a stupid force of habit

by sapphic_sapphire_gem

Summary:

in which vox makes his proposal, and will not accept “no” as an answer

or:
seventy years ago, vox decided the time wasn’t right to make his proposal. he had to earn alastor’s trust – his respect – first. now, he knows the time is right. it has to be right. he can’t have waited seventy years for nothing. he won't have waited seventy years for nothing. alastor was meant to be his, even if the radio demon can’t see it for himself.

credit to queryo becuase they are my proofreader (everyone say "hi, queryo!")

Notes:

please let me know your thoughts!! i love interacting with my readers :3

this was written before i watched episodes 7 & 8 (and is still being written before i have watched episodes 7 & 8)

in this timeline, pretty much everything is the same except that vox didn't offer a partnership, instead cultivating their relationship

set after season one, not too far into season two (because things get messy writing-wise)

Chapter 1: Once

“I mean, just think of what could happen if you joined us!” Alastor rolled his eyes, smile remaining in place.

 

“This again, Vox?” he inquired, allowing irritation to seep into his voice. “I work much better alone. It wouldn’t be very fitting of the Radio Demon to suddenly rebrand as… What was your suggestion? ‘Venison?’” He scoffed. Besides the name itself being incredibly derogatory (Really? A deer slaughtered to be eaten? It was insulting to his image), it was simply ridiculous. 

 

The TV Demon rolled his eyes in response. “Al, you would get along so well with the rest of the team! And we could have an even stronger grip on the media- so many demons and overlords still tune into your broadcasts, as fucking old as they may be. And if Val and Vel are the problem, I wouldn’t mind if it was just us-” He cut himself off prematurely, an emotion that Alastor couldn’t place flickering across his screen.

 

“As the face of the brand, I mean.” He took his mistake in stride, gliding past it as if he hadn’t said anything out of place. As if Alastor was unaware of his clear underlying motives.

 

“You cannot expect to take on heaven and win,” He countered, ignoring the other demon’s previous statements. He untied his tie, coat already hung lazily off a chair – staff next to it in the presence of close company – and winced as he unbuttoned his shirt to remind Vox of what could – would – happen. 

 

The TV Demon crossed the room swiftly, eyes hungrily, longingly gazing at Alastor’s chest. He did his best to hide his discomfort as the other demon’s hand was raised mere inches away from his chest. Vincent was the only one he allowed himself this vulnerability with, despite knowing it didn’t help either of them. Alastor could never feel the way for Vincent as he did for the Radio Demon.

 

“I could have helped,” He murmured. He slowly placed his hand on Alastor’s chest, the latter flinching ever so slightly at the action. Whether Vox noticed or not, his hand didn’t move. Alastor cleared his throat, moving Vox’s hand off his chest. It fell limply to his side.

 

“Yes, well, what’s done is done. The only thing that matters now is we move forward!” He looked down, buttoning up his shirt, and, retying his tie, made one of those off-handed comments about the time.

 

No response.

 

He looked up and almost yelped with surprise. Vox’s screen was several inches closer than before. Alastor took a step back, and the TV Demon matched his movement. Alastor’s ears twitched, his smile growing tighter.

 

“Vox, I think it’s past time you’ve left.” He declared curtly. He simply hummed in response.

 

“What, is Charlie really against me staying here, Al?” He leered at the Radio Demon. 

 

“I believe you’ve gotten too comfortable with me, Vincent.” He responded icily, exuding confidence to mask his fear. “Don’t think that our… allyship awards you safety from my wrath. Do not invoke it.” He added, static masking the slight tremble to his voice. You are the most powerful sinner in hell, he reminded himself. Else this godforsaken deal with Rosie would be over- he snapped himself out of his thoughts as The TV Demon gripped his wrist.

 

Alastor snarled, trying to tug his wrist free of the other demon’s iron grip.

 

“Oh lighten up, Al.” He rolled his eyes, grip tightening further. Alastor regretted leaving his staff across the room. He had let his guard down. The first lesson he had ever learned in Hell was to never let his guard down. He knew the demon was strong. He knew of Vincent’s feelings. Why had he allowed himself to let his guard down? He cursed internally.

 

“Vox, I’m tired of these games.” He cocked his head, allowing his words to come lazily. “Do you really think that after seventy years I would join your little posse? Please. Your desperate attempts to keep in my good graces are wearing my patience thin, and they’re honestly pathetic.” Vox’s grip loosened slightly, eyes widening in an almost imperceptible manner. The years they had spent close made Vincent an open book; easily read once the exterior was cracked open. He prayed said ally couldn’t read him as clearly.

 

“I’ll ask you once more, Vox: LEAVE.” He demanded, forcing as much static into his voice as would allow him to be still understood.

 

Vox's face flashed with fury, a disgustingly sharp and uncharacteristic look for the demon who always appeared in control. He dug his claws into Alastor’s wrist once more before letting go, drawing blood.

 

“Of course, Alastor. I was simply-” He drew a handkerchief from his suit pocket, releasing Alastor’s minute drops of blood onto the white cloth. Pinpricks of red developed and bloomed, ruining the white fabric.  “Ensuring you understood my deal before you rejected it.” His voice was sharp, yet silky and dark. A needle buried in a stack of velvet. Dangerous and saccharine; the voice of a cult leader.

 

“We should do this again sometime, Alastor,” He proposed offhandedly, acting as if what had just happened hadn’t. He raised his eyes to meet Alastor’s. A dangerous dance of deceit, neither willing to let the other take the lead for too long. “Is this what our allyship has come to? Are we no longer able to have a genuine conversation without this “Vees” nonsense?” Neither demon stated what they were both thinking – this tenuous relationship couldn’t continue unless one of them relented. 

