Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Prince of Hell feels invisible.

He feels it more and more with every passing day. It tails him everywhere he goes, not unlike his old man’s shadow. Mostly, he ignores it; he shelves it, in a library of his own design. Walls on walls of imaginary floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in a mental library as labyrinthine as his mother’s own, only with less ancient texts written in Enochian and more troublesome thoughts. The sort that worm into his mind like unexpected, unwelcome visitors, inviting themselves in for hours at a time with no signs of leaving or realizing how they’ve transgressed.

That particular thought can’t seem to stay where he wants it, no matter how aggressively he tries to suppress it. There’s always something, or someone, to remind him of his insignificance.

Sometimes it’s a pat on the head that isn’t meant to feel condescending, but nails it regardless. Other times, it’s an apologetic smile and a ‘not right now’ right before a door is closed in his face—because he’s just barely not old enough to listen in on important affairs.

Standing here, practically begging for his older sister's attention, begging to be heard over the cluster of new residents checking into the hotel or looking for her guidance or both, Clyde feels like he might as well not exist.

Today, his sister Charlie is hard at work as a concierge. Even though the Hazbin Hotel has quadrupled in size since even just Clyde’s birth, the princess is always front-and-center, preferring to shoulder the burden of endless responsibilities rather than offload tasks to even the most willing of her staff members.

Naturally, her attention is divided as Clyde says her name for the third time, hopelessly trying to show her the neatly folded document in his hand. The envelope it was concealed in is a crisp electric blue with a “V” emblazoned on its front, and the contents included a terribly intriguing invitation that would, supposedly, do wonders for Charlie’s venture, their subjects, and the tentative, hard-fought peace between all of the otherworldly realms.

It is, to the prince’s immense shock, addressed personally to him.

But damn it, he wasn’t born yesterday. One of the very first things he can remember being taught is never to take shit from other demons. He knows that the promises made in the letter are almost certainly overblown to try and get his attention. He’s the youngest, most approachable member of the crown, after all. Figures someone would use him as a stepping stone to get to his sister or, if they’re particularly ambitious, his parents.

So he thought he’d ask Charlie what she thought about the whole thing. The name attached to the letter is only one he’s heard mentioned in passing, at least as far as he can recall, but that doesn’t mean much. Compared to his sister, Clyde hasn’t actually been around all that long. What’s a century in Hell, after all? For all he knows, this ‘Vox’ character could be important.

If they are, it doesn’t seem like Charlie’s going to be the one to tell him.

“One moment, please.” The princess smiles politely at the next guest in line. She turns to speak to her brother, but her eyes don’t even grace the young gator’s presence, too focused on the steady trickle of demons through the front doors. Her voice is a hushed whisper, fraying at the edges: “I heard you Clyde, I promise! Just let me get these folks settled, and then we can talk.” Her smile is stretched to its very limits as she addresses the guest again. “Yes! I’m sorry. Okay, and how do you spell that?”

Figures. Figures, figures, figures. Of course she’s busy. Charlie’s success is like a flower that never stops blooming, and never wilts—while Clyde, the always-meddlesome teenager, furrows his pierced brow, his mouth settling into a grim line. He’s been standing here long enough that it’s starting to look like this line is never going to end, at least not anytime soon. And Clyde’s been raised to be a lot of things, but tragically he’s been predisposed such that patience is a virtue he does not have.

“No worries,” he mutters, ducking out of the lobby before this can get any more painful than it is.

Back in the comfort of his bedroom—half swamp, half recording studio, all wonderful—Clyde gives the letter a fourth and a fifth looking-over. A quick web search tells him that the letter’s sender is an Overlord. The address listed is one he’s never been to, but only because it’s inside Pentagram City’s entertainment district, which he’s been expressly forbidden from visiting until he’s old enough to claim his role as royal diplomat. No explanation has ever been offered, obviously, that would be too easy—but he can’t imagine why it would be more dangerous or offputting than any of the other districts. Quite frankly, Cannibaltown is as nice as it gets.

The entertainment district is, in some part, his father’s domain, isn’t it? Even if he has bigger fish to fry these days as prince consort, it’s still where the Radio Demon made his debut. He takes such obvious pride in his work, in his art form—he’s respected his wishes, of course, but Clyde’s never understood why he’s not allowed to see those original stomping grounds.

Shouldn’t he deserve to?

That curiosity needles at him, as does the potential for doing something good, doing right by his family and being worthy of his crown. So while the name at the bottom of the missive belongs to a complete and utter stranger, Clyde dons his best in the hopes of making a good first impression. Clad in the signature lavender he’s been saddled with since birth, he finishes off by seating his royal circlet in his black-and-blond curls, a silver band inlaid with rubies of the bloodiest red. He straightens his wire-framed glasses and tosses a couple slabs of raw meat to the helligators lounging in his bayou, and then he’s off, without so much as a word to anyone.

If there’s any truth to his host’s words, they’ll all thank him later, anyway. It will have been worth the minor sneaking around.

If there isn’t any truth to them, well, Clyde will excuse himself and go home and this little escapade will go entirely unmentioned. No harm, no foul.

Clyde’s destination is a skyscraper whose silhouette has always loomed on the horizon when he’s stood on the hotel’s balcony or lounged in one of the comfy bay windows. He’s never bothered to scrutinize it, until now. Bathed in vivid blue and pink light, Clyde passes through the revolving doors and walks down the stretch of polished tile all the way to the front desk, passing dozens and dozens of sinners whose souls glow brightly, flickering like rainbow lightning bugs. The receptionist manning the desk is a young-looking sinner demon with straight hair pinned neatly at the back of her head. When her eyes flick up to Clyde’s and then back down to her phone, he is struck by her reptilian pupils, feeling an immediate kinship.

The feeling doesn’t seem to be mutual. The sinner’s eyes don’t leave her phone again even as the prince clears his throat. “Good afternoon.” A polite smile. “I think I have an appointment.”

She takes a long moment to respond, and Clyde thinks she may be waiting to see if he’ll go away, if she stays silent for long enough. When he doesn’t, she sighs, and holds out one slender hand tipped in blunt square fingernails so long that Clyde winces reflexively.

“Appointment card,” the receptionist enunciates. Clyde nods and removes the letter from his breast pocket to place in her waiting hand.

The double-take she gives the thing speaks volumes. Evidently, she didn’t expect him to actually have an appointment. She looks it over and then swivels in her chair to pull up a cluttered-looking calendar on her monitor, double-checking the note’s legitimacy.

“It looks like you’re scheduled to be in the executive meeting room in about five minutes, Mr. Morn—” Recognition dawns on her reptilian—possibly amphibian? Interesting—face. Her multi-lidded eyes widen as she takes in the prince’s appearance with a new sort of clarity. He smiles back at her, the very picture of grace.

She leaps to her feet immediately with a slight bow of her head. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, your highness, I didn’t realize—please, this way.”

“No problem,” Clyde replies, following her to the glass doors behind the reception desk. The laminated keycard she slaps hastily against the reader has the word ‘Voxtek’ printed on it. Named for the sender of Clyde’s letter, no doubt.

The prince is led through one of many sterile-looking hallways to a refined conference room, insulated inside a gigantic aquarium. Cybernetic great whites and hammerheads do laps around the oval-shaped room. It’s absolutely beautiful, and he takes a second to marvel.

When he turns around, the receptionist stands ramrod straight in the doorframe. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” she encourages him. Clyde wants to tell her to take her own advice. “Mr. Vox will be here shortly. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? A soda?”

He declines and she does another awkward half-bow before swiftly exiting the room, practically doing double time back down the corridor to her desk—probably to notify her boss of Clyde’s arrival. With that out of the way, Clyde is left alone with his thoughts and the robotic sea creatures. As if magnetized, he drifts toward the warped glass and cranes his neck to watch them float by.

Though they’re very different from him, Clyde likes sharks. He can relate to being big and tough and fast and having mouthfuls of powerful, sharp teeth.

The kind from Envy or Greed, though, he’s not so sure about. At least these ones don’t wield machine guns.

Probably.

The prince is alone for no more than three minutes before the frosted glass doors part, and a sinner steps forth, his head held high. Clyde blinks, freed from his reverie. He’d seen a picture of the man upon searching him up, but in person, his appearance is all the more striking. Unique. Clyde takes in the electronic display in place of a head, the angular cut of his suede tailcoat, and the confidence of his gait as he enters the conference room. He clocks the clever glint in one of those pixelated eyes, but on the whole, the air this sinner projects is welcoming and conspiratorial.

“Your majesty,” he rumbles, a gregarious expression taking shape on his display. It’s the wrong title, but the bow he gives the prince is executed much better, the descent into it smooth and calculated. “I’m so pleased to see you’ve taken me up on my invitation. Please, have a seat!”

“Mr. Vox, I take it?” Clyde raises his eyebrows as he and the demon seat themselves opposite one another on either side of the elongated meeting room table.

The other man grins. “That’s me. One of Pentagram City’s indispensable Overlords, at your service.”

If he’s so indispensable, Clyde has to wonder why he’s never heard of him.

Nevertheless, he responds in kind, “A pleasure. Quite a pleasure. I’m—”

“Prince Clyde Morningstar, of Pride,” Vox fills in. It’s his turn to raise his eyebrows, looking amused. “You need no introductions.”

Clyde blushes. It felt polite, that’s all.

He scrambles to find something to focus on that isn’t his status and lands on, “Your sharks. They’re robotic. Are they programmed to behave like real ones?” He explains the pondering he’d been doing as he waited. “Earth animals are so interesting. I’ve heard that sharks on Earth experience what’s called ‘tonic immobility’; if you touch them on their snouts or flip them upside down, they’re helpless—entranced, even—and can no longer move on their own. Are yours like that, or are they more, hmm, efficient than their flesh and blood counterparts?”

It hits him as he finishes talking that he’s been babbling with no room for interjection, but his audience doesn’t seem to mind. Vox’s flatscreen head had tilted skyward as the prince spoke, joining him in his observation of the animals.

“Fascinating,” he utters. “That being said, I’m not the one responsible for their more complex behaviors. I’ll have to check in with the chief programmer about that. I’ve adored their kind since I was a little lad, but I had no idea they had that response!”

Smiling and satisfied with this answer, the prince relaxes his shoulders. This demon across from him actually cares what knowledge he has to offer. Good, that’s good. The key to first impressions, Clyde knows, is in the name. He has to be impressive. He doesn’t have the mythology backing him that his mother does, and while displays of sheer power worked for his father, Clyde’s approach has to befit that of a diplomat. What he needs is charm. Tact. Older demons love an intelligent, witty young person. Clyde can be that.

Vox looks at the fish for a long moment, before his attention returns to Clyde.

“I hate to make you do this, but would you mind if we switched venues?”

Clyde cocks his head to one side to betray his curiosity, but he shrugs agreeably. “Sure. Fine with me. Where are we headed?”

The Overlord doesn’t wait for permission as he stands, but he does pause so that they can walk side by side. Vox smiles affably, giving his bowtie a faint tug as they exit through the frosted glass doors together. “You’ll see. I think this will be to your liking, your majesty.”

Truth be told, Clyde isn’t a big fan of surprises. And Vox is still using the wrong title. But with his sights firmly set on establishing some rapport, he nods and follows to the executive elevator. With a push of a button, they’re several floors higher, looking down a corridor identical to the last.

“Just a bit further now. You’ll understand when you see it.”

Before long, the doors to their new meeting room open wide, washed in a soft blue glow. It’s vaguely humid, and the smell of sea salt wafts through the open air as they come to stand in front of the open top of the cybernetic sharks’ home aquarium.

Clyde’s eyes sparkle. “Oh!”

He takes a few quick steps forward until he’s but inches from the glass, peering into the water. The crimson scales of his hands shimmer purple underneath the light. “Oh, this tank is amazing. Probably the biggest I’ve ever seen. Most aquariums down here are too small for their occupants. They think their creatures die because of filtration or dietary problems, but most of the time, it’s actually because their tanks are too small for them to thrive in.”

He’s rambling again, but Vox nods along politely. “Yes, I do what I can to give these girls everything they deserve and more,” he says. “They’ve been with me through thick and thin, after all—it’s the least I can do.” His smile turns a touch affectionate as one of the beasts surfaces, searching for a loving caress along its head, which he obliges.

Clyde hums sympathetically. “My parents gave me two helligators for my 30th birthday, and they’ve been with me ever since.”

“Ah. What would we do without animals, hm?” The Overlord retracts his hand from the water to fix the prince with a shrewd look. “The perfect companions. You’ll never hear anything like judgment from them.”

“Too true.” Silence pools between them. Before it can become unbearable, Clyde pipes up with, “Well, you wanted my help or somesuch?”

Vox starts as if slapped, and then he’s in motion, guiding Clyde towards a nearby sitting area. The curved sofa occupying it resembles a wave, undulating onto itself. Clyde can appreciate commitment to theming. Apples, snakes, radios and antlers—motifs have followed him everywhere his entire life. Vox makes himself comfortable, and the Prince of Hell follows suit.

“The matter is not urgent, exactly,” Vox begins, his smile growing sheepish. “You’ll have to forgive me, my prince. I may have engaged in a bit of subterfuge with the goal of finally meeting you face-to-face,” he admits with a soft chuckle. “You haven’t experienced much of this side of the Pride ring, have you? Strange, for an ambassador-to-be…”

That makes Clyde falter. There’s almost insinuation to Vox’s words. He regards him carefully, discomfort prickling at the back of his neck. “No,” he admits. “I’ve been all the way to Lust and Gluttony, but I haven’t spent very long over in this part of the Pentagram.” His shoulders tighten, a smidge defiant. “I was kept out of the public eye for my own safety.”

He’s heard the horror stories about Charlie fending for herself in the years before the king had made a return (and in fact, the district Vox calls home had featured heavily in those tales). While he adores his people and finds each sinner to be uniquely fascinating, the gratitude Clyde feels at not having to grow up under their…scrutiny…can’t be understated.

He wasn’t always as high-functioning as he is now.

Vox seems to have detected the wariness in his tone. “I’m sure your parents have their reasons, my prince. I don’t mean to sound as if I doubt them,” he backpedals, waving in a gesture of non-offense. “Only, given your aspirations, you might find it useful to have a contact here. Likewise,” Vox rests a hand on his own chest, over where a beating heart would be. “I benefit from you having a vested interest in the people of my district.”

Clyde follows the motion of Vox’s hand. There’s no beating heart behind it, but there is, he can see with his unique talent, a soul. A powerful one, at that, sustained by the sinners he claims as an Overlord. It’s as blue as the rest of him, crackling with an electric charge. This is a powerful sinner demon, sitting before Clyde, and he’s gotten to where he is by cannibalizing the power of others; a fact for which Clyde feels no contempt. It’s a fact of life in their realm, and through anecdotes from his own father he knows that the way sinners get by is not always just or kind.

“You want me to believe you care about your thralls?” He leans his temple against his fingertips.

“That’s a harsh word, in my opinion.” Vox clicks his tongue, long and alarmingly prehensile as it flicks against the roof of his mouth. “You enjoy Earth animals; consider what we have a…symbiotic relationship. They lend me strength, and I protect them in return. But yes, I do care for them. They’re my own.”

His tone is infused with warmth. Again, Clyde feels disadvantaged by his lack of knowledge about the man in front of him, and the conditions in his home territory. He has no real options but to take Vox at face value here. Having to sight read the intentions of demons? Sure, that ought to go well.

Naturally, Vox’s description of the supposed symbiosis evokes thoughts of the Overlords with whom Clyde is most familiar: Rosie and his father. As far as he knows, Alastor never interfered or expressed a desire to play an active role in the lives of those in his purview during early days, outside of a favor here, a handshake deal there. The prince’s aunt, though—she’s something special. She molded Cannibaltown into what it is, and though she is undeniably ruthless, her people would be hard-pressed to say she doesn’t care. Is it so unreasonable to think that another Overlord might feel the same way?

Still, he presses further. “Why me? Why not my sister? She’s older, has established trust with so much of Hell. She has an outreach that I don’t. People…listen to her.”

(In ways they do not yet listen to Clyde.)

The Overlord’s hands fold between his thighs. “The princess certainly has made a name for herself in Pride,” he agrees with a nod. “But she’s incredibly busy with her work at the Hazbin Hotel. It seems to me that improving the experience of hellborn, not to mention sinners outside of those walls, for whom redemption may not be in the cards, will fall more into your domain, correct? I’m sure you agree that even those individuals deserve consideration.” When Clyde nods hesitantly, he smiles. “You’re the man I need in my corner, in that case.”

“...That’s not a terrible pitch,” Clyde admits. For a third time, he doesn’t let up. “I could get you an audience with my parents, you know. If that’s what this is really about.”

He’s surprised when Vox laughs, that bright screen tilting as he looks at the boy sidelong. “I’m sure you can be very persuasive, my prince, but I doubt even you can work that kind of magic.”

Clyde’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

The demon blinks, posture straightening, as if finally realizing something. “Oh, you truly don’t know? That’s unfortunate. You should be privy to the political goings-on of your realm, after all,” he tsks. He lifts one hand as he reveals: “Your father and I have a very fractured relationship. Intense creative differences, you see.”

Despite himself, despite the hard-to-get attitude he’s hoping to project, Clyde sits up at that. “Really? And yet I’ve never heard of you before.”

There are many people who count his father among their enemies. Most of them, he’s familiar with. His brow creases, deep in thought. If what Vox says is true—and Clyde can’t imagine what he would gain from lying about that—then there’s no way his father keeping such a feud a secret wouldn’t be intentional. The only question, then, is why?

And was there something more to Alastor’s deep aversion to television screens all along?

The young prince is so wrapped up in his musings that he fails to notice the way his words result in Vox’s claws digging gouges deep into the leather of the sofa.

“Why did you invite me here?” Clyde asks him, genuinely curious. “If I’m the kin of your enemy.”

Vox sighs. His expression becomes solemn.

“Because our duty to our people goes beyond petty squabbles,” he says softly. “Regardless of what your parents might think of me, I do care about the souls in my possession. Through the power they give me, I’m able to protect and provide for them. But I can’t do it without help from friends in higher places.” His entire body shifts to face Clyde directly; bright, animated eyes gaze into him. “What do you say to becoming one of those friends? Will you help me, Clyde?”

Clyde stares back at him, stricken with longing. The mogul can’t even begin to know how deep his need to be useful runs, but he’s appealed to it, almost effortlessly.

This could be it. This could be that first venture into the diplomacy he was raised to be front and center of, and before his parents ever believed he would be ready, even. He’s being presented with an opportunity to prove himself, to be the son his parents deserve. Why in all of the seven rings would he squander that?

But Vox is still a demon. Clyde can’t go making promises quite yet.

“I need to think about it,” is what he says.

With the way a roguish smile spreads across Vox’s screen, you’d think the prince had already agreed to everything and then some.

“Of course, your majesty,” he agrees easily. “Take all the time you need. Why don’t I give you my contact information on your way out? That way, you have easy access to me when you make your decision.”

The prince nods. “That works.” He pauses, before adding, “Oh, and, by the way—I’m not actually ‘your majesty’.” He gives Vox a wry smile. “That honor belongs to my mom and dad. My sister and I are ‘your royal highness’.”

This correction seems to be taken in stride, as Vox laughs boisterously at his own supposed bumbling. “Ha-ha! Duly noted, your royal highness,” he purrs. Clyde scoffs, averting his eyes.

They each take to their feet, their business seemingly having come to an end, for the moment. As Clyde is trying to decide how to excuse himself, however, Vox pipes up again with a question. “Before you go, I was wondering…” His screen swivels in the direction of the open tank before them, his hands folded primly at his stomach. “Would you be interested in feeding them? It’s about that time.”

“You’d let me?” Clyde brightens. “Oh, I’d love to. What do they eat, if they’re mechanical?”

“Come, come. I’ll show you.”

Vox is turned away from him as he’s led to a large chest freezer just next to the railing overlooking the water, a convenient way to conceal the undoubtedly arrogant look that takes hold of his digital visage.

“They can convert almost any substance to fuel,” he explains proudly. He flings open the freezer, gesturing for Clyde to help himself. “But I like to imagine their tastes are similar to that of their real world counterparts.”

Inside the freezer is a veritable bounty of raw meats, shiny and pale. Being what he is, Clyde can’t help the way he wipes at his mouth with the back of one hand, or how his pupils grow ever thinner at the sight. He has the decency to smile apologetically for his behavior as he selects a particularly fatty-looking cut. “Interesting.”

The glass partition between the open water and the rest of the room is low enough for the pair to lean over. Vox joins Clyde at the railing as he tosses the first slab of meat to his darling pets, resting his elbows on the edge.

“My old man said humans once found an entire suit of armor in the stomach of one,” Clyde says to make conversation, reaching for a second piece. “And Greenland sharks will eat just about anything, if it’s slow or stupid enough to be caught by one. I still think they’re beautiful, though, even if they are a little creepy.”

The first offering is quickly shredded to pieces by a bull and a great white. Vox watches with muted interest.

“Speaking of your old man,” he says suddenly, his attention never leaving the aquarium as those razor-sharp teeth rip apart flesh and muscle. “Might be best if we keep this partnership between us for a bit. You know how set in his ways he tends to be.”

The second chunk hits the water with a splash, as Clyde spares Vox a glance, tinged ever so slightly suspicious. He can almost hear the alarm bells sounding. Vox had glossed over his apparent falling out with Clyde’s father like it was nothing, even going so far as to call it a petty squabble. What could possibly have happened between them, that the demon would want absolute discretion?

Many people count Alastor among their enemies, but truth be told, there aren’t many whose sentiments are mutual.

Clyde’s curiosity wins out in the end. Ignoring the chimes ringing faintly in his head, he finally answers, “...All right.”

Vox could still be useful, regardless of whatever strained relationship he shares with Alastor.

He startles as Vox gives his shoulder a firm clap. “Thatta boy,” he says cheerfully. In tandem, a congratulatory ding-ding-ding reverberates through a speaker seemingly trapped somewhere within the sinner’s thin frame, ever so slightly crushed by distortion. “It’ll be that much more impressive once we’ve found our flow and can show him the work we’ve done together. That’ll change his tune, eh?”

The prince grits his teeth, pushing through the unexpected touch at his shoulder. Ironically, it feels like electricity, tingling through his clothes. “Ah-ha…whatever you say, sir.”

Vox wheezes out an embarrassed laugh, conveniently allowing Clyde gracefully to remove himself from his range. “Oh, Christ, don’t do that. Just Vox is fine.”

Adjusting the glasses balanced on his prominent nose, Clyde nods. “Vox. I appreciate that.” A pause. “Well—I guess I ought to be headed home.”

“Of course, your highness. You must have a very busy schedule. Shall I walk you to the lobby?”

Although the demon doesn’t pursue continued contact—something Clyde is wary of, all the way down to the first floor—he maintains a rather close proximity. It seems every inch of his body language has been carefully cultivated to project openness and camaraderie, from the way he leans in to listen to Clyde’s every word, down to the upturned orientation of his palms. It reads as phony, even to Clyde, but he can hardly cast aspersions on someone else for putting on whatever front suits their purposes best. And they’ve only just met.

Vox has him leave his phone number with the secretary, whose name turns out to be Vannessa. She’s downright reverent as she jots down his information. Her boss stands by patiently—he has all the time in the world for this particular guest, it seems.

“Please, do reach out whenever you’ve made your decision,” says Vox. With a snap, he’s materialized a sleek business card. “This is my direct line and personal e-mail. You’re welcome to contact me any time, for any reason.”

He extends it carefully towards Clyde, who accepts it and places it in the inside pocket of his coat. “Thanks.”

“No, no—thank you. It’s been an absolute joy, my prince.” Vox performs another effortless bow. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

With that, Clyde has nowhere to go but home. He gives Vox and Vannessa a nod each, before vanishing in a swirl of purple smoke and fluttering fireflies. Leaving Vox to look at his still-shaken secretary, and grin.

It’s Dad’s turn to cook tonight. That much is evident the very instant Clyde steps into the foyer, finding himself arrested by the fragrant, peppery aromas of Creole cuisine as they waft in from the communal kitchen. Banishing his circlet and coat to his bedroom closet, the boy follows the scent, practically drifting through the air like something out of a cartoon and stopping long enough only to offer Husk and Angel Dust a wave.

Alastor is exactly where Clyde suspects him to be, sans his usual coat and standing over a stewpot the size of his own head, ears included. His hip cocked to one side, he watches the contents as they audibly boil and pop. Even the noises it’s making sound delicious.

“What’s cookin’?” Clyde passes by the sinner to perch himself on the opposite counter, where one of the many radios Alastor has posted around the hotel like little sentinels is crackling out Armstrong’s “Exactly Like You”. As if in response to his arrival, the volume knob twists itself backwards, to allow him to be heard.

“A worthy recreation of your grandmother’s gumbo, if I’ve done it correctly. Mild enough to keep complaints to a minimum.” Alastor sighs. The dash of salt and pepper he sprinkles in seems downright stingy in comparison to the liberal amount of tabasco which assaults the mixture immediately after. The demon picks up a wooden spoon and glances at his son sidelong as he stirs with care. “And where have you been, this afternoon? I’d yet to see you at all.”

There’s not quite an accusation in those words, but it’s a very near thing. “Nowhere crazy. Just, uh. Coffee with Via and a nip over to the guitar store.”

“Mm, yes, did you ever fix that broken string?”

Nope. “Sure did. Just this afternoon.”

This appears to be an acceptable answer. Alastor nods once before his attention is consumed wholly by stirring. All is quiet, save for Louis’ low, faintly staticky crooning.

Which leaves Clyde to think on his exchange with the TV Demon earlier in the day. Staring at Alastor’s back, he debates with himself. How should he ask? Should he ask, in the first place?

There are two potential truths. Either the Overlord is so insignificant that Alastor has neglected to mention him, and Vox was simply overplaying his importance for Clyde’s attention, or…

A cataclysm had occurred between the two, as Vox had said, and it was so hell-shakingly awful that the Radio Demon wouldn’t even speak his name.

Either answer has its own ramifications for the working relationship Vox had proposed. He has to know.

Clyde’s father withholding information from him isn’t new. He has never been able to get a feel for the framework of it, but Clyde has come to understand that in Alastor, there exists some kind of barometer dictating what knowledge is and isn’t appropriate for his son to keep. In service of—Clyde thinks—protecting his own image. His contempt for vulnerability is so strong that because of it, Clyde continues to have startling revelations about his own father to this day. Alastor tells stories, sure, and anecdotes, but by and large, the way they are told is practiced, planned to neatly cut around flashes of what Alastor must consider inconvenient. Shameful, in some way or another.

He hasn’t ever encouraged that shame in his son, but although neither Alastor nor Clyde can see it, it’s dug its roots into him and festered, regardless.

“You’re thinking quite loudly over there,” says Alastor, ears twitching, effectively cutting through the boy’s train of thought like a knife, sharp and precise.

And in a moment of total absurdity, Clyde panics at the idea that his father might have some hitherto undisclosed telepathic superpower.

But his temperament doesn’t change. He just smirks at the look on his son’s face. “Why don’t you do some more of that thinking while you set the table?” Then, as Clyde stands, gathers a bundle of utensils and prepares to leave, the demon shakes his head and points at the modest table in the center of the kitchen. It’s fit to seat maybe six or seven people at most, but Niffty doesn’t take up a lot of space and Clyde prefers to sit on the counter, anyway. “Not the real dining room, dear,” says Alastor. “It’ll be just the staff tonight.”

“Didn’t make enough gumbo for everybody?” Clyde smiles, depositing some of the forks and spoons and knives back into their drawer.

“I’m the facilities manager, not the caterer,” Alastor replies with a sniff. “And Charlie’s prepared that little 'pizza party' for her sinners, anyhow. They won’t go hungry.”

“Hm, that’s right. Quill’s one hundredth day at the hotel.” The prince dutifully lays out napkins and cutlery for everyone on the rickety old table. “Hey, pops, I’ve been here for a hundred years—where’s my pizza party?”

The sinner scoffs. His shadow sets about fetching bowls from the overhead cabinets, passing them one at a time to the chef’s waiting apprentice. “If you don’t mind, Clyde—compose a message on your pocket-sized television, and tell everyone supper is ready.”

Clyde rolls his eyes. “Pocket-sized—? You absolutely know the word ‘cellphone’. I don’t know why you insist on aging yourself like that.” Nevertheless, he sends the requested text to the staff groupchat, to an instant flurry of thumbs-up emojis. “Done.”

“I do appreciate it, dear. As for your other comment—they’re all the same. Televisions, cellphones, tablets, those funny little handheld consoles. All of them, bleeding all of Hell for its capacity to think. ‘Scrambles the brain’, as your mama would say.”

As he talks, the stewpot, nearly overflowing with gumbo spicy enough to tickle the nose hairs, is carefully brought over to the table. Clyde inhales deeply, and his stomach rumbles almost painfully in response. Serves him right for not having a proper lunch. He’d been so preoccupied by his meeting with—

Vox.

