Chapter Text
Exhaustion washes over Alastor. He’d just finished off a fresh kill, which he left chopped up in his freezer back home. Now, he aches desperately to unwind with a cold drink at the bar. He stands straight, dusting his vest as he enters Husk’s establishment, smile taut on his lips as though held by invisible pins, masking his fatigue.
His victim had put up a fairly good fight, so a litter of bruises hid under Alastor’s sleeves. Always a nuisance, when they fight back, but he supposes it can’t be helped—when one is faced with the dark realisation of their impending death, one does anything to survive. Still, Alastor finds amusement in their fearful expressions. The hope they have when he allows them to think they might have the upper hand. It’s all too deliciously entertaining.
He resorts to drugs, though, more often than not, to knock out his opponents, despite the boredom it brings. Alastor would much rather not get hauled away on a murder charge in the midst of a fist fight with the hooligans he hunts. Knives always work better than fists, anyway. A gun is even better. Too bad Alastor abhors the laziness behind a firearm. Nice and slow wins the race, and it isn’t like any of them ever deserve the mercy of a quick death.
They were all so filthy. Men, laying their grimy hands on their wives, daughters, sons, or even poor down-on-their-luck pedestrians—strangers these men have never even met. Yet, their vile contempt leads them to do unthinkable things. No, these men deserve to live through every agonising second Alastor puts them through. He wouldn’t dream of having it any other way.
Alastor settles in his usual spot in the corner, giving Husk a nod and a look he’s all too familiar with. The older bartender breathes out a heavy sigh as he starts preparing Alastor’s usual—scotch on the rocks. When the glass is placed in front of Alastor, Husk takes notice of the brunet surveying the rest of the bar.
“Haven’t you done enough for tonight?” Husk mutters with a shake of his head.
Alastor hums in response, fingertips drumming on the top of his glass.
“Perhaps. I don’t believe I have the energy for another expedition tonight, old friend.” He shrugs as he takes a sip of his drink. “I simply enjoy keeping an eye on things.”
Husk opens his mouth, but clamps it shut when Alastor shoots him a warning look. Instead, he rolls his eyes and returns to his place behind the bar, chatting up another regular.
Alastor’s eyes trail to the end of the bar, where he notices two unfamiliar faces—or, well, one not entirely unfamiliar. One that is shockingly familiar, in fact. His drumming fingers come to a halt.
Vox.
“My, oh my,” Alastor purrs under his breath, his interest and amusement heightened as he observes from afar.
Vox has certainly grown into quite the strapping young gentleman. But the man he’s with is someone Alastor doesn’t recognise. They’re talking, and Vox seems incredibly displeased, so Alastor cranes his neck and tries to listen in.
“Val, I told you, I can’t just stop working whenever you want to play. I’m not your toy, and I’m definitely not your pet,” Vox growls, raking through his hair, but it just falls back.
He looks like a man who’s had quite enough.
“Baby,” this Val says, voice sickeningly sweet, “you know you always enjoy it in the end, so why the fuss?”
Val leans closer to Vox’s ear, his fingers tracing featherlight touches over his cheek as he whispers something Alastor can’t make out. Something that clearly bothers Vox enough to grimace and push him back.
“Stop it,” Vox says sharply, and when Val doesn’t take him seriously, encroaching on his personal space again, Vox’s grimace turns into a scowl. “I mean it, Val. Fuck off.”
Val scoffs, lifting his hands up with an uncaring shrug of his shoulders. He grumbles something under his breath that makes Vox’s anger simmer back into exhaustion. Vox had won the battle, but he didn’t win the war, it seems, and the lack of a fight surprises Alastor. He’d always made such a habit to punch the air and celebrate even the littlest wins whenever they’d argue as kids. Wins that he didn’t get very much of, Alastor would haste to point out.
The taller man places a hand on the top of Vox’s head, giving it a rough tousle. Vox bats him away with an arm as he watches Val finally take his leave. Once gone, Vox’s shoulders slump as he visibly relaxes enough to order another drink for himself. When he finally glances around the room, he locks eyes with Alastor and freezes. Alastor’s grin grows.
Like a deer in the headlights.
How amusing.
Alastor’s elbows plant on top of the table, his playfully tilted head resting on intertwined fingers, gaze unbreaking. Vox flounders, unsure what to do, and Alastor is eating it up.
He does, eventually, pluck up the courage to get up and awkwardly make his way over to Alastor, who lets out a brief chuckle as he waits for Vox to arrive at his table.
“Alastor?” Vox asks, smile crooked. “Man, it’s been like, what? 12 years?”
“Yes, it has, hasn’t it?” Alastor looks over his nails before using a hand to gesture at the chair next to him.
“Your accent’s changed,” Vox remarks as he accepts the invitation, sitting down.
Alastor isn’t sure if Vox sounds disappointed by fact or not.
“I suppose it has! You see, I find this accent to be much easier to pick up through the radio.”
Vox appears visibly confused by this, so Alastor elaborates, pride swelling in his chest.
“I’m a radio host.”
“People still use those?” Vox’s lips spread into a smirk at the look of irritation despite Alastor’s unwavering smile. “Sorry, sorry.”
“And what are you doing these days?” Alastor questions, not that he particularly cares. It’s just polite to ask. Good manners never did him wrong before.
“I’m the CEO of VoxTech. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” Vox preens, equally as pleased by his accomplishments.
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
Vox scrunches his face in disbelief. “Really? Ever heard of Voxstagram? Voxbook? VoxTok? Every popular social media site that exists today?”
Alastor can tell his willful ignorance to Vox’s company and success is getting under his skin, and oh, how he’s missed this. But don’t get it wrong, it isn’t Vox he’s missed. Heavens no! It’s the banter they shared, the comfort in familiarity—in knowing some things remain the same even after all these years.
“I hardly think I’ve ever heard of any of these fascinating Vox-traptions.” Alastor has to bite back the laugh that bubbles up in his throat when a frustrated groan spills from Vox.
“You’re such a jackass. Same as always, even when we were kids. Here I thought you’d have learned to be kinder. Silly me.”
Despite the supposed venom Vox is trying to spit, Alastor catches the fond smile forming. And maybe neither of them would ever admit it, but it’s nice to have this constant back in their lives. It’s impossible to say what’s to come now that they’ve been reunited, but one thing’s for certain:
By god, it’s going to be fun.
