(no subject)

Back in the good ol’ days, before there was ever a Val or a Vel or a rotating menagerie of paparazzi, assistants, and adoring, mentally addled fans—there was only Alastor and Vox.

 

A and V.

 

AV.

 

Not in any official partnership sort of way, of course. Nooo, no, no, no, no. That would’ve been silly! Vox would never have presumed, not back then.

 

…But they had been close. Friends, even.

 

Anyway.

 

During those early years in Hell, long before Vox had amassed any lasting power or influence, he’d been…how to put it? An Alastor scholar. A real expert extraordinaire. When he wasn’t working hard to rise up the ranks, making deals, establishing TV as a viable—and, more importantly, profitable—entertainment industry, he’d spend all his free time (which he definitely did not have an abundance of, okay, he’d been very busy and successful in all of his early efforts) learning everything he could about Alastor. Anything at all.

 

It wasn’t stalking, it was just—professionalism. Call it an old work habit he’d be foolish to kick now. No late night host worth a damn would ever handle a special guest unprepared, and what was Alastor but an extra super special one? And asking any guest questions you didn’t already know the answer to was tantamount to an admission of weakness, that you were willing to relinquish control over whatever narrative unfolded.

 

…The real stalking would come much later, once technological innovations and Voxtek money could provide.

 

Until then, Vox had to struggle with the inefficient information gathering methods of 1950s Hell. The less said about the amount of useless legwork he had to do, the better. Instead, most of what he would learn about Alastor had to come straight from the horse’s mouth. Deer’s mouth…? Anyway. The more often they met, the more opportunities Vox had to observe and commit every minute detail about him to memory.

 

One such detail was that Alastor held strong opinions on food. Very strong. The first time this cropped up in conversation—not to get too fancy with it or anything—was au naturel. Just how Vox liked it, no direct poking or prodding necessary. Most of their interactions tended to lead to the two of them downing drinks or catching a bite to eat at one of their usual haunts, so it didn’t take long for Alastor’s lips to loosen on this. And loosen they did! Ohhh, the way Alastor delighted in doling out criticism, pissing off the staff wherever they went. He was a right menace, he was, and getting to bear witness to that night after night? One of the highest honors of Vox’s life. Afterlife. Whatever. Point is: it never got old. Never, ever, ever.

 

However.

 

No matter how much Vox loved to see Alastor’s culinary snobbery in action, there was a problem. A big, huge, disastrous problem if left unchecked: Vox knew fuck all about Louisiana cuisine, let alone all the cannibalistic shit Alastor had taken a liking to in Hell. The cannibalism was at least a new development, but the Louisiana shit…? Vox had no excuse. And if Alastor knew, he’d be fucking dead. Probably.

 

The first time Alastor namedropped nonsensical shit like jambalaya and gumbo and whatever the fuck a boudin is was when they were out chatting over drinks as usual. Vox could only smile and nod and pray that Alastor wouldn't call him out on the disgusting ignorance reflected on his screen. No matter how talented a conman he was, Alastor always found a way to see right through him. But not on that night. He must’ve been in an altogether agreeable mood, rye working its soothing magic on him or something, for he’d taken mercy on Vox’s soul and said nothing. The night continued on like normal.

 

But there was no guarantee things would go as smoothly a second time if nothing changed.

 

So, before their next meet-up, Vox had taken some time out of his very fucking busy schedule, thank you, to amend the situation. Asking around about Louisiana food and shit in Hell had proved about as pointless as always, but another resource that had disappointed him in the past—what kind of so-called bastion of knowledge didn’t have anything on the Radio Demon—finally pulled through: the library. Its Louisiana section hadn’t been anything extensive (and thank god for that; absorbing ten books in two days had been more than enough), but what mattered was that it’d existed at all and held entries on all the shit Alastor had mentioned. And more! Complete with illustrations!

 

It’d really been so kind of that librarian to permanently gift all those books to him. She’d kept eye contact so well.

 

[pretend there's something here to transition to the next scene lol. this entire first part of the fic is prob gonna have a big overhaul when I come back to this fr. present tense from here on btw]

 

—

 

By the time their next eagerly-anticipated bar crawl finally does arrive, Vox is armed and ready with all of his sparkling new Relevant Alastor Information…and one too many fingers of rye.

 

The bar Alastor has picked for the evening is as nice as always. Its smoky haze and red mood lighting—red, just like Alastor and his snazzy suit and what Vox really wants to ask him about; fuck, could this be a sign?—are, uh. They’re nice. Real nice. Alastor looks so good bathing underneath them, sitting nice and pretty at the counter next to Vox, talk talk talking away in that handsome accent of his, and Vox is paying attention, really, he is, but when he senses a lull in the conversation—Alastor taking one millisecond to breathe is a lull, right—he just goes for it.

 

“Soooo…” Vox leans forward with purpose, plopping his right arm onto the bar countertop and very coolly propping his head up with his hand. One of his stupid wooden corners is digging into his palm something fierce, but he doesn’t care right now. He’s got this. “You like crayfish, don’t you?”

 

Vox smiles so bright. Literally—his screen is positively glowing. Now all he has to do is sit there and wait, juuuust wait, until the surprise washes over Alastor and his cute big deer eyes widen until they’re like, until they’re like—haha, oh man—like a deer in the headlights. And then the praise will roll in all like, “Wow, Vox! You’re so knowledgeable and smart! I do love crayfish, how did you know? I’m so impressed! I always knew you understood when I talked about my weird Louisiana food!” and it will be fucking amazing.

 

Yep. Any second now.

 

But Alastor is just staring at him, not saying a thing. Staring, staring, staring. He looks kind of funny. His right—no, left?—eye just twitched? That’s, uh. Huh.

 

It’s then that Alastor’s hand abruptly lunges towards Vox’s head and turns one of his dials all the way down. Hard. It doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t a gentle motion. Vox startles so bad that his cool pose crumbles, head left hanging unsupported as his arm slackens and falls.

 

“Crawfish. The word you were looking for is crawfish. Why so many people settled on that dreadful alternative is beyond me,” Alastor says with a huff, retracting his hand from Vox’s dial and returning to his drink. “Crayfish—what an ugly thing.”

 

That is not how this was supposed to play out. The derision alone is enough to leave Vox rattled, but that sudden touch from Alastor… Vox’s mind is melting.

 

He makes to protest, to defend his apparent blunder with a “But—But that’s what was printed in those books!” that he would’ve instantly regretted admitting to, except… No sound escapes his mouth. He just flaps his lips uselessly like a fish. Again and again, he tries to speak to no avail. What the fuck? But as this frustration mounts, a drunken temper tantrum in the making, it all evaporates at the sight of Alastor’s displeasure morphing into amusement. He’s laughing at him. He’s laughing at him, but why—oh.

