Chapter Text
The darkened streets were wet with newly spilt blood, the smell pungent and invigorating to Alastor who inhaled deeply, savoring it like one would the finest of wines.
The sinner under his heel moaned weakly, fingers pathetically attempting to scratch the gravel below and claw their way out. Alastor’s smile grew with sadistic glee as he pushed down and heard a sickening crunch. His foot moved with a squelch from the fresh body—usually he wouldn’t be so hands on but he’d been in a particular mood as of late. Not exactly a bad mood but it made him restless and hungry for an outlet. Unfortunately for the ragtag group of sinners he’d bumped into that they were the perfect means for relieving the itch under his skin.
How tragic that he could not revel in the euphoric feeling for much longer, not when he had a prior commitment to tend to. With a forlorn sigh, he made his way from the trail of bodies behind him. No one stopped him fortunately—it seemed traffic was mysteriously light for a Friday evening.
“So, Alastor,” Vox started, nervousness coating his words. He toyed with the glass in his hands, the alcohol nearing spilling out as he twiddled with it.
Alastor hummed in acknowledgment as he sipped from his own drink. Nothing tasted as good as his own stores when he was alive and certainly this old bar had nothing on par with his refined tastes but this was the place Vox had chosen for their meeting for reasons he was yet to be made aware of.
“I was thinking…” he trailed off with a laugh and scratched the back of his head.
Alastor resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With anyone else he would’ve threatened to rip their head from their neck for wasting his time pausing and stumbling over their words like a toddler but Vox, he found, was an interesting exception to many of his pre-established standards. He reasoned that it was because he found the media demon moderately entertianing—a rarity it was to find any kind of intelligent company in hell and he was loathed to find another on short notice.
“Do try and finish your thought in this century, Vincent, or I fear I may drain the barkeep’s stock of whiskey by the time you’re finished,” Alastor drawled, a tinge of impatience seeping through.
Vox flushed a familiar cyan hue just like he knew he would by using his given name. His answering smirk at the revealing reaction was positively predatory. Oh how he loved making Vox flustered. There was a certain power in knowing the right words to make another forget their control and he learned by now how to use Vox’s poorly concealed worship for his gain.
He probably shouldn’t have used it considering he was waiting to hear what reason Vox had asked him here tonight for but it was like asking someone not to lick their fingers after eating a scrumptious pastry. Simply too irresistible an opportunity to pass up.
“Right, haha, wouldn’t want that to happen,” Vox said. At Alastor’s raised eyebrow, he swallowed and straightened in his seat. “I have a proposition.”
“A proposition?” Hm, now that was curious. Vox typically came to him pandering for advice about sinner deals and territory. Alastor humored him for the sake of nudging him into places that would make other Overlords weaker and therefore easier for himself to collect their souls. Territory mattered little to him in comparison to the power he could absorb from those too weak and hopeless to fight back. Thankfully, Vox was focused more on his physical influence in hell.
The media demon nodded his head eagerly, wide-eyed and looking dreadfully young. A baby, really, in comparison to Alastor who had been down in hell for more than two decades already in contrast to his measly five years. “More like a deal.”
Any previous disinterest dissipated into the smokey air. Deals were his specialty, naturally it'd make him turn to Vox with new appraising eyes. He was listening properly, his gaze glued to the other demon.
What could Vox want to make a deal for?
Deals were tricky things. One could find loopholes like one would find holes in swiss cheese. Alastor prided himself in his iron clad contracts ensuring no one could escape his grasp—he had a reputation to uphold after all. If Vox, a fledgling quickly growing into a monster in his own right, wanted to make a deal with Alastor, well, how could he say no to adding another soul to his collection?
Vox grinned, his eyes nearly blinding in the dim lighting of the bar. “I knew that'd pique your interest.”
“Yes, yes,” Alastor waved off tersely with a flick of his hand. “You know me, a deal maker at heart. Do go on, you've got my attention.” Which was exactly what Vox wanted, he knew, but just this once he'd allow himself to be predictable.
“I’d like to take you out.”
Radiostatic buzzed in the background of Alastor's ears before cutting off abruptly. He cocked his head to the side harshly and blinked at Vox. “Pardon?”
Vox’s smirk softened at the edges, giving him a warm, genuine countenance. “I’d like to take you out.”
“What,” Alasor said bluntly. “To kill me?”
Vox’s answering laugh was loud and abrasive to Alastor’s confused fraying nerves. He wiped imaginary tears off his screen, and with a fond sigh, said, “you really know how to joke, Al.”
