Chapter Text
Alastor steps into Hazbin Help Institute with a bright smile on his face, on a fresh Wednesday morning. His mind is completely cleared, the incident from approximately seven weeks ago fled from his mind. The only remnants of such a time come from the faint scar on his forehead. He has to get himself in check, has to focus himself. He can’t afford to be slacking because one delusional creep got to him.
That’s right; Alastor’s so moved past the incident, he’s name-calling the Vox Bookers.
Narrowing his gaze, triumphant, Alastor breezes past the reception (Not without saying a brief hello to Niffty, who sits at the desk scribbling some doodle to herself; She acknowledged him with dull interest, humming. He doesn’t mind, she’s a sweetheart!), and into the innard hallways of the building, a maze he knows well.
On his way to his office he had run into Husk again. He first grumbled about how “Alastor shouldn’t be back this early”, before asking how Alastor was doing, to which Alastor said he had been doing completely fine, better, even, now that he had had a break and got his mind set and focussed. Husk had stared at him, up and down, crossing his arms with a sceptical look.
It was then, as Alastor was being scanned up and down by the man, that he had noticed Husk got a piercing on his ear, and redirected the conversation to a topic that didn’t make him feel like he was being psychoanalysed.
They had a nice chat, but eventually they had to part, with the promise of regrouping during their break.
As luck would have it, Alastor’s walk was full of interruptions and reunitings. Not to say he’s complaining (admittedly, he very much missed the eccentric crowd known as his coworkers over his seven week absence), of course, but it does feel tiring to copy and paste the same conversation over and over again in a five minute walk.
The next person he comes across is Angel. The latter was stepping out of his office and the two bumped into each other, Angel towering over the other. And Alastor’s fairly tall himself, if he does say so.
The latter steps back with an apology on his lips immediately, while Angel smiles, teasing him about “Wanting to get a feel of these” as he pats his man breasts. To which Alastor scoffs, punching him in the shoulder. He’ll spare Angel the consequences of his innuendos for today.
‘How are you feeling?’ Angel asks with a softer tone, the suggestivity in his tone faded. He places a hand on his hip as his eyes rake over the man, scanning. ‘Feeling better, Al? Bookers’s sh*tshow was the talk of the office for days after you left.’
‘Was it?’ Alastor humours lightly, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘I hope no slander slipped from any lips at all during my absence, for either party.’
Angel shakes his head slowly, a smirk growing on his lips. ‘Nah. But we did hear that a lil insane someone has the hots for our youngest fella.’ He pats Alastor on the head. Alastor rolls his eyes, jerking his head away. Angel chuckles, fading into a hum, and he frowns.
‘But seriously, Al. If you feel like this guy’s dangerous, you should probably call the police, get some legal action done. I’ve seen this case a hundred times before, and trust me, sugar. It ain’t never end pretty when they do nothing about it.’
‘Angel,’ Alastor calmly starts, an earnest smile on his lips. ‘I appreciate your concern for me. But, Vox is unwell. It is not his fault he is acting the way he does.’ Angel frowns, opening his mouth to speak. Alastor cuts him off. ‘But if the situation escalates, doubt not I will seek legal reprieve.’
A bit of silence washes over the two. Angel hums, low and soft, but smiles and nods. ‘Right, Al. Calm it down with the formality, we’re like a family here. And besides, you’re 25, not from ‘25. Take it easy with the doubt not I will blah blah blah.’ He snickers lightly. ‘You’ll start making me think you run a Sunday School or something, all that Bible-sounding bullsh*t.’
‘You— You have to believe in some god, right? Some sort of entity that’s above? It’s wrong, whatever you believe in. All capitalist bullsh*t. It’s the Falsum that’s telling the truth.’
‘...You’re worse than those religious nutjobs. You don’t believe in anything at all, do you?’
Alastor’s smile falters, but Angel doesn’t seem to notice. He moves past Alastor, and the two make an agreement to rendezvous at their break. Angel walks down the hallway, turning the corner, leaving Alastor alone in the corridor. He stares down where Angel had left, then peers into the room of which he had come.
Husk, sitting atop one of the couches, legs spread in a less than modest way, clears his throat. ‘...Hey.’
Alastor blinks a few times. Husk clears his throat again, buttoning up his final two buttons. Smiling, the former tilts his head. ‘I’m not going to ask what transpired here. I’m just going to ask how you got from back there—’ He juts his thumb to where he had come from. ‘--To here so quickly.’
‘You were gone for seven weeks,’ Husk snaps. ‘A lot can happen. For all you know we got mediaeval castle passages. Leave me alone, I was just talking to him.’
‘Sure, sure,’ Alastor muses. He reaches inside the room and begins to pull the door shut. ‘That’s what they all say when I garner some blackmail on them. Say, it’s been quite a while since you’ve treated me to a drink, hasn’t it been? Surely your fossil-of-a-wallet can afford it.’
He shuts the door just as the expletives begin rolling out.
Snickering, Alastor continues down the hallway, pushing his glasses up his nose. His office arrives in no time, the corner quiet as it had been seven weeks prior. Alastor digs in his pocket for his keycard, tapping it against the reader with a calm demeanour, and pushes the door open.
Other than things being a bit dusty, everything seems fine. The only thing askew is the incident report Alastor had left on his desk, completed after the outburst with Vox the next day. He had written it with shaky hands on that Tuesday, and promised himself to come in Wednesday to refine it. He got carried away staying at his mother’s, and never completed it.
Walking up to his desk, Alastor picks the paper up, scanning through the report. Huh. That’s weird. The writing’s different from his normal handwriting. Were his hands that shaky, that his entire handwriting style had changed?
Holding the paper up, Alastor scans through it once more. Something slips out beneath the paper, bright pink, fluttering down to the desk. Alastor hums, setting the report down, picking up the small note. It’s from Vaggie, as signed in the bottom right with that distinctive signature she has.
Fixed your report up. Come back when you’re ready.
Alastor smiles, fond. How unbelievably thoughtful. He sets the post-it note down on the table beside the report, and slings his bag around to his front, setting it down on his desk. Who knew Vaggie would be such a secret caretaker? Alastor would have been completely fine to have done it himself. Oh well. He isn’t one to be looking a gift horse in the mouth.
His door clicks open. Footsteps rush inside, and a gasp fills the air with glee. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
Alastor pivots around, smile growing as Charlie hurries inside. Vaggie follows close behind, expression guarded (as always, so Alastor doesn’t really take it personally), as Charlie swoops Alastor up for a firm hug. He lets out a startled noise at the feeling of his ribs being crushed into pieces, gently patting Charlie on the back. She finally lets him go with a wide grin.
‘Ahh!’ She squeals. ‘You’re back! We missed you, Al!’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Alastor smiles, dusting his sleeves off. He flicks his gaze to Vaggie, nodding as a thank you for the report. She gets the message, needn’t the words. ‘I just had to take a little well-earnt sabbatical, thank you for your understanding.’
Charlie smiles, placing her hands in front of her, clasped together, Potentially to save Alastor from any future hug assaults. ‘Well! That’s really good, Al. I’m happy you’re feeling better, and that you’re back!’ Alastor smiles with a wink of his eye and a click of his tongue.
‘Back, and ready to rumble!’ He pulls back his sleeve to glance at his watch, laughing to himself because his words are so funny and Alastor is the funniest man known to mankind. He adjusts his sleeve to how it was before, and looks up at the two. ‘Speaking of. I have a patient coming in quite soon, and I’m sure you two didn’t come around just to celebrate my return?’
‘Oh,’ Vaggie finally speaks, ‘No. We came here to let you know about the Bookers situation.’ Crossing her arms, she nods her head towards the door. ‘After you got injured and didn’t come in Wednesday, we sent him off to another centre. He was coming in for days after you left, so we had him relocated.’
‘Yeah.’ Charlie pouts, fiddling with her indexes a bit. ‘We… uhm… Had to tell him that you also got relocated to that centre…So if he shows up, he might be a lliittle bit mad.’
Ah. Well isn’t that swell?