 

“Perhaps. Although Charlie has quite the month prepared for the Hotel, which I unfortunately must assist with. I’ll have to peruse my schedule.” Neither demon broke eye contact. Vox sighed in response. 

 

“Always something with this damn hotel,” It was less an inquiry, more of a statement. “Well, the Tower’s doors are always open to… allies.” He finished, a spark of what Alastor could only describe as malice flashing in his eyes.

 

With that, he turned and left Alastor’s room. A handful of minutes later the hairs on Alastor’s neck crackled with static, and he knew Vox was truly gone.

 

Finally, he allowed himself a deep breath, plopping himself down on his bed and burying his head in his hands, tearing at his hair.

 

Shit.

Chapter 2: Twice

Summary:

"It can’t end like this. It won’t end like this."

vox will not accept defeat.

Notes:

thank you again to queryo for helping me edit this chapter!

He paced his office. Once, twice, three times. One step, five, ten. Again. Replay the scene. Pause at his table. Tap each finger twice, left to right, right to left. 

 

“FUCK!” He exclaimed. He slammed his fist into his desk, his coffee jumping out of its mug. All this time I fucking waited for you. And you spit in my face. He growled, expression twisting in fury as he released a feral scream, sweeping papers off of his desk in one fluid motion. His mug teetered, dangerously close to toppling over the edge, to shattering into countless pieces. He mindlessly used a cord to push it into a safe position on his desk.

 

Walking over to the opposite side of his desk, he plopped himself into his plush chair with a heavy sigh. He grabbed a pen, pressed the call button for an intern to grab him a drink, and pinched his “nose” with one hand (a stupid force of habit from when he was alive that he could never get rid of), clicking the pen with his other. His thoughts kept flickering between thinly veiled rage and Alastor’s blatant, ungrateful rejection to join the Vees – Alastor’s rejection of him.

 

It didn’t matter that Vox was surely more powerful than the Radio Demon after his seven-year absence. Which Vox had been kind enough to avoid bringing up. He had been patient and caring and had waited for so goddamn long for Alastor. Perhaps he would have been more successful if he had asked all those years ago… he sighed again, sharply inhaling when the intern knocked timidly at the door. 

 

“Come in.” He barked, relishing in the intern’s reactive fear. The electricity of its nerves jumped to Vox, the energy calling to him like always.

 

“Y-y-your drink, s-sir. It- Y-you asked for a S-S-Sazerac?” It managed to stutter, the words tumbling clumsily from the poor thing’s mouth as it offered the drink up, cowed. He grunted in acknowledgement before grabbing the drink with his cords and waving the intern off.

 

He drank the drink slowly, savoring its taste. The way the ice clinked against the glass, then his teeth. He swirled it, once, twice, three times, admiring its amber hue. Took another sip. Swirled it. Once, twice, three times. Sip. One, two, three. Over and over; a familiar pattern. Once his cup was empty, he allowed himself to brainstorm. He had tried thinking like Alastor, and all that got him was the shitshow that was today. He could still feel the Radio Demon’s wrist in his grasp, rolled up sleeves exposing his lightly furred skin. 

 

It can’t end like this. It won’t end like this. He fumed, picking up the pen to click it once more. It did little to soothe the anger boiling in his veins. The lights flickered, sparks flying as his concentration and exasperation mounted. Click. Think. Click. Think. Click. Frustrated, he stood, pacing before his desk once more. 

 

Suddenly stopping, he slammed his fists into his desk, punching it with a rage he couldn’t try to contain if he wanted to. Once, twice, three times. Once, twice, three times. Once. Twice. Three times. His mug shattered onto the floor, pieces scattering and fragmenting until a white powder blanketed the ground.

 

He froze, a slow smile crossing his face. An idea began to form, puzzle pieces clicking together with each tap of the pen. Before he could allow himself to mull it over, he was gone.

Vox stood before the Hotel again. It loomed before him in all its remodeled “glory” – the charm Alastor had brought to it nearly gone in place of that useless “King of Hell’s touch.” The audacity of that angelic man was enough to make him scoff. If anything, Vox was much closer to the title “King of Hell” than that absent father to millions, billions of sinners. Smoothing his silken suit, he plastered a pleasant, calm expression across his face and commenced his typical winning charm. He knocked, once, twice, three times. 

 

Perfection. He was a Vee. Vees are the paragon of perfection. He checked his pockets. Double-checked, ensuring the bottle and handkerchief were still in his possession.

 

The door opened. Fucking finally, he griped. It was the short one with long gray hair. An ex-exorcist, if he remembered correctly. He didn’t care to recall her name. 

 

“Vox?” She inquired, confused and attempting to hide her irritation. “Alastor doesn’t- Charlie’s said that you-”

 

His smile still present, he activated his “charm.”

 

"Don't you want to bring me to Alastor's room?" He interrupted. She nodded dumbly, succumbing swiftly. "Good," he purred. "Now, you are not to allow anyone else into his room until after I have left. And-" He paused, raising a finger and ensuring that the fallen angel was still looking, "-You will tell no one of this interaction. His commands flowed, spewing silkily and sweetly in succession. She nodded her disassociated confirmation, and he tilted his head in satisfaction. 

 

"Lead the way," He suggested. She obliged.

