Chapter Text
Pentagram City, Hell - 1968
The bar was already vivid when Alastor arrived.
The air was thick, cigarette smoke trails curled in coils towards the ceiling, blurring the amber lights and giving the room a flattering glow. The ash and alcohol mix gave the atmosphere history, a sense of familiarity; awake in the way old places were humming quietly beneath the surface.
The piano in the corner sat closed, its silence making room for radio hums and music than the conversation. Still, it was the quiet between songs where the real tension lived. Glassware reflected the golden dazzle throughout the room. Men in fedoras and grey suits crowded the dance floor.
Alastor took his usual seat at the balcony bar. As he sat, the radio on the back shelf let out a soft, delighted chirp of feedback. The background jazz grew just a fraction more frenetic.
He liked this place for practical reasons. The acoustics were great. The usuals knew better than to pry. The staff was efficient, never meddling with his peace. Everything here understood his agenda.
He folded his hands on the counter and waited.
The bartender, a soul who had long ago learned that silence was the best tip, didn't ask for an order. He nodded in acknowledgement , and simply reached for the heavy glass.
The bar's door opened behind him, bringing with it a string of cold air through the room. Alastor didn’t turn right away. He didn’t need to. The sound of Vox’s footsteps had a particular rhythm to it, light taps settling on the wooden floor.
“Terrible reception tonight,” Vox announced. “I swear, every screen in this city is flickering like a wild fire.”
Alastor smiled widened before he could stop himself.
“You say that as if a flickering screen isn't at least a little charming for your audience my dear,” Alastor purred. “A bit of blur might even add some mystery to your programming.”
He gestured vaguely to the empty stool beside him with a slender hand.
“Do sit down before you start blaming the wind for a bit of interference. It’s embarrassing to watch you struggle over a bit of lost signal.”
Vox grinned, wide and easy, slipping onto the stool beside him.
The buzzing neon glow from the diner’s sign caught along the edge of the glass surface of his face, static dances and rhythmic pulses settles the establishment to a new light. The brightness of the screen reflecting faintly in the glass behind the bar. He ordered a drink, fingers tapping against the counter in a restless state, his fingers leaving faint smudges on the polished wood.
“I’m actually serious. This place, though? Perfect. No interference. It’s almost suspicious.”
Vox gave him a sharp teasing glance. Protected territory. Alastor’s, whether he claimed it or not.
Alastor’s smile didn’t budge. He tilted his head and chuckled lightly.
“Some environments are simply… well-calibrated,” Alastor said lightly, his voice carrying the warm playful tone. “They possess a certain decorum, you see. They know how to behave.”
Vox laughed at that. “You mean you like that people don't fight you.”
Alastor hummed, clearly amused. Their drinks were set in front of them. Neat whiskey for Alastor and Blue Lagoon for Vox.
Vox reached and wrapped his fingers around the long stem, his internal cooling fans whirring just a pitch higher as the cold glass met his touch. The blue light of the drink bled into the bar, clashing violently with the warm, auburn tones of the room.
"Now that," Vox said, lifting the glass. The light from his screen passed through the liquid, casting a blueish shadow between them.
"That is what the future tastes like."
Alastor looked at the drink with a thin, curled lip, his nose wrinkling as if he’d just been presented with a glass of poison.
"Tell me,” he continued, "does it come with an antidote, or do you simply pray your internal wiring can handle that much food coloring?"
Vox huffed and took a long, defiant sip.
"It’s called progress," Vox chuckled. "You should try it before anything. It might actually brighten up that monochromatic soul of yours."
Alastor simply tapped his glass of amber liquid, the liquid catching the light like something alive. He took a slow sip, eyes drifting briefly around the room.
"I pass. Anyhow, I trust your internal wiring is up to the challenge."
The bar felt different when Vox was here. Brighter, perhaps. Or quieter. It was difficult to tell. Certain frequencies canceled each other out while others amplified. The conversations, frantic jazz and the clinking of glasses faded into a distant, irrelevant background noise.
In this static infused space, the rumbling in Alastor's own chest began to level out. For a brief moment, the demeanor eased. He didn’t have to sharpen his smile. His voice effects softened. He didn’t have to perform for the television set beside him.
With Vox, the performance slipped.
Not all at once. It had started years back, gradual enough to excuse at the time. He was more of free and available entertainment for his own amusement. Curiosity creeped on his skin, ‘ what a fascinating individual’ Flashy. Witty.
He found himself speaking without the usual rehearsing. Laughing without measuring how it would be received. Sitting a little closer than necessary, simply because it felt natural.
Sloppy, he thought distantly. The word tasted more bitter than the whiskey.
He was halfway through a mental recalibration, when Vox’s voice broke the silence.
Vox was leaning on the bar, the movement fluid and non rushed as he turned slightly toward him. His little antennas swayed.
“You’re early tonight,” Vox noted, his tone hovering somewhere between a casual observation and a curiosity.
Alastor, taken aback by the sudden statement and what it would imply, turned his head just enough to meet Vox’s gaze, his eyes a moment ago sharp and defensive now where to his casual nature.
“Punctuality is a virtue, old friend,” Alastor purred, the radio static returning to his voice with a comforting hum. “Though I suppose you understand the point I'm trying to make since you also are early.”
“Only because I knew you’d already be here.”
Alastor arched a brow. “Confident.”
“Experienced,” Vox corrected. “You’ve got a schedule, whether you admit it or not.”
“I simply do not,” Alastor said smoothly.
Vox just smiled, like he knew better, and took another drink.
The conversation carried on after that, unhurried. Complaints about Hell’s infrastructure. Lucifer's new arrangement of pentagram cities borders. A passing remark about a broadcast Vox was tinkering with. Alastor’s dry commentary on a group of demons arguing too loudly at a nearby table.
None of it mattered. And yet, threaded together, it settled into something oddly resonant.
Alastor didn’t comment on the small, quiet pleasure that sparked at being understood so easily.
If someone were watching closely, they might have noticed how Alastor’s posture had softened, how his smile no longer cut but curved. They might have noticed how his attention stayed fixed on Vox, how the rest of the room blurred into irrelevance.
Alastor did not notice.