Chapter Text
Alastor manifested back in his hideout, head in his hands as he collapsed on to his knees.
The blasted migraine was back in full force again, adrenaline from his encounter with Vox wearing off. A severe, pulsating pressure that felt like a ring was tightening around his brain, while thousands of tiny pinpricks of needles were stabbing into his forehead at the same time. Not just the headache too, Alastor felt his stitched-up wound across his chest also flare up in some sort of twisted coordination with his headache. Likely from the exertion dealing with Vox just now.
Vox. That infuriating, irritating noise pollutant of an idiot box! Messing with timelines without the slightest thought or worry about the consequences, just simply assuming everything would work out with the similar level of blinding arrogance he applied to his other ventures. Oh, it was endearing occasionally, whenever he got that hilariously dumbstruck look on his screen when Alastor outwitted him as usual during their fights, but honestly! Did all his rational thinking go nose-diving out the window whenever he thought he could trap Alastor in some sort of a vulnerable position?
But no, Alastor growled as he shifted his position and reached out blindly for his flask of whiskey and took a swig, trying to numb the mounting pain. He could not even just simply blame Vox for his current predicament. It would be so easy to do so too: Vox’s inability to be independent caused their fallout, Vox’s insecurity made him so sweetly vulnerable to Alastor’s tricks, Vox’s ignorance led him to blindly mess with the timeline.
Alas, Alastor could see most of the blame laid with himself.
He was truly too clever for his own good, wasn’t he? First, he tried to be smart and get ahead, only to end up tricked by a technicality and trapped in a deal with an impossible task. Now he’s here, sitting on the old wooden floorboards of an abandoned apartment in hell, still dealing with the aftermath of his near fatal angelic wound and now a migraine. And of course, when he tried to deliberately sabotage himself, he still somehow overcame it.
For it was him, Alastor, who came up with the brilliant idea in a drunken haze just three days after the battle, still reeling from the wound, to use a spell he found from the old spell book to travel back to his time on Earth. Rosie had the decency to lend him a few potions and spell books from her collection for him to heal the first day after the battle. None of them were of much use whatsoever, and he could not help but feel that she was mocking him by including a copy of the spell book he used back then to summon her to begin with.
With not much better to do than rest and heal for the time being, he had perused the spellbook in greater detail and found a few interesting spells, one that allowed time travel and another, earth travel. Some experimentation and he managed to merge the two into one and travelled back onto earth, sticking to the shadows and damaging the very same book he used, Summoning and Other Spells, as a human. Oh, he did not do much-- a few tears here, a bit of water damage there-- just enough to make the page on summoning the cannibal demon unreadable.
There were risks, of course. Lilith had penned down her warnings, about how a timeline could only take so much interference from outsiders. One action by an outsider was the absolute maximum, else the other timeline will start bleeding over to the first, resulting in pain for those whose fates were inexplicably changed.
Alastor, who had been tipsy at his most sober during that first week when he was reading the book, had thought he found a genius idea to spare himself this pain, this indignity of being chained to another and made to be subservient and work at a hotel run by imbeciles. Or, well, not him right now, but him in the past! If he could, with one little act, make it such that he never made one of the largest regrets of his afterlife? A version of Alastor out there, able to truly take his fate into his own hands by keeping all control of his soul?
He knew now how hell worked, after all, and was completely confident that even without Rosie, he could still rise to the top in no time. It would take him a little longer, sure, but some short-term suffering would be better than being under someone else’s control for the rest of his days down here. It would not free him from under Rosie’s thumb now, but just knowing that there was a world out there where he is free felt fantastic, a way to be able to stick it to her face.
Unfortunately, he clearly underestimated his own stubbornness. Alastor drained the last drops from the flask and threw it aside, watching bitterly as it smashed against the wall and turned into a thousand tiny pieces. Probably some sort of metaphor about actions taken while inebriated, Alastor mused, but he really could not be bothered to parse it.
Frankly, he should have anticipated this outcome, because of course his human self would have kept trying, would have attempted to fill in the blanks and decipher the damaged page of the spell book. He had been near obsessive then, Alastor remembered now, hunting down every spellbook that even hinted at the slightest sign of legitimacy. Death was the great equaliser, but just because all men must die did not mean Alastor had to suffer in hell a tortured soul.