Clyde hears movement and voices out in the hall, and he realizes that this might be his last chance of the evening to attempt to probe some answers out of his father, while they’re still alone.

So he improvises.

Not ideal.

“Y’know,” the prince begins. “That reminds me. Do you know a man—a sinner—named Vox, by any chance?”

There’s a second where Clyde is almost unsure if his question has even been heard. Alastor suddenly goes very still, his clawed fingers still curled around the rungs of the stewpot. Slowly, he withdraws, rising to his full height and meeting the young prince’s gaze evenly.

“Now where did you hear that name?”

The question is asked with no particular inflection. Alastor wears about as close to a blank expression as he is capable of, leaving Clyde unsure of how to continue without a preexisting social script. Then again, maybe there isn’t one, for dancing around a subject matter as he’s attempting to do now. He just has to wing it.

Great.

“Oh, just on the TV at the coffee shop. Interviewing Verosika.” Pinned under Alastor’s gaze, Clyde finds that his hands are suddenly very interesting to look at. “I saw that he’s an Overlord in Pride. Wondered if you knew each other. Or maybe if Auntie knows him. He seemed—”

Alastor’s voice is clipped. “He seemed what, boy?”

His opinion of the man is becoming less ambiguous by the moment. Corroborating the tantalizing snippet of information Vox had fed him.

“I don’t know.” Clyde’s shoulders hunch, slightly, before he forces himself to straighten out. “Just…like the kind of person you’d know, being an Overlord too, and all.”

“I see.” His voice is stripped of its filter. He doesn’t move a single inch. Completely stationary, Alastor says, “Overlords are dangerous creatures, mon petit. You needn’t concern yourself with their politics. You’re still a boy.”

Clyde flusters, indignant at the idea. “But I won’t always be! Not for much longer!” He exclaims. “You’re an Overlord, Dad—”

“—And, lest you have forgotten, I am a sinner.” He spreads his arms, his voice increasing in volume. “There are those who are receptive to your sister’s curriculum and capable of change but make no mistake, they are down here for a reason, Clyde. We don’t fall into the pit as Overlords—we become them. Every contracted soul, every usurping of a territory, it’s deliberate. Those are demons completely at peace with their vices. They are closer to unruly children than allies. They have no one’s interests in mind but their own, do you understand me?”

Green flames lick at his irises as his stare bores into the prince. Looking back at him, the slightest pinch between his brows, Clyde’s chest rises and falls just a bit too fast for his own liking.

Before he can stop his lips from forming the words, he asks: “What did he even do to you?”

It’s the wrong question to ask.

The Edison bulbs in the kitchen fixtures flicker uneasily, as a darkness spills forth from the sinner’s slender body. “These questions stop now,” Alastor hisses, his silhouette scowling He warps and twists, calling out to the part of Clyde’s nature that wants to raise its hackles and snarl back. “He is no one of any significance. A nobody. As far as you are concerned, he does not exist. You keep yourself out of Overlord endeavors and I do not ever want to hear you say that name under this roof again. Are—we—clear?”

Clyde swallows, willing his voice to come out even. “Yes.”

No one of any significance. Yeah, all right.

“Good.” The shadows withdraw, writhing tentacles disappearing from sight. Alastor straightens his necktie, composing himself just as Angel and Husk enter the kitchen.

“Smells good, Smiles,” the former chirps, oblivious to what just occurred. “What’cha got for us today?”

The prince gratefully takes the opportunity to fall silent, and he stays that way for the rest of mealtime, even as he feels the heated weight of the Radio Demon’s eyes on him, watching intently. Clyde refuses to follow the compulsion to look up, watching the contents of his bowl spin as he stirs in mindless circles.

If he had any doubts about meeting with Vox again, they’re gone now. He can’t not go back. He has too many questions, and his yearning to prove his father wrong has only grown stronger thanks to his outburst. He’s not a boy.

And what would one more meeting hurt, really?

Chapter Text

“Your highness!”

Vox’s voice booms down the hall as he at last emerges from the conference room, finally free from the meeting Vanessa had told Clyde he was wrapped up in.

(“You could come back another time,” she suggested. The prince thought of the tense silence he’d endured during breakfast at the hotel—a repeat of the same nightmare he’s been subjected to for the last three days—and opted to wait it out instead.)

“Hi, Vox.” Once again decorated by his crown and royal garb, Clyde stands with his back straight, looking every bit the demon prince he is. Removing his headphones to drape them around his neck, he offers the demon a small smile and lets him approach. “Doing well?”

“Never better. I’m honored to have you back at the tower.” The Overlord goes through the formalities, once again bending at the waist in a graceful bow, but then he’s swept Clyde into a companionable stroll, a friendly hand at the prince’s back as he maneuvers them towards the executive elevator. “I thought we could conduct our business in the aquarium again, if you’re amenable? Truth be told, I don’t have much free time. I’ll use any excuse to lounge about in there, however flimsy!”

This time, Clyde allows the physical touch with only the slightest bit of a flinch. If they’re going to be working together, he might as well return that congenial attitude. “Y—Yeah, of course. Y’know, I’m relieved you saw my message…I thought maybe it would get drowned out by more important matters.” He laughs, before giving a clearing of his throat.

“More important than entertaining a Morningstar? Oh, I don’t think so.” Vox ushers him into the elevator, the mechanisms around them clicking and whirring as they’re once again launched several floors higher.

Vox’s aquatic beauties take to the surface as they enter the room, greeting both their master and his guest. As Clyde strays closer, the biggest of the bunch, a great white, glides her body along the glass edge of the tank in the ghost of an affectionate touch.

“I think they like you!” Vox calls from where he’s settling in on the couch.

“Really? What a coincidence. I like you, too, beautiful,” Clyde coos, pretending to boop the shark’s snout through the glass. Her tail smacks loudly against the surface of the water, making him giggle with unabashed delight.

As much as he’d like to sit in front of the tank all day, he forces himself to join Vox under the blue light. The Overlord is less business this time around and more casual comfortability, an arm thrown over the back of the sofa as he slouches against the plush cushions with a contented sigh. He's dressed much the same way he had been when they first met, down to the tailcoat he now shucks off to drape carelessly over the furniture.

“Apologies if I’m a poor host in this moment. I need a fishbowl of scotch and a month of physical therapy just for this past week alone,” he declares in a dry voice.

Clyde chuckles at the idea of a literal fishbowl of liquor and sits down, several cushions away. “Aren’t you some kind of a cyborg, though? I mean, maybe this is rude, but I would have assumed you wouldn’t be susceptible to that kind of wear and tear.”

There’s a slight vrr as Vox’s head cocks to look at him. “Cyborg, not a robot. I’m not completely inorganic,” he corrects, smirking. “I was a human once.”

“How much of you is still—um—organic?”

“Some of my vital organs. I still retain my digestive tract”—Clyde finds himself both morbidly fascinated and completely assured that he does not want to know—“although my liver is no longer with us, praise be.”

“It would have to be, for a fishbowl of hard liquor.”

“That’s what you think, maybe. Hm. My bones are still mine, albeit reinforced with metals.” Vox stares into space for a moment, as if considering anything he’s missed. “I don’t have any need for an organic brain anymore. When I was inhabiting an older model, there was space, but now? Absolutely not. I had my consciousness uploaded when I upgraded to this.”

“So not all of you was the way it is now,” Clyde divines.

“Oh, no. I’ve done plenty of work since my death. Gone through many phases. When the tech changes, so do I.”

“And your mouth…works like a real one?” The prince asks, half-amazed, half-perturbed. “I mean, it actually connects to the rest of you?”

If Vox is offended by the series of personal questions regarding his anatomy, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he looks amused. “That it does. See?” Those rows of sharklike teeth part, allowing the demon’s tongue to pass through. It’s a remarkably normal tongue, apart from the fact that it is a bright, impossible shade of blue.

Clyde is staring shamelessly, his mind unable to wrap around the sight of a tongue coming directly through a flatscreen. “Wow. So, you have a mouth…guts…a nose?”

“I have programmed odor receptors. It’s part of the whole ‘digital consciousness’ shebang. But yes. Mouth, guts…all of the other usual requisites.” He grins. It carries the cadence of a joke, but Clyde’s brow just scrunches in confusion. No explanation seems to be forthcoming, though, as he just continues, “And if you think about it, what is a spine if not a kind of fiber optic cable?” Vox shrugs.

“I…” Clyde blinks slowly, his braincells now dedicated to trying to digest that little morsel. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

The Overlord snorts good-naturedly. “Well then, that brings us to the good stuff, doesn’t it? Tell me, have you made your decision regarding my proposal about improving Pride?”

Hasn’t he. As if it hasn’t been all he’s been able to think about since their first meeting.

(What was he supposed to do after such a strong reaction from his father? Not investigate? Honestly, Alastor should have known it would backfire. Yes, he’s come here in service of helping the mogul accomplish something, but on a deeper level, even Clyde is aware that it’s not the only reason.)

“Ha. Yeah, sure.” He adjusts the glasses on his nose just to have a moment to stall. “I…think we could make something work.”

There. Open-ended, not conceding too much power over the situation, or too little, and not giving away any of what he’d discussed with his father the other day.

“Provided,” he goes on to add. “That I can withdraw at any time, for any reason, if I want to.”

He’s not an idiot.

If Clyde didn’t know any better, he’d say that the look which washes over Vox’s face resembles something like relief. His jagged smile broadens. “Obviously!” He agrees. “What do you take me for? It’ll be entirely on your terms, your highness.” He sits up, hands splayed on his thighs. “Why don’t I start by providing you with some information about my district? If we’re going to make the entertainment district better and brighter, it would do you well to get an idea of the bigger picture. We do a lot of market research on the needs of the locals. Is that something that might interest you?”

“Yes!” Clyde perks up, thrilled at the idea. “That sounds just fine.”

“Perfect. Be right back, I just have to run up to my place to get a few things.”

There’s a jarring zzzzt! noise as Vox transforms into nothing but sizzling-hot electricity, warping into one of the overhead security cameras like KeeKee wriggling through a particularly tight squeeze. It leaves Clyde staring at the malfunctioning camera, baffled.

So. He can do…that. Now he knows.

Now alone, Clyde turns his head to watch the rippling water in the shark tank, or catch the occasional glimpse of a fin cresting above the surface. They seem like wonderfully peaceful creatures, and why wouldn’t they be? They’re spoiled rotten—Clyde’s seen the contents of their chum freezer for himself.

It does make him sad for them, though, that they’re confined to a tank. Even if it is a large one by most standards, even if the clever usage of lights and screens give the visual effect of a neverending deep blue sea, their world is still so small. At least Clyde’s gators have a pocket dimension to explore. They could trudge and lumber for days and never find the end of that bayou.

Not that they’re inclined to. Clyde is where the free food and affection is, so that’s where they’ll be.

The sensation of his phone buzzing in his trouser pocket pulls him out of his trancelike shark-watching state. He fishes it out, checking the first notification at the top of a long list of unread updates and posts on Sinstagram.

(He’s never been very good at staying online.)

The new text reads:

Mama 🐍🍎: Are you home?

His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment. The prince takes his bottom lip between his teeth, scraping against the labret piercing under it.

He considers his best excuses.

Considers the merits of not responding at all, and then facing the distress he’s sure to be confronted with when he returns to the hotel head-on, with the copout that he just never checked his phone, Mom.

His notifications were off.

His phone was off.

He saw the message, he just forgot to type out a response.

He did type out a response, he just forgot to hit send.

Clyde puts his phone on ‘do not disturb’, and promptly shoves it back in his pocket.

It’ll be fine. Lucifer and Alastor are all wrapped up in their elaborate dealings with the Heavenly Host. Between their continuous, agonizing, year-long struggle to codify the snuffing out of rogue legions of exorcists hoping to dole out vigilante justice, and the juggling of the domestic politics of the seven rings on top of it all, he won’t have time to worry. Ideally, it won’t even be that long before Lucifer forgets all about that text, and later on Clyde can slip back into the goings-on of the hotel totally unnoticed.

Clyde spends a very long few seconds attempting to quell the mounting guilt, and the nausea that seems to be coming on as a result, before the doors to the aquarium room slide open.

It’s not Vox, but a new voice. He turns to look.

“Vox?! Vox?” The new sinner squawks into the room. “Dónde está este—Why the fuck aren’t you responding to my texts?”

This sinner is one of the taller individuals Clyde’s encountered in Pride, coming in at something like two heads taller than Alastor, and that’s not including the bright pink stovepipe hat sitting on his head. When he sweeps into the aquarium, the long, luxurious robe he’s wearing billows out behind him like an elegant train on the end of a gown. It’s…a lot, visually, but it also works, in a weird way?

His soul, like Vox’s, glows fiercely with an energy that suggests a fount of contracts in his keeping.

The odd man and his elaborate costume continue to be a puzzle for Clyde’s eyes right up until the demon notices him.

“Oh, what have we here?” The demon drawls, voice thick with an earthly accent. Clyde has all of two seconds to brace himself before he’s face to face with bright round eyes, leering at him from behind huge sunglasses. “Now this is quite the treat. I don’t suppose you’ve seen my associate—” He grins. “—your highness?”

His posture rigid, Clyde pushes himself back against the cushions, attempting to squirm away from the proximity. “Er. He said he’d be right back.”

“I see. Well, I suppose now I know what’s been keeping him occupied, don’t I?” If Clyde’s discomfort is noticed, it’s not acknowledged in any way. Making no move to withdraw, the strange man scrutinizes Clyde’s face and clothes from up close. “You know, for a member of your family, you stand out rather a lot. Your style, your aesthetic…you’re very unique, hm?”

“You’re very close,” the prince bites out.

The demon flaps a hand dismissively, continuing on, “Not that there’s anything wrong with your familia, it’s just—a lot of blondes, you know? They do say ‘blondes have more fun’, but let’s be honest: they’re a dime a dozen!” That Clyde still very much has blond mixed in with his darker locks seems to be irrelevant, a fact which he has no time to bring up before a huge black-gloved hand wraps around his face, effectively wiping his thoughts and replacing them with white-hot panic and disgust. “And these piercings! Oh, you are un pícaríto, aren’t you? A little rebel.”

“Please stop touching me,” Clyde hisses, hackles raising, scales rippling, a throaty rumble trapped in his throat.

His blood comes to a boil when his request only results in the strange demon laughing uproariously. “Hoho—Please don’t think I mean you any harm, mi princípe, it is never my intention to offend—”

“His highness made a demand, Val. You should listen.”

Thank Satan.

Vox is still in the process of materializing as both the prince and the demon’s heads whip to look at him. He has a manila folder tucked under his arm and a stern expression on his face. “You’re interrupting my meeting,” he says crisply.

“I wouldn’t need to if you fucking responded to me, amor,” snarks the demon—Val—lurching into confrontation with impressive speed. Even the endearment sounds more like a belittling insult on his tongue. His abrupt change in mood is startling, but thankfully, his attention being wrangled by Vox means he stands up, stepping clear of Clyde’s personal bubble. “My work is being jeopardized because you can’t get back to Velvette, and that bitch won’t stop whining and get out of my goddamned studio so I can do my job!”

“Fuck’s sake—work it out on your own, Val. You’re a big boy.” Apparently unbothered, the Overlord approaches the two, craning his neck to look up into the mothman’s face. “I’ve got things to do besides babysit.”

“Do you?” Val sneers, extending a long, crooked finger in Clyde’s direction.

The prince’s jaw sets, his eyes dropping to burn holes into the carpet. Vox’s eyes flicker to him and then back to the other sinner.

“Val. Seriously. Can we do this later?” He asks in a voice that brooks no argument. “Please.”

Spluttering, his associate swells up with rage, the voluminous fluff around his neck flaring. Clyde and Vox watch in silence as he storms off, muttering colorful insults as he stalks out of the aquarium and down the hall. Distantly, the demon can be heard shouting at some unfortunate Voxtek employee before he’s faded completely from earshot.

Only then does Vox return his attention to the prince, smiling wanly. “Please excuse Valentino. He’s been known to be a little much.”

Valentino. Why is that name so familiar?

“I can definitely see that.” Clyde doesn’t bother concealing his agitation, nor does he acknowledge the feeble attempt at an apology. “He’s a coworker of yours? Business partner?”

“A fellow Overlord.” Notably not faulting him for his irritation, Vox nods as Clyde raises his eyebrows. “The three of us—that’s me, Val, and Velvette, whom you’ve yet to meet—oversee the entertainment district as a trio, given our high number of constituents.”

“Huh.” The boy revisits their conversation and says, dubiously, “And, uh—‘amor’?”

Vox chuckles. He finally sits back down next to Clyde, setting the manila folder on his lap. “We’re…on and off. When you’re the only people who can understand the other’s circumstances, their struggles…It was bound to happen.”

Naturally, Clyde isn’t fazed in the least by the concept of two men together. It’s the sharp contrast between the two that puzzles him. Vox is amiable, quick-witted, a consummate host. What common ground was there to find between him and the rude, audacious firecracker Clyde just met?

“We don’t all work in journalism or tech, obviously,” Vox pipes up, as though that’s what stood out in his description of their work environment. “Velvette’s got her own pursuits in the fashion world and Valentino—ahem. His area of expertise is, ah, directing films of an explicit nature.”

Suddenly, it clicks. Clyde knows exactly where he’s heard the other Overlord’s name before: said over and over again as Angel held his head with one set of hands and cradled a hot beverage in the other, all while slumped half-alive at the bar or the kitchen table after a long day’s work.

Valentino had certainly done nothing to give Clyde a good first impression; all this realization does is further sour the boy’s opinion of his new acquaintance’s companion.

From the look on his face, Vox knows it, too.

“His methods when it comes to creating his art are…controversial,” he says quietly. “I don’t pretend to approve of them.”

Clyde looks at him critically. “You don’t interfere, either.”

“No.” To his credit, Vox doesn’t look away. “I don’t. It’s a delicate equilibrium, what we have here. Shattering it would mean shattering my business, then my authority, and from there, my reputation—”

“Which is the only thing that matters in Hell,” sighs the prince. “I know.”

Vox nods. They lapse into silence as Clyde stews in both his irritation for Valentino’s audacity and his contempt for his treatment of his contractees, and by extension a kind of disdain for Vox for being willing to work with him while knowing what’s happening only a few floors above him.

But can he really fault a sinner for committing sins? He doesn’t expect them to be above owning and exchanging souls like currency; why should he expect them to be above complacency?

Alastor’s words come back to him. There are those who are receptive to your sister’s curriculum and capable of change but make no mistake, they are down here for a reason, Clyde.

Those are demons completely at peace with their vices.

If the worst thing about his new partnership is the Overlord’s tendency to look away from uncomfortable truths, well. Clyde could look past that, couldn’t he?

If that feels a little too dangerously close to betraying Angel Dust…

It’s just another spot of guilt to rub out.

Vox starts, “If I’ve offended you in some way—”

“No,” Clyde blurts, cutting off his groveling before it can begin. “It’s fine. We’re in Hell, after all. Just—show me those reports.”

He obeys without protest, withdrawing the contents of the manila folder for the two of them to pore over together. Vox wasn’t lying: it’s a lot of data, some of it printed so small Clyde has to squint even with his glasses on. It lists everything from percentages of vehicular incidents and burglaries to estimates of monthly casualties and their most common causes.

With as close as he is to the problem, it doesn’t surprise Clyde to see that exorcist angels have made the list, nor that the resulting deaths tend to number in the double and triple digits.

“It seems they’re attacking indiscriminately, once or twice a month, from what I can tell,” Vox remarks. “It’s not just sinners anymore, it’s—”

“Hellborn, too,” Clyde mutters, staring at the figures. “On purpose. As a big ‘fuck you’ to the original agreement.”

“But why?” The Overlord scoffs. “What would Heaven get out of purposefully antagonizing the king?”

It’s said with genuine incredulity. The prince blinks. “...Nothing, obviously,” he says slowly. “It’s not an official order. It’s just a bunch of rebels taking things into their own hands now that the Seraphim agreed to outlaw the exterminations.” He looks sidelong at Vox, taking in his expression. “You didn’t know that?”

“Does anyone?” counters Vox.

“Well, everyone at the hotel…does…” Clyde swallows. “Oh.”

Vox smacks a palm to his own screen, barking out a laugh. “They’re culling people—your people—indiscriminately, on practically a regular basis, against the decree of Heaven, and no one even gets to know why? No public announcement, no nothing?”

In a blind scramble to defend his parents’ choices, Clyde rushes out, “I’m sure it’s just to prevent panic.”

Vox raises his eyebrows. “Because mass murders are what keep the people calm?”

Clyde winces. He can’t refute that.

“I mean, this is huge. The people have to know! Do you even know how much engagement—I have to send this to Katie.” Scoffing in disbelief, Vox shakes his head, and goes to pull out his phone.

“No!” The prince lunges forward, grabbing the sinner’s wrist with enough force to crack the delicate bones were they not cased in metal, causing Vox to startle. “You can’t. If—if you don’t want my father to know I’m here, you can’t. If they see that make the news, they…there’s a chance they could connect the dots.”

But don’t your people deserve to know why they’re being picked off? A voice nags him. Fifteen months of illegal exorcisms, and no one’s known why this whole time?

No one but you and your family?

Clyde grits his teeth. He can talk to his parents, he can figure out what their reasoning is. Just so long as it isn’t filtered through Vox. That’s the only thing.

The Overlord looks down at where claws are still digging into him, and then up at Clyde’s face, his expression grim and contemplative as he visibly weighs his options.

“If you want us to work together,” Clyde stresses. “You can’t.”

A few tense moments pass as the sinner is made to choose: devastating headlines, or the good graces of the prince.

“...You’re really twisting my arm here, kid,” sighs Vox, finally. “All right, you’ve made your point. It won’t make the news. Yet.”

Appeased, Clyde lets go of his arm, drawing his hand back into his lap. “We can still keep people safe. Just…quietly. From the sidelines.”

“Not my usual style, but I suppose I was the one to emphasize discretion,” the demon drawls. His pointer finger moves down the document to trace around other bullets. “Oh, well. But let’s start with something more manageable, hm? Minor issues first, angels later.”

Grateful to talk about something other than his parents, this new revelation, and his own sneaking around, Clyde agrees easily.

The ‘minor issues’ they choose to tackle first are related to anything from traffic to infrastructure, the latter being something of a long-standing problem, according to Vox. As entertainment in the overworld grew, Vox explains, and more human souls found themselves in the pit, the space for progress in the entertainment district became less and less available, leading to what the Overlord calls ‘the Manhattan approach’.

“Everything in our district is built on top of itself,” he says. “You can see it, if you know what to look for. When something new comes along, the old thing’s not demolished—why waste a perfectly good foundation? At least, that’s the idea. But the entire district is just layers and layers stacked on top of each other, like building blocks, with a foundation of nothing but debris and soot. That’s why I liken it to Manhattan.”

“The Valley of Ashes,” hums Clyde.

Vox laughs. “A Fitzgerald fan, huh? You would be.”

Clyde gives him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, no, don’t be offended. It’s not a bad thing.” Vox waves him off. “My point is, it’s not structurally sound, and it hasn’t been for a while.”

“So you want to…what, knock it all down?” Clyde makes a face.

“No, of course not. People like it all too much, they’d riot. I want to use the same methods I utilized with my own skeleton. Take the old thing, and give it the kind of support it needs to reliably stand up.”

“That sounds—” Clyde pauses. “Expensive?”

“Of course, but it would be less expensive than rebuilding everything from the ground up.” Vox shrugs.

“Sure…” Clyde tucks his legs up underneath him. “So, what would you ‘support’ first?”

“Good question. Why don’t I—ah, here, let me just—” Vox performs a swooping gesture with one hand, causing a blue-tinted hologram with the same dimensions as his own face to beam into the space before them. “This is a map of the district.”

“Neat.” Clyde leans in, studying with wide eyes. He wasn’t kidding: the streets look as winding and confusing as they’d felt to walk down, and the buildings give the impression of being cobbled together in a way that isn’t visible from the sidewalk. “Fun trick, too.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Vox zooms in on the image with two fingers, first indicating the V Tower on the map. He taps on the illusory screen. “Here we are right now. Up this way is the red light part of town. Obviously, that’s at the top of Valentino’s list of priorities. The opposite direction is more my speed. Cinemas, studios, tech stores, the like.” He scrolls out a bit farther, revealing more of the district, which is far bigger than Clyde realized. “Out here are concert venues, recording studios, record labels—”

“That!” blurts Clyde, making Vox jump. Again. “Are you kidding? I—I didn’t even know we had all this stuff in Pentagram City. I’ve been to concerts before, obviously, but…oh, wow.” Mimicking Vox’s gesture, he zooms in on the part of the district most affiliated with audio.

With one eyebrow cocked, Vox guesses, “You’re a musician?”

“Yes!” The prince chirps excitedly, before growing sheepish. “Or, I’d like to be. I play a few instruments, write music when I can…”

“What do you play?”

“Uh, let’s see—bass guitar, piano, saxophone, electric guitar, acoustic guitar sometimes, violin, drums, keyboard, trumpet, a little cello but I’m not actually very good, um, of course I sing too—”

“A few instruments,” Vox repeats, laughter in his voice.

“Pff—yeah.” Suddenly feeling very flustered, the boy hunches his shoulders. “I’d like to make music professionally one day, even if it wouldn’t be my real job.”

“Mm.” The Overlord smiles gently, his gaze returning to the hologram. “You know, these studios are some of the best Hell has to offer…and that record label right there?” Another tap tap tap. “I own it. We could stop by for a tour sometime. It’s been a while since I’ve paid them a visit.”

“You’re lying!” Clyde gapes. “Obviously I want to—I mean, that would be great!”

Talk about friends in higher places. All of a sudden, it feels like Clyde is the one getting the most out of this arrangement.

“You know, I’m having a hard time seeing what I’m providing here.” He huffs a laugh. “Couldn’t you have just done this on your own?”

“Ah-ah-ah.” Vox wags a finger at him, a mischievous smirk on his face. “Not so fast. You don’t really think Overlords can just renovate their territory on a whim, do you?”

“Um, well—”

“We still answer to someone. That ‘someone’ being the crown.” The demon’s finger comes to point at Clyde, prodding him in the chest. “Not just anyone can form the real, legitimate Morningstar sigil, and that’s what I need to make shit happen.”

“You need me to sign things, is what you’re saying,” Clyde says dryly.

“Just so.” Vox returns his wry look. “I don’t have any of it quite yet, I wanted to get your input first, but by the next time we meet, I’ll have it all drafted up for us to go through together.” He claps a hand over Clyde’s shoulder. “We’ll be able to make a real difference, you and me.”

“All right.” Clyde smiles back at him, only slightly hesitant. “I’m in.”

A celebratory jingle filters through the demon’s speakers, as though Clyde has just answered a trivia question correctly. “Fantastic! In the meantime, why don’t you tell me more about this music you said you’re writing? Oh, don’t look at me like that, I’m pretty up to speed…”

Before Clyde knows it, he’s nearly late for dinner.

Vox is perfectly understanding of his circumstances as he hastily scrambles to get his things together. The sinner sends him off with another one of those cordial pats on the back and a reminder that he’s welcome back anytime.

“I’ll be in touch once I’ve got everything sorted on my end,” he says. “Then maybe we can see about that tour, eh?”

Good deal.

The prince warps home with a frankly impressive amount of time to spare, given how close he’s cutting it. His regalia vanishes from his body on the front porch and then he’s strolling into the lobby looking as casual as if he’d only been going sightseeing. For good measure, his headphones are placed over his ears.

That is, until they’re yanked right off his head from behind.

“Agh! Mom!” He whirls around to find the king hovering above him, all six wings working together to create a gentle breeze. Clyde’s headphones dangle from his blackened fingers as he lowers himself to the ground, a hardened look on his face. The prince yelps, “What’s your problem?!”

Lucifer ignores him. “Interesting that you have these on you, because I would imagine you would need your phone for them to work. Which, you know, is funny, because you’ve been practically missing since breakfast!”

Clyde takes a step back to avoid the fire spewing from between the demon king’s lips. The man’s horns have even begun to sprout from his forehead, his eyes gone inverted with fury.

This close, Clyde can’t ignore the dried tracks running down both of his cheeks.

It’s entirely possible that he underestimated the reaction ghosting his mother would earn him.

He stammers, “M-My phone was off, Mama—”

“For what?!” Lucifer seethes. He advances, and Clyde retreats, and so on and so forth until they’re standing in the middle of the foyer like two actors in a staged performance. “What reason could you possibly have had for turning your phone off while there are demons and hellborn being exorcised more and more every month? No one could get a hold of you! You weren’t in your room—I couldn’t even sense you—it was like I reached for you and you were just—gone—”

His voice breaks. His rage is quickly metamorphosing into sadness and tears, which is, Clyde knows, infinitely worse. None of his excuses feel all that convincing anymore. His own heart pounding with panic, the only thing he can think to do is wrap his arms around the smaller man, feeling him latch on to his upper arms as though Clyde could slip through his fingers in an instant.

