Archive of Our Own

The night on Pentagram had that thick quality that stuck to the skin like burnt grease. Alastor walked with his usual cadence, his cane swinging at his side and his smile fixed on his face, but inside, he was boiling.

Rosie.

His smile tightened by just a millimeter. That morning had been particularly... instructive. The Cannibal Overlord had decided it was a good time to remind him of certain terms of their agreement. Nothing vulgar, of course. Rosie was far too refined for that. An invitation to tea, a pleasant conversation, a casual brush of her gloved hand against his while she mentioned, "Remember, dear, I always look out for your interests... and you look out for mine."

And Alastor had smiled. As always. As he had to.

But now, hours later, he needed to burn off that feeling. He needed alcohol. He needed to forget. He needed...

His fingers tightened around the microphone on his cane. Smoke, drink, or tear someone's throat out with his teeth.

The path to his usual bar was a maze of alleys and flickering neon lights. He was walking along the sidewalk when something caught his attention. An alley. The sound of a struggle. And a laugh.

Not just any laugh. A genuine, mocking laugh, completely out of place in a mugging situation.

Alastor stopped at the entrance, tilting his head curiously. The dim light of a sputtering streetlamp illuminated the scene: three demons—one a scaly reptile, an anthropomorphic pig, and an amorphous thing with too many teeth—cornering a fourth.

And what a head.

A box?

Alastor blinked. Yes, it was a box. An old television set, to be precise. The screen showed a face—bright eyes, expressive brows, a wide and defiant smile—looking at its attackers with absolute contempt. It had antennas, yes, thin and metallic, rising above its box-head.

"You think you're gonna take my money with that tiny little thing?" the TV-head laughed, gesturing at the knives the three of them were holding. His voice had a mocking edge.

The scaly reptile snarled, visibly irritated. He exchanged a glance with the pig, and in a quick move, pulled a gun from his belt.

The expression on the box-head's screen changed instantly. His eyes widened in indignation. "Hey, hey, that's cheating!" he protested, and before the reptile could pull the trigger, the TV lunged at him.

What followed was chaotic.

The box-head was fast, Alastor would grant him that. He latched onto the reptile's armed arm and both of them rolled through the muddy ground while the pig and the toothy thing tried to grab him. There was a well-placed kick to the pig's groin—the pig howled and doubled over—a brutal headbutt to the reptile that made his nose crunch with a wet, fucking delightful sound—and then the toothy thing managed to catch him by the antennas.

The box-head shrieked. It wasn't a scream of fear, but of pure pain. "Let go of me, you fucking idiot!" he spat, writhing, but the creature held on tight, pulling the antennas back while the reptile and pig recovered.

Alastor watched from the mouth of the alley, cane resting on the ground, head tilted. It was an entertaining spectacle. The box-head had guts, that was undeniable. Despite being clearly outmatched, he hadn't shown fear at any point. Even now, while struggling to free himself, his screen flickered with expressions of fury and determination.

"I've killed bigger men than you, you fucking asshole!" he roared as he managed to turn just enough to punch the toothy thing. The impact sent both of them falling, rolling and slamming against the ground.

Alastor felt a tingle in his fingers. His tentacles writhed impatiently beneath his jacket.

He had three options.

He could stay. Watch how the fight ended. The box-head seemed resourceful, though three against one were bad odds.

He could ignore it. Keep walking to the bar. Order his whiskey. Drink until Rosie was just a name on the edge of his consciousness.

Or he could...

Bite.

Alastor smiled wider. The third option was tempting. Not out of kindness, of course. He wasn't a good person. Fuck, no. But he needed to release pressure. He needed to feel flesh tearing beneath his teeth. And those three idiots... they were insignificant. Disposable. Perfect.

Besides, the box-head would owe him a favor. He could pay for his drinks.

It's a plan.

The box-head had just gotten up from the ground, staggering, one antenna visibly bent. The three demons regrouped—the scaly reptile with a bloody nose, the pig still half-hunched from the groin kick, the toothy thing with a swollen eye. They lunged again.

Alastor let his tentacles slip out.

They were fast. Silent. Elongated shadows stretching from his back into the alley like hungry fingers. They wrapped around the three demons before any of them could react—the reptile, the pig, the toothy thing, all with their arms pinned to their bodies, immobilized in crushing hugs that cracked their bones.

The box-head, who had been about to take a hit, blinked in confusion as he saw his attackers suspended in the air. His screen showed first surprise, then confusion, then... irritation? He turned his head toward the mouth of the alley, and his eyes met Alastor's.

Alastor smiled at him. Wide and polite.

But his tentacles didn't wait for introductions. The one holding the scaly reptile yanked him over to Alastor with a sharp pull. The demon tried to scream, but the sound died as Alastor sank his teeth into his neck.

Hot blood filled his mouth. Metallic. Sweet. Perfect.

