#Hazbin Hotel regency era AU

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

Return to Radio Hall

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an alternate universe, once conceptualised, must be in want of a fic. This collaborative event by Bapple's Orchard is brought to you by our collective need to stop @bapple117 from writing a full-length Radiostatic romance novel set in Regency era England*. We've got so many great contributors, with art, short fiction and music, and so if you enjoy this piece I highly encourage you to follow the link to the masterlist for the event below to go see everything that my friends on the server have done.

*They could, and we know they could, and that is why we must stop them.

⚜Summary: Having made his fortune in the New World, Vox Vee returns to visit his former benefactor, Lord Alastor.

⚜Pairings: Vox/Alastor

⚜Content Notes: Unrequited love, Regency era AU, depiction of illness

The weather on the road to Radio Hall was treacherous; great peals of thunder accompanying the rumble of the carriage over the stones on the road as the rain sheeted down.

This ought to have been a triumphant march, the return of a protégé who had proved his mentor wrong, had made his fortune, had won the great game of life. Instead, Vox sat alone in his carriage as it ascended the hill towards the estate, the rain on the windows providing little distraction from the matters that troubled him.

Valentino would have said something to calm his nerves, something witty that made him scoff, if he had been there, but his lover had declined to accompany him across the Atlantic.

“Maybe for a season in Vienna or Paris, amorcito.” Valentino had sucked his pipe, eyes glinting red. “But not for this. You want to go visit your fusty old lord-of-the-manor, you can go by yourself.”

Of course, Valentino was more than capable of entertaining himself while Vox was gone, but Vox couldn’t say the same for himself. He’d spent the voyage over staring at the far horizon, for all the world like the protagonist of some interminably long work of literary fiction fixing his sights on some lofty goal, but all it had achieved was to make Vox wet and cold.

It had been seven years. Seven years since their catastrophic falling out. Lord Alastor had been his closest friend, his confidant and supporter, all of that blown away in an instant.

You will never be my equal.

That was the last thing Alastor had snarled to him, rage seeping from behind the man’s beautiful smile, and the thing that had kept Vox afloat all these years was the urge to make that statement a lie. To meet Lord Alastor again, perhaps invited to a soirée by a mutual acquaintance, to catch his eye across the room and to smile at Alastor as Alastor smiled at the world; with perfect, assured confidence. To say, without speaking, I’m not merely your pet commoner, your charitable project. To smile, with only teeth- I belong here now.

And he had done it. He had made his fortune, not in a way that Alastor would have approved of, but a fortune nonetheless. He had friends, and lovers, and power, and a life that any man alive would have been envious of. He’d been so close, so damn close to swanning his way back across the Atlantic with a retinue in tow, to being invited to all the balls of the season, a hot commodity simply by virtue of his status as a wealthy and unmarried man. But none of that mattered now.

Vox watched the rainwater slide over the window of the carriage, making his view a grim, grey blur. Alastor always had to do things on his own terms. Alastor had to have known that he was planning his grand return; a house in Kensington and a thumb on the nose to everything Alastor had said about him. Vox would have flaunted it. Alastor would have hated it.

That was when the news had come, from one of Vox’s cousins, still living near Radio Hall.

That Lord Alastor was sick.

That he might not last the month.

And of course Vox had thrown all his neatly laid plans aside and booked passage at once, on a ship that he didn’t even own. The whole way there he had prayed that he wouldn’t be too late, that Alastor wouldn’t have the final word in their argument. What was the point of years of striving, if he didn’t get to be right? If, in the end, he still had to come crawling back to Radio Hall?

The carriage crunched to a halt outside the main doors, a pair of footmen hurrying out to greet him with umbrellas. Vox shielded his face with one hand, peering up the front facade of Radio Hall, and smiling as he caught sight of the light from the window in the west tower. Alastor’s bedroom. He wasn’t too late, after all.

Escorted inside, he brushed off the entreaties of the attendants that he get settled in his rooms and change his clothes, making a bee-line to Alastor’s valet, Mr Husk. “I want to see him.”

