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“Okay, everybody!” Charlie announces, clapping her hands together with a bright grin. The gathered hotel residents stand in an uneven cluster in front of her, representing the whole spectrum of boredom and apathy; except for Vaggie, who smiles gently at her lover’s enthusiasm, and Alastor, who would rather self-immolate than voluntarily frown in front of this sorry lot. “Remember what we’re here for! You guys voted on what you wanted our next project to be, and with a total of three votes, we settled on a community garden! So… welcome to…”
She whirls on her heel, throws out her arms, nearly smacking Husk in the face, and proudly gestures to the building before them.
“The Magne District plant nursery!”
It is, Alastor has to admit, very nice.
The nursery itself is an aberration amidst other Magne District storefronts in that it remains pleasantly devoid of Lucifer’s… personal aesthetic touches, so to speak, lacking any tacky circus motifs or gratuitous apples. In that regard, it carries an odd juxtaposition to the rest of the district; orderly and vibrant, the long rows of trailing vines and hellish flowerbeds gleam under the bright wicks of hovering witchlights, bobbing in the air harmlessly and casting the labyrinthine space in a glittering silver glow. He watches as a pair of imps retreat hand-in-hand down an aisle, one of them casually waving aside a ball of light as if shooing a fly.
Alastor is pleasantly surprised that the option he voted for is turning out delightful so far. Now, to be clear, he’d only voted for this because he wanted to have the lobby to himself while the others were toiling outside in the dirt, but he’d miscalculated—by voting, Charlie had taken that to mean he was keen to participate, and she is frustratingly difficult to say no to once she’s set her teeth into an idea.
So, here he is. Participating.
Charlie spins back around to face them, shaking out her wrists in overeager jazz hands. Vaggie gives a little woo! of support. Alastor claps politely with his fingertips.
Meanwhile, the rest of their merry band of misfits: Angel Dust, scrolling through his cellular device; Husk, with a loose grip on a flask at his side as he stares aimlessly into space; Sir Pentious, wringing his hands with hesitant excitement; and Niffty, at Alastor’s feet, scowling at all of the dust and potting soil, not listening to Charlie at all.
“Alright,” the princess continues, undeterred by the lackluster response. “Feel free to explore! You can either gravitate towards what interests you, or branch out a little—there’s something for everyone! Just make sure you pick out at least one personal plant and one type of fruit or vegetable you want to grow for everyone. And don’t feel limited to just one! Dad’s funding this outing so we don’t need to worry about cost.” She chuckles sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck, before swiftly recovering. “Anyway, that’s all. Have fun and take a look around!”
She grabs Vaggie’s hand and tows her away to the left, the two of them vanishing into the stacks of the nursery. Alastor doubts they’re going to stay on task for long, but ah. C’est la vie.
“Icky,” Niffty mutters unhappily, and doesn’t resist when Pentious bends down and scoops her up to sit atop his hat.
“Come along, my good fellows!” he proclaims, hooking elbows with Angel and Husk, and then takes off, dragging the other two behind him while they grumble and swear. “I hear they have deadly nightshade!” He hesitates briefly, casting a nervous glance back at Alastor. “You’re, ah… welcome to join usss, radio demon sir.”
Alastor shakes his head, smiling. “Appreciate the offer, but no thanks. I’ll manage on my own. Best of luck with your poisonous flora!”
Although Pentious attempts to seem graciously ambivalent, ever the gentleman, his flared hood wilts with unmistakable relief. He quickly tugs Angel and Husk away, Niffty clinging to his dubiously sentient tophat, and the unlikely quartet ventures off to the right.
Alone, Alastor breathes in the heady aroma of flowers, smooths his palms over his lapels, and strolls down the central aisle at a leisurely clip, humming a jaunty tune. He, too, can appreciate the simpler things in life from time to time.