He bit deeper, feeling the trachea give, the vocal cords tear beneath his jaw. The reptile convulsed, kicked, and then went still. Alastor dropped him to the ground like a dirty rag, licking his red lips leisurely.

The other two demons shrieked, writhing against the tentacles. He didn't kill them. Not yet. He slammed them into the ground with brute force, hard enough to break bones but not to silence them. Their screams were music.

Alastor exhaled, feeling the tension in his shoulders loosen slightly. That helps.

Now, the other matter.

He turned toward the box-head, who was still on the ground where he had frozen during the whole process. His body was motionless, his face frozen in an expression of equal parts horror and fascination. Huge eyes. Open mouth. It was almost adorable.

"Shit," the TV hissed, his voice a little shaky.

Alastor extended his hand toward him, palm up. An offer of help. An invitation. Get up, my friend, and let's talk about your debt.

But the box-head didn't take his hand. Instead, he stood up on his own, barely staggering, and his screen showed a defensive sneer. Nervous and proud.

"I had the situation under control," he said, smoothing his jacket with abrupt movements. His voice trembled a bit, but he wasn't going to admit it. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, and dropped it into Alastor's outstretched palm.

"There you go," he mumbled, taking a step back. "Don't spend it all on drugs."

And before Alastor could utter a word, the box-head hurried out of the alley, his footsteps echoing on the pavement. He ran until he stopped under a nearby streetlamp—one of those old ones, with a flickering light—and then...

Zap.

A spark. A flash of static electricity that distorted the air. And the TV vanished, as if absorbed by the power lines.

Alastor stood motionless.

His hand was still extended. The bill rested on his palm, crumpled and slightly damp with someone else's sweat.

For the first time in his life and death, Alastor had no words.

His smile, always perpetual, froze into a rictus that he wasn't sure was incredulity or something that threatened to be... offense? Amusement? It was a strange mixture, a cocktail of emotions he didn't usually serve.

That box-head... that goddamn TV...

Had given him a handout.

Had given HIM a handout. Alastor. The Radio Demon. The Overlord who made sinners tremble at the mere echo of his voice.

Alastor looked down at the bill. Enough for a few drinks.

"Well," he murmured, and his voice sounded oddly flat. Then, a laugh began to bubble in his chest, low at first, then louder, more genuine, until it echoed through the empty alley—"Well!"

He didn't know whether to feel insulted or fascinated. The box-head had... guts. Yes. That was undeniable. And a brazenness bordering on suicidal. Alastor tucked the bill into his jacket with a precise movement.

He turned to the two demons still groaning on the alley floor. The pig and the toothy thing. His tentacles held them immobilized, but they were still conscious. They could still feel fear.

Alastor knelt beside the pig, running a finger along the bloodstained blade of one of the discarded knives.

"Before the drink," he said, his voice regaining its usual cheerful and distorted cadence, "an appetizer is always welcome."

The pig squealed.

Alastor smiled.

------------------

The sweet taste still coated his lips when Alastor pushed open the bar door.

It wasn't a pleasant taste. Not anymore. At first, yes: the hot blood in his mouth, the flesh yielding beneath his teeth, the perfect moment when the reptile demon stopped kicking. That had been glorious. But now, minutes later, the sensation had turned sticky. Cloying. Like melted caramel stuck to the skin.

He needed alcohol. He needed fire going down his throat. He needed to burn that sweetness until it turned to ash.

Heads turned when he entered. A couple of demons at the poker tables, a harpy in the corner, a trio of drunks by the jukebox. They all saw him. They all recognized him. And they all returned to their business with the speed of those who know that looking too long can cost an eye.

Or a neck.

Alastor smiled, satisfied, and walked toward the bar with his usual cadence. The cane struck the wooden floor in time with his steps. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The bar was his. Not officially, but everyone knew it. The bartender—a four-armed octopus demon named Squeaky—was already cleaning a glass in anticipation of his arrival. Alastor always sat in the same spot. The stool at the back, right where the light didn't hit directly but the shadows didn't fully hide him either. The perfect balance.

Except that today someone was sitting on that stool.

Alastor stopped.

Him.

The box-head.

The television was leaning on the bar as if he owned it, his elbows buried in the wood, his screen tilted toward the bartender with an expression that mixed desperation and excessive confidence. His antennas—one still slightly bent from the alley fight—vibrated with small static sparks.

"Please, buddy," the television said, his voice with that tone that sounded pleasant but pleading, "just open a tab in my name. I'll pay you double next time. Double. That's an excellent deal. I'd even say generous."

Squeaky shook his multiple arms, drying the same glass for the fifth time. "We don't extend credit to new customers. House policy."

"Policy? What policy? This is a dive bar, not a bank!"

The bartender didn't respond. He just kept drying the glass, his eyes avoiding the television's.

Alastor watched the scene with a mixture of irritation and budding amusement. That was his seat. That stool had been his since the bar opened. That a stranger—a stranger who had given him a handout, who had given him a bill as if he were just some beggar—was occupying his spot was...