 

Oh.

 

Embarrassment colors Vox’s screen as he blindly paws for his own dial. Not the left side one, the one on the right. The volume dial. For some reason it isn’t moving, though; is it broken? Fuck, will that regenerate? Alastor is laughing even harder now, hand raised in a faux-stifling gesture. Does he still know something that Vox doesn’t? But he’s found the dial now. He’s been trying to turn it!

 

He’s… He’s been trying to turn it…

 

Vox turns the dial in the other direction and clears his throat. Testing, testing, 1-2-3. There it is.

 

God, he’s never drinking this much again. Fucking ever.

 

“Y-You haven’t done that in a while…” Vox says with a shaky laugh, sounding too loud to his own ears (or whatever the hell he has now). Too pathetic. He’s gonna turn that dial back down a little now. Can’t be broadcasting just how stupid and wasted he is to the whole place.

 

Alastor’s laughter may have subsided, but his seemingly good spirit is still there. “Well, you haven’t interrupted me in a while! And with such an unpleasantly phrased question, at that.” ...Mostly still there.

 

“Right. Sorry. I didn’t know there was another name for them,” Vox says, planning to leave it at that before shame makes him reconsider. He has to actually say it. “Crawfish, I mean.” It kills him to admit this. Makes him want to blow the brains out of those books’ authors, one by one, and then set the library on fire for good measure. Why did he pick the one fucking freaky Louisiana thing that had multiple names.

 

“Yes, well, I suppose I should indulge your little curiosity since you put on such a wonderful show.” Alastor mimics turning the dial, and Vox bites back the urge to cry out asshole. “I do like crawfish. They’re quite fun to eat—such tiny, prickly things with their adorably oversized claws. And the more fortified their defenses are, the more satisfying it is to break right through them. Snapping their shells, ripping out their flesh, sucking up their guts… A true delight! The brain is always the best part—anyone who tells you otherwise has a tongue that would serve better on a plate.

 

“Oh, and don’t even get me started on boiling them! The joys of a socially acceptable form of cruelty cannot be understated. No one would bat an eye if you stared down the pot, watching them squirm and writhe pitifully as their fortifications turn against them, cooking them from the inside out. The process is quick, but oh-so entertaining.”

 

Vox sits still and listens with rapt attention, for real this time, his eyes sparkling as Alastor grows increasingly animated and…enthused. He isn’t as anywhere as excited as he gets on hunts or when he discusses his serial killing, but it’s close enough—especially coming off the heels of Vox almost certainly nearly ruining the entire night. It’s an unexpected gift, and Vox refuses to waste it, lapping it all up like a dog desperate for scraps.

 

But then, in the midst of his elation, something about what Alastor said really hits Vox. Hits him so hard that he can’t stop himself from blurting it out as soon as Alastor finishes and takes another sip of his drink.

 

“Wait…you’ve cooked them? You—You cook?”

 

Placing his glass down, Alastor tilts his head at the question. “Of course I do! Please, don’t tell me you’ve been taking me for one of those pompous hacks who critiques without a proper foundation. I have standards, Vox. Both for myself and others.”

 

“No! No, I’d never think that. It’s just…surprising, is all. Didn’t know men from your generation liked to cook.” His father certainly hadn’t—but Vox pushes that thought down fast. None of that shit tonight.

 

“Oh, they didn’t. I was surrounded by brutes who barely knew how to make a sandwich. Animals, the lot of them. The one thing that didn’t change with the scenery!” Alastor laughs at his own joke, slapping his knee to boot.

 

Vox laughs right along with him, but internally he’s set on edge—as close to on edge he can really be through a buzz bordering on intoxication. He’s waiting for the follow-up question that will expose him wide open. The one that proves yes, Alastor, he is one of those brutes who knows nothing of cooking. That yes, Alastor, you should judge him. Treat him like he’s worthless.

 

But the follow-up never comes. Instead, Alastor lets the moment pass and directs the conversation back to those dishes with the nonsensical names he’d talked about in their prior encounter. Except this time, the retread comes with the delightful bonus context of these all being things Alastor has actually cooked, plus Vox feeling ever so slightly more equipped to engage with the topic. He may have fucked up with the cray—crawfish, but everything else in those books seems to check out okay. Vox even manages to surprise Alastor with how accurate the image of gumbo he flashes on his screen is! At least, he seems surprised! He’s clapping a little!

 

Vox takes this as a win.

 

An hour quickly passes by like this. Everything between them is normal and great again. Yet, by the tail end of the night, Vox finds himself left put out and wanting. All that time Alastor spent waxing poetic about the local delicacies that he apparently cooks like an actual god, and not once did he allude to letting Vox try any of it.

 

He wants to try Alastor’s cooking so bad. So fucking bad. Honestly, he’d be happy to eat just about anything Alastor could serve him, no matter how unpalatable it might sound. Nothing cooked by Alastor could be bad. Vox is sure of it. He could feed him garbage and Vox would find some way to think it’s a culinary marvel.

 

Maybe he should feel more ashamed of that. Maybe that’s the reason Alastor won’t extend an offer—what’s the point of wasting gourmet on a dog content with slop? It’s pointless.

 

When Alastor makes to pay for his drinks, signaling the night’s proper end, Vox hopes more than anything that disappointment doesn’t show on his face. He’s trying so hard to keep his smile up, just as Alastor would want it to be, but the booze flowing through his system is seriously not helping his self-control. Luckily for Vox—or is it unluckily?—Alastor’s exchange with the bartender is fast, and in no time at all he’s on his feet looking as pristine and sober as ever, ready to take to his shadows and leave.

 

But then, something unexpected occurs. Alastor turns to Vox and flashes him an uncharacteristically fond look.

 

A miracle unfolds.

 

“…Tell you what. Since you’ve taken up such a sincere interest in my native cuisine, how about I cook for you sometime?”

 

“Please!”

 

The moment Vox cries out, his voice warping into this ugly, warbling, pathetically rushed thing, his vision floods with static, thoughts growing equally fuzzy.

 

Alastor offered to cook for him. Homemade Alastor meals. Alastor offered to cook for him. Homemade Alastor meals. Would he wear an apron for him? Alastor offered to cook for him. An apron would be cute. Homemade Alastor meals. Would he wear an apron for him? Alastor offered to cook for him. Alastor cook apron homemade Alastor meals cute cook Alastor—

 

With the practiced motion of someone who’s done it many a time before, Alastor bonks the top of Vox’s head with his microphone-cane-thing, fast and hard. “Having all sorts of technical difficulties tonight, aren’t you?” he says innocently, as if he hasn’t been the cause of all of them.

 

The static obediently disperses, and Vox’s mind, well—it doesn’t exactly clear, Alastor cook apron homemade still echoing in its corners, but it’s getting better. Definitely better.

