No, if I had something like that, I'd keep it to myself. [ And he seems rather pleased with himself for that statement for some reason, ] It's just a little bit of gossip from back when I was alive. You happen to have reminded me, and we have time to kill, hm?
[ He doesn't talk about his personal live, and another millennia might pass before he even thinks about it, but every now and again he's willing to share some odd fact that he picked up somewhere or another. There's just little things, little hints of who he once was.
He uncrosses his legs, just so he can do so again - the opposite leg this time. ]
I think that you're right about one thing. If you want to get into Heaven, then the right way is to break the door down. There's no need to play around, [ He lifts his hand a few inches and twists his wrist a few times before letting it back down, ] With this made up "redemption."
[ And that's likely why he picked this particular subject. It's partly that there's only so much that he can needle Vox about his ambitions, and it's partly that there's only two people in all of Hell that he can speak with on this. There's something about living in Hell that tends to rot the already atrophied minds of the people who enter it. ]
That was never supposed to happen anyway, because those angels specifically designed their little club to be exclusive.
[ There's a slight emphasis on the word exclusive, a drop of poison mixed in with the otherwise light tone. Hell is meant to be overpopulated. Whether they lived twenty years or a hundred, humans are meant to suffer for eternity. But none of this is exactly the point he wants to make, and in the end none of it is meant to change anything save perhaps offering talking points (which aren't quite needed now,) so he does wait to see if Vox is interested in this subject. ]
['Little bit of gossip'... If it were something Alastor had heard down here in Hell, Vox would be much more inclined to take it seriously. But something from when he was still alive? That can't be worth much. What do mortals even know about Heaven, or the afterlife in general? Just stories that were distorted over millennia, tainted and redacted and whitewashed to suit whatever narrative purpose is needed in that era. He doesn't know who Alastor truly was in life, but he can't imagine anyone out in that living world would overhear useful truths.
Still, he'll entertain it, just to see where it goes. He reaches towards the drink cart again, grabbing the bottle of whiskey for that refill. He'll be slow about it, but he'll do it all the same.]
Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised. Look at some of the sniveling wimps we get down here from time to time. There's no way those guys ever did anything in their lives worth eternal suffering. Probably got turned way at the gate for a totally different reason. Something that doesn't mesh well with Heaven's perfect streets. Wrong religion, wrong sexuality, things like that.
[ Alastor is quite the opposite. He's found that most things heard in Hell are of little value when compared to that which he found in life. The living have a desperation to secure their place in the afterlife, to understand the unknown, and so they learn more of both the land of the living and the land of the dead than anyone.
The little bits of gossip he gained in life have proven useful.
But even if Vox finds nothing of interest in what he has to say, it doesn't really matter. This is just a way of distracting him anyway. ]
Then, let me walk you through it: Pretend, for a moment, that there was truth to the idea of God creating a dual universe. There is the true "Heaven," where God lives, and then there is everything else.
[ The former being a metaphor, of course. ]
God created angels, who in turn created humans so that they might have someone they could look down on. If you believe the stories, they're responsible for the entirety of this mess that we're in.
[ As far as he's concerned, their "perfect" world was never perfect to begin with if they had to create humans. What reason was there for that if not to have something to feel superior to? Why go so far to strip their creations of what they themselves had? But all of that is a different conversation, so he moves on. ]
Meanwhile, there's truth to all those stories about humans making contact and deals with beings from the afterlife. Demons can form contracts with the living just as easily as they can the dead. They stake their claim on a person's soul, and then they harvest it at the time of death.
[ More than that, it's only humans who can summon demons in the manner that they do. Those humans that were created to be fish in a bowl have shown to be able to do the impossible in life, and then again after death. He does watch Vox's expression as he explains it too, wondering if he'll dismiss the idea either as impossible or irrelevant. The amount who have succeeded is just the tiniest fraction of those who have failed. There aren't many people who would believe it, much less see the relevance. But then, maybe he will, because Alastor never speaks of these things without reason.
[That first bit makes total sense to Vox. It's probably how things went down, because angels would look down on them as if they were pets. No, maybe even less than pets. Pets can be loved. He doubts the highest hierarchy of angels felt that way even before the apple incident.
The second bit, though... That has him pausing. He just finished refilling Alastor's glass and now the bottle hovers in place, tilted back just far enough to keep the rest of the whiskey inside it. Disbelief is etched all over his face, because... c'mooon, he knows demons have tried, but he's never heard of one who pulled it off. Though, if they did hold that power, would they even share it? Maybe they'd keep that trick to themselves and hoard its potential.
Finally, he puts Alastor's glass back in the cup holder, screws the cap back on the bottle and sets it down. Once he's sat back in his seat, his hands fold together in his lap, elbow pressing against Alastor's upper arm over the armrest.]
Okay, hypothetically, let's say there's truth in that. So what?
[ There's more that he has to say. There is quite a bit more that Alastor has, in fact, and he's watching the other closely. He briefly considers moving on without confirmation. It might be better to do so. There is a primal instinct that tells him to play it safe.
The human part of him decides to gamble, ]
I have it on a reputable source that it is possible.
[ One hand lifts. He can't fully raise it as he'd like, nor can he reach well, but he does drag his fingertips over Vox's upper arm and drag it along his forearm insomuch as he can before his fingers splay out around it.
Vox should know that he would never make such a statement if it weren't an absolute certainty. ]
We can steal souls from whoever it is that harvests them. We interrupt whatever process is in play.
