Most of the damage was healed, his screen was replaced, all the fractures and scrapes and everything were completely back to normal. It really was just this fucking angel steel stab wound that was being stubborn, still needing to be treated tenderly.
But fuck that. He can stand, he can move with minimal pain, and he is OVER taking it easy.
Vox tidies up and gets back into his ensemble, enjoys being able to saunter and spin, and when he finds Alastor he's kicking in the door and dancing.
Alastor had been rearranging a few meetings and answering emails that didn't require Vox's direct input so his overlord...his fellow overlord...could rest. He was so focused on the task that the door suddenly bursting open would prompt Alastor to jump in his seat.
He turned to face Vox, fingers poised over the keyboard. He was dressed down without his typical coat. His sleeves were rolled up, and his glasses were perched on his nose.
"Stretching my legs! And getting back in the swing of things," Vox answered loudly and fondly, but WHEW. There's a not at all subtle shutter sound effect - Alastor looks good in glasses and with his sleeves rolled up...
"Wouldn't that be fun!" Vox chuckled in amusement, strolling to the desk and leaning over it. "But we'll shelf that. We're overdue for that dance date, aren't we, my deer?"
Vox sat himself on the desk without a care, connecting to the computer - because of course he could and of course he would. Anything to take a little peek, see what Al was doing business-wise, maybe getting something together for that project he was excited about?
Honestly it was just the usual things. Nothing terribly exciting. In fact, this was an email relating to a script that had been sent to him, one he hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about. It was a polite decline particularly since his manager had him on extra tasks for the near future.
An evasive way to get around saying "Sorry, I can't accept this script because I need to make sure our favorite TV-headed dumbass doesn't overstress himself while he's healing".
He saw the little cartoonish Vox head icon that appeared in the corner of his screen as Vox connected. He pretended not to notice as he clicked send and then playfully double-clicked on it.
Vox laughed, letting little lightning emotes bounce off his head to amuse his radio. "Always! That's why you've kept that personal journal of yours on paper, right?"
He hopped up, taking a deep breath and relishing that the pain was barely a sting at this point, rounding the desk. "I made sure the foyer got all tidied up and the furniture pushed out of the way for us."
"I will neither confirm nor deny such a thing's existence," Alastor said cheerfully. "It'll leave you wondering if it's worth the effort to go looking for it and seeing if I write things like 'Mr. and Mr. Vox' in the margins."
He'd certainly had more than enough roles in the 80s and 90s where at least some lovestruck teenager had made those ridiculous little doodles.
He rose from the desk after locking the computer, meeting Vox as he came around.
"We're using the good sound system I see." He leaned forward to touch his forehead against Vox's screen, angling his head just so to avoid stabbing him with the short antlers.
The care is appreciated, and returned with a soft, possessive kiss to the top of Alastor's head. He can't smell, but he registers scent, and his brain fills in the blanks... he imagines Alastor must smell like whiskey, like linens, like coffee and maybe a bit of smoke. And that smell that people always had. Makes him miss smell.
Alastor connected his signal to Vox's, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. Now that he knew he had more than basic radio powers, he'd started experimenting with them. However, he'd been hesitant to be so bold with Vox while he was healing.
The last time they'd fully connected was when he'd panicked upon seeing Vox having torn off his old head and blindly reconnecting his new one. He hadn't known how he'd done it then, but he'd been experimenting with expanding his radio connection abilities. If they could feel each other's signals, that had to mean there was more.
He said nothing, just allowing his signal to get across the "You're so good to me" on his mind.
And Vox would feel Alastor's equally manic obsession for him: the same enthusiasm, fixation, and adoration with the sensation of yours, yours, yours. Alastor might be Vox's equal now on paper, but he still considered himself as Vox's and was quite happy for that.
Was it toxic? Oh, undeniably. But what wasn't toxic in Hell?
He moved easily in step with Vox as if they'd danced their entire existences with one another. Not a step out of place, not a stumble on rogue furniture, even as Alastor's gaze locked onto Vox.