Well. He'd handle it.

He approached from behind the television, planting himself right at his back. Alastor was tall, and his shadow fell across the other demon's screen, darkening his features. He cleared his throat with a polite "Excuse me..." but the box-head didn't even look up.

"Wait, bartender," the television said, raising a hand without looking back. "I'm talking to your boss."

Squeaky froze.

His four arms stopped moving. The half-cleaned glass slipped slightly between his fingers. His eyes widened with horror and shifted from the television to Alastor, from Alastor to the television, as if witnessing a suicide in slow motion.

"Your...?" Squeaky stammered.

The box-head, oblivious to the drama, continued his speech. His antennas moved emphatically.

"Please, I had a shitty day," he said, and his voice trembled just a bit, a hint of vulnerability he probably hadn't meant to show. "I gave my last bill to a handsome homeless guy in an alley. Can't you make an exception?"

Alastor's eye twitched.

Homeless?

Handsome?

No, no, the second part was flattering, but the first... Homeless?

Squeaky regained some composure, though his tentacles were visibly trembling. He completely ignored the television and addressed Alastor directly, his voice a respectful whisper.

"What will you have, boss?"

The box-head finally turned his screen, confused. "Hey, I was..."

But Alastor was already sitting down.

He slid onto the stool next to the television's—not his stool, because that one was still occupied, but close enough for the other demon to feel his presence—and rested his elbows on the bar with the same relaxed pose of someone in their territory.

"Double whiskey," he ordered, without looking at Squeaky. His smile was wide, affable, dangerous. "No ice."

Squeaky nodded fervently and turned to prepare it with trembling hands.

The box-head looked at him, his screen showing a mix of indignation and offense.

"Hey," he protested, banging the bar with his fist. "I was here first. I was in negotiations. This is... what is this? A line-cutting assault? Because that's very rude, you know?"

Alastor slowly turned his head toward him. His red eyes gleamed under the dim bar light, and his smile widened by just a millimeter.

"You called me bartender," he said, his voice soft, almost lilting. "And you tried to haggle with my bartender from my seat."

The television's antennas sparked faintly.

"Your seat?" he repeated, and his screen flickered with skepticism. "Are the seats labeled in this dive? Because I didn't see any sign."

Alastor ignored the comment. Instead, he tilted his head with genuine curiosity, studying the television as if he were a fascinating specimen.

"Tell me," he said, and his voice had that polite tone he used before a question that might be dangerous. "You gave your last bill to a homeless man. Why? If you had no more, what did you hope to get? Good luck? Being a good person in hell? Because that seems... reckless."

The television frowned and turned completely toward Alastor to respond.

"It's a long story, okay? The guy was in an alley, there were three idiots robbing me, and suddenly this... this tentacle guy appeared and started to..."

His voice trailed off.

His bright, expressive eyes met Alastor's.

And he froze.

The screen flickered. The antennas emitted an audible spark, and small static discharges jumped between them. His mouth opened in a small, perfect "O," and his eyebrows rose until they almost disappeared off the top edge of his frame.

"You..." he stammered. His voice was barely a static whisper. "You?"

Alastor held his smile, patient, expectant.

The television flickered several times in a row, as if he didn't believe it. His expression showed a rapid succession of emotions before settling into one of absolute disbelief.

"I must say," he managed to articulate, his voice regaining some composure though the antennas were still sparking, "that under the bar light... you don't look like a homeless man."

Alastor's laugh was low, a sound like radio static in the background.

"You've insulted me twice in one night," he said, and his voice had a playful but real edge. "Picture box. I've killed for less."

The television swallowed, and his hands tensed on the bar.

"Obviously that was a misunderstanding," he said quickly, his screen showing a nervous, conciliatory smile. "But to be fair, you did bite that guy's throat. In my defense, I thought if I didn't give you something, you'd follow me. It was... a survival maneuver. You know? A strategic retreat?"

Alastor stared at him.

The television shrank back slightly.

"Too honest?" he asked, and his eyebrows arched hopefully.

And then Alastor laughed.

It wasn't his radio laugh, the one that distorted and made glass tremble. It was a real laugh, low at first, then more open, a sound that escaped his chest without him being able to fully control it.

No one talked to him like that. No one. The demons of Pentagram either flattered him or fled from him. No one called him a homeless man and then, in the same breath, handsome. No one tried to justify their insults with jokes.

This box-head was...

Funny.

Alastor raised his double whiskey and drank it in one gulp. The burning liquid went down his throat, cleaning the sweet taste, leaving ash and fire in its wake.

Perfect.

He raised a hand without looking, and Squeaky hurried to fill his glass again.

Alastor turned to the television, resting an elbow on the bar, his smile now genuinely amused.

"Tell me, picture box," he said, twirling the glass between his fingers. "If I had really wanted to follow you... do you think a bill would have stopped me?"

The television flickered.

Slowly, very slowly, his screen showed an expression of realizing something very important and very late.