“I’m sorry, Mama, I—I went out the other day and Dad didn’t seem worried, so I just..”

Lucifer sniffs wetly. “Where were you, Clyde?”

Clyde finds himself at a loss for words. “I…I was just…out.”

“For how many hours?” whispers the king. “Why? Why not a call? Not even a text?”

“I wanted to be alone, Mom,” he replies. “I didn’t think anybody would notice.”

Lucifer pulls back sharply, that anger returning with a vengeance. “You didn’t think—?!”

Vaggie’s voice rings out into the halls from the kitchen, cutting him off. “Dinner’s ready!”

A shudder wracks Lucifer’s body. He takes a deep breath before putting some space between himself and the prince. What Clyde can only describe as a dark cloud passes over his face, his brow furrowed and his mouth set into a firm, taut line.

“I don’t know where you were or what you were doing or why you won’t tell me,” he says quietly. “But I don’t care for it. And I can tell you right now, your father won’t be nearly as kind if this happens again.”

“I know,” mumbles Clyde, because he does.

“Please don’t scare me like that again,” Lucifer whispers, before turning and walking towards the kitchen.

Dinner is yet again an uncomfortable affair, but only for the royal family, it seems. Between Charlie’s desperate attempts to include them all in conversation and Alastor and Lucifer’s failed attempts to appear as anything other than weary and irritable, Clyde would truly rather be anywhere than at the table.

Especially as it becomes Angel’s turn to recount the events of his work day.

“Any idea what set him off this time?” Husk asks around a mouthful of leftover pizza.

“No!” Angel says, exhausted exasperation coming off of him in waves. “I could not fuckin’ tell you what his problem was today, but I’m tellin’ you, everybody got a piece of it. Even the camera crew. Actually, especially the camera crew. It was like filmin’ with a bomb in the room.”

“Ain’t it always?”

“Sure, but you can tell when Val’s got somethin’ specific on the brain. Today? You could tell.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Angel,” Charlie sighs, reaching out to squeeze her friend’s hand.

“Hey, whatever, at least I came out unscathed for once. It’s the poor bastard whose eye caught the wrong end of a tripod that needs an apology. Doubt he’ll get one, though.”

Clyde quietly excuses himself before dessert.

It’s only as he’s finally collapsing into his bed that he dares look at his phone. Just as he suspected, he’s met with a flood of messages the very instant he swipes up—

Mama 🐍🍎: Hello?

Mama 🐍🍎: Clyde, are you home?

Mama 🐍🍎: Clyde?

Mama 🐍🍎: Clyde, I seriously need you to reply to me, please.

Mama 🐍🍎: I’m serious.

Dad 🦌📻: Respond to your mother.

Angel 🪩: hey can you call your fuckin parents before they go nuclear on my ass

Angel 🪩: clyyyyyyyyyyyyyyde

—coupled with seven missed calls and multiple voicemails that he doesn’t dare listen to.

Then, at the top:

Maybe: Vox: Hey.

Maybe: Vox: Good work today, team.

Chapter Text

Vox 📺🦈 : Phew. Paperwork for the remodels all turned in to the contractors. Now we wait. 

Vox 📺🦈 : Thanks for sitting through all of that, I know it wasn’t particularly riveting.

You: it was fun!

Vox 📺🦈 : Don’t lie to me now, I saw you falling asleep.

You: nope

You: you have no proof

Vox 📺🦈 : Ooh. Point. I’ll take really unflattering pictures next time. How’s that sound?

You: fuck offfffff

Clyde smiles at his phone, leaving it on the duvet as he rolls out of bed. On his porch, his twin helligators are lazing about on the cool wooden planks and grumbling, trying to get his attention. He’s missed feeding time by no more than five minutes, and they aren’t hesitating to let him know it.

“I hear you, I hear you. Spoiled little ladies,” he chastises them. They continue to stare daggers at him up until he serves them their meal for the next couple days, tossing them large chunks of raw meat that they joyfully tear into.

“You just go up to Earth, huh? Ask the gators up there if they get their poultry fed to them by hand,” he mutters, even as he reaches out to scritch affectionately between Abracadabra’s eyes. That’s enough for Alakazam to decide it’s her turn. Clyde laughs and shakes his head as she tries to clamber into his lap—all 200 pounds of her. “Stop, stop. You’re too big for that now.”

Evidently, she disagrees, reluctantly shifting off of him with an irritated grunt.

Back on the bed, Clyde’s phone vibrates. He reaches out to grab it, not eager to move away from his dear pets. As Abra and Zam finish their meals and lick sinew from their jagged teeth, he reads Vox’s latest message, his legs tucked up under him. 

Vox 📺🦈: Come now, is that any way to talk to your Uncle Vox?

Clyde’s face reflexively screws up, something about the self-appointed title making him recoil. Gross.

You: ew

You: you are NOT an uncle to me 💀

This time, he doesn’t have to wait nearly as long for a reply. Those three little dots appear almost immediately and—

Vox 📺🦈: No? Well, what are we, your highness? :)

The question handily catches Clyde off guard, and he doesn’t even know why. It’s just a simple question. Just Vox volleying Clyde’s attitude back at him, as he’s proven he can, in the handful of times they’ve met up. It’s just banter. A back-and-forth. Clyde sets it, Vox spikes it. It’s friendly. It’s companionable.

It’s a perfectly innocent question.

It makes his cheeks heat and his stomach twist.

He’s reading too much into it. Tone gets lost in translation over text, that’s all. Clyde knows that better than most. Vox literally ascribed himself a paternal-adjacent nickname not two minutes ago—there’s nothing at all unsavory about that last message, only Clyde’s own train of thought.

Still, it feels too dismissive, too impersonal , to call their relationship a professional one, if not outright wrong. The prince doesn’t have any other examples to compare it to, but would a professional contact really make the kind of time for him that Vox does? Inviting him to see the record label under his ownership, inviting him into his private spaces, making note of Clyde’s interests. It’s far more thoughtfulness and consideration than he would ever expect his mother to have for, say, a Goetia. 

After a couple of very long minutes of staring at their exchange, Clyde finally musters the courage to respond.

You: friends

That, at least, feels more accurate than associate or business partner , even if it’s a little embarrassing to admit to the Overlord, a little too close to vulnerable. A disconcerting realization dawns on the prince, then: what if Vox doesn’t feel the same way? His welcoming energy and pleasant air seem to come so easily to him; perhaps it’s just in his nature. Maybe he’s just being nice because Clyde is the Prince of Hell. Maybe it’s all part of getting on his good side. Maybe he’s—

Bzz.

Vox 📺🦈: Oh, good. I was hoping you’d say that.

Clyde sighs, sagging with relief until he’s on his back, looking up at a fake night sky through a canopy of moss-draped trees. It’s not confirmation that the Overlord doesn’t have ulterior motives by any means, but the response does still have the benefit of making the boy feel less awkward. Less clingy.

“Hmph. I don’t think I know how friends work, guys,” he grumbles aloud. Abra snuffles irritably. “Okay, well. You two don’t count. You were made to be my friends. That’s not to say I don’t love you,” he quickly adds when Zam becomes morose-looking (a strange look, on a helligator). “But…hm, I don’t know. I have Angel…and Husk, and Niffty, and Vaggie…but they’re all Charlie’s friends. What about my friends, you know?”

Abra lumbers over to rest her head on his chest. The weight is familiar and comforting and he allows a hand to settle between her gilded horns.

Goetic princes have governesses and playmates all meticulously vetted and chosen to be their company. Clyde can’t imagine it—doesn’t want to imagine it, he thinks with a shudder—but at least if that were the case in his childhood, he wouldn’t feel so completely out of his depth.

He wouldn’t feel so discomfited and unsure of himself every time a hand tipped in blue claws rested itself between his shoulderblades, or ruffled his hair. Is that what friends do, he wonders? Do friends lean in each time you engage with them, making sure you know they’re hanging on to your every word? Do they laugh at all your jokes, even the ones that aren’t especially funny? Would one meeting have to turn into two, because you’d spent so much time talking about everything but work that you hadn’t completed the task you’d set out to do in the first place?

He wishes he knew.

He wishes he could ask.

He shuts his eyes, breathing in the comforting smell of thick, lush vegetation and murky swampwater.

“He-llo, son of mine!” 

All three gators in the room, Clyde included, emit a startled yowl. The prince sits up dizzyingly fast, his eyes flying open to see Alastor standing in his bedroom, still materializing out of the shadows. He’s still dressed in the red, white, and gold trappings he wore at supper, the ornate ensemble of the king’s consort for the specific occasion of meetings with the Heavenly Host. His grin is infuriatingly smug.

Despite his yearning for answers, it’s not a face Clyde wants to see right now. Clyde doesn’t give his father the satisfaction of yelling at him for not knocking, instead just flopping backwards onto the porch, sinking back into the sensation of the cool planks against scales and skin. “What do you want?”

A fizzle of static and a narrowing of the eyes is the only indicator that Alastor is displeased with the way he’s being spoken to. Apart from that, he doesn’t scold or snap; the sinner doesn’t do much of anything as he meanders around the room. Before Clyde can try to provoke him again, he finally says, conversationally, “You were rather scarce today.”

Clyde keeps his face carefully neutral. “Hey, I was at dinner.”

“Really?” Alastor stops at the boy’s piano, sleek and black, and reaches out, splaying his fingers over the keys. A brief, haunting trill rings through the bayou—a simple blues scale—before he adds, “You could have fooled me.”

His son rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “Well, damn. I didn’t know you wanted me to conduct meaningful, thought-provoking conversations, too. I don’t know what you want from me, Dad. You say ‘text your mother if you’re leaving the house’, I text him. You say ‘show up to dinner’, I show up to dinner.”

“After being missing in action since sunrise,” Alastor points out crisply. “With no clue as to where you are headed or when we might expect you to be back.”

It’s the same argument Clyde has been hearing over and over, each time he dares go out. By this, the fourth or fifth time, it’s too much. Fed up with the conversational merry-go-round he’s been seemingly condemned to, the prince lets out a garbled noise of raw frustration. “Ugh! If you need me to do something around the hotel that badly, just tell me and I’ll do it.”

Apparently unmoved by the outburst, Alastor stares at him where he’s poised in the bedroom, one hand still draped over the piano lid. His brilliant vermillion eyes flit over the boy’s face, like he’s trying to figure him out. Flushing, Clyde only just resists the urge to squirm under his scrutiny, suppressing a kind of irrational fear that if the demon looks at him for long enough, he’ll somehow gain the ability to see what his son has really been up to.

(It’s almost a good thing, Clyde muses, that the Radio Demon is so preoccupied with politicking and Heaven’s rogue angels. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have connected the dots back to their spat over Vox by now?)

(A wave of guilt washes over the prince as he realizes just what he’s expressed gratitude for.)

“Is that where you have decided your value begins and ends?” Alastor asks, his voice quiet under a thick layer of static noise. “With chores and menial labor?”

Clyde glances at him, uncertain of the response he’s fishing for. “I dunno. What else would you need me here for?”

The demon is silent, still staring at him in a way Clyde can’t parse. Eventually he says, “There are exterminations happening, my dear. You know this.”

“And you know that I know how to kill angels,” Clyde deflects. “I don’t see what the big hubbub is.”

Alastor bristles, his shadow staggering to attention. “You don’t see what the value of the Prince of Hell’s head would be to a small army of angry, avenging angels?” He seethes. “I know you’re stubborn, boy, but don’t tell me you’re suddenly stupid as well.”

Clyde’s expression hardens, his jaw setting as he glares wordlessly at his father. As an angry rumble bubbles in his throat, the sinner sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That…came out wrong,” he says, at length.

“Really.”

“It’s not safe, Clyde,” Alastor goes on, practically pleading, and isn’t that something to behold. “You’ve never truly fought an angel in your entire life and no amount of training can adequately prepare you for that. You gleefully put yourself at risk of permanent death with no consideration for the repercussions, all for an unknown purpose which is beginning to perturb me as much as your recklessness!”

The boy folds his arms. “You’re worried about me?”

It’s mocking, meant to shame and goad him, to stoke the flames of his anger, and above all, to distract from Clyde’s clandestine outings. After all, what they do best—what they’ve always done best, ever since Clyde became a teenager—is grate on each other, a phenomenon which Lucifer attributes to their similarities as father and son. But while it does result in his father exploding, the focus remains firmly unchanged. 

“Rightfully so!” Alastor roars, as the speakers in Clyde’s studio all sputter and squeal pathetically, and Abra and Zam shrink back to cower behind their companion. His soul blazes a fierce virulent green. “Golly, excuse me if I would prefer not to see my only son murdered in cold blood, in utterly preventable circumstances, over some idiotic adolescent craving for independence! Couyon! If this habit of yours was really as innocuous as you so badly want me to believe, then why is it that I have not once been told where it is you’re vanishing to for entire days at a time? Do you think I am such a fool, little boy, that I cannot tell when I am being deceived?”

Clyde is on his feet in an instant. His hands squeeze into fists at his sides. “Don’t call me that,” he snaps. “Don’t ever. I’m not a little boy.”

Alastor’s eyes, black voids with green pinpricks for pupils, narrow. “No? Tell that to this attitude you’re giving me. Tell that to whatever childish notion possessed you to lie about where you’ve been sneaking off to.”

Anxiety settles into the core of Clyde’s stomach, like a ball of ice. He lifts his chin in defiance. “When did I lie?” He challenges.

The Radio Demon lifts his cane and points at the wall, against which is the prince’s favored bass guitar, a matte-purple beauty with one of its strings missing, after it snapped during practice one evening. His eyes never once migrating from his son’s face, he deadpans, “That string is still broken.”

And where have you been, this afternoon? I’d yet to see you at all.

Nowhere crazy. Just, uh. Coffee with Via and a nip over to the guitar store.

Mm, yes, did you ever fix that broken string?

Sure did. Just this afternoon.

Shit.

Clyde is struck dumb, his brain scrambling to find a response that won’t immediately damn him, but the damage has already been done. With an air of finality, the tip of Alastor’s cane thunks against the wooden floor, the vibrant gleam of his soul finally dimming to a calmer, softer glow.

“This conversation is over,” says Alastor, as blasé as if he hasn’t definitely just overheated all of the speakers and audio devices in the room. “You are forbidden from leaving this hotel without a chaperone for the foreseeable future.”

That puts a surefire end to Clyde’s speechlessness, real quick. “What ?!”

Alastor holds up one hand, as if Clyde is the one being irrational here. “Since you evidently cannot be expected to do the intelligent thing, that is the precautionary measure I will have to implement. I would rather you be quarantined and cross as two sticks about it than have you foolishly get yourself beheaded by a celestial warrior with an axe to grind. Or spear, as it were.”

Another burbling growl brews deep in the prince’s gut as he glowers at his father, a low and menacing sound. This time, the demon doesn’t backpedal; he only sighs, rolling his red eyes. “Oh, do stop that. Even if there wasn’t danger lurking about, did you think there would be no consequences for lying to me?”

And that, the borderline pleasure in his voice, the self-congratulation of getting one over on his son, pushes the last of Clyde’s buttons. Chest swelling with rage, he snaps, “If the rogue exorcists are so dangerous, how come no one outside these walls knows why?”

There—Alastor’s broad grin tightens at the edges, the smile lines around his sunken eyes deepening. Clyde knows he’s caught him off guard and seizes the opportunity to keep talking.

“One of the benefits of getting out of the house is, I’ve been listening. The people think you did this, Dad. They think you and Mom invited Heaven to come down and pick them off for sport, no holds barred! Or else that we’re at war with Heaven! And of course they don’t know which is more likely—how could they, when you haven’t said a thing?!” Clyde’s chest heaves, adrenaline coursing through him at the mere act of raising his voice against the Radio Demon. It’s not something he dares to do often. Every conversation he’s had with Vox has been leading up to this, all of Clyde’s confusion and disappointment building to this eruption, a bomb waiting to be detonated by any singular push of his comfortability. It’s a convenient outlet to let loose everything that’s been stewing in him, every little resentment and slight. 

“Maybe they don’t want Charlie to fix them, but they’re still our subjects,” he insists. “Sinners deserve to have someone to look out for them. You’re one of them, so why haven’t you bothered?!”

With each sentence Clyde utters, Alastor’s shoulders gradually rise, leaving him looking cagey and vicious. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, petit,” he says quietly, his efforts to keep his voice even obvious to the ears. “It’s not possible at this juncture. Without an immediate solution at the ready, such an announcement would be terribly received. The entire ring would be lost to panic—”

“You know what the humans say about the complacency of fools?” Clyde spits.

Alastor gnashes his teeth, visibly restraining himself from reacting outwardly. “You watch your tongue, boy.”

“They are already panicking out there. We have to do something.”

“Oh, do we? Do you think your mother and I have been doing fuck all?” Alastor snarls. “Do you think we spend days in that gilded nightmare, just twiddling our thumbs? Do you think we enjoy it? Can you even begin to understand the helplessness—ah, no, that’s right, you can’t.” He crows, “I can tell you, those rose-tinted glasses won’t suit you when you become of age to be diplomat, which, may I remind you, you are not.”

As if he needed the reminder. Just one more indicator that he doesn’t measure up, to really drive it home. Clyde’s breaths start to come fast and shallow, his eyes burning. “Maybe not, but I know—”

“—Nothing. You know nothing.” Alastor’s expression is wild and frenzied as he advances, stopping just one pace away from his son. “Things may seem different from the hotel balcony or from behind the windows, but listen closely. They don’t deserve your empathy. Your good intentions—they will break you. I suggest you abandon these ideas of yours before they land you on the wrong end of an exorcist blade, martyring yourself for some undeserving wretch. And that’s only if a sinner doesn’t betray you first.”

The tears welling in Clyde’s eyes make his father look like he’s behind warped glass. A barrier between them, always. His face hot with humiliation, he warbles softly, “I’m—I’m not weak.”

Alastor’s bared teeth vanish into a close-lipped grimace at the sound of Clyde’s waterlogged voice and his damp eyes. When he replies, all traces of his usual filter are conspicuously missing. 

“No,” he agrees on an exhale. “You are kind in a place that will chew you up and spit you back out without hesitation, if you neglect sharpening your claws.”

“So what?” Clyde tries to raise his voice, but it breaks on him. “I’m supposed to just stand back and let them all continue to die confused and afraid?”

“You need to stop thinking like your sister,” Alastor warns, his tone colder again as he lifts his cane to tap the microphone against the boy’s chest. “You need to stay out of the way.”

Of course he does.

Clyde growls. Unthinking, he lifts his hands and pushes hard against the demon’s chest. Alastor stumbles backwards as he’s shoved, a squeal of microphone feedback rending the air as shock overcomes his expression. 

“Stop treating me like I’m useless!” Clyde shouts, underscored by the bellow of a furious alligator.

The phrase “like a deer in headlights” is, ironically, perfectly apt to describe the way Alastor has frozen up; his eyes wide and startled, his grin open-mouthed and stretched wide to reveal glistening gums. His own blood roaring in his ears, Clyde watches him reevaluate the situation in real time, his dumbfoundedness at having hands laid on him , the Radio Demon. His jaw works as if preparing to say something, but nothing comes out save for the usual static. No placations. If there was a barrier between them before, the silence now is more like a chasm yawning between their feet, but neither of them make any move to end the quietude. 

Then, the tension snaps. Alastor escapes back into the shadows, cane and all, without even a single attempt at getting one last word in.

The very instant he’s gone, Clyde snaps his jaws in frustration. “Coward!” He spits.

Clyde clenches his fists. His ears are hot, his skin feels too tight, and warm, salty tears are running down his red cheeks. It’s as though his body has hit its capacity for feeling. When he collapses on the floor to draw his knees up to his chin, he finds himself swarmed by Abra and Zam, the two helligators pushing their snouts against his arms in a bid to comfort him.

“He thinks he’s so much smarter than me,” the prince grouses. “Everyone does. I’m such a fucking liability, getting in everyone’s way. ‘Not now, Clyde—the adults are talking.’”

His phone vibrates. Sniffling wetly, Clyde scrubs at his eyes. He fumbles for the device to read the latest notification.

Vox 📺🦈 : Got a gap in my schedule at 4PM this Friday. Wanna check out that label?

Again, Clyde’s heart beats a little faster in his chest, pounding angrily at the lack of reprieve. 

His father told him he couldn’t leave without a chaperone, but amidst all the chaos, would he remember? More importantly, would he enforce it? This is an opportunity Clyde can’t pass up, to meet demons actually inside the industry. To make connections with the kind of folk his parents don’t mingle with. What’s the point of starting a music career if he can’t grow it organically through his own efforts?

He’s going to have to start getting creative.

You: do you have any free time later in the evenings?

Vox 📺🦈: What, you mean after business hours? I usually save that time for myself, but I could make an exception for a friend…

Through his drying tears, Clyde grins, a pleasant warmness breaking through his sulking.

Vox 📺🦈: Friday at 10PM?

You: deal

Vox 📺🦈: See you at my office, then. :)

Clyde tosses his phone aside, tingling with excitement. It’s a risk, but it’s one he’s going to have to take. Nobody here will need him that late in the day, nor will they feel the need to check on him or invite themselves into his bedroom. He can be in and out, have an amazing experience, and his parents will be none the wiser, without ever having to worry themselves sick over him. Everyone wins.

Somehow brimming with both exhaustion and excess energy, the prince leaps to his feet and takes himself over to his drumset. As he reaches for his headphones with one hand and his drumsticks with the other, the only thing on Clyde’s mind is Vox, his spat with Alastor gradually being pushed to the back of his mind.

Chapter Text

To hear Vox tell it, the sight of the legitimate Morningstar sigil energizes the contractors charged with renovating the entertainment district like nothing else.

“Been a long time since they’ve seen anything with that on it, I bet,” he tells Clyde in a dry voice.

It sounds like nothing but a meaningless throwaway comment, but the insinuation sneakily sinks its fish hooks into Clyde’s mind.

Doubt of his parents, his sister, and their choices as a monarchy. It’s not anything Clyde has ever had to wrestle with before. How could he, when his world is only as broad as they’ve allowed it to be? A whole realm under his sovereignty, and all he’s known are the same red-and-gold corridors? A few scant locations in Cannibaltown, and the vendor from whom he purchases all of his instruments and assorted equipment? Aunt Bee’s mansion. Uncle Ozzie’s palace. Auntie Rosie’s boutique, Auntie Mimzy’s bar. His whole life, every experience, has been filtered through Alastor and Lucifer. A century old, and still just the little boy.

To think Clyde had pitied Vox’s pet sharks for being confined to a tank.

As the days pass, and his most recent quarrel with his father gets farther away, more and more of the prince’s time is spent in Vox’s skyscraper, lounging on plush sofas and in the recliners Vox keeps in his penthouse at the very top of the tower. What begins as more formal, clandestine visits in the nighttime hours, held to discuss the changing entertainment district and the most logical next steps in improving Pride, becomes relaxed, lazy late evenings occasionally splashed with a little alcohol, with Clyde learning more about the Overlord’s personal philosophy and afterlife.

It’s all deeply personal and introspective, and it takes not even the slightest push from Vox for Clyde to offer up his own troubles in return. It just feels…appropriate. A fair exchange. And what would Hell be without give-and-take?

“I don’t think he respects me,” Clyde tells the Overlord. It’s Thursday, five days after the disagreement with Alastor. He’s lying on his back across from Vox, like the two of them are psychologist and client rather than friends or peers. He cradles a wineglass in his fingers. Vox’s expression had crinkled in dismay when Clyde turned down scotch in favor of a red wine, but he’d poured him a healthy amount nonetheless. He’s on his second glass now, and barely feels a thing, but if the warmth he’s feeling is anything to go by, that’s…subject to change.

He’d told the other demon how poorly his attempt to get his parents to inform the people right away had gone, and now Vox was happily letting him simmer in his anger, before an audience who would not judge him.

“Oh yeah?” Vox is slouched similarly in a recliner a few feet away, one leg hooked over the leather arm. He isn’t, Clyde has noticed, a fan of sitting in any recognizable position, preferring to sprawl strangely with his limbs all akimbo. Out of the corner of Clyde’s eye, he sees Vox lift his monitor, giving the boy his full attention and a raise of his eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

The prince shrugs, staring into space. The floor-to-ceiling window in Vox’s penthouse gives a majestic view of the Pentagram skyline, glowing in the nighttime hours with LED signs and infernal flame. Their city looks like nothing more than a child’s playset from this high up, or some kind of a tabletop diorama for Vox to look down on and project his latest creative projects onto.

“He says I’ve got to stay out of his way.” Clyde enunciates the words with a lilting, condescending primness that anyone familiar with his father would recognize. “Called me stupid. He thinks I can’t defend myself against the angels, as if I wasn’t trained to. He treats me like I’m still a little kid—both of them do.”

Vox nods, frowning sympathetically. “Mm. Typical dad behavior, I’m afraid. At least, in my experience. You’ll have to take what I say with a grain of salt, it’s been a while since I’ve had a dad, let alone thought of him.” He takes a swig of whiskey from a beautiful crystal glass. “This is just my two cents, but it seems like they don’t—or can’t—appreciate the strengths you clearly have. Now, of course they want what’s best for you, they want to protect you from the horrors outside, and maybe stifling you is all part of keeping you safe and sound—but, well.” He shrugs. “What do I know? I haven’t got a paternal bone in my body.”

He says that, but what about his habit of putting his hand on Clyde’s back or mussing up his hair? The prince tuts.

“How can they know about my strengths when they haven’t given me an opportunity to show them off?” He huffs, throwing his arms out. “I can’t convince them. They don’t want to be convinced.”

“Now, now, your highness. That’s the attitude of a quitter.” Sitting up in his chair, Vox wags a finger at him. “You’ve tried using words to reason with them, and that didn’t work. And in that case, it’s a good thing you’re out here with me making a real difference, hm?” He spreads one arm wide, gesturing towards the massive window to indicate the city in all its neon glory. “Actions speak louder than words, so they say. Maybe this little arrangement of ours will be exactly what you need to get them on the same page with you. To win their attention back from Heaven. Once they’ve got real, tangible evidence of progress in front of them, they won’t be able to deny you so easily!”

“And if not?” Clyde asks glumly, the Overlord’s words doing little to alleviate his doubt in his current melancholy.

“And if not…” Vox echoes, his boisterous voice growing soft. “Well, amidst all this gory chaos, you know you’ve got at least one person who sees your value.”

Clyde looks his way, locking eyes with him. Vox smiles again in that particular way of his, causing the prince to flush and avert his eyes. I hate when he does that.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Vox’s soul blazing a bright blue.

“Chin up for me, Clyde.” Vox tips his head back, swallowing the remainder of his glass. He tosses his long legs over the arm of the recliner, going back to lounging. “You’ve got a tour to look forward to tomorrow night.”

The mere idea is enough to make anticipatory excitement skitter up the prince’s spine. He cups his wineglass tightly in his palms. “I can’t wait.”

With the kind of money and standing Vox has, Clyde can’t even imagine how nice the record label under his stewardship will be. It’s going to take every ounce of willpower Clyde has not to touch absolutely every piece of expensive equipment he lays his eyes on.

“You’re gonna love it,” Vox assures him, and Clyde trusts him.

It’s approaching witching hour when Clyde gets home after taking the roundabout way to avoid the main streets. Fortunately, he doesn’t run into any witches, but he must be short on luck tonight because he does run into Vaggie on his way up to bed.

Literally. Serves him right for walking and texting.

“Hey!” Clyde looks up in time to see the fallen angel stumbling in her pajama clothes, trying to catch her footing on the banister. He sways and fumbles with his phone for an embarrassing couple of seconds before ultimately grabbing onto her arm in an attempt to help. She recovers quickly, however, and waves him off, scowling. “Watch where you’re going next time, kid.”

Clyde’s scales crawl with discomfort from where they made contact with her, and this is the thanks he gets? See if he ever helps her again. He shoves both his hands and his phone into his pockets, standing up straight with only a little bit of a wobble. “Sorry.”

“Whatever.” Vaggie steps past him. Assuming (hoping) he’s in the clear, Clyde prepares to hurry upstairs, until she calls after him, “What are you even doing up, anyway?” He looks over his shoulder, watching her narrow her good eye at him. “And dressed like that?”

Shit. Clyde looks down at himself, as if he doesn’t already know what he’s going to see: his formal regalia, right down to the epaulettes on his shoulders and the family crest on the chest. It’d been so late, and with the alcohol in his veins, he must have forgotten to shapeshift into something casual.

He’s been getting a hell of a lot of improv practice, lately.

“Stayed up a little too late playing. Didn’t even see the time until I was yawning.” He forces a smile. “I’m on my way to bed now, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. I’m suspicious.” Vaggie corrects him crisply. “And I didn’t hear any music.”

The prince resists rolling his eyes, but only just. Of course Vaggie is suspicious. Just being the spawn of the Radio Demon is usually enough to earn him Vaggie’s stink eye, or at the very least her presence following him around like an angelic corrections officer—why would tonight be any different, Clyde thinks irritably. As if anyone has any control over who they’re born to.

