Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vincent Whittman is younger, some insignificant age when he sees the billboard. Not too young, but young enough to not quite be working, which his father says means he's not any form of useful yet. Vincent is inclined to agree, he definitely doesn’t feel useful, anyway. The kids at school refer to him as a freak due to his thick glasses and his two toned eyes, though he’s heard his parents arguing about it, his father insisting to his mother that it’s because of Vincent’s ‘effeminate nature’ whatever that means, that the other boys don’t want to play with him. Apparently his mother’s coddling made him that way, and it’s a bad thing. Vincent is more distant with his mother after that, though that still doesn’t win him any favor with his dad. Especially after she… anyway. Back to the billboard.

He can't even remember now where he would have been to see it. It would make no sense for it to be in his hometown of Maryland, as it's advertising a program from New Orleans. Sometimes, as he’s trying to sleep, his mind starts to wonder if it had simply appeared in his dreams one night like destiny.

The sign itself is weathered, peeling with age, but it captivates him all the same. He's not sure why, it's just a man. A man with darker skin and a broad, captivating smile, holding a microphone and his other hand outstretched to the unseen audience. The letters next to him announce, Ready for a good time? Tune into Alastor’s Smile Hour at 9pm! 

He's entranced by the large white teeth, the inviting hand. But moreso, there’s an air of… confidence about him that Vincent wants to pull off the billboard and swallow, inheriting the power. When he gets home that night, he practices smiling in the mirror, offering his hand to his reflection. A few nights he stays up without his parents knowing, trying to find the station, but comes up empty. He’s disappointed, but not surprised. The advertisement had looked older, and the man Vincent can’t get out of his head definitely doesn’t look like anyone in Vincent’s town. 

As he gets older, Vincent doesn’t actively think about the man on the billboard, or ‘Advertisment Al’ as he calls him. He’s probably not even real, probably just a hyperrealistic drawing. And yet… Vincent can’t help bringing that confident smile with him everywhere he goes. What’s more, it works. The minute he smiles away the tears in his eyes, the bullies lose interest. He starts making more eye contact, learns how to sell himself. Hops from an internship with a local news station to a paid position on the air with little hassle. Keeps growing brighter and brighter and brighter until… he falls.

He hasn’t been in Hell long before he sees that damn billboard again. Well, no. It’s a different billboard. It has to be, and yet it is so eerily similar it can’t just be a coincidence. There's a demon with a very strange hair cut that seems to form deerlike ears, antlers nestled between them. His eyes and clothes are red and his smile certainly isn’t white but rather a dingy yellow and sharp as all hell. However, his pose is the same, one hand outstretched, the other holding a microphone, and the words next to him… Ready for a good time? Tune into Alastor’s Smile Hour anytime on channel 666!

Vincent can’t get his hands on a radio fast enough. His fingers are shaking as he turns the dial, and he doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until he exhales the minute a high, loud voice starts announcing, 

“Hello all you wayward sinners and welcome again to Alastor’s Smile Hour! Before the ad break we had some rather powerful overlords in our background… were you able to guess their names? Call in at 1800-666-SMILE and remember… no hints and no rewards!” The voice giggles and Vincent blinks, a warm, starstruck feeling pooling in his gut. Abruptly he launches himself to his feet, knocking over the stool he was perched on. He just has to meet this guy, tell him what a change in his life he made. 

He has to ask way too many people before someone finally points him in the direction of a broadcasting tower on a far off hill, tall enough he should have noticed it on his own. He scans for any form of television network while he makes his way up there, but sees no signs. Strange. Surely radio isn’t the only form of media in this (literally) God-forsaken place? 

By the time he makes it to the tower and is knocking on the door, he has a whole plan. He’ll get in good with this Alastor guy, climb the ranks- surely the man has a whole production and then he’ll convince him to expand to television. Imagine what they could do together. And people say to never meet your heroes. What do they know? 

It's not Alastor who opens the door while Vincent is adjusting his sweater vest and tie, feeling static butterflies buzzing in his stomach. Actually, he can't see anyone there until he drops his gaze to the floor. A small demon with a flipped bob and a fluffy little skirt is standing there with her apron covered in blood and a wide smile on her one eyed face. She looks a little like kids he'd see walking to the soda shoppe out the window of work. She certainly has the attitude of a sullen teen, snapping in a high pitched tone,

“What do ya want? I'm cleaning! Alastor lets me clean.” 

He bends down to get to her level, hiking up his pants to expose his argyle socks, settling into a crouch.

“Hiya kid, I was actually looking for Alastor, can you help me?” She narrows her eyes at him, assessing his wide smile that's flickering on his boxy screen, his outstretched hand. Apparently she isn't thrilled with what she sees, as she announces, 

“No!” and leaps up, trying to slam the door. Both fortunately and unfortunately for him, he's stuck his foot in there before she can, crushing his toes and making him shriek in pain. She seems both confused and undeterred, as she slams it again and again into his foot. 

“Fuck!” He tries to stop it, standing and holding out his hand to the door, but for a tiny thing she sure is strong. 

“Niffty? Are you stabbing peddlers again? I knew I was right to keep you around.” That voice… Vincent knows that voice. He looks up to see Alastor, looking exactly like his new billboard, smile included, descending a staircase. His crimson pinstripe coat is neatly pressed, and his staff is in hand, the eye in the middle staring right at Vincent, making him swallow. Alastor’s gaze barely skims him but he already looks unimpressed, waving a hand,

“Go ahead Niffty, dear, have your fun. Just be a doll and toss him in the trash when you're finished, will you?” Vincent feels desperation and fear thrum through his veins and he holds his hand firmer against the door, crying out,

“Wait! Please wait, Alastor- I just need to tell you something!” Alastor turns from the stairs he had already started to ascend, hair swinging as he does so, asking in a bored tone,

“I'm sorry, do I know you?” Niffty pauses her slamming, but Vincent is reluctant to withdraw his foot, lest she start again. He scrambles to get words out, abandoning what he had practiced to clumsily blurt out,

“No, but I know you! I mean I want to- I mean- oh fuck.” He takes a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in his right foot and offering his hand that isn't still on the door. “I mean, Vincent Whittman, Sir, it's an honor to meet you, I'm a huge fan.” Alastor flicks a look to his outstretched hand but doesn't offer his own. His smile is still in place but his eyes have lowered, looking bored. Fuck, this isn't how this was supposed to go. He's frantically thinking of what else he can say, when Alastor responds, checking his nails as he does so. 

“Mmm yes, you know, I do hear this a lot, most powerful sinner in Hell and all…” Vincent’s eyes widen. Holy shit, this man is so cool.

“You are??” Alastor’s smile doesn’t drop, but his eye does twitch and Vincent hurries to add,

“I mean, I don’t doubt it, I just… I haven’t been here long. I was a fan of yours in… you know, life.” Now Alastor’s eyes are the ones to grow larger and he actually looks intrigued. Vincent can feel his foot in the door in more ways than one now. 

“An original Smile Hour fan, ey? Well I’ll have to admit, those are a little rarer, due to the… limited run.” Vincent winces, not just because his foot is really throbbing now, but because he knows he has to clarify one more time, rubbing the back of his neck as he does so.

“Ah- I mean, I would have been, Sir, but I never actually got a chance to listen. See, I saw a billboard for your show when I was a little younger and it gave me confidence. I don’t know how to explain, but you inspired me to go into entertainment- I actually became pretty successful myself in television! Anyway, when I got here and I saw your sign again, well, I just wanted to say thank you.” He wraps up awkwardly, trying desperately to keep appropriate eye contact as Alastor silently appraises him. For a second he thinks he’s passed muster, and then the demon in front of him is turning back to the stairs. Fuck. Well, it was worth a shot. He’s about to shuffle backwards and run back to the cramped apartment he’s more or less squatting in, when Alastor turns his head back and says over his retreating shoulder,

“Niffty dear, escort Vincent into the kitchen and get him some ice for that foot, will you? You did quite a number on him.” Niffty nods, cheerily beckoning for Vincent to follow her, her previous vendetta against him clearly forgotten on her end. 

“C’mon, I’ll show you where I clean!” Vincent nods, following her with only a slight limp. As they go down the hallway, Alastor commands after them,

“Just the kitchen now, Niffty, let’s not get carried away!” She nods and bobs her way down the hallway, only pausing to stab a few rogue bugs, which Vincent finds are rather out of place with the really very spotless hall. The floors are shining dark wood and the wallpaper is an understated burgundy. The guy seems to have an affinity for red, which makes sense if he really is as mighty as he says he is, red is the color of power after all. Though it seems rather arrogant to announce it in such a way. He should do what Vincent did, frame all his accolades in gold and line his walls with them when his mantle got too full. 

The kitchen is as tidy as the hallway had been, a small room with a round wood table and chair, a newspaper and a still steaming cup of tea sit on the table, as if Alastor had been perched there, watching his maid scurry around the kitchen. There is a wide counter with a sink built into it in the middle of the space, and a stove parallel to that with a large stock pot simmering there. It smells like spice and meat and it would make his stomach growl if he didn’t will it to be quiet. He does want to make at least a bit of a good impression.

Niffty pushes him into the chair next to the small table and scurries to the ice box, holding an ice pack aloft as she comes back, tossing it on his foot like a beanbag into a board. He hisses in pain but attempts a smile.

“Thank you.” She flashes him a wide grin with teeth sharper than the knife she had been wielding earlier.

“You’re welcome!” He grimaces as he shrugs off his shoe. It’s hard to tell how bruised his foot is, what with the dark grey color of his new skin, but some of his toes are definitely at a different angle now. He breathes heavily, relying on the gills under his shirt instead of his mouth or nose, trying to be inconspicuous with his pain. He’s shown enough weakness today. So much for impressing Alastor. The only person who did that in this situation was that maid.

“She is a feisty little gal, isn’t she?” Vincent whips his head up to see the man, the myth, the legend himself standing in front of him, looking down in an imperious sort of way. Vincent swallows, nodding and Alastor looks satisfied. 

“Can I get you something to drink, Vincent?” Vincent gapes at the demon in front of him, unsure if it would be ruder to refuse or to accept. He settles on stammering out,

“W-well, if you’re offering, yes please, sir. Whatever you’re having.” Alastor hums, snapping his fingers to summon another chair and sitting across from Vincent.

“Very well. Niffty, dear, two sazeracs.” He inclines his head towards Vincent, saying frankly, “now between you and me, drinks are not her strong suit. I really do need a proper bartender. How well are you at mixology?” Vincent chuckles.

“I’ll have to admit, I can only make a martini and a highball, and they’re both passable at best.”

As he’s turning down the likely unserious offer, he realizes that this might be just the window he was looking for. He clears his throat.

“Actually sir-” Alastor waves his hand.

“Enough of this ‘sir’ nonsense, Vincent! You may address me as Alastor. After all, my name is on all the lips of Hell, might as well be on yours.” His grin widens, and now that they’re up close, Vincent can see miniscule flecks of blood dotting the yellowed fangs. Maybe he ate his dentist. “But please… continue.” Vincent huffs a laugh, doing just that, gesturing with his hands as he pitches:

“Right, well, uh, Alastor, I actually was hoping to bring what I built in life here, you know, like you did! I don’t know if you’ve ever dabbled in television, but I was wondering if you had any tips or advice on where to start?” Alastor tilts his head, running a claw around the edge of the glass Niffty deposited in front of him. 

“Well aren’t you the bold one? No, Vincent, I believe you’ll find my medium suits me. Not to mention, why would I fix what is not broken?” Vincent nods, feeling a little shut down, defending his proposition weakly,

“I just, I think Television is the future of entertainment.” Alastor laughs derisively at that.

“I’ll have to disagree with you there, Vincent!” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “You say you want advice? Start with that name. It’s not exactly… snappy, or made for entertainment, now is it?” He chuckles. Vincent shrugs, feeling a blush warm his screen as he defends,

“Oh I don’t know, Vincent Price is doing alright.” Alastor’s eyes narrow and his head tilts in confusion. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.” Vincent shrugs, sipping his whiskey. This little meeting hasn’t exactly gone the way he planned, but no matter. If Alastor isn’t his way in, he’ll just have to rebuild his empire the hard way. 

They sit in silence for a moment, Vincent feeling a little like he’s failed a test. Eventually he can’t take it anymore, blurting out,

“So what are you cooking?” Alastor looks surprised, his eyebrows lifting, though his wide smile is still in place. 

“Jambalaya. My mother’s recipe.” Vincent nods like that’s a dish he’s familiar with, even though it certainly isn’t. He chuckles a little.

“Well it certainly smells more flavorful than anything my mother ever made. We were a meatloaf and mashed potato kind of household.” Alastor nods, standing. Vincent rises too, clumsily, given the foot, certain he’s worn out his welcome. However, Alastor simply gestures to the stove, beckoning Vincent to join him as he dons a striped apron that was hanging on a hook.

“How unfortunate. Here, assist with these shrimp, won’t you?” He points to a pile of pink shrimp on the counter, tails unshucked. Vincent nods, washing his hands before starting to rip the tails off and de-vein the sea creatures. He’s made enough shrimp cocktails to know what he’s doing here at least. Strange, getting seafood in Hell, but he supposes this whole thing is unusual. There are no rules, it seems. 

Alastor stirs whatever is in the pot as Vincent works on the shrimp. He doesn’t even turn when Vincent yelps, having discovered a few pink fingers mixed into the pile. 

“Don’t mind those, Vincent, just pop the nail off, would you? Adds an unnecessary crunch.” Vincent shrugs, his initial surprise settling into indifference as he rips into the dead flesh. He’s done worse. In fact, he regrets his earlier gasp. Alastor must think he’s weak.

“I’ve killed a bunch of people, you know.” He winces as this line comes out of his mouth, but Alastor seems unphased, humming over the steaming stockpot, murmuring,

“You don’t say.” He doesn’t ask him to elaborate, but Vincent doesn’t need him to, already prattling on,

“Yeah, well, they were in my way and I had to climb the ladder, you know? I always knew I was destined for greatness, and once I figured out how to get up there… I was unstoppable.” Alastor hums again, remarking,

“Well aren't you just the cat’s pajamas? And yet, you’re here.” Vincent winces, almost snapping a shrimp in two when he thinks about that night. Who's fucking bright idea had it been to suspend T.Vs with shoddy wiring over water? Oh that's right, his. He shrugs it off though, simply saying,

“Wrong place, wrong time. Besides, Earth wasn’t big enough for me anyway.” Alastor freezes at this, though Vincent isn't sure why. The radio demon is quiet, still stirring but Vincent thinks he hears a small

“Ah yes” that makes Vincent desperately want to know just how well he can relate. He wants to know how Alastor ended up here, but that seems like perhaps a rude question to ask so early. So instead he says brightly, 

“Shrimp are done!” Alastor whirls around, spoon in hand, announcing,

“excellent!” before scooping them up and adding them to whatever is in that pot. Then he turns back to Vincent, wiping his hands together. 

“Now it needs to simmer for ohhh five minutes.” Vincent nods, fidgeting slightly with one of the fingernails he’d shucked, absentmindedly remarking,

“You’re lucky, you know. That your mother taught you to cook, I mean.” 

Alastor stiffens when he hears this, then relaxes, murmuring,

“Mmmm…yes… ‘lucky.’” He doesn’t say anything else, which Vincent takes as a polite signal that he’s crossed a line. He shoves his shoe back on, standing awkwardly.

“I should get going, you’ve already been more than hospitable.” Alastor tilts his head, studying Vincent again as he backs towards the door. He’s almost there when Alastor directs his gaze to the wall instead, saying,

“You mentioned luck. Perhaps it’s you who’s the fortunate one. Normally I'd slice you up as a garnish, even with your pathetic and nonsensical story of inspiration. But…Mama always said that good food is a waste without someone to share it with, and seeing as it's her birthday, I think we should honor her wishes, don't you?” Vincent pauses, his hand on the doorway, still processing the insults, nevermind the invitation as Alastor continues blithely,

“However, if you must dash, I suppose I’ll just have Niffty join me instead.” Vincent opens his mouth, shaking his head as he steps back in the kitchen.

“If you’re sure… I would love to.” He goes back to leaning against the counter and fiddling with the shrimp shells. “You were close to your mother, huh?” Alastor has already turned back to stir the pot on the stove again, lowering the heat while answering with a question of his own,

“Isn’t every little boy?” Vincent winces at this, glad Alastor’s back is to him, his tone empty as he replies,

“I guess.” The shrimp tail he’s playing with breaks, and he stares at it, suddenly a bit melancholy. That wedge his dad had driven between him and his mother had never dissipated. She’d been there physically, always reaching out a hand, but he never took it, neither literally nor metaphorically. He would give her one word answers to her questions about how school was and he would pick at his dinner until his father threatened him. She’d killed herself when he was 15, in the garage with the car running and both he and his father seemed to have an unspoken agreement it was his fault. Well, unspoken unless his dad was drunk. Then it was very much spoken.

“Ah, will you look at that!” Vicent snaps out of his reverie to see Alastor brandishing a pot of presumably completed jambalaya. He sets it on a pot holder, dishing them both up a hearty serving before tilting his head towards the door.

“Niffty! Dinner!” She zooms in almost faster than Alastor can summon another chair and eagerly holds out her plate, which Alastor fills before ruffling her hair. Perhaps she's more than just the ‘help,’ Vincent thinks. Alastor seems awfully soft about her. 