It’s a lovely nursery. Alastor’s green thumb in life became corroded and destructive along with every other part of him when he died, and so with a bit of morose resignation, he avoids touching any of the plants directly. Leaving a trail of withered petals in his wake just to indulge his sensory whims would be unsightly and rude besides. Instead, he contents himself with admiring from a safe distance: there are strange, colorful bushes bulging with wet-looking eyes, rigid palmetto-esque trees that droop with viscous blue slime, trumpeting bundles of electric yellow snapdragons that gurgle hungrily at him when he peers down at them. At one point, he turns a corner and encounters a wall of delicate ruby asters that smell exactly like rotting crawfish. Fascinating.
Alastor has never been overly interested in Hell’s botany, as the ring’s organic ecosystem is largely irrelevant to the urban heart of his haunts, but he does find his curiosity piqued by the sheer variety of unusual plants hosted by the nursery. Perhaps he will end up picking out something after all, if only as a gift for Rosie—she’d adore the flesh-eating sundews that he discovers in the carnivorous section.
Now, hm… how to actually pick up the plant without murdering it. Tricky, tricky.
As he’s tapping his chin, deliberating over his next steps, he becomes aware of someone in the next aisle crooning to themselves in low, lulling tones, their voice drifting in and out of his hearing as they pace back and forth. Perhaps a customer service representative! Surely they’ll have some insight to offer; they must cater to all sorts of clientele with odd biological quirks, he’s certain they’ll be accommodating to his rotting touch.
Putting on his friendliest smile—which he’s been told is not nearly as disarming as he intends it—he walks to the end of the row and steps around the corner, swiveling smartly towards the voice he’d heard, only to stop in his tracks.
Oh. Never mind.
It’s not a service worker. It’s Overlord Valentino, stooped over a gargantuan Venus flytrap, bottom pair of arms folded while the top pair hover lovingly over the plant’s gaping maw, stroking the air as if strumming a theremin. He’s murmuring sweet nothings to it, lapsing in and out of his particular flavor of drawling, suggestive Spanish: “Hel-lo mi vida, my dear heart, you gorgeous thing… eres tan bella, oh I need to have you… I’ll feed you so many useless whores, yo te cuidaré better than any of these chucklefucks at this tugurio de mierda…”
He hums lightly and then giggles when the flytrap’s leaves flex and shiver, a small, delighted sound that suddenly makes Alastor feel very uncomfortable indeed. He doesn’t want to accidentally humanize Vox’s paramour in his mind. Best to just walk away and pretend he never saw this little domestic scene.
As an unspoken rule, he doesn’t involve the other Vees in the interpersonal conflicts he has with their insipid mascot. They’re simply not important enough to factor in. Valentino’s connection to Angel Dust is another tick in favor of Alastor minding his own business for once, turning the other cheek, and letting it go before it becomes a thing; but alas, Alastor has never possessed very fine impulse control when it comes to holding his tongue.
Valentino’s affectionate hands are drifting perilously close to the flytrap’s gullet.
“Why hello there!” Alastor calls, and Valentino, hilariously, jumps half a foot in the air, the fur around his neck puffing up like a startled cat. He whirls to face Alastor, alarmed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe you need all of your fingers to manipulate the camera equipment in a porn studio! In that case, if I were you, I’d keep my extremities to myself, ha-ha! Oh, my—wherever did you get those?”
That’s quite a few gun barrels. And they seem to be… bedazzled? With plastic rhinestones? How tacky.
Valentino sneers, curling his fingers around the triggers of his pistols. Credit where credit is due, he recovers quickly from his surprise, settling warily back on his heels as he aims his weapons at Alastor’s head. “Well, fuck me. What did I do to deserve a personal visit from the Radio Demon himself?”
“You should be so lucky! No, no, I was merely in the area, sheer coincidence.” Alastor plants his cane in front of him, curling his hands over the top of the mic. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: why did the moth go to the psychiatrist’s office?” Pause for effect, and then— “The porch light was on!” Canned studio laughter seeps into the air.
Valentino stares at him in befuddled silence, confusion sanding off the more violent edges of his hostility.