Did Vaggie choose to be created as an exorcist angel? Probably not. But Clyde has the good graces not to bring it up, unlike some.

“That’s too bad. I was coming up with some good stuff.” Clyde rubs the back of his neck, sniffing. “I’m going to bed now. See you at breakfast.”

“...Uh huh.”

Clyde doesn’t wait any longer to turn and flee the scene, feeling Vaggie’s stare on him up until he’s fully rounded the corner on the landing.

At the very least, it seems like she doesn’t know about Alastor’s solution to keeping the prince indoors. He can bet she won’t go telling him, either. His sister and his mother, though—that’s another story, and he has no doubts that Alastor told them everything. Hopefully he performed nonchalance well enough that she’ll forget it ever happened by morning.

When he reaches his bedroom, Abra and Zam are already slumbering peacefully. He shuts the door quietly to avoid rousing the two silhouettes out in the shallow swampwater. They snuffle and breathe in sync with one another as Clyde shucks off his clothes and grasps blindly in the dark for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Even in the dark, his reflexes feel just a little bit off, like his movements aren’t matching the speed he intends for them to have.

Fuck. Is he really that tipsy? Could Vaggie tell? His muscle mass is enough to keep three glasses of wine from fucking with his senses the way it would most people, but it doesn’t not affect him, either. Clyde scrubs a hand down his face in exasperation, tossing his glasses carelessly onto the nightstand before tumbling headfirst into bed, not without retrieving his phone from his abandoned trousers.

Clyde’s bed has none of the drapery or gilded edges that his parents’ does, but it’s just as comfortable without all the bells and whistles. Settling against the cocoon of pillows with a quiet sigh, he unlocks his phone to read the latest message in his conversation with the TV Demon.

Vox 📺🦈: Still insulted you think I don’t know my rock and roll.

Vox 📺🦈: Don’t forget: tomorrow, 10PM.

You: we’re gonna shake, rattle and roll!!

Vox 📺🦈: Bill Haley. I WAS still alive, you know.

You: and you won’t do nothin to save your doggone soul! 🎶🐊

Vox 📺🦈: No, I won’t. Go the hell to bed.

You: fine

You: made it home fine, by the way. took the route you suggested to avoid the embassy

Vox 📺🦈: Good boy.

You: GOODNIGHT

Still sputtering with embarrassment from that last message, the prince puts his phone to sleep and drops it on his nightstand after a brief struggle with the charging cable. The moment he’s at rest, slumped against silk and satin and cotton, all delightfully cool against his skin, a feeling of contentment crawls over him, the weight of his head on his neck feeling lighter, more insignificant than ever.

His skull cradled by the pillows, Clyde stares at his ceiling. The wooden boards of what was once a mock log cabin are plastered with band posters—some human, some not. With only the glow of bayou lightning bugs to illuminate the room, the glossy finish of his collection shimmers gold.

Even just out of the selection Clyde has taped to his ceiling, there are several names he’s thought of introducing Vox to. Maybe tomorrow he’ll get a better feel for what he actually likes to listen to, although he strikes Clyde as someone who’s usually too busy to sit down and appreciate a good record…

Clyde breathes deeply, his mind quieting for a while. The calmness keeping him anchored to the sinfully soft sheets has allowed a second thing to manifest deep in his gut. It’s an undemanding, dull sensation, a gentle current, leaving him to decide if he’d like to follow it.

After a moment of debating, he decides he would.

Clyde shivers as his right hand slips beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, his fingers curling lightly over his clothed, soft cock. Beginning to coax the idea of arousal into a reality, he squeezes gently, sighing, his body slowly yielding to his ministrations. Before long, he’s hooking a thumb in his waistband and pulling down, divesting himself of both his sweatpants and his boxers in one languid motion. Once he’s spread out on the comforter, the prince spits into his palm, and his hand slowly returns to his groin, wrapping around his fledgling erection.

He lets out a soft, muted grunt, his hips jerking into the slick sensation. The pace he adopts is neither hurried nor unhurried, letting himself sink into the pleasantly hot wash of arousal. It’s not often he’s possessed to do this—and when he is, it’s usually by no means deliberate—so he savors it, indulging with quiet moans and exhalations of pleasure.

It’s not often he’s possessed to do this, and when he is, he does not fantasize.

He can hardly wrap his head around the concept. Do other men actually conjure up some faceless person to imagine themselves fucking? Is that gratifying? Or maybe they’re imagining someone in particular, and the idea of fantasy is so foreign to Clyde specifically because there is no one he can see himself fantasizing about.

No one at all.

Good boy.

Clyde shutters his eyelids, consumed by the sensation of his fist and the slick sounds amidst the distant chirping of crickets and leaves rustling in a make-believe breeze.

Good boy.

He shudders, biting back a groan. Without even stretching his imagination too far, he can hear those words being said so clearly, they suit the voice saying them so well. He can hear them panted into his ear, encouraging him as he strokes himself for show.

Good boy.

His breathing gets faster, more labored as he approaches his release, and maybe a huge hand with claws dipped in diamond would grasp his face between its fingers and turn him, presenting him so that a wet turquoise tongue could slip between his lips, narrowed scarlet eyes boring into him as his abdomen tightens and—and—

Good boy.

“Vox,” Clyde moans, and comes, spilling over his knuckles and thighs until his whole body shakes and it feels as though every last muscle in his body is spasming with pleasure.

It takes perhaps a full minute for the ringing in his ears to stop and for the prince to properly come down from his peak, his breaths still coming in rhythmic huffs, before it hits him.

Wait.

“What,” he hisses into the room. Clyde slaps a palm to his forehead, his expression twisting in utter bafflement. “Hells, that’s so—fuck.”

There’s no way in all the seven circles he just came to the thought of him.

The prince groans, flopping backwards into the pillows and smothering his face with his hands.

That’s it. He can’t show his face around the Overlord ever again. Not ever. Not when just the sight of his stupid monitor and goddamn perfectly tailored coat will inevitably remind him of something so unbelievably embarrassing. What is he, a fucking pervert? Hoping a guy as old as his own dad will call him a good boy?

Clyde removes his hands from his face, glaring into the dark. “I can never jerk off again,” he mutters. “Fucking hells.”

He takes a deep breath, willing the drunken mortification to settle just enough that he can attempt to calm down. He’ll just…pretend this never happened. He’ll go on the tour with Vox tomorrow, and be normal. Clyde can be normal. They’ll have a good, platonic time, and he can forget all about this horrifyingly Freudian fluke.

He doesn’t even like Vox like that.

“Urgh.”

Clyde gets up and angrily storms to the bathroom to clean himself up.

It’s especially difficult, as it turns out, to pretend your impromptu jerk-off session that had culminated in orgasming to the thought of your friend never happened when that friend continues to text you the next morning. Go figure.

Vox 📺🦈: Overheard one of my staff say that Verosika person you like is playing the Suicide Note in a few weeks.

Vox 📺🦈: Just saying.

You: Say less 👀

Vox 📺🦈: 🤐

You: hard to believe such big public events are still happening during the attacks

You: also stop pretending you don’t know who Verosika is.

Vox 📺🦈: Well, according to SOMEONE, I don’t know my music.

You: This just in, petty bitch still being a petty bitch

You: more at 11

Vox 📺🦈: I never forget, Clyde Morningstar.

You: really? impressive, at your old age

Vox 📺🦈: I’m ignoring you now.

You: boooooooooo coward

“What’s got you smilin’ at your phone like that?”

Clyde jerks upright where he’s perched on a barstool, finding Husk’s tired eyes scrutinizing him curiously. With no other customers this early in the day, the bartender had taken the time to make him a green smoothie something like ten minutes ago, and apart from the initial sip, Clyde’s been so distracted by his phone that it remains untouched, with the glass sweating droplets of condensation onto the hardwood bartop.

“Oh, um. Nothing.” Clyde puts his phone facedown and pulls the glass towards him, ignoring the hot flush creeping up the sides of his neck and face. “Saw something funny.”

“Mm-hmm. You ain’t never given a damn about that thing before. You’d forget it even if it was grafted to you, far as I was concerned. Yet now all I ever see is you hunchin’ over, typin’ away on it.” The cat demon gives him an unimpressed look as his paws mindlessly wipe down glassware. “So what’s the real answer?”

The prince frowns into his smoothie, avoiding eye contact. “I’m just talking to my friend, it’s nothing.”

Husk blinks slowly in that distinctly feline way. “Right. And which friend is this, now?”

“You wouldn’t know him.”

Even Clyde knows the instant he blurts it out that it’s a shitty copout. The smirk that takes over the gambler’s face in response isn’t exactly shocking to see. “Alright then. Hellborn?”

“...No.”

“A sinner? Interesting.” Husk stops shining glasses to prop his elbows up on the bar, shaking out his wings. “And why is it that I ain’t heard of this guy before? Thought we were thick as thieves, you and me.”

Clyde shifts on his stool uncomfortably. It’s an obvious guilt-trip, but an effective one. “Well…” He struggles for a beat.

“C’mon now, you can tell old Husker,” the demon insists.

The prince sighs, exasperated. “He’s—as Dad would say—” Clyde gestures uselessly. “Bad trouble.”

(Or so Alastor would have him believe. He’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman to Clyde, not that Alastor would ever hear it for whatever reason, while Vox says it wouldn't be right to tell Clyde another man's business.)

Husk’s eyebrows lift up, his whiskered mouth morphing into a rounded shape of faux shock. “Uh oh,” he says, dry as a desert in Wrath. “A bad boy. Don’t let Niff hear about that.”

At the dubiousness in his tone, the prince scowls up through his own furrowed brow, griping, “Stop making fun of me.”

“I’m not, I’m not.” Sounding entirely too amused for Clyde’s liking, Husk lifts both paws in surrender, going back to his idle chores. “We are in Hell.”

Clyde shrugs, humming in agreement. Their conversation lapses for a few moments as Husk prepares to load the dishwasher beneath the bar. As he’s pulling out the dish rack, he says, casually, “I don’t suppose we like this guy, do we?”

Clyde’s gut flip-flops as the events of last night come back to him in another unwelcome flash. “No way,” he replies firmly. At Husker’s pointed look, he repeats himself. “No way. The guys down here are—just, no way.”

Whatever bizarre flight of fancy possessed him in his half-drunk state, he’s not keen on revisiting it, and certainly not with Husker. They’re close, but not that close.

“Your ma seemed to find one he liked,” Husk points out flatly.

“Husk.”

“Right.” It’s clear the other demon remains unconvinced, but mercifully, he lets that particular train of questioning go without any more of a struggle. “Well anyhow, a friend! That’s nice to hear. You know when he died?”

“Um.” And yet again, he hesitates. Surely, it’s not overly risky to offer that information. Thousands upon thousands of sinners die in a single decade; sussing out Vox would be like finding a needle in a haystack. “The fifties, I think.”

Husk raises his eyebrows. “Damn. Got me beat by two decades. He die young, or what?”

“No…” The prince says uncertainly. “Not really. I’m not sure how he went, though. I…probably shouldn’t tell you this stuff, to be honest.” He fiddles with his straw, trying to conceal his growing discomfort with this interrogation. “You report to my dad.”

“Yeah, I heard all about your ‘quarantine’,” the demon tells him with a grimace. Then he shrugs. “Welp. Best not, then.”

And then he just turns and keeps piling glasses into the dish rack.

That was…surprisingly easy, Clyde thinks. He expected more pushback, but then, maybe he’s gotten used to the constant barrage from Alastor and Lucifer, or the suspicion from Vaggie. At least someone around here understands how good this is for him.

For Pride, he reminds himself. The connection he has with Vox is secondary to their work, no matter how comfortable he’s becoming.

“I do have to tell you though,” Husk pipes up again, fixing the prince with a concerned look. “It’s not pretty out there in them streets lately, especially for Hell. You ought to be careful. Whatever trouble you’d be in back here if you were caught, it’s a whole lot nicer than gettin’ your head taken off by a holy weapon. And at least here you’ve got folks willin’ to fight for you, and protect you. You’ve got the upper hand when it comes to dealin’ with sinner souls, but angels…you don’t want to get involved with them. You get my point?”

The warning barely registers to him anymore. Over and over and over again. As if he’s some powerless wretch who just fell into the pit, just another sinner, and not the Prince of Hell, Son of the Morningstar. Son of the Dealmaker. As if he’s the one who needs protecting, when there’s a whole realm of demons in their purview waiting to become angelic mincemeat.

This is just my two cents, but it seems like they don’t—or can’t—appreciate the strengths you clearly have.

Maybe this, like his diplomacy efforts, is just another arena in which Clyde is going to have to prove himself in order to be taken seriously.

“Clyde?”

“Yeah,” Clyde answers belatedly. “Yeah, I get it.”

As if displeased with his lackluster response to Husk’s cautioning him, the hotel doors open far later in the afternoon to welcome a nasty sight.

The first thing they hear is the screaming. As the nearest available staff members (and a flock of other petrified residents) hurry to the lobby, in comes one of Charlie’s sinners, a bat demon, covered head to toe in blood and viscera, and carrying the poor soul who seems to be the source of the gore.

Sure enough, when the bat demon lays the other person on the ground, they’ve suffered one hell of a slash wound, stretching from their navel to their collar. Pulsing with golden light and bleeding profusely as though it may never stop. When they’re spread out on the ground, they rattle out a burbling moan, causing the bat to weep harder. His body numb, Clyde drops to the ground beside them, fingers hovering over the gaping injury as uncertainty over where to start paralyzes him.

Should he try to cauterize it with magic? Should he apply pressure to try and stop the bleeding? The wound is so large that he doubts the latter would even work. Clyde squeezes his hands into fists.

“Please do something! Please help,” the bat demon begs across from him. “It’s my fault, we shouldn’t have been out in the open like that—please, she’s dying because of me!”

“Are the exorcists still out there?” Vaggie asks, interrupting the panicked babble, her mouth a strained line. “Where?”

Just the word exorcist makes the bat tremble all over, curling in on themselves and whispering, “I don’t know. The shopping district…? There were…so many of them, miss. Dozens, at least. I—I was too scared to fight back.”

That doesn’t deter Vaggie, as she brandishes her spear and starts to move in the direction of the doors. Before she can get far, though, Alastor’s voice cuts through the growing terror. “Stop.”

Vaggie looks at him. His smile a rictus, Alastor stares down at the bleeding sinner and says, “Get Lucifer.”

“What if they’re still out there?” Vaggie asks, disbelieving as she gestures towards the doors. “There’s a reason they’re not attacking us and it’s because they know we can take them.”

“If they are still out there, whatever squadron they’ve sent this time will be too much for you to face on your own, without a plan of attack,” Alastor replies, eyes never moving. “Rushing out in the middle of an active extermination with only a blade and blind hatred to guide you would be utterly foolish. There is nothing to do now but hope the people have by this point armed themselves with steel in the century they’ve had the opportunity to do so. Now, if I must repeat myself, get Lucifer.”

“And risk more dead sinners?” Clyde shouts.

Finally, Alastor’s gaze flickers to him. “Sinners die every day, Clyde. You have one in front of you, still alive. You have the option to do something or let them become another pointless casualty.”

“Please do something,” the bat demon whimpers.

His chest heaving, Clyde spares his father one long, contemptuous look, before getting to his feet and sprinting upstairs to find his mother.

It occurs to Clyde as it happens that he’s never seen a sinner die before. At least, not permanently.

Alastor was right in that sinners die gruesomely every hour of every day. But demons killed by other demons usually regenerate, when angelic steel isn’t in the mix. They may be torn to bloody shreds, but so long as it was by the hands of one of their fellow sinners, they’d be back eventually, even if it was an especially unpleasant way to go.

As Clyde stares at the wounded sinner, whose name is Thalia, watching her go limp, he also watches what happens to her soul. The already faint glow flickers like a faulty lightbulb struggling to stay lit, and then, unlike any other sinner ‘death’, it just…goes out.

Unique to him as his talent is, he can’t even be sure the others see it.

Lucifer has gone very still where he’s been kneeling over the sinner, in the beginning stages of extracting what angelic essence he can. But it’s already too late. The king’s head drops between his shoulders, his expression grim.

By this point, the entire staff has congregated in the lobby. As Charlie comes back in from the kitchen with water, saline solution, and a small stack of hand towels, she lets out a quiet gasp and stops in her tracks, her lip trembling.

Alastor turns, and, going to her, promises her quietly, “I’ll bury her in the garden. She won’t be forgotten.”

And Clyde just can’t be in the room anymore, brushing past Angel, Husk, Niffty, and a smattering of other residents to flee.

The time left until 10PM cannot go by fast enough.

Chapter Text

Clyde’s plan to sneak out of the hotel and arrive at the V Tower by 10PM goes off, as they say, without a hitch.

Even better, the tour of the studio Vox prepared for him is awe-inspiring. The vestiges of the afternoon’s nightmarish occurrences, still clinging to him despite his best efforts, gradually seem to slough off when he’s presented with such a delightful distraction. A sleek control room, an equally outfitted recording booth, plus a cozy sitting area complete with a tended bar. The walls of the sitting room are decorated with shiny black vinyls, spreading all the way to the corridors like a breadcrumb trail designed specifically for Clyde. Even a few bonafide rock and roll, pop, and glamrock legends have their names emblazoned on Vox’s walls, or else have agreed to put one or multiple of their most iconic instruments on display for visitors to admire. Following him through the building with a patient, indulgent smile, Vox seems to soak in Clyde’s giddy astonishment while only preening a little bit.

Only a few people are left at the studio this late, and the prince is almost certain Vox has paid them to be here, but the way their exhaustion-ridden faces light up when Clyde engages them with questions about their work and their passion fills him with so much joy, because how many times really has he been matched beat for beat, point for point in a conversation about his favorite subject of all time?

As their shoes click on the concrete sidewalk, Clyde and Vox each pause to take each other in after stepping out into the dimly-lit street, and the former realizes with a pang that he doesn’t want to go home yet. How can he? It feels like so much has happened, and yet so little—like the night has only just begun, and can only get better from here. Fortunately, Vox saves him from having to ask the dreaded question.

“Wanna go back to mine?”

After such a whirlwind, the quiet limo ride back to the V Tower is a blissful opportunity to recharge. Clyde and Vox sit opposite one another on plush benches, sampling flutes of champagne and listening to the record Clyde requested from the driver. To his utter delight, the Overlord is tapping his foot along to the music.

“Smooth ride,” comments Vox after a few minutes, his smile lifting at the corner. “I wonder who we could thank for that?”

He winks, lifting his glass in Clyde’s direction. The prince flushes, trying unsuccessfully to hide his twitching smile in his glass.

“It was nothing,” he demures, aiming for modesty and landing nowhere near it. “I just signed some things.”

To his credit, Vox plays along with the charade. Pulling out his phone, he swipes a few times before showing Clyde what must be a report, although like any of VoxTek’s internal documents, it’s unintelligible to him. It turns out that initial intel the Overlord had shared with him had been made significantly easier to read for his benefit.

“Vehicular incidents down a cool 37% since the start of this quarter,” Vox explains after seeing the vaguely perplexed look on his companion’s face. “That doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

He smiles again, and this time Clyde returns it openly. “I’m just glad to have done something of use,” he admits.

(And that the mindnumbingly boring process of signing endless stacks of paperwork in Vox’s control room was actually a meaningful use of his time. That said, at least he’d had good company. Who could complain about that?)

“You’re doing fantastic, your highness. The entertainment district is lucky to have you,” Vox tells him. The praise, minor as it is, makes Clyde’s gut twist as he’s once again reminded of the previous evening, heat sparking low even as he curses himself.

Forgetting about his embarrassing…whatever that was…is shaping up to be something of an issue.

With execution that is far and away from flawless—there seems to be something of a trend forming—he pushes the conversation forward before his unbecoming enjoyment of Vox’s approval becomes any more obvious, or the silence in the car becomes too much to stand. Turning his attention to the record playing, Clyde offers up a factoid. “You know he could play 14 instruments? Well,” he gestures flippantly. “Maybe play is a strong word, but he’d tried his hand at 14, you know what I mean?”

“Who’s that? David Bowie?”

Clyde grins. Bowie may have been after Vox’s time, but the demon still made an effort to remember him for Clyde. “Yeah. Supposedly, he thought he was garbage at guitar. Nevermind the fact his music is legendary.”

“I don’t think I could even name 14 instruments if I tried,” the Overlord says wryly, giving the prince an indulgent, very nearly fond look, as if to say ‘go on, then’.

It has its intended effect, as the invitation to prove the depth of his passion, his knowledge, even in such a minute way, makes Clyde prickle with excitement. Unfortunately, the weight of Vox’s full attention completely on him leaves him visibly struggling by the time he gets to 14, despite giving himself a headstart with the handful he’s personally mastered. “Um, fucking…bagpipes?”

He splutters with laughter, cheeks burning, and a snorting Vox lifts his flute in a sarcastic toast. “Fucking bagpipes. Right on.”

After taking a second to compose himself, Clyde continues, “Actually, you’d appreciate this: he was the first musician to publish a song exclusively on the Internet. Pretty glad that stuck, huh?”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Vox scoffs, shaking his head. “Prior to the advent of the Internet on Earth, it was like pulling teeth trying to get anything of decent quality down here. We had a whole underground dedicated to the running of vinyls—still do, in fact.” He sips his champagne. “Imagine a 20-year embargo on any new release. Unless they were part of the 27 club, anyway.”

Bootlegging of vinyls! Clyde laughs, shaking his head in a mirror of the other man. “Nobody buys into music they haven’t already heard pieces of anymore. It’d be borderline impossible to get my music off the ground like that.”

Although…

That’s not entirely true.

“I guess my dad is sort of the gatekeeper of what gets played over the airwaves down here,” he muses. “That would probably garner some attention.”

But would he even play your music? The usual nagging voice whispers. Is your music something he could be proud of?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Vox holds up a hand, arching an eyebrow. “You just visited the most up-and-coming studio in all of Pride! You think radio will give you the exposure you want? When it comes to the music of sinners and hellborn, we’re your ticket to the airwaves, guaranteed,” he insists. “Not to mention, you’re the Prince of Hell. Outside help or not, do you really think no one’s going to be absolutely enamored with you the second you put yourself out there?”

Clyde winces. “What I think is, there will be some assumptions about the quality of my work before it’s given a chance to speak for itself.”

“You’re being too pessimistic. Take that from a pessimist.” Vox waves him off. “A good-looking young man with talent and a crown on his head? You’ll be a spectacle.”

Which is exactly what he doesn’t want, even if Vox doesn’t seem to get it. He wants to be recognized for skill, for his craftsmanship, not his status or—

“Good-looking?” Clyde squeaks.

Vox just looks back at him unwaveringly, shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s best to be aware of every advantage you have at your disposal. And modesty doesn’t suit you, your highness.” A neon pink glow coming through the windows of the limousine suddenly washes over him, and he perks up. “Ah, here we are! Your home away from home.”

The V Tower rolls into view. Vox gets up and leans in towards the front of the car to give the driver instructions, and then he and Clyde each exit from the vehicle. Strolling up the promenade, Vox’s eyes wander up the tower, his head lolling back to take in the sight of this magnificent thing he’s built, his clear pride in his accomplishments shining through.

When Vox catches Clyde looking at him, he smirks and gives him a lighthearted shove. “You’ve certainly cheered up some since we first convened tonight. I’m glad.”

“Oh,” says Clyde, eloquently. He matches Vox’s pace as they enter the glamorous V Tower lobby through the revolving doors. “Did I seem unhappy before?”

“You didn’t seem anything. I could just tell.” Vox flashes him his teeth. “You’re not very good at hiding what you’re thinking, my dear. You ought to work on that, if you’re going to be dabbling in politics.”

Clyde blanches. “I…I see.”

With the press of a button, the executive elevator launches them all the way up to Vox’s penthouse. A Fizzbot greets them at the door, offering more drinks that Clyde politely declines. Rather than take a seat in his chic minimalistic living room as he usually does, Vox heads for the hallway, calling over his shoulder, “Make yourself comfortable, Clyde. Be back in a jiffy.”

True to his word, he disappears into his office for no more than a few seconds, coming back out with a manila folder in his hands just as Clyde settles on the unreasonably lengthy leather couch. Without mentioning the mysterious folder at all, Vox parks himself next to the prince. It’s late enough that, save for the odd neon sign or lit apartment, the city skyline is completely black, which leaves the prince and his companion almost in complete darkness. The only real source of illumination is, funnily enough, Vox’s monitor face.

They sit in silence for a while, before Vox pipes up with the question Clyde’s been anticipating for the last few minutes. “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

Clyde still hunches a little, even though he’d been expecting it. “It’s really not…It’s not a big deal.”

“Right, so why not tell me, then?” Vox fires back, without a beat missed.

“It’s—” Clyde exhales in frustration, rubbing beneath his glasses at his eyes. He can see the glow coming off of Vox’s monitor as the Overlord watches him intently, and knows he isn’t going to let it go until Clyde explains himself. “I watched a sinner die today.”

Clyde braces himself, waiting for the sigh, the head shake, the usual lines—sinners die every day, Clyde, they’re violent, they’re callous, psychopaths, that’s just how it goes—but the other demon doesn’t really react at all. He doesn’t so much as blink, nor does his voice carry any particular inflection when he says, “The exorcists in the shopping district today.”

He might have been surprised that Vox knows about the attack, given how busy he is during the daytime hours…if it weren’t for the fact that Clyde’s become acutely aware of just how many surveillance cameras Vox has installed around the city. He could do with another hobby, in Clyde’s opinion. “Uh-huh.”

“Your folks still haven’t budged on an official address to the masses, then.” Vox examines his claws. “Although I think it’s pretty clear by now the attacks aren’t stopping anytime soon. I don’t know that warnings would do much this late in the game.”

Clyde’s lip curls in irritation. “I don’t even know if they’ve made any progress in their plans with the Seraphim to track down the rogues. It’s not as if they would tell me if they had. I’m always the last to be told anything.”

“What about your sister?”

The prince glances at Vox. He’s never brought up Charlie before, not unless Clyde mentioned her first. “What about my sister?”

Vox looks up from his claws, raising his eyebrows. “It’s my understanding that she once went to Heaven with the express purpose of talking about this very subject: exterminations. Surely she’s been brought up to speed?”

“I…” Clyde falters. “I don’t know.”

His desire to be in the hotel in the first place has been next to nil, lately. When he is in the hotel, he’s usually in his bedroom. He’s not certain he’s spoken more than 10 words to his parents in the last week, let alone his sister.

“Perhaps she’s just as frustrated as you are,” Vox offers.

And, well—she would be, wouldn’t she? Wasn’t this why she had started the hotel project to begin with? To keep sinners from being slaughtered en masse for no reason other than holy entertainment? Clyde recalls her teary eyes and slumped shoulders upon realizing Thalia had died.

What was it Alastor had said?

You need to stop thinking like your sister.

“And speaking as someone who had more than a couple siblings growing up,” continues Vox. “In a confrontation, there’s always safety in numbers, I can tell you right now.”

It’s not the worst idea Clyde’s ever heard. Now that he’s reflecting on it, it seems as though his resentments for his parents had expanded to include Charlie, but that’s not entirely fair. He’s had no real reason to believe that Charlie and their parents were a united front in this department, when Alastor’s disinterest in her redemptive program has been a consistent trend for as long as the prince can remember. Even Lucifer’s efforts to help have been more out of a desire to support Charlie as his daughter than a genuine belief in her mission statement, though he’s definitely more moved by it than his spouse.

Now obviously, Charlie lives in the spotlight, can do virtually anything she wants with little to no pushback from Lucifer or Alastor regardless of their opinions about her work, and treats Clyde almost exactly the same as she did when he only came up to her knee in height…

Does Clyde really want to go to his sister with this, just to be either shut down, or in the event they actually are on the same page about this, overshadowed?

What good could he possibly do, when nobody wants to hear his voice in the first place?

His face twists, frustrated. Maybe Vox is right. They just don’t see his value. Nor are they interested in trying. Even Husk had thought him too weak to defend himself. No one is interested in what he might bring to the table, what he could provide, or even just what he thinks at all.

No one, except for Vox. The only one who treats him like a man rather than a needy, whiny little boy.

“This Heaven stuff…” Clyde mutters, giving voice to these thoughts. “Maybe I should just let them handle it. They’re never going to listen to me. Not when it comes to that. No matter what I do, it won’t be enough to save anyone. They’ve made that clear.”

“Well,” drawls Vox. “There’s always my way.”

“No.”

He pouts. “Why not?”

“I told you—I can’t control what they’ll do if they find out we’re talking. I don’t know what they’d do.” Clyde folds his hands in between his thighs, looking anywhere but at his friend. “I don’t want to stop seeing you.”

A long, uncomfortable stretch of silence. Then, softly, “Then sinners are going to keep dying. You know that.”

“They’re going to die whether or not your people report on it,” Clyde snaps, shoulders hunching defensively. “Why not just face it? You can’t fix it. I can’t fix it. What’s a news bulletin going to do, except fan the flames? We should just…give up. It’s not like a handful of pissed-off angels are going to be able to do serious damage to the populace, anyway. There’ll always be more dead humans.”