 The jambalaya is just about the best thing he's ever tasted, though it does make his tongue tingle in a way he didn't know food could. He doesn't even mind the fingers. After all, it's all just meat. Not to mention the fact he's eaten enough Fourth of July hot dogs, he's likely already consumed human flesh. He groans, freely admitting to the table,

“This might be the most incredible food I've ever had.” Alastor’s constant smile spreads wider, and he nods.

“I agree, Vincent. Though I would have perhaps added a bit more p-” Vincent can't help himself, he interrupts his hosts oncoming criticism with a quick,

“No. It's perfect.” Alastor looks at him blankly and Vincent mentally curses, outwardly apologizing, “Ah, shoot. I'm sorry, I interru-” Alastor cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“Not a worry.” Then he winks, making Vincent chuckle, looking down at his plate and moving his food around with a fork before shoveling more into his mouth. Niffty seems oblivious to everything but inhaling her plate, her eye tracking the kitchen for bugs. 

When dinner is finished, Vincent wipes his mouth with a napkin, standing up to bring his plate to the kitchen. He's about to rinse it off when Alastor stops him with an offhanded,

“I wouldn't wash that if I were you. Niffty is rather territorial.” Vincent looks at the plate, then at the tiny cyclops at the table, who's indeed watching him with narrowed eye. He leaves the plate where it is, and walks back to the table, pushing in his chair and inclining his head to Alastor.

“Thank you so much for… well, everything. I didn't expect to ever even hear you on the radio, much less have dinner in your home.” He extends his hand to shake but Alastor waves him off.

“Nonsense, Vincent, it was my pleasure.” He doesn't rise, instead gesturing vaguely while sipping his whiskey. “Niffty will escort you to the door.” 

When Vincent gets back to his apartment, he flops backwards onto his creaky mattress, belly full and smile endless. What a day. He rolls over, kicking off his shoes as he does so. When the right one hits the floor, however, he sees something fall out. He leans down and picks up a shiny red calling card with gold script on it reading, Alastor, Host of Smile Hour. 1-666-Smile-13. He presses the card to his chest, though he doesn’t know why. He drifts off to sleep like that, the ghost of spice still numbing his mouth and pinking his cheeks… though maybe the latter isn’t the spice.

Chapter Text

~One month later~

It’s not been an easy month for Vincent Whittman. He’s been knocking on doors all around town, trying to find someone who’ll assist him in bringing television to the underworld. He really just needs someone who understands technology and inventions. He can pitch all day but if the product doesn’t exist besides the one on his head… What's a guy to do? 

He drums his fingers on the desk in his apartment. Maybe Alastor was right. Maybe his name isn’t bringing enough gravitas. Or.. maybe he just wants a real reason to call the man. It’s embarrassing enough to call him up when he’s still not successful, nevermind without a clearcut topic in mind. After all, if he just wanted to hear the demon’s voice, he’d turn the dial on the radio. The volume dial, that is. He hasn’t moved the other one an iota off of Alastor’s channel since he bought the damn thing. He’s sure if he even tried, the dial would be stuck from lack of use. He also never turns it off, just down, in order to sleep. He finds the crackling rumble of Alastor’s lowered voice soothing. 

He picks up the receiver before he loses his nerve, making sure he calls when the broadcast isn’t going. The last thing he wants is for Hell to hear his pathetic attempts at casual conversation. Vincent listens to the phone ring 6 times with bated breath that becomes more and more calm as he realizes Alastor is likely not going to answer. It’s been 7 rings now and he’s about to give up and put down the phone when the line crackles and a very familiar voice answers,

“Alastor!” Vincent swallows, forcing out the question he had prepared in lieu of any salutation, a definite mistake. 

“What do you think about Vinnie?” There’s a beat and then Alastor asks, sounding both amused and vexed. 

“I’m sorry, who is this?” Vincent’s heart sinks. Of course the man wouldn’t remember him. Then he realizes it’s likely because he hasn’t actually told him who’s calling. Vincent, you idiot. He palms himself in the face, adding,

“Oh- shit, sorry, Alastor, this is Vincent, um from the other day? With the jambalaya?” For a split second he has a quick pang of anxiety. What if Alastor has just a string of men that he shares jambalaya with? Surely the scene with Vincent wasn’t something special. Even if it felt like it. 

All of a sudden Alastor laughs, tone warming.

“Oh yes, the picture box demon lad! I was beginning to think you’d lost my card. What can I do for you, Vincent?” Vincent huffs a laugh, rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead in disbelief. 

“Ah, hi! Well, uh, I was thinking about taking your advice, changing my name, and I wanted your opinion.” Alastor hums and Vincent quickly adds, “if you’re busy, that’s fine, I-” Alastor cuts him off, announcing,

“Not at all!” making Vincent take a sigh of relief. 

“Oh, great, I-” Alastor cuts him off again, and Vincent can practically hear his smile as the man suggests,

“Actually, Vincent, I was about to step out to the bar, the one on the corner of 52nd st, care to accompany me?” Vincent’s mouth drops for a full 2 seconds before he eagerly answers, heart pounding, 

“Yes, I can be there in five min-” 

“Wonderful!” The phone goes dead after that, and Vincent puts it down numbly before snapping out of it and grabbing his hat, running out the door at breakneck speed. 

He makes it there in 7 minutes, only getting minorly lost once. He takes a deep breath before walking through the doorway, giving himself a quick pep talk under his breath. Come on, Vincent, where’s your confidence gone? You were once close to a God. Don’t let this guy rattle you. 

Alastor is already at the bar, glass of whiskey in hand when Vincent walks in, not turning until he sits next to him. Only then does he tilt his head slightly, greeting the man with a 

“Hello, Vincent. Pleasure to see you again! What’s your poison?” You. You’re my poison. Somehow, I hear your voice and see your smile and my heart starts beating faster and my palms get sweaty and I don’t even know who I am anymore. 

“Ah, I’ll take a martini.” The bartender nods and starts mixing. Vincent plays with a wet spot on the bar, drawing patterns in it with his claws while he waits, staring at the wood and not at the broad, content smile of the man next to him as he asks, faux casually, “so, what brings you out into the world, I mean out of your studio? Desperate for a proper drink?” For a split second he kicks himself. Maybe he shouldn’t fucking insult Alastor’s maid like he knows them both personally. Then Alastor is letting out an approving cackle and answering jovially, 

“Ah yes. Well, life can’t be all work, you know. One must have a little play… and it helps when it’s top shelf play.” He gestures with his glass and Vincent laughs in agreement, feeling his shoulders loosen. He can do this. How many executives did he have to shmooze before cutting their throats? These are much lower stakes. This is just… two men, having a drink together, dare he say… like friends? Yeah, like you’ve ever done that before. It would be much easier if you were going to kill him. He ignores his inner voice, however accurate it might be, it’s not welcome here. He’s not going to think, he’s not going to scheme, he’s going to enjoy the fucking moment and maybe, just maybe, cement a friendship with a man he admires and respects. No big deal. 

His drink is ready and it can’t get in his hand fast enough. He sips it, gaze bouncing everywhere around him except at Alastor. He even looks behind him, lighting up at the sight of a cigarette dispenser. He stands, murmuring to Alastor,

“Excuse me for a minute,” before walking over and buying a pack. He pulls one out before even sitting back down. He then realizes he doesn’t have a fucking light. He wilts, cigarette in his mouth even drooping. Alastor giggles slightly. 

“Forget something?”  Vincent smiles sheepishly, going to take the cigarette out of his mouth, but Alastor reaches out a hand and snaps his fingers, a small green flame jumping to light the smoke. Vincent raises his eyes to Alastor’s over the flame, the light hitting the glassy redness there, turning his pupils invisible. Vincent inhales deeply, instantly coughing at the deluge of smoke that hits his lungs, excess nicotine laden vapor exhaling from his gills, making it look like he has a fire under his sweater vest. Maybe he does, he certainly feels warm enough all of a sudden. 

Alastor smirks at him, reaching out and plucking the cigarette out of Vincent’s mouth, wiping the end with a bar napkin and sticking it into his own, leaving Vincent speechless, holding the still full pack limply in his hand. Then he shakes his head, pulling another one from the pack and putting it in his mouth before removing it again and offering it wordlessly to Alastor, who does his flame trick. This time, Vincent takes a measured drag, sighing in relaxation.

“God, I missed a smoke.” Alastor closes his eyes, inhaling his own, or rather, Vincent’s cigarette, remarking,

“Ah yes, who doesn’t love a good fag?” Vincent blanches, his whole body seizing involuntarily at that word, regardless of meaning. He watches as Alastor’s gaze slides over to him, smile slightly tilted, like he knows exactly what he just said… and why. He feels his face heat. He’s not a fag. He’s not- that’s not what this is. He clears his throat, flustered and defensive as he stubs out his cigarette, announcing,

“Not me. Can’t stand them.” Alastor’s eyebrows crease and Vincent feels like he’s lost an unknown game. He debates pulling another from the pack but has a sneaking suspicion that said  game could go all night. Instead, he sips his drink, careful to keep his pinky tucked into his fist as he swigs. 

“Vincent.” He shoots a side glance at Alastor, then down at the bar, where Alastor’s hand is spread, reaching ever so slightly towards the man. Not an offering, not extended to shake or hold, just… there. Grounding. He clears his throat, deciding once and for all he’s taking charge here. First step, changing the subject. He reaches for another cigarette on instinct and pauses. Fuck it. He grabs one, determined, leaning in to light it from the end of Alastor’s, slightly surprised when it works.

Then he settles back in a casual position, elbow on the bar as he flicks ash with abandon. 

“So, Al,” Alastor’s eyebrows shoot up at the nickname and his newfound boldness but fuck it, he’s running with it. He’s Vincent Fucking Whittman after all, the man who basically reinvented entertainment. He should act like it. Vincent counters Alastor’s expression with a daring raise of his own brows and Alastor’s grin gets wider. He likes a challenge. Huh. Vincent continues, leaning on the palm holding his cig, looking Alastor directly in the eye now. “So I was thinking about changing my name.” 

Alastor leans forward as well, mirroring Vincent’s pose. Possibly mocking him, possibly just because it’s a small space and that’s what’s comfortable. 

“Mmm, what an… innovative idea.” Vincent chuckles, the banter strangely putting him at ease, giving him familiar ground to stand on. He waves his hand, acknowledging the truth with a 

“Yeah, yeah” before moving on. “Seriously though, what you think of ‘Vinnie?’” He spreads his hands, as though he’s presenting the name in lights and not the dim and smoky atmosphere of a Hell corner bar. Alastor grimaces, somehow, without losing his signature grin. 

“Mmmm” Vincent shrugs it off, getting into it now, scooting his chair slightly closer as he recalibrates, 

“Okay, okay, fair enough, what about… ‘Vince?’” Alastor wrinkles his nose, asking dryly,

“I thought you were trying to be memorable.” Vincent snorts in surprise at the candor, snapping his fingers.

“Damn, Al, don’t hold back!” Alastor chuckles, slurring just a touch, making Vincent wonder just how many drinks he had pounded before Vincent had shown up.  

“Never do, V-iiictur-ox” Vincent blinks at him, motioning at him to back it up, saying excitedly,

“Wait, wait, what did you say?” Alastor sets his glass down, having downed the rest of his whiskey, and gestures to the bartender for another round. He's not slurring anymore and for a second Vincent wonders if that had been intentional, a mockery of some kind, or had Alastor known he would spark genius?

“What, Picture Box?” Vincent shakes his head, holding up a hand, the idea crystalizing. Yes, that's it.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it.” He pauses for suspense, waiting a few good beats before suggesting with a flourish, “what about…Vox?” Alastor looks thoughtful, though briefly distracted as more whiskey appears in front of him. A small spike of annoyance chills Vincent’s nerves. This is his new name he’s talking about, surely that’s more interesting than a fresh tumbler of Jameson. Not to mention Alastor was the one who suggested the change in the first place. After he takes a sip, Alastor responds,

“Hmm, snappy, attention grabbing… not bad, Vox.” Hearing his new name purred out of Alastor’s whiskey perfumed mouth sends a shiver up Vox’s spine he chooses to leave unexamined. He chuckles,

“Well, I have partly you to thank.” He raises his drink to Alastor’s and they toast briefly, the ting of the glass vibrating through Vox’s ears, engraining itself into his brain as a noise he’ll remember forever-for better or for worse. Alastor, in turn, looks pleased with himself and he adds,

“I’ll have my lawyers call you to talk about intellectual property later.” Vox snorts, shooting back the rest of his martini, the world and his inhibitions a little blurry as he asks jokingly,

“That your way of saying you wanna do this again?” It’s not the most coherent sentence he’s ever uttered but it is one of the most honest, though he’ll never admit that sober. He also realizes he’s holding his breath when he exhales at Alastor’s answer. It’s simple, just a little hum as he lifts his cigarette, Vox’s damn cigarette, to his mouth again, the thing basically just a pillar of ash held together with a prayer. As he exhales the smoke though, Vox could swear he hears a small perhaps. His heart jumps at this thought but then his mind wanders and he bursts into hysterical laughter, face falling forward onto his arms as he mumbles, 

“Man, you have a fag in your mouth.” Alastor’s quiet, so quiet that Vox looks back up and sees the demon smiling. Then he flicks his eyes down to Vox and quips,

“So did you.” With that, both of them collapse into roaring laughter, Vox’s arm flailing until it claps Alastor on the back. The minute he does that even his drunk addled brain knows that was a mistake, not just considering what they’re joking about but also just in general. He feels the man freeze and Vox instantly sits up, feeling much more sober now as he takes his hand away, though it’s still hovering in the air over Alastor like there’s a magnetic field holding it there.

“Ah gee, Al- Alastor, I’m sorry, that was an acc-”  he’s barely looking at him, so all he has to tell him that Alastor has moved is a rustle of fabric. Then all of a sudden the demon’s warm back is pressing against Vox’s hand once more. Vox casts a scandalized glare at his own arm, but then he realizes he's not the one who moved. Alastor has relaxed into Vox’s hand, eyes closed, encouraging Vox to also release his tension, his hand softening, his palm practically tingling against the pinstriped fabric of Alastor’s jacket. He wants to lean his head there too, suddenly a nap on Alastor’s shoulder sounds like the Heaven he’ll never see, but he doesn’t want to push it. 

So he enjoys the moment until Alastor’s shoulder twitches as he reaches for his drink, telling him that it’s over. Vox withdraws his hand, tucking it back under his chin, staring off into space, not thinking about much at all, and definitely not enjoying the lingering warmth of Alastor on his hand. Wouldn’t that be queer. 

When Vox wobbles back home that night, Alastor having disappeared in a puff of green, he immediately face plants into his pillow. He sinks his teeth into it momentarily, thinking about Alastor’s laugh and the surprising silkiness of his outercoat. Then he spits the pillow out with disgust in both himself and the fact that the pillow definitely has the lingering taste of being used before. He scrubs his tongue, spitting and going to the bathroom to gargle with soap and water. 

He looks up into the mirror that he definitely needs to clean because that is not his jizz. God, he’s been here way too long to not have noticed that. 

Past the grime, he sees his own face, bulky and reflecting back on itself. His antenna bob and he’s mesmerized by their movement. It’s as he’s watching his own version of a Newton’s cradle that he realizes just how very drunk he is. God, how many martinis had he even had? He’d lost count and is honestly not quite sure if he even paid. Doesn’t matter, he’s in Hell, who pays in Hell? Well, monetarily. He chuckles at this, finally taking a break from thinking about how to claw his way back up the ladder of power to process the fact that he’s in Hell. He died. There was probably a funeral- closed casket, of course. No one wants to look at a guy crushed by a television. His head probably caved in. He raps his knuckles against his new, harder shell of a skull and laughs as the noise reverberates around his head. Whheeeeee. Okay, he should lie down. 

He falls asleep in the bathtub that night, waking up in the morning to the shower head steadily dripping water into his open mouth. His head is filled with static and his joints ache. 30, whether that be his eternal age or not, is way too old to pass out drunk in a bathtub. He hauls himself clumsily out and onto the floor, though truth be told he should probably just stay in the shower and turn the water on. Might snap him out of the impending hangover he can feel around the bend, its full force not hitting him yet. 

Nevertheless, he drags his body back to the bed, faceplanting onto the mattress this time, having learned his lesson with the pillow. He’s just gotten vaguely comfortable when the phone rings, shrill and incessant. Motherfucker. 

Chapter Text

He had thought the phone was meant to stop after three rings, that's what he’s accustomed to. However, apparently the telephones in Hell just keep ringing and ringing and ringing until some poor demon with a burgeoning hangover has to haul himself out of his semi comfortable bed to answer it. Which he does, growling into the phone, 

“What.” He's met with Alastor’s chirpy voice, perfect for radio, blasting him in the ear,

“Rise and shine, old chum! Let's get up and at ‘em, as they say!” Vox winces, clutching his head. 

“Ohh fuck you, Al.” He blinks, suddenly remembering how he used that nickname last night, too. Guess that's a thing now. Over the phone Alastor coos,

“Awww is that any way to treat a pal after a night out?” Vox blushes besides himself, though he still rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“Oh was that what that was? Cause it feels like someone hit me on the head with a club.” He's not sure what's replaced his starstruck fawning with sass, but Alastor seems to appreciate it, humming over the line in a tone that sends a shiver up Vox's spine.