 

From experience, he had learned that the only indication others could see of his hypnosis was the dream-like state of the hypnotized. It was quite convenient, and made his mission much easier.

 

He followed her up the winding stairs and down a few hallways, making note of the directions. Just in case. 

 

Suddenly, she stopped, turned around, and began her return to, presumably, the entrance. An idea immediately fell upon him.

 

“Wait.” She stopped. “Bring me your spear,” he demanded, and she went off to do so.

 

Smiling with satisfaction, he knocked on the door. Once, twice, and a third time.

Vox returned to the Vee Tower barely an hour later, a strange combination of rage and victory simmering in his veins. He was so close to finally fucking WINNING. He just needed to have patience. He grabbed the vial from his pocket, satisfied to see the amount of blood he was able to capture. His handkerchief held a non-insignificant amount of blood as well. This should be more than enough, he considered absentmindedly.

 

With his other hand, he admired the staff he had managed to wrestle from Alastor, as well as the surprisingly similar-shaped spear from little miss ex-exorcist. What he would do with them, he had no idea. Yet. But at the very least it meant the Radio Demon had a little less power to fight back with. And Vox had two more weapons in his arsenal. This little spat really had proven useful. 

 

A storm is coming for you, Alastor. And I, for one, can’t wait for you to be served to me on a silver platter.

Notes:

chapter three is currently, as i am writing this note, sitting at a comfortable 4304 words. and i am kind of almost done. so. she's gonna be a beefy one but it's because she's great, trust. she's also the chapter with the most (serious) editing. i'm trying to make chapter three a masterpiece for the ages. hoping to have her posted by monday but god knows how likely that is (sobs).

Chapter 3: Three Times

Notes:

heyyyy so. this ended up being 14 pages in my google doc. it just kinda happened

long chapter (at least compared to the other stuff i write lmao)

also i've learned i have an affinity for threes

Alastor was royally fucked. Unless he could get his staff back or heal his wound or find some way to exit his godforsaken deal with Rosie, he could only sit and wait for whatever Vox had planned. Dread hung overhead, growing heavier and heavier with each passing day.

 

“You won’t have a prayer.” Vox advanced, Alastor’s staff and a handful of inches the only things between the two. Alastor’s body entered fight or flight, ears flat against his head. He had been able to get away from the opposing demon, but their clash left him feeling weaker than before. The TV Demon reached forward, sharp claws glinting with blood and their standard smug cyan shine, causing Alastor to tense at the movement. The former chuckled darkly, eyes tracing the blood flowing freely from the latter. Alastor failed to suppress a shudder, his body spasming and causing him to cough, spitting blood onto the ground. Fuck.

 

Vox grabbed his face, and-

 

Alastor gasped, forcing himself out of the memory. Shit. How could he try to defend himself from Vox when he couldn’t discern past from present? 

 

He had pressed himself against his wall, shrinking from the Vox that wasn’t there. Not anymore. How had he even gotten past the entryway? Charlie had banned the demon from entering (partly on Alastor’s behalf), although Alastor wasn’t sure how far Vox’s hypnotic abilities extended.

 

Three knocks on his door. If it was Charlie, it would have been more. The rhythm was Vincent’s. Strange, given the demon had been temporarily banned from the hotel mere hours earlier. Unless his characteristic charm had brought him to Charlie’s good side, it was unlikely he was truly here. Still, Alastor refused to let his guard down. Especially considering their earlier… interaction.

 

Quickly, he strode across the room and grabbed his staff. 

 

“Come on in!” He invited, tone light despite his hackles raising. His suspicions – he refused to call them fears – were confirmed when blue-tipped claws curled around the door as it creaked open.

 

Taking a step from the door, he growled, eyes narrowing. 

 

“Vox. What a… pleasant surprise. Although, I thought we had both agreed that we were far too busy to enjoy each other’s company-”

“I think you have a moment.” Vox interrupted, waving off Alastor’s excuses. Alastor’s ears flicked in irritation, hackles still raised. Think, Alastor. The opposing demon took a slow step forward.

 

“Well, I suppose I should use the afternoon to rest, then, hm?” Alastor countered, taking a minute step back. 

 

Alastor swallowed, blinking back into the present. His breathing was unsteady, his hands trembling. Pull yourself together, Alastor. He tried to shake the memory off, but the memory of hands reaching for him, of a body against his own, stuck to him. Bile rose in his throat, but he refused to release it. 

 

Forcing his thoughts down, he plopped himself down on his bed. After Vox had left, Alastor informed Charlie of his desire to be left alone for the next week. He would have time to rest and recover from this- this- incident. 

 

You are the most powerful sinner in Hell, Alastor. Others shake at the thought of you. Act like the Overlord you are. A sound part growl, part whine, not unlike that of an indignant door hinge, escaped him as he tugged at his hair.

 

Vox’s hungry claws in his hair, drawing blood. Both panting for air, Vox regaining his breath first and diving back into Alastor’s mouth, Alastor’s vision going dark, his only thought being that he could not lose consciousness. Vox murmuring something Alastor couldn’t understand. Every move Vox made sending a shiver down Alastor’s spine as he desperately tried to push the former off of himself.

 

Even his own coping mechanisms were stolen by this craven act of selfishness from that goddamn screen. He wanted to attack something, to scream, to get out of his own body and be somewhere else – someone else. And now that Vox had his staff- Alastor suppressed the thought bobbing up his throat, swallowing thickly. Still, it persisted. He moved his hands to his throat-

 

Vox’s bloodthirsty claws dug into Alastor’s neck, although if they were meant to choke him or if Vox was merely being careless, he didn’t know. He only knew that he wanted Vox off. Searching for his staff, eyes wide open in panic, he managed to push the other off. The TV Demon gave an agitated grumble, tearing at Alastor’s shirt. He let out a pained shriek, static rippling through the room. 