Alastor takes in a deep breath, bared teeth shutting, tight-lipped. Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, He thinks to himself in the privacy of his thoughts. ‘Thank you two, so much. I am a little bit embarrassed that I could not handle a patient of which I was assigned to be able to handle, but I understand my safety being prioritised.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Charlie offers. When that doesn’t appear to have helped, Vaggie backs her up.
‘The case was personal the moment he said he was in love with you. It’s standard procedure to change a patient’s psychiatrist if their bond becomes anything intimate.’ She pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, perhaps to take a breath. ‘Not to say it’s your fault, Al. But you have to understand Vox is dangerous, if he thinks he’s in love with you, he’s not a safe person to be around. Especially after he threw a glass at your head.’
Alastor hums, frowning. ‘I suppose that’s fair.’
‘Damn right it is,’ Vaggie snaps, ‘And you know what’s also fair to assume? That you got co*cky.’ Alastor tilts his head. ‘Alastor, sometimes I think you forget that you work with actual psychopaths— Not some normal person who needs to cope with infidelity or something—Insane people.
‘You and I can probably both agree that you fail to see just how dangerous Vox was. He could have followed you home, stolen something from your room, hell, killed you whenever you make your coffee!’ She gestures to Alastor’s kitchenette. ‘Alastor, stop overestimating just how good you are at your job. Not to say you aren’t a good therapist, you are, but you are not the best therapist. Remember you still only have, like, three years in the field.’
Two years, actually. But who’s counting? Waiter’s logic, Alastor will take three years of field experience over two.
Vaggie takes a deep breath, massaging her temples lightly. Charlie places a hand on her shoulder, offering to Alastor an apologetic smile. She steps forward, keeping her contact with Vaggie, and says, ‘We’re gonna go now. Anything happens, call us, okay?’
‘Our pager is in your desk drawer,’ Vaggie mutters, pointing to the drawer. Alastor glances back, and nods. ‘Alright, we’re leaving you to it, Alastor. Actually this time.’
‘Buh-bye,’ Alastor smiles, waving as the two women leave the room, shutting the door behind them. Alastor places his hands on his hips, glancing around his office with a soft frown. He needs to freshen the place up before his next client gets here.
And how excited he is for that!
**
Rosie Brimlow is a 43 year old woman who falls under the title of Alastor’s favourite patient, possibly ever. She’s married with no children to a man named Franklin, her fourth husband after his predecessors had mysteriously gone missing. Rosie runs a fashion boutique in the older parts of the city, and has many repeating and loyal clientele.
Alastor occasionally finds himself at the door to the boutique, wondering if the fashionable suits are worth losing his job— He has to maintain a strict client-therapist relationship, and he doubts supporting a potential murderer’s business is really professional.
Sacrifices must be made, it seems. Alastor’s life is a tragedy depicted in comedy.
She comes to Alastor every now and then so Alastor can talk down her seemingly irresistible urge to cannibalise her husband. On paper, it says she’s going to therapy for the loss of all of those husbands, but after one session with Charlie, she was quickly reassigned. Just by that alone, it doesn’t take a lot to assume what happened to her other three husbands, but Alastor digresses; He’s a therapist, not a detective.
Rosie comes to him every Wednesday at 11am on the dot, and leaves at 2pm. Alastor finds himself very much enjoying the company she provides. She’s modest, but not past gossiping. Outgoing, but not in a way she’s brash or forthcoming. Respectfully dressed, but not in such a way she comes off as stupidly rich. Rosie and Franklin are both acquainted with a lot of the fat cats of the city, the people who drown in cash to the point they can no longer see the surface of poverty.
So Alastor… tends to get… distracted, sometimes, talking about these said fat cats.
‘And then she came up to me and told me the floral patterning was her idea!’
Alastor feels his jaw hit his lap. Rosie snorts, tossing her head back with a hand covering her mouth. She looks back down, wiping a tear from the base of her eye, and continues on. ‘I said, please, this floral patterning has more value through one thread than your entire Summer Collection does! There’s no way you were able to come up with something so expensive when you’re as frugal as a Victorian Child!’
Picking up his pen, Alastor scribbles a note down regarding the spat Rosie mentions, and scoffs, eyes on his paper as he writes. ‘Well, to be fair, you weren’t wrong— It’s the middle of Winter, who the hell comes out with a Summer collection now?’
‘That’s what I’m saying!’ Rosie cries out, throwing her hands out by her sides. ‘She went ahead and got all mopey because I only ever stated the truth, Alastor, then she had the nerve to say I still copied her floral pattern! Then Franklin got involved, then his cousin, you know how the show goes, they’re all buncha circus animals!’
More laughs fill the room. ‘What a mess!’ They cry at the same time, high-fiving over the table.
Together, they remain laughing together, calming down into a chorus of soft hums. Rosie reaches forward, snatching a chip off one of the offered snack plates. Alastor creates a new sub-heading in his notes, titled CANNIBALISM, and looks back up to Rosie.
‘So,’ Alastor breathes softly, the gossip of the session coming to a temporary pause. ‘How have you been doing, aside from all the drama? Any sort of intrusive thought, any sort of itching to do something?’
‘Nope,’ Rosie smiles, popping her P, ‘Been swell, Alastor. No sort of any intrusive thought.’ Alastor raises an eyebrow with a less-than-impressed frown. Rosie giggles. ‘...That I haven’t acted on.’
‘Rosie,’ Alastor sighs, pursing his lips, disappointed. ‘Have you done anything? Honestly speaking?
‘Of course I haven’t,’ Rosie laughs, placing her hands folded in her lap. Alastor smiles, satisfied, and expresses his approval through a little note on his clipboard. He puts his pen aside and reaches forward, plucking a biscuit off of the table. And of course Alastor has snacks prepared for Rosie; What else for his favourite patient?
No biases, of course. Alastor hates all of them the same, they’re bad people, yada yada, therapist-patient relationship.
…Anyway.
Rosie sighs, tilting her head a bit. ‘Al, you’re the only therapist I know that’s such a gentleman. No other psychiatrist out there goes treating me as royal as you do.’ She winks. ‘See your mama went ahead and raised you to be a real man.’
She did indeed.
Alastor can’t stop the flush of red that sparks across his face at such a compliment; He’s always been one for a little bit of praise. Boosts his ego just that little bit. To combat the redness, Alastor waves a hand in front of his face, chuckling softly, before lowering his eyes to his paper.
‘Hope you’re not hit with a little dose of cupid’s arrow, are you? Only said one thing, Al.’ Alastor shakes his head no, the comment not at all helping to calm the redness on his face. He has no feelings for Rosie, of course, the age gap is well hitting 20 years, and even then she’s still a client. Alastor has to admit, he is a sucker for the “potentially-mother-looking-figure-praise”.
The next few minutes go by with relative ease. Alastor barely has anything to note down that’s of concern, only how the conversation went, what they spoke about. Though, throughout these aforementioned minutes, Alastor can’t help but notice the commotion going on outside. He’s said before that his office is in a relatively quiet spot of the building, barely anyone comes here.
It sounds like… a lot of yelling.
Alastor frowns. There weren’t any group sessions that Alastor was made aware of, and even so, he would have been asked to join in with his client… It’s a whole thing, he’d rather not go into it. So many people, so much noise, too little privacy, and he has to sit on the rancid city-layout-whatever carpets used for the kids. He shivers. Vile. Nasty.
But this doesn’t deter Alastor from his point— If there was a group session, he would have been made aware of it, seven week absence or not. There isn’t any group session, he knows it. So why is it so damn loud out there? Who’s yelling?
‘Alastor? You even listening to me?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Alastor mumbles, not even listening to her. His attention is locked on the door, on the yelling going on behind it. Someone appears to be in trouble, that’s the only excuse he can come up with. ‘Please excuse me for a moment, Rosie..’
She hums, confused, watching as Alastor gets up from his seat, dismissing his pen and clipboard and snacks on the table. He moves towards the door, where the yelling only grows louder. It sounds like… At least a good five people, which is a lot of people to be standing in the hallway of the quietest part of the building.
Alastor reaches forward for the door handle, feeling the trepidation grow within his gut like tapeworm.
