Chapter Text
Alastor always got what he wanted. Even if it meant manipulation, or death, or sacrifices. No cost was too large. If you wanted something, you had to take it, whether that be by force or otherwise. And sometimes it seemed a little extreme, yes, but it worked, and that was good enough for him. He couldn’t afford to care about anyone else, not in a place like this.
And so far, that had worked for him. He was the most powerful sinner in hell, he was back on the air, and he was watching Vincent crumble in front of the entire pride ring. He should’ve been content. He should’ve enjoyed this. But right now, he couldn’t help wanting something more, to give in to the selfish desire he felt. This moment, this time of pure destruction and distress, was the perfect time to give himself leverage. Because Alastor was not above taking advantage of desperation.
“If you want help, you know the fee.” He held up his staff, still stitched together from the attack over a month ago, and smiled, because he knew that Rosie would not sacrifice Charlie for something as simple as principle. She was not petty in that way.
“I will not reward a snake like you,” she said, very vehemently. But Alastor knew that she was bluffing. He was stubborn enough to wait her out like every other time.
“Then everyone dies, dear Rosie. It’s simple.”
“Then so be it,” she said plainly. His ears perked down momentarily. Rosie was not stubborn enough to deny him this. She was not petty enough to let everyone here die just because he had found a loophole in their deal. She wasn’t like Alastor.
“Alright then.” He shrugged and turned his back in an effort to hide the look on his face. To any average sinner, he was smiling, smug and happy. But to someone who knew what to look for, it was evident that he was anxious. Not because he was attached to those that Rosie was putting at risk, but because he had plans for the future. Plans that he needed to fulfill. Plans that would not be interrupted by Vincent Whittman.
But as the rumbling beneath him grew more intense, and Vincent’s laughter grew louder, he couldn’t help his worry. His ears pointed fully downwards, and the only thing subsiding the unbearable radio noises was the sound of hell’s collective panic. Was she really going through with this? Was Rosie really allowing such destruction over a faulty deal? Alastor didn’t know that they were operating on the fucking honor system, how was he supposed to know that they weren’t meant to be messed with? How was he to predict this?
“You’re really willing to sacrifice everyone for your own pride?” He hissed, turning to the woman next to him. She was totally indifferent to what was going on right in front of her. A kind of indifference that Alastor was very quickly losing. She would not go through with this. She couldn’t go through with this.
“What ring do you think we’re in, dear?” She replied smugly. Alastor could do nothing but bare his teeth, and turn to assess their situation.
Vincent stood atop the weapon he’d somehow manufactured, laughing and staring up at heaven. The people below him were saying something, probably singing if Alastor knew them at all, and trying desperately to stop what was coming. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that was possible. He knew that when Vincent set his sights on something, there was nothing that could stop him from getting it. They were alike in that way. But if Alastor got what he wanted, there was no way that Vincent could as well. Something about unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects.
But Vincent wasn’t that. He was weak. And all Alastor had to do was take advantage of that fact. He’d done it before, it would be no challenge. But he currently had no ideas. He had to make sure that Rosie was serious about this first, that she was willing to risk it all just to get back at Alastor. Just like Vincent. Because in all the worst ways, he was like everyone in Alastor’s life. A haunting reminder that he couldn’t seem to shake.
“I’m not budging,” he insisted one final time.
“That’s fine. We can just sit back and enjoy the show, hm?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Alastor could put his pride aside and help the group gathered against Vincent. It was just surrendering to Rosie, and he’d been doing that for years, so it wasn’t a new concept. He could tolerate that reality. But the broken staff in his hand meant that he could not put magic forth to help the crowd, so he had to do something else. He was clever enough to come up with something on the spot. There had to be a plan where he still got what he wanted. There had to be some loophole here too, some cheat code that he could use.
Vincent.
Fuck, of course, it made so much sense. This was Vincent they were talking about. Obvious weaknesses. And that weakness just so happened to be standing off to the side, no longer helpless to his situation. That weakness would have to sacrifice dignity for his own sake. That weakness would have to pretend that he wasn’t doing this for himself.
Alastor stepped out of the shadows, into the glow of something ready to destroy his entire future. It was beautiful, if you looked at it the right way. Beautiful in the way that a fiery explosion was, right before the debris hit you. Beautiful in the way that Vincent was.