 

“Th-Thanks.” Vox rubs at the spot where Alastor hit him before shaking his head a bit, a post-static placebo he’s convinced actually does help. “I really would love that, though. Trying out your cooking. Whatever you want to make, I’ll try it. Anything at all!” Then, before he can think better of it, Vox adds with a clumsy, needy hunger, “How about right now?”

 

Predictably, Alastor hums in disagreement. “No, I think not. It’s far too late, and you’re still far too inebriated. I’d be remiss in letting you try anything when you can’t actually appreciate it. Some other time, my dear.”

 

Vox wants to argue, he really, really does, but he knows Alastor is right despite how much he wants to believe his switch to water thirty minutes ago has both completely sobered him up and magically rewound the clock to a more acceptable dinnertime.

 

But it’s okay, Vox tells himself as he watches Alastor—and his shadow, finally making its presence known—wave farewell, leaving him alone at the bar to pick up his own tab and head home. He’s used to waiting to get what he wants, so he’ll gladly wait again. It doesn’t matter how long Alastor makes him do it.

 

Vox will still be there, kneeling patiently at his heels.

 

—

 

“Some other time” arrives much sooner than expected. After that initial same-night rejection, Vox has been trying very hard to keep his expectations low, to steel himself for the long haul wait he knows Alastor can put him through. So until the day Alastor’s invitation arrives, he will be good. He will be patient.

 

So imagine Vox’s surprise when not even a week later, while he’s holed up alone in his apartment, dressed to the nines in pajamas and deep in the middle of workshopping a new pitch for why every household in Hell absolutely needs a TV right now, he receives a sudden radio wave transmission directly into his head.

 

[Salutations! I hope I didn’t startle you.]

 

Alastor, because it could literally be no one else, lets out a crackling static laugh at that. As if he’d ever want to not startle someone.

 

[Oh, who am I kidding—I know you jumped at least a foot. Anywho, I just so happened to have the envie to whip something up in the kitchen today, nothing too extravagant, and I thought—why not? Now’s as good a time as any to extend that offer to my dearest picture box. If you’re not otherwise occupied…?]

 

There’s a beat of dead air purely for dramatic effect. Both of them are well aware that Vox can neither respond nor deny Alastor anything.

 

[I’ll be waiting. Buh-bye!]

 

It’s a blessing in disguise that Vox still hasn’t figured out how to make that a two-way broadcast. Not only had he indeed jumped at least a foot off of his ratty old wooden chair, in the process he’d made the kind of embarrassing yelp his father would’ve raked him over the coals for. Nothing Alastor should ever be subject to.

 

After taking a moment to recompose himself, Vox looks up at his wall clock, internalizes the time—just half past five PM—and sets off on a self-imposed timed mission to look the best he’s ever looked in his entire fucking life and be at Alastor’s place by six.

 

Five minutes should be plenty to get ready, right? Right.

 

Vox descends upon his dingy little closet like a man possessed, grabbing, inspecting, and tossing aside every garment he owns in record time. There will be hell to pay when he returns home to his spattering of wrinkled clothes, but that’s a problem for future Vox. Present Vox is too preoccupied with finding the right shirt, goddammit, where is the right shirt…! And lo and behold, right on cue, there it appears: the newest addition to his modest collection, a dashing red turtleneck that he definitely did not pick out as his first official—not stolen—pricey purchase in Hell because the color matched Alastor.

 

Unbuttoning his black pajama shirt as quickly as unsteady hands allow, he adds it to his discarded assortment on the floor. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he magics the turtleneck onto himself. Up until recently, Vox had been unable to wear anything but button-up shirts due to the special inconveniences his head provided. The timing of Alastor’s offer couldn’t be better, really, he tells himself as he makes a mad dash to the mirror to give himself a once-over. It’s real swell that he waited until after he learned how to manipulate clothes with his nifty new demon powers. This occasion will mark the first time Alastor sees him in a number like this. Vox makes a sharp turn to inspect his side, pulling down at the turtleneck. Straightening it out some.

 

…This occasion must also mark the last time Alastor sees him in a number fitting quite so snugly in places.

 

Vox glances at the clock again—two minutes left before he has to leave.

 

He runs to his dresser and yanks open one of the only drawers that’s actually full. With even less care than how he handled the shirts, he digs and digs until he finds the pair of pants he’s looking for: black and pinstriped. It only takes a few seconds for his pajama pants to slide off and his definitely-not-inspired-by-Alastor pants to slide on.

 

Socks and shoes come next. Socks are in the drawer adjacent to pants, rounding out the roster of lodgers in his dresser. All of his pairs look identical, just a plain white, so he doesn’t even have to think about what he’s doing. No options to weigh.

 

Shoes are even easier—he has one minute remaining—seeing as how he only has one pair exactly. He fishes out his black Hell-branded Oxfords from underneath his desk and sits back down on the ratty old wooden chair he started this whole mission from.

 

After successfully slipping them on, all that’s left to do is…grab the matching black pinstriped jacket that’s also-definitely-not-inspired-by-Alastor, which is, conveniently, hanging off of the chair’s back. It’s almost like he totally, absolutely planned all this out to end his five minute makeover right where he needed to be.

 

At least, that could’ve been the end. It could’ve been, but… Five minutes hasn’t fully passed yet. He must have about thirty seconds to spare, and he has an idea.

 

He’s doing it.

 

In a split-second decision, he scrambles to the bathroom and takes out his what could possibly be his most unsung asset of all: his screen cleaner. Feeling the time crunch, he opts to not turn off his screen like usual and instead closes his eyes and mouth and just spritz spritz spritzes all over his face. The results are successful (his screen is positively radiant), but mildly irritating (his eyes sting a bit).

 

But with that, it’s done. His five minutes are up, and he’s as ready as he’ll ever be to head on over as normally and casually as he can muster to try Alastor’s cooking.

 

With a start, he runs out of his apartment into the hallway and—

 

—falls flat on his face, screen cracking.

 

He forgot.

 

To tie.

 

His fucking shoes.

 

Not even caring if anyone in the surrounding apartments could hear him, Vox lets out a whimpering cry of defeat.

 

—

 

“I see the technical difficulties are continuing tonight!”

 

It’s not exactly the warm, jovial greeting Vox wants to hear when he finally arrives at Alastor’s doorstep a whole three unacceptable minutes past six.

 

“Y-Yeah, uh. You know how some Sinners get when you make a deal they don’t like. Always so quick to turn violent,” Vox says, turning up his bravado, straightening up, brushing at his turtleneck to draw attention to it. “Apologies for the delay. I had to handle that inconvenience, if you know what I mean.”

 

He typically avoids using such boldfaced lies with Alastor because they never work. But what other choice did he have? Telling him the truth? That he broke his own screen because he forgot to tie his shoes like he was fucking five? Hell no. He’d rather finish the job and bash his head in completely.