"Ah," he said.

"Ah," Alastor confirmed, and his smile widened, showing teeth. "Exactly."

--------

Alastor swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber cling to the walls of the crystal before slowly sliding back to the bottom. The burning liquid still seared his throat in the most delightful way, and the sticky taste of blood had finally dissolved into smoke and wood.

But he didn't want to leave yet.

The box-head was still there, leaning on the bar with his elbows on the wood and an expression that mixed nervousness with something that looked like... fascination? Yes. Fascination. Though his antennas still sparked occasionally, small static discharges crackling in the air.

Alastor made a decision.

"Squeaky," he called, without taking his eyes off the television. "Another whiskey for my new... acquaintance."

The box-head blinked, his face showing surprise.

"That's not necessary," he said quickly, raising a hand. "Really, you don't have to..."

But Squeaky had already poured the glass and slid it across the bar. The television looked at it, then at Alastor, then back at the glass. His fingers closed around the crystal almost by reflex.

"...Thanks," he murmured, and drank.

Alastor let out a low laugh, barely an audible exhale through his nose. It wasn't his radio laugh, nor his showman's cackle. It was something that sounded like real amusement.

"I said it wasn't necessary," the television repeated, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, "but... well. I wasn't going to let it go to waste."

"Of course not," Alastor replied, his smile affable but his eyes gleaming with restrained amusement.

The box-head turned on his stool to face him better. His screen showed a thoughtful expression.

"Hey," he said, and his voice had lost some of its initial nervousness, replaced by something more genuine. "What you did in that alley... was impressive. I've never seen anyone take out three demons that fast. And I didn't even see you lift a finger."

The television's antennas straightened slightly, with vicarious pride.

"Those tentacles... came out of your back like it was nothing. And the way you bit that guy's neck... bam. Straight to the point. No drama. No theatrical poses. Just... zap!"

Alastor tilted his head, curious. It wasn't the first time someone had praised his violence, but normally those compliments came tinged with fear. With submission. With "please don't do that to me."

This television, instead, spoke as if he were reviewing a circus performance.

"And the best part," the box-head continued, gesturing with his half-empty glass, "is that you did it in that suit so... old-fashioned. It looks like it's from the twenties, you know? But..."

He paused, and showed an expression Alastor didn't immediately recognize. Shyness? Hesitation?

"...but it looks good on you," he finished, and his eyes darted to the side, as if suddenly the tap behind the bar was the most interesting object in the universe.

Alastor raised an eyebrow.

His smile remained, but something in his expression tightened slightly, a sharp edge beneath the affability.

"That," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Was that a third insult?"

The television turned his head so fast his antennas vibrated.

"What? No!" he exclaimed, and his screen showed genuine indignation. "That wasn't an insult. It was a... a compliment. I said it looks good. Good. Is that an insult to you? Because if so, you have some very strange self-esteem issues for someone who can chew throats."

Alastor blinked.

Chew throats.

He laughed again, lower this time, a sound that came from his chest like a static purr.

"I still can't decide if I like you or if I'm going to have to kill you," he murmured, almost to himself.

"Hey, while you're deciding, can I keep drinking on your tab?" asked the television, raising his already nearly empty glass.

Alastor was about to respond, but the box-head suddenly frowned in confusion. He stared intently, his bright eyes scanning Alastor's face as if searching for something.

"Speaking of weird things," he said, slowly. "Your voice. It sounds very familiar."

Alastor went very still.

"Really?" he asked, and his voice came out in its natural tone, without affectations.

"Yeah," the television nodded, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "I've heard it before. Somewhere. I don't know where, but... I know it."

Alastor felt a surge of something hot in his chest. Recognition. Glory. It had been a long time since anyone recognized his voice without him having to make it known.

His smile widened to show all his teeth.

"Really, dear listener?" he said, and this time he let his voice distort, let the radio filter slide over his words like static over a frequency. "And where might that be?"

The television went still.

His eyes opened too wide. His mouth fell open in surprise. And his antennas emitted such a strong electrical discharge that the bar lights flickered for a second.

He slammed the bar with both hands, the empty glass wobbling.

"You're Alastor!" he exclaimed, and his voice was a strangled shout of pure emotion, of recognition. "You're the Radio Demon! You're... you're..."

He stopped.

His screen flickered rapidly, cycling through every emotion at the speed of light: recognition, surprise, fascination, fascination, and then...

Oh.

That last expression was unmistakable. Alastor had seen it a thousand times on the faces of demons who had just realized exactly who they were talking to.

But this was different.

The television's eyes showed no fear. They showed awe. An almost childlike gleam, as if someone had just told him Santa Claus existed and was sitting next to him.

"I gave a bill to him," he murmured, his voice reduced to a thread of disbelief. "I gave a bill to the Radio Demon."

He paused.

"Shit."

Alastor laughed.