Alastor had wanted him to be less empathetic, hadn’t he? Well, here he is, doing just that.

The TV Demon clicks his tongue, vaguely disapproving. “You know what I think about quitting—”

“I don’t care!” Clyde cuts him off and gets to his feet, whirling around to face Vox where he sits on the sofa, nonplussed. “I’m quitting. They don’t need my help? Fine. You said that what you and I are doing is good work. Let’s just…let’s just keep doing that. Don’t you need me?”

Vox’s hands splay over his knees, looking up at him with concern. “Well of course I do, Clyde.”

“Good. Then this is where I will be, when I can.” Clyde squeezes his hands into fists, glaring at the floor. “They don’t need me over there, you know? They don’t want me there. I…want to be needed. I don’t want the kind of love that means pushing me out of everything just because of the possibility of danger. I want to be useful.”

A hand falls on his shoulder. The prince turns to look at Vox, finding him standing at his side, his glowing eyes staring back at him with a furrowed brow. “Like I said,” murmurs the Overlord. “You’ll show them. Whether it’s through this Heaven crisis, or something else. You’ll show them exactly how useful—how worthy of respect you are. I’m going to make sure of it.” The seriousness in his face fading, he declares, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “You would make quite the king.”

It’s a ridiculous assertion, but the conviction in his voice makes Clyde shiver. Vox squeezes his shoulder before releasing him.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says, casually.

Clyde blinks quizzically, surprised by the sudden announcement. “You what?”

Vox just chuckles, strolling towards the front door without a look back. “Come with me. If you still got your sea legs, that is.”

With nowhere else to be, and his curiosity piqued, Clyde traipses after him, out of the apartment and down a couple of corridors. Their destination is, apparently, on the same floor as the mogul and his business partners’ living quarters. They make their way through the residential space, arriving at a closed door at the very end of one last hallway. Finally, Vox takes out that mysterious manila folder and opens it, revealing its contents: a keycard, which he flicks against the electronic lock.

“Your highness,” he drawls, bowing as he holds the door open for the boy. Bemused, the prince rolls his eyes, but accepts the invitation to step through first. He hears Vox’s fingers snap, and the lights come on.

What Clyde had originally assumed was going to be another apartment turns out to instead be a recording studio, not unlike the one they had visited together just an hour or so ago. It has the same square footage as Vox’s own home, making it needlessly spacious, and yet somehow it manages to feel crowded, the soundproofed walls practically flush with instruments and equipment.

Clyde’s heart skips a beat.

Everything that he had told Vox he knew how to play sits in this room.

In some cases, accompanied by spares and duplicates. Everything he knows and loves, and a few little toys he doesn’t yet, plus microphones, speakers and amps and subwoofers with the tidiest wire management he’s ever seen in his life, all sleek and pretty under warm, moody lighting provided by chic black-iron fixtures installed above. There’s even sofas, a beanbag chair, a coffee table or two, and a small kitchenette in the back, including a refrigerator that Clyde wouldn’t be shocked to find out is completely stocked.

It takes his breath away. So much so that he barely has the ability to turn and whisper, “Is—is this…?”

Vox lurks in the doorway, radiating smugness as he watches the wonder overtake the young prince. “Hmm?” He intonates, failing to suppress a grin. “Is this what, your highness?”

He can only tease for so long, though, before sobering up. “I know you have something like this back at home,” says Vox quietly, fidgeting with the keycard as he finally steps into the room. “I just thought—maybe you’d like to have a place to yourself here, too. If there’s anything you need added—oof!”

In a second, Clyde closes the distance between them, practically bowling him over with the force of his embrace. He feels Vox stumble, no doubt startled by that unexpected glimpse of inherited angelic strength, before allowing Clyde—the typically touch-neutral prince—to settle against him with a faint, affectionate-sounding chuckle.

“This means a lot,” mutters Clyde, shivering, his nose pressed against the demon’s shoulder, trying to smother his emotions and the embarrassment he feels as a result of them in navy blue suede. “Thank you.”

A place to himself. Something that is entirely and exclusively all for Clyde. Not something he created for himself but which was given to him, for no reason other than that Vox wanted to. A kind of grand, excessive, explicit appreciation he’s not accustomed to.

“You’re trying so hard to keep everyone around you safe and happy,” Vox replies, speaking to him softly. “Don’t you deserve that same consideration?”

Clyde squeezes his eyes shut, holding onto the Overlord a little tighter. “I’m—I’m the Prince of Hell. I have everything I could ever want,” he deflects. “Champagne fountains, caviar mountains, so on and so forth. I’m doing just fine.”

He draws back a smidge, trying to build back some of his resolve, but what he does manage to recover is shattered again by the proximity of their bodies, and the intensity of Vox’s gaze. His hands flex behind Vox’s back as he averts his own eyes, trying very hard not to think about how their height difference means the prince is at eye level with the other demon’s mouth.

Unfortunately, it would seem that Vox has other plans.

“It’s one thing to have everything you could ever want,” he murmurs slowly. After a long pause, he reaches out, and Clyde feels the pinch of his claws on his face as he takes the prince’s chin between his fingers, drawing his attention back to him. Vox holds him gently, as though he’s something fragile, the very tip of one claw resting at the corner of Clyde’s lip, just beside his labret piercing. “It’s another to have somebody attend to those wants, isn’t it? For someone to care enough to provide, regularly, to pay attention to what you want, without ever having to ask for that thoughtfulness…”

Clyde swallows, rapidly losing his nerve now that he’s unable to look away, to conceal his expressions. A part of him on principle wants to fight back, to tell the demon that, regardless of how angry he might be, his family does provide for him, that it’s against him and their friendship to suggest otherwise; but then, that would mean losing this moment. Where Vox is smiling at him, almost knowingly, as though he’s fully aware of how desperately the boy is chomping at the bit. The prince tentatively wraps one hand around Vox’s wrist, just below where he’s holding him, and he ignores the implied slight against his loved ones.

There’s no hypnosis required in this. He’s mesmerized.

“And you care enough, huh?” He whispers, challenging him, “That’s what you want me to believe?”

With another gentle laugh, the demon’s eyelashes flutter downward until his pixelated eyes are scarlet slits. He demures, “I’ll admit that you occupy quite a chunk of my thoughts.”

It’s not enough, but it will do for now.

Unwilling to wait lest he lose his courage, Clyde’s hands come up, arms quickly circling around Vox’s neck as he rocks up onto his toes to press their mouths together in a dry kiss. In a single moment, he breaches the line in the sand he’d been carefully drawing, especially since fantasizing about the other man, and steps fully into the lurid, gut-fluttering impulses that have been lurking under the surface. His heart is thudding in his chest, anticipating the shove or sound of disgust he’s still half-certain is coming—is this okay? Am I okay?—but then, Vox wraps an arm around the prince’s waist, his smile barely receding as he reciprocates the gesture—and Clyde suddenly can’t remember why he was ever uncertain or afraid at all.

Clyde lets out a soft noise into Vox’s mouth, angling his head to kiss him more firmly. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing—the only kiss under his belt was stolen from a Goetia boy in an ornate, empty foyer while their respective families were gathered in the courtroom next door—but he does know that what he is doing feels nice, so he continues. He also finds that kissing Vox is surprisingly uncomplicated—far easier than he would have expected kissing a screen to be. He tries to follow the gentle rhythm being set for him, a little thrilled to discover that apart from that initial guidance, Vox is content to let him take the lead, and break apart whenever he wants.

He does have to, eventually, rather than pass out in Vox’s arms. Clyde is panting lightly when he pulls away, going cross-eyed trying to take in the Overlord before him. All the while, that arm remains looped around him, holding him close and keeping them chest to chest.

“That was nice,” Clyde acknowledges, softly.

“Good.” Vox’s voice is just as soft, if a little amused. “I think so, too.”

The hellborn’s lip twitches in the ghost of a smile. A thought occurs to him— “What about Val? What would he think?”

(What would your family—)

Vox outright laughs. “He fucks people for a living! I’m sure he can find it in himself to share.”

But can Clyde? He doesn’t know.

Rather than address that daunting question (or any of the others clawing their way to the front of his mind), Clyde says, “I think I’d like to do it again.”

Vox chortles lightly. “My life is but to serve you, my prince,” he quips, and obediently ducks his head to let himself be kissed a second time. This one is shorter, merely a chaste brush of the lips, but it makes Clyde’s head go fuzzy and dormant all the same.

His cheeks are hot as they each pull away. Being the center of Vox’s attention is still suffocating and oppressive, but now, it’s far too much to bear; he has to get away before he does something truly stupid. When he squirms, Vox relinquishes the prince from his encompassing hold, watching silently as he walks over to the cluster of various guitars before crouching to caress one of the bass guitars with his thumb. Its strings shimmer like goldleaf, so taut, perfect, clearly untouched—practically begging him to pluck at them.

Clyde looks over his shoulder, where Vox is still standing patiently. “I should go home.”

The Overlord nods agreeably. “All right.”

“I…don’t want to,” he confesses.

“I understand.”

Clyde swallows, before finally saying, “I think…I’m going to stay a little longer.”

Vox smiles, broad and sharp and undeniably pleased. “For as long as you want, your highness.”

And that’s that.

Clyde succumbs to the instruments’ seemingly impenetrable argument, sitting cross-legged on the ground with the bass in his lap, running through basic drills and a few off-the-cuff little experiments, all with Vox sprawled on the nearby beanbag chair. He swipes and taps at holograms and fiddles with his phone, but always, his attention comes back to Clyde.

“I could watch you play all night,” he admits, while the boy is resting his fingers. It’s been maybe half an hour since either of them have spoken, so Clyde looks up at him…and then away when the sinner pursues that same damn unwavering eye contact, feeling his core tighten.

“Good thing you have better stuff to do, then,” he replies, with a bashful laugh.

He prepares to launch back into practicing, but Vox stops him. “Hold on a sec. I have a…possibly touchy question for you, if you don’t mind.”

The prince’s hands still. “Uh. All right. Go ahead?”

In his periphery, Vox props the edge of his monitor on his palm. “See, I was just thinking about what you were saying before…and surely, you’ve seen a sinner die before? You’re, what, a century old? A century and 15?”

“120,” Clyde corrects him. He drums his claws on the guitar’s glossy blue body, debating how to respond. Vox’s question is, indeed, a little touchy, invoking reminders of the gruesome events of the afternoon. But, he supposes it’s an understandable confusion on Vox’s part. He decides to be honest, but cut neatly around the more vulnerable parts of that truth. He’s more than had his fill of being perceived today.

“Death by angelic steel is different,” he argues. “And, not everyone has the connection with sinner souls that I do.”

A brief pause, before Vox is dropping his arm and pitching forward, intrigued. “What do you mean, a connection with souls?”

Seemingly genuine curiosity, which can only mean—

“What, you mean I haven’t told you about this, either?” Clyde brushes a hand back through his curls, scoffing at himself. “Hells. So, I can do magic. Obviously. Fire magic, telekinesis, a little warping, the easy stuff. It’s a Morningstar thing.”

“Right,” the sinner says, wryly. “The easy stuff, of course.”

“More than that, though, I’ve—got this thing. I never had to learn it, really, it just sort of…was,” Clyde explains. “When you look at a person, all you see is what they look like on the outside, right? When I look at a person, I can see the—the shape, I guess, of their soul. I can interact with it. Touch it. As far as I know, it only extends to human souls, but maybe one day—”

“You can touch them?” Vox interjects.

“Y—Yes?” Clyde finally looks into his face, and is surprised by the level of interest in the Overlord’s expression. “If I focus hard enough.”

“What does it feel like? To have your soul touched?”

“How would I know?” He laughs, still taken aback. “I don’t have a human soul, and I haven’t exactly been given any reviews of my performance.”

The demon considers him, his lips pursed. Then he sits back against the cushions and beckons the prince. “Touch mine.”

Clyde splutters, now thoroughly caught off guard. “Um. What? Why?”

“I want to see how it works,” replies Vox, shrugging. He smirks. “And you wouldn’t cause me any harm, would you, my prince?”

“Not on purpose,” he exclaims. But, while still bewildered by the request, he does gently set down the guitar and move to kneel on the carpet in front of Vox’s chair, sitting on his calves between the other demon’s legs. Vox leans toward the boy expectantly.

If this is something that’s going to please him…Hasn’t Vox done a lot for him? It’s only fair to give him something he wants.

“I…I guess I’ll do it. Just tell me if it hurts?” Clyde says, adjusting his glasses. “Best case scenario, it might feel a little intrusive.”

Warily, Clyde rises up onto his knees, planting one hand on Vox’s leg while he reaches out with the other to hover over his clothed chest. The air between them is charged as Vox observes him intently, not a single mechanical muscle so much as twitching as he waits for Clyde’s next move.

Clyde has touched only one person’s soul before. There was no fear involved in that. Alastor had trusted him, and more than that, was curious about the reaches of Clyde’s abilities in much the same way that Vox is right now—and when Alastor is curious about something, an investigation must be in order. It was the closest Clyde has ever felt to his father; in the sparks of not-quite-electricity that erupted when he’d done it, he’d seen parts of Alastor’s mind that he hadn’t before. He’d seen the pride that had landed him in this very ring, the shame that Clyde now knows keeps him from knowing everything he would truly like to know about the man who fathered him, and the anger Alastor can’t really mask no matter how much he smiles; and above all else, a deep, vicious love for Lucifer and their children.

Of course Alastor loves Clyde. He doesn’t doubt it. It’s never been a question. The way Alastor loves, though, when it’s unavoidably combined with pride, shame, and anger…

Clyde takes a deep breath and looks to Vox, gauging his readiness. “Okay?”

The sinner nods, and Clyde finally presses his hand to his chest. A gentle push, at first, just the heel of his palm flat against Vox’s sternum. Clyde narrows his focus down to that sensation of skin on skin, and like that, with a little encouragement, the wall separating the physical world from the metaphysical becomes almost porous. Clyde’s hand simply ignores the solidity of Vox’s body, his clothes, and reaches into him, passing through that malleable divide and towards the buzzing, blue, vaguely spherical core of him.

“A—ah.” Above Clyde, Vox’s face contorts with something that might be pain, his voice glitching.

“Are you—”

“Fine.” Vox grits his teeth. His eyes are glued to where the prince is wrist-deep in his torso. “I’m fine. Keep going.”

It seems best not to argue. Hesitantly, Clyde pushes onward. Similar to the first time he’d done this, his entire hand is engulfed in what can only be described as static, prickling all over his scales. It’s not unlike having his foot fall asleep. Vaguely uncomfortable, but not so much that he can’t continue.

Apart from that single sensation, this bears no similarities to how it had been with Clyde’s dad. Attempting this with Alastor had been a clinical process, a mere test of what Clyde was capable of and the effects, if any.

With Vox, it’s hardly that. His restlessness, the occasional involuntary noises he’s making, even his sudden and uncharacteristic refusal to make eye contact, all have Clyde on the verge of breaking a sweat. It’s borderline intimate.

The thing is, though—without actually touching the soul, Vox’s emotions remain frustratingly foreign to Clyde. And, well, Vox did ask. Letting his curiosity (and the temptation of knowing) get the better of him, Clyde abruptly abandons his caution, finally curls his fingers and closes his fist around Vox’s being.

And is immediately overcome with terror.

“Stop,” Vox wheezes. “Stopstopstopstopstop—”

Clyde rips his hand away, startled, and Vox gasps, clutching at where they’d been connected. Upon losing that point of contact, the sudden bout of fear subsides, but only for one of them. Vox remains visibly unsettled, his screen briefly flashing as he attempts to recover.

The hellborn hurries out, “I’m sorry! Did that hurt?”

Genuinely, he doesn’t know if it does, or even if it has the potential to. Apart from a flinch here or there, Alastor had worn the same neutral smile for the entire duration of their experiment, and hadn’t lingered afterward to reveal any particulars regarding how it felt. The most Clyde had gotten was a hand on his head and a “well done, dear” before he practically ran out of the room.

In hindsight, perhaps that should have been revealing enough. As established, the Radio Demon isn’t keen on displaying weakness.

“Too much.” Vox snaps. As Clyde flinches away, he inhales deeply, and appears to get himself under control as he repeats, “Just…too much.”

The prince hunches a little. “I told you,” he mumbles. “Best case scenario.”

He hadn’t even gotten a good look.

“Ha! ‘Intrusive’ was right. Golly.” Noticing the frown on Clyde’s face, Vox clicks his tongue, acting as though the change in his demeanor had never occurred. “Oh come on now, I don’t regret it! Haven’t you ever tried something just to try it? Don’t look so put out.”

The polished, made-for-TV bravado in his voice might work on the cameras, but Clyde has his doubts. There’s a clear eagerness on Vox’s part to move past his outburst. Out of embarrassment? Or maybe something else. Still, Clyde tries to smother his disappointment (and guilt) in order to school his expression into something more acceptable.

Vox bares his teeth in a grin, a hint of relief in his own visage. “Thatta boy.”

It never occurred to Clyde that his abilities might unnerve some; although, apparently there were signs, and he just missed them. Shifts in body language, nonverbal cues, the kind of changes he’s simply never been able to register as suspicious.

The first time the prince had made this power known to any of the hotel staff, when he’d called out the shackles around Husk’s soul…If unease didn’t register to him now, it certainly didn’t register when he was much younger, curious about the chains which felt all too familiar to Clyde as Alastor’s son.

What does he do, now that he knows this thing that shapes the way he sees everything is upsetting to the people he cares about?

After a languid stretch, the Overlord shifts off the beanbag and onto the ground next to his companion, sprawling out on his side with the knee of one leg hiked up. He looks like something out of a men’s fashion magazine. It’s very much a performance in Clyde’s eyes—see? look how casual I’m being—but he smiles at it anyway.

“I have another question for you,” says Vox, tinging sly.

“Oh, good.”

“Hush.” He chastises him with an obnoxious ‘shut it’ gesture, touching his thumb to his other four digits. “I have to ask. Earlier…” Vox cocks his head. “Was that your first kiss, your highness?”

“I—no?” Clyde furrows his brow at him, bristling slightly. “What, didn’t you like it?”

The sinner rolls his eyes. “Not what I’m saying.”

“You should ask better questions, then!”

“What I’m saying is, you seemed hesitant. And that’s a rarity down here.” Vox shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe I was hoping I got the honor of taking it from you.”

Clyde shakes his head, cringing. “Eugh. No, sorry.”

He’d rather not expound on his first kiss or his hesitation about his most recent. Especially considering the latter had just as much to do with his untouched shame over his infatuation with Vox as it did his nerves and inexperience. He can’t bring himself to regret it fully, but…

Before he was born. Vox had known at least one member of his family since before he was born.

It’s not as if the passage of time in Hell is indistinguishable from the passage of time on Earth, but still. Optics are optics.

However, despite being a famous television personality, optics appear to be a thing with which Vox is not concerned.

“Well…” As his voice becomes hushed and gentle, Vox’s clawed hand searches for one of Clyde’s own. His thumb runs over the back of his wrist as he tugs up, bringing the hellborn’s knuckles to his mouth. “What about some other firsts…?” He murmurs against Clyde’s scales, static and vibrato buzzing against them. “I can think of one in particular…”

“Hells.” Blushing furiously, Clyde swats at him. “Stop fucking with me.”

“Now who in the world is doing that?” Vox exclaims. “I go after what I want. Are you telling me that one’s been stolen, too?”

“Would it make a difference if it had?” Clyde fires back, raising an eyebrow, and makes a noise of disgust as Vox appears to seriously consider it. “You can forget it!”

“I’m teasing!” Vox insists, with frustrating cheeriness. He reaches out and snags Clyde’s hand again, pulling it to his chest and letting his fingers splay out across it. “Come on, don’t be like that.”

The hellborn grumbles but lets the sinner keep custody of his hand. “Just shut up.”

“I won’t judge, I promise. Scout’s honor. Just give me this one thing, and I’ll—” He mimes zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key.

The self-conscious part of Clyde, still indignant about Vox’s audacity, wants to, once again, refuse on principle. Another part of him sincerely hopes that answering truthfully will actually end this line of questioning. And a third, the part of him that had allowed all of this to happen, is perhaps hoping he can trust Vox with that truth.

Maybe even trust him to do something about it.

Given the events of the evening so far, it might be unsurprising that it is that last part which Clyde ends up listening to.

“Fine,” he grouses, without looking at him, “No, I haven’t had sex. And—” He holds up his hand not currently under arrest, pressing a finger to Vox’s utterly delighted face. “I don’t want that yet, so don’t start.”

It wasn’t as if he’d been lacking opportunities—that same Goetia boy came to mind. It just hadn’t been something he craved or needed then…

Vox lifts his own hand in a mirror of the prince, as though swearing an oath. “It will be entirely on your terms, doll.”

Doll?!

Clyde rips his hand away and launches onto his feet. “Well, it sure is late.”

“Is it?” Vox smiles wryly up at him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Rocking on his heels, Clyde clears his throat as Vox makes no move to stand up. “So, are you gonna…”

“Hmm? Did you need something?”

Going impossibly redder in the face, Clyde grumbles, “Ugh, nevermind…” He walks towards the door before yelping in surprise as Vox sizzles into view before him, sparks jumping off of his form. “Gah!”

“Like I was just going to let you leave?” Vox scoffs, and Clyde opens his mouth to retort with—something. What exactly, he doesn’t know, because before he can, the other demon seals his mouth over his, and all other thoughts promptly dissipate into the void. The Overlord draws back after a moment, and caresses Clyde’s cheek. “When will I be seeing you again?”

“Ha…I dunno…” Clyde gives him a wobbly smile. “What, got more things for me to sign?”

“I’m sure I can scrounge something up for you.” With a final pinch to the apple of the prince’s cheek, he winks. “Goodnight, your highness.”

Clyde spirits himself home this time, rather than putting himself through the walk. He showers and brushes his teeth, and all throughout, even as he pulls on his pajamas and tries to quiet his frenzied mind in the comfort of his dark and peaceful bayou, his heart patters in his chest like it’s been replaced by a frightened rabbit.

What in the seven rings has he gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

The state Clyde finds himself in when he wakes up the next morning speaks volumes about the quality of what little sleep he managed to get. He’s tangled in a twisting nightmare of sheets and blankets, his damp body still ever so slightly heavy with exhaustion. Even his eyes are protesting against just being open, sore around the rims and lids as if begging him for just one more hour. Clyde groans, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow he has cradled to his body.

Now that he’s awake, he has no choice but to ruminate over last night. Again. For possibly the fifth time since three o’clock this morning.

So.

He’d kissed Vox. Three times. Which is arguably less intimate than the part where he’d caressed the essence of his very being, but…then again, there isn’t a widely-accepted (yet somehow still confusing and vague) social framework for that.

What does all of that mean for Clyde, exactly?

It would be one thing if he hated it. This relationship, which was supposed to be at most a friendship and at minimum strictly business, could keep functioning the way it was intended to. Albeit with some probably very unpleasant awkwardness, but Clyde’s not unfamiliar with that by any means. The fantasy would die and he could keep Vox as a mentor while still maintaining a respectable distance from someone who is, rather unavoidably, something like a ghost from Alastor’s past. There’s no way of knowing how Alastor would react if he did find out, but surely, it would be preferable to whatever would happen now?

No matter what, Vox is a ruthless, seasoned Overlord with major beef, ranked below Clyde. Conflict of interest doesn’t even begin to cover it. Socially speaking, there’s no reason they should be talking. Vox had even admitted to stretching the truth just to be able to meet him. And yet, Clyde can’t help the fluttery feeling he gets every time he remembers any of those three kisses. He didn’t hate it. In fact, he’d say he liked it entirely too much. Vox’s attention, which now included, apparently, his desire, could be overwhelming, but it was addicting, being the sole thing such a busy, powerful, intelligent and dangerous man could focus on.

(Not more dangerous than Clyde, but confidence goes a long way.)

It’s not Clyde that Vox’s preferred method of storing power bothers. It would be all too easy for Clyde to forget about their original agreement and Pride and legacy and just…soak in as much of that feeling as he could handle.

But—putting aside his father, his mother, and his crown—is there any reason the prince can’t have both? Mentorship, plus a little extra? If he’s being honest with himself, Clyde wants it. He wants Vox’s attention and time, and he wants to become a leader on his own terms.

The whole sneaking around thing doesn’t feel good, but if that is the reward…

And who’s to say they’ll notice, anyway? He keeps things from them all the time. They hadn’t known about his desperate need for eyeglasses until he was 30. It took them even longer to realize his capabilities when it comes to the souls of sinners, although that one had not been intentional. They still have absolutely no idea about his privileged access to Angel’s stash of more acceptable recreational drugs (apparently Charlie had shown some leniency, on the basis that marijuana can ease anxiety).

All Clyde has to do is be discreet, and avoid letting his goals be eclipsed by whatever this new, unfamiliar factor is.

Manageable. It’s all manageable, and he doesn’t feel the least bit sick to his stomach.

Clyde exhales into his pillow. In any other circumstance, he’d be going right back to bed, and the hotel staff would just have to see him when they see him. This time, though, it’s not an option, because someone’s knocking at his door, causing Abra or Zam to rumble menacingly out in the foggy bayou.

“Little brother!” Charlie sings through the paneling. More knocking. “Guess who made you breakfast, because she’s the best big sister ever?”

“S’unlocked,” groans Clyde. “Stop bangin’ on the door.”

Said door swings open, and a still-pajama-clad Charlie bustles in with a cart of food, awkwardly contorting her body to keep the door from slamming shut too loudly. “Sorry! I didn’t wanna come in uninvited!” She laughs, before muttering, “I learned my lesson the first time.”

There wasn’t much of a story there. Get roared at by a pair of giant lizards for intruding once, and you’ll never do it again.

“They were just doing what they were designed to do.” Clyde reaches for his glasses and slides them onto his face, just to narrow his eyes at the breakfast cart as it comes closer. The bacon looks surprisingly crispy, the french toast fluffy, and the scrambled eggs look…edible? “You made this, you said?”

“Don’t sound so skeptical! It’s possible to get better at skills, you know! Practice…makes…” Under Clyde’s unimpressed gaze, she sighs, slumping in defeat onto her brother’s comforter. “Okay, Alastor helped me a little. But it was mostly me!”

“Right.” For a demon who thrives on chaos, his father is pretty no-nonsense in the kitchen. “Well, thank you.”

“There’s cheese in the eggs!” Charlie informs him proudly.

By nature of what he is, Clyde can’t help but prefer his food to be on the more rare side; not as in exotic, but as in literally raw. That said, even he can appreciate some good old-fashioned cheesy eggs.

As he crunches on bacon almost too brittle to be considered culinarily acceptable, Clyde finds himself thinking: why had Alastor gone to all this trouble? The royal couple had made sure their second-in-line knew how to feed himself very early on—there was no reason for him to help Charlie fix him breakfast, other than that he wanted to, even in the midst of all this…everything. As notoriously petty and careless as he can be, Alastor is still his father, trying to provide for him.

If Clyde wasn’t sick to his stomach before, he absolutely is now. The prince discreetly sets down his plate and redirects his attention to the cup of chicory root coffee sitting in a floral saucer, from a set that looks like it’s probably Auntie Ro’s doing. A holiday present, or something.

Meanwhile, Charlie helps herself to his french toast. A theft which he would protest against, were it not for the fact that he doesn’t have any strong feelings about the dish. As it stands, he’ll let it slide.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Charlie gives him a curious look, so he elaborates, “You’re not usually breaking down my door to feed me.”

Charlie bristles. “I did not break down your door.”

“Did, too.”

“Did not.”

“Did, too—ow!”

She reaches out and tugs on one of his gauges, huffing, “There’s not an occasion. I just…y’know…I haven’t had a chance to talk to you in a little while. Because of—” She waves her hands in a vague sort of gesture. “You know?” The princess rolls her eyes as Clyde immediately mockingly recreates her hand-waving. “Oh, fuck off! Serves me right for trying to be a good sister.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

She’s as quick to forgive as ever. “Apology accepted. I just wanted to check on you, okay?” Licking some stray syrup off her fingers, she folds her legs up under her to sit more comfortably. Apparently, this is going to be a whole thing. “I know things aren’t easy on you right now, what with Dad and Alastor being so busy and stressed.”

Clyde shakes his head dismissively, quick to reject the concept. If there’s one thing he doesn’t want above all else—and in truth he wants a lot of things—it’s to look like the child starving for attention, grasping at Father’s coattails. He might be lonely, but he’s not helpless. “It’s fine. They’re overbearing, anyway. There are things that are more important.”

She sighs. “I mean, sure. But, let’s be serious. Dad lets work consume him, and Alastor…sometimes, his idea of protecting the people he cares about looks a lot like hurting them. That’s not your fault, and they shouldn’t be letting this stupid standstill with Heaven interfere with your relationship with each other, either.”