"It's overdue. I've been wanting to do this for so long."
Longer than the new contract. Longer than the lunch before the accident. Every waking moment he craves this, this connection, it's so fucking good, it's everything.
And yes, it is better than sex. And sex is pretty fucking good.
"HAHahahah! We are not revisiting the stitches, thanks!" Vox laughed loudly - thankfully laughing and yelling didn't hurt anymore. But he would gladly fucking skip another stitching session, thanks.
Once they're in the foyer, he'll snap, jazz kicking on and filling the room. It wasn't that vintage quality, but wasn't synthetic, either - Vox knew that if anything, he had to get recordings of actual artists and musicians.
He couldn't grab and toss Al, but he could swing them around and let Alastor spin - it had an energy that matched the tempo almost immediately.
Alastor often missed the snaps and pops of vintage recordings and sound systems. Subtle little reminders that the music was real, not just some manufactured, autotuned to Heaven and back tripe.
He closed his eyes, trusting Vox to guide him as he spun and swung with Vox as his signal hummed excitedly. Ah, it had really been too long since they last did this. There was always such a thrill of moving to the beat of the music with wild abandon.
Though lifting was off the table, Vox was feeling fantastic enough to kick and hop to the tempo, drastically reveling in his recovery. He forgot how much it fucking SUCKED being injured like a normal person. And now, when he took Alastor's hand for a spin, or to dip him, there was a potent connection making it all feel just so amazing.
Fuck, look at Alastor move - he was just as athletic, just as in time with the music, stunning as hell - things couldn't get more perfect than this.
Alastor dipped and swayed with Vox, swept up in the energy to the point where he was practically drunk off of that and the contact with Vox's signal.
He could practically feel the electricity buzzing through Vox's circuits as if they were his own. Whatever passed for a heart thudding in time with Alastor's own. The scent of ozone, metal, and plastic that was so distinctly Vox's.
And if Vox focused enough, he'd feel and smell those sensations as well. Unfortunately Alastor was noseblind to his own scent so he might not be able to pick that up.
He wasn't noseblind, but holy fuck - he could smell. Or rather, Alastor's senses registered in a nearly atrophied part of his brain that remembered how to connect smells - Alastor's feeling struck a chord, and Vox laughed in elation, wordless and euphoric.
The connection was everything.
If Heaven wanted to punish him for being a bastard, they should have never let him find Alastor. Because this, this dance and this connection - this was more bliss than he could ever ask for.
There were probably a lot of sensations he was picking up from Alastor that his brain had been unable to process for decades: smell, of course, but also touch in being able to feel texture, not just register numbers approximating it. Potentially even taste as well.
In many, many timelines, Vox was trapped in a purely audio-visual Hell, but in this one? This one he had a means of experiencing all five senses again.
Those other timelines are the real Hell - Vox feels like he's won the lottery four times over. Time slips by easily, song after song after song passing and his fans and sweat both working harder and harder to keep him cool. There's a throbbing ache in his side, but it's far too easy to ignore as they dance - it'd have to be Alastor that pulls them into a break, because Vox may never leave the zone.
Vox pulled Alastor flush against his body, reveling in the heat but slowing down as advised. The fatigue did catch up, making him a bit breathless, but he still smirked and relished the endorphins and pleasant little electrical signals.
"I guess so. And whiskey is the other half of the promise. We can take it slow, now," he purred, swaying in a slow dance and intertwining his fingers with Alastor's. Just a moment longer, even if it's a slower pace.
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Recovered! ...Almost. Close enough.
But fuck that. He can stand, he can move with minimal pain, and he is OVER taking it easy.
Vox tidies up and gets back into his ensemble, enjoys being able to saunter and spin, and when he finds Alastor he's kicking in the door and dancing.
"There he is~! My deerest." Vox sing-sang.
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He turned to face Vox, fingers poised over the keyboard. He was dressed down without his typical coat. His sleeves were rolled up, and his glasses were perched on his nose.