 

His wound was torn open, now trickling blood and pus. Vox looked at the gash, a mixture of distaste and triumph crossing his screen. Alastor took the moment to grab his staff, put something between them-

 

Fuck! He beat his forehead with his fist. Get out of my head, Vox, he begged. Even though he knew it was only himself and his thoughts. He had never felt so isolated yet smothered at once.

 

---

 

Weeks passed in a blur. He didn’t care to keep track of the days. The only thing that mattered was their altercation. It never left his mind. Did it take up as much of the other demon’s thoughts? Did it mean anything? Was he biding his time, waiting until he saw fit to strike? The thought made Alastor shudder. Thoughts, memories, worries plagued him. He detested feeling so weak. He stopped eating. He stopped sleeping, paranoia creating dancing shadows in the corners of his vision. Unfriendly shadows, shadows unlike his own. At night, just when he would start to slip into sleep, he would swear he heard his name or saw a distinct blue claw creeping up to cover his vision. Which was ridiculous. Vox wouldn’t dare come back to the hotel so soon. He would close his eyes, and the threat would disappear. Yet, his paranoia remained, voices whispering in the back of his head in warning, in threat.

 

He abhorred feeling out of control. It was why he loathed his deal with Rosie so. And now, he had another Overlord to fear. Every time he would adjust his suit cuffs-

 

Vox roughly grabbed Alastor’s wrists, pulling them closer. His head swam with the fear of what the TV Demon would do next. The staff between them did nothing to deter Alastor’s audacious attacker from assaulting his wrists. Alastor gritted his teeth as eager blue claws dug into his wrists, drawing blood. Vox appeared delighted at Alastor’s display of near-pain. 

 

He leaned in, screen buzzing loudly, and whispered, “Give in.”

 

Alastor growled, a low, guttural sound, and found the strength to push the other demon off of himself.

 

“Hey Alastor…?” His head whipped around, still panting wildly as his gaze collided with Charlie’s concerned expression. You can’t tell her. “I just wanted to check in on you since you’ve been… well… weird the past few weeks. And-” She continued rambling on in her typical overly positive yet painfully passive pattern. She’d think you’re weak.

 

Charlie had finished her blabbering by now, eyeing him with a concerned yet mildly suspicious look. There are no friends in Hell. He tried to clear his mind. So why did you allow this alliance with Vox to drag on for so long?

 

“Alastor… are you okay?” Vox’s hands sliding down his back, resting a little too easily on his hips. Alastor blinked. He was here. He was present. “You know you can tell me if you need time off from working at the hotel! But just please let me know because then I’ll need to get Vaggie to cover-”

 

“Please, my dear, I am quite well. I’m simply…” He fixed a smile on his face. “Wrestling with my little trophy from our battle against the Exorcists.” Gesturing to his chest vaguely, he wished for his staff. Everything was so much easier when he had something to hold onto – something grounding. 

 

If the Princess noticed anything off, she chose not to remark on it. Instead, she burst into tears and exclaimed her joy that the hotelier was “Really okay, and if you need anything – well, except another deal but you know, that- Anyway- I’m just glad you’re doing okay and please let me know if you need anything! You really are a part of my family in this hotel, and I need everyone to be okay because-” And further ramblings of a stressed, grieving woman.

 

He waved her off, and she exited his room with more than a few apologies and promises to ensure he felt his best. He only relaxed once he heard the click of the door locking.

 

Releasing a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding, the world tilted. He closed his eyes as he braced for impact onto his bed, but the impact never came. Instead, hands gripped his shoulders, cold and metallic. He snapped his eyes open, going rigid at the sickeningly familiar touch. 

 

This isn’t real. He isn’t here, Alastor. You would have felt him- his static. He closed his eyes as one of the hands traveled up his throat, cradling his face. There was no buzzing, as always happened when Vox was near. There was nothing. This was merely a ghost of what Vox had done – what he could have done – nothing more. He wished it was less.

 

The hand vanished. Carefully, he opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, half sprawled on his bed. The opposing wall’s clock read several hours later than it was when Charlie had left. He let out a shaky breath. It was simply a dream. A nightmare. 

 

Alastor decided he would not be sleeping for a while.

 

---

 

He didn’t know how long he was in his room; he only knew how many paces before he sat down, and how long he sat in his armchair before pacing once more. 

 

Once more, his pacing was interrupted by knocking. Three knocks.

 

His veins turned to ice. Another hallucination? Perhaps he was reliving the past once more. Perhaps it was Charlie, coming to check in on him again. Or perhaps- he tensed at the thought- it really was Vox. 

 

If it was Vox, he couldn’t fight back.

 

His stomach dropped in realization. He hadn’t slept well in what very well could have been weeks, if not months. He hadn’t eaten a full meal in at least as long. And while tending to the body wasn’t necessary in Hell, it certainly made fighting easier when he didn’t feel the pull of sleep or the twist of his stomach.

 

Had this been Vox’s plan all along? Make his prey weak and paranoid? And drawing so much blood had seemed very intentional. Yes, blood loss wasn’t a cause of temporary death – and Vox’s fighting style was intense, close, and personal – but he wasn’t usually so careless. Blood left a trail, a scent, something to follow. It was messy. Alastor was the one with an affinity for making his opponents bleed. Impatient static came from behind the door.