[ He's tugging a bit at Vox's arm now to try to get him to pull back, because he can't very well slip his fingers through the gaps in the back of his hand like this, and he's decided at this moment that he wants to. And that's fine, because any touch is fine so long as it is at his whim and reason. ]
So, if you want to be the one true God... Don't you want to know who's been harvesting our souls? Who's been distributing them? After all, this is all Heaven's creation.
[ And if he doesn't believe Vox can do it, well... There is still truth to it, because he wants to know. And he wants Vox to be thinking on it no matter what, because God knows that no one else will be. ]
['Reputable source', huh. Interesting. Vox does know that Alastor wouldn't say something like that if it weren't confirmed without a doubt, which begs the question of whose foot that shoe is on, so to speak. Was Alastor the one to make a deal with the living, or was he the one who...? Well, surely not that second one. That would mean someone from Hell had a claim on Alastor's soul, or still does to this day, and that feels unbelievable. Alastor was strong from the second he came here and started conquering turf immediately; who in their right mind would allow that to happen while having him on a leash?
Maybe one of Alastor's two goons was recruited while still alive. Yep, that'll be it.
And then all those thoughts come to a crashing halt, because now Alastor's hand is on his arm, stroking it- holding it. Vox just about stops listening to anything else being said for a few seconds. There's two lightning speed blinks of his eyes as he processes it, because touches from Alastor come rare, but touches without mocking intent are even rarer.
Once he's over his confusion, he allows his arm to be adjusted. For his hand to land closer to Alastor's own, near the arm rest. What are they talking about...? Right.]
... Wait, are you talkin' about whoever makes the judgment call? The power that decides whether a soul gets to walk through Heaven's gates or not?
[ This isn't the sort of behavior that he typically engages in, but disinterest isn't the same as ignorance, and he's quite capable of these affectionate touches. There's no real shift in his expression, but rather he carries on as though he wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary at all.
He pauses to move the popcorn bucket that had been dropped on his lap earlier, letting it rest between his leg and the armrest. He has to adjust his position to compensate for the limited space, and as a result he winds up inching just a tad closer.
It's not long after that he reaches out to take Vox's wrist. He uses his thumb to massage the inside of his wrist while he tries to decide what it is that he wants to do next. Eventually he settles on trying to hook his foot around Vox's ankle, trying to nudge his legs further apart for absolutely no reason in particular.
And all the while he's still carrying on this very important conversation, ]
Precisely. It's not a creation of God, but one of Heaven... Who or what is our Grim Reaper, who harvests and distributes all unclaimed souls? There's no one in Hell who knows. The High Seraphim in Heaven aren't able to provide us with any answers either. They only know we were bad people based on the fact that we're down here.
[Holy shit his wrist is being held, holy shit, that pressure of Alastor's thumb feels really nice. And now his leg is being moved with a tug around the ankle region, and Vox lets it happen because in that split second, he's too confused to consider putting a stop to it.
A sudden thought hits him. His gaze shoots towards the drink cart to have another good look at the bottles because for a manic moment, he wonders whether something spiked with Valentino's saliva made its way into the selection. Completely unintended, because that kind of roofie bullshit is not something he bothers with- it doesn't even work on him- but those types of bottles do drift around Vee Tower sometimes. He doesn't see any reddish or pink hues in the whiskey, though. Somehow, that brings no relief at all.]
Uhhhh... [C'mon Vox, pull it together.] Right, so... So whoever put that in place is between the seraphim and God? I could figure it out once I'm up there, I'm sure. Take God's throne and order the information to be delivered on a silver platter. Or gold, or whatever the fuck those people prefer.
[Sure, Vox is still engaging with the conversation, but his gaze is also very much locked on Alastor's hand. Part of him expects that the radio demon will try to break his wrist. He should retract his own hand, but at the same time he really doesn't want to. This is the most dangerous game of gay chicken he's ever played.]
[ There isn't anything like that, and it wouldn't work on Alastor anyway, or at least not fully. That puff of smoke to the face had come as quite the surprise for how unexpected it was, but it passed in but a moment. It's no different than Vox's hypnosis.
In any event, there's nothing out of the ordinary in his features. His pupils aren't dilated, or at least no more than would be expected with the low lighting. He's quite capable of holding a conversation like this. He's calm, collected, acting as he pleases as always.
He's Vox's little prisoner too, so of course he can't do anything to harm him. Rather, he's going to switch Vox's arm from one hand to another so he can continue his little caresses while still freeing up the hand closes to Vox.
He has to bend slightly to one side to manage it properly, but his now free hand is shift along until he finds Vox's side, a fingernail tracing along where he knows those vents are before coming to rest on his thigh and rubbing it. He rubs it gently. And he still continues on, voice level, as though he weren't doing anything scandalous at all. For someone who was so bold as to fuck his porn star director boyfriend in front of him, this much should be nothing to the media overlord. ]
It depends on which scripture you subscribe to, but what do precious metals matter in Heaven? But if you could do that, then you would be able to harvest and distribute mortal souls as you please. I'd say that's as close as you can get to becoming God as you can get without losing who you are.
[ His ears are tilted forward, too. It's a comfortable position where he's listening to what Vox has to say with care, twitching slightly in response to any sounds. ]
[Absolutely, Vox fucked Val with Alastor mere feet away and that was amazing. He knows Val; knows what his touches and zaps will evoke, where exactly to stroke, how hard to push. It's familiar, comfortable terrain and an audience just means he can show off his expertise. But this? Vox doesn't know what this is. It's coming from Alastor, so it's foreign. Suspicious. Something he's wanted for ages, but could never have, and that triggers a layer of fear. He's not getting aroused on any level, but he sure is feeling the equivalent of goosebumps from unease. It's either a trick, it's going to get snatched away, or both.