“Ha-ha.”
Vox’s chuckling petered off and he sobered somewhat. “But for real, I want to make a deal to take you on a date.”
Piercing feedback cut through the air, making other patrons of the bar wince and cover their ears. They didn’t look in the way of the radio demon though for fear of his wrath. Even the bartender kept to himself as he cleaned up the glass off the floor that had been victims of his unintended backlash.
Vox, though, remained unaffected. His smile grew fonder, relaxed even, if possible. It made Alastor's ear twitch in displeasure.
“A funny jest, Vox, but one I’m cutting short if you value your life,” Alastor replied with forced cheer within a splintered voice. He’d allow him grace this one time in the spirit of their…acquaintance. A poor joke gone wrong but one easily forgotten if left alone and never brought up again.
“I’m serious, Alastor.”
The grip on his staff tightened to dangerous degrees and his smile lost some of its forced geniality and in its place a dark turn on his face.
“I don’t date.”
There, he’d declared his rejection. This should be all over soon and Alastor could go back to his radio studio. He was in a sudden mood to elicit the most heinous screams on his broadcast for the next three days straight.
Vox leaned forward in his direction and while not close enough to touch it still made Alstor’s skin crawl and the familiar restless itching feeling came back with a vengeance inside him.
“You’ve never been on a date with me though,” Vox countered boastfully, as if that was enticing enough to change his mind and not the exact opposite. “I know the whole thing isn’t your scene and all but I think we’d have some fun together.”
“Fun,” he echoed faintly.
Vox nodded patiently, perhaps sensing his need to digest his proposal. “We’ve been around each other a while now and I think we click really well. I mean, I uh, admire you plenty and I’d like to show you a good time.”
“And why,” he hissed sharply. “Would I want to do anything as asinine as to spend more time than I have to with you, especially in a romantic context?” His tongue nearly tied itself in a knot by simply saying the word romantic, his body automatically rebelling at the notion.
The majority of the population in Hell would cower in the face of the radio demon vehemently turning them down. He’d certainly torn apart others worse for daring to insinuate anything vulgar about him engaging in certain depraved activities. What rankled Alastor worse was that Vox was clearly intimidated by his presence, his shoulders hunching in on himself somewhat and sheepish expression on his face, but not outright scared.
“Because,” Vox said coyly, voice low. “If I can’t get you to fall in love with me after a date then I’ll hand you my soul up on a silver platter.” He sat back in his seat with a satisfied look on his face like he’d dealt a killing blow to Alastor. The comparison wouldn’t be inaccurate.
Alastor remained stoic on the outside but he can’t deny how Vox’s words gave him pause. He turned inward, becoming contemplative.
Having Vox under his thumb would certainly be an advantage in the long run. He was no fool, radio was quickly becoming out of style while television was booming. Alastor didn’t care for the influence Vox was after, he preferred a more upfront show of strength involving flaying and other kinds of dismemberment to be seared into brains, but what better way to show his own power than to have the TV himself at his beck and call? A collar nestled perfectly on that neck with Alastor holding the leash.
But, he grimaced internally, the thought of going anywhere on a date with him made his stomach roil violently.
He’d been indifferent to anything amorous since he was a young boy and saw his peers slowly start to pair off together, doing things he’d never wished to do with anyone. In his living life, others had thought he was simply shy, a momma’s boy at heart who didn’t wish to leave her, and he’d been simply thankful for the cover. In Hell though things were different. Sex was as common as drugs and violence, and no one cared about propriety when it came to it either. More than once did he have to permanently shut up sinners who had the gall to offer themselves up to him.
It wasn’t like he was in danger of falling in love either. He was sure he wasn’t even capable of loving anything with the exception of his mother and his career as a radio host.
He observed Vox with a calculated once over. Vox in his soft fitting sweater vest and shy aura gave the appearance of meek and humble and while he hadn’t seen it first hand, he had heard stories of how vicious Vox could be when threatened. But what, Alastor wondered, would he do to get what he wanted?
Could this be a power play? A ploy to see how desperate he was to own Vox’s soul? Would he stumble back with a roar of laughter if Alastor accepted? Did he have some plan hidden up his sleeve that would backfire on Alastor? Surprise would be the last thing he’d feel to see Vox shed his skin and reveal himself to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
In the end it didn’t matter. Alastor had no plans to accept the deal. It’d be incredibly debasing, practically whoring himself out to own one single soul, and he had more class than that.