Mr Husk looked him up and down, as insolent as ever. “Didn’t expect you to show your face,” he said, tone amused. “Thought you of all people would be glad to see him in the ground.”

“Then you are fucking mistaken,” said Vox, a crack in his voice. Alastor had been his greatest friend, his confidant, had been so important to him. Was so important, still. “Show me to his rooms.”

The ascent to Alastor’s tower was a familiar one, but Vox found himself viewing the passage with fresh eyes after so long away. The heirlooms and paintings that lined the walls seemed faded, the space itself more confined and dark after years in spacious white-painted apartments. Even the carpets were more ragged and less luxurious than Vox remembered them. Had it all fallen into ruin in his absence, he wondered, or had it always been like this, faded and rotten, with Vox too blinded by Alastor’s charm to see it for what it was?

He’d been in Alastor’s rooms countless times; late nights drinking in his little study and putting the world to rights, or playing cards with other friends before the fireplace. He had been young then, and naive, excited to have such an invite to the man’s inner sanctum. When Alastor had started to speak of the occult, in abstract, hypothetical terms at first, swirling the last of the whiskey in his glass, Vox had listened, rapt.

And when it came down to the less theoretical matters, more practical matters, Vox had listened and learned, a willing apprentice.

They’d traveled Europe together, scouring the collections of rare book dealers and antiquarians, a month here, a month there, and those not in their intimate circle had assumed him to be Alastor’s lover. Those close enough to see clearly knew the truth, however; that Lord Alastor’s obsessions lay too bloody and too deep to be sated by a simple man like Vox, or by any man for that matter.

It was on these trips that he’d laid the foundations for his trading company, connections with Alastor’s friends and with people who wished to curry Lord Alastor’s favor. He’d met people for whom a thousand pounds was a trifling amount and borrowed seed money from them, all from under Alastor’s watchful shadow.

He’d seen more in their friendship than friendship, or perhaps he had hallucinated it, just as he had imagined the painting in the halls to be grand and glorious, their frames golden rather than peeling gilt.

Now, the place smelled like a sickbed; like blood and feculence and rot.

“Mr Vee to see you, sir,” said Mr Husk, his tone bored.

Alastor’s voice was silvery as ever. “Let him in.”

Alastor’s bedroom was no different to the version in Vox’s mind, each ornament and piece of furniture committed to memory. The four-poster bed with the Radio family crest carved into the headboard; a stag recumbent on a field of thorns. The stuffed crocodile that Alastor kept in the corner. The fireplace, a brass basket of firewood before it.

Alastor smiled at him, face gaunt and tired. He sat up in bed, robe loose around his shoulders, blanket at his waist, a stack of pillows behind him.

Vox froze in the doorway, caught between the boy he had been and a hundred versions of the man he hoped he would have become by now. He had envisioned this moment so many times, but somehow never like this. Never with Alastor bedridden and sick, collarbones prominent at the neckline of his robe. The Alastor in Vox’s mind had been an invincible thing, dressed in red and laughing as he danced across a ballroom.

“Hello, Voxxy.” Alastor lowered his eyelids, his lank hair falling half over his face, his teeth glinting in the firelight. “How was the new world? Was it as glamorous and glittering as you had hoped? Did you have a nice vacation?”

Vox swallowed, heart in his throat. How dare he? How dare he sit there and pretend like the last seven years hadn’t even happened? As if Vox had just this moment walked from the room and returned, his absence as notable as the space between breaths.

“Alastor.” Vox forced himself to take a step forward, into the light of his former mentor’s fireplace. “I, uh-”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you come to grieve at my bedside?” Alastor tilted his head, the sly, teasing smile on his gaunt face instantly familiar. “Since you came such a long way, I suppose I could lay down and be quiet for a little. Though I’d prefer if you didn’t paw at my bedclothes, they’re enough of a mess already.”

“Alastor!” Vox choked.