He grabs onto the smooth, cold metal, and twists it open.
A body shoves past him and sends him stumbling back a little. The yelling starts blasting ten times louder than it was before he had opened the door, leaving Alastor to squeeze his eyes shut as he collects himself. No sooner than a moment later, he opens his eyes and looks at who had come inside so rudely.
Vox.
Alastor feels the feeling in his gut drop further down, physically sagging his shoulders as he whips his head around to outside. All his coworkers, Angel, Charlie, Husk, Vaggie, they stand outside, expressing their own looks of surprise.
‘He just barged in!--’ Charlie begins, cutting herself off. She winces, tongue falling flat in her mouth, as she attempts to speak again. ‘We tried to get him to get out, but he–’
‘Get him out,’ Vaggie snaps. She reaches inside and grabs the handle, moving to pull it shut. But, right before she can close it fully, her expression softens. ‘But be careful.’
Alastor swallows, and nods. Vaggie sends him one last look of apology as the door shuts. He turns back around to Vox, who is glaring at Rosie, yelling incomprehensible things and expletives. A lot of expletives. Rosie looks confused, her shoulders tense, ready to fight if need be. Hopefully not. Alastor hurries forward and gets in between the two, standing next to Rosie’s couch.
‘Get the f*ck out!’ Vox snaps, his appearance even more dishevelled than when Alastor had last seen him. He has to give the other credit, he didn’t think it was possible to do so.
‘I will do no such thing,’ Rosie fights, crossing her arms as she remains in her one spot. ‘Alastor, remove this child from your office, he is interrupting our quality time.’
Vox takes a bold step forward, hand raised to his stomach and balled into a fist. ‘You f*cking—’ He stops. Lulls over Rosie’s words for a second. And then slowly, so agonisingly slow, he begins to turn his head towards Alastor. ‘...Alastor?’
Alastor stares at this man for a couple of seconds, admittedly at a loss for words. He finally speaks, after a few seconds, settling on, ‘Yes. That is me.’
Because that is the only logical and smart response that is sane and smart to say.
‘Alastor!’ Vox lurches forward, wrapping Alastor in a constrictive hug. It feels nothing like Charlie’s hug from earlier, it feels like Vox is trying to keep him in one spot, trying to make sure he can’t leave. Charlie makes sure you won’t want to leave. Alastor grunts a tiny bit, squeezing one of his eyes shut as the hug actually starts to hurt. ‘Oh, f*ck, you have no idea how much I missed you, how much I needed you, those pricks, the blonde and that Latina told me you left and I—’
‘Vox,’ He gets out, ‘Please.. Let go.’
Vox lets go, so quick and compliant, as if a remote had controlled him to do it, rather than Alastor’s words. He stares at Alastor with a smile that could rival his own on a good day. Alastor, a bit disturbed, takes a deep breath, making a motion while he does, as if to tell Vox to do the same.
‘How about we all calm down,’ Alastor says, gesturing between himself, Rosie, and Vox, ‘And we all take it easy, and do all that jazz.’ He takes in another lungful of air, smiling when he hears two others follow close behind him. Satisfied, he looks at Rosie. ‘Rosie, my dear? May you please move to my couch over there?’
Rosie huffs, giving a mean glare to Vox. Vox replies with a smug smile, crossing his arms as Rosie gets to her feet, dusting her dress off. She then saunters across the table and to Alastor’s side, moving the clipboard and pen to balance on the arm rest. Finally, she sits.
Vox spares no time taking her spot, collapsing onto the couch, sighing contentedly. Alastor is the only one left standing, mind racing on what to do, the mark on his forehead pulsing awfully strange, like a reminder of what had happened last time. He hums, drumming his fingers nervously against his thighs as he looks between both patients. Eventually, he settles on sitting down next to Rosie, close enough so their thighs touch, albeit faint. The couches really need to be widened..
The narrowing of Vox’s eyes tells Alastor this does not go unnoticed.
‘So,’ Alastor begins, voice level as he grabs his clipboard, flipping to a new page. ‘What brings you to my office so unannounced?’ He titles a new page EMERGENCY BOOKERS VISIT, and looks up to the man in question, tilting his head.
‘I f*cking hate my new therapist!’ Vox snaps. ‘Those dumb chicks Cheyenne and Valeria or whatever told me you moved to a new institute, so I went there too because I’m your favourite client, right?’ He looks at Alastor. Alastor inhales to speak, but Vox cuts him off. ‘Right! Tried a new chick named Emily or something for a few weeks until I asked about you. But turns out you didn’t go there, those f*cks lied to me so I came back and—’ He takes a deep breath, smiling in earnest. ‘We found each other again. After 37 days.’
Alastor stares at Vox for a few moments, a bit unnerved. He had counted. The days. They were apart. Vox frowns, apparently catching onto Alastor’s uncertainty. Something in his expression shifts, and shockingly, Alastor can’t tell what to.
Suddenly, Alastor recalls what Vaggie had told him not too long ago. That Vox was dangerous. That Alastor was overestimating his capabilities, ability at handling the man. He feels a fit of dread fill his gut, as the two stare at each other, silent and waiting. Alastor doesn’t know what he’s waiting for; Him or Vox to say something, Rosie to do something, or a secret third option.
A tear begins rolling down Vox’s cheek.
Secret third option, then.
Alastor’s eyes bulge almost comically as tears stream down Vox’s cheeks like cracks in glass, linear and intertwining. They manoeuvre around his stubble, some slipping between his chapped lips, slinking down his chin. Rosie lets out a small oh my, as Alastor feels his lips part, mind blanking. Then, the fact that he’s supposed to do something smacks him in the back of the head, and he begins speaking.
‘Deary me,’ Alastor starts, leaning forward to hand Vox a box of tissues that had been on the table of snacks. ‘Are you alright? What happened?’
‘I—’ Vox sniffs, loud. He snatches the box and takes out one, two, skip a few maybe seven tissues, blowing his nose. ‘I’m sorry— I’m sorry Alastor.’
‘Why are you sorry?’ Alastor asks, brows furrowing as he scribbles on his paper, writing things down. ‘There’s nothing to my knowledge that you need to feel sorry for, if that helps you, Vox.’
‘No, I–’ Vox wipes his hand across his face, ridding himself of tears and sadness. ‘I just— The Falsum, they– They showed me another vision..’ Vox pauses, head dropping, staring at his hands. Alastor notices that he’s shaking, an uncommon reaction when Vox regards one of his “visions”. They’re like dreams, if you will, dreams Vox receives time-to-time that usually regard his happiness and success in life by listening to the Falsum.
Rosie glances over at Alastor with a co*cked eyebrow, but Alastor raises his hand to her, silencing her next few words. He looks back down to his page and writes down another subheading labelled FALSUM.
‘What did they show you this time, then?’ Alastor asks, tilting his head. Vox turns over his hands, a finger tracing an alarmingly visible vein.
‘I was… Rotting.’
A disgusting piece of filth, laying amongst a world of equally horrible piles. Each with their own story to tell, each with their own regrets to lament. It smelled of decay and all that is horrible, the misery and disgusting wanton venomous to his lungs.
He tried to call out for solace, tried to scream, but his lungs were drowned, drowned with gunk and blood and water, all murky and old from who knows how long. This was his punishment, he found rather quickly, his punishment for the mistreatment of someone made so well for him, so beautifully. All things, pretty or ugly, handsome or gorgeous, are on his scale, a comparison to him. An Adonis, recreated in his image, yet the epitome of beauty is subjective.
Falsum had worked for him, worked to give him such a blessing, lust and love and desire all wrapped within skin and muscle. Yet Vox had thrown it aside, hurt his prize, his one true love.
And now he suffers, alone, drowning in the filth and rot and decay of the Below. It is a fate well deserved, he tries to tell himself, he had caused this for himself, the catalyst of his pain, nothing but himself. Tears well in his eyes as they embrace the last scope of light, light shaped like a beautiful weeping angel, and he finally sinks, below all the filth. Gunk filling all his orifices, he can no longer breathe, no longer see, no longer hear.