“Well shake it off, old bean, we have work to do!” The idea of doing anything but falling back onto the bed turns Vox’s stomach, but the dread is counteracted by the idea of doing something with Alastor. He’s silent for a moment, weighing pros and cons, before asking reluctantly,

“Okay, what are we doing?” Alastor’s smile sounds wider as he rattles off,

“Welll actually, pal, you’re going to be the first ever guest on my radio show in about mmm ten minutes!” Vox blinks. That definitely wasn’t the answer he had been expecting. He’s intrigued, though wary, and still just so fucking tired. All of these factors make it so he’s not one hundred percent joking as he says plainly,

“Alright, but if you’re going to kill me, just make it quick, will you? My head hurts.” Alastor giggles, and Vox wonders briefly if he pitched his tone that high on purpose, just to needle at Vox’s hangover until it’s in full force. 

“Silly Vox. I’m not going to kill you. I’m giving you what you wanted! A chance to pitch your little… project to all of Hell! You should be thanking me on bended knee.” Okay, that image certainly wakes Vox up, his screen flushing at the idea of getting on his knees for Alastor. Nope. See, these are the thoughts he shouldn't be having. He gathers himself, sucking in a deep breath and asking, 

“Alright then, if that's how you want it, should I meet you-” Alastor chuckles, the noise going right from the receiver to the depths of Vox’s soul as the phone starts to shake in his hand, lighting his palm and then his body, then the whole room with an acid green glow.

“Oh you silly man. I come to you.” With that, there's a static hum that makes Vox drop the receiver and Alastor appears in front of him, leering smile inches away from Vox’s surprised face. The minute they make eye contact, Alastor tuts, taking in Vox’s disheveled ‘slept drunk in the bathtub’ appearance, sticking out a finger to lift up his screen, examining it. “Scratch that, make it twenty minutes. Oh, this won't do at all, Vincent. Sure, no one will see you, but I will see you and I just can't have my first guest all…” he trails off, straightening Vox’s tie and collar, brushing dirt off his shoulders “...messy.” He straightens up, looking around at the small hole in the wall apartment and wrinkling his nose. “Where is the powder room in this shack?” Vox is overwhelmed, but he manages to point Alastor in the direction of his disgusting, come-stained bathroom, not expecting the man to grab him by the arm and haul him over there. Once ensconced, Alastor finds the washcloth that Vox uses in the morning on his face and grimaces, wetting it and pulling Vox closer, dabbing at his crusty, purple lined eyes. Suddenly shy at their proximity and the intimacy of such an act, Vox struggles to find words, settling on,

“This is weird, Al. I kind of got the impression you weren’t a… touchy feely kind of guy.” Alastor smirks, then goes back to concentrating, elaborating as he does so, tongue between his teeth as he says,

“Your perception was correct, Vincent, I am not amenable to being touched… However, I can touch… others all I want.” The last bit of that sentence he says with a threatening tone and Vox should be scared, but instead he’s fucking titilated. It also helps that the man who’s acting so menacing is also wiping his face with a wet washcloth like Vincent got too dirty playing outside. Keeping with that theme, Vox tries to squirm away, only for Alastor to anchor him in place with a hand at the back of his neck. That certainly works in keeping him still, though it doesn’t stop him from talking.

“Al… why are you…helping me?” Alastor chuckles, finally relinquishing the other man, tossing the washcloth back to the edge of the sink and appraising Vox once more. 

“How do you know I'm helping you?” It's a non answer and Vox takes that to mean his question should be a non question. So he drops it, and his shoulders while he's at it, the latter having risen to protect himself from Alastor’s scrubbing. The man is a menace with a washcloth. Honestly, if he’s like that with surfaces too, maybe he doesn’t even need a maid, just likes having Nifty around. Maybe… he collects people to keep him entertained and Vox is just the new shiny toy. Literally shiny now, after that buff with the washcloth. He’s… not upset at this idea, in fact he’s rather flattered. And if he should benefit from this fascination… all the better. He already got jambalaya out of it, and now he’s apparently going to get to sell himself on Alastor’s highly successful radio show… holy shit. That concept has finally sunk in and he starts to get excited. God, it’s been too long since he’s been on any form of media, even if it is just radio, and his anticipation is channeled through his antenna, energy coursing from his spine to the tips of the metal on top of his head. They buzz and Alastor glances up at them, looking vaguely amused. 

“Excited, are we now, Vincent?” Vox nods and Alastor seems pleased, adding, “well then, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” With that, he snaps his fingers and suddenly they both are in what must be the top level of Alastor’s radio tower. It is a semi standard recording studio. The walls and floors are clearly the same wood material as those in Alastor’s house, which makes sense, considering that they are still in the same building. However the ones in here are covered in a burgundy carpeting, clearly for sound dampening purposes which is wise. Clearly, Alastor only wants very certain screams playing in the background of his broadcast, not the general wailing nonsense of the hellscape. Alastor takes his seat at the mic, gesturing for Vox to take the seat next to him which he does, listening to the ambient jazz that's caressing the sound waves while Alastor clicks a few buttons on the control panel, muttering to Vox, 

“You know in the olden days, some might say the better days, we had people to do this part for the talent.” Vox raises a claw, asking, 

“Well, you could hire someone.” However Alastor shoots him down with a withering glare.

“And have someone fuck up my show? My controls? What I worked so hard to achieve in both life and death?” Vox raises his hands in a surrendering pose, defending himself with a yelp of 

“Hey! It was just a suggestion!” and Alastor hums in acknowledgement then flicks a final switch, grabbing his microphone as he does so. Vox hadn’t thought it possible for the demon’s voice to lean more into the hokey radio tone, but he was clearly wrong. Move over, Roosevelt, fireside chats are over. Alastor is in town now, and boy oh boy does he have something to say.

“A good and Godless morning to you sycophants and sickos out there in Hell! Alastor here and oh golly do we have a special treat for you! I have with me a new face in Hell and he has a little pitch for all you dreamin’ folks out there. Now he’s a little green, so bear with us here as you give your full attention to…” He gestures to Vox, clearly wanting him to jump in, practically doing a drum roll. He leans into the microphone, clearing his throat and starting with,

“Uh thank you Alastor. It’s a great honor to be here on your show, and to get to speak directly to all of Hell. My name is Vox and to keep it short and sweet, I want to bring the wonderful technology of television to Hell and I need your help to do so. For those of you who died before that was around, imagine this show broadcasting into your living room from a box not unlike a radio. But you can actually see this handsome devil sitting in front of you.” He doesn’t look at Alastor as he rattles off the compliment, feeling his face warm at the idea of the man thinking him serious. “You won’t just get to listen anymore, you’ll also get to watch.” He chuckles, a deep, suave one that he puts on for business meetings and the like, really getting into his groove now. “And let’s be honest, this is Hell. I know some of you all out there like to watch.” He glances at Alastor, not wanting  to steamroll the man on his own show. Alastor’s fist is under his chin and he’s watching Vox animatedly prattle on in a way that makes Vox blush. He wonders for a moment if he should keep going but then Alastor is swiping his microphone back up and crooning,

“Welll wasn’t that quite the pitch! Now as we don’t take calls here on Smile Hour, let me ask you some questions, Vox.” Vox nods.

“Sure, Alastor.” Alastor grins, leaning into his mic and asking,

“Now I know what’s probably on everyone’s minds, is why would we need something as frivolous as television around here when we have something as perfect as radio?” It’s a hardball for sure, but nothing Vox can’t handle. He grins.

“Well, Al-” Alastor’s ear twitches and he self corrects, - “Well Alastor, I won’t argue with you, I’m a fan of radio myself and I think there will always be a place for it. But what I’m describing is the future! Just imagine, turning a dial and being able to watch your favorite serials, see the pretty girl squirming on the tracks as some mustache twirling villain tries to run her over! Put down the dirty magazine, there’s two sinners going at it practically in your own home! Even this interview, don’t you want to watch the strongest sinner in Hell make this newbie squirm in his seat?” In more ways than one… He waves that thought away, not the time. 

Alastor narrows his eyes, pressing,

“Your look of the future sounds like mind numbing, pandering smut. Is that really where you want to stack your chips?” Vox huffs a laugh, toothy smile rivaling Alastor’s as he leans in closer to his microphone, intoning,

“Here? In Hell? Absolutely.” They go on for a few more minutes and unless his eyes deceive him, Alastor looks almost proud as they wrap up the interview, Vox boldly (and likely stupidly) giving out his telephone number to any interested inventors and those interested in appearing on his future programs. 

When the panel is off, Vox stretches, popping his neck before turning to Alastor. 

“That was amazing, Al. I really can’t thank you enough. Hey, let me buy you a drink.” Alastor is quiet, unplugging cables with a closemouthed smile and Vox is scared for a moment that he did something wrong. Maybe he came down too hard on radio, or was rude, or- Alastor raises his head, flashing a toothier smile his way as though he can hear Vox’s thoughts, answering,

“Well, I can’t say no to that offer, now can I?” Vox smirks, wrapping the cord to the microphone idly around his pointer finger as he counters,

“Well you could, but it’s a foolish man who turns down a free drink.” Alastor shakes his head, grabbing his staff and heading for the door, holding up a finger as he announces,

“One can call me many things, Vincent, but a ‘foolish man’ is never one of them!” He walks out the door first, heading down the stairs halfway before turning his head 180 degrees to face Vox as he points out, “and one more thing… there’s no such thing as a ‘free drink,’ Vincent. Not in Hell. Keep that in mind.” 

They go to the same bar as they had the other night, and since no one chases them out claiming lack of payment, Vox assumes that they in some way had paid their tab. Tonight, however, he is determined to remember everything in full, so getting hammered is not on the table tonight. He tells himself he makes this vow just to make sure the good people of this establishment get what they’re owed, but he’s a hard one to lie to. Especially when he’s the one who is doing the lying. In his own mind. And it's a terrible lie. After all, this is hell. What  should he care if someone that isn't him gets screwed. You’d like it if Alastor was the one screwing you. Vox winces, raising his fingers at the bartender to secure another whiskey and make it a double. Maybe he should get drunk after all. Maybe that will make the voices and the… urges hush. It won't. You're broken, Vincent, right from the start. No matter how high you climb, it will never be enough. The voice sounds like his father, complete with a gin addled slur to it, a thickness. 

Alastor is on his third whiskey, good God, the man can put them away, he doesn’t even seem different, and Vox his second when a female demon approaches them. Specifically Vox. 

She’s blonde, tall and honestly terrifying. She reminds Vox of his ‘stepmother,’ a woman only 5 years older than himself that his father had wed only 6 months after his mother passed. He remembers the wedding. Well, most of it. He’d had his first sip of alcohol that night, then his first chug, then he drank so much that he threw up what felt like his pancreas into the bushes and confronted his father in front of everyone, shoving his shoulder and slurring loudly,

“Mom hasn't even been dead a year, dad. How long have you really been *hiccup* screwing this bitch?” His dad had taken him by the throat then, just for a flash, leaning in and hissing calmly. 

“Don’t make a scene, Vincent. You know, maybe if you had shown this much care for your sainted mother when she was alive she still would be around.” Vox shudders at that memory, and at the giantess in front of him who seems to want to fuck him as much as his ‘stepmother’ had, bending over and trailing her finger across his shoulders.

“Well hi there, tall, dark and reflective. Buy me a drink?”  Vox grimaces, shrugging off her touch, scooting slightly closer to Alastor as he does so, hoping desperately the other man won’t mind.

“Sorry ma’am, not interested.” Her face sours and next to him Alastor makes a small noise that could have been a hiccup and then starts to giggle. Fuck, maybe he’s had more than three drinks. 

“Can you imagine, Vincent? You buy drinks for her, you’d have to stop buying them for me. Otherwise, you would be buying drinks for two people. You’d never financially recover. Wouldn’t that be hilarious.” Okay, yup, Alastor has had way more than three drinks and he’s also not holding his liquor as well as Vox thought. Thank God he himself really has only had 2. Someone has to keep their wits about them. 

The woman doesn’t look impressed, flicking her gaze up and down over both of them, Vox suddenly feeling scrutinized in a way he knows. He’s been here before. She sneers, turning his stomach, his claws digging grooves into the bar. He’s not even sure Alastor notices. He’s not sure if he wants him to. 

“Oh. I see.” Vox swallows, wanting both to scream from the rooftops that no, it’s not like that, but also wanting her to go away. He stares down at the bar, just wanting it all to be over. 

All of a sudden, an arm lands heavily around his shoulders and he looks up, half expecting to see the blonde woman with too many teeth hanging all over him again. But no, the claws casually dangling over his shoulders are exactly like his but with red caps instead of blue. He stares as Alastor glares at the woman, growling,

“That’s right, Ma’am. Scram. Getcher own idiot box, this one is mine.” His voice distorts at the end of his sentence, not from alcohol but… rage. Fake, or not, Vox is speechless. This one is mine. Oh God, how he wants that to be true. She stalks away, thin hips twitching and fists balled, and Alastor sags slightly against him, laughing to himself. “Hmmm, ma’am scram, you know Vincent, that rhymes.” Vox rolls his eyes, shoving the other man off of him, even though every instinct he has is saying to pull him closer. Carry him home, put him to bed, wear him like a coat. It’s just admiration, he tells himself. It’s a crush, faggot. Just admiration. 

“Thanks, Alastor. You didn’t have to do that.” The demon looks nonplussed at the polite out he’s given, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and taking one, offering another to Vox as he says in a much more sober tone now,

“Like I said, Vincent. How are you so sure I'm helping you?” Vox doesn't know what this could mean in this context and quite honestly just theorizing is scrambling his brain. So instead he takes another sip of whiskey and tries to think of a question that isn't too prying to ask the man. Or maybe he should just be bold. Alastor seems to like that, maybe he should be- 

“Were you ever a bully, Vincent?” Alastor interrupts his train of thought with this question, taking Vox by surprise, leaning on his fist looking like that was his intention. Vox opens his mouth and closes it, torn between the truth and bravado. He chooses bravado, waving his hand and bluffing,

“You mean like stealing lunch money and shit? Oh sure… I really showed those punks who was boss.” Alastor huffs a laugh, ears comfortably back, tracing the tip of his cigarette around his glass, somehow not ashing it, a true feat that leaves his whiskey unsullied.

“You're lying to me, Vincent. Cmon, out with it, ol’ bean.” Vox’s shoulders sag, and he covers his eyes with his hands, less embarrassed about getting caught in a lie than he is about the truth.

“Honestly, Al? I was the wet-eyed drip getting the shit kicked out of me back then. If it wasn't my old man, it was the dicks at school, or the teachers because I was too busy drawing to pay attention. Ya know, I wasn't blowing smoke when I said your billboard changed my life. You showed me that a smile could change everything.” Alastor looks thoughtful, sucking on his cigarette slowly before blowing a ring around Vox’s screen. 

“Hmmm, all in a day's work, I suppose. For the best, really, I hate bullies.” Vox chuckles beside himself, unintentionally taking the wind out of Alastor’s sincerity, making his eyebrow raise and his ear twitch.

“Something… funny, Vincent?” Vox shakes his head. 

“No, no, I just…isn't that what it's all about down here, though? Being the biggest kid on the playground?” Alastor’s face settles into a less annoyed expression and he stubs out his cigarette, lacing his now empty fingers together and leaning on them like they're a hammock for his chin. 

“I would describe it much less crudely than that, Vincent. It's a delicate dance, a waltz of power, a tango of strength.” Vox nods sincerely, following along, even though he can't help busting out his own limited gym class dance knowledge… and some balls while he's at it. 

“A boxstep of bullshit.” Luckily, Alastor found that amusing, a snicker coming out of him before he turns serious again, 

“Please tell me that's not the only dance you know, Mr. Moving Pictures.” Vox grimaces, flushing into his glass and Alastor groans. “Oh … Vincent” It's a decry of disappointment and yet the way his name drawls out of the demon’s curled mouth makes his hand grip a little tighter on the glass he's holding. Yeah, cause you wish it was Alastor’s d- He puts the glass down, posturing in faux defensiveness, asking,

“Whaaaat? Like you're Fred Astaire over there, Gene Kelley.” Alastor points at him accusatorially, 

“So you know!” Vox is perplexed. 

“Huh? Know what?” Alastor gestures broadly. 

“How it should be.” Okay, he's gotta be drunk now, but Vox humors him, leaning in slightly.

“How what should be, Al?” Alastor spans his hands in the air.

“Life.” Yup. Drunk. Vox nods patronizingly and Alastor narrows his eyes, pointing a finger at him, accusation in his tone. 

“You don't know.” Vox chuckles, throwing up his hands, holding them in mock handcuffs in front of him.

“You caught me, officer, take me away.” Alastor stares for a bit, eyes still narrowed. Then he slowly reaches out, wrapping his hands around Vox’s wrists, making the man's breath catch like he'd wrapped them around his throat instead. 

They sit for a moment like that, then Alastor gets a devious look in his eye, leaning in with his mouth agape, like he's going to bite Vox’s hands off before veering away. Vox chuckles weakly, trying desperately to pretend that he wouldn't let the other man devour him in any way he wants to. Because he admires him so much. 

“You wouldn't.” It almost sounds like a challenge as it leaves his mouth and Alastor raises his eyebrow.

“You seem awfully sure.” Vox’s breath hitches as he laughs, nerves tingling at the back of his neck.

“Well yeah. I figure one should be confident when in the company of a cannibal.” Alastor hums, conceding with a murmur,

“For the sake of self preservation, yes, I suppose so.” His eyes search Vox’s face like he's looking to catch him in something and Vox takes the challenge, pushing his bound hands closer to Alastor’s mouth, daring,

“Do it. Take what you want from me.” His heart thumps faster. Take me. Alastor flicks a greedy eye to the offered meal, then to Vox’s eyes, wide and pleading. His eyes narrow and he drops Vox’s hands, shaking his head and turning back to face the bar. 

