firstintaste | (no subject)

But first on the agenda, he has to make a phone call. One he’s dreading maybe more than anything else.

Vox takes a deep breath. Steels himself, combs over what he needs to say, how to say it, and pulls up his contact list. Scrolls down until he reaches the Rs. Dials.

One ring, two rings, three rings… And then the click of a phone call received.

“Good morning, Rosie!” A safe opening. His voice sounds strong, friendly, decidedly not on the verge of early morning mania. Minding his manners, even while wearing nothing but his favorite pair of shark-patterned boxers. The one benefit of dealing with someone almost as technologically-challenged as Al—no face time, no problem. “So sorry to bother you this early, really, so sorry, but about that…favor, you owe me? I’d like to cash that in now. Let’s say at, oh, 8AM? On the dot.”

“Vox. You wake me up at the crack of dawn”—a lie, Rosie never sleeps past 4:30 unless something’s gone horribly wrong—“and before I can even get a word in, you ask for a favor?” She sighs so loud he can hear it through the line. “Oh, where are my manners. Good morning, dear. What can I do for you? You never come to me like this unless—wait. Wait, don’t tell me!”

He waits. He doesn’t tell her. A singular, painful pause passes before he hears the telltale smack of Rosie cupping her cheek.

“Oh. My. Stars! Is it Alastor’s birthday? It is, isn’t it? Oh, I should’ve known you’d start that back up again, you little romantic, you!”

Great. Here she fucking goes. The ever-charming, meddling, overbearing Rosie, always so eager to blow things out of proportion and humiliate him, clearly just because she knows she can get away with it. Sure, she’s not as grating as Mimzy—Vox would sooner forget Alastor’s favorite jazz record than ever approach that bitch for anything—but she’s still…a lot. He’s about as rusty at dealing with her like this as he is everything else today. Maybe even rustier, if the embarrassing way he can already feel his screen heating, his body tensing up is any indication.

“Listen, I—”

“What’ll it be this year, huh? Fancy restaurant? I can clear out his favorite in Cannibal Town, if you’d like.” Then, a gasp. “Or are you letting him eat some of you again?” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if he can’t literally see that she’s alone in her room via his camera feed. “Just between you and me, he gushed like a blushing maiden after you did that. Both times! The poor dear, I don’t think he quite realized how smitten he was acting. It was a big hit with him, I can tell you that much!”

“Rosie, I’m not—”

“He’s been on a bit of a nose kick lately, but you’re…lacking in that department, aren’t you. Hm. You’ll manage something, I’m sure. Always have! Besides, that was just since I saw him last, and you know how fickle he can—”

“Rosie,” Vox forces out with a mouthful of static, feedback loud enough to finally fucking cut through her yapping. Before she can start up again, he continues, breathlessly: “Listen. All I need is a distraction, juuust like how you used to do it. Keep him occupied for a few hours, take him as far from my tower and that fucki—that hotel as possible. And then I’ll summon him whenever I’m ready. Okay?”

The line is silent for a moment, then another, and it hits Vox that he might actually have to resort to his backup plan, one of the very things he just told her to avoid. His stomach churns at the thought. The only thing worse than losing his Alastor monopoly to Rosie is losing it to that fucking hotel. With that stupid fucking brat and her stupid fucking redemption bullshit and her stupid fucking friends. And, worst of all, her stupid fucking father, thinking he’s soooo much better than Al. Please. As if that ugly little circus freak who doesn’t watch TV, doesn’t even like sharks—who the fuck doesn’t like sharks—has any right, any sense of taste what-so-fucking-ever to compare with? He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Al, let alone stay at the same stupid fucking hotel, making stupid fucking comparisons. Maybe, instead of calling, Vox could drop by the hotel this morning. Yes, he could do that. Figure out some way to get Lucifer out of there on this special day, ensure he can’t taint anything with his blasphemous, lipless little mouth. He’s been dying to test his hypnosis on the king of Hell, anyway. Yes. He can fit this into his schedule.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Mister!”

Oh, right.

Rosie.

Crisis averted, backup plan canceled, back to reality he goes. Back to happy birthday thoughts. Happy, happy, happy.

“Perfect,” Vox says through clenched teeth while clenching his—huh. Since when has he been holding his phone in a death grip? Strange, there’s already a crack in its casing… Whatever. Between Val and Alastor alone, it’s seen far worse. He’ll just get a replacement, no big deal. It’s fine. He’s fine. Today will be fine. He breathes out a deep sigh—of relief or exhaustion, he can’t really tell—as he slackens his grip, and adds, eager to end the conversation, “Again, be ready by eight. Sharp.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie, I heard you the first time. He’ll be in good hands,” Rosie says with a finality Vox takes as permission to end the call, but, of course, he’s too slow. She can’t just leave it at that.

“Oh, this is so exciting! I don’t think Alastor’s celebrated his birthday since—” She hesitates, voice dimming so near-imperceptibly that just about anyone wouldn’t notice. But Vox does. “Well, since things soured between you two. But that’s exactly why, as long as whatever you’re planning comes from the heart, he’ll love it! Probably. Just...don’t overthink it.”

“...Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. Wishing you the best! But, please—call the day before, next time. Or, better yet, stop on by! You know you’re always welcome in Cannibal Town.”

Vox hangs up. Slinks out of his chair until he meets the floor, feels the clunk of his head hitting hardwood. He lies there a while, staring up at the all-knowing, all-seeing Alastor posters canvassing his ceiling.