Alastor's enough of an asshole for it to be both.
He should save himself the humiliation and pull his hand away before he gets bitten. He really, really should. Why can't he bring himself to do it? Why does the fingernail rippling along the vent bring a pleasant tingle when he knows he's opening himself up to attacks? Ahhh fuck.]
... Without losing who I am? What? [He laughs awkwardly.] C'moooon, I was always supposed to be a god, so once I actually get there, I'll be like... the real, true me. That's not losing who I am, that's me slotting into my rightful place. So yeah, I could take divine judgment on as part of the job description. Why not? It'll be a whole lot more fucking fair than whatever's is going on right now.
You can become a god, but that is not the same as being the God. The one true God created a dual universe so he might tell us to not be like Him, for he is alone. But you have always worked to be heard...
[ Vox. The people's voice. Hell's equivalent of the Speaker of God, but far more proactive. Far more useful.
And it really is both, because Vox should know Alastor well. He isn't the sort to do things for the sake of it. He would certainly never degrade himself, and so if he's experimenting now, it's because he wishes to. He's testing it out to see how he feels about it for his own sake. To that end, he'll go as far as to guide Vox's hand up, placing his thumb over the others fingers to force them to curl before he pushes his cheek against them.
His fingers slide up the others thigh, toying with and testing with his hem. Nimble fingers slip beneath it, pressing against the edge of his torso and sliding along, coming to play with the button of his pants, sliding it through the hole, and -
And stopping, one eye closing before he gives a little tug, and then again, as he hits the limit of his cable. He doesn't try it past that either, or at least not more than once, because it's embarrassing enough, and his smile thinning out instead and his hand retracting, Vox's hand then gingerly placed back on the armrest, before Alastor finally folds his legs and rests both his hands on his knee, eyelids resting low.
[His fingers being pressed against Alastor's cheek is surprisingly gentle. Affection in a very pure form, if indeed the gesture is genuine. Vox doesn't know whether it would be. If Alastor's jaws were to suddenly open and slam shut again on his digits, it wouldn't be an entirely surprising turn of events. It'd be a hassle and it'd hurt like hell, but it'd be an expected outcome of playing with fire as well. Either way, he adds a very light pressure against Alastor's face of his own volition. Just enough to indicate he's not just ragdolling and willing to be an active participant in... whatever the fuck this is.
Alastor's other hand is up to something much more dangerous, causing Vox to swallow thickly. There's still a chill of goosebumps prickling at him, because while he's uneasy about all of this, there's also a light hint of anticipation weaseling its way in. A twinkle of hope, sputtering and sparking to life against better judgment. His focus slips to the sensation of Alastor's fingers sliding along his torso, and-
And there it is. The distinct sound of a cable pulled to its extreme, refusing any more give. That's as far as it goes.
Vox leaves things as they are. He won't give Alastor any more freedom- especially not after how much he's already given tonight. He's not that stupid. Bitter and unwilling to budge, he uses both hands to button his pants again, then tugs down his shirt to make sure everything's in place. And yes, there is zero intent to talk about it.
Right. The god thing.]
... I'm aiming to be The God, not a god. So once I am that God, I'm the one making the rules. Nobody said the one true God has to be a hermit who refuses to interact with anyone else. So in case that's what you were hoping for, no, you wouldn't be rid of me.
[ Vox is that stupid, because there's absolutely nothing that Alastor could do with any additional freedom. He does fix the other with a bit of a look, the sort that is specifically reserved to inform men that they've done something extremely stupid and ruined the first and last opportunity given to them, but he otherwise straightens himself up more and makes a point of shifting from the other. If this were a sitcom, he would be the wife who will no longer be sharing the bed.
Such is how their relationship tends to go. Alastor pushes, Vox pulls. Alastor shoves, Vox pulls him down along with him. One is used to cushion the other's fall.
He huffs, exactly like he didn't know how this was going to turn out from the start because he had checked the length of those cables for a reason. Is he actually annoyed? Is he not? Does he just want to be difficult? In this particular case, there really is just absolutely no way of telling with Alastor since it's not like anyone else has gotten this far with him. ]
[Nope. Nope nope, Vox is dismissing this whole incident as 'it was never going to happen anyway' and 'letting Alastor hold onto his aroused cock could never end well for him'. He escaped disaster here, that's what he did. He's fine. He's cool. He's absolutely not going to be lying awake at night staring up at the ceiling, overthinking any of this.
He quickly picks up his own glass and drains it all the way. Following that, he reaches for the bottle to refill it without even a second's hesitation.]
I was letting you choose, remember? 'Cause I'm so fucking nice like that? But if you don't wanna take me up on that offer, I'll pick something.
[Just let him drain another glass in one go first. He's fine. HE IS SO FUCKING FINE RIGHT NOW-]
[ Good, because Alastor isn't touching him again. In fact, he's taking that popcorn bucket and putting it on the other side now, wedging it between them while he makes a point of angling himself toward and leaning to the opposite side with his legs crossed. How much of his displeasure is real and how much of it is him dutifully playing the role of Vox's date is hard to say based on the dramatics alone, but there's at least enough of the former that his ears are laying flat back. Maybe he had been messing with Vox, but maybe he had planned on messing with him more, and maybe he is a little embarrassed by what he's decided is a sound rejection.