“You're mistaken, Vox. I don't want anything from you.” His tone is cold and Vox feels a wave of anxiety, did he do something wrong? But then Alastor’s tone picks up and he raises his glass, shaking the ice there. “Except for maybe the free drinks, of course.” Vox snorts, relaxing, nudging his shoulder into Alastor’s lightly as he reminds him,

“No such thing, remember?” Alastor’s eyes are unreadable as they flick over to him, softly confirming, seemingly to himself,

“Mmm. Yes, how could I forget?” His tone is dry and Vox suddenly wants to backpedal, assure the other man that he's not angling for anything, but as he opens his mouth, Alastor abruptly sets down his glass, announcing, “my apologies, good man, I suddenly find myself exhausted. Do excuse me.” Vox has barely processed that he didn't call him Vincent, nevermind the fact that he's about to leave when Alastor is melting away. He leaves Vox alone with his regret and the promised bill. Jesus, how much whiskey can one man put away? 

He falls asleep in his actual bed that night, wondering if he’ll receive many phone calls in the morning, trying not to think about the fact that no one’s called yet, or if they had, he wouldn’t know. He should have run right home, but he just had to go to the bar with Alastor. Alastor. Something else, or rather, someone else he’s not thinking about. 

Chapter Text

Once again, the phone ringing stirs him from slumber but this time it’s not Alastor on the other end. A high, reedy voice says,

“Excuse me, is this Mr. Vox?” Vox clears his throat, looping his tie around his neck and answering with hope in his throat.

“Yes, this is Vox.” The voice on the other end continues until interrupted by a hissing tone that jockeys for space on the line.

“Pleasure. Well, my name is Baxter-” 

“-and I’m Sir Pentious!” They add in unison: “and we’re inventors!” 

Vox can’t believe his luck. Thank you, Alastor. Not only does he have one nerd knocking on his door he has two. They arrange to meet and address schematics and it goes… well. The good news is that the two of them know what they’re doing. The bad news is that they’re also likely insane. One of them is short and bespectacled, looking like he could be a mad scientist in a creature feature flick, smoking test tube and all. The other is some kind of snake man, a sharp blazer and top hat making him look more like a reptilian dandy than any kind of professional. But at the end of the day it doesn’t matter, because within minutes they’ve whipped up blueprints for exactly what Vox has been dreaming of. The television that's going to take over all of Hell. Well, no. That's him. 

 He's so satisfied with himself he's on an orgasmic high when he gets back home. Maybe he'll even clean the mirror off. Or maybe not. Who wants to clean jizz when they're on such a high. Other people's dried jizz. That's no way to treat the adrenaline coursing through his veins at the very real possibility of him getting what he wants. Speaking of… his gaze drifts to the telephone, willing to ring. Willing it to be Alastor’s inviting tone on the other end. Please. He's being desperate, he knows. God, they've spent a day and two nights together, that should be enough. And yet … his jazzed up limbs twitch, wanting to…huh. 

He's picked up the receiver before he can think better of it and has Alastor on the line before he can hang up with nerves.

“Alastor!” Vox clears his throat, all of a sudden overwhelmed with everything he could possibly say. Everything he wants to say. He's sorry, for whatever he said wrong last night. The radio show worked, his dream is forming, thanks to Alastor’s assistance. They make a good team. His bones have electricity tingling them at the sockets and he needs an outlet. 

He settles on a happy medium, a reference to the night before but also a cure for his jitters. 

“Want to come cut a rug with me? Teach me how to… how'd you put it? ‘Do life right’?” Alastor is quiet for a beat before uttering a small groan and nerves clench Vox’s stomach, but before he can retract the offer, Alastor is explaining, 

“My goodness, I certainly tied one on, didn't I?” He chuckles. “The things I say under the influence of whiskey…” This one is mine. Ah, of course. Vox feels like a fool and he sighs, his excitement dimming slightly as he asks,

“I suppose that's a no on the dancing, huh?” Alastor surprises him though, crowing,

“Why not at all! I'll never pass up an invitation to cut up the ol’ dance floor and something I can recall from last evening is that you are in woeful need of instruction in that arena.” Vox flushes, grinning like a schoolboy, though whether it’s from the sheer adrenaline or from the conversation he’s engaged in, who’s to say? He does find himself twirling the telephone cord around his finger like an enamoured teenage girl and cuts that shit out immediately, clearing his throat like a Goddamned man and answers dismissively,

“Yeah, yeah, don’t make fun of me yet, I might surprise you.” Alastor chuckles,

“Sure, Picture Box.” His tone is almost fond but before Vox can analyze it too much, green light is coming from the phone once more, and he braces himself for Alastor to appear. However, what actually happens is the light forms a massive hand, closing itself around Vox’s waist and tugging him through space and time. He lands on his feet in front of… a dance hall. Of course Alastor knows of a proper dance hall in Hell, albeit a dilapidated one. The place needs a good power wash and some new windows. He realizes that there had been a small part of him, okay, not that small, that had been hoping for a more… intimate venue. But of course that would be ridiculous. 

Vox looks around for Alastor, half expecting him to be waiting under a streetlamp with an umbrella, full Gene Kelley. He shakes his head. This is what happens, he supposes, when Singing in the Rain is one of the last movies you see before you die. Shit like this infiltrates your brain until your soul is stained with technicolor and the stars never leave your eyes. 

When Alastor still doesn’t show after a few minutes, Vox is about to leave. He turns on his heel, but then he hears something. The door behind him creaks with movement, a green glow emanating from inside. Ah. Of course. He’s an idiot. 

He enters, noting the absence of music and chatter immediately. Maybe this is a trap. This thought doesn't go away but rather intensifies once he sees Alastor standing alone in the middle of the wide room, hand outstretched, practically lit by a spotlight. Vox looks around him, taking in the fact that they are definitely in an abandoned building but it did used to be some kind of dance hall. There's a stage and everything, and he can almost picture a big band, maybe a young Judy Garland at the forefront, singing her heart out for Andy Hardy. 

Vox steps cautiously forward, Alastor’s coat slightly swaying in the breeze from one of the broken windows. His head is cocked with his wide smile lighting up the room, both soothing Vox’s suspicions and increasing them. As Vox approaches the waiting demon he remarks, his nervous voice echoing throughout the room 

“I'll admit Al, not exactly what I had in mind.” Alastor’s ear flicks in what Vox assumes is annoyance and he lifts his pinched fingers up, as if to snap, threatening,

“Very well, perhaps you would prefer the company of loneliness instead-” 

“No!” Vox practically runs towards the man, desperation sweating at the back of his neck, wrapping his fingers around Alastor’s before he can stop himself. Alastor’s eyes flash and he drops his hand, hanging his head slightly. “Sorry, I didn't mean… I just assumed there would be music.” He doesn't mention the lack of others around them. That he can live without. He flashes a grin, offering his hand without touching this time, suavely pointing out,

“After all, if you're going to show me what I'm doing wrong, we should do it properly, don't you think?” Alastor's smile thins to a closed mouth grin and nods, conceding, 

“I suppose you make a valid point, Vincent.” Then he snaps his fingers and a band of black and white characters looking like Fleischer cartoons come to life appear on the stage behind them, immediately picking up their instruments and playing a jaunty tune that makes Vox’s feet twitch. That combined with nerves makes him jump when Alastor picks his hand back up. The demon's eyebrow raises as he guides Vox’s other hand to his shoulder while he oh God puts his hand on Vox’s waist, claws pricking through Vox’s sweater vest and into his skin. He doesn't mind it. 

It's not a slow dance that Alastor shows him, quite the opposite, really. They start with swing, Alastor pushing Vox away and then pulling him in, swiping the man's body under his own legs like it's nothing and then dipping him low.  

To Vox’s credit, he keeps up well, likely better than Alastor had been expecting, only stepping on his toes once or twice when the tempo gets a bit too fast for him. Alastor doesn’t flinch, however, just takes it in stride and gives Vox another twirl. He's much less out of breath than Vox is, that much is clear. He considers this dreadfully unfair. After all, Alastor is the one tossing him around like a sack of  flour and yet he, the sack of flour, is the winded one. 

Eventually Alastor assumedly takes pity on him, pointing a directing finger at the band, inclining his body slightly in a bow as the tempo slows. Vox takes his offered hand cautiously, Alastor pulling him in by the hollow of his waist. Oh God, this is worse. Sure, the slower pace is letting Vox catch his breath, but their proximity is dizzying, almost painful. Especially when Alastor suddenly steps on his foot. It becomes clear that while the man is more than proficient at the faster paced types, dances where one is close to a partner and moving slower seem newer. Vincent on the other hand… he tugs at Alastor’s shoulder as they stumble again.

“Hey, Al, let me lead. Let me use my high-school phys-ed classes for something good, will ya?” Alastor growls, his cheeks pinking at the perceived implication of inadequacy. He shoves Vox away and crosses his arms, petulantly suggesting,

“If you're not happy with my performance, Vincent, perhaps we should switch back to a better style. I simply was trying to give your inexperienced lungs a rest. Perhaps that was a mistake.” Vox rolls his eyes, confidence propelling him forward. 

“Shut up, Al. C’mon, let me lead.” Alastor’s eyes widen at the cheek of it all and then narrow. But before he can do anything else, whether it be smack Vox or just yell at him, Vox is bravely grabbing him by the waist and taking his hand in his. Alastor’s smile widens menacingly but nevertheless his hand settles on his shoulder and Vox nods at the band, who had paused their music when they ceased. 

They start a new song, one that Vox actually recognizes, the appropriate words unintentionally scrolling across the bottom of his screen.

Never thought that you would be

Standing here so close to me

There's so much I feel that I should say

But words can wait until some other day

It's still jazzier music than he's accustomed to, more brass than strings, but he makes do. He starts his steps in a faux confident manner, trying to hide the fact that he’s making it all up as he goes along. It’s not quite a waltz, what he’s pushing Alastor into, even claiming it's a boxstep would be an exaggeration but it’s… artful traveling. There’s a rhythm and a pattern to it, and yet Alastor looks both knowing and unimpressed. He doesn't stop or even voice any objection though, so Vox soldiers on, and eventually they are in a dance pattern all their own, Vox fighting the overwhelming urge to lay his head on Alastor’s shoulder as his adrenaline abates and they sway. Vox is sure his heart has replaced any need for percussion in the band; it's projecting his nerves louder than any drum. Alastor, he notices, does not seem to be struggling with the same issue, if anything, the demon’s breathing has slowed to imperceptible. Vox chooses to take that as a win, hoping Alastor is just comfortable and not bored. Either way, eventually the song ends and the band doesn't start another. They break apart, Vox being the first one to step away, not wanting to overstay his welcome. Besides, just being in Alastor’s orbit is dizzying enough, being this close to him, holding him… that’s unbearable in large doses. It makes him… want things that he can’t want. 

Alastor’s eyes are lidded, and he’s still vaguely swaying, even though the music still hasn’t started back up. He looks like a relaxed cat and it’s charming. Vox clears his throat, and Alastor slides his eyes over to him, asking cooly,

“Did you get what you needed, Vincent?” Vox nods dumbly, head a cloud of static. To be honest, his adrenaline is free flowing once more, but now it's for a different reason, and it's a different energy. His bloodstream had felt like coffee before, now it's… champagne. He feels drunk. Intoxicated…infatuated. 

“Uh, yeah. I feel-yeah. I’m good.” Alastor chuckles, waving the band away with a flick of his fingers, leaving them even more alone. 

“Good.” With that, he fades away too, spotlight leaving with him, leaving Vox in an abandoned warehouse in the dark. Alone. 

Chapter Text

It's a whole three months before he sees Alastor again after that night. Maybe that’s for the best, really. He needs to detox, to purge whatever the fuck is brewing inside of him when it comes to Alastor. It’s distracting. He needs to focus on work. To impress Alastor. To build an empire. To have what he had in life back. Pfft, what did you have in life? You were alone. 

So diving into work it is. Every time the feeling of Alastor’s waist ghosts over his mind and his fingers, he calls Baxter and Pentious, asking them for updates so many times, he thinks they might start ignoring his calls. So he shows up in person. Eventually, Baxter snaps at him about it, demanding he make himself useful or get the fuck out. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, so he sits down, and learns. After all, this is going to be his empire. He had controlled pretty much every aspect except the technical in his life, maybe he should expand in his death. 

Pentious is a little more of a frenetic teacher than Baxter is, clearly not used to having to explain his process. He waves his hand around and trails off into tangents or silences and sometimes clearly forgets he’s not alone and starts humming loudly. Baxter is cold, but explains the steps in a methodical, manageable way. Eventually the three of them develop a rapport, and he starts to understand, to improve. Together, they solder and weld and wire until… they have a television. It’s crude, rudimentary, about as up to date as his head is. But it's a television. Vox’s fingers go to the dial instinctively, clicking it on, revealing… static. Baxter chuckles at his childlike excitement, chastising, 

“There's nothing there yet, we need to get the wiring right, not to mention actually have something to broadcast. Then we'll have to recreate this over and over…”

Vox nods, eyes glazing over as his vision for the future floats over his eyesight like the multicolored spots that used to entertain him as he closed his eyes to sleep. He’ll start by putting a few televisions in the windows of prominent businesses, ones that get a lot of foot traffic, catch eyes. More traction, more interest, more profit, more machines. Yeah. This is going to be great. He’s going to grow himself, grow the future, make himself proud, make Alastor proud. Fuck, even his dad would be proud after he’s done. 

His dad’s probably here. In some city of the Pride ring. Fuck, his mom might be here. If suicide is enough of a sin to sully her spirit. He's not quite sure of why it's a sin at all. After all, if it hadn't been for that… surely she'd be in Heaven. It strikes him then, that he really doesn't know. He feels a pang of regret at that thought, unusual for him but nevertheless there. He could have saved her, or at least known her. He could have asked more questions. Been a better son. Damnit.

She had been right there, for all those 15 years, reaching out, as much as mothers then would and could do. And he'd blocked out her signal to what, impress his dad? Not seem like a queer? Too late. He swallows, forcing himself to refocus on the task at hand. On his dream. He takes a deep breath, turning to Baxter and Pentious, all set to announce that they should get back to work. However, as he pivots he realizes they've already gone back to it without him. It tugs at his gut a little. Right. He forgot for a second that they aren't friends working on a cool project together. They're his employees. He's calling the shots here, for better or for worse. 

They work for a few more hours before Vox taps out and goes home. He collapses on the bed but doesn't close his eyes, instead sliding them to the phone. Fuck it. He wants to share what he's accomplished with the closest thing he's ever had to a friend. 

He dials Alastor’s number without even looking at the card, three months be damned. He's been staring at it enough, not wanting to phone until he accomplished something. And now he has, so there's nothing to halt his fingers but nerves and those he pushes away. 

Alastor answers after the third ring. One for every month it's been. He hates that he's been counting. 

“Alastor!” Vox takes a deep breath, immediately choking on absolutely nothing, covering his mouth, trying not to cough into the receiver. 

“A-hem, sorry, hey, Al it's Vox.” Alastor is quiet on the other end for long enough to prompt Vox into awkwardly rambling,

“ah, I mean, it's been a while. I don't know if you remember Vox- ah, Vincent. You tend to call me Vincent-” Alastor suddenly comes to life on the other side of the line, exclaiming,

“Ah yes, Vox. I'll admit, I didn't expect to hear from you, I was certain you had already gotten what you wanted. Perhaps you're greedier than I thought.”

Vox lets that slide, though Alastor’s words… irk him. What exactly does this man think he wants? 

  More importantly, what does he want from Alastor? He himself doesn't even know. At first it had just been the man seeing him, offering to help him. But now… he thinks back to earlier. That desperate burning in the pit of his stomach watching his inventors forget about him. The feeling he had as a kid when he was picked last on a team, even later when he perfected his mask, he had… comrades and cronies rather than friends. 

When he was a grown professional, every other man was competition and temptation that needed to be destroyed. He never had any female friends either. Wouldn't be proper. Actually, he probably could have leaned into it, encouraged rumors, made himself look like a Playboy. Probably would have made him popular at the water cooler. But that would have given the executives the impression that he wasn't all about work. Wasn't all about climbing the ladder. 

Besides, women scared him, in a different way that men did. They were foreign, unknown to him in every possible way, he found no relatability there. He could schmooze, he could charm but have a genuine relationship? Well he'd never even tried. 

“Ah Alastor, charming as ever. No, I don’t think I’m quite done with you just yet.” The words surprise him as they leave his mouth. He can feel his mask return, even as the man- no, the  child within him claws at the veneer, trying to rip it like the canvas of an unflattering portrait. It’s clear his sudden dominant attitude shift surprises Alastor as well, who remarks cooly,

“Well, well, well. Doesn’t even have a following yet and he thinks he’s a bigshot.” Vox flushes, retorting,

“Look who missed me enough to make cracks about my intentions. You could have called, you know. If you…care about me so much.” He really wants to stop talking, especially as Alastor levels back,

“Let’s be clear, Vincent. You’re amusing, I’ll give you that. But don’t go assuming you know what’s written in a book without cracking the cover.” Vox has to physically slap a hand over his own mouth to stop him from being crass and responding about how he would like to “crack Alastor’s cover all night long.” This isn’t a guy at the water cooler he’s talking to, not a drunk guy at a bar. He’s gotta treat Alastor like one of his executives. He clears his throat, remembering his manners and asking smoothly,

“You're right, please, forgive me?” Alastor says nothing, so he continues, “I didn't mean to put a damper on my intentions for calling - we had a breakthrough today, building the tv, and well… I thought maybe you would be interested in celebrating.” Alastor’s quiet again and if it weren't for the lack of a dial tone Vox would think he was hung up on. Then the man asks,

“And what did you have in mind for this little… celebration?” Vox stalls at this. God, there's only so many times they can get drunk together before he gets too loose of a tongue. Besides, he selfishly wants to get to know a sober Alastor, even when drunk Al is so much more forthcoming. His thoughts stray to the last time they had enjoyed each other's company. Neither had been drunk then, at least he hadn't, and he hadn't smelled any alcohol on Alastor. Just nicotine smoke and an earthy bayou undertone. Also slight halitosis. In addition to the aroma queues, there had also been… an undertone to the interaction, a soft, genuine one that made Vox feel something he doesn't really understand yet. It had been vulnerable, being tossed around like a rag doll and then even more so when he had led their promenade, holding Alastor carefully, afraid to do it wrong.