“Tough crowd! I won’t be too offended, it wasn’t my wittiest anyway.” Alastor sighs, clicking his tongue in saccharine disappointment. He tilts his head towards the Venus flytrap. “But you really should watch your fingers around these creatures. Just because us sinners can see the practical difference between moths and flies doesn’t mean they’re quite so discerning.”
Valentino squints. “Are you… making a crack about my eyesight?”
“No, but do feel free to take as much offense as you want.”
“Hmm.”
With his reflexive irritation now dwindling in the face of Alastor’s implacable cheer, Valentino shifts his weight, lowering his guns slightly. He suddenly seems… nervous, casting an uncertain glance over his shoulder. Interesting. Alastor attempts to follow his gaze, but Valentino’s attention snaps back to him, a scowl twisting up his face.
“You’re a real piece of work, baby, and any other day I’d fuck you up, but now’s really not a good time.”
“Very bold of you to presume you could take me in a fight, but I suppose brazen arrogance must be a prerequisite to joining the Vees.”
Valentino laughs. “Darling, you’d fit right in. But, ah—” He fidgets, lowering his guns entirely and taking a few impudent steps forward before the dangerous twitch of Alastor’s smile makes him stop, squeaking with frustration. “Look, you smug prick, why don’t you bother someone else today? I had to suck Vox’s dick so hard to get him to bring me here, and if I have another date ruined because he blew a fucking circuit over you again I swear to god—”
“Val, come check this out,” a new voice calls from the opposite end of the aisle, behind Valentino.
Oh, this just keeps getting better and better.
Vox steps into view, a casual, relaxed smile on his face that lasts all of two seconds before he clocks Alastor’s presence, freezing in place.
Valentino groans. Alastor grins wider, lifting his hand in a fluttering wave.
“What the fuck,” Vox says darkly, “are you doing here.”
“There was no signage outside implying that only desperate, sellout cucks were permitted to shop here,” Alastor says, gleefully soaking up the expression of pure rage that flashes across Vox’s display. “But my associate and I were just discussing the woes of impaired vision, so perhaps I missed it.” He checks his monocle ostentatiously.
“Back the fuck up, I am not your associate,” Valentino protests, at the same time Vox stomps over to them in a few furious strides, grabbing Valentino’s arm possessively and snapping, “He’s mine, you antiquated fuck.”
Alastor raises an eyebrow as Valentino’s posture immediately shifts, melting into something flattered and languid as he swoons in Vox’s bruising grip.
“Ooh, baby, you know I love it when you get controlling,” he purrs.
Vox can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Alastor. “Val, why don’t you let me handle this, hm?”
Valentino sighs heavily. He leans down, grabs Vox by the collar, and uses a third hand to point accusingly at Alastor. “Fine. But if you two cabrónes destroy this place with another stupid slapfight, I will make you pay for it. And not in a sexy way,” he adds, when Vox opens his mouth. He jerks his arm out of Vox’s hold and stalks off haughtily, flipping them both off as he goes.
The moment he vanishes from sight, Vox pivots on his heel to regard Alastor with a thin, suspicious smile. “I didn’t know you liked gardening.”
“Haven’t had the touch for it since my death, I’m afraid!” Alastor says. “No, I’m accompanying Princess Morningstar on a field trip of sorts for the hotel. As the manager, it’s my responsibility to indulge her bizarre whims; but I suppose ‘hard work’ is a bit of a foreign concept for you, isn’t it? Since you’re blowing off your media empire to take your…” He wiggles a hand ambiguously. “Partner on a day trip to look at flowers.”
With an incredible amount of forced magnanimity, Vox says, “What can I say? Val keeps quite a few carnivorous plants for dealing with uncooperative employees, and I owed him a date.”
“He did seem rather taken with this darling here.” Alastor peers over at the Venus flytrap, and Vox does the same. After a moment, Vox sighs, shoulders slumping.
“Of course he picks the most expensive one. Not like I don’t enable him. Here’s a tip: don’t ever give a guy access to your bank account just because he has a cute accent and three feet of height on you. The sex is only barely worth it.”