But he will take a moment to follow suit in draining his glass, placing the glass back in the cup holder before bringing his hand back to his lap. ]
[Vox sees that shift in posture from the corner of his eye, even as he busies himself with the drink cart. It's frustrating, because deep down, he knows he baited this kind of behavior into the open the second he doubled down on this fake, utterly theatrical date. Of course Alastor would play along in the most mean-spirited way. It's really soured the mood, though. Now he can't even feel good about his impending victory anymore.]
Fine.
[His hand pulls the touch screen towards himself with a swiping gesture in midair, so he won't have to lean towards Alastor to use it. He's really not in a mood to invade the guy's space for the next... Minute. Five minutes. Who knows? His finger navigates through the movie selection with ease and the next second, he's chosen something called Christmas Past. Santa travels back in time to see his younger self become, well, Santa. It's fucking stupid and if even Vox will hate it, Alastor must hate it even more. That's totally how that works.]
[ Vox only has himself to blame. There's a lot of responsibilities that come with playing house, and most of all when courting such a fickle individual. He's so inclined to be difficult; at his absolute kindest wanting to play at being coy, playing hard to get, and giving strawman excuses to offers coming off as improper while stretching out interactions. Or some distorted version of that, anyhow. Vox always chases; Alastor always baits him.
The slight was minor enough that he's able to move on from it quickly, but he's going to stay positioned just like he is for a little longer. Not overly so, but just long enough to keep form coming across as too placable himself.
But after a minute of looking anywhere but at Vox, he will tu rn his head back, ]
[Ooooh this experience will suck. Vox can already tell from the sweeping aerial shot of the North Pole and the orchestral music that all this great cinematography and scoring will be wasted on whatever the actual plot is. Ultimately, that's always his biggest beef with Heaven's movies: they have the means to craft a masterpiece, but it's very clear that every single script is written by someone who's had no significant life experience. These people haven't suffered the way Sinners have. Not a single emotion they're trying to convey resonates the way it should. Fucking pitiful.
Vox will hatewatch this stuff anyway. Inviting negativity into his life is the exact brand of self-sabotage he subscribes to.
By the time Alastor speaks, the first scene is already on its way and old man Santa is cynical about the meaning of Christmas (typical plot beat). Vox throws an annoyed sideways glance his way, then takes the popcorn with both hands to lift it out of Alastor's seat and onto his own lap.]
It's my movie pick. It has musical numbers, time travel and wasted potential all across the goddamn board.
[ One ear twitches in response to Vox's voice before they both lift back up to attention. There's a small sound of acknowledgment and a nod of the head in response to his answer, because against his better judgment he is half-paying attention here.
That it's wasted potential doesn't surprise him. He likes Christmas movies, though only at Christmas time, but they're written in that sort of way that flirts with the idea of hurt and tragedy without ever truly delving into them. Perhaps that's why Heaven likes them - they want the pretense and illusion of being sad, not the actual discomfort of being confronted with real issues. It's no different than why people consume horror - there's a thrill to being able to experience fear and dread when there's no actual threat to their person.
But he keeps his thoughts to himself for now, as it only takes so much longer before Alastor starts to feel the effects of the whiskey. He's not quite tipsy and far from drunkenness, but there's that little bit of extra warmth, a kind of fuzziness that seems to often the hard edges of the world. It's that feeling which allows discomfort to win out over sulkiness, and he finds himself shifting back into his original sitting position. He adjusts a little more, then sets his arm on the armrest, fingernails lightly scraping against the surface. ]
[The more time passes, the more Vox feels that pent up fury of the earlier incident dissipating. He's still cross about it, but doesn't know where to direct those emotions, so he just sort of ends up strangling them and stuffing them down. At the same time, the effects of the alcohol he consumed are starting to set in. Downing that second glass in one go was a mistake, he's finding out. His thoughts are moving a little slower, more prone to drifting away from the movie. He starts eating the popcorn in hopes of slowing any further intoxication effects. Get something else in what's essentially his stomach to digest.
He becomes aware of Alastor's shifting movement as soon as it happens, and his gaze seeks out the arm that's settling right next to him. The scrape of the man's fingernails is very alluring, somehow. It's a good sound. He considers setting his own arm down right beside it, then decides against it. That could very well set Alastor off again in the worst kind of way. But there's a different sort of gesture to make.
After a moment of debate, he moves the popcorn back towards Alastor, making sure it's within reach even with those cables. (Unlike a certain something else that wasn't within reach.)]
[ it's vox fault for making the cables so short smh
Alastor is alternating between looking at the screen and Vox. He's not finding even the smallest amount of joy in it, save an appreciation for the score, and so in that the man has succeeded in his goal. There is a bit more entertainment in watching Vox's movements. It's been decades since he shared a drink with... Well, anyone, but this man in particular is one of the few who he had once been willing to during his time here in Hell.
He's indulged Vox too much already. He doesn't mind the man acting like a slobbering dog, that works well for his purposes, but too much and he might come to be insufferable. Then again, perhaps it doesn't matter at this point. This will all be coming to an end soon. If the angels don't smite him, Alastor might do so himself. Or maybe he won't, because Vox always seems to have a way of getting away from him in the end. He's the only overlord that ever has - on a good day the average sinner isn't worth paying attention to, but overlords are a different story.
He thinks that, but he still reaches over once the bucket is moved near him, taking a few pieces of popcorn and popping them into his mouth. His fingertips linger there while he slowly chew on it before swallowing, and then his hand drops back down. ]
By the way, I've been meaning to ask: Just what do you plan on doing with the "motherfucking King of Hell" after all this?