 

Besides, he’s been in Hell for a year now, and he’s had…some success in making a few deals ever since Alastor coached him. Would it be truly so hard to believe he’d been attacked by an unruly mark in the midst of another deal? And that he’d grown capable enough to put them in their place?

 

Based on Alastor’s mocking raised brow and extra catlike—deerlike?—smile, yes. It would be. “Of course. I understand. So glad you could take time out of your exciting schedule for little ol’ me. But do come in, now! Any further dawdling is liable to turn your food cold, and I refuse to reheat it for you.”

 

Vox trails behind Alastor with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. Even though they can’t see each other’s faces like this, Alastor’s shadow could be lurking, so Vox is still desperate to prevent himself from pouting like a little bitch over Alastor’s lack of comment on his outfit. Maybe if he hadn’t broken his fucking screen like an idiot, he’d notice it more.

 

At least it’s easy to distract himself here. It isn’t the first time Alastor’s invited him over, and thank god for that. Vox may have actually died of overheating if he had to process Alastor’s entire house and Alastor’s cooking for the first time all at once. But still, he hasn’t been here much. The myriad of details and personal effects decorating the moody living room alone are enough to put Vox in a tailspin, head looking every which way to pick out new and exciting design features. Like, for instance, that very clearly new shark head hanging next to the bookshelf? An actual shark head! …That Alastor hadn’t bothered to mention to him…

 

But Vox can’t stay focused on his even newer source of insecurity for long. His body has already moved on, knows what’s coming next—pulse quickening on cue, heart racing, antennae standing at full attention.

 

They’re about to reach Alastor’s bedroom.

 

See, Alastor’s home has a unique quirk about it, something Vox had never encountered before his first visit many moons ago, but has since come to greatly appreciate. Seriously, he can’t thank shotgun houses enough…even though he still thinks that classification should’ve been a cool serial killer-related title Alastor came up with instead of some New Orleans style thing.

 

Anyway, point is—the layout is odd. Its rooms are lined up in a neat row, demanding all entrants pass through each and every one of them to access what lies at the tail end. Which, in this case are…the dining room and kitchen.

 

To get to the dining room, they have to pass through Alastor’s bedroom.

 

Once more, with emphasis: thank you shotgun houses.

 

…Not that Alastor has ever let Vox actually see inside his room on previous visits, but hey, surely that’ll change someday? They’re getting closer now. Closer and closer and closer. Nothing has happened yet. The door is right there. Maybe today will finally be the day he gets to see—

 

Alastor summons a tendril to wrap around Vox’s big blocky head, acting as both makeshift blindfold and leash with no consideration for the crack in his screen. Before Vox knows it, he hears the door open, gets tugged along forward—quickly, his feet almost trip over themselves (again) to keep pace—and finally hears the door shut tight behind him. Only then does the tendril retract, freeing his eyes to confirm that yep, he sure is in the dining room now.

 

Again, he comes dangerously close to pouting.

 

The dining room table sits dead center, a bold red bloodstain on an otherwise overwhelmingly green room. Everything one would expect to find on a well-dressed table is there—candelabra, check, silverware, check, glasses of water, check—except…no booze. So Alastor was serious, then, about not wanting him inebriated for this. He’ll just be alone with his raw thoughts and constant—now worse, after the tendril—head pain without any help. All night.

 

He’ll be fine.

 

“Take a seat, my friend. Either one will do.” Alastor doesn’t remark on the tendril usage, but Vox doesn’t expect otherwise. He hasn’t since the first time it happened. Instead, he moseys over to his radio perched atop its designated console table and turns on his own station—playing jazz in his absence as host. “Now, then! If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll pop off to the kitchen and fetch some plates.”

 

Vox hesitates a moment in Alastor’s absence, wondering if there’s some kind of mind game at play in letting him choose his own chair. They look identical, both fancily carved wooden chairs with deep red cushions to match the tablecloth, but one is facing towards the kitchen, and the other towards…the bedroom. Is Alastor trying to test him? He must know Vox wants to see inside there, why else would he tease him with that lasso every time, but he must also know Vox wouldn’t dare sneak in now that he’s alone. Probably. Alastor would kill him and broadcast his screams if he did, without question. But if he chose the seat that faced the bedroom—would he take that as a message that Vox wanted to go in? Would he be angry? Disgusted? It’s a weird thing to want, isn’t it. He probably just wants Vox to pick the seat facing the kitchen instead. Vox is supposed to be here for his cooking, and he is here for that, but—

 

No. No, no, no, this is stupid. He’s overthinking this. He needs to take a deep fucking breath, and calm down. It must be that damn crack in his head making him act like this. Yeah. Fuck, he wish he could down a drink right now. Besides water.

 

He plops himself down onto the chair facing the kitchen, and begins to wait. And wait. And wait. He picks up the spoon resting in front of him and idly twirls it around. Alastor sure is taking a while. He puts the spoon down. The jazz is nice, though. Kind of exacerbating the throbbing in his head, but whatever. He’ll never complain. But seriously, why is he taking a while?

 

…Maybe he’s putting on a cute apron?

 

It occurs to Vox then, only after he’s already sitting down, fully committed and having unseemly thoughts, that Alastor never made mention of what exactly he’s cooked for tonight. Vox just showed up here, no questions asked.

 

But before his mind can start running wild for the millionth time off of that, Alastor bursts through the kitchen door with dual-wielded plates in hand.

 

No apron, though.

 

“I hope you’ve worked up an appetite!” Alastor sing-songs, placing the plates down as skillfully as the finest waiter in all the land.

 

Tonight’s mystery dinner—drumroll, please—cooked up by the Radio Demon himself—louder, faster—is…!

 

Ta-da!

 

It’s jambalaya!

 

Vox lets out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he’d been holding. He would’ve gladly eaten anything Alastor served him, it’s true, but out of everything he’d learned about, jambalaya seemed the closest to something familiar. No soupy rice or rice pretending it’s sausage. Just…normal rice.

 

Normal rice that smells really fucking good, actually.

 

“Man, Al, this—this looks incredible! Smells great, too. You really cooked this? This is like…” Vox picks up his spoon and mixes the rice and meat around and around, mouth watering as the scent intensifies with each disturbance. “I dunno, restaurant quality?”

 

“Oh, dear, you’ve caught me. I tricked you into making a mad dash over here and giving yourself a hilarious injury in the process, all to pass off someone else’s cooking as my own.” Alastor takes the seat across from Vox—the one facing the bedroom—and dramatically raises his hand to heart…then rolls his eyes. “Of course I cooked this, you silly thing. Stop playing with your food like a child and try it already.”