But summoning Vox, of all demons? Vox? Could he have not summoned himself, would that not have been fun? Any other overlord at all would have been a net loss, actually, because he was still the most powerful overlord, but Vox in particular vexed and annoyed Alastor more than he could pin point. Knowing there was a version of him out there whose first meeting with Vox was with the modern, flat-headed version of him, not the eager, almost cute (not that he would ever admit it out loud) box-headed version of Vox? It just felt… wrong, like a puzzle piece from a picture filling the same space in another. A past, his past, being shaped by Vox?
Perhaps not all hope was lost, Alastor reflected, headache fading into the background. Clearly he, even as a human, had Vox wrapped around his pinky already, or at least discerned that Vox was full of hot air and could not actually give him power. He had not signed his soul away to Vox yet, clearly, still looking for the actual book. Maybe--
A blinding flash of pain attacked Alastor’s head violently, suddenly. He could feel the air leaving his lungs, leaving him gasping, grasping, for something, anything at all to stabilise him. Bright, disorientating flashes of black and white and--
dancing--
giggling, pointing at a glowing screen--
shoes hitting the floorboard in time to the music, and looking up at a surprisingly amusing demon with a rectangular head--
--and Alastor gasped and heaved, never more grateful for the familiar, metallic, smoky smell of the air in hell. Another flask of whiskey appeared in his hands, and he took a generous swig.
Fuck. Maybe not so in control after all, if he was for whatever reason dancing with Vox. God, it had been ages since he did that with Vox, what was his human self trying to do? What was Vox trying to do? Pitifully trying to recreate whatever amiable relationship they had once shared with another version of him? Pathetic, utterly pathetic.
The damned migraine problem. How many times had it derailed his thoughts? How many times had he been left vulnerable because of it now? So far the attacks had all happened when he was alone in his hideout, but he could not stay holed up forever. Rosie had already taken back her books, and anticipated him back in the hotel soon.
Wait. Rosie’s books.
Was there not a spell about timelines and splitting them in Lilith’s spell book? The headaches were caused by “timelines bleeding into each other”, so assumedly by splitting these timelines and ensuring both are on individual paths, these accursed migraines would finally abate. Convenient, too, how it allowed for Alastor to fulfill his deal with Vox too, not that he had any intention to fulfill it in the first place. There was a reason he left in the little loophole on the lack of a deadline, after all.
Lucky for Vox, he supposed. He could also potentially kill two birds with one stone with this little manuver…
Alastor took another swig of whiskey and lit a cigarette. If he was going to see Rosie, he needed it.
.
“Knock-knock, Rosie my dear! How are you?”
Rosie’s door swung open with the tinkling of a bell, Alastor stepping into the room in a fresh new suit, bouquet of flowers and gift in hand.
“Alastor! Darling, how have you been! I see you’re doing better, hm?” Rosie stood up from her seat, surprised.
“Oh, as much as I can be! Thanks to you, really, the books and the snacks helped!” Alastor placed the flowers and the gift down, settling into his chair across from Rosie.
“That’s wonderful, Alastor. See, I know you’ll be just fine! I really hope to see you back at the hotel, alright. And your radio broadcasts! Haven’t heard those in a while too, you know, nothing can really quite replace it!”
Rosie took a sip from her tea, cheery. Alastor felt a sudden rush of disappreciation for the colour pink. Really, wearing pink does nothing for one’s complexion.
“Oh, you know me! Always bouncing from one task to another, at your beck and call. Missing out on seven years of activity and broadcasting in hell, not something I can quite control, hmm?” He threw his hands up in a fake display of lighthearted exasperation. “With the work at the hotel now, too, gosh! Who knew being the host of a hotel was so much work?”
Rosie peered at him over her cup, still smiling. She let a beat pass, admiring Alastor’s frustrated smile, before putting it down and opening the gift box to pluck out a finger.
“Aww, my poor deer. Here, have a snack!”
Alastor stared down at her outstretched hand and the finger in it. See, this was why he even made the decision, albeit while drunk, to travel back in time and damage that spell book in the first place. This thrice-damned patronising, this indignity of being treated like an amusing pet--
Rosie’s hand was still there, waving the snack in his face. He entertained the idea of chomping down on her hand instead for a joyful, all too fleeting moment, then accepted the finger.
Alastor swallowed, then started. “Look, I’m at the stupid hotel, running--”
“Ah ah ah!” Rosie interrupted, waving her own finger in front of him this time like a patient teacher correcting a particularly naughty student. “Darling, you’re not even at the hotel right now! You’re at a little apartment, and I generously allowed you to take some time off to heal up, hmm? Watch your words, honey.”
Alastor choked on air, words devolving into a mixture of indiscernible noises as he attempted to reign in the immediate outrage and indignation, settling into a groan that sounded like an unholy cross between a tractor engine and radio feedback.