Last time he'd danced with someone had been prom and he had held his date with such caution. Though he attributes that to the fact that she was a woman. You're supposed to be careful with those. When he'd been planning to dance with a man he'd just assumed that he wouldn't have that same instinct, would grab him and push him around a bit, a clash of muscles and will, a vertical wrestling match for the trophy of power and the upper hand.

But Alastor’s waist had been so slim, his coat worn and kept just so, his hand warm on Vox’s shoulder where his prom date’s had been so cold. It had felt… special, to be allowed to touch him, to hold him. So Vox had treated him like a porcelain doll, not out of deference to social norms or the fear of the fragility of the feminine form but because… he cares. He wants to be gentle with Alastor. Wants to treat him with respect. Well, that and Vox shudders to think what would happen if he had snagged even a thread of Al’s coat. 

“Vincent.” Alastor’s voice has a tinge of impatience as it snaps Vox out of his reverie, leading to him wondering how many times Alastor had to say it before he snapped out of it. 

“Fuck, sorry, zoned out. What was the question?” Alastor sighs impatiently, answering,

“Well if you have to ask what the question was, you clearly have no idea of the answer. Very well. I know a place. Meet me in Cannibal Town in an hour. It's the perfect time of day for a stroll.” This time when the phone goes quiet, there is the droning buzz of the dial tone to indicate that yes, Alastor has now hung up the phone.

It takes him a good chunk of time to find ‘Cannibal Town.’ At first he doesn’t even realize that’s actually the name and not a cute little nickname Alastor gave it. Not to mention Hell doesn’t come with a map or accurate signposts, and he’s sure as fuck not going to ask someone for directions. So he wanders aimlessly, not able to teleport like Alastor can, disappear in a puff of green smoke. That would be cool. 

He does find it, eventually, though it takes him the whole hour and he’s rather disheveled when he finds Alastor standing under a surprisingly crisp white arch. It’s so clean it’s disturbing. Maybe it just looks white from jizz. That would make more sense, but as he gets closer, he sees that, nope, it’s constructed of bleached bones, knotted together with white rope. It’s almost beautiful, and he says as much when he gets close enough to Alastor. The compliment gets a nod of acknowledgment, though his appearance gets a judgemental squint as he adjusts his tie. 

He follows Alastor under the arch and through a square, a fountain jetting blood high in the air, a few sharp toothed children are perched on the side of it, opening their mouths to catch drops of the liquid like it’s the crispest, coolest water. 

The town is quaint, looking like something out of a musical that Vox would never tell anyone he watched 5 different times, enchanted by the colors and the romanticism of it all. This place, naturally, has more dead bodies than those movies ever did, but still. There are manicured roses everywhere, mostly white, though some are so thoroughly flecked with blood that they’ve turned crimson, practically an homage to the Queen of Hearts. 

Alastor leads him wide eyed through practically the whole town, setting such a brisk pace, that if Vox didn’t know better, he’d say he was avoiding-

“Alastor! Sweetheart!” Sweetheart? Vox’s skin prickles at the endearment, especially coming from such a sugary voice, surely a beautiful woman that Alastor has been courting. Shit, was that why he’s here? To meet Alastor’s wife? He turns, looking at his companion, only to find Alastor’s shoulders subtly tensed, his grip on his staff tighter, and his ears perked like a deer noticing a predator. Ah. So not his wife. 

They both turn slowly, Vox wondering if they’re going to need to run. He expects to see… well, he doesn’t know what or who he expects to see, but he isn’t expecting a slim, delicate woman, with fluffy blonde hair tucked under a large, rose trimmed hat with trailing feathers. Her dress is practically a cupcake, a swirling skirt with layers upon layers of pink silks, loose sleeves tightening into lace cuffs at her bony wrists. She’s holding a pink lace trimmed parasol to shield her from the red light of Hell, sharp teeth jutting out of a grey, moon shaped face the only indication she even belongs here. 

She approaches, high buttoned shoes clicking on the intestine strewn courtyard, extending her arms to Alastor first, clasping him in a warm hug that raises Vox’s brows. When they withdraw, she’s already talking a mile a minute, voice buttery, with a hint of a New York accent as she jabbers, 

“Oh Alastor, sweetie, it’s been too long! If I didn’t know better I would think you were avoiding me! But of course, you would never ignore your good friend Rosie, now would you? No, I was telling Franklin, he’ll come to visit soon enough, you know our Alastor, he just can’t stay away!” For a second Vox wonders if this is Alastor’s mother, the guilt trip and soft worrying seeming appropriate for a mother, but this woman doesn’t exactly look like she would serve up jambalaya. Besides, if Alastor’s mother was here, he likely wouldn’t have spent her birthday with a random starry eyed sinner.  

Alastor chuckles thinly, responding in a well greased tone that tells Vox their repartee is quite practiced. 

“Oh Rosie, darling, you know me too well, yes, I was just telling Vincent here that while we’re strolling through we should stop by your emporium and say hello.” Rosie whips her head to Vox, looking him up and down, her gaze suddenly reminding him of a shark’s and she extends a hand, cooing,

“Vincent, how lovely to meet you! I always love meeting Alastor’s toys.” He shakes her hand, giving her his showman’s smile, but as she continues, the word she chooses slides under his skin and he can’t hold himself back from snapping,

“I’m not his toy, and the name’s Vox…ma’am.” He tacks on the honorific at the end, half expecting either Rosie or Alastor to smack him for his cheek, but Rosie just giggles, seemingly charmed. 

“Oh Alastor, this one’s got promise!” The words, though technically complimentary, sting, implying that he’s not the first companion that Alastor’s brought ‘home’ and the term ‘promise’ makes him feel like a sacrifice. Maybe that’s why he’s here. She continues, waving a hand, fluttering away his previous rudeness with a wiggle of manicured claws. “Very well, Vox, dearie, it’s a pleasure. Alastor, don’t be a stranger, you hear?” Alastor’s tone is chirpy and his grin wide as ever as he replies, 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Rosie darling!” But something’s off, and it’s not until they’ve resumed walking, Alastor terrifyingly quiet, that Vox realizes where he recognizes Alastor’s attitude from. Himself. The way Alastor was with Rosie, how many times had he put on the same fake smile and charm for his executives and their wives? That little chance meeting back there had the cadence of a mandatory dinner party. Proud of himself for figuring it out, and honestly wanting to avoid Alastor’s wrath at his little outburst back there, he blurts out,

“She’s your producer, isn’t she?” Alastor freezes, turning his head without turning his body as he did on the first day they met, staring Vox down silently. Vox doesn’t shrink back though, just soldiers on, adding a bit smugly, “yeah, I could tell.” Alastor is still quiet, just looking at him, and Vox suddenly feels a rolling wave of shame hit his stomach like a tsunami. He bends his head, acknowledging, “shit, I probably made a bad impression.” 

“Probably.” Alastor’s tone is even as he replies and Vox flushes, scuffing his shoe on the ground, transfixed by an eyeball rotting there and nudging it gingerly. 

“I probably got you in trouble.” 

“Perhaps.” Still, that same flat tone. Vox clears his throat. 

“You probably hate me.” There’s silence, Alastor avoiding his clumsy trap, practically a beg for affirmation. He clears his throat, about to try again, when Alastor responds, tone now unreadable,

“Let’s continue on, shall we, Vox?” The switching up of topics puts Vox slightly at ease, but the switching up of his name puts a bitter taste in his mouth. It feels like a punishment for his rudeness, even though it’s likely just Alastor being polite. After all, Vox did vehemently oppose Rosie calling him that, and there’s no good way for him to communicate to the man next to him that he likes it when Alastor uses his human name. Makes him feel… special. Grounded. Like himself. And yet, when it’s spoken by anyone else he feels like a child. Weak. Inferior. Like he’s not a Goddamned demon worthy of respect. 

Despite all of this, he nods in reply to Alastor’s question, following behind his tour guide as Alastor leads him to a small path overlooking a pond of blood, fanged ducks bobbing along. They stroll in silence along the path, the mournful honks of ducks percussing the squeals of happy cannibal children in the background, forming a cacophony that somehow sounds sweeter than the most skilled symphony. To add to it, Alastor is quietly humming, to himself, it seems, clearly almost forgetting he has a companion in the moment. At least, that’s what Vox thinks until they come to a small bench, flanked with more rose bushes and Alastor gestures, practically crooning, 

“Garden bench with just room for two-” 

“-Honey Hush!” The words fly out of Vox’s mouth as a free association, the name of the song Alastor had been (hopefully) quoting jerking from his lips like a knee might pop from the tap of a reflex hammer. Alastor turns, dials flashing in his red eyes as he intones,

“I beg your pardon?” Vox rubs his neck, gesturing with his other hand as he explains,

“Sorry, that’s just- that’s a line from a song I enjoy.” Alastor blinks at him, his eyes slowly going back to normal as he sits, Vox still awkwardly standing until Alastor says quietly,

“The Cole Brothers.” Vox nods, hesitantly taking the seat next to Alastor. 

“Yeah.” They sit in silence, Vox feeling like he’s either done something wrong or very right, fidgeting with his hands until Alastor remarks brightly,

“It’s funny, Vincent, you don’t seem the type to enjoy Negro music.” He says this as if he’s throwing words Vox himself said back in his face and Vox squirms, protesting,

“It’s not- I mean, it’s good- damnit, Al.” Alastor chuckles and Vox feels like he’s losing the game, so he blurts out,

“I had one of them on my talk show, you know.” Alastor raises his eyebrow at this and Vox reconsiders his wording, adding, “one of the Cole brothers, I mean. Nat King Cole. It was pretty progressive. The network balked, some bullshit about advertising deals, but I didn’t care, the nation loved his voice, and so did I. Charming guy, too. You know, before I died I heard there were talks to get him his own show. Would have been revolutionary. I mean you know. You were revolutionary.” Alastor doesn’t respond to the obvious, if fumbling, flattery so Vox prattles on, still feeling like he’s somehow skidding downhill. “He went solo, Nat King Cole did. He had a bunch of highly popular songs. It’s really a shame you died before hearing them, one of them kind of makes me think of you-” he needs to stop talking. He needs to shut his stupid mouth and sit and watch the fucking ducks. However, by the time he realizes this, it’s already too late. Alastor’s heard and processed all of his ramblings and instead of letting the last bit slide, he’s asking,

“Oh? Do tell, Vincent. Better yet… serenade me.” His tone is mocking and Vox definitely feels like he’s being punished now, but for which indiscretion he doesn’t know. If it were anyone else he wouldn’t bend, or he would lie, say he didn’t know the lyrics that he sang a duet of on his show by heart. Might even storm off in a childish huff. But… it’s Alastor asking. He knows he’s not beating the “toy” allegations by literally performing for the man on command and yet… 

Vox clears his throat, mumbling, 

“Fine, but just part of it.” He focuses on the ducks, not even glancing at Alastor as he sings smoothly, 

“Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa

Men have named you

You are so like the lady with the mystic smile

Is it only cause you're lonely

They have blamed you

For that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile

Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa

Or is this your way to hide a broken heart

Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep

They just lie there, and they die there

Are you warm, are you real Mona Lisa

Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art” 

The lyrics really do remind him of Alastor, a cold, beautiful smile. A tempting presence, who can kill not just dreams. He doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until he’s done singing and has to open them. Vox had half expected Alastor to be gone, and yet there he is, still sitting there next to him on the bench. For one incredible second, right before the man realizes that Vox’s song has finished, Vox gets to take in the fact that Alastor’s eyes are closed too, his ears relaxed, his hands resting on the top of his staff. Vox closes his eyes once more, finding the sight of Alastor turned docile by his voice so tantalizing it’s basically indecent. He tries to keep himself humble, reminding himself that music soothes the savage beast... Or cannibal demon, in this case. Has nothing to do with him.

He sits, breathing hitched slightly from singing and from something else he can’t name but is making his chest tight. When he’s sure he’s given the man next to him enough privacy to come back to himself Vox opens his eyes once more. Sure enough, Alastor is back to normal, saying merely, almost dismissively,

“Very nice, Vincent. Very nice.” Then he’s melting away before either of them can say anything else, and Vox is once again left alone in a strange place, with a burning face and a stomach full of giddy desire and shame. Great, it’s becoming a fucking pattern.

Chapter Text

Alastor is fully aware that he's leaving Vincent- no, Vox- in the lurch for the second time as he melts away, appearing in his room alone with his sneer and his thoughts. Good. The man's naive words, well meaning but callous in their over privilege ring in his ears “you're so lucky… pretty revolutionary… I had to climb the ladder.” ‘Pretty revolutionary,’ the fool has no idea, he doesn't know how lucky he is to have a ladder to climb! Alastor had no such ladder, had to make his own way, didn't have the luxury of knowing that if he just bumped off the king, he could climb from knight to monarch. Alastor had been barely clawing his way out of ‘jester.’ 

He should be satisfied, he thinks as he paces his cracked floor, swatting errant fireflies with misdirected annoyance. He should be pleased to see the shoe on the other foot now. He should be having the time of his life making the wide eyed brat have to beg him for help, when in life the sides of the desk would be swapped for no other reason than social convention. And yet… he had actually offered a hand, had trusted the man to see him drunk, to know his mother's jambalaya recipe. His claws dig into his own thigh, blood warming his leg as he thinks about his mother. Speaking of sacrifice. Fuck, even dying had been more complicated for Alastor. Vox has no idea what he had to do, what he had to leverage to get him here. Has no idea what it’s like to mourn a mother he had a hand in destroying. 

The memories are gripping him now, harder than he had sunk his claws into his own slight thigh. It had been the only way. That’s what he told himself. God, he was full of so many excuses, so many reasons, so many comforts for himself.

He had done it gently, that was one of them. Had smoothed hair oil through her curls as he often did for her so she could tie it up in silk for sleeping. Made her  nightly cup of tea, and then followed her to bed, tucking her in and singing to her softly in Creole. She had smiled at that. Her smile. She had asked him what the occasion was and he had mumbled something about returning the favor from his youth. She had waved that off, saying-
“Nonsense, mon cheri, it has been a privilege to raise such a fine young man. I’m so proud of you, my love. Educated, employed, your own show, dressing smart, my sweet boy. This is all I ever wanted for you.” He’d almost broken at that, swallowing his tears until the cyanide in her tea took its full effect and her eyes were closed for good. Only then did he stop singing and sob, covering his mouth and rocking himself near mad, the motion reminding him so much of being a small boy in her arms. 

It had been for her own good, that’s what he tells himself. He had seen his father getting more and more violent in his drunken rages. Seen her get more and more tired of it, her sweet demeanor stripping away more and more until he could practically see the iron backbone he had so proudly inherited. Seen her start to bring a butcher knife to bed, tucking it under her pillow in case that bastard decided to take a break from the bar to pay a midnight visit. He couldn’t let her fall. That’s what it was. Couldn’t let her spot in heaven be sacrificed for that… man. He ignores the little voices that still whisper even now, the logical angels on his shoulder that point out he could have just killed his father. Would have been much, much easier. Man was so often heavily intoxicated in public, all he would have to do is push him over into a lake with his finger and toss a bottle of booze after him. No one would raise an eyebrow. 

Of course, he would have loved to get even more violent with it, perhaps in an act of defense against his mother, but… he’s not impetuous enough, not foolish enough to boldly kill a white man in front of anyone, even his mother. Especially his mother. She’s protected him enough in his life already. He wouldn’t make her lie to the police for him. Who knows what they would do to her. He’s heard tell of the injustices black women especially faced at the hands of the power drunk, baton swinging deplorables. He wouldn’t risk it. No, if he had killed his father it would have been silent, he would have covered it up smoother than a cat in a litter box. 

But it wasn’t just for her benefit that you killed her, was it? The voices needle him further. You had something to gain, Alastor. You sent her to Heaven to get yourself to Hell. That’s what the ancient texts said, right? Sacrifice what you love the most? You didn’t even think twice. Didn’t try to give up something material like your beloved radio. You didn’t even doubt your translation. That wasn’t true. He’d tried everything. He had smashed his favorite radio, the one he had scrimped and saved pennies for, doing anything just to turn that dial and hear smooth voices crooning, knowing that one day he’d be one of them. He had tried every single alternate spelling, every other possible dialect and pronunciation he had known. But no, it wasn’t until he had laid his mother to rest in the nicest grave he could possibly afford, dressed in her Sunday best and set her favorite flowers, blue irises, the flower of faith, across her burial site. Only then did the ritual work, the knife he slid against his own palm spilling blood tainted with guilt and with shame, making the pentagram around him glow brightly. 