 

Vox flushes hard, heat and static pooling in his screen where his cheeks should be, though at what specifically, he can’t pinpoint; both comments hit about as hard as his screen met the floor. “Right. Um. Sorry, I’ll just—” He looks down at his food, loads up his spoon, making sure to get a big helping of rice and meat, and…stops short of bringing it to his mouth. An unbidden thought bubbles up to the surface. He shouldn’t ask. What if Alastor takes offense? But... “This meat is, uh, chicken and sausage, right? It looks like it.”

 

“Mm, not quite.”

 

“Not—Not quite?” What the fuck did that mean. “So, it’s like…Hell-raised chicken and saus—er, pigs? From them, I mean. The meat’s from chicken and pigs? But from Hell.”

 

“Not a chance! I only use the finest ingredients.”

 

“…Right. Riiight, yeah. Duh.”

 

So, this is it. This is how he’ll receive his first taste of cannibalism. Okay. It’s not like he hasn’t fantasized about this scenario too many times to count, combing over every possible way it could unfold. Ever since he first learned of Alastor’s special diet, he’s been anticipating it. Preparing for it. He’s sure it’ll be fine. Alastor has great taste, after all, and besides—Vox is soooo different from humans now. It’s been a whole year since he’s been one of them! And if it’s demon meat, well. It’s not like they’re his equals.

 

It’ll be fine.

 

Taking one final glance at Alastor—leaning forward in his chair, observing him with a predatory glint in his eyes that makes Vox feel funny—he opens his mouth big and wide and shoves his spoonful right in.

 

He chews. And chews. And chews and chews and—shovels another serving in. And another. And—

 

“Holy shit, Al. If this is what human—demon?—whatever the hell makes you a cannibal down here. If this is what that shit always tastes like, then sign me the fuck up! Fuuuck, this is so good?!” The euphoria of just how impossibly delicious Alastor’s anything-but-normal rice is overwhelms all of Vox’s better judgments. Every last one of them. His language, his emotional restraint, his ability to not just yap away with a mouth full of fucking food—all totally shot.

 

He would keep going on like that, oblivious to how stupidly drunk he is off of his homemade Alastor meal until he finishes his whole plate, except for Alastor suddenly cackling. Not just laughing, like at the bar. Cackling. Loud enough to drown out the background jazz. It’s so wholly undignified and full-bodied that he’s actually grasping at his sides, jerking up and down and left and right in pleasure. Vox swaps out one trance for another, finally swallowing his food and staring bug-eyed at the sight.

 

“It’s chicken and,” Alastor wheezes out between cackles, “and andouille.”

 

“…What?”

 

“Andouille. Not”—he cackles again—“anything you’d find in Cannibal Town. Oh, you should’ve seen the look on your face, trying so hard to figure it out in that broken head of yours! Priceless!”

 

“But—But I thought andouille was a sausage? Why’d you say it wasn’t?” Vox asks in a flurry, confusion written plain on his priceless face.

 

Where Vox is growing more animated, Alastor is starting to settling down. He wipes a tear from his eye. “I never said it wasn’t, I said it was ‘not quite.’ Andouille is andouille. It’s not just a sausage. Trust me, not even I could salvage a jambalaya made with such a senseless substitution. Substituting andouille for smoked sausage—please. If anything is in need of more substitutions in jambalaya, it’s shrimp.

 

“But I digress.” As quickly as Alastor’s huffiness over jambalaya purity came, it goes. Then his ever-present smile widens, and suddenly in his hand there’s a conjured up…bottle of bright reddish-orange liquid? “This is my very own hot sauce. Specially made to enhance just about anything! And since you’ve had an enthusiastic response already—” He pauses, placing the bottle down. “Oh, dear, simply where are my manners tonight, offering this before my thanks? Especially when you had such a charming way with words! Misguided thou they were.

 

“But still, thank you.” Without warning, Alastor leans over the dinner table towards Vox and touches the crack in his screen. Rubs at it like one would a scab—gently, but with the underlying temptation of how easily it could be destroyed.

 

How satisfying it would be to ruin.

 

But before Vox’s brain can catch up with the reality of Alastor leaning close and touching him, Alastor sits back down as if nothing at all has happened and showcases the hot sauce with renewed vigor. “Now, I must insist you try this out. Think of it as, oh, a token of my appreciation? From chef to honored guest.”

 

Honored guest goes straight to Vox’s head (and elsewhere, but he’s pointedly ignoring that), inviting a dangerous amount of static back onto his screen. It is an actual fucking miracle he hasn’t shorted out already. Best to focus on his request to keep it that way, and absolutely nothing else. Alastor wasn’t dwelling on any of that, so why should he? “I-I’d love to!” Vox clears his throat. That came out too queerly. “Just…it’s kind of spicy already? Not in a bad way! My tongue just burns a little, is all. So maybe I’ll stick to a few drops for now and see how it goes…?”

 

Alastor shrugs and slides the bottle across the table. “Suit yourself!” Vox swears he almost seems disappointed. With what specifically, he’s not sure, but it makes his chest hurt nonetheless.

 

Erring on the side of caution, Vox only adds five drops to his plate. They speckle his jambalaya like bright red warning signs of something deadly to consume. He would leave it at that, but…he doesn’t want to further disappoint Alastor. A sixth drop can’t hurt.

 

With Alastor’s encouragement, Vox takes a bite of his “enhanced” serving.

 

He can’t reach for his glass of water fast enough. Vox chugs it down with a newfound appreciation for its presence, oblivious to all but the need to put out the fucking fire in his mouth. It doesn’t succeed at doing so, exactly, but it’s better than nothing. “That’s, that’s—uh. Um. Great, really flavorful, but.” Vox coughs. The spice feels lodged his throat. “It packs a punch! A little sure goes a long wa—huh?”

 

Alastor, smiling big, is pouring damn near half the bottle onto his own plate. Shaking it violently, whacking its back end to make the sauce spill out faster. Vox hadn’t even seen him take the bottle back.

 

When did he—

 

What was he—

 

Ignoring Vox’s panic, Alastor takes a big, blindingly red bite and hums in satisfaction. He even lifts his hand to his cheek for emphasis.

 

How.

 

“How can you taste anything through that?!”

 

“Oh, the spice brings out the flavor, not overwhelms it.”

 

“But you used half the bottle?!”

 

“Anything less and I wouldn’t taste the heat at all!”

 

Vox stares at him, slack-jawed and flustered. “…You’re really something, Al. I don’t know of anyone else who could handle that. It’s impressive.” Unlike himself, the most unimpressive, wimpiest loser in all of Hell who took a bruising from six drops. He has to do something about this. Steeling himself, he adds, “Guess I better kick my taste buds into shape, huh?”