This is punishment.
‘And I’m so scared,’ Vox cries out, wiping his eyes with a couple hundred scrunched-up tissues. ‘I don’t— I don’t wanna rot in the below, Alastor, I— You and me, we were meant to be, and I don’t wanna f*ck that up because I made you uncomfortable..’
Alastor and Rosie exchange a quick glance, before Alastor turns to Vox once again, putting on his facade of patience. ‘It’s okay, Vox. I’m sure it was merely a warning, you needn’t look into too—’
‘Will you forgive me?’ Vox, ignoring Alastor’s words, slips to the floor, on his knees with a sickening crack of joints. Like a coming wave of fear, Alastor watches as he waddles around the table, and to Alastor. His eyes are full of tears, his face is red, and overall he just seems so much more of a mess than when Alastor had last seen him. His words from months ago flash in Alastor’s head, like an alarm.
‘If you were to leave me, one day, Alastor… I’ll f*cking kill myself. I won’t be able to bear it. You’re the missing half in my life. You are mine.’
Alastor’s dragged from his thoughts when a hand cups his knee. Jolting, Alastor’s gaze shoots down to glare at the contact, at Vox gripping his knee. Tight. He lets out another brief sob, a tear racing down his pale skin, and asks, once again, ‘Will you forgive me? Would you ever want to f–f*ck me? Let me f*ck you? I can’t— If you say no, I don’t—’
‘Insane bastard,’ Rosie mumbles as Vox continues going on and on. Alastor turns his head to her, eyes following shortly after. He sends her a stern look, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘What? Am I wrong for mentioning how he’s on something? f*cking look at him wanting to do such vile things—’
‘Rosie, please calm yourself. It is uncouth to be so judgemental.’ When the target is right in front of the two. Rosie rolls her eyes with a light scoff, looking down onto her lap as Alastor notes a couple of things down, bringing himself back to Vox’s soliloquy, at his legs.
‘And—’
‘Vox,’ Alastor cuts off, raising a hand. Vox pauses, wiping his eyes once again. ‘I.. I apologise. Sincerely. Really, I do, but I do not want to…’ He waves his hand around, searching for the right word. f*ck is too informal, intertwine sounds cultish… ‘I don’t want to be engaging with you, in that manner.’ Vox deflates in front of him, hand sliding down his shin in a way that makes him shiver. Alastor continues on.
‘What I do want to have you do is have you continue to take your medications.’ The visible cringing on Vox’s face has Alastor stuttering over himself, squinting his eyes. ‘The medications that I… ordered you to take…’
Silence.
‘Have you been taking your medications, Vox?’
Alastor had them especially picked out… Risperidone and Quetiapine are supposed to balance his serotonin and dopamine… Olanzapine blocks excess dopamine… Aripiprazole is an antipsychotic.
Has Vox been taking none of them?
The patient puts a hand to the back of his neck, scratching the skin there. Alastor places his clipboard on the arm rest once again, bringing his hands up to his temple, pinching his glasses off. He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes as he leans back into the couch, taking a few moments for himself. The hands on his legs tighten, keeping his knees almost locked into the position.
Vox hasn’t been taking the medication. Vox hasn’t been taking any of them. No wonder he’s off the rails. No wonder he’s been so… unhinged. The medications are the best Alastor knows, the best you can get over the counter at the drugstore, and Vox has been taking none of them.
Sighing, Alastor puts his glasses back on his face, and with the most relaxed tone he can offer, he asks, ‘Why haven’t you been taking your prescribed medication, Vox? I thought you were ordered to do so.’
‘The Falsum told me not to,’ Vox chokes out, eyes widening with each blink Alastor gives. His expression cracks into one of misery, seeing Alastor so disappointed in him, the man made for him find a feeling of ire within him. Frowning is no good look on Alastor. Frowning isn’t something Alastor should ever have to do. ‘Please don’t be mad at me, Alastor.’
Alastor offers no response.
The grip on his leg tightens, sliding up from his knee to his thigh, digging into the flesh, almost painfully. Alastor lowers a hand over Vox’s, trying to pry his fingers away. But that just won’t do. His love is mad at him, Alastor is mad at him, and that just won’t do. The intertwinement needs to happen faster, Alastor needs to be coaxed faster, Vox needs to do something before Alastor leaves him forever. And Vox… drowns in the Below.
Vox is drawn from his thoughts when he hears a sudden groan. Looking up with glossy eyes, neck almost snapping to meet his love’s gaze, he sees… tears. Alastor grits out a smile, hand more aggressively pushing at Vox’s. Vox’s hand, gripping Alastor’s thigh…Almost bruising in nature.
‘Oh,’ Vox breathes out, releasing his thigh. Would Vox have left bruises? Bruises all over Alastor’s long legs, of his hands? A mark on his property? Alastor sighs, pinching his glasses off his face as he soothes a hand over his thigh. Is… Alastor mad?
The patient can hear a sob leaving his throat like a bubble threatening to burst, as he submits himself to the other, head resting on his lap. Alastor flinches, hands hovering above Vox’s head, unsure of what to do. Vox would let him do anything, Vox would let Alastor frot against his mouth for release, Vox would let Alastor force his co*ck down his throat, Vox would let Alastor do anything, so long as it’s Alastor doing it.
Alastor, seeing this man on his lap, sobbing and pleading with such unholy thoughts running rampant in his head, grimaces.
And if that isn’t the trigger to set Vox off.
Vox lets out a wail, eyes squeezing shut, a singular tear running down his chin, onto Alastor’s pant leg. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I’ll take your meds, I’ll take whatever you give to me, please, please—’
‘Vox, please calm yourself,’ Alastor says, gently picking Vox’s head up from his lap, with such tenderness, and care, and love, that Vox holistically stops crying, as if a wall had been put up in front of his tear ducts. The therapist tilts his head, looking past Vox, and grabs a tissue. He holds it out to the man.
The other, movements a bit slow, grabs the tissue and wipes at his face. He cares so much for Vox.
So, so much. This must be a hint. That Alastor secretly cares about Vox, cares about him more than he did before. He wants to join Vox in the Above, there’s no other way to interpret this advancement, this… this flirt.
Alastor is flirting with him.
‘Will—’ Vox sniffs, blowing into his tissue. Alastor’s face twists into confusion, cute and naive and wanting to learn. Learn from Vox. For Vox. Be Vox’s favourite vessel. ‘Will you intertwine—’ Alastor sighs, resigned as a look of disappointment washes over his face.
Vox jolts and sits up, straightening his back despite the sting of pain that shoots through his spine. ‘It only takes a few hours. I promise. Only a few hours of a process you’ll learn to love, and— And I promise, I promise, happiness is eternal afterwards.’
Tossing his tissue behind him (“Straight into the chocolate pretzels,” The wrinkly old hag beside Alastor mutters), Vox grabs Alastor’s wrist and draws it to him, coarse, square palms swallowing dainty, almost feminine fingers. They slot together, because they were made for each other. Alastor for Vox, Vox for Alastor.
‘Me and you,’ Vox whispers, smiling, ‘In the Above together. Just us, and forever peace.’
Alastor stares down at Vox with a slight unease, but that’s okay. He’s made the first move, flirting with Vox (Who else would care about a piece of sh*t like him so much?); That means he’s willing to learn. And Vox is willing to teach.
The woman invading Alastor’s space sighs, waving a hand in front of her face with an irked look. She shuffles a bit, moving her thigh away (as she should— No slu*t deserves to be so close with what is Vox’s.) from Alastor, leaning against the arm rest. Her expression shifts from disgust to amusem*nt, staring down at Vox inbetween Alastor’s knees.
‘Rosie,’ Alastor calmly warns, ‘Whatever you plan to say, don’t.’
‘I just—’ Rosie shakes her head, leaning on her arm propped against the arm rest. She lets out a little incredulous chuckle, shrugging. ‘I just don’t get why you haven’t kicked this guy out yet. He just seems like a pervert to me, Al.’
‘I am not a pervert like you,’ Vox snarls, the grip on Alastor’s thighs tightening again. Alastor inhales a bit, trying to lean forward to diffuse the situation.
