Chapter Text
The first sensation to return to him was the hum of electricity, except it wasn’t electricity at all, but something thinner, sadder, like the leftover static that clings to an abandoned TV after midnight. Vox breathed in, startled by the foreign weight of lungs inflating, the sting of cold morning air scraping down a mortal throat. There was a roof over his head; aged plaster, yellowed, cracked at the corners like something that had been left to rot long before he arrived. Curtains breathed with the wind, thin motel fabric patterned with faded green pine trees that had lost half their needles to time.
And there, sitting in the cheap vinyl chair wedged between the tiny table and the window, Vox blinked, adjusted to the dull ache behind his human eyes, and finally understood the absurdity of his situation.
He was awake.
On Earth.
In a motel.
Alive.
Human.
And he had absolutely no idea why.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, both hands clasped around a Styrofoam cup that hissed faintly with the heat of bitter, stale coffee. The kind only roadside motels seemed capable of ruining with such consistency. His breath fogged faintly in the cold of the room, and the hum he kept expecting to feel under his skin (the neon buzz, the internal circuitry, the signature pulse of his demon self) was nothing more than an echo. A memory. A ghost.
Absence, he realized, was louder than presence.
He sipped, tasted burnt beans and tap water that had probably run through a rusted pipeline, and tried again to make sense of the impossible.
The last thing he remembered was hellfire, screaming, the Technological District thrumming beneath his feet, and, of course, him. Because Alastor was always there. Like a rotten cherry on top of a rancid sundae, unavoidable and irritatingly theatrical.
Vox exhaled, stared into the murky, trembling surface of the coffee. The reality remained unchanged. He was here. In a frankly pathetic human body, dressed in clothes he did not own; a black button-down shirt slightly too large in the shoulders, sleeves rolled up imperfectly to the elbows, and dark jeans. Mortal hands. Mortal pulse. Mortal fragility.
He scowled.
The clock on the nightstand buzzed with a soft, dying hum. 6:03 a.m.
A motel somewhere in America. He didn’t know where exactly. It smelled like pine, gasoline, and dust; somewhere between Oregon and Washington, perhaps, or one of those sprawling middle-of-nowhere states with endless chains of mountains and old forests the color of bruise-blue shadows. Something about the atmosphere felt off-kilter: the heavy clouds dragging themselves across the sky, the air sharp as broken glass, the muffled silence pressing in at all sides. There was a sense of being observed. Of something weird and inexplicable breathing through the seams of the world, just out of sight.
He took another shaky sip of his coffee.
And finally, inevitably, his gaze slid toward the second bed.
Alastor was still asleep.
Just the thought made Vox’s jaw twitch. Of course he was here. The universe wouldn’t dare play a joke on him this cruel without including its favorite punchline.
Alastor lay sprawled diagonally across the cheap, peach-colored blanket, half tangled in it, limbs at angles no human should find comfortable. His now dark brown hair was tousled across the pillow in messy waves, but in the dim light it looked almost natural. His face was turned toward the window, cheek mushed into the pillow, dark lashes resting lightly on his skin.
He looked ridiculous.
He looked human.
And worse: he looked peaceful.
Vox glared at him, long and steady, as if he could will him into waking through sheer irritation. It never worked in Hell and it certainly didn’t work now. The bastard slept like someone who had never known danger, fear, or responsibility. Which, to be fair, was close enough to the truth. Alastor was chaos incarnate with a jazz soundtrack and a smile that could cut through bone.
But now? Now he was just a man asleep in a run-down motel room, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. It was disorienting. Unsettling.
Human.
Vox hated it.
He hated how vulnerable they both looked.
He hated how quiet everything felt without their demonic forms humming beneath the skin.
He hated that he and Alastor were stuck together without answers.
He hated the way the cold morning light painted Alastor in gold at the edges, softening him.
He hated—
A groan.
Vox froze.
Alastor shifted, face scrunching slightly as sunlight inched further across his eyelids. His fingers twitched first, then his legs, then a slow stretch rippled through him like a cat waking from a nap.
Alastor inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open.
For a moment, he didn’t move. He blinked up at the ceiling, one hand pressing flat against his own chest as if testing the rise and fall of breath. He sat up suddenly too fast, human muscles protesting, and immediately stumbled out of the bed in a tangle of blanket and curses.
“W—what… Where?”
His voice cracked. Alastor touched his throat, horrified, as the sound hit the air: human. Not the polished, old-time radio distortion he always carried. Just a man’s voice; still tinted with New Orleans warmth, still charmingly smooth, but undeniably mortal.
He turned, wide-eyed, taking in the room, the peeling wallpaper, the deeply questionable carpet. Then his gaze landed on Vox.
And Vox could see it immediately: the exact moment recognition dawned. The exact moment the Radio Demon realized who he was stuck here with.
Alastor exhaled in a long, dramatic sigh that would have been accompanied by sepia tones and vinyl crackling if he still had the power.
“Oh,” he drawled, rubbing his temple. “It’s you.”
Vox sipped his coffee. “Good morning to you too, asshole.”
Alastor blinked, absorbing the profanity with the mild offense of someone who expected respect upon waking; just not from him.
He took another second to observe the room. Then another. Then a third, slower, heavier moment where he touched the wall, the window sill, the bedsheets. Testing solidity, reality. His reflection in the dusty mirror across the room caught his eye, and his breath stuttered.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the mirror. Then he pressed his palm against it.
He flinched.
“I… well, I’m this again,” Alastor whispered, strangely quiet. “Huh. That’s new.”