 

Come a copious amounts of water breaks later, and he’s done it. Vox has successfully conquered his molten plate of jambalaya. He hasn’t kicked his taste buds into shape, not by a long shot, but he has kicked them. He’ll be paying for this for fuck knows how long, he’s sure of it.

 

At least Alastor seems content. That’s what matters.

 

For a while after that, all they do is sit there and eat—properly now; no more horrible table manners (or hot sauce, forsaken for the second serving) on Vox’s part, and no more horrible acts of bullying (that Vox shouldn’t enjoy as much as he does) on Alastor’s part. Comfortable silence settles between them, a rarity for their time spent together. With nothing but an accompaniment of clanking silverware and background jazz, Vox’s brain begins to wander in full fervor. There’s so much he’s dying to ask Alastor, questions that have been nursing inside him all night.

 

Is Vox the first person Alastor’s allowed to try his cooking? If so, is that true of Hell only, or does it also apply to his time on Earth? It’s strange his shadow hasn’t made a guest appearance yet, why is that? Is there some indiscernible special reason he invited Vox over tonight? Why hasn’t he said anything about his outfit by now? Why won’t he let him see his room—does he truly think he’ll be weird about it?

 

Why did he touch his cracked screen like that?

 

The list goes on.

 

But what ultimately tumbles out of his mouth, small and quiet and dripping with an earnestness so unbridled that it overrides all his usual protocol, is: “…Where’d you learn to cook like this? Seriously, it’s been amazing, Al.”

 

“Ever the flatterer, aren’t you,” Alastor teases, but like every other time he’s teased tonight, there’s no bite to it. He clearly is flattered. With eyelids low and heavy with what Vox swears is affection, Alastor holds his gaze—just long enough to make Vox squirm, get his hopes up—and hums, considering. “Perhaps I’ll tell you...someday. But I think I’ve given you quite enough to chew on for now.” Then, just to make sure he dots his i’s and crosses his t’s, Alastor scoops up another spoonful of jambalaya and takes a hearty bite, chomping away at it with his big teeth. Politely, though. Like a gentleman. Staring down Vox all the while.

 

Vox fights every impulse to let his crushing disappointment show and loses. Miserably. His antennae droop forward in defeat. “R-Right... Yeah. Of course! I—I understand.” Not wanting to embarrass himself further with clumsy, mindless words (Alastor must think his vocabulary consists almost entirely of ‘right’ at this point), he follows Alastor’s implicit lead and takes another bite of his own. Anything to keep his dumb mouth occupied and have an excuse to avert his eyes.

 

But Alastor is nothing if not relentless when he wants to be. Before Vox has a moment to compose himself, Alastor adds, ever so casually between bites: “Oh, but don’t start getting any of your grand ideas. You’ll just waste time better spent on actually making more deals. I assure you—no amount of research will ever unearth this.

 

So, do keep being a good boy now. Tonight has been fun! We’ll have to do this again sometime, don’t you agree?”

 

Vox does agree. He agrees more than anything he’s ever agreed with before. He just can’t verbalize it at the moment.

 

Hard to do so after a static assault so violent it shuts his head right off, screen as dark and empty as the void taking over his mind. The dead weight of his bulky wooden frame causes him to fall face forward.

 

Right onto his plate.

 

When Vox finally comes to after an indeterminate amount of time has passed, he finds himself back at his apartment…deposited right on top of the discarded clothes pile on his bed.

 

It’s beyond shameful, what he’s done. He should just lie down and never show his face again. The fact that Alastor—because it could literally be no one else—had ventured all the way out here to drop him off at his dismal apartment… It should make Vox want to die.

 

And it does. It does, but…

 

Alastor did all that for him. And said he wanted to do the homemade dinner thing again. And that maybe he’d even tell him something exclusive.

 

Okay! Suicide postponed.

 

Vox groans as rises from the bed and heads to the mirror to assess the night’s damage. All in all, he doesn’t look as banged up as expected. Alastor must’ve handled him with some level of care.

 

Except… Alastor didn’t bother wiping off the jambalaya that clung to his screen from the fall. There’s so many grains of rice smashed every which way—some even got inside his crack.

 

Any normal person would assume this to be a malicious act. But Vox is not a normal person, nor would he ever be.

 

To him, this is a parting gift, and he knows exactly how to accept it.

 

He extends his tongue to its fullest length and licks his screen clean, savoring every last bite.

 

—

 

“Someday” arrives much later than expected. Alastor being a cagey bitch who takes pleasure in keeping his secrets (especially from Vox, the fucking prick) is nothing new, really. It’s nothing new at all, but…Vox still didn’t expect him to keep that particular secret for this long. The days since he first tried Alastor’s jambalaya have melted into months, into years, into an entire goddamn decade, and still—nothing. Not even after Alastor allowed Vox to move in with him a whole, oh, ten months, six days, thirteen hours, three minutes, and forty-four seconds ago.

 

Forty-five seconds now. Forty-six…

 

Does the almost-promise Alastor made that night live at the forefront of Vox’s thoughts at all times? No. But does it skulk around back, lying in wait behind a wire or two, ready to pounce on him at any time, any place?

 

Maybe.

 

Yet not once has he dared to broach the topic again, no matter how much he wants to. Vox holds no illusions that Alastor thinks of it as much as he does—he’d never. But he’d never forget about it, either. So if it hasn’t come up since, it’s because Alastor hasn’t wanted it to. Simple as that.

 

...It makes Vox wonder, more often than he’d like to admit, if Alastor holds out on him because he still isn’t good enough. If he’ll ever be. Because that was the deal, wasn’t it? Unofficial as it was. And the more time passes with his status unremarked upon, the worse this wondering festers within him. It gnaws at his circuitry like a parasite intent on consuming him whole.

 

But it gnaws less whenever Alastor is right there, sitting pretty across the dinner table—their dinner table—and enjoying another homemade meal with him. Hell of a lot easier to tell pathetic insecurities to go fuck themselves in the face of tangible proof to the contrary—literally, Alastor’s face right there in front of him.

 

It’s a nice face.

 

So, sure. Alastor still hasn’t told him one itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, totally unimportant secret about himself. But continuing to cook for him? Spend time with him? Live in domesticity with him as—as roommates? That all has to count for something, right?

 

Right.

 

For a while, it’s reassurance enough.

 

It’s enough, until—surprise! It takes off its hat and glasses, does a little twirl, and reveals itself as a brand new insecurity in disguise. And if the last one was a parasite? This one is a terminal disease.

 

See, despite all the ways Vox has changed over the past decade—new head upgrade, starting up a successful TV program in Hell, the whole moving in with Alastor thing—Alastor has remained about the same. Meaning: yes, he’s still a fucking phenomenal cook, and yes, Vox has been wholeheartedly reaping the benefits ever since he moved in—447 out of 822 times, in fact. He’s kept a close tally of their shared mealtimes since the move, both because it would set him at ease and made for an incredible bragging point. Who else could claim to have eaten the Radio Demon’s cooking to that degree? Fucking no one, that’s who.