“And your heart is worn on your sleeve, as ever,” said Alastor, a roll of his eyes as Vox stepped closer. “I thought I told you to guard your feelings better.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything that you told me to.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it has.” Alastor sighed. “Why did you come here?”

For one brief instant, Vox was the stag faced down by the hounds, frozen in place before he could flee into the night. The wind howled outside, rain dashing against Alastor’s window.

You will never be my equal.

Those were the words that had echoed in his ears all these years. Those words that he desperately wanted to be a lie, those words that he had fought to disprove. Every brick of the empire that he had built, every late night and every bloody victory had been in their service, and somehow it hadn’t been enough. He wasn’t Alastor’s equal. He was rich, but still of common birth. He was a competent magician, but he lacked Alastor’s natural talent. Faced with tragedy, all he had was rage and bluster while Alastor would keep smiling even on his own deathbed. Vox stood at the foot of Alastor’s bed, looking down at the man he had called friend, unable to say because I belong here.

“I heard you were dying,” said Vox.

“I’m afraid that’s true.” Alastor gave a gay little laugh, and narrowed his eyes when Vox winced. “Don’t look so shocked. A lifetime of good food and bad magic is bound to catch up with one eventually.”

“Can I help?” Vox asked, his heart once more on his sleeve.

“Well, that’s an ambiguous offer if ever I heard one,” said Alastor, his tone playful.

“You know what I meant,” growled Vox.

“And more’s the shame,” said Alastor. “I thought perhaps you’d want the final say on things. I know I would, in your shoes.” He was talking circles around Vox, the same way he always had.

“We’re not the same,” said Vox. A peace offering. I will never be your equal. “If I can help you-” If I can save you, he left unspoken.

Alastor gave him a long look, his smile tight lipped, then patted the bedspread beside him. “Sit,” he said, and Vox did.

This close to Alastor, the smell of death was stronger; a smell like a carcass left in the sun, and even in the light from the fireplace, Vox could see the strained lines around his smile.

“There’s no loophole to this one, old pal,” said Alastor. “Believe me, I’ve checked. Damn thing’s eating me from the inside.”

“There must be a way-” Vox protested, but Alastor interrupted him.

“Do you plan to spend my last days down in my library, as I wither up here? Or would you rather spend them here with me?” Alastor wrinkled his nose. “Well?”

“Alastor,” breathed Vox, staring.

How many years had he spent as a young man, waiting for something like this from Alastor? Theirs had simply been a friendship; a precious friendship, and Vox had been a fool to want more than that. But he had dreamed. Of being someone that Alastor might want to spend the rest of his life with. However long that would be now. A few days, or weeks, or more, perhaps.

With the utmost care, he reached out to his old friend, his mentor, the man who had taken him in, the man he had raced hare-brained across the Atlantic to return to, and took him into his arms, embracing him.

“You are a sentimental fool,” said Alastor, quietly, but he did not pull away. His thin body relaxed against Vox’s, his face against Vox’s shoulder, and he gave a single, shuddering breath.

You belong here.

#alastor x vox #radiostatic #pride ring and prejudice #bapples orchard collab #regency era AU #Hazbin Hotel regency AU #Hazbin Hotel regency era AU #hazbin regency prompt challenge #bapple's orchard #bapples orchard #one sided radiostatic

[miz-blue]

Hazbin Hotel fanfic/fanart: Desperate Maneuvers (part 1 of 4?)

Title: Desperate Maneuvers (part 1 of 4?)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Rating: PG-13

Pairing(s): Alastor/Vox

Summary: (Regency AU) The once prestigious LeClaire family has of late fallen on trying times. So trying, as it happens, that the family's eldest son, Lord Alastor, begrudgingly agrees to enter into an arranged marriage with a wealthy commoner, a Mr. Voxley Smythe.

