"Keep that sometimes to biweekly and I won't begrudge you," Alastor poked at Vox, a black tendril pulling the box of fries from the desk.
"And research. I won't be able to keep books on me lest someone catch sight of me reading something suspicious - I have enough to juggle just reading up on pregnancy care itself."
He had a brief snicker. "What for?? Future taste tests, you fuckin' weirdo?"
He will ignore the tingle that flit up his spine, sufficiently swiping the mirth from his face as he instead completely focused on the rest of the topic instead.
With a cocky head swaggle, he conjured four small squares a light. He took each and tossed them out, where they stretched and settled into a projected screen revealing a curated reading list, blogs from recommended nutritionists and even a rundown and analysis of the functions of the cocktail of typically prescribed prenatal vitamins. Boy, his algorithm would be FUCKED if he didn't know his way around VPNs and secure connections.
"Hmmmm," Alastor hummed instead of answering. It was the more diplomatic response, really - rather than picking a fight about how Vox really is quite lucky there are no other demons able to read the radio waves or that are particularly nosy.
Then again, he will end up obviously appearing with a child of some strange form, so... it wouldn't matter much for Vox, would it.
Hmm.
"Very well. I'm going to go back to my radio tower and endure the rest of the sick before my appetite properly returns," he grumbled, feeling the fatigue of the heightened panic attack AND the vomiting AND the flash of white-hot anger AND the frustrating confusion collapsing on him.
Ah, right, and that whole thing where pregnancy makes one lethargic anyway.
...This is going to be a miserable ten months.
"Do keep out of trouble. Our Deal means nothing if you do something foolhardy. Rosie is the most dangerous Overlord on her side of the Pentagram."
The holograms dissolved in a small shower of light as he scoffed.
"Foolhardy nothing- There are plenty of ways to bury someone, and all without lifting a fucking finger." He turned, and walked to his tank. He paused and let the soft blue glow bathe him, his own comforting color, and folded his arms behind his back.
"She makes any sort of move, and I can turn all of Hell against her."
"Just remember it's not just you or I on the line for failure." Alastor warned, glancing over his shoulder. "For the child at least, put aside your Icarus and instead play Daedalus. I'll update you later this week."
Only lingering a moment longer to stare at Vox's back, Alastor melted away into the shadows - he and Vox both had many, many things to dwell on and think about without being at each other's throats much longer.
Again with the Icarus! When would he EVER try and fly toward the sun? He was measured. He knew what he could do, knew how high he could climb, become so much brighter.
It's why he always had plans. Alastor needed to worry about himself.
Vox offered a nod, and he turned his head to see Alastor go. The CEO paused, listened to the silence for a few more moments before he turned and staggered to his desk.
He sat heavy in his seat that the deer had occupied not long before, eased on his elbows, reached a shaky hand for his nearly forgotten drink.
"Fuck. ...Fuck." He drank, held the glass, drained every last bit of the whiskey in the hopes that it'd cool his hot, dry mouth.
It didn't.
As he lowered the glass and brought his forehead to his unoccupied, quaking hand, he listened instead to his unsteady breathing.
He should be arrogant. Cocky. Very HAW HAW about this whole thing, and in a way, he was.
But here, alone in the office, Vincent Whittman allowed himself to be terrified.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sugaronthecream) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
divinetree2025-10-07 08:11 pm
no subject
"And research. I won't be able to keep books on me lest someone catch sight of me reading something suspicious - I have enough to juggle just reading up on pregnancy care itself."
no subject
He will ignore the tingle that flit up his spine, sufficiently swiping the mirth from his face as he instead completely focused on the rest of the topic instead.
With a cocky head swaggle, he conjured four small squares a light. He took each and tossed them out, where they stretched and settled into a projected screen revealing a curated reading list, blogs from recommended nutritionists and even a rundown and analysis of the functions of the cocktail of typically prescribed prenatal vitamins. Boy, his algorithm would be FUCKED if he didn't know his way around VPNs and secure connections.
"Uh- who do you think you're talking to? Hm?"
no subject
Then again, he will end up obviously appearing with a child of some strange form, so... it wouldn't matter much for Vox, would it.
Hmm.
"Very well. I'm going to go back to my radio tower and endure the rest of the sick before my appetite properly returns," he grumbled, feeling the fatigue of the heightened panic attack AND the vomiting AND the flash of white-hot anger AND the frustrating confusion collapsing on him.
Ah, right, and that whole thing where pregnancy makes one lethargic anyway.
...This is going to be a miserable ten months.
"Do keep out of trouble. Our Deal means nothing if you do something foolhardy. Rosie is the most dangerous Overlord on her side of the Pentagram."
no subject
"Foolhardy nothing- There are plenty of ways to bury someone, and all without lifting a fucking finger." He turned, and walked to his tank. He paused and let the soft blue glow bathe him, his own comforting color, and folded his arms behind his back.
"She makes any sort of move, and I can turn all of Hell against her."
no subject
Only lingering a moment longer to stare at Vox's back, Alastor melted away into the shadows - he and Vox both had many, many things to dwell on and think about without being at each other's throats much longer.
no subject
It's why he always had plans. Alastor needed to worry about himself.
Vox offered a nod, and he turned his head to see Alastor go. The CEO paused, listened to the silence for a few more moments before he turned and staggered to his desk.
He sat heavy in his seat that the deer had occupied not long before, eased on his elbows, reached a shaky hand for his nearly forgotten drink.
"Fuck. ...Fuck." He drank, held the glass, drained every last bit of the whiskey in the hopes that it'd cool his hot, dry mouth.
It didn't.
As he lowered the glass and brought his forehead to his unoccupied, quaking hand, he listened instead to his unsteady breathing.
He should be arrogant. Cocky. Very HAW HAW about this whole thing, and in a way, he was.
But here, alone in the office, Vincent Whittman allowed himself to be terrified.