Distorted Signals

Chapter 1 (will continue the story further if there's enough demand)

Alastor's smile remained, a rictus of forced amusement, but his eyes, usually so unreadable, held a flicker of desperation. He needed a distraction, something to break Vox's increasingly unsettling focus. "Is your earlier offer still on the table?" His voice, though still laced with his usual theatricality, held a new, almost pleading undertone. "I find myself quite parched. Sazerac would be lovely."

Vox paused, his finger still hovering over the scar. His screen flickering for a fleeting moment. The sudden shift in topic, the unexpected request, caught him off guard. He pulled his hand away, the air between them suddenly feeling colder. "Sazerac?" He repeated, the question laced with confusion. Then, a slow, dawning realization. "Oh, Now you're taking me up on my hospitality?" A grin, sharper this time, spread across his screen. "Y'know what.. Sure, let's see if your old ass can still handle it."

One of Vox's black, insulated cords, slithered from his back, snaking across the floor. It moved with an almost organic grace, fetching two crystal glasses from a nearby bar cart. With another silent command, a sleek, black phone materialized in his hand. A quick, terse order into the receiver, and within minutes, the door to Vox's opulent suite slid open. An assistant of VoxTek, a small fish like demon, entered, carefully carrying a bottle of Sazerac on a silver tray. They quickly placed the bottle on the bar cart. "Here you are, sir." Then scurried out, as not to disturb.

Vox took the bottle, its amber liquid glinting under the soft, diffused lighting of the room. He poured a generous measure into one of the glasses. For a fleeting moment, a memory, sharp and bittersweet, flashed across his screen: a younger, less jaded Alastor, laughing, snatching while Vox's hand reached for the bottle, their shared amusement echoing in a dimly lit bar. He pushed the image away, a surge of familiar bitterness washing over him. That Alastor was long gone, replaced by this infuriating, enigmatic demon. He poured his own drink into the second glass, the clinking of ice cubes a stark punctuation mark in the silent room.

The cord that had retrieved the glasses now snaked around Alastor's chair, pulling him along with an effortless tug, as Vox, still holding his own drink, walked towards the massive, king-sized bed where Valentino had been lounging moments before. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the soft give of the expensive springs a stark contrast to the rigid defiance emanating from Alastor. The radio demon sat directly in front of him, still bound, still radiating an aura of barely contained rage hidden behind that ever present smile.

Vox raised the glass to Alastor's lips, silently telling the demon to unhinge his jaw. Alastor's grin, though still present, wavered. He scoffed, a low, guttural sound, but his mouth parted nonetheless. Vox watched, a strange fascination flickering in his eyes, as Alastor swallowed, the liquid a dark stream down his throat. A single, amber drop escaped the corner of Alastor's mouth, tracing a slow, tantalizing path down his chin. Vox's eyes, usually so fixed on the bigger picture, followed its descent with an almost obsessive focus. Alastor's eyes, for a precious moment, fluttered shut, a genuine sigh escaping him as the familiar taste of the Sazerac spread through him. He drank deeply, the liquor a welcome reprieve from the day's indignities.

Vox swallowed, a harsh, dry sound in the sudden quiet. He lowered the glass from Alastor's lips, his gaze still fixed on the glistening drop. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a finger, its tip glowing with a faint blue light, and gently wiped the corner of Alastor's mouth. Their eyes locked, a silent, intense exchange passing between them, an intimacy both unsettling and strangely alluring.

They drink, letting time pass by. Vox, with a practiced ease, continued to assist Alastor, holding the glass, tilting it, watching the bob of Alastor's throat as he swallowed. With each sip, the rigid tension in the room seemed to dissipate, replaced by a softer, hazier atmosphere. The venom in their teasing lessened, replaced by a more playful, albeit still sharp, banter. The alcohol, a potent force, began to work its magic.
Vox's movements became looser, his screen displaying a slightly blurred, content expression. He leaned forward, his hand, now devoid of its electrical crackle, brushing against Alastor's leg. A low, throaty laugh escaped him, his words slurring just slightly. "You know, Al... you're actually kinda... *funny* when you're not trying to be a... a sadistic prick."