 

His door was locked, right? Shit, what if it wasn’t locked?

 

“Alastor, come on. We’re still friends, aren’t we? I understand that my little… proposal may have come out of nowhere, but it’s okay! We can start over!” Alastor crept toward the door, locking it as quietly as he could, wincing when it made a quiet click. “After all, I have some big ideas-” He chuckled, a chilling sound- “for us! Radio and video, together!” A sound like Vox lightly tracing Alastor’s door came from the opposing side. Alastor froze, still directly behind the door. He barely dared to breathe.

 

“Alastor… I don’t want to ask again.” There was a smug grin plastered across the TV’s screen, certainly. While it was likely he didn’t want to “ask again,” it was equally likely he wanted to go through with whatever his Plan B was. As impulsive as Vox was, if he had waited this long to come for Alastor, he most definitely had planned for every possible situation. Alastor quietly backed away from the door. He despised feeling like such a coward.

 

Both sides of the door were quiet for a long stretch of time.

 

“You fucking said no to me,” Vox whispered, disbelief and rage lacing his tone. He let out a sigh, and Alastor imagined he was gaining his composure. His ears twitched in response. He willed them to not show his fear, despite knowing the TV Demon couldn’t see him.

 

“Discarded me as if our relationship meant nothing.” There was something almost wistful in his tone; something that almost made Alastor ache in response to the reminder of their relationship and how it had been all those years ago, before Vox’s filthy feelings had ruined it all. 

 

“I could end your life. I should make you suffer, make you pay–” He cut himself off. Alastor searched his room for anything he could use to defend himself.

 

“But I understand. I think I know why. And I can make sure it isn’t a problem for us anymore – just let me in.” The doorknob jolted with the last word, and Alastor’s smile sharpened in fear. If he managed to get through the door, Alastor still had his teeth. He could- Vox wouldn’t get through the door. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. 

 

The Overlord growled in frustration. 

 

“Anyway, Alastor, like I was saying. I understand why you were worried about joining the Vees. You already have a commitment to this stupid-” He banged on the door. “Godforksaken-” Again. “Fucking- hotel.” A third time, his last few words catching on vexed laughter. Alastor swallowed. Vox’s static grew with his frustration. 

 

“All this sappy ‘redemption’ bullshit is making you forget who your true friend is here. The only one who understands you! The only other Media Overlord in all of Hell-” raspy panting broke his sentence- “But I can set you free. If we destroy these- these- Has-beens then it can be just you and me! Just like old times! Don’t you just-” He forcefully jerked the doorknob- “Miss those days!” His sentences were less questions, more so akin to commands. Which was ridiculous, considering Alastor had always been impervious to- oh.

 

The blood Vox drew.

 

Alastor’s paranoia and lack of sleep.

 

Was Alastor’s mind even his own? He refused to allow it to become someone else’s.

 

I can not let this door open. Filled with a frantic fervor, he flitted across the room, pulling chairs and anything he could scavenge up in front of the door. A cord prodded at the furniture from beneath the door. Alastor stiffened.

 

“You claimed you ‘work alone,’ but this bullshit hotel proves that that’s just a stupid excuse-” He sucked in a breath, and Alastor could picture the static flying between his antennae. 

 

The cord continued writhing, crawling up the door and searching for the doorknob. The knife he always kept beneath his pillow. He dove for his bed, claws scratching at the sheets and pillows. Nothing.

 

Had Vox really been there that night?

 

“It’s fucking pathetic, how different I am around you. But I can’t seem to stay away. It drives me fucking crazy that you’re so close, but you refuse to give in. And that’s just-” That day flickered through Alastor’s mind once again. He wrestled with himself to keep control of his consciousness, his mind, his body, but all he could remember were Vox’s words, Vox’s cords, Vox’s hands, all of them trying to claw their way into his body, his mind, his consciousness. A shudder shot through his soul as if he had been electrocuted. 

 

“Really, Alastor, I think you just need to be freed of these nobodies so you can enjoy your life! I’m the only one who can help you. I just need you to open… the… DOOR!” He roared, working at the doorknob with each break in his sentences. Curses flowed from Vox’s side of the door. Alastor evaluated his options.

 

He could stay in this room, risking Vox doing Satan knows what to him and the rest of the hotel.

 

He could escape through a secret passageway, which would get him out of immediate danger but leave the hotel at risk and put him in the outside world, which he was far from ready to meet once more.

 

He could try to travel using his shadows, but that would leave him in the same state as his previous option (possibly worse, without his staff).

 

Or he could try to fight Vox head-on. He snorted in spite of himself.

 

“Alastor, we were meant for each other,” Vox whispered, his tone that of hope and promise. It was a jarring comparison to his previous statements and the manner in which he said them. 

 

“Please, don’t leave me like this.” “Like this?” Pathetic? Grasping for the shards of a friendship you carelessly toppled over while the broken pieces cut us both? 

 

“God DAMN IT, Alastor!” The TV Demon shouted, slamming his fists against the door and eliciting a flinch from Alastor. By now, his ears were flat against his head, his smile more akin to a cornered, skittish animal baring its teeth than anything. Maybe that was all he had become. He had allowed himself to wither into almost nothingness.

 

“I swear to Satan, I will destroy this shitty hotel brick by brick if it brings you to me, Alastor. We are meant to be together. And if you can’t see just how perfect we could – will – be-” Alastor’s dead, rotting heart stopped its weak beating as the world tilted. Vox chuckled. “Well, I have my ways.”