"And what are you doing up?" he asked teasingly.
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"Picturing me in the role of your secretary out to seduce you?" he teased.
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An evasive way to get around saying "Sorry, I can't accept this script because I need to make sure our favorite TV-headed dumbass doesn't overstress himself while he's healing".
He saw the little cartoonish Vox head icon that appeared in the corner of his screen as Vox connected. He pretended not to notice as he clicked send and then playfully double-clicked on it.
"Nosy," he playfully chided.
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He hopped up, taking a deep breath and relishing that the pain was barely a sting at this point, rounding the desk. "I made sure the foyer got all tidied up and the furniture pushed out of the way for us."
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He'd certainly had more than enough roles in the 80s and 90s where at least some lovestruck teenager had made those ridiculous little doodles.
He rose from the desk after locking the computer, meeting Vox as he came around.
"We're using the good sound system I see." He leaned forward to touch his forehead against Vox's screen, angling his head just so to avoid stabbing him with the short antlers.
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"Only the best, my deer."
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The last time they'd fully connected was when he'd panicked upon seeing Vox having torn off his old head and blindly reconnecting his new one. He hadn't known how he'd done it then, but he'd been experimenting with expanding his radio connection abilities. If they could feel each other's signals, that had to mean there was more.
He said nothing, just allowing his signal to get across the "You're so good to me" on his mind.
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Alastor would feel Vox's almost manic feeling of obsession over Alastor. Enthusiasm, fixation, adoration, his, his, his.
Vox is already starting to dance with Alastor, the synchronicity making his whole existence thrum.
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Was it toxic? Oh, undeniably. But what wasn't toxic in Hell?
He moved easily in step with Vox as if they'd danced their entire existences with one another. Not a step out of place, not a stumble on rogue furniture, even as Alastor's gaze locked onto Vox.
"I missed this," he said.
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Longer than the new contract. Longer than the lunch before the accident. Every waking moment he craves this, this connection, it's so fucking good, it's everything.
And yes, it is better than sex. And sex is pretty fucking good.
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Not that Alastor was thinking along those lines, but if Vox wanted to try, he'd do it.
"Just let's not tear those stitches even if they have healed quite a bit already."
He thought it was fun when Vox tossed him around, but those stitches likely wouldn't think so.
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Once they're in the foyer, he'll snap, jazz kicking on and filling the room. It wasn't that vintage quality, but wasn't synthetic, either - Vox knew that if anything, he had to get recordings of actual artists and musicians.
He couldn't grab and toss Al, but he could swing them around and let Alastor spin - it had an energy that matched the tempo almost immediately.
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He closed his eyes, trusting Vox to guide him as he spun and swung with Vox as his signal hummed excitedly. Ah, it had really been too long since they last did this. There was always such a thrill of moving to the beat of the music with wild abandon.
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Fuck, look at Alastor move - he was just as athletic, just as in time with the music, stunning as hell - things couldn't get more perfect than this.
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He could practically feel the electricity buzzing through Vox's circuits as if they were his own. Whatever passed for a heart thudding in time with Alastor's own. The scent of ozone, metal, and plastic that was so distinctly Vox's.
And if Vox focused enough, he'd feel and smell those sensations as well. Unfortunately Alastor was noseblind to his own scent so he might not be able to pick that up.
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The connection was everything.
If Heaven wanted to punish him for being a bastard, they should have never let him find Alastor. Because this, this dance and this connection - this was more bliss than he could ever ask for.
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In many, many timelines, Vox was trapped in a purely audio-visual Hell, but in this one? This one he had a means of experiencing all five senses again.
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"I think we're hitting your temporary limit, darling," Alastor said playfully. "Might be time to sit down."
Temporary limit. Because Vox was getting stronger every day. That stab wound wasn't going to keep him down forever.
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"I guess so. And whiskey is the other half of the promise. We can take it slow, now," he purred, swaying in a slow dance and intertwining his fingers with Alastor's. Just a moment longer, even if it's a slower pace.
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