An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: It always ends the way it starts— with blood-stained hands and cutthroat words. But somewhere along the way there was laughter and music, drunken nights and playful fights, and perhaps, deep down— the small creepings of something more. Or, Alastor & Vox through the years, following the prompts for RadioStaticWeek2024.
Day 4: Drinking at a Bar
“No no, like- if you could choose. Not Hell or- or whatever. Would you still be a deer?”
“Ah. No, definitely not.” He’s grown used to his form by now, and he’s come to appreciate the deceptive nature of it, but Alastor had not taken kindly to being turned into a prey animal when he’d first landed here. “I don’t know what I’d choose,” he admits.
Something sharp and ferocious, perhaps; a creature feared by all in name alone, something that would send even the oldest Overlords scurrying for cover, would cause every being, dead or alive, to drop to their knees and beg for mercy before he’s even lifted a claw—
“I think you’d be a cat.”
Alastor chokes on his drink.