Chapter Text
Vincent Whittman is younger, some insignificant age when he sees the billboard. Not too young, but young enough to not quite be working, which his father says means he's not any form of useful yet. Vincent is inclined to agree, he definitely doesn’t feel useful, anyway. The kids at school refer to him as a freak due to his thick glasses and his two toned eyes, though he’s heard his parents arguing about it, his father insisting to his mother that it’s because of Vincent’s ‘effeminate nature’ whatever that means, that the other boys don’t want to play with him. Apparently his mother’s coddling made him that way, and it’s a bad thing. Vincent is more distant with his mother after that, though that still doesn’t win him any favor with his dad. Especially after she… anyway. Back to the billboard.
He can't even remember now where he would have been to see it. It would make no sense for it to be in his hometown of Maryland, as it's advertising a program from New Orleans. Sometimes, as he’s trying to sleep, his mind starts to wonder if it had simply appeared in his dreams one night like destiny.
The sign itself is weathered, peeling with age, but it captivates him all the same. He's not sure why, it's just a man. A man with darker skin and a broad, captivating smile, holding a microphone and his other hand outstretched to the unseen audience. The letters next to him announce, Ready for a good time? Tune into Alastor’s Smile Hour at 9pm!
He's entranced by the large white teeth, the inviting hand. But moreso, there’s an air of… confidence about him that Vincent wants to pull off the billboard and swallow, inheriting the power. When he gets home that night, he practices smiling in the mirror, offering his hand to his reflection. A few nights he stays up without his parents knowing, trying to find the station, but comes up empty. He’s disappointed, but not surprised. The advertisement had looked older, and the man Vincent can’t get out of his head definitely doesn’t look like anyone in Vincent’s town.
As he gets older, Vincent doesn’t actively think about the man on the billboard, or ‘Advertisment Al’ as he calls him. He’s probably not even real, probably just a hyperrealistic drawing. And yet… Vincent can’t help bringing that confident smile with him everywhere he goes. What’s more, it works. The minute he smiles away the tears in his eyes, the bullies lose interest. He starts making more eye contact, learns how to sell himself. Hops from an internship with a local news station to a paid position on the air with little hassle. Keeps growing brighter and brighter and brighter until… he falls.
He hasn’t been in Hell long before he sees that damn billboard again. Well, no. It’s a different billboard. It has to be, and yet it is so eerily similar it can’t just be a coincidence. There's a demon with a very strange hair cut that seems to form deerlike ears, antlers nestled between them. His eyes and clothes are red and his smile certainly isn’t white but rather a dingy yellow and sharp as all hell. However, his pose is the same, one hand outstretched, the other holding a microphone, and the words next to him… Ready for a good time? Tune into Alastor’s Smile Hour anytime on channel 666!
Vincent can’t get his hands on a radio fast enough. His fingers are shaking as he turns the dial, and he doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until he exhales the minute a high, loud voice starts announcing,
“Hello all you wayward sinners and welcome again to Alastor’s Smile Hour! Before the ad break we had some rather powerful overlords in our background… were you able to guess their names? Call in at 1800-666-SMILE and remember… no hints and no rewards!” The voice giggles and Vincent blinks, a warm, starstruck feeling pooling in his gut. Abruptly he launches himself to his feet, knocking over the stool he was perched on. He just has to meet this guy, tell him what a change in his life he made.
He has to ask way too many people before someone finally points him in the direction of a broadcasting tower on a far off hill, tall enough he should have noticed it on his own. He scans for any form of television network while he makes his way up there, but sees no signs. Strange. Surely radio isn’t the only form of media in this (literally) God-forsaken place?
By the time he makes it to the tower and is knocking on the door, he has a whole plan. He’ll get in good with this Alastor guy, climb the ranks- surely the man has a whole production and then he’ll convince him to expand to television. Imagine what they could do together. And people say to never meet your heroes. What do they know?