“I didn’t ask, but I’ll take that into consideration.”
For a moment, there’s a rare spell of quiet civility between them. It’s not often Alastor gets to interact with Vox peaceably these days, considering how easily matters tend to escalate between them, but Valentino’s brief intercession has lulled them both into an awkward stalemate, and he finds he isn’t sure how he wants this to proceed.
He can’t afford to, as Valentino so kindly put it, indulge in a stupid slapfight with Vox while Charlie is still hovering around. He needs to keep overt trouble away from the hotel and its guests. And it seems as though Vox, too, is reluctant to provoke his partner’s temper, because realistically, he’s the only one who will suffer Valentino’s wrath if he levels the place trying to kill Alastor. They’re at an impasse, each waiting with bated breath for the other to make the first move. Brawling is always a dangerous pastime between Overlords like them, especially when they’re fairly evenly matched—as much as that knowledge rankles. Alastor isn’t exactly champing at the bit to go toe-to-toe with his only real competition at the moment.
Something tickles his ear, which flicks against his will, and he moves to brush off the disturbance when suddenly Vox is crowding into his space, far too close, too fast as he stiffens and his grin tightens into a defensive snarl—
But he’s—not being attacked? Alastor holds ramrod still as Vox carefully reaches up, electric blue claws extended, to caress a little ball of silver light in his hands, ushering it gently away from where it had drifted into Alastor’s ear.
Ah.
“Huh,” Vox mutters, bringing the witchlight down and cradling it in his cupped palms.
He doesn’t do the wise thing and move out of Alastor’s personal space, but then, neither does Alastor; they both just stare down at the glowing ball, avoiding each other’s eyes and pretending as though these scant inches are a normal distance to stand from one’s archrival. This always happens, Alastor reflects with resignation. Unable to help himself, he always ends up indulging Vox far too much.
This is exactly the sort of thing that got him in trouble in the first place, before they fell out catastrophically. Letting Vox take too many liberties, get too close, start to feel entitled. Alastor has taken great pains to rectify such misunderstandings over the past several decades of their fraught relationship, and yet here he is again, slipping back into those same comfortable patterns—close enough to taste the docile lightning humming through Vox’s body, not taking any steps to put distance between them.
Permissive. Foolish.
Well, Alastor thinks, when Vox finally tilts his head up to make eye contact, perhaps just this once.
After that, it’s not really surprising when the music kicks in.
It starts with a precipitous swell of violins, independent from Alastor’s microphone or Vox’s speakers, before dropping off into a prompting patter of piano notes, sweet and sickeningly soft. Once it becomes clear that neither of them are responsible for the music, Vox’s whole expression dips into something careful and hesitant, claws curling a bit tighter around the silver witchlight in his hands.
“Alastor,” he starts, lulling piano underscoring his voice, which sounds like the introduction to a godforsaken reconciliation duet if Alastor’s ever heard one, and no, thank you, he is quite satisfied with their status quo as it stands.
He quickly leans in and presses a hand over Vox’s mouth, palm flush against the warm screen. It’s perfunctory, Vox can still talk, but it gets the message across; Vox falls silent, eyebrows furrowing with consternation.
There aren’t many ways to escape a duet if Hell decides it wants you to sing one. Already, Alastor can feel nauseating lyrics rising in his throat, and by the frustrated look on Vox’s face, he feels it too—but luckily, neither of them have ever been particularly good at falling in line, and over the years Alastor has devised his own clever method of wiggling out from under the compulsory thumb of Hell’s musical curse.
Now Vox just needs to take his cues and play along.
Alastor doesn’t waste time; he tucks his mic into the crook of his arm, snatches up Vox’s hands—forcing him to drop the witchlight—and drags him in close, sliding in to flatten one hand between Vox’s shoulder blades as he laces their fingers together with the other. Vox startles, jerking against Alastor’s iron grip for a second before he registers what’s happening; Alastor narrows his eyes, grinning sharply, and leans in invasively until Vox breaks, bending backwards to let Alastor take the lead.