“I guess you heard about the argument,” Clyde surmises, mumbling into his cup of coffee. Sure enough, his sister winces.

“It seemed like it hit him pretty hard.”

The prince makes a face. “What?” He says. “He called me stupid. I don’t know what he’s so upset about.”

“Well, Clyde…” Charlie’s expression creases with sheepishness as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You did push him?”

He laughs, shocked and outraged, “Because of the way he treated me!”

“He’s trying to protect you,” she says calmly. “Concern isn’t his strong suit.”

“That’s not my fucking fault, Charlie.”

“No,” she agrees, holding up her hands to placate the younger royal’s quickly growing anger, “It’s not. And I told him that. But, I think it’s always worthwhile to interrogate why people make the choices they do, especially when we don’t totally understand them.”

The prince folds his arms. As admirable as her ability to see the best in everyone is, Clyde can’t find it in himself to sympathize with Alastor. Not this time. Why is it his responsibility to forgive and forget every single time the demon slips up and says something foul? Even if Alastor’s intentions are good, even if he loves his son, it’s never once taken away from the sting of what he’s said.

Clyde looks down at the platter of food at his side, and finds that he’s lost his appetite. Do or say something cruel, and then paint over it with a nice gesture. That’s the Radio Demon way, and it had just about worked, too.

“I know you’re angry,” Charlie says quietly. “I think everyone is right now, a little bit. I want to tell you, though—whatever it is you’re doing when you’re leaving the house at night, I have to question if it’s really worth the satisfaction of breaking their rules.”

Ah. So that’s what really sparked this visit.

Looks like his gut feeling about Vaggie was right.

Although the urge to react is strong, Clyde keeps his face and voice flat. “What? I haven’t left the house in—in days.”

The look his sister gives him says exactly how convinced she is, but she confirms it with what she says next. “Hmm’kay. A word of advice from someone who was once a teenager? If you don’t want people to notice you’re sneaking out, don’t come back in through the front door, dumbass.”

Clyde’s lip curls, mumbling, “Teenager! I’m over a century old…”

“And I’m over three centuries old,” Charlie fires back. “You don’t like the word ‘teenager’, that’s fine, but you’re young. And that’s not a stand-in for 'stupid' or 'naive', okay? I’m your big sister. It’s my job to look after you. That’s always gonna be the case, no matter how old you get.” She reaches out, placing a hand on his knee. Lowering her voice to a whisper, “I promise I won’t tell them, just as long as you talk to me about it, all right? Beyond me just being a nagging sister, it’s not good for your body to keep secrets.”

“Oh yeah?” He scoffs. “What pop psychology book did you pick that up from?”

It’s not his best work, and they both know it. Charlie stares at him.

“Whatever.” He looks away, pursuing eye contact with the puddle of syrup on his plate instead. Vox had told him that to face his parents, he should find solidarity in his sister.

But…

In this moment only, it’s hard to say he cares about that fight. Nor does he care about the bitterness he’s managed to cultivate over decades of watching Charlie flourish in her independence.

At the mercy of her vigorous encouragement, all he wants to do is confide in her, the way he used to. When he was little and Charlie was like the center of the universe to him, the very axis on which the world turned.

Maybe secrets really aren’t good for his body, seeing how badly he wants to be out with it. He wants someone to know.

Then again, this is what Charlie's good at.

There’s no way he can tell her the complete truth. Vox had asked for secrecy and he doesn’t doubt that Charlie would have her own opinions about him mingling with an Overlord, a sinner with a census’ worth of souls in his possession.

Only one of those is allowed in this house. Plus Rosie, when she drops by.

Not to mention, Vox oversees the entertainment district. The very place Alastor once told Clyde had loudly and cheerfully dismissed his sister when she was first starting out in the world of redemption.

But a version of the truth, a smaller, less offensive confession to distract from the unfortunate identity of Clyde’s companion….

“You promise you won’t tell them.”

His sister nods. “I swear.”

“I don’t want you to baby me, either. I really hate it when you talk to me like I don’t know what I’m doing. I do.”

Charlie’s face softens further at that. “Oh, Clyde. Do I really make you feel that way?”

The incredulous sadness in her voice makes Clyde think about just how scornful he’s been towards her, even just inside his own mind. Some part of him has known that he hasn’t been fair to her, but his anger has always outweighed his reason.

“I’m not little anymore,” he says, his eyes finally flitting up to hers. “I’m not helpless and I understand that my actions have consequences. Mom and Dad can keep me out of royal stuff all they like, but I can’t be cooped up in this hotel anymore. I’ll lose my mind.”

The princess tilts her head to one side, her bedraggled ponytail dangling. There’s a slight pinch between her brows as she seems to choose her next words carefully. “I…hear you. I promise I do. I spent a really long time being sheltered myself, but—”

“You get to do whatever you want,” Clyde says with a frown, a hint of that sourness returning to him with a swiftness. He’s read her deliberate choice of words as an attempt to pacify him, and needs to shut it down now. “It’s not fair, everybody talking to me like I’m gonna walk outside and present my neck to the first exorcist I see. I’m not going to take any candy from strangers, Charlie, I’m not stupid.”

(Despite what other parties might think.)

Charlie gives him a sharp look for interrupting. “I never said you were stupid. If you were paying attention, instead of looking for opportunities to dig at me, I just said that I don’t think that at all.” She folds her arms. “But you know what? There are a lot of things you don’t know about the way I grew up, Clyde. You might be pissed off right now—which is totally valid—but you have a lot of things to be thankful for. Things that I didn’t have, that I don’t tell you about because I don’t want you to feel guilty for being taken care of the way you fucking should.”

Her gaze is steady, and penetrating, causing Clyde to look away again. (Why does everyone always want to look him in the eyes?) The thing is—whether she wants him to know or not, he does, had learned all about the trials and tribulations of Charlie’s demonic youth through the others.

Never had he considered that her freedom had come at that cost.

A tense moment later, Charlie speaks up again, softer this time. “If you just want someone to understand and listen to you, you have it. I don’t think either of them are perfect people, and I never have. I’m not going to start now.” She reaches out again, squeezing his wrist. “Can you please, please give me the opportunity to be your sister, instead of just an extension of our parents?”

Clyde looks at her fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“There’s…this guy.”

Charlie perks up and lets go of his arm, nodding eagerly.

“I’ve been sneaking out to see him. He’s a sinner.” Even admitting just this much is making his cheeks go warm, but hiding his face in his coffee mug proves to be pretty unpleasant when he realizes the contents have gone cold and slightly sludgy. He grimaces and sets the mug on his nightstand, glancing at his sister. “He lives not far out in the pentagram. Near downtown. It’s not a far walk, when I don’t feel like teleporting.”

“That’s great! A boy!” Charlie flushes with excitement. “But why is that such a big secret? Your dad’s a sinner.”

“My dad wouldn’t like him. And Mama’s a little bit of a hypocrite, wants me talking to Goetias and aristocrats,” Clyde replies, sneering. “He’s not an aristocrat, and he’s not prim or proper all the time, but he’s a gentleman to me.”

She nods sagely. “Well, does anyone else know?”

“Husk does, sort of. I didn’t tell him much because of, well. You know.”

The reminder of the nature of her facility manager’s relationship with her bartender always brings the same kind of nervous discomfort to Charlie’s face, and this time is no exception, her smile twitching. “Right. But that’s great, Clyde!” She leans over the breakfast platter to throw her arms around him, Clyde bracing himself just in time. Squeezing him, she exclaims, “Oh, I’m so glad to hear you’re meeting people! And not just a friend, but a boyfriend! Did I even know you like boys?”

Still locked in his sister’s embrace, Clyde manages to shrug. “I don’t exactly go out of my way to hide it, but I don’t talk about it, either.”

The princess pulls away, cupping his arms instead. “What about girls?” After yet another noncommittal shrug, she grows contemplative. “Well, I can’t blame you for not liking your selections when it comes to our nobility. Not to mention, keeping Dad out of it. I dated a Von Eldritch once. I thought it would be convenient, you know, since our families were already friends. Never again.”

Clyde smiles at her, genuinely delighted to be brought into cahoots. His sister is much more accepting than he thought she would be. After Alastor’s reaction to even just the name 'Vox', on top of weeks of secrecy and his own doubts, it’s…nice to hear someone be supportive of Clyde’s choices.

Even if he had to obfuscate a bit to get here. It’s a relief.

“I don’t think we’re dating, really,” says Clyde, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not, like…my boyfriend. All I did was kiss him.”

His voice dips in volume and he cringes, causing Charlie to squeal. Because she’s Charlie.

“Oh, I can’t believe it! My brother’s first admirer! What does he look like?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Ugh, but you have to. Please please please, I wanna know so bad…”

Around a half hour of dodging incriminating questions and breadcrumbing later, Charlie finally seems sated enough for Clyde to change the subject. “What’s everyone doing today? I’m out of the loop.”

“Well, Niffty’s upstairs refreshing a couple rooms after an incident with some firecrackers last night. Angel’s working, Husk’s doing his thing, ah…Dad’s not home, he’s actually meeting with the Sins right now.”

“What for?”

She sighs. “He…wants to make sure they’re on board in the event things go south with Heaven again. Things aren’t looking good on the ‘criminalizing rogue exorcists’ front. I guess they thought outlawing the official exterminations was concession enough.”

“Criminalize sanctioned exterminations, but let criminals go wild,” Clyde mutters. “What a concession.”

“I know.” She grimaces. “My contact up there—Emily, you met her once, but you were probably too small to remember—is furious.”

Clyde purses his lips. “Meeting with the Sins, though? You don’t think he…” He trails off.

“Plans on waging war? Oh, no, Clyde, no, I really don’t. I think getting the Sins on his side is mostly a performance, to show Heaven that he’s not alone. Not that that did much the first time around, I’ve read the history books, seen the tallies…” Clyde’s sister grows solemn. “The angel leading the rebellion…You don’t know her, you weren’t around when she was the general exorcist’s right hand. She’s the one who took Vaggie’s eye? Yeah, she’s…she’s…exactly the kind of person who would want another war. In fact, I’m sure she’s pissed that Heaven hasn’t started one yet. If Dad were to do that, we’d just be playing right into her hands.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a rebellion, when the Seraphim aren’t doing anything about it,” Clyde points out. “All this, because she really likes killing sinners?”

“It’s excessive, but, well. I’ve heard the stories from Vaggie.” Charlie runs her fingers through her ponytail absently. “It’s not just Lute. Exterminating, being an ‘exorcist’...It’s their entire identity. They aren’t given the option to be anything else. They don’t think about it as killing human souls, either, they think about it as extinguishing evil. Being the good guys. Now they’re being very politely confronted with the idea that they might not be, and…these are the results. As shitty as it is.”

Clyde exhales. “Huh.”

“On the bright side, though!” Charlie clasps her hands together, once again wearing her trademark million-watt smile. “All this focus on allyship means that Alastor and I are helping plan a little get-together later this month! A ‘who’s who’ of Pride, held at Carmine’s headquarters.”

Clyde laughs, the noise startled out of him. Had the last five minutes of their conversation been some sort of elaborate hallucination? “Um. Is that really a good idea? A huge cluster of big-name sinners, all together in the same place? That’s exactly the kind of thing the exorcists are going to want to attack, if they hear about it.”

She waves him off. “It’s super down-low, don’t worry. Everyone invited is being required to sign a contract saying they’ll keep it a secret, even if they choose not to attend. That’s where Al comes in!”

Leave it to the Dealmaker to write up a flawless contract. Charlie really does know how to play off of others’ strengths.

“The idea is to let everyone with territory or social standing or both in on what’s happening,” she continues. “That way, we can divide and conquer—er, divide and protect, really. They’ll do a far better job managing the souls they’re personally responsible for than we can trying to manage an entire kingdom, while these exorcisms are still happening.”

The prince, having settled back into his pillows, takes a moment to process. Based on his understanding, it’s exactly the kind of action he was trying to press Alastor into, and he’d been met with sharp words and punishments. But now, all of a sudden, he’s helping Charlie orchestrate this party, designed for the kind of sinners he insists he looks down on.

Maybe that really is the crucial difference—Charlie.

“That’s…a really good idea, sis,” says Clyde, not voicing this. “Good thinking.”

“Oh!” She blushes. “Thank you. But it wasn’t actually my idea. It was Al’s.”

“What?”

A weak smile. “I know. I was surprised, too. He used to be kind of a socialite, y’know. But I think, when they had you…He became a lot more picky about what kind of people were worth his time. A lot less invested in his, uh…entertainment.” She picks up a splinter of crunchy bacon still sitting in grease, and pops it into her mouth. Chewing and swallowing, she goes on, “I’d like to think that, maybe, after I talked to him…he took the time to reflect on his conversation with you, and give your idea a chance. Which I happen to support, by the way.”

For a long time, Clyde doesn’t do much besides stare at his sister, nonplussed. On the one hand, he’s being told that his birth fundamentally changed the Radio Demon from a reckless and chaos-loving misanthrope to a rigid disciplinarian, an idea he isn’t sure how he ought to react to. His admittedly brief exploration of Alastor’s soul definitely hadn’t revealed that. On the other, it seems like Charlie is telling him exactly what he wants to hear. That Alastor is, against all odds, conceding something—actually considering the transparency Clyde feels they owe their subjects. Even granting a role to the demons he swore cannot be trusted.

Safety in numbers, Vox had said. He couldn’t have been more right.

“Who all is invited?” Clyde asks. “You mentioned…territory?”

If Charlie is offended that he failed to acknowledge her support for him, she doesn’t show it. “Exactly who you’d think. Overlords, their kin, the kind of uber-wealthy sinners you’d expect to be Carmilla’s clients. Aunt Bee and Uncle Ozzie said they might be able to make it, too! They haven’t seen you in so long, it’ll be a real shock to their systems to see how tall you’ve gotten.” Charlie giggles. “I’m sure a few Goetias will be there, too. Dad likes to see familiar faces at events, it keeps him grounded.”

Overlords. The latter half of his sister’s explanation is lost on Clyde as he latches onto that word.

Thus far, all of his…business…with Vox has been conducted in secret. How will he be expected to behave when they’re attending the same public event? Should he avoid him completely? Treat him like a stranger?

He pushes the thought aside, for the moment. Vox will know what to do.

“We haven’t picked a date, yet, but I’m gunning for something sooner rather than later,” Charlie is saying, just as Clyde tunes back in. “And I know you’re not big on parties, but I’d really like it if you came along! There’ll be a band…”

She throws out that last detail like it’s meant to be a carrot on a stick, and Clyde smiles ruefully. “You know Dad’s not going to let me miss it.”

“I mean…yeah, but I’d like you to come willingly.” She grins, before getting to her feet. After raising her arms above her head for a good stretch, she leans over to drop a kiss on her brother’s forehead. “Okay, time to put on real clothes and get started on today’s kickass group activities! Don’t worry about the dishes, I got it.”

With a twirl of her finger, she piles all the dirty dishware onto the cart she’d wheeled it in on and pushes it towards the door. As she leaves, she looks over her shoulder to wink. “See you later, alligator!”

Clyde rolls his eyes, and his bedroom door closes on her laughing face.

It might be the weekend, but for Vox, that clearly doesn’t mean anything. In fact, if anything, his availability seems to have gone down. Clyde has no real grasp of the responsibilities of a tech CEO, and only a marginally better concept of an Overlord’s, so he reasons that this is just another thing he doesn’t understand about the way the demon lives his afterlife.

As the hours of the day stretch on, though, without a peep from Vox, Clyde grows…antsy.

Does he regret the way things went last night? Had Clyde been too forward? The uncomfortable awkwardness he had imagined if things were to go south between them suddenly becomes almost too horrific to even think about, when it’s him on the receiving end of such a rejection. He catches himself picking up his phone every other minute, hoping to see a message, but no luck. It’s hard to discern the amount of time he spends, staring at the keyboard and fighting the urge to send a text, but cumulatively, he would guess an hour in total. Maybe even two. Just a text, he tells himself, that’s all it is. Would that be needy? Presumptuous?

Clyde’s not his boyfriend. Valentino is 10 times closer to anything even resembling Vox’s boyfriend. Unexpectedly, the thought makes him feel a little bit nauseous.

Is he with Val right now?

“I will not ask you again, Clyde. Get off the device.”

Clyde quickly puts his phone back in his pocket, replacing it with a pair of craft scissors. In the time that he’s been glaring at his phone, the stack of invitations in front of him, ready to be trimmed, has all but quadrupled in size. Mostly because both of his parents are able to use magic for their tasks; and Clyde, as capable as he is, is not so dexterous with his telekinesis that he can cut paper into neat, perfect rectangles. His…current preoccupations aren’t helping, though.

On his left, Lucifer decorates each ream of cardstock with a repeated pattern of gilded lettering and an official royal seal, while Alastor labels each with a date, time, and the embedded contract. It’s surprising to see the king still lively after a meeting with the other Sins; usually, he returns looking more zombie than fallen angel. Ideally, that means it went well. Or, as well as it can, between seven powerful beings all fundamentally different from one another.

Meanwhile, on Clyde’s right, Angel uses all four of his hands to seal the completed cards into envelopes, two at a time. With a devilish grin, he looks at Alastor and drawls, “You want him to do what to the device?”

Alastor shoots him a mildly disgusted look, but doesn’t dignify his comment with a verbal response.

“Clyde, I’m worried about that phone,” Lucifer remarks out of the blue, apparently keeping the topic open. A fresh stack of cardstock floats its way to Alastor’s pile. “You’re on it a lot, and, well…you know how I feel about TV. Phones are no better. They’ll scramble your brain, sweetheart.”

“I have told him this,” says Alastor. He sounds annoyingly vindicated. “If the fixation continues, I will have to confiscate it. It’s meant to be a tool, nothing more.”

“Electronics don’t scramble the brain, you’re just old,” Clyde murmurs. Admittedly, Alastor’s threat of confiscation makes his heart leap up into his throat.

“You haven’t seen nothing, kiddo,” Lucifer insists. “With that Vox asshole mindfucking his followers, nothing’s safe.”

The prince carefully keeps his eyes trained on what he’s doing, refusing to let any part of him react to the name or the attached accusation. And, truthfully, he doesn’t think Vox’s use of his hypnosis powers are exactly ethical, but then again, he’s never had to command respect before. He’s royalty, and Vox is a self-made man in the pits of Hell. Far be it from him to judge the Overlord for doing what he can to feel secure, right?

Alastor slaughtered dozens to obtain his status as Overlord. Husk gambled with human souls.

Aunt Rosie eats people.

Angel clicks his tongue. “Aw, leave it alone. It’s just a phone. He could be doin’ a whole lot worse than doomscrollin’.”

“Thank you, Angel,” Clyde mutters, without looking up from his task.

“Well, yeah, I concede that,” says Lucifer, exasperated, down to the gestures he’s using to work his magic. “It’s better, in the same way that dog-earing the pages of your books is better than, I dunno, stabbing someone to death? But you still shouldn’t do it, because it’s bad for the book.”

Alastor narrows his eyes. “I don’t know about that.”

“Um, yeah, that’s a completely ridiculous comparison,” Clyde snorts. “And confusing. Am I the book or the person holding it?”

“No, no. Not that. Dog-earing books is perfectly acceptable. How else am I meant to mark my page?”

Lucifer splutters, “With a fucking bookmark?”

The sinner looks unmoved, as a tendril flicks across paper, leaving his swirling script drying in its wake. “Hm.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of doggying books.” Angel licks the seal of an envelope and winks. “Sounds hot, though.”

Alastor expels a frustrated breath. “Be done with the repulsive slop you call jokes or I will have one of my minions do your job for you.”

Grateful to have the conversation move on from himself, Clyde smirks. If he had known that was all it took to get out of this tedious crap, he would have jumped on this bandwagon sooner. “Nobody else is as good with their hands.”

Angel whoops in delight, slapping the prince on his back, as Alastor puffs up with rage.

Later, after conversation had again fallen into a lull, the spider demon pipes up once more. “Yanno, there’s some pretty fancy-shmancy names on these envelopes.”

Recovered from his earlier irritability, Alastor hums. “As many of Pride’s elites as we could find addresses for.”

“Huh.” When Clyde glances at him, Angel’s lips are pursed, his brow furrowed at the envelope in his hands. “That’s including your…colleagues.”

Alastor, too, casts him a sideways glance. “Yes.”

“If you’re worried about Valentino,” says Lucifer. “Don’t be. Stay in our orbit for the night, and he won’t bug you.”

There’s no response, as Angel drops the scarlet envelope onto the teetering stack.

Much later, when Vox still hasn’t responded to him and Clyde is lying on his bed in the dark, he finds himself doing something he can’t quite justify or explain.

In whatever fit has inexplicably possessed him, he finds himself…looking at pictures of Vox.

Not ones he’s taken, though. That would probably be more reasonable than this: typing Vox’s name into a search bar and scrolling through dozens of photos taken by professionals and paparazzi alike. Red carpet shots, ad campaigns, the sparse appearance on either his own Sinstagram account or that of one of his colleagues. Usually wearing the same sharklike grin or clever smirk, with the exception of the occasional eyeroll or sneer as a camera is shoved in his face—an experience the prince is glad he is not particularly familiar with. Or, in a couple cases, a stoic, stern kind of expression that makes Clyde’s insides flutter.

And maybe that is why he’s chosen to do this, to interrogate his own unexpected feelings. Because, for whatever reason, a high-definition television screen is what does it for Clyde.

There has to be something more to it. Something in Vox that triggers that kind of reaction in Clyde.

…Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t interrogate it.

As he goes to close out the tab and tear his eyes away from the digital wall of Voxes, his phone buzzes in his hand with the notification he’s been hoping for all day.

Sort of.

Vox 📺🦈: If you wanted a selfie, you could have just asked. ;)

Vox 📺🦈: (2 attachments)

Clyde’s eyes widen at the screen, almost instantly feeling his pulse tick up to a vivace. Hesitantly, he taps the message, opening his communications with Vox to see the two pictures he’s been sent. Both are of Vox, as advertised, standing in front of the full-length mirror Clyde knows sits in his penthouse suite. Lit by the warm glow of an overhead bulb, Vox cradles his Voxtek-branded phone in one hand and pulls at the lapels of his white button-down shirt with the other, revealing a tantalizing sliver of chest and the defined planes of his abdomen. In the first photo, he’s smiling gently, flashing jagged teeth, and in the second, he sticks his tongue out at the camera, winking. His tongue is long. Clyde doesn’t remember it being that long.

Clyde’s mouth is suddenly dry, his hands shaking a little as he frantically types back.

You: ARE YOU WATCHING ME?????

Nervously, he peeks around his bedroom. There aren’t any windows—unless Vox has somehow installed a camera inside his fucking room.

Vox 📺🦈: No. I’m watching your search history.

Vox 📺🦈: But that’s a good idea. I’m writing that one down.

You: STOP STALKING ME YOU FREAK

Vox 📺🦈: Stop looking up my name, then, freak. Did you miss me that much?

You: no

Vox 📺🦈: You’ve never been shy about messaging me before. Did I do something wrong, then?

You: obviously not

Vox 📺🦈: Call me. I want to hear your voice.

Vox 📺🦈: Unless you’re in a compromising position…

Clyde groans, his cheeks warm as he sits up in bed. He doesn’t really like talking on the phone, but he’d sooner gnaw his own arm off than let Vox think he was doing something else while looking at photos of him on the Internet. With a shaky breath, Clyde taps the call icon by the Overlord’s name and brings the phone to his ear as it trills, waiting for Vox to pick up.

The prince closes his eyes as the speaker clicks, and Vox’s voice wraps itself around his ear. “Hi, doll.”

His cheeks burn hotter. “Hey.”

“I do apologize for scaring you. I was starting to think I wasn’t going to hear from you today.” Vox sighs into the speaker, regretful. “I decided to do a little…investigating…and I’m afraid I acted on impulse.”

“O—oh.” A trickle of fear at the idea of Vox deciding to spy on him for his silence, mixed with arousal at the idea of Vox caring that much. “That’s all right. I just didn’t want to bother you.”

“Hardly. This is the highlight of my day.”

Clyde bites his lip, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, boring things. Saturdays are for catching up with the other two, when I can manage it. A few meetings, a press day, and then dinner with them. The steak was more interesting than anything they had to say, as usual.” A rustle as Vox sits down, exhaling in relief. The sound of a man who’s been on his feet all day, exhausted. And here he is, calling Clyde, winding down with him in the late hours. “And you?”

The prince tells him about his breakfast with Charlie and the myriad of other things he’d done to occupy his hands. That he’d done them to keep himself from coming off as needy and desperate is obviously glossed over.

When he gets to the help he’d been enlisted for by his parents, Vox hums. “Say, I just got my mail a few minutes ago. Kitty, bring me that, will you?” The whirring and clicking of the Fizzbot’s machinery comes over the speaker, followed by the crinkling of paper. “This red envelope, is that it?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Clyde listens to the envelope being cut open, and the invite inside being unfolded. “Mm. Carmine. What a piece of work. And a contract?” He sounds wary. “What’s this about, doll?”

“Well, I can’t actually tell you that…I’m bound by the contract too, now.” Lucifer had been wary about having Clyde enter into any kind of deal, but Alastor insisted it was a harmless bit of security that ‘wouldn’t mean anything to someone with nothing to hide’. Obviously, Clyde had signed quickly after. Clyde leans forward, now smiling freely, even triumphantly, “All I can say is, they listened to me. They actually listened. Eventually.”

Rather than share in his triumph, Vox is silent on the other end of the line, presumably reading through the contents of the contract by touching the seal. Finally, he says, “That’s fantastic.” His tone is dry, but Clyde celebrates the sentiment anyway. The Overlord asks, “Does that mean you’ll be there?”

“Yes.” Clyde lifts his head as a splash rings out in the bayou to watch his pet gators wrestle in the muck. “I don’t care much for crowds or loud noises, so I’ll probably have to find a spot to camp out for the night, but I’ll be there.”

Vox chuckles. “You’re an aspiring musician. Do you know what concerts are? They are 95% crowds and loud noises.”

“Being onstage is different.” Clyde rolls his eyes.

“Uh-huh. I sure hope you’re speaking from experience, or else you’re in for a rude awakening.” There’s the sound of pouring liquid before Vox takes a long sip of something. From the sigh of relief that follows, Clyde figures it’s probably liquor. “You being in attendance does sweeten the deal. I suppose I’ll make it.”

“We’ll have to be careful.”

“I’m always careful with you.”

Clyde smothers another smile. Another thought occurs to him, though, and before he can stop himself or think of how to ask the question tactfully, he blurts out, “Will, er…Do you think Val will be coming?”

This time, Vox outright laughs. “Are you jealous, my dear?”

His unregulated tone must have given him away. The prince’s jaw sets, eyes glued to the growling shapes in his swamp. If it gets much rowdier, he’ll have to separate them. “Maybe I am, Vox.”

“Silly thing.” The sinner is clearly still smiling. “I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

“You had dinner with him.”

“He’s my coworker!”

“Who you have sex with.”

Vox clicks his tongue, and the prince can very nearly see him shaking his head in disapproval. “You’re overthinking it. It’s a way of keeping him loyal to me, and it works.”

“You’re not having sex with your other business partner,” Clyde mutters.

“As far as I know, Velvette bats for the other team,” Vox replies dryly. “She has her own predilections that keep her here. It just so happens that Val is motivated by a very specific thing.”

Clyde squeezes his free hand into a fist, feeling the fight leak out of him. “He doesn’t like me,” he attempts, one more time.

“He doesn’t like anyone, sweetheart.” Vox’s voice lowers, causing the prince to shiver. “He knows I favor you, and even if he were to come along, it wouldn’t change that. Can we drop this?”

Clyde’s not sure he can, but it’s evident that the Overlord isn’t going to budge on this—at least not tonight. “I’ll try.”

One of those little celebratory jingles can be heard from Vox’s own speakers. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“Can we at least have some time alone at this thing, if we can get away with it?” Clyde asks, hopeful.

“Ah, that’s a given, doll. You’ve got my word.”

“Okay.” He jolts, startled by the sound of one of his pets bellowing in pain. It looks like Abra got caught in a death roll that landed wrong. He needs to step in before one of them is seriously injured, or the noise wakes up the whole hotel. “Ah, fuck—Vee, I have to go.”

“Sounds like it,” Vox chuffs. “Everyone okay?”

“It’s fine, just Abra and Zam having one braincell between the two of them,” he says irritably as he pushes himself out of bed. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’ll hold you to it. Goodnight, doll.”

“Goodnight.” Clyde hangs up and begins the gradual shift into his demon form. “All right, you two, break it up…”

It’s tricky business, getting two humongous reptiles to settle down, so it’s a good thing Clyde is able to match their physical strength. A hand on one horn each, he pries them off each other like scrabbling puppies, their jaws snapping as they whine in protest. Zam even nips at Clyde in the process, before cowering and snuffling when he scolds her.

“No. No more. We play nice or we don’t play at all.”