He had shaken the glowing hands that had emanated from his (new) radio without asking questions, so sure that this was the only way. After all, he was smart and it was only a simple deal, right? Not to mention, he wouldn’t die for years, wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences until he was much older, at least 75. At least, that’s what he’d thought. Of course, fate had leaned a little too heavily on his domino, tipping him into the land of the dead the very next day. Despite his early arrival, he had strode through the gates of Hell with full confidence. After all, he had planned for this ahead of time. What he hadn’t planned for was the fine print. Hadn’t planned to find himself yoked to the leash of a frilled, scheming blonde woman.

His mother would have been so ashamed, God he hopes she can’t see him. She would have shaken her head, not outright admonishing, she never did that. But she would have sat him down and told him the story of his great-grandfather, enslaved until the year before his grandfather had been born. She would have told him sternly, pointedly, that had it not ended, he wouldn’t be here, because her grandfather had made a vow to never bring a child into what he had suffered. What his parents before him had suffered. You had everything, mon cheri, everything that would have made him proud. Why, why did you throw it all away? 

Alastor slams his fist down on the vanity, silencing the purrs of his own subconscious. Enough of this self flagellation. That’s not where he should be directing his ire. No, better to  focus on Vincent, that spoiled, simpering bastard who had the.. Had the… had the what? Even his own mind, so eager to be angry, to place all of the emotions he was feeling towards contempt, towards hating that out of touch dumbass. But… why? Why does that walking picture box apparently warrant not just his attention, but his vitriol?

After all, while the things Vox had said were thoughtless, steeped in ignorance, they hadn’t been more than insensitive. He had faced much, much worse, both physical and verbal, in both his life and death. When he had first arrived in Hell, he had created a pile of sinners within minutes, slitting their throats with sheer glee and abandon. All of them had wrinkled their noses at him, something he was so used to in life. Used to most people he encountered acting like he smelled foul, though he wore the same eau de toilette as his white counterparts at the station. Had bought it from the same store, just from a different entrance. 

It was when he had been wiping the 15th sinner’s blood off his hands that he’d actually smelled his own breath and realized that they were likely reacting to the reek of rotted deer carcass spilling from his lips. However, realizing his error hadn’t stopped him from shrugging it off and killing a 16th passerby. After all, he’s a demon in Hell, baby. No need to stop now. 

Alastor looks in the mirror, taking in his own appearance as he remembers the first time he’d done that in Hell as well. He had seen the ashiness of his face, his warmth completely gone and his formerly brown eyes bloodshot and bugged. His curls had been flattened and hued an unnatural red striped with black at the bottom. The whole thing swayed as a unit as he'd moved his head, only the glint of his sharp teeth had brought him pleasure in that moment. It was at this point he’d reflected once more on how his mother would be so disappointed. He’d thrown away everything. His success, his future success, her, his heritage. In a way, he’d killed her twice. Why, mon cheri. Why? 

But back to the matter at hand.  No, the real problem he has with Vincent Whittman isn’t any of the insensitivities he had uttered, on purpose or not. Actually it was quite the opposite. It’s the sensitivities that Alastor has a problem with. How the man looks at him like he hung the moon, sincerity practically projects itself on his screen as the featured program. How he had sung Alastor a song- a sentimental song at that- without a hint of embarrassment, in public, just because he’d thought Alastor would enjoy it. His earnest fumbling with the shrimp and complimenting Alastor’s mother’s recipe. 

And it isn’t only Vincent falling prey to softness, is it? Perhaps that’s the real crux of it all. At the end of the day, it’s how he himself reacts to the other man that irks Alastor so. How he’d leaned into his unprompted touch at the bar, how he’d protected him from that predatory goliath of a woman’s advances. He had lindyhopped with the man for God’s sake, not to mention the way Vincent had clumsily led him around the dance floor. He had let him lead. He, the Radio Demon, had let some bumbling newbie to Hell, steer him around the dance floor like he was a simpering showgirl. 

He sucks a drag of a conjured cigarette, still looking into the cracked mirror of his vanity. All he can hear as he mulls over all these baffling, unexplainable things is his mother’s voice, asking again the very thing he wants answered himself. 

Why, mon cheri, Why?

Chapter Text

Vox doesn't go home right away after Alastor leaves him. He can't. Their visit had ended so abruptly he can't just walk on home like nothing had happened. Not to mention how long it had taken to find this place. 

He runs over everything that just happened once again, holding his screen in his hands. Maybe Alastor had taken umbrage with some of the lyrics in the song he'd sang. After all, he'd just publicly called the man cold, lonely and bewitchingly beautiful, a heartbreaker. In song form. Perhaps Alastor had been humiliated. Or when he'd asked Vox to sing he hadn't been serious, or he'd intended Vox to be humiliated. He probably should be. No. No he shouldn't be. He'd only thought of that song in reference to Alastor because it was about a smile. And was by an artist they both clearly enjoyed. Besides, Alastor had sung first, so why is Vox the bad guy? Why is he always the bad guy?

“Why, dad? Why am I always the fucking bad guy?” His dad wheezes, blood gushing from his broken nose, gagging as it clearly drips down his throat. He struggles to raise himself from the prone position Vincent’s knocked him into, but his son puts a foot on his neck, leaning in and laughing maniacally. Vincent’s hair has started to grey prematurely, clearly a symptom of overworking, or perhaps his latest break. Not at the station, but from reality itself. His father unwisely sticks his fingers under Vincent’s heel, trying to pry him off, but only succeeds in getting them broken along with his nose. He cries out, clearing just enough blood and mucus out of his throat to sing his favorite song.

“You killed– your.. Mother…” Vincent laughs harder, screaming, his own throat practically ripping itself inside out to match his father’s as he bellows,

“NO, DAD, YOU KILLED HER. YOU BROKE HER DOWN UNTIL CHOKING ON GAS FUMES IN HER CAR ALONE WAS PREFERABLE TO BREATHING IN YOUR POISON AS A FAMILY. TOO BAD FOR YOU I’M STRONGER THAN SHE WAS. NOW… IT’S YOUR TIME TO DIE.”

He finishes his speech, staring maniacally at his father, once his hero, then the big bad wolf lurking behind every tree in the forest of his childhood. Now… Kafka’s fucking cockroach, stuck beneath his heel, covered in his own piss and fear. Vincent truly is… a God. 

Vox blinks, looking down at his hand- his claws, blinking away his father’s blood to realize he’s decorated in his own, his thigh punctured-when did he grab his thigh- bleeding freer that his father’s throat had- anyway. He stands abruptly, rocking the bench he’s been sitting on shellshocked backwards. This isn’t about his dad. Or his mother. Or even Alastor. This is about him. Him and his hunger. Hunger for power, for approval, for… love. His stomach growls and he laughs beside it all. Maybe he just needs a sandwich. 

He wanders out of cannibal town before going to look for food. He’s hungry, not a member of the Donner party. Though he’s pretty sure he saw a few of them milling about town. Probably local celebrities in this part of the city. Or perhaps they’re looked down upon as posers for turning to the eating of flesh with desperation in their hearts, not curiosity or burning desire. And you, Vincent? Which one are you? His subconscious has taken on Alastor’s condescending drawl and he remembers the fingers he had put in his mouth for the other man. He hadn’t minded the taste, though they’d been too full of bone to truly enjoy. That had always been (one of) his problem (s) with eating fish. Desperate or burning with desire? His subconscious asks the question again but it doesn't need to. He doesn't need to ponder anything, he knows the answer. He's both.

Chapter Text

It’s another three long months before they meet again. This time it’s an accident. At least, that’s what Vox tells himself. He had just wanted a drink. Just a drink, made for him by someone else, drank at a bar, muzak in the background. And it’s not his fault that the only bar he really knows in Hell is the one Alastor showed him. And if he goes with hope in his heart that he might run into the man there, well. That’s not the worst sin he’s ever committed. After all, he never leaves if the man isn’t there. Not just because he’s hoping he will show up, either, or to prove to himself and everyone else who doesn’t care that he is not there for Alastor. No, he just wants a drink. 

It’s the third time that month that he’s stopped by, and despite the fact that in the back of his head, he knows the possibility of seeing Alastor is there, is something he’s prepared himself for, when he actually sees the demon’s lithe, red coated form casually leaned over a glass of whiskey… his heart beats like he was ambushed. Like Alastor is encroaching on his space, not the other way around. Not that he’s encroaching. He’s just there for a drink. 

As it happens, the only available seat at the bar is next to Alastor. He didn’t plan it, it just happened like that, and yet there’s a thick wad of guilt sitting in his stomach as he walks over and sits down. Maybe it’s the way they’d left it last time, maybe now he’s gotten what he wanted he feels like a manipulative stalker. Even though… 

“One martini please.” He just wants a drink. 

At the sound of his order to the bartender, Alastor’s face turns towards him, body still facing the bar. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling, but his voice is clear and unburdened of any emotion except genuine pleasure as he exclaims,

“Well hell-o, Vincent! How goes the day?” Vox swallows, feeling called out by just the casual salutation. Alastor had been chatting with the bartender when Vox had walked in, the guy probably mentioned that Vox had been in a few times that month. Alastor probably thinks he’s a massive creep. But why would he show Vox the bar if he hadn’t meant for him to come there. After all, it’s not like Vox is cheating on the man by coming there alone. God, where is his martini? 

He grins awkwardly at Alastor, acknowledging him with a 

“Hey, Al.” Casual. He’s casual. He taps his fingers on the bar, fidgeting despite said coolness and Alastor’s eyes narrow at the gesture. He hiccups, hand shooting out to grab Vox’s claws, silencing them and raising his finger to his smiling mouth. 

“Hush, Vincent. This is not an evening for your jitters. We are celebrating.” Vox looks at his taken hand, the word we ringing in his ears. Or whatever he has that passes for ears. His head is buzzing with overwhelmed static as he asks quietly,

“Celebrating?” Alastor nods, lifting his glass in a half toast, seemingly to Vox and nodding seriously.

“Why yes! Don’t you know? I died today, Vincent. Ten years ago, to be exact.” Oh. Vox shakes his head, martini arriving in front of him, thank God. He takes it with his right hand, his left still covered by Alastor’s, seemingly forgotten by the other man. He downs half of his drink before the hand moves, Alastor gesticulating with it as he elaborates, something about being cut down in his prime. He’s clearly intoxicated and Vox looks at his hand, still warm from Alastor’s now removed contact. He feels… sad for some reason. Or… not sad. Just… wrong. Deep in his gut. 

“I’m… sorry?” Alastor laughs derisively at his piddly answer, tugging at his hair, clearly distressed as he spits out,

“Why should you be sorry, Vincent? Did you kill me? Did you make a deal with the devil? Did you kill your mother?” The words hit Vox like Alastor had tossed a drink in his face, and he jumps up, the stool he was on falling backwards. His martini tips over, drawing an exasperated sigh from the overworked bartender as the remaining liquid in his glass slicks the bar. 

Alastor doesn’t look surprised, or even alarmed. He doesn’t even give Vox’s reaction a passing glance, just takes another deep shot of whiskey and continues staring off into space, hiccuping more. Vox’s whole body is cold and if Alastor thought his hands were shaking before, well. He should stop looking at the wall like a cat communicating with ghosts and fucking look at what his words are doing to Vox if he wants to see shaking. He takes a shuddering breath, asking,

“What- what did you say? How did you-” Alastor cuts him off with a lost boy giggle.

“Oh yes, dear Vincent, how your mighty hero has fallen.” Vox’s breath starts coming back to him slowly as he realizes out-loud, 

“You’re not… talking about me.” Alastor’s head finally twists to him, looking confused, drunkenly splaying his hand on his own chest, explaining unnecessarily,

“no, Vincent, don’t be foolish. Why would you be your own hero? Are you that egotistical?” Vox waves his hand in dismissive annoyance, leaning down and righting the bar stool so he can once again perch on it. 

“No, I just- I thought you meant… nevermind.” Alastor laughs hollowly, parroting in a poor imitation of Poe’s raven, 

“Nevermind, he says. Nevermind, nevermind. You’ll never understand sacrifice, Vincent.” 

Vox looks at the slumped over demon and lets out a laugh, anger bubbling in his torso at the man’s dismissal. Alastor stiffens at the noise. 

“Something funny, Vincent?” Vox gestures for another martini and gets ignored by the bartender. Well, that’s probably fair. 

“Yeah, Al. How the fuck would you know anything about me? You’ve never asked. Actually, in all these months, we’ve never really had a genuine, full conversation except maybe the first day we met.” Alastor just looks at him, seeming absolutely flummoxed at the idea. Then he sips his drink deeply, shrugging and mumbling noncommittally, 

“Well, tell me then. What’s got you all in a twist, Mr. Box-head?” Vox opens his mouth, and then shuts it, gesturing again for another martini and again getting ignored. Alastor huffs at this, suddenly shooting his shadow out to grab the bartender, motioning towards Vox. “A martini for my pal, here.” The bartender sighs but gives in, sliding one down to him, Vox catching it just in time and raising the glass to them both in thanks. Then Vox leans in closer to Alastor, offering,

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” Alastor narrows his eyes, scanning him up and down before turning his head away and putting his nose in the air.

“No thank you, Vincent. I’m afraid I don’t have as much to gain as you do from… emotional vulnerability.” His voice drips with disdain as he utters the last words. Vox is put out, but re-calibrates. 

“Fine. A question for a question, then. You ask, I’ll tell, then I’ll ask… and you tell.” He feels his heart in his throat as he wraps up the proposal, knowing they’re both aware that even if Alastor says no, Vox will probably tell him everything anyway. The cards are really not in his hand, and that makes this even more dangerous and tantalizing. Because if Alastor says yes… that means he wants to actually share something between them. It might even mean… they could be friends. Because that’s what friends do, right? They share, they commiserate, they help each other. 

Vox holds his breath as Alastor considers it until he eventually nods, answering,

“Why not? Though-” he points a wavering finger at Vox warningly, “no lies now, Vincent. Bare your fucking soul.” Vox shudders involuntarily, from what emotion he doesn’t know. Then he smirks, putting a fist under his chin and gazing at Alastor, teasing,

“Not a question, Al.” Alastor rolls his eyes, copying Vox’s pose and acquiescing, 

“Fine.” He pauses. “What’s your greatest shame, Vincent?” Vox freezes, his mother's death had been already on the tip of his tongue before the question was even uttered, but now knowing what Alastor is curious about, he ponders his answer a little more. 

His greatest shame. The way he treated his mother is certainly at the top of his list. And that answer would tie in nicely to whatever Alastor had been ranting about earlier. It would prove that he does understand. Maybe bring them closer. But is that the truth? They hadn't shook on it, the agreement to not lie. Alastor hadn't even said that rule applied to himself, just Vox. He's not blinded enough by the tantalizing promise of emotional vulnerability with a man that yes, he admires, to not hear that caveat. 

His greatest shame. His next gut answer is the actual murders he committed. But he doesn't regret those, really. Those were necessary. Fun, even. And besides, Alastor technically already knows about those. Maybe not his father, or even that Vox was telling the truth, but still. 

He'd almost entertained the idea of bending to his step mother's advances. After all, she had never really been a mother to him and they were much closer in age than she and his father had been. But more than that, he wanted to want her. She was pretty, slim and blonde. She had attracted his father, who he's been conditioned to see as the epitome of manliness. If he wants to fuck her, he's not a queer. 

But he didn't. Didn't do it, didn't want to. Because that's his real biggest shame, isn't it? It isn't the murders, or his childish assumption, bolstered by his father's relentless drunken bullying, that he was responsible for the depression of a grown woman. It's that despite everything, despite the burying and the shame and the self hatred-

“I'm a fag.” Alastor’s eyes widen as this comes out of Vox’s mouth and Vox finds himself surprised as well. He laughs, brokenly, propping his giant fucking head up on his fist. “Fuck. I didn't mean to say that. Forget that one. My mom killed herself, everyone blamed me, I really did kill my dad. I killed… well I told you. Bunch of people. Totally those. Biggest shame. Forget that first one.” Alastor just looks at him, expression neutral. Then he turns back to the bar and says,

“I believe it's your turn for a question now, Vincent.” Vox wants to cry. Fuck, why did he say that? Alastor’s probably disgusted by him. He gathers himself, ignoring the urge to flee back to his small apartment and cry into his (now cleaned) pillow. He clears his throat.

“How'd you die?” Alastor’s posture stiffens before relaxing, giving him only,

“I was shot.” If Vox wanted the rest of the story, he would have had to learn to live with disappointment. But even that minimal answer is enough for him. Besides, if it's vague, it's got a greater chance to be true. 

“Why is being a fag your greatest shame?” Vox’s head whips up. He hadn't realized that they were still playing, but he should have known Alastor wouldn't just let what he said be swept under the rug. He opens his mouth, but Alastor continues, not done with the question, elaborating, “did it get you killed? Throw you off your goals? Did your daddy beat you about it? Or are you a sensible man who just doesn't want to be distracted by desires of the flesh and heart? I could respect that. But to just be ashamed of faggotry with no good reason behind it… seems like a waste of a regret, if you ask me.” Vox growls,

“Thanks for your opinion, I didn't ask for it, actually.” Alastor giggles. 

“No, that wouldn't be the game. I asked. It's my question. Or have you already forgotten your own rules?” Vox sighs, giving the answer he's heard his whole life. From his dad, from his teachers, from his church, from his associates, from his colleagues, from the heretics on the street. 

“It's unnatural.” Alastor waves a hand. 