It's not Alastor who opens the door while Vincent is adjusting his sweater vest and tie, feeling static butterflies buzzing in his stomach. Actually, he can't see anyone there until he drops his gaze to the floor. A small demon with a flipped bob and a fluffy little skirt is standing there with her apron covered in blood and a wide smile on her one eyed face. She looks a little like kids he'd see walking to the soda shoppe out the window of work. She certainly has the attitude of a sullen teen, snapping in a high pitched tone,
“What do ya want? I'm cleaning! Alastor lets me clean.”
He bends down to get to her level, hiking up his pants to expose his argyle socks, settling into a crouch.
“Hiya kid, I was actually looking for Alastor, can you help me?” She narrows her eyes at him, assessing his wide smile that's flickering on his boxy screen, his outstretched hand. Apparently she isn't thrilled with what she sees, as she announces,
“No!” and leaps up, trying to slam the door. Both fortunately and unfortunately for him, he's stuck his foot in there before she can, crushing his toes and making him shriek in pain. She seems both confused and undeterred, as she slams it again and again into his foot.
“Fuck!” He tries to stop it, standing and holding out his hand to the door, but for a tiny thing she sure is strong.
“Niffty? Are you stabbing peddlers again? I knew I was right to keep you around.” That voice… Vincent knows that voice. He looks up to see Alastor, looking exactly like his new billboard, smile included, descending a staircase. His crimson pinstripe coat is neatly pressed, and his staff is in hand, the eye in the middle staring right at Vincent, making him swallow. Alastor’s gaze barely skims him but he already looks unimpressed, waving a hand,
“Go ahead Niffty, dear, have your fun. Just be a doll and toss him in the trash when you're finished, will you?” Vincent feels desperation and fear thrum through his veins and he holds his hand firmer against the door, crying out,
“Wait! Please wait, Alastor- I just need to tell you something!” Alastor turns from the stairs he had already started to ascend, hair swinging as he does so, asking in a bored tone,
“I'm sorry, do I know you?” Niffty pauses her slamming, but Vincent is reluctant to withdraw his foot, lest she start again. He scrambles to get words out, abandoning what he had practiced to clumsily blurt out,
“No, but I know you! I mean I want to- I mean- oh fuck.” He takes a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in his right foot and offering his hand that isn't still on the door. “I mean, Vincent Whittman, Sir, it's an honor to meet you, I'm a huge fan.” Alastor flicks a look to his outstretched hand but doesn't offer his own. His smile is still in place but his eyes have lowered, looking bored. Fuck, this isn't how this was supposed to go. He's frantically thinking of what else he can say, when Alastor responds, checking his nails as he does so.
“Mmm yes, you know, I do hear this a lot, most powerful sinner in Hell and all…” Vincent’s eyes widen. Holy shit, this man is so cool.
“You are??” Alastor’s smile doesn’t drop, but his eye does twitch and Vincent hurries to add,
“I mean, I don’t doubt it, I just… I haven’t been here long. I was a fan of yours in… you know, life.” Now Alastor’s eyes are the ones to grow larger and he actually looks intrigued. Vincent can feel his foot in the door in more ways than one now.
“An original Smile Hour fan, ey? Well I’ll have to admit, those are a little rarer, due to the… limited run.” Vincent winces, not just because his foot is really throbbing now, but because he knows he has to clarify one more time, rubbing the back of his neck as he does so.
“Ah- I mean, I would have been, Sir, but I never actually got a chance to listen. See, I saw a billboard for your show when I was a little younger and it gave me confidence. I don’t know how to explain, but you inspired me to go into entertainment- I actually became pretty successful myself in television! Anyway, when I got here and I saw your sign again, well, I just wanted to say thank you.” He wraps up awkwardly, trying desperately to keep appropriate eye contact as Alastor silently appraises him. For a second he thinks he’s passed muster, and then the demon in front of him is turning back to the stairs. Fuck. Well, it was worth a shot. He’s about to shuffle backwards and run back to the cramped apartment he’s more or less squatting in, when Alastor turns his head back and says over his retreating shoulder,
“Niffty dear, escort Vincent into the kitchen and get him some ice for that foot, will you? You did quite a number on him.” Niffty nods, cheerily beckoning for Vincent to follow her, her previous vendetta against him clearly forgotten on her end.