“Keep up, old pal,” he says, and doesn’t give Vox the chance to summon up a witty quip before he’s yanking them into an unforgiving Viennese waltz.
The music follows them, reacting to the tight pace Alastor sets by kicking up into a thrilling allegro, and then they’re off. At first, Vox is staggering, tripping over his own feet and nearly braining himself on a shelf of begonias, but when Alastor snaps him out and twirls him, Vox seizes upon the temporary distance to steady himself; and when he spins back into Alastor’s hands, he’s grinning, eyes gleaming with competitive spirit.
On the next spin, Vox uses his momentum to swing Alastor after him so hard that Alastor’s feet actually leave the ground for an exhilarating second, punching a high, breathless laugh out of him, and when he lands, now trapped against Vox with his back pressed to Vox’s chest, he bares his teeth up into Vox’s face and stomps on his foot.
“Ow!” Vox hisses, letting him go to hop on one leg and cradle his poor bruised toes. “You’re such a dick.”
Alastor backs up a few paces, sliding his mic into his hand as he falls into a lilting two-step. “You were getting awfully familiar!”
“I’m doing what you wanted—”
“Too much talking and we’ll tempt fate, my dear,” Alastor interrupts. The more they talk, the more the music intensifies, plucking at his words and trying to warp them into a song, and he really would like to avoid that outcome.
“Get over yourself, then, princess,” Vox says, grabbing Alastor by the elbow and digging his claws in even as Alastor bristles. Vox’s smile is haughty and mean. “You want to waltz? Let’s waltz.”
With Vox taking the lead, the tenor of the music shifts, shifting up from a sultry minor key into a fierce, bright major, though the steady one-two-three beat holds firm. Alastor concedes to following, but he doesn’t make it easy for Vox; as they whirl around a corner and nearly bowl over a few hapless imps lugging bags of soil, Vox tries to dip Alastor and ends up yelping in pain as Alastor twists, nearly wrenching Vox’s shoulder joint out of place as he sweeps Vox’s feet out from under him and reverses their positions. Alastor leans down over Vox, grinning cruelly, as Vox’s expensive oxfords scrabble along the concrete floor in an attempt to recover his balance.
Vox grumbles, “Fucker,” and Alastor generously hooks his ankle behind Vox’s to stabilize him, putting them back on even footing.
The music spurs through him, a living creature. Vox’s hands wander down to greedily grasp Alastor’s waist as Alastor suppresses the subsequent crawl of discomfort that is, thankfully, muted by the barrier of his coat, preventing any truly intimate contact. It’s difficult to feel too resentful about it when he does so love to dance, and Vox is hardly a shoddy partner, even if he’s always been rather demanding.
Ah, well—Alastor can afford to let Vox get a tad handsy in the moment. He’ll bite him for it later.
Liberties, he thinks again, a mental groan, before Vox throws him into a dizzying spin.
He ends up pitching backwards, gripping the steel frame of a shelf in a steadying action that he manages to twist into a graceful lean, kicking up one leg and settling into a recline. He lets his eyes go half-lidded, enticing, as Vox starts to stalk towards him again, crimson trailing down the corner of his crooked mouth in a pixelated smear—and Alastor feels a giddy little jolt in his chest at the realization that he no longer just wants to dance with Vox. He wants to play.
He brings his leg down, shimmies back a half step, and curls a single finger in Vox’s direction. Teasing, maybe; condescending, absolutely, but Vox lights up with anticipation like the pathetic wretch he tries to pretend he isn’t.
“Vox,” Alastor says, and this time doesn’t resist when the musical compulsion reshapes his tone into a sly, lyrical croon. “Catch me if you can.”
“Hang on—” Vox sputters, but Alastor is already vanishing down the aisle, cackling all the while.
Canter pivots aren’t nearly as fun or elegant without a partner, but there’s only so much Alastor can get away with while still capitulating to the music, so—eh.