“One could argue that all love is unnatural, irrational, insensible. Makes you weak, no matter your target.” Vox blinks. He hadn’t expected that. For some reason, he offers a rebut to Alastor’s strange form of reassurance,

“Yeah, well, what about babies?” Alastor chuckles. 

“What about them? Love doesn't bring them into the world. That's just biology. Besides, I would argue we have enough people, wouldn't you?” He glances at Vox’s expression and sighs, shaking his head, voice almost soft as he finishes, “all I'm saying, Vincent, is I have known many people in my life. Queers, outlaws, coloreds, loose women, all much more interesting than any…” he wrinkles his nose “... Picket fence breeders.” 

Vox laughs. It's a laugh of not humor, but relief. 

“Thanks, Al.” Alastor hums, swaying a bit, and Vox catches him. The game is clearly over. “Al, you've had enough, let's get you home.” He pauses, realizing out loud, “shit, I don't know how to get to your place from here.” Alastor giggles and Vox sighs as he tosses money on the bar to cover the tab and then loops Alastor’s arm over his shoulder, helping the man up. “Okay, Al, two options, you teleport us to your place and let me help you, or I'm taking you back to my gross apartment and you can sleep it off on the bed. I'll take the bathtub.” Alastor growls, narrowing his eyes and flattening his ears, radio dials flickering over his pupils as he protests,

“I'm not a child, Vincent. I'm fine.” He almost trips on his own feet and Vox catches him. 

“You can't even walk, Al.” The man in his arms protests, as Vox thought he might, complaining,

“I don't-I'm fine.” 

Vox sighs heavily. “Fine, my place it is. You know, I'm surprised, I wouldn’t have thought you'd want people seeing the big bad Radio Demon stumbling drunk around the street with a newbie nobody. Easy pickings, really.” 

Speaking of too easy, his bait works and Alastor hisses, and then before Vox knows it, they're both flying through the air in a puff of green. Good, he really doesn't think he couldn't have gotten them both back, it's a bit of a walk to his place. 

They crash onto a floor in a heap on top of each other. Though it would be more accurate to refer to what they're tangled on as the ground. Vox is certainly smeared with dirt. Jesus, where did Alastor take them, the forest? He’d expected them to land in the living room or the recording studio or something. 

It's not until he's standing up and dragging Alastor to his feet that he realizes that they're in what must be Alastor’s bedroom. At least, that's what it appears to be. There's a bed in one corner of the blue tinted forest scene, a vanity on the other, minimally cluttered. All signs point to a bedroom, just a bedroom in the middle of the Bayou. In a house. 

The shock and confusion outweighs any potential embarrassment he might feel at being in the other man's room, and Vox pushes forward, steering Alastor towards the four poster bed with a crimson coverlet. 

“C'mon, Al. Sleep it off.” Alastor looks like he wants to argue, but even the most powerful sinner in Hell is no match for the crippling force of inebriation and he soon gives in to Vox’s pushes, falling onto the bed on his back. He's splayed out and flushed, vulnerable and Vox finds he hates it. Well. Hates that it's under these circumstances. Hates that this still isn't the real Alastor. It's just a different mask, different font. Hates that it’s still not what he wants.

 He channels this frustration into shucking off Alastor’s shoes, reaching for the man’s staff so he can go put it on the vanity for safe keeping. However, here, Alastor draws the line, tucking the staff into himself, practically rolling on top of the fragile looking thing, mumbling like a child,

“Nope, this one's mine, getcher own.” Vox throws his hands up, completely done, turning to walk away from the bed.

“Fine, crush it for all I care. I'm going to have Niffty bring you some water-” something grabs his wrist and Vox pauses. Alastor’s holding his sleeve with a sudden desperation, tugging him down to sit on the mattress, scooting over to make room and then curling himself into a ball, back facing Vox.

“Sing to me.” 

“I-” Vox doesn't really know what to do, and clearly his brain doesn't move quickly enough for Alastor, who looks over his shoulder and says something that Vox doesn't understand. 

“chanté à moi, sil-vous-plait, maman.” Vox assumes it's French, the language spilling from Alastor’s lips, but he couldn't tell you more than that. For all he knows Alastor has just told him to go fuck himself. He doesn't think so though, and he also can't make himself say no to the request. He should. They'd both seen what had happened last time  And yet… they're in Alastor’s room. Where's he going to disappear to? 

So Vox sits, and he opens his mouth, stalking before he thinks of a song he knows all the words to, an ironic choice, but one Alastor might recognize. A Lovely Way To Spend An Evening, by the Ink Spots. 

This is a lovely way to spend an evening

I want to save all my nights and spend them with you

Catching a breath of moonlight, humming our favorite tune

This is a lovely way to spend an evening

I want to save all my nights and spend them with you

He personally winces at the soft romance of it all, certain Alastor will as well. Surely any moment now will find him with his ass on the floor, Niffty called in to clean up the mess. His voice warbles a few times from the doubt, but all Alastor does is curl in tighter on himself, looking like a bunny in a burrow. His eyes close and his ears and smile settle. His breathing evens out as he hugs himself, rocking ever so slightly and he’s asleep before Vox even finishes singing. 

Vox sits for a moment, unsure if he’s allowed to leave or expected to stay. He bites his lip, eventually settling on getting the fuck out of there before Alastor wakes or sobers up. He carefully takes a blanket that’s folded at the end of the bed, draping it over the sleeping demon, then pries the staff out of his claws, setting it on the vanity as he had intended. Then he stretches before showing himself out and closing the door softly behind him. 

He turns around from easing the door shut to find himself knee to eye with Niffty, who is looking at him with suspicion. He grins sheepishly, bending down to her level and greeting the small maid with a

“Hey Niffty.” She narrows her eye and growls, accusing, 

“You’re not supposed to be in there.” He nods.

“Yeah. I know. I mean I can imagine, Alastor was- anyway. Get him some water, could you?”

She nods slowly, still suspicious as he backs away down the hallway, expecting her to chase him down, almost falling backwards down the stairs before he turns around and flees out the front door, running all the way back to his place like he's being chased by wild dogs. Maybe if he runs fast enough, nothing will hurt anymore and everything will make sense. 

Chapter Text

He wakes up twisted in an afghan that he only uses for decoration, his head absolutely killing him. The first thing he does is clutch for his staff, grasping at blankets desperately until he spots it on the vanity, next to a glass of water and a dead bug. Niffty. Of course. He falls back onto the bed, relieved, chuckling at his own foolishness. He should have trusted himself. Even drunk, close to blacked out, really, he still maintained his wits. 

Strange for Niffty to do such a thing, however. She usually keeps to herself and her tasks. As it is, she’s only allowed in his room once in a blue moon. Otherwise she would never stop scrubbing the dirt from the actual earth peeking through the cracks of the floorboards. Would leave the rest of the house in a wreck, strip her fingers to the bone and frankly annoy him to have someone so present in his space. He only calls her in for emergencies. Last night must have been one of those times. If only he could remember.

He peels himself out of the bed, checking himself carefully for any injuries or signs he was overly reckless last night, but finds nothing but wrinkles in his suit. His hooves hit the chill of the floor and he realizes that his shoes are tucked neatly next to his vanity. He hobbles over to them, falling into his chair and loosening his tie, letting more air into his lungs before chugging the glass of water with desperation. It’s amazingly still cold and it burns his dry throat. 

He pants as he sets down the glass, still feeling too warm, shucking off his coat and waving his hand to move it to the coat rack next to his bed before unbuttoning his top two shirt buttons. Much better. He grabs his staff, just for the sheer comfort of feeling the possibility of power in his hand. Then he closes his eyes, unsure if he wants to try to remember last night. It feels dangerous. The moment he remembers whatever the Hell he did last night he has to accept it and face whatever possible consequences. The last time this happened he accidentally started a 5 year turf war. No regrets there, but God forbid he did something with less entertaining results. 

He takes an adequate amount of time to compose himself, holding his head in his hands in shame. God, he’s no better than his father. His mother would be so ashamed. He's thought that so often, maybe he should just accept it as a constant fact and stop beating himself about it. Speaking of his mother… Alastor raises his head, staring at his bed, a memory tingling at his fingertips. She hadn’t been there last night. He knows that. Despite the sheer fantasy world that is Hell, there is logic and his gut also knows, there’s no way that she visited him that night. And yet… someone had. Someone had been singing to him as he rocked himself against the mattress, so convinced he was back in her arms and not his own. It hadn’t been Niffty, that much he was sure of. The voice haunting the back of his mind had been smoother, gentler. Who the fuck had he allowed into his inner sanctum? He grimaces, not liking the way that term sounds and decides to never use it again. But still, the question remains.

He puts himself together before staggering downstairs. Well, he doesn’t let the staggering show. Even in his own home it feels as though the walls have eyes at times and weakness is not something he likes to broadcast. Screams of others? Yes. His own suffering? Never. 

He meets Niffty in the kitchen where she is cheerfully washing dishes, more than he knows were ever dirty but he doesn't mention it. He's not without his small kindnesses, they're just rare and usually have an ulterior motive behind them. In this case, he needs to keep her docile to answer his questions, can't have her getting distracted by a passing bug or a spot somewhere. So the dishes keep her focused, even though he's not quite sure if the plates she's washing are even his. Good Lord, sometimes she brings more angry sinners to his door than Mimzy does. No matter. He’ll figure out the china later. 

He sits down at the kitchen table, watching her work with his leg balanced on his kneecap, staff laid across his lap. 

“Good morning, Niffty.” She looks up, apparently so engrossed she hadn't noticed him, and waves a tiny, soap bubble coated hand, spraying the suds around.

“Morning boss!” He inclines his head, wondering which of his queries to broach first before settling on an innocuous, 

“Thank you for the water you left in my room last night Niffty, it was… most appreciated.” Instantly the tiny demon goes as stiff as a board like he'd stuck her in a light socket and her large eye fills with tears, holding clasped and soapy hands up to her chin as she begs,

“Don’t be mad Alastor! I didn't clean! You told me not to clean! He said you wanted water!” Alastor waves his hand, dismissing the oncoming storm with a calm,

“Niffty dear, I understand. I'm not angry, but who was here last night? Who told you to do such a thing?” He leans slightly forward, anticipating a whole day of planning how to punish such a person who would violate his rules, known or not. 

Niffty’s lip trembles and Alastor braces himself for what he knows is coming. Sure enough, streams of water shoot out of both sides of her eye and she wails his answer in a tone so high likely only dog eared sinners could hear- 

“It- it was- it was Mr. Vincent!” Alastor raises his eyebrows, unperturbed by the waterworks, soon she'll dry herself out and be back to the dishes. As reliable as a cycle of laundry, that one. 

So. Vox had paid him a visit in his chambers last night, had he? How… untoward. What possible reason could he have ever had to allow this, even in his state of intoxication? What could they have done last night? He doubts it was anything… physical, but what secrets might he have divulged to the wide eyed picture box while under the influence of rye? 

Well. At least the singing is explained. They've already established the man's preference for serenading Alastor. He shouldn't have expected anything else. Logic has already squashed the idea of it actually being his mother visiting last night, he has to extinguish the disappointment that tries to choke him like one of his shadows but from the inside. 

He drums his fingers on the table briefly before stopping immediately for two reasons. For one, his head is killing him. For another… it triggers a memory, his hand is suddenly warm and he can feel… claws under his palm. He turns his hand over and looks at it, confused until he remembers covering Vox’s hand with his own to cease the man's twitching. Why had he been so damn nervous? It hadn't been the first time, either, that he’d been so jumpy. Good. Hopefully that means he has a healthy amount of fear of being in Alastor’s presence, regardless of whatever had happened last night. It seems that there had been some physicality involved, though hopefully that had been the extent of it. Alastor knows he's not a touchy drunk but… he's also never had someone around him to touch, or rather, he never let himself get to the touching point when around people. 

When he and Mimzy would go out on the town he kept himself aware, pounding whiskey, yes, but no more than he could handle. It would have been foolish to become out of control, a man of his color. He needed his wits about him. However it would seem that in his elevated station of power now he's become complacent. Confident that even with his senses blurred his reputation would keep him safe. His wit and strength acting as bodyguards in case that fails. 

But Vincent…Vox… this naive little picture box- well. Maybe not so naive. Something else comes back to him as he sits, watching Niffty make the dish water salty, though at a much lessened pace. 

People blamed me for her death… I really did kill my dad…

It's not the same. That's what he tells himself. Not to mention, it was likely a con. Maybe he had let something slip from libation loosened lips, some whisper of -ugh- vulnerability that the ambitious sinner could play against him, say what he wants to hear. How many before him had tried this? Well. No one, actually. Alastor had done it to others, too new, too stupid to know better than to spill their secrets. It had been so easy to fabricate similar experiences, gain their trust and then exploit it with a snap of his fingers and a crackle of static. Easy kills, but still fun. And now that… trend, that fad sinner thought he could play Alastor’s game… the game. Wait. 

A question for a question. Oh hadn't that been a clever ploy. That's something he will hand to Vox, the man is clearly savvy and his patter on the show had been impressive. They had played well off each other, Alastor can't deny it. The ratings had been good that day, he has to admit. And he makes him laugh. That's the other thing. The dangerous thing. He's been enjoying their little tête- à- têtes. 

Although… what's wrong with that? Who says he can't enjoy playing with his food? Get all he can from the man and his company before striking him down, making sure he's good and sick of him before he does so. Alastor doesn't do regrets. 

What's the harm of letting the man get attached as long as he doesn't do the same. Let him think he can get close to Alastor, let him bring him music, let him think he can sip from the spring of Alastor’s power and then… take it all away. 

There's doubt at the back of his head though. Vox's attachment he can moderate, that's familiar, manipulating someone else's desires, but his … well. What could become of him if he leaned in? What could he lose? What could he gain? 

He puts this thought at the back of his mind. He won’t chase the man, there’s no need. Vox has his number and he’s proven he knows how to use it. And if he brings up last night, well. Alastor knows how to play dumb. Or just artfully redirect the conversation. He’s good at that. Or perhaps he’ll move on, find another sinner to tag around after. 

After all, if he wasn’t scared off last night, wouldn’t he still be here? Drinking in every opportunity to bask in Alastor’s glow of power? Leeching stronger off of whatever tenderness Alastor might have accidentally shown that night? Why would he leave him alone now? 

It’s a whole 5 months before there’s a frantic knock on his door, phone apparently forgotten. He listens with an ear cocked as Niffty answers the door and he hears Vox panting like he’s been running. 

“Hey- hey Niffty. Can I- is Alastor in? I really have to show him something.” Despite his instant suspicion at those words- really, it only takes one sinner trying to ambush you before you start to dread the phrase ‘I want to show you something.’ That, or it always leans sexual. However, he can hear Vox’s tone and the timbers there aren’t deception or scheming. No, he sounds excited, out of breath, yes, but also… proud. Like he just figured out something monumental and Alastor was the first person he thought to tell and he had to do it right then and there. Really, phoning would have been faster. 

He appears at the top of the stairs before Niffty can even turn her head and bellow his name as she has been prone to do lately. He really must speak to her about decorum. Or at least get a sign indicating when he is recording. The soundproofing only goes so far when it comes to demon shrieks. 

Vox’s eyes find him immediately and when he sees Alastor’s head incline, he takes it as an invitation, practically jumping over Niffty in excitement and racing up the stairs in a fever. 

Before Alastor knows what’s happening, Vox is boldly- who the fuck does he think he is- grabbing Alastor’s hand and dragging him down the stairs to the sitting room before Alastor can even object.

“Al, I have to show you! Come here, where’s your-” He yanks Alastor into the parlour, pulling him, practically making them both trip over the area rug until they reach a highback armchair, appropriately upholstered in crimson brocade. Vox pushes Alastor eagerly into it before leaning down and having the absolute gall to fiddle with the dials of the radio Alastor keeps perched on a small table. 

Alastor starts, practically feeling the rush and spark flowing through his own body as the instrument is turned on and he instinctually raises his hackles, antlers starting to stretch as he crackles out:

“And just what do you think you’re-” Vox has the audacity to raise a finger at him, saying hurriedly,

“Wait, Al, just wait, I figured out-” he closes his eyes, clearly concentrating, turning the dial on the radio, skipping over Alastor’s station, the only station available in Hell, until he lands on a blank one. Static buzzes loudly, like bees protecting their hive. Their territory. His territory. 

“Vox-” Vox again holds up a finger, insisting,

“Wait, Al, just one second, I’ve almost got it…” Alastor is utterly perplexed, unsure about what the Hell the man could be doing until… 

Now, won't you hear me singing?

Hear the words that I'm saying

Wash my soul with water from on high

While the world of love is around me

Evil thoughts do bind me

But oh, if you leave me I will die

Music Alastor has never heard before, a bluesy, rich tone rasping powerfully over a quickened beat pours into the room. The woman’s singing enchants him, wraps him up in her warm, raw voice, as his toes start to tap. How long has it been since he’s heard new music? He hasn’t ever even looked for any, content to stay with what he knows. But this… his breathing quickens, even as his antlers retreat, and he stares at the radio, so transfixed he doesn’t even hear Vox at first as he whispers,

“Al?” His eyes finally go to the man in his living room, standing next to the radio awkwardly, hand rubbing the back of his neck as he continues, explaining sheepishly, “sorry, I wouldn’t have barged in like that, but I- I’ve been working on this for months. Figured if I could transmit to your technology you could experience new music without having to hear my stupid voice.” He chuckles in a self deprecating manner and Alastor, for once, is speechless. Gobsmacked at such a gift. He clears his throat, trying to find the right words, settling on a question,trying not to sound too grateful, too eager as he asks,

“If- if you leave, will it still play?” Vox wilts at first, seemingly taking this incorrectly as an invitation to leave, backing away towards the door, until Alastor holds up a hand, halting him with no words. 