“As enticing as your proposition is, I’ll have to decline,” Alastor said airily.
Vox looked briefly taken aback before his face dropped entirely. Alastor glimpsed what he thought was a heartbroken expression before his screen turned into a ray of interesting rainbow colors and emitting a high frequency sound.
“B—but,” Vox stuttered when he gained back control of himself. He combed over Alastor frantically, likely upset he’d not fallen for his trap. “It’s my soul! You love collecting them! In what world do you say no to this simple of a deal, I—” he held his head in both hands. “This isn’t how I thought this would go.”
Alastor tapped the top of his glass, just to have something to do, his fingers capturing the edge of the rim. “And what did you expect, hm? That I’d greedily accept? I’m a lot of things but I’m not in the business of selling myself, especially not for a mediocre soul such as yourself.”
He narrowed his eyes, a fiery bite beginning to ignite in those blue depths. “I am not mediocre.”
Alastor felt a pleasant roll go up his body. This was familiar territory, riling Vox up.
“If you say so, my good man,” he cackled. “The point still stands that I will not take you up on your little deal. Now, you'd do well never to bring this up again if you have any sense.”
“You’re not even going to think about it?”
“Think about it? Why would I do that?” Alastor asked, aghast. “I’ve already given you my answer and you should count your lucky stars that’s all I did. I’ve done worse to those who’ve done less to me.”
Vox tilted his head to the side, watching him silently. Were Alastor more insecure, he’d fidget in his seat from the unadulterated intense look thrown his way.
“You really would’ve,” he murmured, sounding like he was talking to himself rather than toward Alastor. “You would have done worse to anyone else.”
Alastor’s smile froze because he couldn’t help but feel he’d still fallen for a trap he hadn’t known was there.
How rare it was to feel wrong footed by a mere sentence from an unexceptional fledgling demon.
Alstor whistled merrily as he walked along the streets of Cannibal town. He’d always felt more at home here where his preferences were accepted than anywhere else. The citizens feared him to a lesser degree but that was perhaps due to them following their leader’s footsteps.
Speaking of Rosie…
His benefactor had asked for an audience and although she had asked politely Alastor was no fool. Every request was a thinly veiled order for a dog on a chain.
He made his way to her Emporium, his head held high and staff gripped tightly as if it were a shield itself. Rosie was a lover of gossip and he had a sickening feeling in his gut that he knew why she’d asked for tea together.
“Alastor!” Rosie greeted with a cry when she spied him entering. Her smile wasn’t fake and yet it wasn’t genuine either. “Come take a load off! I have your favorite ready just in time.” She looped her arm through his and guided him to the same table they’d always taken their little meets together.
“Ah, and how have you been, Rosie dear? How’s the business going?” He asked for the sake of curving any direct questions away from him.
While Rosie answered—busniess was as booming as usual, as expected—he took it upon himself to prod his tea. Steam wafted from it and he took a hesitant sip. He barely had enough awareness to hide his flinch in time.
The tea was perfect. Black how he liked it but a dash of sugar like how his mother made for him. Even the burn was a welcoming feeling as it went down his throat.
He hated it. It was as if Rosie had personally plucked the memory from his head and sat in front of him mockingly. She’d done it at their every tea time like some hellish routine meant to terrorize him. A powerplay he was forced to withstand under her watchful eyes as her grin grew.
“And what’s this I hear of you spending an awful lot of time with that up and coming TV demon, hm?” Rosie teased as she brought the teacup to her lips.
Alastor scowled with a too large and bright smile, his already souring mood taking a sharp turn. The memory of Vox the other night tasted like another one of Rosie’s teacups in the back of his throat. “It’s nothing. A pebble in the grand scheme of things. No need to worry yourself over it.” They were not friends, no matter how much effort she put into such a farce. Usually he’d humor her but his temper was shortening by the minute the longer he was forced in her presence.
“Aw, aren’t you considerate, pet,” she smiled, a particular emphasis on the endearment of pet, leaving no room to misinterpret the subtle reminder of who was in charge. “But it’s been so dull around here lately and I’d love to hear what excitement is going on with you. Come on, share, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“But of course,” Alastor agreed readily, jovially, through gritted teeth. “If you really want to know—Vox has offered me a deal.”
“No surprise there. What kind of deal?”
He debated hesitating but in the end knew keeping it from her did more harm than good.