Skidding around a corner, Alastor registers the pungent scent of ozone right before a sharp crack of lightning strikes the floor ahead of him and he flings himself to the side, Vox’s grasping hands missing him by millimeters. Alastor ducks into an open walkway, tapping out a rapid heel-toe to the rhythm and snickering over Vox’s frustrated snarl.
Their improvised game of dance tag leads them in syncopated circles, weaving through flowering mazes and sending random sinners and imps scattering underfoot, hastening to get out of their way. Once or twice, Vox manages to snag Alastor’s wrist or shoulder and briefly drag him back into a whirlwind spiral of complex footwork, vindictive claws slicing through the seams of his tailoring—he is going to bite Vox so hard for this—but Alastor always rips himself free and takes off again, laughing, difficult to the last. Vox runs after him, steps pounding in time to the score.
But then, oh dear—the music pitches up into a topical warning as up ahead, Alastor spots Husk and Angel Dust peering into a pot of scarlet roses, blocking his way. My, aren’t they domestic, but it’s a fleeting thought as Alastor makes the split second decision to brace himself, lunge forward, and leap over their heads, clearing them by several feet and landing hard on the concrete on the other side, the impact reverberating up his legs as Angel and Husk both cry out in surprise.
“Apologies!” Alastor exclaims over his shoulder, his smile now surely something hungry and nightmarish with glee.
“Dammit—you’re a cheater,” Vox shouts after him. “Stupid fucking deer legs—”
As for what happens next, well. He’s too busy giggling to himself over Vox’s indignant hollering to react in a timely manner.
White lightning explodes before Alastor’s eyes and sends him reeling, blinded. He—does not flail frantically for purchase, thank you—and then suddenly hands are on him again, curling around his waist and bending him backwards in a scandalously low dip. Alastor blinks rapidly, vision smeared with black spots.
Vox grins down at him. His other hand is clinging to a gliding ladder, attached to a crowded shelf of hellish honeysuckles. He’s perched up a ways on the ladder, having considerately swung Alastor’s heels up to hook onto the bottom rung.
The ladder rolls slowly, bringing them to a gentle stop. The music winds down, trailing into satisfied, tittering piano; the overflowing honeysuckle vines frame Vox in delicate, swooning plumes of white, gold, and green. The tufts of Alastor’s ears brush the floor. This pose really does have him more than horizontal. Parabolic, even.
“Caught you,” Vox says, smug.
Alastor realizes he’s clutching Vox’s lapels and quickly releases them. “So you did! Congratulations.” Sardonic applause echoes from his microphone.
“Do I win a prize for saving the big bad Radio Demon from eating shit on the concrete?”
Vox, just like Alastor, is stronger than his frame suggests, and he shows no sign of strain from holding up Alastor’s entire body weight single-handedly. It’s very annoying.
“I suppose one ought to reward good behavior, and you’ve been quite sporting,” Alastor muses. He reaches up and cups the frame of Vox’s screen.
Predictably, Vox immediately flushes, screen going hazy with pink pixels even as he regards Alastor with justifiable wariness. “Uh—I was, just kidding, I don’t really—”
“No, no, I insist!” Alastor smiles tenderly, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the corner of Vox’s digital mouth. Vox’s whole body is a tense, rigid line of expectation, desperately craving the surprise of a soft touch even as he anticipates a violent one. Ah, Vox. Always so charmingly responsive. “You did catch me, after all.”
Alastor leans in, watching Vox’s expression transform into something eager, needy, hopeful…
He unhinges his jaw and bites down on the corner of Vox’s screen.
Vox shrieks as Alastor’s teeth sink in, in, splintering glass and crunching important circuitry between his vicious incisors, and even as Vox loses his grip on the ladder and sends them both tumbling to the ground in a painful heap of limbs, Alastor clings, jaw locked, and starts laughing manically through a mouth full of glass and liquid crystal.
“Yo-uu-uu fuck-xxc-ing freak!” Vox howls, glitching and shoving frantically at Alastor in an attempt to dislodge him. Alastor just digs his teeth in deeper and starts chewing.