 

Over my dead body, Alastor scoffed, turning on his heel to pace the room once more. The cords halted, as if watching, waiting. 

 

“We can watch this pathetic, prison-like attempt at hope crash and burn,” he laughed, and Alastor wished he could. This hotel was a prison. A false home his deal had forced him into. Vox’s offer seemed almost tempting. But who knows what else the TV Demon wanted? Alastor refused to enter another deal without knowing the entirety of the terms both parties needed to abide by. 

 

“Alastor, please open the door.” He was almost begging now. Alastor scoffed in disapproval. “Alastor, I said open this goddamn door!” 

 

“I’m going to give you to the count of three to open this fucking door, Al.” His spine stiffened. If he had believed his ears were flat before, they were now practically a part of his mess of a hairdo. He hadn’t bothered to take care of himself for quite a long time, he noted, displeased. His gaze flicked across the room, barely landing on an item or space before moving on, unable to find an out.

 

“One…” If Alastor was going to do something, now was the time. He desperately scanned his room, weighing his options.

 

“Two…” Fuck. His heart pounded in his ears. He wished he had his staff. The cords were now not only climbing up the door, but attempting to either unlock or splinter it.

 

“Fuck it.” There was a massive CRACK, and suddenly past and present were one and the same. 

 

He was out of time.

 

Vox reached for him, and he stumbled back. He reached for his staff- 

 

No, I don’t have my- His head was spinning- Vox grabbed his arm, pulled him close. His other hand trailed down to Alastor’s tail. The inch or so difference between their heights seemed much larger than it was with the TV Demon leering down at him. Perhaps he had inadvertently shrunk from his attacker. Alastor took in the demon’s rolled-up sleeves and frenzied expression.

 

He tried to step back, but Vox was behind him and before him and everywhere. His hand shifted up from Alastor’s arm to his neck – seemingly a spot he liked, if previous events-

 

Fuck. Could he call for Charlie? None of the guests cared for him, really. Rosie wouldn’t assist him in this. And honestly, did he even have time to contact her? Would he even allow himself this brief moment of weakness, of reliance on others?

 

“Alastor, look at me.” Vox demanded. Alastor glowered at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes. The floor glowed red.

 

Alastor tried to push Vox off, but all it earned him was cords firmly wrapped around his wrists. I cannot look him in the eyes, he reminded himself. Wires slithered at his feet. His skin crawled at every connection point.

 

“Vox, I need you to get off.” Alastor spat, trying to push away from the encircling demon. This is worse than the deal with Rosie, he lamented, elbows braced against Vox’s chest. The hand on his neck drifted up before gripping his ears and forcing his head up to meet Vox’s eyes. Alastor suppressed a wince, arms slipping down ever so slightly.

 

More space. He needed more space. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

 

“And what if I don’t?” The hand on his tail slowly moved to the back of his head, pushing them much closer, feeling every tense muscle in the Radio Demon’s back on its way. Alastor bucked against the movement, against the cords, attempting to knee the TV Demon, trying to attack him in whatever way he could, but it was too much. 

 

“Alastor, don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.” Despite the sharp implications of his words, his tone softened as the hands gripping Alastor’s ears traveled to cradle his chin. Spots danced across his vision from staring at the bright screen.

 

When Alastor said nothing, spiteful smile remaining in place, Vox sighed, stroking Alastor’s cheek. “If you really want to do this the hard way…” The TV feigned indifference, but Alastor didn’t miss the glee flickering across his screen; he felt the electric giddiness pulsing through the demon’s veins. 

 

He refused to give Vox the satisfaction of a reaction. Although by now, it might have been too late. Vox was in his room, in his bayou, trying to get into his head, ravenous claws already tearing at his very being beneath the skin. He had been given every advantage in Alastor’s own domain. His stomach soured, bile threatening his throat. If Alastor had eaten at all recently, the contents of his gut would surely be at their feet. 

 

Vox leaned in close, red and black eye pulsating. The room melted away in varying hues of crimson and shadows and navy. Finally releasing Alastor from his grasp, albeit most definitely reluctantly, he stepped back. 

 

Alastor eyed the sylvan landscape, trees and animals rustling around them. Had he stepped too far back into his room? He wasn’t sure of how far the bayou extended, but certainly it wasn’t this large? Especially not after Lucifer’s… modifications. He scoffed his disapproval, before remembering the immediate danger he was in.

 

“How about this, Al: we fight. You can get your little… staff back. If you defeat me, I won’t ask you to join the Vees again. We can pretend that everything is… normal.” He strolled lazily, traipsing around without any anxiety. Can we? After all of this? Does he really think we can move past this?

 

“However, when I win,” He stopped, ensuring Alastor’s eyes locked with his own, manic smile spreading across his screen as he laughed, “Well, I’d ask you to trust me with your soul, but I don’t know how likely that is given our current…” He waved his hand, searching for the right word. His claws gleamed pretentiously in the light. “Situation.” Red leaked from the corners of his mouth, his wide grin only allowing for an almost intimidating, manic expression.

 

“So I suppose we’ll just have to negotiate those terms later. Unless you think you’ll lose,” He taunted. Alastor knew what the demon was doing, but his pride forbade him from even permitting the suggestion to cross his mind.

 

“Ha! Quite the interesting proposition, old pal. However, if I decline…?” Alastor questioned, keeping his tone level. Remaining in control. He had to remain in control.