Notes: Part 1 of this fic was written for the Bapple's Orchard discord server's regency era AU collab, Pride Ring and Prejudice. (Server run by @bapple117.) This was originally supposed to be a contained scene, but I think it'll have two more parts plus an epilogue. If you find this post through a reblog, then check back to the original post which I will update with links as the other parts are finished. The story is also on AO3 too if you'd rather follow there.

This fic is a Regency AU, more or less. However, my regency knowledge is rather rusty, and also the setting is like some weird mash-up of canon and regency England. i.e. All the characters are still demons, and there's at least a little magic. And yes, Vox still has a TV head; it is what it is. Also, also same-sex marriage is totally fine, lol; the drama and angst come from classism and the characters being emotionally constipated.

A brief note on ages, Alastor is 30, and Vox is 28.

Fic is under the cut, and I also drew the end scene of part 1.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

"Aunt Rosie, this is degrading," Alastor protested softly, still seated on the padded leather bench of the coach. "I have no wish to be a public spectacle." He could hear the distant sounds of people as well as the faintest strains of music, and Alastor, previously inured to his fate, now found himself possessed of a certain anxiety, fluffy ears pinned back against his head.

His aunt sighed, expression sympathetic but strained. "Alastor, dearest, I need you to step down from this carriage. Right now." Rosie was already on the ground having been assisted by a footman. "The other coaches need to come through, and you are holding up the line."

Alastor took a shaky breath to steady his nerves before sliding closer to the door, but he showed no sign of exiting. Ever a font of patience, his long suffering aunt gentled her tone. "Alastor, for me, please, come out. Why, I hardly recognize anyone here so I doubt they'll recognize us!" It was such a baldfaced lie, unbefitting of any lady but especially one of Rosie's status. However, the falsehood did give Alastor enough momentary hope that when Rosie extended her hand to her only nephew's elbow, he permitted her to carefully but insistently tug him from the coach.

In the next moment, Alastor had set foot on the carefully tended gravel pathway to Battlehill Manor. "Good luck, sir," Husk called from the driver's seat, and Alastor spared him a tight nod before the cat demon was obliged to drive on. Husk was also Alastor's valet and sometimes butler--the LeClaires struggled to keep staff ever since the incident seven years ago.

Now truly abandoned to the capricious whims of fate, Alastor squared his shoulders and faced the stately manor ahead of them. It would seem there was no way out but through. Composing himself as best he could, Alastor offered his arm to his aunt who graciously accepted, allowing him to lead them to the manor entrance even though they both knew the way. The Carmines were distant cousins so Alastor had visited their estate several times as a child, though no invitation had been extended for some time. No, even tonight's festive occasion had less to do with Alastor and more to do with his intended husband, a certain Mr. Voxley Smythe. The two men were to meet tonight and announce their engagement. Lady Carmine was graciously hosting the ball on Voxley's behalf since he had no land or title of his own. What he did have, apparently, was a very lucrative business deal with the Carmines.

Lady Carmilla herself was there to greet them in the foyer. "Lord Alastor, Lady Rosie," she nodded respectfully to them both. "A pleasure to see you as always."

Another unnecessary falsehood. Alastor smiled through it, greeting her in kind. "We must kindly thank you again for your assistance in this matter and apologize for any trouble it may have caused."

She smiled politely back. "No trouble at all, Lord Alastor. Indeed, all the guests seem to be in high spirits."

The three demons made pleasant enough small talk for a few minutes before Rosie inquired after Alastor's betrothed. "Has Mr. Smythe arrive yet by chance?"

"No, alas, he is late," Carmilla replied with the faintest whiff of irritation. "Some important business or other. He is often engaged in work."

"Ah, that is quite alright then," Rosie said sweetly. "We'll go in, shall we? We ought not keep you from your other guests."

Carmilla stepped aside so that the two aristocrats might step past her. "Yes, please enjoy yourselves. I believe the dancing has already begun."

Alastor and Rosie both expressed their delight again before stepping into the hall proper. As soon as Carmilla was sufficiently far away, Alastor immediately set his sights to criticisms.