[ He snorts, because he heard that too. It's a mocking tone, not all that unlike the one he can use for Vox, but with none of the levity. It's darker, more malicious, and just a touch expectant. Alastor thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear it. ]
[Huh. The popcorn was accepted. That's good, right? Vox thinks it's good. The line between fake, performative date and real sentiment is beginning to blur, and he can't be assed to put it back into focus. He's too tired for any of that. He just wants to watch this movie in peace and pretend, if only for a minute, that his emotions towards Alastor aren't a messy, raging dumpsterfire of conflict. Everything will change tomorrow anyway. Once he's taken God's throne, simple little moments like this might cease to be.
He was just refilling his glass again (most unwise to dip back into that, but fuck it, what's he got to lose?) when Alastor raises the topic of Lucifer. Vox had low-key forgotten he even still has that guy in custody. He stares down at the bottle in his hand, then turns his head to peer Alastor's way.]
Keep him, I guess. Once I've conquered Heaven, I could probably kill him with ease, but... Feels like a waste, somehow. He can be a trophy bitch for my collection. [The bottle rolls over in his palm, then gets set back down on the drink cart. A quiet little laugh escapes him.] Or maybe Val wants him, I dunno. I mean, I don't really give that much of a fuck about him. He's just a shiny battering ram to knock down Heaven's gates.
[ That isn't all that surprising, but there is some pleasure to be found in it. It's being more important than someone, it's hearing how insignificant someone who's looked down on you is, because that's really what led to all of this. It was scorn, it was mockery, it was old hurts; it was a different flavor of all those things which spurs Vox on, but with a different goal.
He lifts his glass to push it Vox's way. He won't have much more, because the Vee tower is far too big and has far too many people for him not to feel on edge, but he'll at least go through the motions here. ]
And you'll put me in a dark closet and forget about me?
[ It's looping back to something said before, but there's a touch more levity to it, bordering on friendly, because it's just a bid for attention now. ]
[Vox's hand moves to take the glass as soon as it's pushed his way, since he's still perfectly willing to keep giving Alastor refills. He remembers how docile the radio demon gets with enough alcohol in him, so he might as well keep the booze flowing at this point. His first instinctual response to the question is 'no, I already said I'd never forget', but then he registers the tone in which it was said.
... Huh.
The empty glass is sat down in his lap for now, fingers sliding along the top rim. He's still watching Alastor, but his grin's not quite as toothy as usual.]
Nah. I'll put you in a dark closet and keep you all to myself there. Lucifer's one of the lowly trophy bitches, just for show. You're the real prize of the collection.
[This is his version of flirting. It's as terrible as one would expect.]
[ It's a wonder that he's so bad at it after being with Valentino for all these years. Alastor is quite the opposite. He's quite the gentleman, a natural charmer who can make women swoon, though he had never quite tried. He had a few short lived relationships in his time, but never out of interest; it simply seemed like one of those things that a person is supposed to do. If he had more time, he might have one day married because he'd grown tired, or perhaps his desire to wait until he found that fabled right person would have won out.
Vox is terrible at it, enough that he has to stare at him for a couple seconds. His shoulders quiver, and there's a snort followed by a full blown laugh as what Vox is trying to do registers. It's one of those few occasions when there's nothing mean spirited about it, because the liquor tells him it's fine. It's part of why he he avoids it - on his own its a pleasure, but with others it's drinking pesticide to kill the butterflies in his stomach.
He's not quite there, but just enough to play along a little. ]
I am the only one that matters.
[ And he's quite pleased with that. Their relationship has always been special. It's because they share the airwaves. It's like an invisible red string, but it's around their throats instead of their fingers, and all they ever do is pull at each other's ends in hopes of snuffing the life out of the other - but it never quite seems to work, because one of them loses their grip at the last possible second. ]
Do you always hide your most prized possessions hidden away in a dark closet? No, now that I think about it, that's not possible for you. You'd come running over to opening it every five minutes, no matter how many times I told you to stop, and then complain about not getting anything done.
[ And then if he stopped, Alastor would start knocking on the walls and the door and finding other creative ways to try to get attention because he's needy like that. ]
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[ He doesn't talk about his personal live, and another millennia might pass before he even thinks about it, but every now and again he's willing to share some odd fact that he picked up somewhere or another. There's just little things, little hints of who he once was.
He uncrosses his legs, just so he can do so again - the opposite leg this time. ]
I think that you're right about one thing. If you want to get into Heaven, then the right way is to break the door down. There's no need to play around, [ He lifts his hand a few inches and twists his wrist a few times before letting it back down, ] With this made up "redemption."
[ And that's likely why he picked this particular subject. It's partly that there's only so much that he can needle Vox about his ambitions, and it's partly that there's only two people in all of Hell that he can speak with on this. There's something about living in Hell that tends to rot the already atrophied minds of the people who enter it. ]
That was never supposed to happen anyway, because those angels specifically designed their little club to be exclusive.
[ There's a slight emphasis on the word exclusive, a drop of poison mixed in with the otherwise light tone. Hell is meant to be overpopulated. Whether they lived twenty years or a hundred, humans are meant to suffer for eternity. But none of this is exactly the point he wants to make, and in the end none of it is meant to change anything save perhaps offering talking points (which aren't quite needed now,) so he does wait to see if Vox is interested in this subject. ]
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Still, he'll entertain it, just to see where it goes. He reaches towards the drink cart again, grabbing the bottle of whiskey for that refill. He'll be slow about it, but he'll do it all the same.]
Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised. Look at some of the sniveling wimps we get down here from time to time. There's no way those guys ever did anything in their lives worth eternal suffering. Probably got turned way at the gate for a totally different reason. Something that doesn't mesh well with Heaven's perfect streets. Wrong religion, wrong sexuality, things like that.