“C’mon, I’ll show you where I clean!” Vincent nods, following her with only a slight limp. As they go down the hallway, Alastor commands after them,
“Just the kitchen now, Niffty, let’s not get carried away!” She nods and bobs her way down the hallway, only pausing to stab a few rogue bugs, which Vincent finds are rather out of place with the really very spotless hall. The floors are shining dark wood and the wallpaper is an understated burgundy. The guy seems to have an affinity for red, which makes sense if he really is as mighty as he says he is, red is the color of power after all. Though it seems rather arrogant to announce it in such a way. He should do what Vincent did, frame all his accolades in gold and line his walls with them when his mantle got too full.
The kitchen is as tidy as the hallway had been, a small room with a round wood table and chair, a newspaper and a still steaming cup of tea sit on the table, as if Alastor had been perched there, watching his maid scurry around the kitchen. There is a wide counter with a sink built into it in the middle of the space, and a stove parallel to that with a large stock pot simmering there. It smells like spice and meat and it would make his stomach growl if he didn’t will it to be quiet. He does want to make at least a bit of a good impression.
Niffty pushes him into the chair next to the small table and scurries to the ice box, holding an ice pack aloft as she comes back, tossing it on his foot like a beanbag into a board. He hisses in pain but attempts a smile.
“Thank you.” She flashes him a wide grin with teeth sharper than the knife she had been wielding earlier.
“You’re welcome!” He grimaces as he shrugs off his shoe. It’s hard to tell how bruised his foot is, what with the dark grey color of his new skin, but some of his toes are definitely at a different angle now. He breathes heavily, relying on the gills under his shirt instead of his mouth or nose, trying to be inconspicuous with his pain. He’s shown enough weakness today. So much for impressing Alastor. The only person who did that in this situation was that maid.
“She is a feisty little gal, isn’t she?” Vincent whips his head up to see the man, the myth, the legend himself standing in front of him, looking down in an imperious sort of way. Vincent swallows, nodding and Alastor looks satisfied.
“Can I get you something to drink, Vincent?” Vincent gapes at the demon in front of him, unsure if it would be ruder to refuse or to accept. He settles on stammering out,
“W-well, if you’re offering, yes please, sir. Whatever you’re having.” Alastor hums, snapping his fingers to summon another chair and sitting across from Vincent.
“Very well. Niffty, dear, two sazeracs.” He inclines his head towards Vincent, saying frankly, “now between you and me, drinks are not her strong suit. I really do need a proper bartender. How well are you at mixology?” Vincent chuckles.
“I’ll have to admit, I can only make a martini and a highball, and they’re both passable at best.”
As he’s turning down the likely unserious offer, he realizes that this might be just the window he was looking for. He clears his throat.
“Actually sir-” Alastor waves his hand.
“Enough of this ‘sir’ nonsense, Vincent! You may address me as Alastor. After all, my name is on all the lips of Hell, might as well be on yours.” His grin widens, and now that they’re up close, Vincent can see miniscule flecks of blood dotting the yellowed fangs. Maybe he ate his dentist. “But please… continue.” Vincent huffs a laugh, doing just that, gesturing with his hands as he pitches:
“Right, well, uh, Alastor, I actually was hoping to bring what I built in life here, you know, like you did! I don’t know if you’ve ever dabbled in television, but I was wondering if you had any tips or advice on where to start?” Alastor tilts his head, running a claw around the edge of the glass Niffty deposited in front of him.
“Well aren’t you the bold one? No, Vincent, I believe you’ll find my medium suits me. Not to mention, why would I fix what is not broken?” Vincent nods, feeling a little shut down, defending his proposition weakly,
“I just, I think Television is the future of entertainment.” Alastor laughs derisively at that.
“I’ll have to disagree with you there, Vincent!” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “You say you want advice? Start with that name. It’s not exactly… snappy, or made for entertainment, now is it?” He chuckles. Vincent shrugs, feeling a blush warm his screen as he defends,
“Oh I don’t know, Vincent Price is doing alright.” Alastor’s eyes narrow and his head tilts in confusion.