"He isn't even here yet? I cannot believe my situation has come to this," Alastor whispered, sotto voce. He almost needn't have bothered. Every soul around the two LeClaires was giving them a wide berth as if they were stricken with some loathsome contagion.

"Now Alastor, try to seek out a happy moment or two--for Nifty's sake if not your own. A dance even! Your dear little sister would love to be here. Ah, if she had her way, she'd debut tomorrow, the scamp."

Alastor scowled for only a second before schooling his face back to its proper smile. "Then let Nifty marry; she's the poor soul who actually desires such a union." If Alastor had his way, he would have chosen to never marry at all. After the deaths of his parents, his dowager aunt had resumed the mantle of family head while Alastor had been preoccupied with his school studies. At present, the two demons shared the load--meager as it was now--until such a time as it could be passed to Nifty or her future children.

Regardless of the gravity of their words, Rosie's serene countenance never wavered as the two LeClaires meandered around the outskirts of the party. "Nifty's enthusiasm for matrimony is commendable, but she's yet several years too young, and we are facing financial destitution now. And since that's your fault, dear, I am going to need your help fixing it." Her voice was a calm but ironclad murmur that only Alastor could hear. "Furthermore, Nifty's prospects are hardly ideal. Your present sacrifice may yet wipe some of the stain off our family name."

"How noble of spirit I must be," Alastor quipped dryly.

"Please, Alastor."

Lord, how it pained him to disappoint her. "You actually liked Uncle Franklin," he said sullenly nonetheless.

She laughed with genuine mirth at that. "Your late uncle and I were lucky, dear. Mayhaps you might be too. Stranger things have come to pass."

"Hmm, perhaps." Luck had thus far evaded Alastor, and he rather much doubted that he ought to find it in the arms of some crass lout, but he would soldier on regardless. He did not wish to ruin his aunt's night with needless quarrels.

Rosie walked with him until they had reached a long row of chairs set against the main hall's far wall. A number of guests sat at varying intervals, some catching their breath from dancing and others waiting earnestly to be asked. "Will you be alright here for a bit, Alastor?" Rosie inquired as he took a seat. "Since Mr. Smythe is not yet arrived, I was hoping to catch up with Earl Zestial..."

Ever the dutiful nephew, Alastor kept his forced smile in place and waved her on. "No need to concern yourself with my moods, Aunt Rosie. I suspect none shall endeavor to move me from my seat."

She offered one last rueful smile before disappearing into the slowly growing crowd. Alastor was left to lean against the wall, listen to the music, and try to remain calm. As he suspected, while some in attendance shot him curious or apprehensive looks, no one dared approach him. Alastor cast his eye about too, wondering if he might find his intended before Rosie did--or rather that the other demon would find him. Uncaring of the engagement proceedings, Alastor had no idea what this Voxley looked like and only knew a little of his exploits.

Yes, his soon-to-be husband, Voxley Smythe, some upstart commoner who had made a fortune for himself expanding trade routes for the East India Company before returning to England and making his fortune twice-over in various newfangled factories. And now—like some bloated carrion bird—he had come seeking a nest to roost in and a title to go with it. Of course, what better way to secure said estate and title than to marry for it?

In this rapidly churning industrial age, destabilized aristocrats teetering on the edge of financial insolvency were hardly scarce. Alastor had merely thought his infamous reputation would've kept him off the bargaining table. Either this Voxley didn't know about the rumors concerning Alastor's involvement with the royal family, or more likely, he didn't care. Surely the man could not be so unseemly that only Alastor would have him? In truth, the deer demon did not know. After initially consenting to the written proposal, Alastor had left the matter of negotiations entirely to Rosie.

Fortunately for the LeClaire family, Voxley had no children of his own, and his and Alastor's union would not produce any; thus Nifty would still remain the next in line to inherit what was left of the family's property and good name. Voxley's monetary contributions would keep the LeClaires afloat and replenish their coffers, and in return the man could leverage all the political and social benefits that came with a noble rank. In some manner, it was a relief that Alastor was simply a means to an end, not a desirable aspect himself. A prickly and solitary composer, the young aristocrat had hardly been overburdened with social ties even before his fall from grace. With any luck, Voxley would spend most of his time in London overseeing his various business enterprises and leave Alastor in peace at his ancestral home in the countryside.

