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When Vox makes his Deal with Alastor, he doesn't stop to negotiate the terms, doesn't draw up a physical contract that clearly outlines the terms of the agreement. No, he just seizes the hand that's offered before Alastor can pull it back.
He may come to regret that.
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Vox disappears after the battle.
Alastor goes looking.
He finds what’s left.
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In 1933 Alastor manages to summon a demon with a rectangular, glowing head who keeps staring at him like he can't decide between tearing him apart and worshipping him at his feet.
Meanwhile, Vox just blew up himself and the entire universe and suddenly stands before a second chance. He simply has no idea what that second chance entails.
In other words: The demon Vox and human Alastor time travel roadtrip fic that spiralled and suddenly gained a plot
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“Now, with that out of the way, it’s time for you to rest, pet.”
“If you’re expecting me to succumb to exhaustion, you will be waiting an eternity. Not even a bullet to the skull can put me down at this point.”
Lilith smirked. “You will sleep for as long as your body and your mind require.”
Oh, dear. That was a command.
Or: Alastor's seven year absence was spent catching up on desperately-needed sleep. It fixes a few things.
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When he grabs Vox again, Vox doesn't come easy—he lashes out blindly with claws and rakes them across Val's cheek, opening a thin gash, and Val grunts as he seizes both of Vox's wrists with his two lower hands and takes hold of Vox's shoulders with his upper ones. Sparks prickle against his skin, sharp and biting, but Vox isn't trying to electrocute him—he's just vibrating like one large livewire, overloading just like the machine beside them.
"No—no, don't fucking—you can't—"
Vox struggles, jerking against Val's grip, breath coming in desperate, labored gasps. Val doesn't let go. Because that was never really the question, was it?
There is no world in which Val lets him go.
Or: Valentino handles Vox's crashout a little differently.