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The little bits of gossip he gained in life have proven useful.
But even if Vox finds nothing of interest in what he has to say, it doesn't really matter. This is just a way of distracting him anyway. ]
Then, let me walk you through it: Pretend, for a moment, that there was truth to the idea of God creating a dual universe. There is the true "Heaven," where God lives, and then there is everything else.
[ The former being a metaphor, of course. ]
God created angels, who in turn created humans so that they might have someone they could look down on. If you believe the stories, they're responsible for the entirety of this mess that we're in.
[ As far as he's concerned, their "perfect" world was never perfect to begin with if they had to create humans. What reason was there for that if not to have something to feel superior to? Why go so far to strip their creations of what they themselves had? But all of that is a different conversation, so he moves on. ]
Meanwhile, there's truth to all those stories about humans making contact and deals with beings from the afterlife. Demons can form contracts with the living just as easily as they can the dead. They stake their claim on a person's soul, and then they harvest it at the time of death.
[ More than that, it's only humans who can summon demons in the manner that they do. Those humans that were created to be fish in a bowl have shown to be able to do the impossible in life, and then again after death. He does watch Vox's expression as he explains it too, wondering if he'll dismiss the idea either as impossible or irrelevant. The amount who have succeeded is just the tiniest fraction of those who have failed. There aren't many people who would believe it, much less see the relevance. But then, maybe he will, because Alastor never speaks of these things without reason.
Following along so far? ]
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The second bit, though... That has him pausing. He just finished refilling Alastor's glass and now the bottle hovers in place, tilted back just far enough to keep the rest of the whiskey inside it. Disbelief is etched all over his face, because... c'mooon, he knows demons have tried, but he's never heard of one who pulled it off. Though, if they did hold that power, would they even share it? Maybe they'd keep that trick to themselves and hoard its potential.
Finally, he puts Alastor's glass back in the cup holder, screws the cap back on the bottle and sets it down. Once he's sat back in his seat, his hands fold together in his lap, elbow pressing against Alastor's upper arm over the armrest.]
Okay, hypothetically, let's say there's truth in that. So what?
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The human part of him decides to gamble, ]
I have it on a reputable source that it is possible.
[ One hand lifts. He can't fully raise it as he'd like, nor can he reach well, but he does drag his fingertips over Vox's upper arm and drag it along his forearm insomuch as he can before his fingers splay out around it.
Vox should know that he would never make such a statement if it weren't an absolute certainty. ]
We can steal souls from whoever it is that harvests them. We interrupt whatever process is in play.
[ He's tugging a bit at Vox's arm now to try to get him to pull back, because he can't very well slip his fingers through the gaps in the back of his hand like this, and he's decided at this moment that he wants to. And that's fine, because any touch is fine so long as it is at his whim and reason. ]
So, if you want to be the one true God... Don't you want to know who's been harvesting our souls? Who's been distributing them? After all, this is all Heaven's creation.
[ And if he doesn't believe Vox can do it, well... There is still truth to it, because he wants to know. And he wants Vox to be thinking on it no matter what, because God knows that no one else will be. ]
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Maybe one of Alastor's two goons was recruited while still alive. Yep, that'll be it.
And then all those thoughts come to a crashing halt, because now Alastor's hand is on his arm, stroking it- holding it. Vox just about stops listening to anything else being said for a few seconds. There's two lightning speed blinks of his eyes as he processes it, because touches from Alastor come rare, but touches without mocking intent are even rarer.
Once he's over his confusion, he allows his arm to be adjusted. For his hand to land closer to Alastor's own, near the arm rest. What are they talking about...? Right.]
... Wait, are you talkin' about whoever makes the judgment call? The power that decides whether a soul gets to walk through Heaven's gates or not?
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He pauses to move the popcorn bucket that had been dropped on his lap earlier, letting it rest between his leg and the armrest. He has to adjust his position to compensate for the limited space, and as a result he winds up inching just a tad closer.
It's not long after that he reaches out to take Vox's wrist. He uses his thumb to massage the inside of his wrist while he tries to decide what it is that he wants to do next. Eventually he settles on trying to hook his foot around Vox's ankle, trying to nudge his legs further apart for absolutely no reason in particular.
And all the while he's still carrying on this very important conversation, ]
Precisely. It's not a creation of God, but one of Heaven... Who or what is our Grim Reaper, who harvests and distributes all unclaimed souls? There's no one in Hell who knows. The High Seraphim in Heaven aren't able to provide us with any answers either. They only know we were bad people based on the fact that we're down here.
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A sudden thought hits him. His gaze shoots towards the drink cart to have another good look at the bottles because for a manic moment, he wonders whether something spiked with Valentino's saliva made its way into the selection. Completely unintended, because that kind of roofie bullshit is not something he bothers with- it doesn't even work on him- but those types of bottles do drift around Vee Tower sometimes. He doesn't see any reddish or pink hues in the whiskey, though. Somehow, that brings no relief at all.]
Uhhhh... [C'mon Vox, pull it together.] Right, so... So whoever put that in place is between the seraphim and God? I could figure it out once I'm up there, I'm sure. Take God's throne and order the information to be delivered on a silver platter. Or gold, or whatever the fuck those people prefer.
[Sure, Vox is still engaging with the conversation, but his gaze is also very much locked on Alastor's hand. Part of him expects that the radio demon will try to break his wrist. He should retract his own hand, but at the same time he really doesn't want to. This is the most dangerous game of gay chicken he's ever played.]