Alastor cast a wary look about the large room once more. Zounds, what was taking the man so long? Imagine being late to a party in one's honor; Alastor found it rude and ungentlemanly.

Although…allowing himself a little ungentlemanly moment as well, Alastor at last gave into the desire to be elsewhere. No one stopped him as he slipped out of the spacious drawing room, up a small staircase, and down a side hall towards where he knew a veranda should still be, assuming Carmilla hadn't made any recent renovations to the manor. But no, it was still there.

Alastor sighed, leaning on the thick balcony railing and glancing out over the dark countryside. Every so often the moon would peek out from behind the clouds, bathing well-maintained gardens and the distant woods in a silvery glow. Crickets chirped faintly, and Alastor could hear the dance music from downstairs, the windows having been opened to the cool, spring night air. The young aristocrat drummed his fingers to the beat of a violin solo, feeling the distant echo of his own magical powers but as ever, he was unable to summon them. So lost in thought was Alastor that he scarcely noticed an interloper on his solitude.

"Hey."

Red ears perked up and swiveled, and Alastor's eyes widened at the familiar voice. Turning around, his gaze beheld some strange amalgamation--a ghost of his past decked out like an omen from the future. The Victor Owens now before him was a far cry from the timid, obsequious clockmaker's apprentice that Alastor had for some time befriended whilst studying at Eton. Now Victor moved with easy confidence, walking towards Alastor as if he had every right to do so. More surprisingly was the other demon's clothing. He looked like a proper gentleman now, smartly tailored in the latest fashion of London. Alastor felt vaguely embarrassed for his own expensive but now threadbare suit, but something new had been a bit out of his means at the moment.

Alastor forced himself to incline his head politely which Victor did in kind. "My, but it has been some time since last we spoke." Since last we fought, Alastor thought, remembering their messy parting of ways nearly a decade ago. Though he had seen Victor about town after that day, the two of them had pointedly ignored each other. Then when Alastor had gone from Eton, he had scarcely thought of Victor at all. University studies of music and sorcery at Oxford and later a more...specialized tutelage in Windsor had kept him busy. At least until everything had fallen apart.

"It has been some years, yes." The slightly younger demon came over to the balcony, leaning against it too.

Alastor nodded in acknowledgment, but otherwise he had nothing to say to his former 'friend' and thus allowed the brief conversation to lapse into awkward silence. However, Victor did not quit his presence, and so the two demons stared out into the dark countryside together.

"Are you alright?" Victor inquired after a moment, politely neutral. "You seem a bit...harrowed."

Alastor managed a thin smile. So they would be playing the part of amiable old acquaintances then? Very well. "Alas, I've been better. I am to be engaged, you see." If Victor was moving in more prestigious circles nowadays, then no doubt he was already aware of the general outline of Alastor's situation if not its full extent.

"Usually engagements are happy occurrences…" the other demon prompted, a subtle invitation for Alastor to elaborate.

"Not this one," Alastor obliged, voice laced with an undercurrent of misery. And yet it was perversely satisfying to air his grievances so freely to someone, especially someone like Victor who did not require Alastor to put on airs. "The situation is utterly not of my choosing. Sold off like so much livestock to some repellent stranger."

"Aren't arranged marriages par for the course for your sort?" Victor apparently couldn't help but jibe. "I'm sure he can't be that bad, especially when you don't even know him."

"Oh please, what's to know?" Alastor's clawed fingertips tapped irritably on the glossy marble. "He's a boorish, vulgar social climber. You'd know the sort."

Victor glared at him, gentlemanly facade starting to slip--as Alastor had hoped it might. "Would I now? And is that what you'd say about me too? A disgrace too poor in breeding to be considered for an aristocrat's hand?" Victor glanced shyly away. "For your hand?"