“Vincent!” He called into the noise. His voice was distinctive enough to be noticed by everyone, so of course they all turned to him. No one else knew Vincent. No one else knew their past. This would make no sense to them. They would have no idea that Alastor was doing this for himself. And he couldn’t tell them until it was all over.
Vincent turned to him, a shell of the man he once was. It was sad really, watching him hiss and growl, like a wild animal being captured, tears falling from his eyes. Almost as sad as that night in the bar, seventy years prior. A shell still resembled the contents once inside, and by God, this was Vincent Whittman.
“What? What the fuck do you want?” He said through clenched teeth. All singing and power tricks had ceased, everyone’s eyes on the two. Alastor had hoped for the exact opposite. He didn’t want this many witnesses. He hoped that everyone would mind their own, but he already wasn’t getting what he wanted, so why not add insult to injury?
“Vincent, please.” He cringed at himself. The radio demon didn’t say please. He didn’t say people’s names tenderly in front of crowds. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. Not anymore. Not since his mistake so long ago. “This can’t really be what you want. This can’t be the life that you want.” He pulled his hands to his chest, really putting on a show. “You can’t really think this is a future where we can…” he inhaled, ready to throw his dignity off a cliff and into the fiery pits, “be…together.”
Collective gasps from the crowd. Murmurs, whispers of those who couldn’t tell that this was all a lie, a ruse to save Alastor’s ass. The talk of demons who would most definitely believe this. The silence from Vincent.
“Wait, do you—” He started, and then was interrupted by a flash of light. It hit him fast, so fast that it may have been possible to miss. It was blinding, yet silent, and followed by everyone bracing for impact that never came. It was obviously not conjured by a soul in hell, which meant that now, everyone was in deeper shit than they had been an hour ago.
Vincent fell, unconscious, and landed on the ground with no damage other than a heavy thud. It was poetic, almost. Icarian, for someone so close to the heavens to fall like that. Not that anyone but Alastor noticed. He was always paying more attention to Vincent than others.
Heads turned to find the source of the light, which was relatively easy, considering what it was. Someone who stuck out against the pride ring’s harsh background. No, this person was not of hell, it was plain to see. She was of heaven. And she was beautiful.
“Emily, let’s go,” she said. The name was familiar, it had been screamed out in a moment of panic. Yes, Emily was the angel girl who’d saved Alastor from that laser. A young thing, really. Too young to put her life at risk for someone like him. “Please,” the angel, perhaps a seraphim, continued, “understand that we do not mean to harm any more sinners in hell, but this was a necessary sacrifice. He’ll be out for an hour at the most. Until then, I put it upon the people to decide what to do with him.” She turned to face the princess. “Charlie?”
She looked up at this seraphim with no differing respect than she’d show any other sinner. That was perhaps the issue with Charlie. She thought everyone was equal, that a sinner and seraphim were one in the same. Maybe that was why she’d started that hotel, and why Alastor was standing here now. Because she was naïve enough to think that there was good in everyone. Alastor had been around long enough to know that wasn’t true. He’d been through this before, and he would never think that way again.
“We will meet soon to discuss this further.” And then, the angels were gone. In a portal or flash of light was not totally clear, but it was otherworldly. Alastor felt momentarily jealous of them. They were able to leave this situation as soon as they’d entered it, while he was stuck here, in hell, awaiting the hundreds of questions this would pose. But it wasn’t entirely out of character for heaven to abandon hell when they were in need.
And, to really pour salt in the wound, Rosie had disappeared as well. Abandoned Alastor the moment that things got messy. It was out of character for her, really. She was a loyal, honest woman, and that’s why he should’ve known not to jeopardize their agreement.
“Alastor.” Charlie very slowly turned to him in that overly cartoonish way that she often did. “What the fuck was that!” She yelled, so high that it hurt his oversized ears.
“I’d rather not talk about it. What are we to do with him?” Trying to change the subject was conspicuous and futile, Alastor knew, but he did it anyway. And right as he did, it seemed that every eye in hell turned toward where he and Charlie stood, like this choice was suddenly up to them. Like it was their job to save hell and Vincent. And Alastor wanted no part in that.
“What do you mean what do we do with him? HOLY SHIT THE WEAPON!” Charlie had a terrible habit of getting easily distracted, but this may have been a valid time to do so. Alastor also found himself wondering what had happened with the weapon, why it hadn’t exploded everything and the debris too.