He’s drenched in swampwater and mud up to his waist. The prince huffs, before giving in to one of his most persistent urges by flopping down on his stomach in the soil, his chin on his forearms. The cowed helligators mimic him, sloshing murky water far enough to reach the wooden boards of the bedroom floor.

Clyde rests his eyes in the dark.

Chapter Text

It takes a couple of weeks, but in the end, Charlie’s wish to hold the Carmine event by the end of the month comes true. With just about every name on the guest list RSVP’d (and, by extension, contracted to the Radio Demon), no less.

The weeks leading up to the big day are filled with the same routine for Clyde, that being his habit of going to see Vox in the evenings, with the added bonus of a mounting anxiety the closer they get to the day of the party. Having Charlie in his corner now is nice, but it only works so long as she never actually identifies the sinner Clyde’s been sneaking around with. His parents, sister, family and friends all under the same roof with the two of them…it’s too many unknown variables. And though Vox had been the one to propose keeping their relationship private in the first place, before it had taken on a new form, Clyde can’t be sure that he’ll be appropriately careful.

“You’re worrying too much.”

Inside Clyde’s new studio just two days before the event, after drinks and an hour spent signing more of the Overlord’s enterprising initiatives, Vox glides his hand up the prince’s shoulder as they lay chest to chest on one of the sofas. Originally, the idea of so much of Vox’s body touching him at once made Clyde somewhat uneasy. Now, he sometimes finds himself missing that comforting blanket of contact when they’re apart.

“It’s not like I’m going to touch you in front of them, or anything,” Vox is saying, massaging the prince’s trapezius. “I’ll pretend you’re not even there, if you like. Then we’ll find a spot where they can’t see us.”

“I know all of that, but still—they could walk in on us at any time!” Clyde insists.

“I won’t let them.”

Skeptical, Clyde narrows his eyes. “How.”

“Baby, did you forget who you’re talking to?” Vox flashes him a smug grin. “I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”

“But the contract—”

“Only limits the distribution and reproduction of footage taken on Carmine’s property,” the demon says archly, the tip of one diamond-crested claw running up and down the length of Clyde’s sharp jawline. It tickles, and Clyde’s hindbrain wonders what it might feel like if he were to press down just a teensy bit harder. “It mentions nothing about footage taken for personal use. My drones will keep an eye out.”

Forcing himself to be present, Clyde shakes his head. “There has to be something you’re missing. My father never proposes a deal unless he’s positive it’s airtight.”

Vox’s broad smile shrinks to a smirk. “Is that what you think? Oh, ye of little faith.” He chuckles derisively. “Your father’s not the only sinner who specializes in binding agreements. I do this kind of thing as part of my living, remember. Just about every soul in this building is contracted with me.” Lowering his voice to a murmur, he adds, “And I would never, ever put you at risk unless I was sure everything was going to be all right.”

Of all the things to be reminded of, the wealth of souls under Vox’s ownership is not the refresher Clyde needs. It’s plain to see, every time he walks through the V Tower’s ground floor lobby. Phantom tethers, silky and shiny like spiderwebs after a light acid rain shower, all stretch up from the effervescent core of each sinner towards the ceiling. Like a beautiful art installation that could only exist in Hell. Different from Husk’s shackles in form, obviously, but functionally the same.

(Or Angel’s shackles.)

“I want you to listen to me when I tell you this, doll. Every sinner who’s at all ambitious likes to mythologize themselves a little,” Vox says softly, adding, “They’re not always the unstoppable force they’d like you to think of them as.”

And what does that mean about Vox, with all of his visionary ideas for the future? The prince holds his tongue, not wanting to lose the gentle affection he’s receiving.

Instead, Clyde nods shallowly, if only to acknowledge that he’s been spoken to. Mouth still quirked to one side, Vox’s hand migrates up to the young man’s hair, his claws carding through tight black-and-blond curls. The scrape against Clyde’s scalp pulls a peculiar sound out of him, something halfway between a sigh and a moan.

They’ve done this enough times that he’s less startled when he feels something twitch with interest against his thigh. Even as he still blushes when his own body responds in kind.

“Flattering,” he mutters.

Vox chuckles, pressing a kiss to his mouth. “I could say the same to you.”

“Mm…” Clyde sighs, his eyes fluttering closed as he soaks in the weight and warmth of the demon on top of him. It feels so safe and secure, being sandwiched between the soft cushions and Vox. “I could fall asleep like this.”

“I’d like you to,” whispers Vox, on another pass through the prince’s hair. “One day, you will.”

The quiet sincerity in his voice makes Clyde’s lips twitch upward. “In your bed?”

“Naturally,” the Overlord drawls, resting the bottom edge of his monitor on Clyde’s chest. “What am I going to do, send you to the guest room? The couch? I may be strong-willed, but I’d never in my afterlife be able to pass up an opportunity to go to bed with you.”

He’s dripping with insinuation and Clyde flushes, cracking open an eye. “You’re a dog. And not even a well-behaved one, either.”

“Be honest: you wouldn’t like me half as much if I was well-behaved.”

There might be more truth to that than Clyde would care to admit.

Vox’s reassurances, no matter how frequent they come, can only do so much to assuage the paranoia that’s part and parcel of keeping such a big secret from those closest to Clyde. It feels like everywhere he looks, he finds a new reason to panic, even if it’s something apparently small and inconsequential. Suddenly, every sideways glance or accidental eye contact is a sign that he’s been found out somehow. It’s a precarious situation to be in, especially alone, and the cynical part of Clyde can’t help but wonder how long he can sustain it for before either being discovered, or imploding from stress.

To make matters worse, Alastor and Lucifer have started to pick up more and more on that uneasiness.

Interrogative questions about what he’s been doing with his time. Impromptu visits to his bedroom throughout the day (and neither of them have ever been good at remembering to knock). Comments about how stir-crazy he must be thanks to his “grounding” and, as always, disapproval about his relationship with electronics.

With any luck, enough time has passed that Alastor’s forgotten they ever even had a conversation about Vox, or else he might uncover the true extent of Clyde’s relationship with electronics. And even then, Clyde would be genuinely surprised if his father hadn’t told Lucifer about that encounter, too.

However, things are still somewhat stilted between Alastor and Clyde, which, if nothing else, has managed to keep the sinner’s scrutiny less intense than it might be otherwise.

Despite his own best efforts to keep tabs on Clyde, the state of affairs between Heaven and Hell has mostly kept Lucifer micromanaging things apart from his son’s life. Not that Clyde can feel much gratitude for it, when the king’s temperament can change on a dime with every new update in communications or exorcist sightings. Some days, it feels like no news is good news.

Then, finally, one massive breakthrough: agreement from Heaven that elimination of any mutineering exorcists will be considered fair and just by the Seraphim.

A hard-won concession that even Charlie had thought impossible, finally achieved in no small part thanks to the righteous anger of the youngest of the Seraphim, who delivered the announcement to an audience of Lucifer, Alastor, Charlie, and Clyde with a broad, vicious grin on her lovely face.

It’s also the first time the Prince of Hell has ever been present for a vis-à-vis with the Heavenly Host. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw Emily and Sera. It was Charlie who had pulled through, in that case.

It turns out she really had heard him during their talk.

“You’re so tall now,” says Emily, during the opening niceties, openly gawking through the portal. “Taller than Charlie, even! Wow!”

“Yes,” says Sera, as she, too, peers down at the young prince. The lines on her face are deep, her brows pinched together. “You’ve…certainly grown, haven’t you.”

Clyde suspects he may be back for the next meeting, if only for how overjoyed Alastor is with the Head Seraphim’s visible, palpable discomfort.

“It’s a shame to have to turn our backs on so many of our soldiers,” Sera says afterwards, funereally solemn as she twists her slender hands together. “My only request, Lucifer, if you are forced to use violence, is that you spare Lute. Apprehend her, and hand her over to us. We will divine an appropriate punishment for her. She served us very faithfully after our former general’s death, and the other Seraphim believe it would be a shame to lose a consummate leader so dedicated to her craft and her people.”

Almost in unison, Alastor and Clyde scoff.

The sound attracts a glare from the angel. “Was something I said objectionable?”

Before Alastor can reply (and almost definitely provoke her further), Lucifer answers for him, keeping his tone even. To match his voice, he’s wearing a cold, blank mask of an expression that feels uncanny and wrong, all of which Clyde assumes must be his main line of defense when talking to the beings who abandoned him. A barrier between them, to conceal the emotions they’d lost the privilege of seeing come out of him. “Sera, what I believe my loves are reacting to is the irony of being asked to spare someone whose main offense was her merciless acts of mass violence.”

Sera’s lips thin out. “Be that as it may, I would ask you to choose mercy in this one instance.”

“She never did,” Clyde says, quietly, startling his family. The attention makes him falter, but he swallows and presses onward. “I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, Madam Seraphim, but this angel had thousands of opportunities to choose mercy, and she never did. I saw the things your soldiers did under her orders.”

Charlie’s hand falls on her brother’s back, a supportive weight. Across the way, Emily gives him a discreet but encouraging nod.

The rest of the meeting looks at the prince in silence, before Alastor adds, “You’re hardly familiar with how things go down here, Sera, but most of us lowly sinners believe in ‘an eye for an eye’. Your appeals for mercy ring hollow when, as my son has just demonstrated, everyone on this side of this portal has witnessed firsthand Heaven’s sheer callousness. So your request is—well, it’s audacious, certainly.”

As Sera flusters and Alastor preens in the face of her anger, Lucifer folds his hands over the apple-shaped topper on his cane. “I could agree to your request here, sister, but even then, I couldn’t guarantee that I would be able to stop any one sinner demon from taking matters into their own hands,” he reasons. “These Overlords are going to want to fight back, especially after being kept in the dark for so long. Our ring’s primary weapons dealer has reported that defense efforts have already been in the works, in the absence of any guidance from their leadership. I wouldn’t be much of a king if I didn’t aid in protecting my subjects, would I?”

The Head Seraphim, continuing to wring her hands until they’re nearly raw, bows her head. Her form still rife with tension—so much so that Clyde can feel the power exuding from her through the portal—she bites out, “Fine, then. I will make peace with this. I suppose…she’s no longer one of us, is she?”

“Do whatever you need to do in order to keep your people alive, your Majesty!” Emily contributes, missing any of her elder sister’s trepidation. “Every last one of them deserves a chance to redeem themselves.”

Clyde narrows his eyes behind Lucifer. Is that really the only determining factor of a human soul’s value?

No wonder his father’s made himself into a bonafide firebrand during this call. Sinful and unapologetic—exactly the kind of soul these angels find appalling.

Actually, it makes a lot of things click into place, chief of which is the unnerved way Sera looks at Clyde. He must be a serious affront to her sensibilities, being the spawn of an Overlord.

“I couldn’t agree more, Emily,” Lucifer says with slightly more warmth than he’d given Sera. “Thank you. Hopefully, we won’t have to meet again for a while.”

“Your efforts at diplomacy leave much to be desired, Lucifer,” utters Sera, the folds of her elegant robe flapping as she crosses her arms.

“Do they, really? That’s too bad,” Lucifer replies flatly. “Well, hey, you won’t have to put up with me for much longer, eh?” He pivots, encouraging Clyde a couple steps forward with a hand on his shoulder. “This is a face you’ll be getting very familiar with, once we deem him ready. Although, he might have too much of a spine for you.”

Out of the corner of Clyde’s eye, he watches Charlie shoot the king a discomfited look.

The Seraphim’s jaw sets, eyeing the prince before averting her eyes. “Good day, Morningstar family. Alastor.”

The Radio Demon arches an eyebrow. “I took the last name and sired a child,” he intones, bemused. “Not sure what more I could do to be included.”

The glowing ring blips out of existence, and almost as one, the postures of everyone standing in Alastor and Lucifer’s ornate en suite relax with a chorus of exhales.

“When I’m ready?” echoes Clyde, looking at his mother. “When will that be?”

Lucifer looks back at him, blinking in surprise—whether in response to Clyde’s question or just a sign of him pulling himself out of whatever state communicating with Heaven puts him in, the prince doesn’t know. Then, the king smiles, reaching out to cup his son’s cheek. “Soon, baby.”

Clyde frowns, exasperated by the non-answer. “You can’t give me a timeframe? Why not now?”

“Clyde,” Alastor warns.

Lucifer shakes his head, still smiling. “I don’t feel safe putting you in that position right now, with how uncertain the state of everything is. Besides, Clyde…I don’t know what you’re expecting it will be like, but your role as diplomat won’t be tremendous fun. You’re not missing out, or anything. I just want you to enjoy your youth while you’re in it.”

“I’m not a child,” Clyde argues. “I don’t feel like a child.”

“Well, you’re a whole lot closer to a child than any of us,” Lucifer replies dryly. He pats the prince’s cheek. “Listen, I know it’s easy to want what you don’t have, but this isn’t worth fixating on. You’re ready when you’re ready. All right?”

The prince can’t bring himself to form an affirmative, not when it still feels like his guardians are avoiding giving him any meaningful answers. It’s the job he was raised to do—what else do they need from him to prove that he’s ready? Feels more like they’re the ones who are unprepared, if anything. Clyde’s been waiting his whole life for this, and now Lucifer is floating the idea around to get a rise out of Heaven, rather than just let him make it reality?

A job saved specifically for him, his for the taking once he’s mature enough. And here he is! Hardly a little boy anymore; if only they could see the changes he’s making with Vox, but then, they would doubtless go on some tirade about him being taken advantage of, not knowing the gravity of his choices and their consequences. They already want him locked up in the hotel.

Would that they could get their fingers out of their ears, maybe he would be diplomat by now.

But this declaration from Heaven, however reluctantly Sera might have agreed to it, is something worth celebrating. He can stew in his grievances another time.

Clyde wouldn’t go so far as to say that grand, ostentatious parties are a setting he’s comfortable in—he doesn’t think they’re really made to be comfortable—but he is familiar with them. As much as his parents had done their best to keep him away from the public, there were certain occasions which required every member of the royal family to be in attendance. He distinctly remembers being so little that his circlet barely fit on his head, being paraded around ballrooms by his mom and dad so that various bourgeois demons and hellborn could have a turn to bow or curtsy to the toddler prince. It all felt so stupid even then, but…

No, it still feels stupid now. At least this time there’s a greater purpose to all this excess.

Following a tradition that’s been alive since around that same era of Clyde’s life, he’s wearing a suit specially tailored for him by Auntie Ro. She’s been designing his formalwear for so long that he’s not surprised to find it fits him like a glove. It’s black with lavender lapels and gold buttons to match the gold filigree chain around his neck, just above the popped collar of his white undershirt. The waist of the jacket and the inseam of his trousers have some embroidered plant life arranged in attractive spirals, all species local to the swamp he lives in with his pets, adding a personal touch.

“Impressive as always, Rosie,” Alastor, wearing his own special-made suit, compliments the woman as she watches him fuss with Clyde’s collar. “It’s a stunning piece.”

“What can I say? Your boy’s an inspiring model!” Rosie titters, reaching out to pinch the prince’s cheek. The flowing skirt of her blood-red trumpet-style gown swishes with her every movement. “Stop growin’, wouldja’? Making your old auntie have to take new measurements, again…”

“Thank you, auntie,” Clyde says wryly. “Dad, the collar’s fine.”

Alastor tsks. “You’ve barely buttoned your shirt.”

“It’s a stylistic choice.”

“It’s improper.”

“It’s three buttons. I’m not exactly naked.”

“Boy, I can see your chest!”

Clyde cracks up laughing. “Ooh, clavicle, how scandalous.”

Alastor grits his teeth, a hint of green beginning to form in his irises, but he’s thankfully interrupted.

(Besides, it’s not Clyde’s duty to stay stuck in the 20th century just because his dad is. And even then, he’s so oddly particular about which 20th century social norms are agreeable, it beggars belief.)

“Ah, look at my handsome man!” Lucifer gasps, Clyde’s savior, coming into the parlor with Charlie, Vaggie, and a giggling Niffty at their heels. The king’s silver coattails trail elegantly behind him as he strolls up to a bewildered Clyde and takes his face in his hands, squishing his cheeks in. “I mean, really!” He pulls away to look him over. “I carry you in my body, craving nothing but sushi and turtle piquant for how long, and you still come out looking like your father’s spitting image?”

“Mom,” Clyde groans, embarrassed, at the same time that Alastor groans, “Lucifer.”

Maybe he would have preferred to talk in circles with his father.

Rosie laughs at the display. “Ah, but here’s the best part!” She waves over the rest of the straggling newcomers. “Charlie, honey, come here and stand next to your brother.”

The princess smiles incredulously as she’s nudged forward by the Overlord. When she’s standing side by side with Clyde, Rosie beams. “See? They’re two peas in a pod.”

Both Morningstars look at each other, taking in their respective ensembles. Charlie’s own tuxedo is almost identical to Clyde’s, with the exception of her lapels being red rather than purple and the floral embroidery replaced with a pattern inspired by sheet music.

Also, her collar is done up, with a bowtie matching her jacket.

“Thank you, Charlie, for practicing propriety,” Alastor mutters, just loud enough for all to hear.

“I think Clyde looks like a baaad boy,” Niffty cackles. She scrambles up Alastor’s leg to latch onto his shoulder, a petite ball of red tulle and satin.

Huffing, Clyde turns to Charlie and, seeing her expression, explains to his confused sister, “He thinks my collarbone’s going to give someone the vapors.” He flaps a hand in front of his face like a Southern belle for emphasis.

She stifles a laugh. “Your collarbone or your cleavage?”

“Hells below, not you too!”

“My two little stars,” Lucifer gushes in a cutesy voice. He’s evidently unconcerned with Clyde’s modesty, coming forward to pull them both down into a squeeze of a hug. “You look absolutely perfect! Excellent work, Rosie, you’re never not reliable.”

Rosie bows her head appreciatively. “It’s my pleasure, y’Majesty.”

Not everyone in the hotel was privileged enough to have their look prepared for them by the Cannibaltown Clothier, but Angel and Husk have always cleaned up nicely, and where Rosie was overbooked, Lucifer’s no slouch in the garment department thanks to his conjuring abilities. After a few final minutes of preening and fussing, everyone leaves for Carmine’s headquarters looking runway-ready.

It’s a shame Clyde can’t take any pictures inside the venue, in accordance with Alastor’s contract, because it looks enchanting. Locally-sourced foliage explodes from vases as tall as Clyde, terracotta tiles glow warmly under crystal chandeliers, and everything with an even remotely reflective surface has been shined to perfection to create even more light. On the balcony, the band is in the middle of setting up, and Clyde tries not to ogle their audio equipment too openly.

The grand staircase makes for a dramatic entrance, draped with a plush carpet that Clyde can feel himself sinking into, and a fountain with a lounging, six-winged nude figure bathing in its basin spouts the clearest water the prince has seen outside of the hotel.

In unison, Charlie and Clyde realize belatedly that the bathing figure in the fountain is Lucifer, and emit wounded noises, averting their eyes.

“Ah,” Lucifer stammers. “Ah. Ha. Haha. Oh.”

In his periphery, Clyde sees Alastor cock his head to one side as he quite openly considers the statue. “Hmm…”

The king lets out an anguished sound, swatting at his spouse. “Stop looking at it so closely!”

“I’m appraising the artist’s commitment to accuracy,” the demon responds airily. “I’m the most qualified to comment.”

Angel grins. “Well don’t hold out on me, what’s the verdict?”

“I see you’ve noticed our tribute.” The group turns to see Carmilla herself emerging from a side room on the ground floor. Her hair is sculpted into two elaborate spirals, with laced stilettos wrapped around her calves to match. Her dress is not so much a dress as it is a leotard with a skirt that’s longer in the back than it is in the front, patterned tastefully with sequins. The black makeup around her eyes makes her already piercing gaze disconcerting as it sweeps over the party.

She’s not as tall as Clyde remembers, but then, he was considerably shorter the last time they met. Demonic growth spurts are a hell of a drug.

The Overlord continues, “We were so honored to have you choose our headquarters as the venue for your event that we thought we would show our respects with a commission.”

“It, ah.” Lucifer clears his throat. “It’s. A statue. Of me. It’s a statue of me, that’s for sure.”

Alastor makes a noise that seems to communicate ‘sure, all right’.

“Anyhow, everything looks great in here,” says the king, gesturing at the elaborately-decorated ballroom. “Appreciate you getting back to us so quickly. Well, my family. I’m sorry I was too wrapped up to ask you this favor myself, Carmilla.”

“No apologies are necessary,” Carmilla dismisses. “I am an instrument of your will, Lucifer.”

Clyde raises his eyebrows. For someone on a first name basis with his mother, she sure is laying it on a little thick. Then again, so had Vox when he first met Clyde, and the Ars Goetia are never subtle with their own sycophantic simpering. It might as well be built into the aforementioned elite culture. When you’re exposed to it enough, though, and on the receiving end most if not all of the time, the veneer of glamor doesn’t—can’t last.

It’s a good thing Vox dropped that act fairly quickly, at least in private. Clyde might not have humored him, otherwise. There’s nothing more sinister than a faker. Lucifer would even tell him the reason his father stood out from the rest was because he didn’t embarrass himself like that.

Carmilla turns to Vaggie and, to Clyde’s surprise, the former exorcist goes in for a hug. “Hello, dear,” Carmilla says warmly. “It’s so nice to see you. Princess Charlie, are you well?”

“I’m great!” Charlie replies automatically. “Lady Carmine, you’ve met my brother Clyde before?”

“Hello.” Clyde accepts her curtsy with a smile. “Good to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine, your highness. And to all of you who are friends of the crown, I’m pleased you could make it, too.” With the formalities out of the way, she turns back to Lucifer. “Sire, we’ll be opening the doors soon, but I have to ask you face to face while I still have the chance…why have you called all of us here? I have my assumptions, of course, but I need to hear it from your mouth: are you going to help us slaughter the angels? Are we at war?”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Alastor mutters.

Lucifer smiles wanly. “No, we’re not at war. You’ll get your answers soon enough, Carmilla.”

The doors finally open, inviting in what is, at first, a slow trickle of demons. In less than half an hour, the venue is full of chatter, laughter, music, and the tinkling of glasses as swaths of upper-class demons eat and drink their fill. The main topic of gossip, Clyde gathers, is predictable, and in the same vein as Carmine’s questions. What will his Majesty have to say? Why all of us?

Clyde isn’t really in the mood for small talk, as it’s a code he’s not yet learned to crack, honestly, but one sharp look and pointed jerk of the head from his father is enough to get him to begrudgingly hover around the ballroom, exchanging pleasantries with various Goetias of moderate consequence. There are even demons from other rings here, too, not just their Sins, as he discovers a small handful of Overlords from Gluttony all hunched over the buffet, only pausing long enough to bow or pay him a compliment.

Their queen is locked in conversation with Clyde’s own mother, along with Asmodeus, and it looks to be pretty serious…aside from the fact that Aunt Bee, too, is enamored with the food, shoveling finger sandwiches into her canine maw while still trying to manage an attentive air.

Personally, he thinks the food is only just this side of so-so. But then, when he eats, he goes big, so the bite-sized morsels being served on the buffet or on trays carried around by caterers were never going to be his style. They could get back to him when they brought out a seafood bake, or something.

As he is picking at an hors d’oeurve, a voice pipes up form behind. “Look, I don’t wanna be weird, but like…are you gonna eat that?”

Clyde can’t suppress his grin, turning his head to beam at Octavia of the Ars Goetia. “Have at it.”

It being some kind of tapas made with hell-grown cassava, somehow both bland and bitter. Octavia, however, wearing a dress with a high-low skirt covered in constellations and elbow-length gloves, and yet still somehow with a beanie on her head, swipes it out of his hand and eats it whole, her beak snapping gleefully.

“There weren’t enough rodents on the buffet for you?” Clyde quips.

“Oh, mate, they’ve got everything over there. Ratatouille included. Heavy on the rat.” She waggles her eyebrows enticingly, before laughing and opening her arms. “Come here, loser.”

The prince lets her pull him into an embrace. It’s one of her privileges, as his only former playmate from outside of the hotel. She had been older than him by quite a bit when they first met, obviously, but that hadn’t stopped her from engaging with him like he was another person, rather than King Lucifer and Lord Alastor’s little trophy—a rarity, at large events. Later, she had even been the one to teach him his first chords on guitar, when he received one for his birthday, and subsequently been the one to put bandaids on his scales when they bled because his fingers were not yet accustomed to plucking at strings. She’d been kind of like a babysitter at first, for instances in which Charlie couldn’t supervise him for whatever reason, but over time, they had become friends and equals. Another rarity, at least for Clyde.

He hasn’t texted her in months, he realizes. He hasn’t thought of her in months, outside of using her as an excuse for why he was out of the house. Here he was, looking for someone who could listen…

Even as he thinks it, he knows he can’t. He’d committed to keeping his relationship with Vox between them, even if, at the time, the only real concern had been his parents. And if he were to, say, ask the demon, what would he even say?

Can I tell a friend about us? Don’t worry, all I’m going to do is talk about you.

He’s not sure Vox would like that.

“Helloooo?” Oh. Octavia is talking to him. “Oi, I’m not complaining, but you never let me touch you for this long. What gives?”

Clyde draws away quickly. “Sorry. Spaced out. How are you?”

It’s a decent distraction, as those three words prompt a melodramatic sigh. Via takes the opportunity to dish about the latest and greatest mishaps to do with her father, his imp boyfriend, and his ragtag team of miscreants. It’s a cast of characters Clyde is very familiar with, despite never having met any of them except for Stolas. When it comes to her father and the rather legitimate battles of her home life, the bird-princess’ feelings can range anywhere from fondly exasperated to outraged, and she’s more than capable of oscillating between extremes on a dime.

Fortunately, she doesn’t expect Clyde to give any input apart from nodding, allowing him to absorb in silence.

“...and anyway, Loona’s the only one who gets how absolutely batshit it is not knowing where your dad is for 48 hours, just to find out he’s fucking around on Earth doing Lucifer knows what with him and a bunch of random humans,” she’s grousing, some twenty minutes later. They’ve migrated to a corner of the ballroom where the acoustics are less abysmal and Clyde can actually hear her. “I didn’t expect those two imps to get it, yanno, where I was coming from, but they could have at least pretended.”

“Right.” Clyde thinks he’s followed the timeline of events pretty well, and all he can think is how glad he is to know Via isn’t relying on her parents to survive anymore. All things considered, this is even-tempered for her.

“Right!” She parrots back to him, vindicated, before sighing, brushing a hand back through her hair. “Damn. Sorry, didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

Clyde shrugs. Compared to Via, he’s peachy keen; he can stand to listen to a venting session or two. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You know I’m gonna.” Her ruffled feathers settled, she puts the spotlight back on him. “All right, how about you? How’ve things been going at big sis’ hotel?”

“Hotel’s okay. Everything’s kinda tense right now, ‘cause of. You know.”

A concerned pinch forms between her brows. “Is that why you’ve been AWOL?”

He flinches. “I…It’s not not the reason why?”

Her concern giving way to confusion, she begins, “Look, you know you can lean on me if you need to. We’re in this together.”

“It’s complicated,” Clyde tells her. “It’s not just this exorcist stuff, it’s more than that. There’s—I mean, there’s a guy, and I know romance isn’t really your vibe.”

“Romance?” Octavia makes a perplexed face, before laughing. “It’s not, you’re right. Last time I checked, it wasn’t yours, either. I’m not gonna throw up, though. You’re not gonna offend me. Even if it is a little weird to think about the kid I used to mind doing that type of stuff.”

Clyde nods faintly. He appreciates the sentiment, but he’s at as much of a loss for what to do as he had been when trying to talk to his real sister about the same thing. It’s not that he wants to violate Vox’s trust; he just wants someone other than him to know what’s going on in his head. A problem shared is a problem halved, right?

A sudden squeal of microphone feedback rends the air, causing his train of thought to stop dead in its tracks.

When he and Octavia turn to look (along with every soul in the room), Clyde’s mother is on the grand staircase with his father. The latter grins smugly at the startled reactions in the crowd before handing his cane to the king. Lucifer takes it.

He could make himself loud enough to be heard miles away, Clyde thinks. The proffered microphone must be a demonstration of their union.

Lucifer stands with perfect posture, a serene look on his angelic face…and then his wings erupt from his back, eliciting awed gasps.

“If I could have your attention,” he says into the microphone, a thin filter crawling over his voice, adding, “I won’t take too much of your time.”

In waves, the assembled crowd sinks to one knee. Including Octavia, at Clyde’s side, and the hotel staff at Charlie’s. For Clyde’s part, he folds his hands behind his back and stands perfectly still at attention, as does his sister.

“Thank you,” Lucifer utters, sincerely. “I apologize for the interruption, I hope you are all enjoying yourselves. On behalf of my family, I’d like to thank you for representing your constituents tonight. All of you, whether you be noblemen, Overlords, or their benefactors…those who call any number of damned souls their own…you represent not just those sinners, but Hell itself.