It wasn't a polite laugh. It wasn't his radio laugh. It was a genuine, open guffaw that shook his shoulders and curved his back. Several bar patrons turned their heads, startled, and looked away again with the speed of those who have seen too much.

"You're not screaming," Alastor observed when he could speak, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. "Or begging for your life. That's new."

The television blinked.

"Should I be?" he asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested the question was genuine, not rhetorical. "Because if you're going to kill me, I don't think screaming will help. And apologizing... I don't know, I think we're even about the bill thing."

Alastor looked at him for a long moment.

Then, without taking his eyes off the television, he raised a hand to Squeaky.

"Another drink for me," he said. "And another for my esteemed..."

He paused, looking at the television in invitation. A silent question.

The television understood, extended a hand toward Alastor, and showed a smile that was far too excited.

"Vincent," he said. "I'm Vincent."

Alastor took his hand. Squeezed it firmly, his smile wide and affable and suddenly a little less fake than usual.

"Vincent," he repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. "Not bad for a picture box."

"Just Vincent," Vincent corrected, retrieving his full glass. "Or if you prefer to call me screen, 'picture box' makes me sound like an old appliance."

"But you are one," said Alastor, with feigned innocence.

Vincent looked at him.

"You know," he said, raising his glass. "For someone everyone's afraid of, you're pretty funny."

Alastor clinked his glass against Vincent's. The chime of crystal echoed through the bar.

"Don't tell anyone," he replied, and his smile was a sharp knife. "I have a reputation to maintain."

Vincent laughed, and Alastor found he didn't dislike the sound.

-----

This wasn't how Alastor had expected the night to go.

He had entered that bar with a single goal: to drink until the world became blurry and Rosie was just a name on the edge of his consciousness. He had planned to sit alone on his stool, empty bottle after bottle in silence, and maybe—maybe—tear the limbs off some customer who looked at him wrong.

He hadn't planned on this.

He hadn't planned on laughing.

He hadn't planned on having a good time.

Because Alastor didn't have a good time. Not in the normal sense of the word. His thing was the spectacle, the hunt, the crunch of bones beneath his feet. Fun for him was synonymous with control. With power. With seeing fear in the eyes of others.

But Vincent...

Vincent was pathetic.

Pathetic in a way that was endearing.

They were already more than six drinks in. Alastor had lost count after the fourth, but Vincent... Vincent was drunk. Very drunk. His eyes blinked slower than normal, his antennas emitted random sparks every few minutes, and his words came out slightly slurred, as if his internal processor was having trouble keeping up with his mouth.

But he wouldn't stop talking.

"...and then the guy says to me, 'You think you can come into my territory and rob me?' and I say to him, 'Territory? This is an alley with a dumpster, not a mansion,'" Vincent gestured with his glass, nearly spilling its contents. "And he got furious. Like I'd insulted his mother. And I just wanted to pass through, you know? I didn't want trouble. But no, the idiot pulled out a knife and..."

Alastor rested his cheek on his hand, listening with half an ear. It wasn't that he cared about the story—which was probably boring and poorly told—but the way Vincent told it... the exaggerated expressions, the way his eyebrows rose and furrowed as if he were an actor on a stage, his hands gesturing too much.

It was entertaining.

"...so it's not the first time I've had an antenna bent," Vincent concluded, pointing to the left antenna that still tilted at an odd angle. "But I smashed his face against his goddamn dumpster, so it's fine."

"Mmm," Alastor hummed, without real interest.

"But you," Vincent spun on his stool so fast he almost fell, catching himself on the bar at the last moment. "You are something else. I've never seen anything like it. The tentacles, the bite, the way you didn't even flinch. It was... it was..."

He searched for the word, his face becoming thoughtful for a moment.

"Incredible," he finished, and his eyes shone.

It wasn't the first time he'd said it. He'd been complimenting Alastor all night. And at first, Alastor had assumed it was flattery. Because most demons licked his boots when they found out who he was. But Vincent... Vincent didn't want anything from him. Or so it seemed.

He hadn't asked for money. He hadn't asked for protection. He hadn't asked for a favor.

He just talked. And talked. And his eyes genuinely shone.

"Finding your radio station," Vincent said, and his voice grew softer, more genuine, "was one of the best things that happened to me when I got to Hell."

Alastor blinked.

"Really?"

"Really," Vincent nodded, and showed a warm, almost nostalgic smile. "I got here with nothing. Knowing nothing. And one night, I was tuning an old radio I found in the trash, and suddenly... your voice. Static, laughter, music. It was like someone had turned on a light in the darkness."

Alastor felt something strange in his chest. He didn't identify it immediately.

"You know," Vincent continued, playing with his empty glass, "your face is very different from how I imagined it."

Curiosity piqued Alastor. He straightened slightly on his stool.

"Different?" he asked, and his voice had an edge of genuine interest. "In what way?"

Vincent frowned, thoughtful.

"I don't know. I imagined you... older. More... demonic? With horns, maybe. Or a more monstrous face. But you..."