 

But lately…

 

Well, it’s not like Vox has been filling in for all the other 375. They’re pretty evenly divvied up between skipped meals, separate meals, and dining out—and it’s only been recently, now that Vox’s big TV bucks are rolling in, that he can afford to treat Alastor to ritzy restaurants on his dime. While that’s something, it’s… It doesn’t feel like enough.

 

Shouldn’t he fix that?

 

Shouldn’t he do more?

 

Shouldn’t he…try to cook, too?

 

Hilarious. Vox can’t help but bark out an involuntary laugh when it first hits him—which would be, of course, when he’s surrounded by stagehands at work. At least the apprehensive looks they shoot him make it easier to convince them it never happened.

 

But it did happen. The thought did hit him, and it doesn’t stop hitting in the following days.

 

Him, cooking. What a fucking concept.

 

Vox has never so much as touched a stove top, deliberately so. Growing up, one of the reoccurring refrains of his father’s handbook was that cooking was women’s work, and that any man who defied that was suspicious. Unnatural.

 

Pick any accusation he’d sling at Vox on a daily basis.

 

Back then, Vox—so dumb, so pathetic, so desperate—would do anything to keep his father’s vocabulary from expanding in that direction. A futile gesture, for sure (his father knew little else besides those words), but fuck if he wouldn’t try. No matter how much harder their lives became in the absence of Vox’s mother, no matter how many times he’d debase himself in the name of donning whichever hat—court jester, junior salesman, charity case—would win over a rich mark, and no matter how many times he’d avert his eyes from the abundance of men—normal-looking men—that worked the restaurants he frequented… Vox still refused to learn how to cook.

 

He’s never once regretted it. And why should he? He played by his father’s rules back then and came out on top. He won. Pretty impressive, if he says so himself. Which, for the record, he does.

 

Or at least he did, before stupid Alastor and his stupid fucking stupidly good cooking started making him feel like—like this. This repulsive, confusing thing, the product of what happens when a longstanding source of pride warps and bruises until all that’s left is a nasty sore spot. For ten years, the only uncertainty Alastor’s cooking ever inspired within him was the whisper of his father’s words making him wonder, just wonder, that if they were true, wouldn’t that mean Alastor is...? Not that Vox could ever entertain such an inappropriate, insulting line of questioning for long. His tried and true mantra of Alastor being Alastor (different, special, able to do whatever he damn well pleases) always did the trick.

 

There is no such trick to cure the incessant, intolerable thoughts plaguing him now. But Vox learns to live with them, for a time. Always been good at adapting in a pinch. Persevering! The uneventful days do try him, though. They are the worst for it, bar none. Days when nothing particularly riveting happens at the studio, there are no new deals to strike, and Alastor hasn’t invited him on a hunt, or to Rosie’s, or to do anything at all…

 

In the absence of such distractions, insecurity feasts and feasts upon him until his mind is left to rot, incapable of any greater thought.

 

Is it any surprise, then, that it’s after one of these long, grueling, uneventful days that Vox finally hits his breaking point?

 

They’re sitting at the dinner table that evening, as per usual. Vox takes his usual seat facing the kitchen (though he no longer frets and pines over facing Alastor’s bedroom as much), and Alastor takes his usual seat opposite him. They make their usual conversation over drinks and one of Alastor’s usual meal rotations—tonight’s treat being crab bisque. Alastor poisons his serving with his usual unholy amount of hot sauce, while Vox opts for his usual daring-for-him three drops. It is, as usual, delicious.

 

All so usual. Usual, usual, usual, usual, usual. So perfectly fucking usual, and all Vox has contributed towards it is showing up.

 

He can’t take it anymore.

 

Before he can second-guess himself, he chugs down what’s left of his liquid courage and blurts out: “How about I cook for you next time?”

 

He sounds steadier than he feels. Small mercies.

 

There are two ways this can play out. The first, and more likely of the two, is that Alastor laughs in his face—cackles, even—and makes a mockery of him for offering this now, after all these years spent not once showing an interest in cooking. Yes, Vox expects this response. Prefers it, to be blunt. He knows now how to better handle Alastor’s cruelty, and, though he also knows it’s perverse and wrong and contradictory, he...kind of likes it.

 

It’s the second way that concerns him more: Alastor, acting like this is nothing out of the ordinary and carrying on without any strong reaction. At best? A telltale sign that he’s biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike when Vox is at his most vulnerable. At worst...? A signal that this is not worth caring about. That Vox has been losing his entire fucking mind over this for no good reason.

 

But, hey, what’re the odds of that?

 

Great, apparently.

 

Alastor pauses mid-sip and sets his glass down. He blinks. Not twice, not thrice—just once. His smile sits evenly on his face. Then, not missing a beat, he asks, “You mean, for tomorrow?”

 

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck— “Of course I do! I mean, you gotta eat every day, right?” Try as he might, he can’t keep his nervous laugh from bleeding through as he speaks. Fucking mortifying. “You’d have to be some kind of idiot to forget that!”

 

Why did he say that. Whyyy, why, oh, why did he say that. He’s done it now. He’s practically handed Alastor his head on a silver—no, a goddamn golden platter. This is it.

 

But Alastor refuses to take it. “Quite the idiot, indeed. Dinner tomorrow evening, then? Let’s say…six o’clock?”

 

“Perfect.”

 

It’s a conversation that lasts all of thirty seconds, but it occupies Vox’s mind for the rest of the evening.

 

Time moves slow as they work through their meals, feeling all the more slower in the silence left by Vox’s inability to yap away like usual about whatever popped into his head—whichever daily tidbits would best impress. Or amuse. He would settle for amuse. But right now this dead air, if you will, is doing neither such thing, and Alastor, ever the consummate professional, is practically forced to pick up the slack.

 

“Tomorrow’s meeting will be such a bore. It seems no one wants to discuss anything but territorial disputes these days! So dull. The least they could do is settle them with some dramatic flair. I swear, too few know how to have fun with their kills.” Alastor picks at his food, making a whirlpool out of spoon and bisque. “It’s all business, business, business with that lot. You’d fit right on in, Vox. Keep up your little studio endeavors, and it really might be you sitting next to me at a meeting someday!”

 

Under nearly any other circumstance, Vox would’ve lit up at this. He would’ve latched onto it like a lamprey and made it his entire personality for the next month. Maybe year? But as things stand, it’s hard enough for him to combat his racing thoughts of—

 

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t laugh, fucking hell, he didn’t laugh. What does that mean. He doesn’t seem disinterested, really, but also not interested, really. But he did set a time limit—oh god, he set a time limit—so he’s definitely planning something. Maybe that means he’s actually interested? Isn’t it worse if he’s interested? What if he disappoints him. Fuck, he can’t disappoint him. Why hasn’t he said anything about the silence. Why are they still eating dinner like this is normal. Why why why why.