“A rather nonsensical one. I first thought it was some kind of perverse joke but he confirmed he was genuine.” He tapped his fingers on the table, letting the rhythmic feel of it lull away the bundle of something in him that was definitely not nerves. “He offered his soul to me if he couldn’t make me fall in love with him.” Saying it aloud was like pushing glass out of his throat but he managed it with fine determination.
It was almost worth it to see real shock on Rosie’s face before she threw her head back and roared with unrestrained laughter that echoed throughout the room. “Poor thing doesn’t know that not only you don’t swing his way, you don’t even pick up the bat!” She fell into a fit of giggles much to Alastor's confusion. He never thought it worth his time to learn what metaphors meant past his time but he was curious about what this one meant.
He patiently waited for her to stop. While Vox’s attempt to outplay him had seemed pathetically obvious and humorous at the time, it felt like Rosie was poking fun at Alastor and Vox rather than just the TV demon himself.
“Exactly my reaction,” he replied at last, once her giggles faded. “A foolish attempt to try and lure me into a trap.”
She blinked at him. “A trap?” she asked, leaning slightly forward in her seat as if she heard the most puzzling riddle. “Darling, what kind of trap do you imagine he was trying to pull on you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why, the possibilities are endless. You are talking to the master of loopholes after all.” For added flair he posed haughtily.
“Certainly not the master of humbleness,” she murmured underneath her breath.
Alastor magnanimously let the comment go. “Love is so abstract. There is no finite definition. Who’s to say the deal wouldn’t take, for example, the way I enjoy teasing him as love? Or if for one second I find myself having any positive emotion toward him?” Like if Vox made an embarrassing fool of himself that Alastor found comical. A certainty rather than a hypothetical.
“Oh hun,” Rosie tsked lightly, sounding a tad patronizing for his tastes. “You’re too paranoid for your own good. You can simply specify it must be romantic love.”
If Alastor could frown he would. “Yes, but what does romantically mean? I’ve no basis because I’ve never been in love before.” Nor did he think he was capable of the emotion. The closest thing he thought he ever felt to it was when he tortured others.
There was a slow smirk sliding across her face. “That’s exactly my point, Alastor. Your capacity to love is nonexistent which means you’ll have no trouble adhering to the terms.” She flicked a hand in the air. “Go out with him on the date. Have a night of fun. What’s the harm it could do? You’ll either end up owning that demon’s soul or leave off no different than before.”
He shot her an affronted look. Leave off no different than before? Preposterous. The entirety of Hell would be under the impression he’d fallen for that half priced television box! He’d rather avoid that misunderstanding and the damage to his reputation—thank you very much!
“Be that as it may, I’ve already given him my answer. A resounding no,” Alastor said, hoping that’d be the end of discussion.
His patron had other plans. She placed her head atop of her hands, eyes sparkling as if this was some shiny new amusing game for her to play and Alastor her ignorant pawn. “I’m positive if you went to him now he’d eagerly agree. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to spend the evening with the illustrious radio demon?”
He took a delicate sip from his cup but rather than grounding him like he wanted, it reminded him of another life he’d rather not remember.
“Is that an order?” He asked in a low voice.
There was a beat where they eyed each other. Alastor with his jubilant expression tilted in a way that offered a sinister look while Rosie’s effervescent one hid an undercurrent of warning. An outsider wouldn’t know it was a standoff they’d be witnessing, just two old friends catching up over lunch.
Rosie was the first to break it.
“Of course not!” Her denial rang loudly in the room. She looked deeply offended at the suggestion. “I would never order you to make a deal you don’t want, you know me!”
Unfortunately, Alastor did know her. In the years since he signed his soul away to her, Rosie had never forced him to make any deals. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t start now. If there was one thing Rosie liked next to her city running smoothly, it was a good show of gossip for her to lean back and savor with glee.
“I’m so glad we’ve got that cleared up,” Alastor said swiftly. He moved to stand, grateful to stretch his legs and the added distance from her. “If that’s all though, I’d like to head back to my studio and work on some ideas I’ve had brewing.”
He gazed down at her, waiting for her dismissal. Flashes of irritation burst under his skin at the notion of having to sit like a good dog for her approval to leave. Rosie abhorred rudeness though and had made it a point to educate him early on about the importance of following her word.
She leaned slowly back in her seat. Behind those demonic eyes lay a smugness at having him well behaved and trained. He thought for a brief moment that she would have him standing like a fool for longer, to let him properly stew in his ignominy, but at last she spoke.