Alastor laughed, finally in better spirits now that he had been presented with such easy prey. "Yes, I see you've come up in the world a bit yourself. Still not over your little flight of fancy for me though, hmm? Well, I certainly wouldn't have married you either way, old pal."

Victor's face flushed angrily. "No, you wouldn't have. You're more the type who keeps his lower class friends like a dirty secret and then discards them to save face."

Alastor felt a twinge of guilt at that but hid it well. "It's not my fault you insisted on reaching above your station, my dear."

The other demon composed himself with some effort. "I have a station now myself," he retorted tersely.

"And money, I'm sure, if your gaudy attire is any indication. All of which is merely like gilding brass. Simply scratch the surface and the cheap base material shows through." Alastor smiled meanly at Victor's hurt expression. Yes, this was why they couldn't be friends--why it didn't pay to befriend anyone from the lower class. Alastor had always wondered if Victor liked him or merely wished to be close to someone of his rank. "Regardless you're too late anyway. As I stated earlier, I am spoken for. Though even if I wasn't, I still wouldn't take up with you."

"Fine, fuck you, Alastor. I see you haven't changed at all in your last seven years as a hermit. Still just a prick with an overinflated ego."

Alastor feigned an offended gasp. "You really are a vile and insignificant little man," he replied with a pitying laugh. "Now leave me be. A proper gentleman should know when his presence is undesirable." The aristocrat made a vague shooing gesture to which Victor offered a far more vulgar gesture of his own before storming off back into the manor.

Once his former companion had departed, Alastor slumped back against the balcony railing with a sigh. Where he should have felt satisfied amusement, there was only cloying melancholy. The crickets and the violins no longer offered any solace, but returning to the party would be far worse. In truth, Alastor had been so long out of public that the presence of so many people now unexpectedly grated upon his nerves, and he wished only to return home to sweet sepulchral silence or perhaps the playing of his own hands upon his piano. Alas, like many things Alastor desired, it was not to be. At least sequestered here on the veranda he would not need to endure so many eyes upon his person.

However, Alastor was scarcely left alone for another ten minutes before Rosie came looking for him, heels clicking smartly on the tiled floor. "Alastor! There you are! Honestly now, I had to ask several servants before one knew where you'd gone." She began smoothing out his cravat and jacket, clucking at him like a mother hen.

"I was just taking some air," Alastor said with a sigh, letting her fuss over him. He would never admit it, but the motherly attention was very soothing.

"Avoiding the party, yes, I'm aware," Rosie replied, not fooled in the slightest. "Mr. Smythe has presently arrived though so if you would please come back to the main hall, you may meet him properly."

Alastor's stomached flipped unpleasantly, but he kept his smile affixed to his face. "Oh? Has his highness finally deigned to grace us with his presence?"

Rosie hustled them both back towards the ball as quickly as she could without appearing improper. "Now, Alastor, you've agreed to this matter already. Please try not to immediately offend the poor man."

"Emphasis on 'poor'," Alastor replied caustically, making his aunt sigh in exasperation.

The two aristocrats rejoined the main event, Alastor obligingly offering Rosie his arm again as she led them through the room. There were a number of faces about them that Alastor did not recognize, and he couldn't help but wonder which unfortunate soul he was to be fobbed off to.

They were near the curving, elegant main staircase when Rosie finally appeared to set eyes on the man she was looking for. "Ah, here we are." She turned Alastor around before stepping to the side. Gesturing to the demon coming down the stairs towards them, she said, "Alastor, this is Voxley Smythe."

Victor stopped on the second step from the bottom, smiling down at them. "Just 'Vox' is fine," he said.

Alastor felt his own smile grow painfully tight. Fuck him indeed, apparently.

tbc...

#PrideRingandPrejudice #BapplesOrchardCollabs #RadioStatic #StaticRadio #Alastor/Vox #voxal #Vox/Alastor #my writing