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In any event, there's nothing out of the ordinary in his features. His pupils aren't dilated, or at least no more than would be expected with the low lighting. He's quite capable of holding a conversation like this. He's calm, collected, acting as he pleases as always.
He's Vox's little prisoner too, so of course he can't do anything to harm him. Rather, he's going to switch Vox's arm from one hand to another so he can continue his little caresses while still freeing up the hand closes to Vox.
He has to bend slightly to one side to manage it properly, but his now free hand is shift along until he finds Vox's side, a fingernail tracing along where he knows those vents are before coming to rest on his thigh and rubbing it. He rubs it gently. And he still continues on, voice level, as though he weren't doing anything scandalous at all. For someone who was so bold as to fuck his porn star director boyfriend in front of him, this much should be nothing to the media overlord. ]
It depends on which scripture you subscribe to, but what do precious metals matter in Heaven? But if you could do that, then you would be able to harvest and distribute mortal souls as you please. I'd say that's as close as you can get to becoming God as you can get without losing who you are.
[ His ears are tilted forward, too. It's a comfortable position where he's listening to what Vox has to say with care, twitching slightly in response to any sounds. ]
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Alastor's enough of an asshole for it to be both.
He should save himself the humiliation and pull his hand away before he gets bitten. He really, really should. Why can't he bring himself to do it? Why does the fingernail rippling along the vent bring a pleasant tingle when he knows he's opening himself up to attacks? Ahhh fuck.]
... Without losing who I am? What? [He laughs awkwardly.] C'moooon, I was always supposed to be a god, so once I actually get there, I'll be like... the real, true me. That's not losing who I am, that's me slotting into my rightful place. So yeah, I could take divine judgment on as part of the job description. Why not? It'll be a whole lot more fucking fair than whatever's is going on right now.
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[ Vox. The people's voice. Hell's equivalent of the Speaker of God, but far more proactive. Far more useful.
And it really is both, because Vox should know Alastor well. He isn't the sort to do things for the sake of it. He would certainly never degrade himself, and so if he's experimenting now, it's because he wishes to. He's testing it out to see how he feels about it for his own sake. To that end, he'll go as far as to guide Vox's hand up, placing his thumb over the others fingers to force them to curl before he pushes his cheek against them.
His fingers slide up the others thigh, toying with and testing with his hem. Nimble fingers slip beneath it, pressing against the edge of his torso and sliding along, coming to play with the button of his pants, sliding it through the hole, and -
And stopping, one eye closing before he gives a little tug, and then again, as he hits the limit of his cable. He doesn't try it past that either, or at least not more than once, because it's embarrassing enough, and his smile thinning out instead and his hand retracting, Vox's hand then gingerly placed back on the armrest, before Alastor finally folds his legs and rests both his hands on his knee, eyelids resting low.
They're not talking about it. ]
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Alastor's other hand is up to something much more dangerous, causing Vox to swallow thickly. There's still a chill of goosebumps prickling at him, because while he's uneasy about all of this, there's also a light hint of anticipation weaseling its way in. A twinkle of hope, sputtering and sparking to life against better judgment. His focus slips to the sensation of Alastor's fingers sliding along his torso, and-
And there it is. The distinct sound of a cable pulled to its extreme, refusing any more give. That's as far as it goes.
Vox leaves things as they are. He won't give Alastor any more freedom- especially not after how much he's already given tonight. He's not that stupid. Bitter and unwilling to budge, he uses both hands to button his pants again, then tugs down his shirt to make sure everything's in place. And yes, there is zero intent to talk about it.
Right. The god thing.]
... I'm aiming to be The God, not a god. So once I am that God, I'm the one making the rules. Nobody said the one true God has to be a hermit who refuses to interact with anyone else. So in case that's what you were hoping for, no, you wouldn't be rid of me.
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Such is how their relationship tends to go. Alastor pushes, Vox pulls. Alastor shoves, Vox pulls him down along with him. One is used to cushion the other's fall.
He huffs, exactly like he didn't know how this was going to turn out from the start because he had checked the length of those cables for a reason. Is he actually annoyed? Is he not? Does he just want to be difficult? In this particular case, there really is just absolutely no way of telling with Alastor since it's not like anyone else has gotten this far with him. ]
I wouldn't dare hope to be.
[ HUFF!!! ]
You still haven't picked a movie.
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He quickly picks up his own glass and drains it all the way. Following that, he reaches for the bottle to refill it without even a second's hesitation.]
I was letting you choose, remember? 'Cause I'm so fucking nice like that? But if you don't wanna take me up on that offer, I'll pick something.
[Just let him drain another glass in one go first. He's fine. HE IS SO FUCKING FINE RIGHT NOW-]
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But he will take a moment to follow suit in draining his glass, placing the glass back in the cup holder before bringing his hand back to his lap. ]
Just pick something. I don't care.
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Fine.
[His hand pulls the touch screen towards himself with a swiping gesture in midair, so he won't have to lean towards Alastor to use it. He's really not in a mood to invade the guy's space for the next... Minute. Five minutes. Who knows? His finger navigates through the movie selection with ease and the next second, he's chosen something called Christmas Past. Santa travels back in time to see his younger self become, well, Santa. It's fucking stupid and if even Vox will hate it, Alastor must hate it even more. That's totally how that works.]
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The slight was minor enough that he's able to move on from it quickly, but he's going to stay positioned just like he is for a little longer. Not overly so, but just long enough to keep form coming across as too placable himself.
But after a minute of looking anywhere but at Vox, he will tu rn his head back, ]
What's this?