“Have fun, my dear, but I urge you to reconsider. There are advantages to having the TV demon in love with you.”
He froze.
He wanted to demand an explanation from her. To rip that hideous teacup from her wretched hands until she gave him an explanation.
But Rosie knew what she was doing. Her raised eyebrow and expectant look told him that. She anticipated his reaction, knew he couldn’t help but want to know more, like setting a bait trap and watching him fall for it.
His pride was too big to swallow, to acknowledge he wanted to know, and so he turned on his heel and marched out the door.
There was something intrinsically satisfying about the sounds people make when their vocal cords are fried to such a degree that the only screams they can utter are garbled nonsense. The pain remained exquisitely heavy and clear but their souls were so weak and faint that there was none of that displeasing moaning and begging sounds. The pleading was nice in the beginning but everything sounds grating after a while when hearing the same sounds over and over again.
Alastor stepped away from the metal slab currently holding some random sinner he’d had for the last year. He couldn’t even remember their name just that they had questioned him and with a sadistic grin from him, their fate sealed for eternity.
With a roll of his shoulders he grabbed a nearby towel to wipe the blood from his hands. Half-paying attention, he shut off the broadcast that had been going for the last five days.
He’d had a lot to think about. Particularly about the implications in Rosie’s farewell.
Vox. In love. With him.
Insanity.
Alastor wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen Vox’s too long stares and blushing glances in his direction on numerous occasions but he’d chalked those down to veneration. Who wouldn’t look at the radio demon in awe? He’d made quite the name for himself since his first day. It made sense Vox would see him and want to emulate, following him like some kind of lost duckling.
His deal was just a quick grab at power, Alastor reasoned to himself. There was no way Vox actually planned on giving him his soul after one failed date. No way that Vox didn’t have a plan or trick waiting on hand to catch him off guard. Like a student trying to surpass their teacher.
A wretched wheezing sound came from his torture table and he snarled in disgust at the interruption. With a snap of his fingers another scream tore from its mouth before silencing as it moved into a pocket dimension where it would suffer along with the rest of his victims until he took them out to play.
He debated pulling out another soul but dismissed it immediately. He wasn’t in the mood, shockingly enough. One of the rare joys he had in Hell and he had no appetite for it.
Alastor ran a hand through his hair as he made his way from the studio and down the stairs to his personal living quarters. An already lit cigarette appeared between his fingers and he took a long drag from it, until the inhale was near painful but his mind a dull cloud, before exhaling.
Rosie was wrong, that was the only explanation for it. She wasn’t infallible. She had never seen Vox in person. What did she know of Vox’s motivations?
Besides, this was what Vox wanted. For Alastor to comb over his words nonstop, to read every detail of his memory in that hideous bar and awful alcohol until he bordered on insanity.
Alastor’s eyes widened with realization. He let out a low growl in the back of his throat. The rest of his cigarette burned to ash between his fingers but he paid no mind as he stepped on the remains.
Of course that was his plan—he’d been too blind to see it before! Vox knew he could never beat Alastor with his own power, weak as he was, so he was using underhanded tricks to make him second guess his every thought. Alastor was nearly impressed at the cleverness. Maybe he would’ve if it had actually worked.
There was no wool over his eyes. He wouldn’t be caught unaware. And yet there was the unanswered question of what to do.
Alastor could turn the tables of Vox. Since he knew his play he could make the demon dance to Alastor’s tune.
Hm, yes, that sounded nice. To humiliate Vox and make him the fool as he broadcasted on his station for everyone to witness.
Giddy with barely contained anticipation and backed with a wild imagination of what’d he’d do with Vox, he bounded out of his home.
Alastor placed a great deal on manners. He was raised that way as was every child in his generation. It may have gone out of favor steadily as the years climbed but his mother had ingrained southern etiquette like a second skin to him.
That being said, barging through an unfamiliar door and stepping into a condor uninvited would’ve had his mother slapping the back of his head. Alastor fought the urge to touch the spot as he swore he felt phantom pain there as if she’d done it from heaven herself.
A strangled cry to his right had his gaze darting just in time to watch as a butterknife covered in peanut butter fell to the floor with a clatter. Vox stood in the middle of his kitchen in a rumpled old hoodie and too large sweatpants. He blinked dazedly in his direction.
“Did I drink too much last night?”
“Vox, I’ve decided to accept your deal,” Alastor announced brazenly. “One date in exchange for your soul.”
Vox looked at him and then to his half made sandwich on the table.
“I’m going to need more sandwiches."