Maybe he should have taken a bite out of her hand when he could just now.
“Rosie, my dearest, look,” Alastor tried again, trying to keep the resentment from dripping into his words, “I will be returning soon! I just need one, simple, favour--”
Another sharp pang hit him again, leaving just as sudden as it arrived. Alastor lurched forward slightly in his seat, desperately trying to hide it as he tightened his grip on the antique chair but a hiss of pain escaped all the same.
Rosie leaned forward, interested. “Mmm? Sweetie, what were you going to say?”
Alastor collected himself. “You have a copy of Lilith’s old spell book journal, don’t you? The purple and gold one, the one you lent me for a while just two weeks ago?”
“Why, yes, of course! Oh, funny story about that book, actually! She left a copy with me, of course, and another up on Earth! Really, this was fate!” She pointed at him, then her. “She always told me how she decided to just leave it to chance for a human to find it and use it. Natural selection or something, that gal has always had great intuition, huh? And here you are!”
Alastor took a deep breath.
“That’s fantastic! Actually, I would like to just borrow the book for a while more.”
Rosie tilted her head, putting the teacup that was at her mouth down onto the table.
“Whatever for? Was that one week not sufficient for you to find any relevant healing spells to use?”
“Yes, well, there’s just a few things here and there, you know--”
“Alastor, pumpkin. Tell me, what do you want the book for now?” She rested her chin on her folded hands propped up on the table. “You know you can just tell me! I’m not an unreasonable woman, after all!”
“Well, if you must know, there was a spell in there that I did not manage to note down before you retrieved it! Nothing special, really!”
“Mhm.” Rosie hummed knowingly. “Nothing to do with that little headache just now?”
“Ah, you caught me!” Alastor chuckled, hoping it would fool her. What he did was his own private business, and he hardly wanted to make it known he was trying to escape her grasp in some way.
“Alas! The book had no spells on curing any sort of headaches! I should know, I read through it many times!” She finally grinned, baring her teeth.
Shit.
“Look, Alastor, honey,” she continued after Alastor did not respond, “you can keep your secrets! As long as it doesn’t interfere with our plans, I don’t really care that much! But you are trying to get a favour out of me, after my so generous help with your mishap too! I don’t really have any obligation to lend it to you now, you know? I own your soul!”
Fuck. This was the exact situation he was trying to avoid.
“I’ll… quit! The hotel, I mean. We aren’t getting any closer to--”
“Sweet, that isn’t something you can decide! I own your soul!”
“Fix my staff, then! The deal was to make me the strongest sinner in hell, and yet here I am, with a wound and a busted up staff--” He’s standing up now, the bottled up agitation finally ready to overflow.
Rosie tsked.
“Oh, darling! I think it’s time for a little reminder, yes?” She stood up, patting down her dress.
“Don’t you forget~”
.
Alastor really, really wanted to kill.
Someone, anyone. He almost wished he had one of those pretentious galas to attend tonight, rub elbows with snooty, rich old men. Or women, even! If it was not for the fact all eyes are still on the station right now with three deaths now, he may just risk it. Oh, Vincent did wonderfully, and no one was looking in his particular direction anymore, but still. It would be highly risky, even if he truly needed to blow off steam.
And, of course, he had a legitimate reason too! He ran out of blood for the summonings.
Fuck. Just thinking of Vox had him gritting his teeth as he stared at the water pooling into his mug from the cooler.
Drip, drip, drip.
He brought a whiskey with a slightly higher alcohol content than he had intended to. Just somewhat higher. Enough to knacker him when he was already feeling buzzy from the drinks at the speakeasy.
Enough to leave him waking up at the crack of dawn, reeling from a hangover and very, very much alone. On the couch in his cabin in the bayou. Tucked in, even, with a spare cloak he had stuffed on his shelf a while back.
What was he doing? What did he do, actually, because his memories for last night were fuzzy and patchy. Oh, he remembered the drinking, chatting, and dancing, but what happened after? There was some really bright blue involved, but how did he end up tucked in and sleeping on a sofa? He distinctly remembered collapsing onto the damn floor.
The water was starting to overflow. He removed his mug and knocked the water back like some piss poor imitation of downing a good, strong spirit.
Fuck, the floor. There was flour scattered all round the floor, not to mention the damn dancing. God, even Vox was not that stupid. He found the charm too, somehow out of his pocket and placed it on the shelf. It clearly fell out at some point during the night, and Vox picked it up and just… left it there, for some reason.