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Vox will hatewatch this stuff anyway. Inviting negativity into his life is the exact brand of self-sabotage he subscribes to.
By the time Alastor speaks, the first scene is already on its way and old man Santa is cynical about the meaning of Christmas (typical plot beat). Vox throws an annoyed sideways glance his way, then takes the popcorn with both hands to lift it out of Alastor's seat and onto his own lap.]
It's my movie pick. It has musical numbers, time travel and wasted potential all across the goddamn board.
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That it's wasted potential doesn't surprise him. He likes Christmas movies, though only at Christmas time, but they're written in that sort of way that flirts with the idea of hurt and tragedy without ever truly delving into them. Perhaps that's why Heaven likes them - they want the pretense and illusion of being sad, not the actual discomfort of being confronted with real issues. It's no different than why people consume horror - there's a thrill to being able to experience fear and dread when there's no actual threat to their person.
But he keeps his thoughts to himself for now, as it only takes so much longer before Alastor starts to feel the effects of the whiskey. He's not quite tipsy and far from drunkenness, but there's that little bit of extra warmth, a kind of fuzziness that seems to often the hard edges of the world. It's that feeling which allows discomfort to win out over sulkiness, and he finds himself shifting back into his original sitting position. He adjusts a little more, then sets his arm on the armrest, fingernails lightly scraping against the surface. ]
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He becomes aware of Alastor's shifting movement as soon as it happens, and his gaze seeks out the arm that's settling right next to him. The scrape of the man's fingernails is very alluring, somehow. It's a good sound. He considers setting his own arm down right beside it, then decides against it. That could very well set Alastor off again in the worst kind of way. But there's a different sort of gesture to make.
After a moment of debate, he moves the popcorn back towards Alastor, making sure it's within reach even with those cables. (Unlike a certain something else that wasn't within reach.)]
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Alastor is alternating between looking at the screen and Vox. He's not finding even the smallest amount of joy in it, save an appreciation for the score, and so in that the man has succeeded in his goal. There is a bit more entertainment in watching Vox's movements. It's been decades since he shared a drink with... Well, anyone, but this man in particular is one of the few who he had once been willing to during his time here in Hell.
He's indulged Vox too much already. He doesn't mind the man acting like a slobbering dog, that works well for his purposes, but too much and he might come to be insufferable. Then again, perhaps it doesn't matter at this point. This will all be coming to an end soon. If the angels don't smite him, Alastor might do so himself. Or maybe he won't, because Vox always seems to have a way of getting away from him in the end. He's the only overlord that ever has - on a good day the average sinner isn't worth paying attention to, but overlords are a different story.
He thinks that, but he still reaches over once the bucket is moved near him, taking a few pieces of popcorn and popping them into his mouth. His fingertips linger there while he slowly chew on it before swallowing, and then his hand drops back down. ]
By the way, I've been meaning to ask: Just what do you plan on doing with the "motherfucking King of Hell" after all this?
[ He snorts, because he heard that too. It's a mocking tone, not all that unlike the one he can use for Vox, but with none of the levity. It's darker, more malicious, and just a touch expectant. Alastor thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear it. ]
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He was just refilling his glass again (most unwise to dip back into that, but fuck it, what's he got to lose?) when Alastor raises the topic of Lucifer. Vox had low-key forgotten he even still has that guy in custody. He stares down at the bottle in his hand, then turns his head to peer Alastor's way.]
Keep him, I guess. Once I've conquered Heaven, I could probably kill him with ease, but... Feels like a waste, somehow. He can be a trophy bitch for my collection. [The bottle rolls over in his palm, then gets set back down on the drink cart. A quiet little laugh escapes him.] Or maybe Val wants him, I dunno. I mean, I don't really give that much of a fuck about him. He's just a shiny battering ram to knock down Heaven's gates.
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He lifts his glass to push it Vox's way. He won't have much more, because the Vee tower is far too big and has far too many people for him not to feel on edge, but he'll at least go through the motions here. ]
And you'll put me in a dark closet and forget about me?
[ It's looping back to something said before, but there's a touch more levity to it, bordering on friendly, because it's just a bid for attention now. ]
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... Huh.
The empty glass is sat down in his lap for now, fingers sliding along the top rim. He's still watching Alastor, but his grin's not quite as toothy as usual.]
Nah. I'll put you in a dark closet and keep you all to myself there. Lucifer's one of the lowly trophy bitches, just for show. You're the real prize of the collection.
[This is his version of flirting. It's as terrible as one would expect.]
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Vox is terrible at it, enough that he has to stare at him for a couple seconds. His shoulders quiver, and there's a snort followed by a full blown laugh as what Vox is trying to do registers. It's one of those few occasions when there's nothing mean spirited about it, because the liquor tells him it's fine. It's part of why he he avoids it - on his own its a pleasure, but with others it's drinking pesticide to kill the butterflies in his stomach.
He's not quite there, but just enough to play along a little. ]
I am the only one that matters.
[ And he's quite pleased with that. Their relationship has always been special. It's because they share the airwaves. It's like an invisible red string, but it's around their throats instead of their fingers, and all they ever do is pull at each other's ends in hopes of snuffing the life out of the other - but it never quite seems to work, because one of them loses their grip at the last possible second. ]
Do you always hide your most prized possessions hidden away in a dark closet? No, now that I think about it, that's not possible for you. You'd come running over to opening it every five minutes, no matter how many times I told you to stop, and then complain about not getting anything done.
[ And then if he stopped, Alastor would start knocking on the walls and the door and finding other creative ways to try to get attention because he's needy like that. ]
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me trying to hit the preview button like:
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