“I NEED TO CALL BAXTER!” Charlie furiously dialed a number into her cell phone, leaving everyone else to glance around at each other. Alastor wasn’t really familiar with this Baxter character, supposedly he was like Sir Pentious, which meant he probably wasn’t remarkable enough to commit to memory.
After several minutes of frantic yelling from Charlie, whispers among other overlords, and Alastor dreading the inevitable conversation after this, she turned back to him.
“Alright, so apparently the weapon was, like, hooked to Vox or something? And when Sera took him out, it shut the weapon down with his servers! Once he wakes up it’ll start back up again, so we have that long to fix everything.” Charlie, ever the optimist. Alastor knew nothing about this weapon, but he knew Vincent, who would most definitely make it more complex than ‘disable-in-less-than-an-hour.’
“Princess, that isn’t possible. He has to shut it down himself, and even then, we have to disengage the power source, which will be…difficult.” Carmilla Carmine, an overlord. She was also like Vincent, in the sense that she too had obvious weaknesses. Her two daughters, which made sense logically, but to allow yourself to be so easily manipulated? A poor move on her part, especially with the power she held.
Charlie’s face fell fast, because it was obvious that there was no solution. They could never evacuate the zone for destruction in one hour, and they couldn’t disable the weapon either. Really, all that the hour did was give everyone time to agree with their deaths. Give Alastor time to wallow in the fact that he’d just made everyone think he was interested in Vincent Whittman, and they would all die thinking that, because there was no way he would explain why exactly he’d done that. Great.
“Wait…can his connection last throughout the entire pride ring?” Charlie asked. She was met with collective shrugs from the crowd, all except from Carmilla Carmine. Her face was thoughtful, though Alastor hoped she’d forgotten his existence here, otherwise he would surely get roped into this.
“No, I don’t see why it would. Unless he was in Vee tower, but they probably won’t be taking him back anytime soon.”
Charlie mimicked the thoughtful expression for a moment.
“Okay, here’s the plan!” She finally said enthusiastically, “We need someone to take him far enough away that he won’t reactivate the weapon when he wakes up.”
“But who should take him?” Vaggie asked from her side. Alastor sunk back into himself, hoping that they wouldn’t notice him. He couldn’t leave, unfortunately, lest everyone correctly assume he was avoiding the situation at hand.
Charlie’s face lit up, which was never a good sign. “Alastor, you’ve fought Vox before right? When he wakes up he’ll definitely be mad, and we can’t have him getting back over here in a fit of rage, so you’ll take him to…wherever it is you go after the hotel, and then—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Alastor didn’t just take people into his own home. He especially did not take Vincent Whittman into his home. He did not do favors for people. He did not work for free. Alastor was not going to babysit the television overlord while everyone else tried to clean up this mess. Alastor was going to forget about Vincent totally, like he should’ve done a long time ago. “Who said I was willing to take him? What reason would I have to do that?”
“Well, weren’t you just talking about being together? I didn’t think you’d be opposed, but if you’re worried that Vox doesn’t feel the same way then—”
“NO! No, it’s fine, I can take him while you fix the weapon. But send him somewhere else when you’re done.” Charlie’s smile made Alastor sick. She had no idea the chaos that this would bring into his life, and she probably didn’t care. No one cared about his petty grudges or rivalries, so it was up to him to care about them enough to compensate.
He approached the lifeless Vincent. Yes, a shell of the man he’d once been, but still undoubtedly the same. He had the same ambition, the same lust for something greater. The only real thing that had changed was what he chose to do with those passions. The same. Alastor had to think that way. He had to remember that they were the same person. He had to remember that Vincent always wanted power in this way, that he’d always used others for his own benefit. Alastor had to think that nothing had changed. Because if he didn’t, then there was only one thing that could’ve gone wrong.
And that was very clearly not what he wanted. He hated working so hard to suppress the complicated emotions surrounding Vincent. He hated knowing that he would have to confront them sooner or later, figure out what they really were. He hated that deep down he’d once cared for someone that only wanted power.
Yes, Alastor always got what he wanted. But every action had to be met with an equal, opposite reaction. So it seemed that, really, he never got what he wanted. And maybe, in the future, he would finally realize that. But until then, he would continue trying to disprove fate and avoid the inevitable in any way he could, and he’d begrudgingly take Vincent Whittman home for the first time in seventy years.