 

“For one, you face humiliation. I mean, really, the Radio Demon? Turning down a fight?” He sighed, mock disappointment weighing down his features. They sharpened quickly as he continued, “And secondly, I get to keep your staff and do whatever the fuck I want-” He cut himself off as hysteric, crazed laughter overtook his attempted speech, gripping the edges of his screen in disbelief. It took him far too long to compose himself, Alastor noted with disgust. Still sloppy. He found it hard to believe that mere weeks – months? – prior he had found it almost endearing how excitable he was. 

 

He weighed his options, not for the first time that day. Fuck. He hated that Vox had this power over him. He shouldn’t have let him get so close. It had made him soft, if only for a handful of demons. After all, the only other demon he had allowed to get this close was Rosie, and that arrangement was exactly that – an arrangement. Transactional, as all his relations had been. Both in life and posthumously, every person he came across had wanted something of him. Hell, even the Princess of the damned place wanted him there for the protection he offered. Why had he assumed Vox would be any different?

 

Shaking himself out of his spiral, he planted his feet. The ground was uneven. “Fine.” He capitulated, allowing a small growl into his tone. Vox lit up immediately – literally and metaphorically. 

Their fight passed by Alastor in a blur of tentacles, wires, flashes of color that were wrong. A glint of gold, a hint of grey, reds and pinks and blacks that didn’t belong in his beloved bayou.

 

It was too easy, despite Vox’s incessant taunting. And something was… wrong. An underlying buzzing, a ringing in his ears that could almost be interpreted as screams. Every move he made earned him a wider smile from his opponent, as if he knew something Alastor didn’t. Vox is enjoying this too much.

 

His gut twisted, something inside of him begging, screaming at him to stop. He found himself unable to for more than a few moments. Suddenly, Vox ceased his attacks, walking toward Alastor with purpose, irritation messily flashing through his expression. 

 

“Well, Alastor, it seems that we’re at a stalemate,” Vox gritted out, eye twitching. Alastor was inclined to disagree, but before he could, Vox was right there and how had he gotten there so quickly? He barely had any time to come up with a reason, as the area slowly spun, warping into a bar. Did Vox think that this was a better place for their fight? The enclosed space was too small for their… 

 

The words refused to come to him. What had he been doing?

“...And I just really think that all these ‘newer Overlords’ – yes, I know I’m not the oldest demon here, but I mean come on, Alastor, you know what I mean – they just don’t understand the fragile politics of Hell! I mean, they keep trying to undermine Overlords like Rosie and Carmilla – which I know is crazy because, ‘What? How did they become Overlords? They’re women!’ but that’s neither here nor there… Alastor?” He snapped back to his conversation with Vincent, giving a halfhearted chuckle at his crude imitation of some Overlord Alastor had broadcast not too long ago.  

 

“Apologies, friend. I seem to have… misplaced my mind.” He chuckled. A strange expression flashed across Vincent’s face. “You were griping about Hell’s politics, correct?” He offered with an eye roll. Vincent’s screen merely buzzed with mild irritation. 

 

“Alastor, this is important. If we want to keep our status as two of the most powerful Overlords in Hell, we need to make sure other sinners know who they’re dealing with.” A smile split his face, manic and wild and ambitious and hungry all at once. 

 

“Well, Vox, you know my position has been secured – no Overlord dares to touch the Radio Demon for fear of their screams being broadcast for all of Hell to hear–” He stopped himself, excitement at the thought of adding another voice to his radio show amplifying his static dramatically. “–But I fear I have a commitment to-” He furrowed his brow, confusion weaving into his smile. “To…” His smile faltered. Something was infinitesimally off. Perhaps the sign behind him – “Cigarettes are good for you!” – was too bright, or buzzed too loudly. Vincent reached for his hand, concern crossing his face. 

 

“Alastor, STOP!” He blinked, his smile growing more bemused by the second. Whose voice was that? And why did it sound so familiar?

 

“Pardon?” He replied, jerking his hand back from Vincent’s grasp. Static jumped between his antennae as he gripped the table in Alastor’s hand’s absence. Impatient claws dug into the wood, the soft sound of splintering suffusing into the air. 

 

“I asked if you wanted another whiskey,” Vincent replied softly, concern causing his static to amplify. Alastor nodded absentmindedly, a confused smile creeping across his face as nausea rose in his stomach, fighting to be freed. 

 

“I… suppose. Yes.” Alastor shifted in his seat. Vincent looked pleased.

 

A sharp pain coursed through Alastor, originating in his chest. He hissed, eyes narrowing. Vincent shifted beside him.

 

This isn’t right, Alastor strained to remember what he had been doing prior to his conversation with Vincent. Took a distracted sip of whiskey. Don’t trust him, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Locking eyes with Vincent, he carefully considered the scene before him. The TV Demon’s expression reminded him of a shark about to devour his prey, not that of an ally. The too-clean tables, lacking drinks. In fact, the bar was empty, not even a barkeep in sight. Alastor straightened. Bars are never empty in Hell. 

 

Eyes narrowing, Alastor gathered his thoughts.

 

 “Vincent, what is this?” He asked cooly, leveling a glare at the demon before him. Vincent’s eyes twitched in return before sighing, barely attempting to hide a look of utter elation. Vox jumped at Alastor, pinning him to the ground and holding Alastor’s face in a viselike grip, glitching between past and present iterations of himself.