He looked at him. Really looked at him. His eyes traveled across Alastor's face with a slowness that made the radio demon feel something he hadn't experienced in decades: discomfort.

No. Not discomfort. Anticipation.

"Disappointed?" Alastor asked, and his smile was a hook. "Are you disappointed to finally meet me, dear listener?"

Vincent shook his head so vehemently that his antennas traced circles in the air. He lost his balance, nearly falling off the stool, and Alastor had to extend an arm to steady him.

"No!" Vincent exclaimed, grabbing Alastor's forearm without thinking. "No, no, no. Not at all. You're..."

He leaned forward.

Too close.

Their faces were inches apart. Alastor could see the individual pixels on Vincent's screen, the slight flicker of his brightness, the way his eyes reflected the dim bar light.

"You're much taller than I imagined," Vincent murmured, his voice reduced to a soft whisper. "And your face is..."

He paused. His eyes moved across Alastor's face—eyebrows, nose, lips. Something in his expression changed, growing softer. More intimate.

Something the alcohol had unlocked.

"I've never found another man's face beautiful before," he said, his voice barely a thread. "Until now."

The entire bar seemed to fall silent.

Alastor felt his smile freeze on his face. And then, slowly, amusement bubbled up in his chest.

Beautiful.

No one had called him beautiful since he was alive. And certainly no demon in Hell had dared.

Vincent pulled back as quickly as he had leaned in, as if suddenly aware of what he'd just done. His screen flickered rapidly. It lit up with a...

Blush?

Alastor didn't know a television could blush. But Vincent's screen took on a faint hue, barely perceptible, and his eyes darted in any direction that wasn't Alastor.

"Did you imagine me often?" Alastor asked, and his voice was pure honey. Pure amusement.

Vincent nodded without thinking, playing with his empty glass, his fingers tracing circles on the rim.

"On our nights..." he said, and stopped.

Alastor went very still.

"Our nights?" he repeated, slowly, savoring each syllable.

Vincent's blush intensified until it covered almost his entire face. His screen flickered three times in a row, and he shook his head with a nervous laugh.

"No, I didn't mean it like that!" he exclaimed, gesturing with his hands as if he could erase his words from the air. "I meant when I listen to your station. At night. In my bed."

He paused.

"But not doing anything weird!" he added quickly, his voice rising in pitch. "I just listen. And fall asleep. And sometimes I dream about... about..."

He stopped explaining.

Alastor began to laugh.

It wasn't a polite laugh. It wasn't his radio laugh. It was an open, genuine guffaw that shook his shoulders and curved his back over the bar. Several patrons turned their heads, startled, and looked away again with the speed of those who know better than to ask.

Vincent made a sound of frustration—something between a growl and a whimper—and pressed his screen against the bar's surface.

"Just kill me already," he murmured, his voice muffled by the wood. "Please. End my suffering. I have a little dignity left and I'd like to keep it in front of you."

Alastor wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling under his breath.

"Not tonight, darling," he said, and the word left his mouth with a naturalness that surprised even him. "You make me laugh too much. It would be a shame to waste such a... unique source of entertainment."

Vincent turned his head slightly, showing a single eye.

"I'm beginning to suspect," he said, his voice still muffled by the bar, "that you're laughing at me and not with me."

Alastor neither confirmed nor denied. He simply smiled, widely, and raised his glass in a silent toast.

Vincent let out a theatrical sigh and straightened up, reaching for his drink with his hand. His fingers brushed the glass and brought it to his lips, drinking the rest in one gulp.

When he lowered the glass, he had a small, shy smile on his screen.

---------

The bar had almost completely emptied. Only the two of them remained, along with a couple of drunks at a table in the back taking turns snoring, and Squeaky cleaning the same glasses over and over behind the bar. The hour was untimely, that dead zone between midnight and dawn where Hell seemed to hold its breath.

Alastor had lost track of time. It wasn't something that happened to him often, because he was always aware of every minute, every second, every opportunity to exert his power. But Vincent had a way of talking that enveloped him, that dragged him into conversational currents he didn't know existed.

Vincent laughed, naturally, and rested his elbows on the bar, letting his screen tilt backward. His eyes looked up at the ceiling, where a neon lamp flickered with a hypnotic rhythm.

"You know what's weird, Al?"

Alastor blinked.

Al.

No one called him Al. No one. Not even Mimzy, who had known him since they were both alive, had dared to shorten his name. Rosie, with all her authority over his soul, still called him Alastor or dear, always with a calculated distance, an implicit reminder that, although they shared tea and smiles, she was still his owner.

But Vincent...

Vincent didn't even notice his pause. His eyes were still looking at the ceiling, completely unaware that he had just crossed a line no one else had crossed.

"It's weird," he continued, without waiting for a response. "The alley. When we saw each other."

Alastor blinked again, refocusing. "The alley?"