 

—so all Vox can process is a vague understanding that Alastor is being unusually chatty and that his voice is nice. Even filtered through the electrical fire in his brain, Alastor’s voice is so nice. Nice enough that all that survives the translation from Vox’s mind to mouth is:

 

“Mm, yeah. Nice.”

 

Alastor just keeps on talking. Vox just keeps on fighting for his life inside his head. They circle round and round like this until suddenly, somehow, Hell’s longest evening finally comes to a close, and Alastor, as far as Vox is aware of, hasn’t taken a bite out of anything but his meal. By the time they part ways to their (frustratingly) separate bedrooms, Vox’s wiring feels fried through. It’s a strange sensation, the clash of mental exhaustion and exhilaration. He could probably overheat at any moment.

 

But he can’t. He won’t.

 

Instead, he tries to cool down and sleep for a wink. Tries being the operative word here. He puts on his comfiest pajamas, fluffs up his pillows, uses his own static as white noise, and tosses and turns and tosses and turns in bed until surely, finally, he’ll find the magical position that’ll let him doze off without having to force a shutdown. It’s all pointless, of course. How the fuck is he supposed to settle down after all that. And on a time limit?

 

Fuck it. He’s forgoing sleep. Not the first time he’s done it, and it certainly won’t be the last. If time is of the essence, then why waste a second more? He’ll cool off eventually if he just…focuses. Directs his thoughts towards what matters most:

 

What the hell should he cook for Alastor?

 

The most obvious choice would be something Creole. Cajun? The difference has always kind of eluded him despite Alastor’s explanations (and how fervently Vox nodded along to them). Regardless. Some Louisiana thing. What could be more impressive than cooking Alastor’s favorite kind of food? Putting his cannibal shit aside, anyway. He is not in the mood for a Cannibal Town visit right now—no way those creepy little hivemind bitches wouldn’t snitch to Rosie the moment he stepped foot inside. He can’t have that.

 

But he also can’t have himself ruining anything Alastor likes. And if he’s honest—really, truly honest with himself—the chance of him nailing something like jambalaya? Gumbo? Crawfish etouffee? It’s slim. Real fucking slim. He’s observed Alastor cooking that stuff enough times to know that they require skill, talent, and probably some actual goddamned culinary magic to pull off. Oh, and how could he forget? They also require time.

 

In other words, nothing Vox has. He groans audibly and burrows underneath his blanket.

 

So, Louisiana stuff is out. No can do. If he fucked any of that up, Alastor would broadcast his screams, kill him, and, worst of all, not even bother to cannibalize his remains. With one delusion dashed, Vox’s head starts to buzz—literally buzz, vibrating violently against his sheets—with renewed manic energy. He has to get this right. He has to get this right. If he just cycles through every single dish he’s ever been familiar with, even if only in passing, something will leap out at him and then everything will be just fine.

 

But what’s this? Breaking news! It’s kind of hard for something to leap out of a reference pool that’s little deeper than a puddle.

 

…He really thought he knew more than this. All the adventurous shit he’s tried came pretty much exclusively from Alastor, and what’s left feels too safe.

 

Basic.

 

Boring.

 

Burgers? Just a sandwich. Hot dogs? Also just a sandwich. Casserole? Too ugly. Meatloaf? Even uglier. Salad? Please, is this a fucking jok—wait.

 

Vox shoots upright, shedding his blanketed cocoon.

 

That’s it. That’s it, that’s it, that’s it—that’s the one! Alastor had whipped up one of his own personal favorites the first time he’d cooked for him, so wouldn’t it be perfectly poetic for Vox to do the same? God, he’s smart. Eat your fucking heart out, Einstein.

 

Mind made up, he darts out of bed and changes clothes in record time. Long gone are the days when he’d need a full five minutes, and thank fuck for that. There isn’t a moment to spare now that he has a mission. So Vox finishes up by slipping on some loafers with a totally coincidental lack of shoelaces, opens his bedroom window, and zaps right outside to the front porch light. Electrical travel—how did he ever live without it? Goodbye, shamefully slow and sweaty commutes to and from Alasto—their reclusive abode on the outskirts of town, hello quick hops, skips, and jumps from light to light. And as for where he needs to head right now…yes, the nearest street lamp to the east will do.

 

Vox arrives at his destination at the speed of light without an ounce of physical exertion. Fantastic. But he also arrives without an ounce of stealth, courtesy of Hell’s functionally fucking useless night sky. Less fantastic. Bad, actually. Without the cover of night, he’s forced to check his surroundings three times over just to make absolutely sure no one’s around to see him hovering out here so late. Here, of all places.

 

The library.

 

It’s been a while since he’s had to make a personal visit, and for good reason. Now that he’s garnering a proper reputation—not as much of one as he’d like, but it’s a work in progress, okay, a WIP—he must maintain it. Nurture it. And a budding TV personality does not skulk around a library, especially not in the dead of night.

 

What a budding TV personality will do instead is slink inside, and… Well, look at that! His old librarian pal is still there and—wait, one moment, just let him give her a good stare—yep, unaware as ever, just how he wants her to be. That poor, pitiful creature. A prime example of someone clearly clueless to how to work hard and rise above one’s station. Still being stuck at the same menial job, doing the same unimportant shit ad nauseam after over a decade—couldn’t be him! But thankfully it could be her, for she doesn’t steer him wrong down the aisles. He runs to the cookbook section as soon as he sees it and promptly ignores everything irrelevant. The Gourmet Cookbook: More Than 1000 Recipes? Whatever. Essential Fine Hellish Cuisine? Earth imports only, thanks. Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book? Who gives a shit. Where the hell is—aha!

 

Illuminated in a radiant, beautiful glow that he’s only half-aware could only be emitting from Vox’s screen lighting up in recognition, there it sits. The exact type of cookbook he’s been looking for: Salad Secrets. Vox rips through its pages like a madman, eyes darting frantically to and fro to find the recipe he’s looking for, praying his search can end here. Just when he’s about to give up in a huff and pick out another book, it manifests itself. On page thirty-seven, under the entrées section:

 

Lime cheese salad.

 

If anyone sees him hugging the book like it’s his first paycheck, they don’t. Literally—he makes sure of it.

[it was extremelyyyyyyyyyy fucking painful skimming through this and not editing it to hell because holy fucking god is this ROUGH. the scene following this is what I got stuck on lol but I'm gonna have to overhaul this entire thing before it's ever posted anywhere. anyway I will send you a pic/video of lime cheese salad if you make it through this <3]