 

“Alastor, look at me.” Vox demanded. Alastor reached for his staff, but it was gone. As was the bar. There was nothing but Vox and Vox was everything. Cords, screens, tangling, grabbing, all while nothing existed. They weren’t floating, but they weren’t bound by the rules of gravity. He was completely free yet compressed on all sides. It was the strangest sensation he had ever experienced, but any awe he would have permitted himself to feel was completely and utterly overruled by the total repulsion and furious disquiet toward the man atop him.

 

The screams continued to intensify, ringing in his ears as they flicked back. These weren’t the screams that brought him joy, reigniting his passion and the thrill of the kill. No, these were screams that sent a shiver down his spine. Screams that were too familiar, too numerous. 

 

Vox’s eyes were filled with red, but not their typical vibrant crimson. They were a dark, deep, blood red. The shade that so often brought him joy now filled him only with dread. 

 

The TV Demon had finally settled his look on his current form. Sharp, brutal, each line painfully intentional, but now cracking. The façade of perfection he had built for the Vees was surely not going to last. His smile was as wide as ever, red leaking from the corners of his mouth as his neuroticism grew. 

 

And just like that, the screams stopped.

 

Vox leaned in close, Alastor squinting in the brightness and proximity of his screen. As his eyes struggled to focus, he realized the shade of red’s origin. Through Vox’s eyes, Alastor caught glimpses of the hotel, bathed in gore. Bodies strewn across the floor, faces he might have not recognized if not for distinguishing features. A cyclops’ head, usually lively and manic and grinning, frozen in shock. Grey wings, torn to shreds. Tufts of fur in varying colors littered the ground, giving the blood an unwanted texture. 

 

Normally, such violence sent an excited shiver down Alastor’s spine. The shudder that wracked his body at witnessing such a scene was anything but. 

 

The TV Demon jerked him up, sending Alastor nearly flying before spinning him as the Radio Demon tried to make sense of the nightmare he had seen. Was it merely a vision conjured by Vox to make Alastor doubt himself? His head spun in tandem with his body, although if it made his thoughts align or become more scattered he couldn’t tell. Was the hotel – and were its inhabitants, more importantly – alright? As much as he hated to admit it, one could grow accustomed to the ragtag team. It was the closest he had to family since his mother, although he would never admit it. 

 

Vox dipped the other demon – as if they were dancing – and snapped his fingers, sending Alastor’s consciousness crashing into his body.

 

Blinking, trying to regain focus as quickly as possible, he clutched his staff, searching for Vincent. The TV Demon. Vox.

 

He took in his surroundings, the double doors in front of him, the bodies around him, the gore strewn across the floor. His eyes flicked between each carcass, for once not elated at the destruction before him. His thoughts raced, jumping between disbelief and blame. Deduction and devastation. Was this Vox? Or was this caused by…?

 

“Easy there, pal.” Came a familiar voice from behind him. “You wouldn’t want to kill the last of the – what was it you had called them? Family? – you have left, Al.” Alastor pivoted to face the stairs.

 

“Oh, please, Vox. Sinners can’t die in Hell. It’s part of what makes it Hell. There’s no out. There’s no end. Just an eternity of doing whatever the fuck you want, which you’ve clearly taken the liberty of doing.” Then why was he shaking?

 

Vox smirked smugly. “Not when you use angelic steel.” He waved his hand at Alastor’s staff. Alastor looked down at the weapon he had been using. The silver gleam of an angelic spear winked back at him.

 

The TV Demon descended the steps, slowly, calmly, patiently. Alastor’s hands shook with the weight of what he’d done. He tried to console himself with the thought that he probably would have done this anyway, when he would exit his deal with Rosie. He hadn’t cared for these demons. He had simply kept the roach crown because he hadn’t known what to do with it. The nights he had spent drinking with Husk were a mere formality. The rapport he had slowly built with Angel Dust a mere byproduct of being part of the hotel staff. His banter with Lucifer and Vaggie meant nothing. Lies, all of it, he told himself. Although if it was about his relationships with the hotel inhabitants or what he was telling himself those relationships were, he didn’t know. 

 

The thought of being so utterly unable to control his own body sickened Alastor to his core; his deal with Rosie at least offered him some semblance of self-control. She had allowed him to go on his sprees for the first seventy or so years of their deal. But this? Not knowing what he did and how he did it? Unaware that he had even done something? It shook him to his core. He clutched his stomach, if only to hold on to something. To ground himself, to make sure this was real while desperately wishing it weren’t.

 

He hadn’t realized how deep in his own thoughts he had been until Vox plucked the spear from Alastor’s hand, cocky claws quickly capturing the weapon and tossing it to the side carelessly. Alastor weakly reached for it as it flew across the room. It clattered some ten or so feet away, its landing echoing throughout the empty entryway. Was he crying? He refused to confirm or deny the possibility of showing further weakness to this demon.

 

“Well, Alastor, what will it be? Will you join me? Or will I have to do this the hard way?” Vox’s hand reached out. Electricity flitted between his antennae as he bent slightly at the waist in a mock bow. Red lines crept from the shark’s prideful smile as Alastor weighed his options for the third time.

Notes:

i didn't initially plan for it to be an ambiguous ending, but it just kinda happened lmao

i could be persuaded into continuing this as a series, but i have a few other aus cooking up in my noggin (vampire!Vincent au, anyone? or demon!Vox meets human!Alastor and makes a deal?)

updates on writing and other silly stuff can be found on my tumblr (@bakingpotat0s)

lastly, thank you so much for reading! this was the first fic that i have ever actually finished and although the finished product isn't perfect, i'm quite fond of it. thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos and just interacted with this fic in any way! mwah ily and will probably be back soon... ish >:)