Vox rolled his eyes, though his pulse betrayed him by jumping in his throat. Something about the radio demon’s bewilderment was, infuriatingly, almost humanizing. And he didn’t want that. He didn’t need that.
“Yeah,” Vox said dryly. “Welcome to the club. We’re flesh bags now.”
Alastor turned to him, bewilderment sharpening into suspicion. “Explain.”
Vox lifted his coffee. “If I had an explanation, do you think I’d be drinking this garbage?”
Alastor made a face as if the smell offended him on a spiritual level.
The silence stretched between them then, thick and awkward. Not because they had nothing to say; because they had too much. Too many questions neither wanted to voice first. Too many unspoken rules from Hell suddenly meaningless here.
Vox finally stood, joints cracking in protest. Annoying. Stupid human body. “Look. All I know is we woke up like this. On Earth. Together. With all our memories and none of our powers. So, congratulations, deer boy, you’re stuck with me.”
Alastor bristled.
Vox smirked.
Ah. Some dynamics really were eternal.
Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply through his teeth. “Let me get this straight. I have been forcibly deposited into a mortal vessel, next to you, with no warning, no explanation, and no immediate means of escape?”
“That’s the gist,” Vox said.
Alastor stared at him.
Then laughed.
It wasn’t the manic, staticky demon laugh. It was real. Soft around the edges but still laced with that unsettling amusement of someone who found horror mildly entertaining.
“Well!” Alastor clapped his hands together, trying for enthusiasm and missing by a margin. “Isn’t this… just wonderful.”
Vox arched a brow. “You coping, or breaking?”
“Oh, coping,” Alastor said much too cheerfully. “Do you see tears? Wailing? Gnashing of teeth?”
“Give it time.”
Alastor narrowed his eyes. “You seem unpleasantly calm.”
“I’m drinking coffee,” Vox said, as if that explained everything. “It helps.”
“Styrofoam??” Alastor pointed accusingly. “Really?”
“I didn’t pick it.”
Alastor made a noise like he had just witnessed a murder.
Their silence this time was not just awkward; it was charged. Suspended. Something hot and brittle and freshly exposed sparking between them. They had spent decades, maybe centuries, locked in the kind of rivalry that tasted like blood and ozone. But here? Now? Stripped from Hell, stripped from power, stripped from everything except themselves?
Vox hated the way his chest tightened.
Alastor hated the uncertainty in his own reflection.
“This isn’t Hell,” Vox said finally.
“It’s not Heaven either,” Alastor replied stiffly.
“No,” Vox murmured. “This is… America.”
Alastor grimaced. “How dreadful.”
Vox moved to the window, pushing aside the ugly pine-patterned curtains. Outside stretched a lonely highway lined with towering evergreen forests, fog crawling low across the asphalt like white fingers. A single neon motel sign flickered weakly: PINE VIEW LODGE – VACANCY. The landscape felt timeless. Suspicious. Too quiet. Like the world was holding its breath. Or watching. Something about it tugged at him. It tugged at Alastor too; Vox knew without even looking. There was a stillness outside that reminded them of the forest just before a hunt. The moment before a scream.
Alastor stepped beside him, hands clasped behind his back, trying his best to look composed.
“So,” he said, voice lighter than the tension in the air. “What do we do now, hmm? You and I. Stuck together. Mortals. On a planet neither of us have set foot on in... oh, let’s say a century or more.”
“We figure out what the hell happened,” Vox said.
“And if there’s a way back,” Alastor added.
“And if someone did this to us.”
Alastor tilted his head. “You think this was intentional?”
Vox looked at him, expression flat. “Do you think the universe just randomly decided to drop the two of us together in the same motel room?”
Alastor paused. “Point taken.”
Another long stretch of silence.
Vox ran a hand through his hair, surprised again by the texture, the softness, how human it felt, and sighed. “Look. Whether we like it or not, we’re stuck together for now. And I’m not wandering into the creepy Pacific Northwest with no plan and no powers and no idea what’s lurking out there.”
Alastor folded his arms. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we need to work together,” Vox muttered.
Alastor blinked.
A slow smile curved across his lips. “My, my. Never thought I’d hear that from you again.”
“Don’t get excited.”
“Oh, I never get excited when it comes to you,” Alastor said sweetly. “Merely entertained.”
Vox glared. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stuck with me.”
“For now.”
Alastor tilted his chin up, pride shimmering faintly beneath the confusion in his eyes. “Whatever awaits us out there, Vox dear… I suggest we approach it cautiously. Humans are fragile. And you…” His gaze dragged deliberately across Vox’s human body, lingering far too long. “…absolutely scream fragility.”
Vox’s stomach flipped before he could stop it.
Alastor noticed.
Vox hissed through his teeth, stepping away from him. “Go brush your hair or something. You look like roadkill.”
Alastor brought a hand to his hair, offended. “I do not!”
“You do.”
“Do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
Infuriatingly, he somehow still looked good.
Vox hated that.
He pushed the door open, letting cold forest air sweep into the room. The fog curled around his feet, touched his skin like chilled silk. The mountains in the distance glowed a muted purple beneath the heavy clouds.
Alastor stood beside him again, close enough their arms almost brushed.
The morning felt too quiet. Too tense. Too full of questions.
“Ready?” Vox asked.
“No,” Alastor answered truthfully.
“Too bad.”
They stepped outside together.
Two former demons.
Two newly human rivals.
Two idiots with unresolved everything.
And the world waited, quiet and strange and impossibly vast.
Whatever happened next… It would not be simple. It would not be safe. And it would definitely not be boring.