Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief, the Radio Demon isn’t entirely emotionally unshakable.
Lord knows he tries to be, and for the most part, he succeeds at it. Even before he died, he was well versed in the art of killing any care of affection that might spring up in his chest violently and permanently. Annoyance was allowed to live, anger, and envy, thought even that was a slippery slope. There was no adoration, not even admiration. Everyone was entertainment or in the way, and 99% of the time, he could convince himself that it was the fundamental truth.
Alastor is not a sloppy killer. He is clean and calculated, well versed in his art. He never got caught while he was alive, and in death, he only got caught if he wanted to, if it served his schemes. He was a methodical man down to his core. He doesn’t do messy. And emotions are messy.
Vox is messy. It’s why he takes such great care to avoid him when possible, and when not, use him for entertainment or a plan. He was a tool, but a last resort one at that, not someone who was stable enough to use. Yet in all his horrific instability, he was boringly predictable. The man seemed to be entirely puppeteered by his limbic system, wearing his heart on his sleeve and being controlled by impulse like a pubescent teenager. Tonight was a perfect example of that. Though he supposed, in this one instance, he probably should not take the high ground. He was disgustingly honest tonight, and even though the imbecilic TV didn’t catch on to it, it still made him a bit sick to think about. Emotional displays like that, the brutal, uncensored truth, are typically reserved for moments like this only.
Ah, yes, that pesky 1% of the time. The rare nights where Alastor would lie awake, shaking at the ceiling, allowing himself to work through the thoughts that were ordinarily in a big box labeled “DANGER: FRAGILE”.
He thought he had made himself perfectly clear, as much as he regretted doing so. It wasn’t that, perhaps, at some point, he did care for Vincent in just the slightest way. He was entertaining in an endearing way, back in the day at least, and if he could just get a grip on that damn emotionally charged impulsiveness, he could be great. Not greater than Alastor, but someone at least worthy of respect. He does not allow himself to indulge in daydreaming (just regular dreaming, he supposed, because at this point it was well past 2 am), but as long as the scenario was purely hypothetical, right?
What would happen if he let Vox see this disgusting little bug that he had tried to hard to crush, to cure himself of over the years?
Friendship.
Something pathetic and not even worth wanting, a weakness that got in the way of power. A word entirely out of his vocabulary, but he has already sunk so low tonight, so what’s a few feet deeper? He’ll pull himself out by morning, and no one needs to know. He’s an indulgent old fool, but he’s already here, isn’t he?
Would it even matter? Caring, as much as it was the bane of his existence, was not the issue. The issue was the elephant in the room, or more accurately, the pulsing mass of membranes and goo in the room. The horrid concept known as romance. Something so foreign to him that it may as well be those Japanese songs from her youth that Nifty is always singing under her breath. No, that was a bad comparison, because even though he doesn’t understand those, at least they’re tolerable.
Vincent wants what Alastor cannot give: dates, affection, his heart. Friendship did not satisfy him before, so why would it now?
This train of thought is meaningless and upsetting. He was foolish for letting these thoughts fester. He flips the switch to kill them, just as he did the day Vox first proposed the deal. He knows his rejection was harsh, considering it was that way by design. He knew how to control enemies. He had no use for a selfish devotee.
He hated this, all of it. Indignant anger, anger at all of this for being so unfair, anger at himself for slipping, surge like fire and ice through his veins. He takes in a sharp, satisfied inhale, like an addict feeling the drug they took go into affect, coursing through their body and setting pleasantly behind their eyes. Anger was something he knew what to do with. Anger was something he could put himself to sleep to.
He clenches his fist hard, crumpling up the torn photo in his claws. Carelessly, he tosses it into the fireplace that has long since been out, knowing he’ll get around to burning it in the morning. He flicks on the radio, willing it to play something relaxing.
It settles on Solitude by Billie Holiday. Because of fucking course it does.
“In my solitude, you haunt me
With reveries of days gone by
In my solitude, you taunt me
With memories that never d-“
He flicks the radio off, and goes to sleep, willing dreamless sleep.