“We asked you here to make a call for allyship,” he continues. “I don’t need to tell you that in the last year, give or take a couple arduous months, we have lost hundreds if not thousands of souls to rampant exorcisms which were, you may have noticed, not in accordance with any written law or even any preexisting ones. Most if not all of these souls would have been in your purviews. In this time, I have failed to appear before you and offer you guidance. That is my failing, as your king, as your leader and protector, and I feel the full weight of that regret.

“There was no course of action, in my own mind, for what is, I can tell you now, entirely unpredictable and unsanctioned attacks. Cumulatively, we—my spouse and I—have spent weeks in Heaven, at a loss for what to do, and at a stalemate with regards to the possibility of retaliation. Neither the Seraphim nor myself approved of any of this, but in delaying an official address for as long as I have, I’m afraid I have earned culpability.”

Clyde swallows as a low murmur rises, glancing around the ballroom at the sea of exchanged looks and furrowed brows. Though there are definitely conversations happening as his mother talks, no one has moved from their display of genuflection, seemingly content to hear out the rest of their king’s announcement.

The prince’s shoulders slacken, satisfied that the explanation he felt they owed their subjects has finally come to pass and is—so far—better received than Alastor had anticipated.

And Lucifer hasn’t even gotten to the good news yet.

“There is nothing I can do to reverse the damage done to the populus. Even I, as an angel, cannot bring back souls executed by angelic steel. However, there is one thing, at least, that I believe can change the tide.” Lucifer extends a hand out towards the audience. “With full permission from both myself and the Divine Powers That Be, you may—you must—protect your constituents. Your hostess, Overlord Carmilla Carmine, has agreed to part with some of her arms, free of charge. These, you may use to defend your districts against the exorcists, completely assured that Heaven will not go back on their word and reinstate sanctioned exterminations.

“I can only be in so many places at once,” he jokes wryly. “So I am asking you to do right by your fellow sinners and fight back until there is nothing left to fight.”

His appeal lingers in the silent ballroom.

Then, a hand shoots up. Clyde follows it down to its owner, and sees a woman kneeling next to Vox and Valentino. It’s the first he’s seen of Vox the whole night, but his companion—Velvette—waves her hand in the air, waiting for permission.

Lucifer’s eyes fall on her, and Clyde sees the way his face twitches slightly when he recognizes the trio. Keeping most of his reluctance out of his voice, “Yes?”

Velvette gets to her feet. Her deep green sleeveless gown clings to her petite form, showing off the doll-joints of her arms and shoulders. She tosses her elaborate braid over her shoulder and cocks her hip.

“Just sayin’ this because I know nobody else will,” she declares. “But this party? Is a fucking joke. It’s been, what, a year? More’n that? What exactly do you think us Overlords have been doing? Standing back and letting our flock die? Waitin’ patiently until his Majesty is gracious enough to let us kill the angel bastards?”

From the instant she starts talking, Clyde feels his heartrate climbing, his eyes darting between the Overlord and his parents. More than her audacity, what she says confuses him. He’d heard his mother tell the Seraphim about defense efforts, but Vox never mentioned the Vees being involved in anything like that.

Velvette chortles, continuing on, “Maybe you think that way because your spouse wouldn’t do anything for anyone unless it was to save his own arse, I mean, he’s right to be scared of angels, given how thoroughly Adam walloped him, don’t think anybody’s forgotten—”

“Velvette,” Carmine warns, but the fashion mogul is really on a roll now.

“—but we don’t need you. What, you’re too scared of the relatives to dispatch the exorcists yourself, but here you are, coming in sixteen, seventeen months late, ah, well done, look at that, finally, a hero to swoop in and save us with a few measly steel daggers and an apology as weak as—”

“Enough,” Lucifer bellows, flames spewing, and an invisible weight crashes over the room, sending Velvette sprawling back to her hands and knees. The force is almost enough to make Clyde lose his balance, as the ballroom shudders in fear, the very structure of the building trembling around it.

Beside the king, Alastor is completely rigid, gazing at nothing. Clyde, doing his best to stay standing, stares at him from under his brows. He’d known that Alastor had fought the First Man, but curiously—or maybe not, knowing his father—him getting walloped had gone unmentioned.

Injured, sure. But walloped?

Then again, Vox had once privately described Velvette as a pot-stirrer, so who knows how accurate that is.

Lucifer inhales deeply, visibly reining himself in. He exhales, and smoke filters through his slitlike nostrils like a dragon.

“Your…displeasure…is understandable, and heard,” he says lowly. “My hesitation cost all of you tangible power, and I applaud those of you who have fought for it. I have taken ownership of my part in this crisis and, going forward, I refuse to allow myself to be paralyzed by indecision when my kingdom needs me most.”

A laugh bubbles up from Velvette’s throat as she struggles to lift her head, still prostrated under the weight of Lucifer’s power. “Yeah, you’re lookin’ really benevolent right now, your Majesty,” she spits, and even the words sound like she’s using all of her strength to get them out. “How many times can you fuck over your own realm by simply not giving a damn, eh? You apologize, power trip, and all is forgiven? Is that how this works?!”

Her voice gradually gets more shrill, until she is all but shrieking. Beside her, Vox’s shaking hand comes up to clasp her shoulder. “Velvette, stop,” he utters, straining to enunciate, his speakers sputtering. “Gift horse…mouth…just stop.”

She bares her teeth in response, but falls quiet, save for her heaving breaths.

From his place on the stairs, Lucifer looks out at his cowering subjects for a beat, sobering, and then, all at once, the pressure in the air is lifted. The crowd gasps in relief.

Octavia makes a pained noise, and Clyde startles. He’d nearly forgotten she was there. He quickly offers her a hand, helping her stumble to her feet as everyone around them does the same. The Goetia’s mascaraed eyes are wide, slightly shaken, and bewildered.

“That was…” She trails off.

“Yeah.” They each look to the stairs to see that both Alastor and Lucifer have disappeared in a flash. Probably for the best, after that outburst…

Clyde’s not sure what to think about that. On paper, he agreed with much of what Velvette was saying, that was why he and Alastor fought in the first place. And that last display of power wasn’t exactly a good look, either.

But his mother isn’t a neglectful ruler. Clyde knows how hard he tries.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

The prince goes to fish it out, but as he goes, his eyes catch on a splotch of bright blue in the distance. Over Octavia’s shoulder, Vox looks back at him, his own phone in his hand, thumb poised over the screen. He looks mostly recovered. Then, he smiles and turns away, his back receding into the congealed mass of shell-shocked demonic nobility.

“Clyde?”

He blinks dumbly. “Yeah, sorry—” Catching a glimpse of his notifications, Clyde shoots his friend an awkward smile. “I gotta go. See what all that was about. I guess.”

Her look of puzzlement softens. “Of course, dude. Hey, if I don’t see you later, text me about this romance shit, yeah? Don’t think I’m forgetting about that!”

“Yep,” he replies, trying to infuse some cheerfulness into his voice. “Sure thing!”

They wave at each other. Then, Clyde hurries towards the nearest stairwell, again peeking at his phone to double-check Vox’s instructions.

Vox 💙: 2nd story French balcony in 2 minutes

Oof. No punctuation. Does that mean something? That has to mean something, right? Is he angry about what happened during Lucifer’s speech? Would that make him angry at Clyde?

Ugh. There’s no use in catastrophizing. With one last glance over his shoulder to ensure that he isn’t being followed, Clyde jogs up the steps.

Chapter Text

The din of chatter becomes muffled as Clyde ascends to the second floor. The walls are plain, black, and bear displays of impressive Carmine-branded weaponry protected by multiple layers of thick glass. There are axes, maces, and in the center, a polearm not unlike Vaggie’s. Each has its own sinister glint to it that makes Clyde shudder as he walks by them, his pace brisk with eagerness.

The French balcony—what makes it French, exactly, Clyde wonders—is at the end of the third identical corridor, behind a set of heavy wooden doors. Each has a little window in the center, and as Clyde reaches for a doorknob, he notices that the glass is one-way. Blurry and warped.

Which unfortunately means Valentino sees Clyde before Clyde sees Valentino.

The sinner is dressed sans his usual flowing robe, but his outfit is just as garish without it. The tall hat and the heart-shaped glasses remain, though. He’s staring at the doors when Clyde opens them, like he’s been waiting for him, and as he does, a broad, vicious smile spreads its way across his face.

He’s alone.

“Mi princípe!” Val crows in delight. “How nice to see you here. At the event you invited me to. Where you agreed to meet us.”

Us?!

Clyde knows he doesn’t do a good enough job of concealing his immediate reaction. He takes an aborted step back through the French doors, gawping while his brain tries to catch up to the fact that standing in front of him is decidedly not the demon he was looking for.

Man, it doesn’t feel good to be thoroughly fucking japed by Valentino.

“Um. I’m actually looking for—”

“Vox. I know.” Valentino’s eyes crinkle, but there’s not an ounce of warmth in them that Clyde can see. “He got a call, had to be pried away from all the fun. You know how he loves work.”

Pushing himself away from the wall, the mothman indicates himself with a vertical gesture. “He sent me to keep you company while he’s taking care of business.”

Seriously?

Vox knows damn well how Clyde feels about this particular sinner. Why would he send him to talk to Clyde?

First he was the source of Angel’s turmoil. Now he’s a thorn in Clyde’s own side. What’s not to hate?

Irritation bubbling inside him, Clyde realizes he has yet to reply and tries to project cool collectedness instead. “Well, I really only came up here to see him, but there are other guests who are going to want my time, so if you could tell him that when he gets back—”

“Hey now, don’t go so soon,” Val says, interrupting him for a second time now. “We’ve hardly had the chance to talk, outside of our rocky introduction. Which I am sorry for. You could say I was having a bit of a bad day. It was never my intention for you to end up in the crossfire.”

The prince eyes him warily. He’s had a lot of bad days, himself, though he doesn’t usually express it by grabbing people and invading their personal space. But he can’t imagine saying that to Val would go over very well, and Clyde’s not about to get into it with him without anyone else present.

“I appreciate the apology,” he says instead, his voice flat.

Valentino’s smile widens further. “I’m so glad. I’ve been wanting to get to know you better, you know. Now that you have more staying power at our humble casita, it would be good for us to familiarize ourselves with each other.” His hand moves back and forth, gesturing between the two of them. “I mean, we are already so similar.”

It takes a lot of restraint not to laugh in his face.

“Are we?”

“Well, I’ve never seen someone other than myself get so close to our Vox,” the Overlord says evenly. Clyde finds himself resenting the way those giant heart lenses obscure most of the moth’s expressions—not that being able to see them would illuminate much, at least to Clyde, who’s recently become far more aware of how little he understands such nuances. “I know him better than anyone. But you—” Val cocks his head. “You’re something else.”

In seconds, Clyde’s gone from incensed to suddenly flat-footed. There’s nothing he can even think to say to…whatever that is. And apparently, silence to Valentino is an invitation to keep talking.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Val doesn’t try to touch him again, thank Satan, but he does lean in ever so slightly, like they’re exchanging secrets, still smiling through it all. Clyde’s brow furrows, which he seems to mistake for reservation, because he continues, “You don’t have to be shy. I know exactly how talented he is…entre las sábanas. And now so do you. Vale?” He spreads his hands. “Something in common!”

Clyde looks at him blankly, uncomprehending for an embarrassingly long time, before it clicks. “No!” He blurts out, aghast, and scarcely has the word left his mouth before Val’s frown is turned upside down. The prince shakes his head. “It’s—we’re—it’s not like that. We haven’t done…any of that.”

Val’s reaction is…odd.

His lips curled into a sneer, Val doesn’t do much more than glower at the demon prince for what feels like an eternity. But then, the expression melts away into something gleeful, his grin so broad Clyde can see his golden tooth gleaming.

“Oh, really? That’s not what he told me.”

There’s so much dark joy in his tone that Clyde’s blood curdles. Reading between the lines might not be his specialty, but this is so obviously bait that it almost offends him.

What’s worse is that it works like a charm.

Clyde regards him cautiously. “What did he say about us?”

“Oh, don’t get upset, your highness, your secrets are all safe with me. Really, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Valentino flaps his hand. “I’ve had my fair share of squealers, myself. Shedding a few tears is nothing compared to what I’m used to. Besides, with what he’s working with, I can hardly tease you for it…Especially when he can get so damn impatient.”

The mothman looks Clyde up and down, lips quirked in satisfaction. “It’s not hard to see why he’s taken a liking to you. Desafortunadamente, Voxxy doesn’t seem to want to share. Maybe that is why my curiosity got the better of me…”

Clyde’s ears are burning. His heart is beating out a samba against his ribcage as his insides twist in disgust and—is that betrayal?

“Squealers,” he croaks. Would Vox really say something like that about him? Would he lie about him?

If it were true that he had done anything with Vox, would he really tell Valentino?

His eyes focus again to see the Overlord moving in close. This time, Clyde can’t seem to urge his body to move away, rooted to the spot as the moth leers into his face.

“I want to know what it is about you,” he hisses through his teeth. “What it is about you that makes Vox tick. How did someone like you get his attention? Is it the crown? It was never supposed to be—”

The doors slam open, striking the wall with such force and with such a thunderous sound that Clyde nearly curls in on himself. The pair turns around.

“Val!” Clyde has never seen Vox look so angry before. He’s even bleeding from the mouth, liquid crystal dripping between his teeth. His shoulders are hiked up, tensed; even just the air in the room begins to crackle menacingly as free-swinging wires whip through the air.

“Vox,” answers the mothman, almost impressively level. “There you are, amor. His highness and I were just talking about you. How did your conversation with—”

“Oh, Asmodeus? You mean the king of Lust?” Vox seethes, stalking towards Val as Clyde backs away from the pair. The Overlord barely even spares Clyde a glance. “It was just marvelous. I enjoyed every second. Especially the part where I had to agree to send him new, groundbreaking video tech that we don’t actually have, because someone said we’d just love to have him test our ‘new products’. Right when I said I had somewhere to be!”

Val looks unfazed in the face of Vox’s anger, like a role reversal of their dispute the first time Clyde had met the moth.

“Isn’t it you who says I need to be thinking about the brand image?” he sniffs, peering at Vox from over his glasses. He’s dizzyingly tall, but Vox sidles up into his personal space anyway, sizzling and crackling with energy, his screen so blindingly bright that the demon towering over him can’t help but wince.

The words that come out of Vox are muddled with glitches and distortions, syllables skipping and stuttering. “I told you,” he intones. “to stay out of this.”

Valentino scoffs, even as he’s forced to squint into the blue light. “You told me lots of things, no? Why should I listen to you when I can’t expect you to tell me the truth?” His lip curls in disdain. “You don’t scare me, mentiroso.”

At that, Vox emits a low, vicious noise, his muscles winding. Clyde can’t see his face, but he can imagine the look on it when he says, “Get out, before I do something we both regret, and Carmilla’s daughters have to clean you off the fucking walls.”

It’s at this point that the Prince of Hell wonders why he hasn’t left the room yet. That would probably be the proper thing to do. However, he’s stuck in place, watching as a blend of emotion flits across Valentino’s mug: possibly hurt, followed by anger and then chagrin. The whole exchange looks…well-practiced.

All this time, Vox insisted what he and his fellow Overlord had was purely companionship, plus a little extra. But Clyde’s been around couples all his life: he knows what an arguing one looks like.

Suddenly, Val looks at Clyde. “Disculpe, your highness—is Angel Dust here?” He asks, the consonants crisp and pointed. Vox’s hand twitches at his side.

Clyde is so startled by being addressed directly that it takes him a second to process the question, but when it does, his stomach churns. This is Valentino, asking after Angel Dust…

No.

The right answer here, as Angel’s friend, is no. That’s what his gut tells him.

He’s done enough damage by ignoring Vox’s complacency in Val’s treatment of his contractees, by coexisting with him in the V Tower—

But if he’s going to talk to Vox…he needs this situation defused.

He needs Valentino out of the picture.

And…

Angel has Charlie, doesn’t he? Hell, he’s got Clyde’s mother. His father, most likely, who would find tearing anyone to pieces entertaining. Husk would rip out the throat of anyone hoping to harm Angel on his watch, Niffty is always looking for an excuse to stab something, and Vaggie’s fond enough of the sinner to pitch in.

They’re a united front. They could subdue one Overlord.

“Yes,” Clyde says, feeling as though he’s speaking outside of himself. “I last saw him downstairs.”

It’s fine.

He’s fine.

Everything is just—fine.

Even if the expression on Valentino’s face makes him feel a little bit sick.

“Fabuloso,” he drawls. Then, he sets a hand on Vox’s shoulder, ignoring the way the other demon stiffens under his touch. Clyde watches as he leans in, almost like he’s going to whisper something to him, but what he says, he says loud enough for the prince to hear, clear as crystal.

“I’ve been here the whole time, you know. When this one breaks your heart too, what are you going to do then, Voxxy?” His strange eyes flit up to Clyde for a beat. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Clyde is so stunned, he can’t even begin to parse what that means.

Valentino stands to his full height, composing himself. “Qué bueno verlo, su alteza. Always a pleasure.” Pausing at the door, he adds, “Don’t worry your little royal head about Angel. I wouldn’t rat you out, not when you so helpfully enlightened me tonight.”

Clyde balks. It’s a problem that he hadn’t even thought of in his haste to get Val out of the way. Now he just has to hope he’s telling the truth, and not playing some sort of mind game with him?

Tonight was supposed to be pleasant.

The door clicks behind the Overlord, leaving the prince alone with Vox.

His back still turned, the demon is still chillingly silent. Clyde stares at the back of his monitor, somewhat paralyzed with uncertainty. He’s not shorting anymore, so in theory, he should be calmer now, right?

“Uhm.” Clyde works his jaw. “Vee. I think we need to talk.”

A beat passes. Then, Vox straightens, his posture loosening. He tilts his screen in Clyde’s direction, his face still obscured when he goes, “Oh good, a phrase every man wants to hear.”

The prince’s teeth click together. So. He’s calmer, but no less angry.

But then Clyde remembers how angry he ought to be, and he folds his arms over his chest, glaring. “What does that mean? You don’t think I deserve an explanation? Because I’m dying to know why Valentino thinks I’m a squealer.”

“I didn’t—” Vox finally turns around, only to cut himself off and smudge a hand down his face. He drops it a moment later, weary. “We’re not doing this here. Come on. Air will do us both some good.”

The air quality in Pride can’t accurately be called fresh, but as Vox leads them out of the small alcove, down a discreet set of stairs facing away from the ballroom, and out into the stately gardens, Clyde does start to feel some—but not all—of the tension leave his body. He walks behind the Overlord, both of them silent now; the only sounds are the crunch of their dress shoes on pea gravel, the trickle of a fountain and the whisper of foliage in the nighttime breeze.

The gardens are immense and well-kept, lit by lanterns that are currently being swarmed by moths the size of Clyde’s fist. Vox doesn’t seem to have a particular destination in mind, but after several minutes of walking without a word, he appears to arbitrarily select a nook with a wrought-iron bench, surrounded by rows and rows of weeping willows, Cheshire cattails and various shrubbery. The TV Demon turns on his heel and topples onto the bench, sprawling leisurely in one corner as his eyes, set in a dull and irritable face, look anywhere but at the prince.

When Clyde doesn’t do much more than stand there looking at him, Vox throws up a hand. “Go on, then. You wanted to talk.”

Clyde frowns. “What are you mad at me for?”

Those narrowed eyes slide over to him, finally. “Who says I’m mad at you?”

“Your…everything?” Clyde gestures at him. “I’m not the best at reading body language, but I’m pretty sure you’re pouting.”

“Pout—!” Vox sits bolt upright, outraged, before sinking back down, grumbling. “I’m a grown man, I don’t pout.” He glances at Clyde again. “Will you sit the hell down? You’re freaking me out. Jesus.”

Far from the seething, malevolent force he had been a few minutes ago, the Overlord is now oozing something akin to petulance. Clyde’s brow furrows, even as he listens to the command, sits down without a word, watching as Vox bounces his knee restlessly. The prince has never seen him quite like this, either.

When it becomes clear the demon isn’t going to kick things off, Clyde folds his hands in his lap and says, as evenly as he can, “Explain why Valentino thinks we’ve been having sex.”

Vox’s eyes dart over to him and then away, an aggravated sigh leaving his speakers. “...I thought that if I told Val our relationship was just fucking, it would get him off my back. Fat lot of good that did me. It’s not that big of a deal, anyway, so who cares?”

“He said I’m a squealer!” The prince exclaims. Ironic but not too terribly funny that his voice comes out a little too shrill.

“I didn’t call you that, he did.”

Clyde snorts. “And you expect me to believe that?”

Vox actually focuses on him now. It’s an intense look. “Don’t you trust me?”

Now it’s Clyde’s turn to look away, hiding from his scrupulous gaze. “Well apparently you’ve been lying to your partner—I don’t exactly have reason to believe you wouldn’t lie to me.” He mutters, “Whatever I am.”

“What do you mean, ‘whatever you are’?”

The prince flushes, everything burning unpleasantly, inside and out. “I mean, we’re not dating, so.”

“Aren’t we?”

That catches Clyde off-guard with ease. He gapes like a fish, struggling to find an articulate response. But Vox is dead serious, looking calmly into the young man’s face with his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Something tells me Valentino doesn’t like to share,” Clyde chokes out eventually, remembering Vox’s words back when they’d kissed for the first time, in tandem with Valentino’s thinly disguised rage towards them both.

The sinner snorts. “I can’t say I give a fuck what Val likes, right now,” he breathes, laced with bitterness.

“I don’t…” Again, Clyde struggles. A viciously jealous part of him hates the idea of surrendering to Valentino, but what other choice is there? After all, “If I’m in the middle of that, someone’s going to find out. I think you know that, too. He’ll tell someone. Of course he will.”

Val had said Clyde was safe tonight, but how long would that last? And who’s to say he’s even telling the truth this time?

The prince continues, “And so what, you’re mad because—you can’t play both sides anymore? Is that what it is? Because I can’t imagine a random sinner’s word is worth all that much to Uncle Ozzie, so it’s not like this one evening’s gonna run your entire business into the ground. And if I can figure that out, I’m sure you have by now. So…?”

Vox scoffs. “Doll, you don’t even like Val. Why are you taking his word over mine?”

Clyde strangles out a frustrated noise. “If he’s so important to you, why are you doing all of—” He gestures between them wildly. “This?! It’s—it’s hurting me, Vox, so why don’t we just stop this and I can—”

Vox’s voice drops an octave, cutting in sharply, “I’m not letting you walk away from me.”

For a brief, ridiculous moment, a spike of fear pierces Clyde’s heart—quickly replaced by disbelieving indignation as rationality prevails (for once) and he realizes the absurdity of that claim. He bolts to his feet, glowering down at the demon. “Let me?” He repeats icily. “I outrank you, Overlord. You answer to me. And don’t think I don’t remember you saying that our relationship was entirely on my terms.” He squeezes his hands into fists. “What happened to me being worthy of respect? Or are you just like every other person in my life, ordering me around like I need you to hold my hand?”

The Overlord is just—staring at him blankly, not saying anything, not blinking. It makes Clyde fume.

“When were you going to tell me about the defense efforts Velvette mentioned,” he demands. “When were you going to let me help? You knew how badly I wanted to. Or was I just going to be a wrench in your plans? An inconvenience?”

Vox doesn’t say anything, and Clyde is suddenly and totally fed up with this conversation. He shakes his head. “I think I should go.”

He starts to walk away, but he doesn’t get far.

(And maybe he was hoping he wouldn’t.)

He hasn’t gotten much farther than turning around and taking a couple steps when a thin, plated wire coils around his wrist and pulls, ever so gently. And though it would be well within his capabilities to keep moving and rip the cord from Vox’s body, Clyde pauses, and obeys the tug. He hesitantly turns to face him again, finding him reaching out with one hand.

“What, Vox.”

“Please don’t.” Vox’s leg is bouncing again. He can’t seem to meet the young man’s gaze, and Clyde thinks he can hear a tremor in his typically confident and unfaltering speech. “Please don’t leave. Just—sit back down, okay? Please. Just for a minute.”

The coil around Clyde’s wrist tightens, possibly subconsciously, possibly not. Clyde breathes in, searching for words that don’t come. Honestly, he’s got every reason to just—wipe his hands clean of this while he’s ahead. Every reason to believe that it will only get dicier if he caves. Vox isn’t going to leave Valentino, and Valentino is never going to accept this current arrangement. It’s in Clyde’s own best interest to take this opportunity and run with it.

He should salvage his pride before Vox is forced to choose between them, and Clyde is inevitably not the one he chooses.

But the way Vox suddenly can’t look at him, the way his voice has changed, giving him yet another glimpse into a part of the sinner he hasn’t seen…

It’s not that cloying, smarmy persuasion he might have expected. The kind he knows Vox is capable of. The charm that had the prince infatuated in the first place. And so, when he subverts those expectations, the fishhooks Vox has in Clyde’s heart sink in just a bit deeper. His hindbrain might know he’s certainly made better choices in his life, but his resolve cracks along with Vox’s facade, drawing him back in with intrigue and curiosity.

Vox’s cord slips from around the prince’s wrist as he sits back down, vanishing beneath his tailcoat.

“I…” A false start. Vox runs his tongue over his teeth in thought, before trying again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

Clyde studies his glowing face for a few moments before replying. “I guess that counts as an apology. At least you didn’t tell me Carmilla would have to clean me off the walls.”

A brutal image. Although, hearing Vox say that to Valentino, of all people? In retrospect, it was kind of…

Nope. Stay focused.

“I would never say something like that to you,” Vox asserts doggedly.

Clyde’s mouth ticks down at the edge. “I don’t know if I believe that. Again. You said it to Val, and Val’s your ‘partner’. Whatever that means to you guys.”

“You’re not Val,” Vox insists, his hand suddenly alighting on Clyde’s knee. His touch burns, even through his trousers. “You—us—it’s different. We’re different. You’re different.” He squeezes. “Please, just trust me.”

Please. It’s not a word Clyde hears from Vox’s mouth often. He could probably count the times he’s said it on one hand.

The demon prince sighs through his nose, and the hand on his knee withdraws.

“Listen. I can work something out with him,” says Vox, still persuasive, now wringing his unoccupied fingers together. “I can. We have…disagreements…like this all the time, it’s not something that can’t be fixed. I’ll talk to him. Come clean.”

“And by ‘talk to him’, you mean…” Clyde murmurs dryly, looking at the sinner sidelong.

“Clyde, come on.” Vox lets out an exasperated, somewhat desperate laugh. “Don’t be like Val.”

Why not? Apparently, that’s what you like.

Still, the comparison stings like a bitch. Clyde grumbles, glaring at his shoes. “Fine, do what you want.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Vox gives him a gentle smile, before shifting a little closer to him on the bench. After a moment, his slender fingers rest on top of Clyde’s. The prince looks at their hands.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to us. To you,” Vox says to him. His claws stroke along the back of the young man’s hand, nearly enough to make him shiver. “The guy talks a big game, but Val knows who’s in charge here. Petty is as far as he’ll go, if he wants to cross me. It’s poor judgment to make me really angry—he knows that.”

Clyde’s heart stutters, but he doesn’t dare look up. If what he saw earlier didn’t qualify as really angry, he has to wonder what that would look like. He clarifies, “And that would make you really angry? Sabotaging…this?”

“Doll.” The sinner chuffs softly, as though the question is absurd. The hand on Clyde’s lifts to instead curl around his chin, redirecting his gaze towards him. “I would be so broken up if I lost you. Devastated, truly.”

With Vox’s hand on his face and his eyes poring into him so intently, not to mention the words he’s saying so smoothly, Clyde can’t help the way his breath hitches. Of course, the demon notices and chuckles, a thumb coming up to brush his cheek, stroking him affectionately—and that’s when they both hear it. A low, rolling noise from Clyde’s throat. Unlike anything Clyde has ever heard from himself, like an engine slowly coming to life.

Vox’s eyes widen with absolutely nefarious delight. “Are you purring?!”

“I am not fucking purring!” Clyde bats his hand away, blushing profusely as he swallows against the sound rippling in his vocal chords. Infuriating as always, Vox darts in past his swatting and sneaks a peck on the lips before leaning back, slouching against the opposite arm of the bench.

“Adorable,” he chuckles as the prince flounders. “You are just too much.”

“Shut up,” Clyde mutters, even as the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’re so annoying.”

The sinner shoots him a wink. “You like it.”

And he does, to be fair, but why let him have the satisfaction? Clyde scoffs. “What’s this ‘doll’ thing about, anyway? Why do you call me that?”

“Why?” Vox echoes, tilting his head. He ponders for a moment, then shrugs. “Well, look at you! Big beautiful eyes, those precious curls. You’ve even got the cute little dolly cheeks. I think it suits you.”

His comments make Clyde’s stomach swoop, but Vox isn’t done, a devious grin spreading across his face as he adds, in a much lower tone, “And you’re just so much fun to play with.”

Clyde inhales sharply. Vox laughs again, but before he can say something else and Clyde inevitably implodes from embarrassment, a gentle ping sounds, drawing the man’s attention to his phone.

The smile on his face drops clean off it.