"It was 11:11," Vincent said, and his voice had a dreamy, liquid tone, of a happy drunk. "I looked at the clock on the streetlamp right before you showed up. 11:11. You know what that means?"

"That you need your own clock?"

Vincent laughed, swatting the air in Alastor's direction. "No. 11:11 is a wish number. Supposedly, if you see it, you can make a wish and it'll come true."

"Darling, we're in Hell. Wishes don't—"

"And now," Vincent interrupted him, straightening up with a movement that required visible effort, "it's 1:01."

He pointed to the clock behind the bar. Alastor turned his head. The clock—an old piece of junk with Roman numerals and brass hands—read exactly 1:01 in the morning.

"You see?" Vincent said, and his smile was wide, confident, stupid in the best possible way. "11:11 and 1:01. Mirrors. Repetitions. The universe trying to tell us something."

Alastor looked at him for a long moment.

"And what is the universe trying to tell us, Dear?"

Vincent leaned toward him, barely swaying. His face was so close that Alastor could see his own reflection in the glass.

"That this is destiny," he murmured, and his breath smelled of whiskey. "That we were meant to meet. That all those nights I spent listening to your radio, all those times I imagined what it would be like to know you... everything led me to this moment. To this bar. To this conversation."

He paused, and his smile turned shy.

"Or maybe I'm just drunk and saying stupid things."

Alastor didn't respond immediately.

He stayed there, looking at this pathetic and endearing television who had called him Al, who had talked about destiny as if he were a character from a cheap romance novel, who had looked at him as if he were special.

No one looked at him like that.

No one had looked at him like that since he was alive.

"Vincent," he finally said, and his voice was softer than he intended.

"Yes?"

"You're very drunk."

"Yes," Vincent admitted, and his screen showed a grimace of agreement. "I am."

"Tomorrow you won't remember any of this conversation."

Vincent frowned, thoughtful. "I don't like that... I want to remember this, Al."

Alastor nodded slowly. Then, without knowing why, he reached out a hand and touched one of Vincent's antennas, twirling it between his fingers.

"Then," Alastor said, and his smile was different now. Less sharp, and softer. "Tell me everything again. So I can remember it for you."

Vincent looked at him with bright eyes.

"11:11," Vincent whispered, tilting his head closer to him. "And 1:01. Mirrors. Repetitions."

His smile was a beacon in the dimness.

"Destiny."

Alastor laughed softly, finally releasing his antenna.

"That's something pathetic, dear... I'll definitely remember it for you," he said, but he sounded almost... affectionate.

And Vincent smiled proudly, reaching for his drink once more.

----------

The clock read 1:30 when Alastor decided it was time to go.

The bar usually closed at one. Squeaky had been performing evasive maneuvers behind the counter for the last thirty minutes—cleaning the same pitcher, rearranging bottles that were already in order, glancing at the clock with desperate eyes—but he hadn't dared ask them to leave. Because, well. It was Alastor.

But even the Radio Demon had limits of politeness, and they had already abused the poor bartender's patience more than was reasonable.

Besides, Vincent seemed to be falling asleep.

He was lying on his own crossed arms on the bar, his screen tilted to one side, his eyelids heavy and half-closed. Every few seconds, his body twitched slightly, as if he were fighting sleep and losing spectacularly.

Alastor watched him for a moment.

Pathetic.

The word came to his mind with affection, not contempt.

"Vincent," he said, raising his voice just enough. "It's time to go."

The television didn't respond. Just an unintelligible murmur, something that might have been "five more minutes" or "let me die here."

Alastor considered his options. He could leave him there. Squeaky would take care of kicking him out when he finally closed, or just let him sleep on the bar until the next morning. It wasn't his problem.

But...

He could be generous.

Once in a while.

He took his cane and stood up, the stool scraping against the wooden floor. The sound seemed to penetrate Vincent's alcoholic haze, because his eyes slowly opened, blinking several times as his screen refocused.

He looked at him.

And Alastor found himself trapped in that gaze.

Vincent's eyes were bright. Not just from the alcohol, though that had something to do with it. But also with something else. An inner gleam, a light that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his screen.

"Al," Vincent said, his voice thick, low, heavy with sleep and whiskey. "I have a question."

There it is.

Alastor felt a slight tug in his chest. A small, sharp disappointment. Because this was what always happened, wasn't it? People were kind, they were funny, they were interesting, until they wanted something. Until the mask fell and the outstretched hand appeared, the request disguised as conversation, the favor wrapped in laughter. Protection, power, a favor.

He prepared to deny whatever it was. To smile widely while saying no, darling, I'm not going to give you anything, to have to rip his heart from his chest and watch the light go out in Vincent's eyes.

"Al," Vincent repeated, and sat up slowly, his movements clumsy, his hands searching for support on the bar. "Have you ever kissed any of your fans?"

Alastor blinked.

What?

His brain, always so quick, so sharp, stumbled over the question as if it were a rock in the middle of the road. It went blank. A full second of absolute silence while he processed.