Sweet, cloying antifreeze overflows from his mouth and spills down his chin, so he reflexively swallows, and—yes, he’s definitely just consumed quite a lot of broken glass and plastic. He’s going to regret this later, probably. However, at the moment, the symphony of Vox’s agonized mechanical wailing is making the inevitable indigestion feel absolutely worth it.
Finally, Vox seems to regain the wherewithal to remember he’s a formidable Overlord, because between one second and the next there’s a hot snap of pain that streaks up through Alastor’s face and makes him rear back, spitting glass. He lands on his hands and knees, coughing a shivery laugh. His teeth feel like they’re vibrating in his gums, how delightful! Oh, the wonders of electrocution. He hadn’t missed that little parlor trick.
Alastor spits a glob of antifreeze and blood onto the floor. “That was for ruining my coat.”
“I ha-aa-ate y-y-ou so mu-cxx-ch,” Vox seethes, cupping a hand over his destroyed screen corner. His display flickers in and out.
“For fuck’s sake, Al,” comes Husk’s gruff voice, and both Vox and Alastor turn to look at him. He’s standing in the entryway to the aisle, a pot of roses tucked under his arm and Angel hovering over his shoulder curiously. “You just couldn’t let us have one incident-free trip.”
“Everythin’ alright?” Angel asks.
“Aces!” Alastor says.
He swallows again, his whole mouth stinging from all the open wounds and antifreeze and such, and broadens his grin into a satisfied, toothy thing. He’s panting from their dance and still a bit dazzled from getting shocked in the mouth, so it’s quite embarrassing when he goes to stand up and has to sway on one knee for a moment, recovering from the dizziness; Husk grumbles and steps forward to drag him the rest of the way upright, hauling him to his feet and then immediately retreating. Good man.
From the other end of the aisle, a new voice trills, “Vox, cariñito!” as Valentino makes his reappearance on the scene, striding over to them.
Husk’s expression darkens into a scowl and Angel stiffens, but the other Overlord only has eyes for his hapless lover, apparently, who’s still clutching his screen on the ground and whimpering like a kicked dog.
“Aw, pobrecito, come to daddy…” He stoops down to fuss over Vox’s broken screen, clicking his tongue. Vox snarls and bats his hand away. “You’re so bitchy. But you’re so sexy when you’re spitting mad, so I’ll let it slide.”
“Well, we’d best be going!” Alastor says cheerfully, dusting himself off. Little granules of glass rain down from his lapels. “Vox, you should work on being more flexible with your promenade chassé—it’s unattractive when you aren’t willing to mirror your partner! But I suppose this was tolerable otherwise.”
Vox sighs, resigned. “Yeah. Whatever.”
“Your screen tastes wonderful, by the way. Did you flavor it just for me?”
“No, and no, and no.”
“Ah, well.” Alastor runs his finger through a streak of antifreeze on his cheek and licks it off, enjoying the way Vox’s stuttering expression contorts with an emotion halfway between disgust and enraptured. The antifreeze truly doesn’t taste that good, he’s never liked sweets, but as the kids say: anything for the bit. “Either way, it’s delicious.”
“Alright, fucking hell, boss,” Husk mutters, pinching the cuff of Alastor’s shirtsleeve and tugging him away. “Stop pullin’ his pigtails.”
“Ooh,” Angel purrs, eyebrows wiggling.
Husk snaps, “You too,” and grabs Angel to tow him along as well.
Alastor goes willingly enough, leaving Vox to Valentino’s tender mercies—if only because in the absence of actual salt to rub in the wound, indifference works just as well.
Vox and Valentino's bickering fades away behind them:
“Are y-you s-zzs-seriously feeling me up r-rr-i-ight now?”
“Shh, just relax, I’ve got you… aha.”
“What—oh. Of co-ouu-urse. You were look-cxk-king for my cr-rr-edit card.”
“Shh, shut up, daddy has a gorgeous comedor de putas to buy, and you are not getting out of this just because the Radio Demon broke your face.”
“... Fine. But I’m picking dinner.”