“I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.” Vincent shrugs, sipping his whiskey. This little meeting hasn’t exactly gone the way he planned, but no matter. If Alastor isn’t his way in, he’ll just have to rebuild his empire the hard way.
They sit in silence for a moment, Vincent feeling a little like he’s failed a test. Eventually he can’t take it anymore, blurting out,
“So what are you cooking?” Alastor looks surprised, his eyebrows lifting, though his wide smile is still in place.
“Jambalaya. My mother’s recipe.” Vincent nods like that’s a dish he’s familiar with, even though it certainly isn’t. He chuckles a little.
“Well it certainly smells more flavorful than anything my mother ever made. We were a meatloaf and mashed potato kind of household.” Alastor nods, standing. Vincent rises too, clumsily, given the foot, certain he’s worn out his welcome. However, Alastor simply gestures to the stove, beckoning Vincent to join him as he dons a striped apron that was hanging on a hook.
“How unfortunate. Here, assist with these shrimp, won’t you?” He points to a pile of pink shrimp on the counter, tails unshucked. Vincent nods, washing his hands before starting to rip the tails off and de-vein the sea creatures. He’s made enough shrimp cocktails to know what he’s doing here at least. Strange, getting seafood in Hell, but he supposes this whole thing is unusual. There are no rules, it seems.
Alastor stirs whatever is in the pot as Vincent works on the shrimp. He doesn’t even turn when Vincent yelps, having discovered a few pink fingers mixed into the pile.
“Don’t mind those, Vincent, just pop the nail off, would you? Adds an unnecessary crunch.” Vincent shrugs, his initial surprise settling into indifference as he rips into the dead flesh. He’s done worse. In fact, he regrets his earlier gasp. Alastor must think he’s weak.
“I’ve killed a bunch of people, you know.” He winces as this line comes out of his mouth, but Alastor seems unphased, humming over the steaming stockpot, murmuring,
“You don’t say.” He doesn’t ask him to elaborate, but Vincent doesn’t need him to, already prattling on,
“Yeah, well, they were in my way and I had to climb the ladder, you know? I always knew I was destined for greatness, and once I figured out how to get up there… I was unstoppable.” Alastor hums again, remarking,
“Well aren't you just the cat’s pajamas? And yet, you’re here.” Vincent winces, almost snapping a shrimp in two when he thinks about that night. Whose fucking bright idea had it been to suspend T.Vs with shoddy wiring over water? Oh that's right, his. He shrugs it off though, simply saying,
“Wrong place, wrong time. Besides, Earth wasn’t big enough for me anyway.” Alastor freezes at this, though Vincent isn't sure why. The radio demon is quiet, still stirring but Vincent thinks he hears a small
“Ah yes” that makes Vincent desperately want to know just how well he can relate. He wants to know how Alastor ended up here, but that seems like perhaps a rude question to ask so early. So instead he says brightly,
“Shrimp are done!” Alastor whirls around, spoon in hand, announcing,
“excellent!” before scooping them up and adding them to whatever is in that pot. Then he turns back to Vincent, wiping his hands together.
“Now it needs to simmer for ohhh five minutes.” Vincent nods, fidgeting slightly with one of the fingernails he’d shucked, absentmindedly remarking,
“You’re lucky, you know. That your mother taught you to cook, I mean.”
Alastor stiffens when he hears this, then relaxes, murmuring,
“Mmmm…yes… ‘lucky.’” He doesn’t say anything else, which Vincent takes as a polite signal that he’s crossed a line. He shoves his shoe back on, standing awkwardly.