‘Alright, how about we all just take a breather—’
‘Honestly,’ Rosie continues on, ignoring Alastor. ‘Al, I love you, but you’re just leading him on at this point. Stop enabling him to come into your office like he owns you, going on about all this nonsense, saying he’s for you and you’re for him.’
‘Shut. Up,’ Vox grits. His nails begin to dig into Alastor’s pant legs, causing the joint to flinch, trying to escape such a grasp. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. whor*s like you go straight to the Below.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Rosie snaps, leaning forward in her seat. ‘Don’t get mad at me for waking you up to the fact that you’re a creep, and nowhere near the type of man Alastor needs—’
‘Rosie—’
‘And! And, above all!’ Rosie tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. Vox leans forward in return, baring his teeth into a scowl, eyes widened, grip tightening on Alastor’s knees. Crest-like dents are left on his skin. ‘You can take that fake Falsum bullsh*t, and shove it up your ass.’
Alastor feels a rush of panic flood through his body.
Vox gets up from his knees at Alastor’s feet and clenches his fists. Alastor is the next to shoot up. The sudden movement causes his head to spin for a few seconds as he regains his surroundings. When he’s able to blink himself to a stable level, Alastor looks over to the two patients.
Rosie lurches forward, collar pulled out of shape when Vox drags her forward, knuckles turned white beneath her dress. She lets out an indignant scream, eyes shooting to Alastor. His mind locks onto autopilot, hands reaching forward, towards the connection of the patients.
‘Vox,’ Alastor warns, the altruism in his voice dissipated. ‘Let go. We don’t want a repeat of last time.’
‘I’m doing this for you,’ Vox pleads, only sparing a glance towards Alastor, before his eyes move forward towards Rosie. ‘I am doing this so you know who you belong to. So you know who owns you.’
Alastor frowns, eyes widening as he lets out an indignant scoff. He forces himself in between Vox and Rosie, Rosie collapsing back onto the couch with another yelp of surprise. ‘I am not some prostitute you found yourself to enjoy, Vox. I am your therapist. I am a person. I deserve to be treated as such.’
He reaches forward and latches onto Vox’s wrist, dragging him over to the door, to the more open area between the entrance and the couches. Vox’s face glows slightly red, eyes locked onto the contact between the two. It only makes Alastor feel more sick than before.
‘I didn’t want to be so forward in our sessions,’ Alastor bites, tearing his arm away. ‘I truly didn’t. But Vox, your Falsum are not real, your Above and your Below are not real. We are not meant to be together, at all, in any sense of the word.’ Clenching his fist, Alastor feels his composure slipping from him as he continues speaking.
‘All there is to us, is professionalism. I don’t think about you anytime past our sessions, past what is needed to be thought. I try to coax you into putting your affection on someone who actually wants it, not someone a decade younger than you.
‘And especially not your therapist. I feel violated, I feel harassed, I feel in danger because of you.’ Leaning forward, Alastor grimaces at the blush spreading across Vox’s face, from rage or embarrassment he can’t tell. Instead of trying to decipher anything amidst his anger, Alastor finishes his speech off.
‘Vox, you are a psycho.’
To Vox’s credit, Alastor didn’t see his next move coming at all.
Vox raises his hand and opens his palm, moving it across Alastor’s face in such a flash Alastor sees monotone for a moment, knuckles digging into his skin. Pain strikes across his cheek like a lightning flash, drawing a cry from Rosie and a yelp from Alastor. The man tumbles backwards and eventually onto his ass, hand raised to his reddening cheek, tears sprouting in his eyes as not only pain, but memories flood his vision.
Towering over him, a burly man, staring down at him, angry, fists clenched. The sounds of a woman yelling and crying out in the background, as Alastor braces his hands behind him, from his spot below this man. Tears begin to form in his eyes and track down, for he is but a helpless fawn, an animal of prey embracing its final moments. Never has a prey bested a predator. He will be no exception.
But who is standing above him— Vox, or his father?
Alastor cannot tell.
On the floor, he takes a few moments to collect himself, the hand on his cheek moving to take off his glasses. The man stares at Vox in awe, for Vox has never directly laid a hand on him before, never done something so physical with intention to hurt Alastor. Vox returns his gaze tenfold, apathy ridden across his face, a certain darkness overcasting his expression, with the ceiling lights creating a sort of aura around him.
..He almost looks like an angel.
The two continue staring at each other for a few moments, as the first tear Alastor has shed in a while slips down his cheek, stinging the irritated skin of which Vox had hit. It seems to be some sort of trigger for the man, however, and he collapses to his knees, grabbing Alastor’s head while trying to comfort him. Tell Alastor he’s sorry. Tell Alastor he’d never do that again. It’s all a blur, to the younger man, however, as all Alastor can do is stare, lips slightly parted in shock, eyes widened and glassy.
Vox wipes a tear away from Alastor’s eyelid, thumb roughly pushing into Alastor’s lower eye, catalysing more tears to fall. He mentions something about being sorry, for being so improper and hurtful towards his lover. Alastor isn’t listening. And, instead, he only looks up to Vox, pushing the man’s hand away from his face. His gaze has Vox falling silent.
‘Vox, if you’re really sorry, you won’t perform all this theatre,’ Alastor says, voice quiet and collected, as it should be, tears never seemingly leaving his eyes, despite the pain having faded. ‘If you’re really sorry, you won’t be saying it. If you’re really sorry, what you’ll do is go out and seek professional help.’ Vox opens his mouth to speak. ‘From someone else, okay?’
The man nods, frantic and obedient. ‘If that’s what you want, I promise, I’ll do it, I promise.’
‘Right,’ Alastor breathes, shoulders tense. Why is he still tense? Why are there still tears in his eyes? A dull ache in his cheek is nothing. Why is he still crying? ‘Then, you should get on that right about now.’
Vox nods once again, getting up to his feet. He doesn’t try to help Alastor up, only sobbing and whimpering out apologies as he approaches the door. His eyes race back to look at the other, as if Alastor were to disappear should he look away for too long.
Before he can even make it holistically through the door, it slams open, people flooding in. Rosie’s panicked voice overpowers all of them. When had Rosie gotten to the door?
Vox jumps back and braces himself, trying to quietly excuse himself past the people that come rushing in. Rosie is first, followed by Charlie and Vaggie. Alastor reckons he saw a glimpse of Husk and Angel Dust outside, looking into the room. Vaggie moves to grab Vox, clenching tight onto his arm when Alastor calls out to her.
‘Let him leave on his own.’ Vaggie co*cks an eyebrow, incredulous as Alastor gets himself to his feet. ‘Don’t agitate him.’ He looks over at Vox, who shrinks underneath Alastor’s glare, a forced heat, the flame dying as it lights itself. ‘He needs to get out of here himself.’
With a soft curse underneath her voice, Vaggie lets the man go, watching Vox push past both Husk and Angel, before running off and down the corridor. Alastor rubs his cheek with a groan, somewhat impressed, somewhat terrified by how hard it had hit. He didn’t expect Vox to hit him at all. Whenever Alastor would outright say something as he did, something that hinted Vox was believing in a falsity, he would only ever yell, or hit the arm rest beside him.
Well. Alastor supposes that was when he wasn’t yelling himself.
Dusting his shirt off, Alastor sighs, lowering his hand away from his cheek. Charlie seems to have gone to ushering Rosie out of the building, today's session clearly over. Hm. Alastor hopes he doesn’t get fired, potentially, for such neglect on his clients. Vaggie, Husk, and Angel all pile into the room, taking in the state it rests in. A few of the couch pillows are in disarray, and the snacks have been a bit spilt. But nothing too major.
Eyes turn to Alastor.
The same cannot really be said for the man. His hair is slightly dishevelled and his pants are covered in saliva. There’s an alarming redness on his cheek, his glasses clinging onto his sweater for dear life, eyes slightly watery from the hit. He smiles blankly at the three, not truly appreciative for being seen in such a state.
‘Well,’ Vaggie begins, slow, narrowing her eyes, ‘Let me start with this— Are you okay?’
