to set up with the cast of the hotel at various points during his residency. "Think 'bout it. If we all voted, whatever sick shit you like to read could get picked. Makin' Charlie read American Psycho, ha!"
Now suitably intrigued, Alastor laced his hands together. "And what makes you think I'd endure reading that—" he glared at the novel sitting atop the counter, which featured a garishly bright cover of two almost-nude models rendered in disturbingly simplistic style, including not owning eyes or a nose, "—to only possibly one day gain entertainment?"
Angel Dust leaned back slowly, considering this. "What d'ya know about romance, Al?"
"As little as I possibly can."
"Huh," said Angel Dust.
This simple exclamation, more of an exhale of breath than anything, had Alastor sitting up straight and paying true attention for the first time that morning. His eyes narrowed; his smile sharpened. Whatever, he thought, Angel Dust was getting at, he'd better get to it quick. Lest he wish to find his coffee, so easily inhaled, grow shadows and burst out his throat. (This was not something Alastor was capable of doing, but he felt the threat communicated effectively by his general aura of suddenly increased menace anyway.)
"What?" snapped Alastor, shadows circling the room.
Now however, Angel Dust was really pulling away. "Uh, you mean you don't—?" Whatever the expression on Alastor's face, stuck somewhere between a smiling grimace and spinning radio dial eyes he was sure, had Angel Dust pausing for a poignant beat. "Nevermind."
"No, please, do tell," sing-songed Alastor, conveniently blocking the kitchen Dutch door with his tentacles.
But when Angel Dust sighed and rested his hands on his book, running his claws along the edges thoughtfully, he said something Alastor never, in all his afterlife, expected to hear: "Y'know, you and Vox."
For the briefest moment, Alastor wondered if Angel Dust was referring to some other Vox—but obviously no other sinner would be so idiotic as to take such a silly name. Especially after the TV demon had trademarked it. "What about me and Vox?"
"Well," said Angel Dust, "he was in love with ya, wasn't he?"
Record screech.
"Vox was what?" said Alastor, smile frozen on his face. Other parts of him were frozen too: namely his shadows and his heart.
"In love with you. Wasn't it obvious?" Angel Dust's expression didn't change, although disbelief emanated from him. "I mean, we all saw that breakdown. I don't even think the Morningstars' divorce was that messy. He literally cried for ya, Smiles. If that ain't love than I ain't read fifty of these fuckin' romance books in a week."
"Excuse me," Alastor said, before promptly fleeing the room.
The very idea! The nerve of that whore! Clearly all the ill-conceived romance was getting to him. To even insinuate such a disgusting, deplorable idea, one that the very thought of sent Alastor's heart racing like it hadn't since he was undead—the ridiculousness! Alastor had to laugh, which turned into a cackle, which turned into a low thrum of demonic anger warbling through the air-waves. He didn't even notice when he snapped at Niffty to get out of his way, checked his shoulder in his doorway, slammed the door closed and slumped into the reconstructed bayou. Because the words—those misconstrued, horrible words!—still resounded in his head like a gong, like a gunshot to the head.
In love with you, in love with you, in love with you.
Alastor paced. He sweated. He swore. He tore up chunks of his bayou with rippling green magic, threw out his leftover venison he'd been saving for a special occasion just to watch the crocs feed on it, imagining it was Vox's body they were teething with instead. Has he even a body, now? Since the other V's ripped his last one away? Did it look the same, different? Was it taller, leaner, plumper? Did he—
No. No, what did it matter to Alastor, the body that TV head went frolicking around in? It didn't! Alastor didn't care about Vox or his tears or his grand declarations and certainly not his supposed love.
Although—although, although, and here is where Alastor stalled from a barely-restrained rampage, the desire to slake himself on the unknowing sinners outside the likes of which Pentagram City has rarely seen paused for one bloated beat—it would make sense, wouldn't it?
It threw into relief so many tiny scenes, long repressed in Alastor's mind, words or phrases or gestures he didn't understand. The way Vox would lean into his space back then, like Alastor was the sun he couldn't quite reach; the heavy-lidded gaze; the hesitant touch, on a shoulder or a wrist, growing bolder the deeper they got into their drinks; the fucking business proposal, to be partners of Hell in not such the sense Alastor assumed!
If. If it were true. And Vox held those feelings for Alastor, and Alastor—master manipulator, scorn to human emotions—hadn't noticed, then. Well, then.
Then what, exactly?
Alastor sank to his knees, uncaring of the mud now ruining his new coat. It didn't change anything. The past was over and done with, the way Alastor liked it. He could as easily go back and confirm Vox's feelings as he could ascend to Heaven.
Unless—Alastor pried it out. The supposed love, that is. The devotion so common Alastor is now realizing overtook the demon back in the '60s. The mindless obedience and the loyalty.
What a humiliation it would be! For if Vox thought his feelings returned, why, he'd be an utter mess. He'd make a certain fool of himself trying to capture Alastor's affections! And that would squarely put Alastor back in charge of the relationship, now wouldn't it? No more lingering smugness over Alastor's brief and insignificant capture; a complete and utter defeat. The man was already down, but oh, how Alastor longed to kick him.
A smile then, a great and terrible smile, overcame Alastor's face. He steepled his fingers and laughed, maniacally, as all who are planning terrible plans must do. And he planned, oh, yes. He planned and schemed all day and the next night, going so far as to avoid Charlie's calls for participation and Niffty's frantic knocking.
He was busy. Working. And once he was done, Vox would regret ever, for a single second, daring to love Alastor.