“I should get going, you’ve already been more than hospitable.” Alastor tilts his head, studying Vincent again as he backs towards the door. He’s almost there when Alastor directs his gaze to the wall instead, saying,
“You mentioned luck. Perhaps it’s you who’s the fortunate one. Normally I'd slice you up as a garnish, even with your pathetic and nonsensical story of inspiration. But…Mama always said that good food is a waste without someone to share it with, and seeing as it's her birthday, I think we should honor her wishes, don't you?” Vincent pauses, his hand on the doorway, still processing the insults, nevermind the invitation as Alastor continues blithely,
“However, if you must dash, I suppose I’ll just have Niffty join me instead.” Vincent opens his mouth, shaking his head as he steps back in the kitchen.
“If you’re sure… I would love to.” He goes back to leaning against the counter and fiddling with the shrimp shells. “You were close to your mother, huh?” Alastor has already turned back to stir the pot on the stove again, lowering the heat while answering with a question of his own,
“Isn’t every little boy?” Vincent winces at this, glad Alastor’s back is to him, his tone empty as he replies,
“I guess.” The shrimp tail he’s playing with breaks, and he stares at it, suddenly a bit melancholy. That wedge his dad had driven between him and his mother had never dissipated. She’d been there physically, always reaching out a hand, but he never took it, neither literally nor metaphorically. He would give her one word answers to her questions about how school was and he would pick at his dinner until his father threatened him. She’d killed herself when he was 15, in the garage with the car running and both he and his father seemed to have an unspoken agreement it was his fault. Well, unspoken unless his dad was drunk. Then it was very much spoken.
“Ah, will you look at that!” Vicent snaps out of his reverie to see Alastor brandishing a pot of presumably completed jambalaya. He sets it on a pot holder, dishing them both up a hearty serving before tilting his head towards the door.
“Niffty! Dinner!” She zooms in almost faster than Alastor can summon another chair and eagerly holds out her plate, which Alastor fills before ruffling her hair. Perhaps she's more than just the ‘help,’ Vincent thinks. Alastor seems awfully soft about her.
The jambalaya is just about the best thing he's ever tasted, though it does make his tongue tingle in a way he didn't know food could. He doesn't even mind the fingers. After all, it's all just meat. Not to mention the fact he's eaten enough Fourth of July hot dogs, he's likely already consumed human flesh. He groans, freely admitting to the table,
“This might be the most incredible food I've ever had.” Alastor’s constant smile spreads wider, and he nods.
“I agree, Vincent. Though I would have perhaps added a bit more p-” Vincent can't help himself, he interrupts his hosts oncoming criticism with a quick,
“No. It's perfect.” Alastor looks at him blankly and Vincent mentally curses, outwardly apologizing, “Ah, shoot. I'm sorry, I interru-” Alastor cuts him off with a wave of his hand.
“Not a worry.” Then he winks, making Vincent chuckle, looking down at his plate and moving his food around with a fork before shoveling more into his mouth. Niffty seems oblivious to everything but inhaling her plate, her eye tracking the kitchen for bugs.
When dinner is finished, Vincent wipes his mouth with a napkin, standing up to bring his plate to the kitchen. He's about to rinse it off when Alastor stops him with an offhanded,
“I wouldn't wash that if I were you. Niffty is rather territorial.” Vincent looks at the plate, then at the tiny cyclops at the table, who's indeed watching him with narrowed eye. He leaves the plate where it is, and walks back to the table, pushing in his chair and inclining his head to Alastor.
“Thank you so much for… well, everything. I didn't expect to ever even hear you on the radio, much less have dinner in your home.” He extends his hand to shake but Alastor waves him off.
“Nonsense, Vincent, it was my pleasure.” He doesn't rise, instead gesturing vaguely while sipping his whiskey. “Niffty will escort you to the door.”
When Vincent gets back to his apartment, he flops backwards onto his creaky mattress, belly full and smile endless. What a day. He rolls over, kicking off his shoes as he does so. When the right one hits the floor, however, he sees something fall out. He leans down and picks up a shiny red calling card with gold script on it reading, Alastor, Host of Smile Hour. 1-666-Smile-13. He presses the card to his chest, though he doesn’t know why. He drifts off to sleep like that, the ghost of spice still numbing his mouth and pinking his cheeks… though maybe the latter isn’t the spice.