‘He backhanded me across the face,’ Alastor chirps, a faux happiness in his voice. ‘He has never hit me directly. Not only did he hit me, he hit me hard enough to send me to the floor. So no. I am not okay.’ It reminded him of his dreaded father. And much to Alastor’s dismay, the backhand had not ceased its aftereffects. A tear slips down Alastor’s cheek, though he barely feels the pain behind it.
Angel gasps, face morphing into one of dread pity, and he places a hand on his hip, shifting his weight. ‘Oh, sugar, come here.’ He steps forward, and loops his arms around Alastor. Alastor, though he does not want the contact, allows Angel to take him into his arms. Being the youngest out of everyone in the building, he supposes he has no reins to dictate what happens to him. ‘How about we have a seat, Al?’
Suffocated in the hug, Alastor stumbles over himself walking backwards, collapsing onto the couch beside Angel. He reaches up and wipes another lifeless tear from his face, ears heating up as he lowers his head. He’s embarrassed— He gets hit once and all of a sudden he’s burst into waterworks? How lame. How weak. No-one would raise a man to become something such as Alastor. He should be used to it, he should be used to this pain.
…f*ck. He’s just like his father, thinking like that.
‘Is it okay if I touch you?’ Angel asks softly, leaning forward to fall into Alastor’s line of sight. Alastor nods. The other reaches forward and takes his glasses off his sweater, while the other two in the room hop into action, seemingly having forgotten they had a friend to help out.
Husk kneels down in front of Alastor. But not how Vox did. Vox knelt like Alastor was some god, like Vox lacked the room to drop into a full-on prostrate. Vox touched Alastor’s legs and grabbed them and rubbed his hands all over them like they were pillars of beautiful marble, needing to be sculpted. Vox knelt like he would die without doing so.
Husk kneels like he knows what he’s about to do. He kneels like he’s in control, like he’s ready to stand within moments, taking a broken, fallen person up with him. He kneels like a superhero, like a hero within the comics Alastor would read from his friends as a kid. Is Husk a superhero? He certainly seems like one, right now.
…Maybe Alastor should consider Husk’s therapy offer.
‘I told you to be careful,’ Vaggie scolds lightly, passing Husk an ice pack, courtesy of Alastor’s mini-fridge in the kitchenette. ‘What the hell happened in here?’
‘That isn’t what we should be focussing on right now,’ Husk snaps back with minute ire. ‘Alastor’s hurt, because of the same f*cking guy, the day he comes back. We should have done a better job of keeping Vox out, knowing Alastor was inside.’ He leans back and grabs a couple tissues from the table, wrapping the ice pack in them, before pressing them up to Alastor’s cheek.
‘He was already in your hallway by the time we realised he got inside,’ Angel offers, apologetic as he rubs a hand on Alastor’s back. ‘And trust us, Al, we tried to get him to piss off, but he was stubborn. Forced his way past Charlie and Vaggie and all em.’
‘I don’t need to be coddled, thank you very much.’ Alastor sits up, though, he takes the ice pack with him, pressing it into his face. ‘It was my fault. I provoked Vox, I yelled at him.’
‘We could hear that much,’ Vaggie sighs, crossing her arms. ‘But I can’t blame you. At all. I would have reacted much worse, if I were in your situation.’
‘And,’ Angel adds with a hint of malice, shooting a glare at Vaggie as he removes his hand off of Alastor’s back. ‘You are our friend, Al. Not some “co-worker”. Friend. You handled Bookers perfectly, and reacted as anyone else would in your situation.’
Husk groans slightly, sitting back on his haunches. ‘Not to mention Bookers is a f*cking weirdo. People like him will do anything to make you seem like a horrible asshole for not letting them get their way.’ Smiling, Husk continues. ‘You’re not to blame, at all. Don’t let your pride get in the way of you remembering that.’
Alastor exhales a laugh, rolling his eyes. He is not that prideful. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
‘And loosen up with the fancy talk,’ Vaggie (tries to, at least) jokes, punching Alastor’s arm lightly. Her playful smile melts into something slightly softer, as she exhales. ‘Listen. Here’s what we’ll do. We get Vox transferred, and hopefully this time he stays put. And afterwards, you take another break.’
Alastor opens his mouth to object, when he’s shut down with three glares the weight of several suns. Vaggie narrows her eyes, smile morphing into her stoic behaviour, and continues on. ‘Worst comes to worst, you’ll have to be transferred to another clinic.’
‘Which is the last thing we want,’ Angel assures, catching Alastor’s abrupt tension. ‘Trust us, Al, we’ll murder before having you sent away.’
That receives a few incredulous looks.
Angel chuckles, shrugging. ‘Which, again, is the last resort.’
Husk laughs at that, a low rumble that Alastor feels in his own chest, before he turns back to Alastor, patting his knee nicely as he stands. ‘You just get a painkiller in you, maybe a few fingers of rye, and you’ll be right as rain, you hear me?’
‘Of course,’ Alastor smiles, turning his head to look up at the man. ‘I suppose I should get to that right about now, shouldn’t I?’
‘I’ll drive you home?’ Angel gets up from his seat, looping around the couch to Alastor’s desk. He grabs Alastor’s bag and a few of his valuables (Which… Alastor kept hidden away, he’s not sure how Angel found that so quickly), turning around to the other. Alastor groans lightly, getting up to his feet, stretching his arms over his head.
Looks like the game is set.
**
‘...And that’s not the worst part! He comes over to me after Prom, and gets mad that I rejected his missus for the dance!’
Angel gasps, eyes locked on the road. Music blares within Alastor’s car as Angel drives him home, the sun moving to rest below the skyline. Alastor claps his hands as he barks out a laugh, tossing his head back. He’s had maybe… one… two… six or seven swigs of whiskey ever since he’s gotten in his car, courtesy of a secret stash in Alastor’s trunk.
But, it’s all worth it— Alastor hasn’t felt this loose since the last time he went to a frat party with Mimzy in college. Ah, Mimzy. Poor girl dropped out of college and Alastor hasn’t heard of her since. Wonder where she’s at nowadays..
‘Right! He tells me to back off his “princess”--’ Angel snorts out a laugh, resulting in Alastor only laughing harder. ‘And then when I actually back off —when she comes up to me, mind you— He gets mad and thinks my “standards are too high”!’
‘What the hell?’ Angel chortles, shrugging through his hand, slapping it down on the wheel. ‘Man, high school in Louisiana sounds like a f*cking nightmare.’
‘Who said it wasn’t?’ Alastor laughs. ‘I can’t express the amount of times people in Cali have thought Louisiana was some sort of magical jazz land. It’s’all humid and crocodiles and jockey pricks on y’ ass every five seconds.’ Sighing contentedly, Alastor reaches in the back for the discarded bottle of whiskey, taking a long sip from it. He sinks further into his seat, chuckling to himself at the good old memories of high school.
Angel glances over to Alastor for a brief moment, then to his phone displaying the GPS on the dashport. ‘Five minutes till you’re home, Al. Any parting words before you get up and leave for another seven weeks?’
‘I got nothing,’ Alastor chuckles, bringing the bottle to his lips once again. ‘Absolutely f*cking nothing.’
‘sh*t, relax. I know it’s golden hour somewhere, but—’ Snickering, Angel spares one more glance towards Alastor, something that finally has Alastor noticing, as he sends a weak glare towards his friend.
‘What?’
‘Your accent comes out more when you’re drunk,’ Angel comments, shrugging.
‘sh*t, really?’ Alastor asks, as if the news had come fresh to him. He sits up slightly and wipes his hand over his mouth, as if wiping across his mouth would simply fix up his elocution like nothing.
‘I dunno. Stupid thing to note, cus uh. You never get drunk around us at those “office bonding parties”-- Which we all know people f*ck at in the closet near the back— And that… is pretty lame of you.’ Angel rolls his eyes when Alastor scoffs, trying to ignore him. Hard to, when there are only two people in the car with the music progressively becoming more and more of a background noise. ‘I like it, though. You sound like a really cool radio host.’