“Yeah- uh, I think so. I practiced, I left my radio with Baxter and then walked all around Hell, he said it stayed on the whole time. And it doesn’t seem to be linked to my thoughts or anything, so it’s just… music? I don’t know where it comes from, cause some of these I’ve never heard, maybe I hooked up to the radio waves from life, but I just don’t know …” He trails off and Alastor’s gaze returns to the radio, that song still playing, wrapping up and then transitioning into another jaunty song by a completely different woman, crooning in a velvet voice about a lost basket. Then his eyes go back to Vox, realizing with a start that the man is leaving, quietly, slowly, sneaking out of the house like he was never there, leaving Alastor with his solitude and music. Fascinating.

Chapter Text

It’s not any one thing Alastor says that night that stirs Vox to such… generosity. Such fixation. He doesn’t forget his primary project, not in the slightest. No, he won’t abandon his own goals just because he might have made a genuine connection with someone. But he does stop bothering his inventors- for the most part, let’s not get carried away now. Instead, he occupies his time by fiddling with the radio he holds in his room, finally taking the channel away from Alastor’s station. 

He finds he can feel the signal, feel a vibration deep in his toes and buzzing through his mind like an untrappable butterfly. But if he could just catch it, snag it like a fat bass on a hook… he can do something with it. What, he does not yet know. But what he does know, without any doubt, is that someone somewhere needs to bring the joy of new music into the life of Alastor the Radio Demon. Needs to show the old man a good time. 

Vox imagines Alastor’s face as he twists the dial. Imagines his laugh, his pain, his joy. His drunken swaying and his fingers clamping over Vox’s to calm him. Even if it was for his own selfish benefit… no one’s ever calmed him before. 

It seems a silly thing, a minor thing, but it’s something Vox just can’t get out of his head. He chases the reason why it mattered so much just he chases that elusive signal he might be able to sync to. When he’s trying to sleep at night it’s all he can think of. 

As he’s trying to figure it out, he starts to look backwards, trying to remember the last time someone had touched him at all. He eventually combs through chronologically, certain he’s exaggerating his own isolation. Yes, he remembers the desperate pull, that growling need in his stomach for someone’s, anyone’s touch, in any capacity, until he killed that voice, that want. Learned to live without it until he forgot why he wanted it in the first place. At least... He thought he had.

Childhood: His mother is patching his skinned knee as he rests on the side of the bathtub, pouting.  Her fingers carefully flick the gravel out of the scrape, blotting the blood away with an iodine soaked cottonball, the fibers getting stuck in the minor wound. When she turns around to get a bandaid, he starts digging the wisps out of his knee, chasing them deep into his skin, determined to rid himself of the infiltrating manmade cobwebs. She turns back to find blood flowing down his shin and viscera under his fingernails. She blinks, fear in her eyes before she bends down and cleans him up again, using a small folded piece of gauze this time. Then she bandages him up, kissing the covered boo-boo and then his forehead before sending him back to climb trees as far as he could, trying to get higher and higher. 

She kisses his forehead like that when she puts him to bed too, or at least she does until his father puts poison in his ears. After that he starts hiding under the covers until she gives up and leaves him alone. Every time she closes the door he covers his own mouth, kicking his feet, stopping himself from screaming, from begging her to come back, from crying like the baby he was not, thank you very much. He needs to be a strong man like his dad. 

On his first day of school he’s terrified, fighting the urge to suck his thumb or scuff his new shoes. His father will tan his hide if those shoes come back anything less than shining perfectly. They don’t have the money for new shoes, no one does nowadays. The ones he’s wearing had come as a hand-me -down from a neighbor and his mother had stayed up late, using the smallest swipes of his father’s shoe polish to shine them new. Vincent fidgets with the knees of his pants instead, gripping them with his small fingernails, picking at the threads until he pulls one just loose enough to fiddle with. He gets his hands smacked with a ruler by one of the nuns that day for not paying attention. 

The ruler smacking turns into a pattern. He enjoys doodling too much for it not to be, from his youth to adolescence he passes the time in class either drawing or looking out the window and daydreaming of being famous, being rich, being… happy. Being brighter than the stars on a clear night. His ‘art’ is never anything to write home about, though the sisters certainly try. He learns quickly how to forge his father’s signature on those notes and then how to pretend he learned his lesson. The good behavior always lasts about two weeks and requires a constant mental reminder on his part. Then he eventually slips, sketching himself beating the kid who kicked his shin on the playground into a bloody pulp, like the superheroes in the comics he sneaks out of the bigger kid’s backpacks, reading them behind a bush and watching them accuse their friends of the theft in hushed tones and with secret shoves, as to not alert the sisters to their sins. 

Adolescence: He thinks about Alastor’s billboard too much, digging his nails into his palms at night as he does so, wondering who the man is, making up stories of who he might be. More importantly, he wants to know how he can be like him. He’s never seen such confidence before. Not even his dad looks like that. His father is a loud man, not a confident man. Vincent never knew there was a difference until now. Until he’s going over the image of the darker man in his mind, exaggerating his smile more and more until that’s all he really sees when he closes his eyes, a Cheshire cat pointing him in the (hopefully) right direction. When he doubts his next move, or if he wants to cry, or fucking rage or hurt in any form, he thinks to himself,

“What would Advertisement Al do?” Of course, he doesn’t actually know the man, so his imagination has to make it up. But it helps to have that as a springboard. The answer is usually just: smile through it. 

He pretends the man is someone he knows, pretends he’s someone Vincent can make proud. A friend. It’s pathetic. But… It does help, pretending to have someone in his corner. A guiding force. 

Vincent’s smile is charming, especially once he tweaks it so it’s not straining at his eyes, once it slides and matures into a charm that he slips into like a lady's fur coat. Not that he’s ever worn women’s clothes. But they look smooth inside, all that silk. His mother doesn't have a fur coat, but some of the women at church do. Those are the wives of bankers, stockbrokers, important men. 

He raises his hand in class, avoiding penance for the wrong answer by flashing a grin, sometimes even a wink if the nun in question is one of the older ones, the ones who think a cheeky prepubescent is a nuisance at worst and a compliment at best and not a genuine threat. 

And yet… no one touches him. Even the boys who used to shove him against a tree stop, getting alarmed by his continuous, empty smile. He makes acquaintances, allies, but no one close enough to pal around with. To wrestle with or slug on the arm. 

His mother dies alone in her car, and when he finds her, stomach rumbling, ready to complain about the lack of dinner on the table, her head has a welt on it from the steering wheel. He backs out of the garage, phoning his father at work, voice flat and hollow. The car’s still running as he goes back up into his room, opens up his favorite book detailing the anatomy of sharks and tries to just focus on learning once again about the olfactory bulb. 

People want to hug him at the funeral. Mainly aunts and grandmas. But it’s a cloying kind of attention. They don’t want to actually hug him. They want to hug the idea of him. That poor, poor boy, motherless. He’s made to give a eulogy, a speech it would be bad to smile through, and because of that, he’s tongue tied. Advertising Al’s smile floating in front of his eyes, the bright whiteness finally bringing him to convincing tears.

He shakes the headmaster’s hand at graduation. That had been something. Too firm, too sweaty, too practiced. 

He signs up for the draft when he turns 18, though he prays every night he’ll never actually get called. He wants to be in show business, not die in some trench or get his face blown to unrecognizable bits. He’s just started to grow into his ears, shame to waste that. The war ends a year later, to everyone’s relief except maybe his father’s. Vincent thinks he was secretly hoping his son would get whipped into shape or maybe just killed so he and his creepy blonde bimbo and their spawn could have their happy picket fence life without the gangly hormonal reminder of his old life. Fine by him. His stepmother bends over too much in his presence for his liking. That’s a touch he doesn’t mind missing. 

Adult: He never goes to college, instead landing an internship in New York from a visiting executive with a flash of teeth and a little bullshitting. He gets a handshake then, too. That one feels good, like a promise of success. 

He starts by getting coffee, running errands, taking notes, mainly shadowing Barry the weatherman, an older gentleman with a wheezing voice who keeps talking about how he can feel the rain coming in his knees. Vincent spies an opportunity here, using his free time to study books on meteorology, just enough to really seem like he knows what he’s doing. The rest is all charisma. Eventually Barry gets sick. Maybe all that fucking rain in his hip gave him pneumonia, Vincent doesn’t know. All he knows is that it’s finally his chance. His shot. And he aces it. One of the cameramen, young and strapping, claps him on the back when he’s done with his first broadcast, knocking his glasses down to his nose and something loose inside of him that makes him want to kill himself, it’s so intense and so wrong. 

He has a panic attack that night, alone in his bed, though he thinks he’s dying. His hands shake uncontrollably, his breathing is tight and gasping. This is it. Struck down in his fucking prime, right as he gets his break. There’s no one there to hold him that night, no one to kiss his forehead or cover his hand, to calm the sheer adrenaline that’s replaced the blood in his veins like he’s a Goddamned live wire. All from just thinking about what step he’s going to take next. He wants it to happen now, he can’t wait. Wants that instant gratification, wants to win, now. It coils in his stomach, corrodes his heart and tightens his throat. All he can think of at that moment is Advertisement Al. Man’s probably a senior in his industry by now. Some executive while Vincent is just a snot nosed brat dying in his bed alone. Dying alone like his fucking mother. 

He almost passes out before he gets his breathing under control, but he does it and soon he’s asleep, forgetting all about this incident until it happens again the next night and the next. 

He thrives at work, during the day. Especially when the cameras are on. When those cameras are on, he can feel the starpower sliding up into the very marrow of his bones. He feels like a God, all eyes on him. And then… the camera is off and all the lights are on the news anchors for the majority of the time. Months pass, Vincent chasing that ten to twenty minutes a day high, praying each morning there would be a storm, something to give more airtime. 

Eventually he starts to covet the anchor, a handsome mustached man who wears his blonde female co-star like a scarf. Not in a carnal way, not in a gay way, but he wants his power. Just like Advertisement Al, he doesn't want him, he wants to be him. Wants more screen time, more money, wants to be higher in the pecking order. Wants his ideas listened to in the meetings. 

It takes a year and a half (not that he's counting) until all that want boils, all his nightly breathing attacks stack up until he can't fucking wait anymore. The guy has to go, permanently, so he can step into his shoes. 

Unfortunately that mustached bastard is much younger than Barry, so if he's going to be forced into early retirement or off the mortal coil, Vincent will have to… step in and assist. 

It's really not his fault life doesn't move fast enough. That time doesn't tick quick enough for him. That his chest gets tighter the longer he doesn't have what he wants. It just isn't his fault. 

The blood gets everywhere, he's sloppy, needs practice, or maybe just to switch methods. But it's after he does the actual throat slitting that sticks with him. Holding his victim in his arms, dipping him low like they're dancing together as the body starts to fall, then using momentum to launch him away quickly before someone looks in the alley. And yet… he pauses, just for one quick second, before he throws the body away. Savoring the way the man's hands felt clasped in his, the heavy press of his body against Vincent's. Their cheeks slip together and the man's stubble gives him a small burn, tingling all the way down his neck. And then it's gone, body disposed of and he's back in his apartment, showering his body clean of both viscera and sensation. But… oh God he craves more. More, more, more.  It was so easy to not succumb when he didn't know what he was missing. 

The anchor position tides him over for a couple years. The night attacks subside for a bit as he tries to be satisfied. He scrubs off the skin crawling sensation that has been sitting with him since he took out the news anchor- killed him, not ‘took him out.’ That makes it sound like they went to a bar or something, whatever people do on a date. Not that he would ever take a man on a date. He’s getting off track, he needs a new plan. 

He’s leaving the studio late one night, going over the tapes of the broadcast from the other day, leaving just as the late night show is starting. Some beanpole Howdy Doody in a powder blue suit takes the stage. Alone. No co-anchor, no sidekick. All eyes on him. Important. He stares, the host catching his eye and having the gall to wink at him. Vincent stiffens and suddenly his desk is much too small. His costar is achingly shrill and distant and having eyes on him all day isn’t enough. He needs the night too. Maybe that will make it all stop. 

Killing this guy was a little harder, annoyingly more bloody than he’s planned. The host flails, throwing his arms up in the air as he flounders under the stage light Vincent throws his way, stubbornly gasping for life. He’s making way too much noise and Vincent huffs, annoyed about it. This one was supposed to be easier, and he growls as much under his breath as he paces, waiting until he’s sure the man’s fully bled out before he leaves, making sure to not step in the blood. 

He pretends to be surprised when the studio is closed due to a ‘tragic accident’ the next day, clasping his hand over his mouth and gasping when he gets the phone call. That part, the pretending, is all easy and nice. What’s hard is holding himself back from calling the studio producers right then and there. He’s sure that others are circling as well and if someone gets there before him… but no, he must show decorum, some class. Restraint. It nearly makes him sick, imagining someone else coming in and taking what he's earned, what he's teed up for himself. He has to be patient and yet he can't stop pacing walking back and forth on his rug, annoying his downstairs neighbors so much they rap on their ceiling, making him jump. It suddenly feels like Hell itself is knocking for him. Well. Too late to worry about that now. What's done is done, but he'll be damned if he gets damned before getting what he wants. 

He lands the new gig. Of course. They were desperate, putty in his hands, he never should have doubted. 

Soon he has a following, signing autographs, being followed and adored, shaking hands. Now everyone wants to touch him, grab him, a piece of him. It's possessing, cloying. He doesn't hate it. No. In fact, he likes it. He loves having people fall at his feet, being the man on the screen, the one in power, the one desired. And yet. 

He's passing a closed door meeting one day when he hears his name, pausing and pressing his ear to listen. It's the producers of the evening show, his show. They want to cancel it. The numbers are fine, really, but there's other programs that do better. He walks away down the hallway feeling like a naive puppet, numb and used, the crushing fact that others can just… take away his power because they want to. Because they can. 

Back in his apartment, Vincent starts to laugh. After it all… he can't let others do to him what he's done. No, he needs to pull the strings. And if producing is where the real power is… maybe his next victim will just have to be a two for one blue plate special. And while he's at it… fuck those other programs. Fuck the people deemed more worthy than him. Fuck the ones who are seen. He'll wipe them all out and hire all new people, write new shows, have new programs, everything designed by him. He'll be pulling all the strings. It will all be his. The power, the praise, the…everything. 

After that is when it starts to unravel-no- when he starts to unravel. It's not the murders, those go off without a hitch. It's not the fact that relatives he hadn't even seen at his mother's funeral are somehow contacting him for money. It's not the fact that everyone who wants him just wants to be around his power and not the man beneath it- is there still a man beneath it? No, it's that… he gets the job. He executes his plan, he leads the meetings about who's on the chopping block. He starts to shape the station to his whim, knocking off whomever doesn't fit the picture. That studio has so many “acts of God” it could be turned into a church, so many “accidents” it could be haunted. 

Vincent has it all now. He has a huge penthouse apartment, people buying him drinks and kissing his ass. He has the say so, he has the means. And yet… it's not enough. He starts to scratch at his side in the shower every day, clawing his ribs until there are trenches there that never properly heal. Gills. He's a shark. So. Hungry. Every wince is a reminder that he's not there yet, he's not happy. Because this is all going to make him happy. Right? It will kiss his boo-boos better and heal him. He just needs more. 

So he has one studio. That's small potatoes. He needs more, he needs to grow. He needs all of them. He needs the network. 

It's as he's standing on top of the building-his building now- looking down at the puddle of viscera that used to be good ol’ Bob, that he has the realization. Maybe it's still not enough. He has power, yes. Money, yes. All of that. But every time he goes to sleep all he can feel are his father's hands on his throat, his stepmother's hands on his shoulders, executive's hands clasping his, fans clawing at his legs, his mother’s lips on his forehead. He burns with it all. He needs to shut off the past for good. He needs to kill his father. 

He'd underestimated how small his hometown would feel as he drove through the entrance in his inconspicuous rental car. How observed he would feel. Not watched, not bothered or hounded, just… observed. 

It's a miracle his stepmother and the kids aren't home, but he doesn't ask how he got so lucky when he comes nose to nose with his dad at the door. Just shoves him backwards and gets his revenge. 

When it's all over, and he's cleaned himself up, made sure no blood got on the rental car, and he's back in New York … he feels… nothing. He feels ‘free,’ he supposes, as much as that can do. But it doesn't fill the emptiness. It doesn't hold his hand at night or run its fingers through his hair. It doesn't love him. He needs to be loved. Ah, Okay, he knows what to do now.

He’s gathered a following over the years, collecting favors like carnival tickets. He calls them all in, everyone who he's ever met, everyone who has seen his vision, gathering them in the abandoned aquarium he'd killed the station’s scientist in. He'll baptize himself, he'll baptize all of them. He'll reinvent them all, under his immense power, in the waters, like he was baptized as a baby. Now it's time to be reborn.

Back in Hell, hand long since gone from the radio dial, Vox's breath hitches. But this time, it's not from anticipation or adrenaline. No, it's simply tears. Human, real, salty tears, smearing themselves across his screen as his chest tightens. 

It's different now though, he thinks, as he fumbles for the dial of the radio, turning it back to Alastor's station and letting the man's smooth prattling calm his breathing and lull him to sleep. Now... He has a friend.