Did he suspect? Did he think it was just some trinket? Was Vox perhaps drunk and idiotic enough to be fooled? Or did he leave it there to play some sort of 5th dimensional mind games with Alastor, and had already gotten his picture while Alastor was asleep and had no protection charm on him?
He pinched his nose. Usually, at this point when he starts panicking, and he never panics, he would be able to rationalise everything. Slow down, make a plan, take action. That’s what got him to where he was today. How he got away with all his murders, how he clawed his way up and demanded respect to get his radio show during a prime time slot with his own merit.
And so that was what he did, when he woke up. He calmed down immediately and he got to work using what was left of his supply to draw a summoning circle, just to make sure of where he stood with Vox. Worst case scenario, Vox already got his end of the deal, and no matter. Alastor was confident enough that he could finagle the gullible demon into another deal.
Well. Turns out Ma’s favourite saying was true. When it rains, it pours.
He made sure all the candles were in the right places, the correct sigils hanging from the rafters, the circle had all the smudges in the right places, even the french and the licking of blood that made him feel highly self aware now that it was daytime.
Yet, nothing. No shark-obsessed TV-headed demon appearing right before him, no haughty smile trying to act natural, no sound of a demon trying to appear more threatening than he actually was.
Alastor stared at his empty mug. What he craved was some true, hard brandy, but day-drinking was unprofessional and he still had an image to uphold.
Oh, and the Prohibition, of course.
Ah, but maybe drinking was the problem all along. He certainly would have made very much different choices had he been sober, of course. Perhaps caffeine was what he needed now, no more of alcohol that could cloud his judgement when he had to deal with demons from literal Hell.
Drip, drip, drip.
What was Vox up to? Why did the ritual not work? Did the blood expire? Was Vox busy with some other human client? Did Vox have other humans who summoned him? Was that what Vox meant by being “busy”? What did other humans summon Vox for?
Alastor furrowed his brows. No, it cannot be. Surely no one else was also saddled with Vox. He needed Vox to find that spell book as soon as possible, damn it.
“Alastor? Alastor!”
He blinked, jolted out of the trance.
Ah, Vincent. Eager, full-of-surprises Vincent. It seemed like he was off the hook with the police then, if he was back at the station already. Alastor had not expected to see him back this early, especially not when most had left the office for lunch.
“Vincent! I’m so sorry for your loss, how are you?”
“Oh, thank you. Mr Smith was a great man, a great mentor to me. The accident was truly a tragedy. Sorry about your boss too.” Vox replied, with such sincerity Alastor nearly believed him.
Hm. Perhaps this kid did have a future on the screen after all.
“I don’t suppose you will be here for much longer then? How did the investigation go?” Alastor asked out of polite curiosity, removing his mug from the coffee machine. Should he add sugar?
“They couldn’t find the driver, it was the strangest thing! Gosh, I really hope they catch the despicable criminal.” Vincent said, now leaning against the pantry counter.
Alastor forced himself to keep the corner of his mouth down from turning his neutral smile into a knowing smirk. Vincent was better at this than he had imagined, and oh, this game of “I know, you know” was funnier than he pictured.
“Indeed, I’m sure they would both rest in peace better knowing their killer will be hung when caught, may god bless them. So you’re not leaving, then?”
“The investigation looks like it would be dragged out longer, unfortunately. And, well, the station back home couldn’t really afford to send another person down here, what with our track record, ha! They’ve moved me to be in charge of the collaboration talks, at least for now.”
“Well, I can see why they may find it cursed. I hope it’s not too improper for me to congratulate you on your promotion? New Orleans is normally not quite this scary, I assure you.”
Alastor reached for a stirrer. A pause in the conversation started to linger, so he finally looked over and met Vincent’s startlingly mismatched and intense gaze.
“I- I don’t think it’s cursed.”
Vincent kept staring. The gaze was burning into him, unsettlingly familiar, but Alastor could not quite place it. Who was it--
“And, uh, you’ll get to see me around more often, ha ha! Wow! Can’t wait to properly tour the city, gosh--” Vincent finally broke his gaze, laughing awkwardly. His gaze shifted left, right, up and down, now seemingly determined to look anywhere but at Alastor.
There he was, Alastor thought, amused. The easily flustered spring chicken.
Who has a surprising propensity for murder and had clearly quite taken to Alastor.
Alastor watched as Vincent rambled on about something unimportant, considering. He had already used him once as a tool, could he do it again?
"Say, Vincent..."