‘Are you tryna say,’ Alastor begins slowly, trying to recall up from down in his seat, ‘That I have a face fit for radio?’
Angel raises one of his hands, submitting. ‘Ey man. Your words, not mine. I didn’t say anything.’
The GPS chimes lovingly as the car slows to a stop, Angel pulling up to the side of a… relatively small home. It’s one storey and tucked away between two different two-storey buildings, almost hidden. Outside there are plentiful flowers and one little oak tree in the corner, gated by a pretty stereotypical white fence.
Angel drives further within, into the driveway, parking with a sudden jolt. Alastor, who was in the middle of another sip, chokes on the bottle rim lightly, groaning as the glass clashes with his front teeth. ‘Slimy f*cker,’ He mutters under his breath.
‘Well,’ Angel begins suddenly, taking the keys out of the ignition. ‘I guess this is it for a while. Try not to give yourself alcohol poisoning, Al. Take care of yourself.’
‘Yes, yes, spare me the ples’ntries,’ Alastor slurs, co*cking an eyebrow as he lays back in his seat. Angel giggles, snatching the bottle out of Alastor’s hands. ‘Hey!--’
‘This,’ Angel begins, holding up the bottle, ‘Is my payment for being your show-furr.’
‘Chauffeur.’
‘Yeah yeah, fancy f*ck.’ Angel and Alastor both share one laugh, before settling themselves down. ‘’ll be seeing you, Al.’
‘Yeah,’ Alastor sighs. The sentimentality is gone as soon as it had come, and Alastor reaches over to smack Angel in the arm. ‘Okay, get out of my car. I already don’t like the notion of you knowing where I live.’
‘f*ck you,’ Angel laughs, hopping out of the vehicle.
Alastor doesn’t even want to know how he’s going to start on getting back to the institute, as he pushes his car door open, stumbling out. He practically trips over his own two feet trying to get inside his house, subtly reminding himself to lock the alcohol cabinet and toss the key.
Speaking of keys, Alastor thinks as he makes it to his front door, the spare one is missing– It’s normally underneath the third plank beneath his porch, but it’s gone.
Eh. Maman must have stopped by.
Alastor’s home is small and dark and he can’t be bothered to turn any light on. He makes his way past what tiny of an entryway he has, nearly tripping over his bag as he drops it to the floor. And, as soon as he sees it, he’s falling face first onto his own couch, blindly making a reach for the TV remote. Just needs some background noise. He fumbles with it for a few seconds, before turning the TV on to whatever channel. Ugh. He didn’t realise how tired he was until he actually got to lie down.
The serenade of sleep calls him, and Alastor falls overboard at its siren within seconds.
**
When Alastor blinks himself awake, he has no clue what the hell is playing on the TV. Some… silent film from the 1910’s or something, what the f*ck…?
His head pounds like a snare drum as he sits up, a hand trying to soothe the ache in his skull. Groaning slightly, he peers over the back of his couch, towards the wall hiding the entryway. He had heard the lock turning, as if someone had tried to open the door without putting the key in. Huh. Strange. What could anyone be wanting from him at…
Alastor glances around his living room.
Whatever time it is right now?
Getting to his feet and swaying just a little bit, an earlier hangover getting to him like a knife in the back, Alastor navigates his way from the couch to the wall separating the living and the entryway. It’s dark, the house barely illuminated by open windows and blue moonlight. Sounds creaking around the household become amplified in Alastor’s ears, like a deer twitching towards the faintest bite of noise.
He has a little peak around the corner.
His heart drops.
A figure, shrouded in the darkness of Alastor’s household, gently shuts the door behind himself. They toss the spare keys into their pocket, looking around the entryway. Alastor finds himself shooting back into the safety of the living room with a sharp breath. His heart picks up the pace tenfold than from when he was in his office with Vox, eyes widened, panting struggling to mute.
Okay. Okay! Someone is in Alastor’s house! Cool! Coolio! There is currently a thief in Alastor’s home, and they probably want to kill him.
‘Alastor?’ The figure calls out, voice muffled by something, clothing, probably.
Okay! So they just want to kill him!
Deciding not to waste another damn moment, Alastor gets down to the best crouch he can get to while preventing the immobilisation of his legs, and begins jogging around.
He moves back over to the couch and grabs his phone, his keys, everything he left behind in his drunken fall to the couch. Alastor prays beneath his breath that his chosen objects don’t become some sort of audible alarm system for this person to find him.
Panic begins to creep into his bones, as he hears the person take a step into his home, further into his home. Adrenaline begins to kick in and Alastor can feel his mind tormenting between fight or flight. His head pounds and pulse with the aftershocks of hangover, moves slightly unsteady, uncoordinated as he sneaks around in his home. Blood pumps in his ears, heating them up as he sneaks in the darkness, yet he can hear every single thing disrupting the silence.
The shoddy footsteps of someone exploring his home. The sound of his breathing, his heartbeat within his chest. The creak and groan of floorboards as both he and this intruder move around. The faint jingle of his home keys, something he tries to mute with a tight clench over the metal.
‘Alastor? Are you at home?’ A laugh through thick cloth. ‘Who am I kidding, I saw your car outside. Of course you’re home.’
Alastor rounds a corner and slips into his room, eyes scanning the area for some sort of place to hide, as he stands in the middle of the room. His window is open, he could leave right now, but… It’s propped above his bed, and that is awfully creaky. He’d be caught out in seconds. Killed.
Alastor could be killed in his own home.
Or—Or taken against his will to someone else’s home and killed there?
The realisation hits him like a bag of bricks, forcing a visceral lurch of fear out of Alastor. He could die any second right now. He’s wrong to assume this man just wants to kill him. He could do anything to Alastor, he could kidnap him, he could harvest his organs, put him in some trafficking scheme.
Alastor is dragged back to reality when a familiar floorboard creaks just outside his room, in the hallway. He doesn’t have much time. He needs to act now. He needs to hide.
First, Alastor shoves his phone between his teeth, keys miraculously stable on them, trying to ignore the drool that pours out from his bared lips. He hurries over to his closet and pulls the doors open.
His hands work in silent and rapid succession, digging beneath his mounds of clothes (He had meant to organise them long ago, but it’s clear how “long ago” transpired with work). Once sufficiently removed, Alastor steps inside, throwing the fabric over himself, shuffling further into the darkness of the closet.
What… What does he do? Does he call the police? Right now? When this person is right outside his room, probably able to hear the operator on the other side, the frantic whispering and breathing of Alastor? That doesn’t sound like a good option, it doesn’t sound like one at all.
Alastor can’t even humour the idea of calling the police, as much as it seems like the sensible thing to do. This person is too close. They’ll probably be able to recognise Alastor’s voice, since they know his name, what his car looks like, where he puts his spare keys.
‘Alastor? Are you hiding?’ The words send shivers up his spine, forcing him to draw his hands over his mouth, hiding the noise of shaky inhales, ragged breaths. ‘I just wanna talk. I don’t wanna hurt you.’
Alastor can’t see anything. He’s shrouded in darkness, buried beneath clothes in a dark closet in an even darker house, knees pressed to his chest, hands over his mouth. His head pounds and aches like no tomorrow, the pain forcing him to sway in his spot, dizzy and floating. He, however faint through the pulsing, can hear footsteps advancing in his hallway, a hand resting upon a doorknob.
‘Are you…’ The door creaks open. Alastor holds his breath. ‘In here?’
Dreaded hours of silence follow as the person stands in Alastor’s bathroom, just opposite of his room. They rattle a few items within, open a few drawers. But, ultimately, they shut the door behind them, stepping out into the hallway, footsteps pressing into floorboards.
He’s nothing past a mere human, unable to consciously move his ears towards any sort of noise. However, strangely, it feels as though Alastor’s ears perk up at the noise of more footsteps. Like a deer’s ears tilting towards an alienated noise within their forests. It feels like a faint tickle at his helixes, a warmth rushing into his head, delivering information.
Alastor processes the noise of footsteps in his bedroom with a sharp breath.
‘Alastor?’