No one had ever asked him that.

"What?" he managed to articulate, and his voice sounded oddly flat.

"Kissed," Vincent repeated, as if the word were perfectly normal, as if asking the Radio Demon about his kissing habits were an everyday conversation. "Your fans. Have you ever?"

Alastor blinked again. Then a third time. His smile had frozen on his face in a grimace that he didn't know was surprise or disbelief.

"I never let them," he finally answered, and his voice regained some of its usual cadence, though slower, more cautious. "And no one has asked politely enough to consider it."

It was the closest he came to saying no, never, and why the hell would you want to know that.

But Vincent didn't seem to notice how reckless the question was. Or maybe he did, and simply didn't care.

Because he straightened up.

With a movement that required enormous effort given his state, he stood upright on the stool, his hands braced on the bar to keep from falling, and his eyes lit up as if Alastor had just told him he had a treasure hidden in some basement.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

Direct. Too simple. Too stupid.

Alastor laughed.

It wasn't a laugh of genuine amusement, but of disbelief. A laugh that said this can't be real, this guy can't be real.

"Darling," he said, and his voice was almost condescending, almost tender. "You don't know what you're saying. You're drunk."

You'll forget it tomorrow, he was going to add. Go home and sleep and wake up hungover and remember this with shame.

But Vincent looked at him with an expression that wasn't that of a drunk.

It was that of a supplicant.

"Please," he said, and his voice was so soft, so small, so pathetic that Alastor felt something twist in his chest. "Please, Al. Just one."

One.

One syllable. One tiny word that carried the weight of something enormous.

Alastor looked at him. Really looked at him. The way the corners of Vincent's mouth curved downward, the way his fingers trembled slightly on the wood, the way his eyes shone with something that wasn't just alcohol.

It wasn't flattery. It wasn't a disguised favor. It wasn't a strategy to gain something.

It was just... desire.

And Alastor, who had seen a thousand demons kneel before him, who had heard a thousand pleas for power and money and protection, had never seen anyone ask for that.

No one had ever asked him for that. Not on the first day of meeting him.

His smile changed. Became slower. More deliberate. More dangerous.

"If you dare," he said, and his voice was a purr, a low frequency that vibrated in the air. "Go ahead, darling."

He didn't finish speaking.

Vincent moved with a speed Alastor didn't think possible in someone so drunk. Their bodies collided—or rather, Vincent collided with him, his chest against Alastor's, his hands finding his neck, cold and trembling fingers tangling in his hair—and then his lips were pressed against Alastor's.

Sweet.

That was the first thought that crossed Alastor's mind. His lips tasted sweet.

Warm and soft and slightly damp from whiskey, and they smelled of something Alastor couldn't quite identify. Electricity, perhaps, mixed with the alcohol. It wasn't a bad smell.

His hands moved by instinct. One found Vincent's hip, narrow and bony, it fit perfectly in his palm—and stayed there, frozen between pushing him away or pulling him closer.

He didn't know which option he wanted to choose.

He didn't know anything.

Because Vincent's lips moved against his own, just a brush, just a sigh, and Alastor felt the world around him dissolve. The bar. Squeaky. The music that had stopped in the background. Everything faded, replaced by the sensation of that mouth on his, those fingers on his neck, that hip beneath his hand.

Fuck.

But Vincent pulled away on his own.

It was fast. A brusque, almost clumsy movement that made him stagger backward. His eyes were closed, and when he opened them, a huge, silly smile occupied his screen.

A smile of a happy drunk. Of someone who had just done something they'd wanted to do for a long time and couldn't believe it had worked.

"Goodbye, Al," he murmured, taking a step toward the door, then another, his legs barely responding. "If destiny brings us together again... I'm buying the drinks next time."

He turned gently and pushed the bar door open. The Pentagram night swallowed him, neon and shadows, and Alastor stood there, by the empty bar, his hand still raised in the air where it had held Vincent's hip.

He blinked repeatedly in disbelief.

And then a laugh burst from his lips.

It was a genuine, open laugh that shook his shoulders and curved his back. Squeaky watched him in horror from behind the bar, convinced the radio demon had finally lost his mind, but Alastor couldn't stop.

Destiny.

Maybe Vincent hadn't been so wrong.

What were the chances. What ridiculous, absurd chances were there that, on his worst night, he had stumbled upon a pathetic and endearing picture box who had called him a homeless man, who had given him a handout, who had kissed him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

What were the chances that television had shaken his entire world.

Alastor stopped laughing, but his smile remained. Wide. Hungry.

Oh, destiny would bring them together again, of course.

Alastor would make sure of that.

He took his cane, left money on the bar to cover the drinks and for the inconvenience of staying after closing, and walked toward the door.

The night awaited him.

And somewhere, in some corner of Pentagram, a drunk television was staggering home with a silly smile on his screen.

Alastor was going to find that television.

Not that night. Maybe not that week.

But he would find him.