The call of his name can not overpower the sound of… everything pumping through Alastor’s blood. His heartbeat. His adrenaline. That hangover which has decided to be more of a bitch. It thrums through his body like a colony of ants beneath his skin, vibrations rising through his nerves.
Badum. Badum. Badum.
Footsteps progress into his bedroom. Alastor hears the cracking of knees as a groan erupts through the room. ‘Are you underneath your bed here?’
Badum. Badum. Badum.
Alastor can hear his sheets being pulled up, duvet lifted above the mattress. He had slept in that, this morning. He doesn’t ever want to sleep in it again. Knowing how close he could have been to death, had he chosen to hide underneath that dust-ridden mattress.
The knees crack once again as the person stands. They shift around the room for a few more moments, before chuckling to themself, muted, muffled. ‘I just wanna talk about… us. You don’t need to be scared. Come out, Alastor.’
Badum. Badum. Badum.
Alastor’s eyes dart in all directions, searching for some sort of exposure to the light. If he sees one, he doesn’t know if he’ll embrace it or freeze all over, blood going cold. He doesn’t know what he wants right now, to never find out who's out there, to go out and confront them, to have his death quick and easy, to be taken so he at least has some chance at escape. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know at all. He’s terrified, is what he knows.
‘Alastor,’ The person repeats. ‘This shy act you have going on is starting to get old. Where was the passion, the anger you had earlier?’
Badum. Badum. Badum.
He can hear his floorboards protest in pain as movement goes from the bed to his closet.
Time seems to stop, all of Alastor’s senses focussed on the closet doors, the familiar wrench of noise they scream when touched. The cloth covering him seems to become a hundred times more texturised, the smell of laundry and age almost overwhelming. Sounds amplify in his head in a way that almost hurts, the creases and colours of fabric becoming somewhat recognisable, despite the darkness he finds himself shrouded in.
The closet doors gently begin to open.
‘Are you in here?’
Badum, badum, badum.
‘Alastor? I have a gift for you.’
Alastor can’t see anything past the clothes he buries himself in. Like digging his own grave, a buck trapping itself within its own woods.
‘It’s me, Alastor.’
Badum, badum, badum.
He dares not to breathe. He dares not to take his hands away from his mouth. He sits in silence, eyes shut tight. Prays, prays to gods he has not sought solace in for years, prays to all holy and all demure. Prays to anyone. Anything. Any sort of Falsity he may find.
He’s had thoughts and phases where he’s wanted nothing more, nothing more than to embrace the sweet gelidness of death, but faced with it? Faced with the possibility of death, not at his own hands? It’s so much more scarier, than he could have ever thought it to be.
Alastor doesn’t want to die.
Badum badum badum.
A hand reaches within the closet. He can hear the clothing shuffle. Alastor feels all the nerves near his head tense, warn him of potential danger, mind racing at miles per minute as he trembles. One of his drawers is pulled open and there’s the sound of clothes being moved around, ruffled.
‘Well. You don’t get to do something like this all the time,’ He hears the person mumble, just barely, voice almost indecipherable beneath the cloth he conceals his face behind. Alastor hears something being pulled out, the drawer moving closed, however not completely. The vibrations of its movie rumble within Alastor’s core.
He follows the intruder's footsteps with his ears, listening to the sound recede from his room, back down the hall. Alastor finds his body jolting before he can even process.
Standing, Alastor bursts out of his closet, making a dash for the open window above his bed. And, while he runs to his car through the back of his house, he tries to chase away the faint glimpse of which drawer the figure had left ajar.
His underwear drawer.
**
‘Coming, coming! My oh my, you’d think a fire’s outside with how fast y’knocking!’ Sighing, Adelice slips on her slippers and hurries to the front door, brushing down her nightdress with a frown. The knocking’s been going on and on at her door for only five minutes, and it feels like her head is about to split open from how loud it is! Who the hell comes over to her home in the neighbourhood at this hour? It’s 4am, for crying out loud!
…Adelice was doing other stuff. She was having a nice detox bath with some salts her gals at the daycare suggested to her, don’t ask why she was doing this at 4am, it’s none of your business.
Adelice adjusts her cap above her head, frowning as she opens up her front door, hand on her hip. She’s just about to start going off on this old soul when they stumble in first. Eyes wide and desperate, they push past her, into her home, and she woulda damn thought they were trying to mug her if she didn’t recognise that tacky fashion so well.
‘Alastor?’ She asks, anger morphing into curiosity with a tinge of worry. He spins around, entire appearance dishevelled. ‘What in the sam hell..? What’re you doing here so late at night?’
‘Shut the door,’ Is all her son replies, and she might’ve slapped him across the face for such an order if he didn’t look so downright terrified. He’s pale but sweating all over, and if Adelice doesn’t recognise that look of pure terror, she ain’t his maman.
Adelice shuts the door and turns fully to Alastor, co*cking an eyebrow. Worry begins to leak into her expression faster than any sort of questioning can. ‘What’s wrong, star? What happened?’
‘I don’t–’ Alastor pauses, taking in a long, ragged breath. His fists clench and unclench, knuckles turning white. ‘Maman, I just—’ A laugh sneaking out of his lungs, Alastor reaches up and weaves his fingers into his hair, tugging on the beautiful strands. Adelice sighs, all her previous ire from his incessant knocking disappeared.
‘Come here baby, don’t do that to yourself.’ Stepping forward, she grabs his wrist and lowers it away from his hair, hissing lightly when delicate strands follow their hands. ‘Sit down, I’ll get you some chamomile.’
Keeping her hand in his, allowing him to squeeze rhythmically, she leads the two over to the living room, taking a seat with Alastor. She gets up as soon as she sits, thanking the lord the kitchen is just in front of where he sits. That way, she can keep her eyes on her boy in case he tries to tug out a few more strands.
Getting up and moving to the kitchen, Adelice starts up the kettle, turning to face Alastor. ‘Now, sha, are you gonna tell me what’s happened to you? I hate to see you so scared, it pulls at my heartstrings.’
‘Someone–’ Alastor takes a brief pause, taking in a deep breath. Adelice can’t help but smile at the notion. How often do you see a therapist following their own techniques? ‘Someone… Did you give anyone the spare key beneath my porch, Maman?’
‘Now why would I do that?’ Adelice frowns, tilting her head. ‘I don’ even know anyone who I’d trust with such a precious thing.’
Alastor mumbles a curse underneath his breath, something that Adelice lets slide purely on the fact that he seems too out of it to focus on manners. ‘Someone.. Got into my house using the spare key, Maman. They knew my name, what my car looked like, where the key was n’ everything.’
‘Oh my,’ Adelice gasps, flinching when the kettle clicks to a stop behind her. Turning around, she quickly makes a grab for two mugs, pouring an equal amount of water in each. ‘Tell me it isn’t true… Did you call the police?’
‘No.. They were gonna be too loud on the call, n’ I— I needed a place to hide, Maman..’
‘Well,’ Adelice sighs, holding two mugs of chamomile tea in each hand. She turns around to face her son, her beautiful son, whose eyes are watery and Adam's apple trembling. ‘How about you stay here for a few days, until you get your locks changed? Then, once you can feel safe in y’own home, we can go to the police.’
Alastor nods, as his Maman walks over, passing him the mug. He takes a few sips, trying to ignore the way his eyes water, not from the heat, but from just… today in general. She exhales lightly, placing her own tea on the table in front of them.
‘Come here, baby. I got you. You’re safe in my household, no-one’s going to be getting in here if they wanna hurt you.’
One tight hug from Maman by his side is all he needs. His chest begins to heave and his nose stings as his eyes prickle with tears, slow and forthcoming, almost shy to come out. He’s…. He thought the whole thing with Vox would blow over after seven weeks, but he comes back and makes Alastor’s life worse. And not to mention the break-in, someone following him, and he has a damn good guess as to who it is.
Alastor is terrified. That is what he is, he realises with a shuddering inhale.
When tears begin to piercing tracks down his cheeks for the second time that day, and he finally lets his throat make whatever upset wails it wants to, Alastor falls asleep in his Maman’s arms, broken for the very first time.
And the green Honda sitting outside Maman’s home goes completely unnoticed.
