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If there had to be one word to describe Alastor the Radio Demon, even before ‘feared,’ or ‘sadistic’ or even ‘powerful…’ it would be… tired. He is so, so tired. It's been seven years. Seven years of being locked away, hidden on Rosie's agenda and on her shelf, for just the right time. Like he was a piece of merchandise she was saving for just the right customer. And in a way… he is.
The first thing he does when released to act on her plans, is head to the bar. His bar. Well, not in name or ownership, but he's been patronizing that little hole in the wall longer than they can keep a bartender around.
So before he goes and finds a way to ingratiate himself with the princess, or to think of some clever plan, he nips in for a whiskey. Partly out of small rebellion, which he's pretty sure he's earned after all these years, but also just to let the rumors start swirling at his mere presence. They won't spread too fast. Part of why he likes this place is that it's mainly regulars who couldn't give a rat’s ass who comes in and what they do. But some might notice, and that'll be enough to start just a light buzz. To keep everyone on their toes.
The lights are dim as he enters, taking a seat on one of the ripped barstools and gesturing to an unfamiliar bartender, getting a healthy pour of whiskey for his troubles. He looks around as he sips, noting the fact that there's a small stage across the room, tucked almost behind the bar. That's new. There's an old microphone and a piano, the latter of which makes his fingers itch to ‘tickle the ivories,’ as it were.
However, before he can be so bold, or get enough whiskey in him to be so bold, a small scaly demon sits down, starting to pick out a few chords, starting a jazzier version of some morose tune Alastor faintly recognizes, though not enough to pay attention. He zones out, the music a backdrop to really no thoughts at all, just alcohol and a vague dream of future freedom.
Applause spreads around the very few patrons who are scattered throughout the layout. For a moment, Alastor’s pride tells him to take a bow, but then a figure steps into the stage and leans against the piano. Of course, foolish him.
Alastor doesn't look at whoever it is with more than a glance, taking his glass to the cigarette dispenser behind him to purchase a much needed pack.
He's reaching down to grab the vended smokes when the performer behind him starts to sing, Alastor’s whole body freezing as he immediately realizes three things: he knows exactly who's singing, what that song is, and that it's a truly terrible idea for him to stay here right now.
What the fuck is Vox doing here,at one of their his, haunts? Singing a song that they had once played together, Alastor at the piano, Vox leaning sleepily over the edge as he sang along. It's stupid they ever did that really, this song was well after Alastor’s time, after Vox’s time, and yet… They liked it. Alastor especially liked to play with the melody, adding some flair while Vox glowered, sticking to the exact sheet music.
When I said I needed you
You said you would always stay
No he hadn’t. Alastor snorts at this, even though this song is not about him, thank you very much. But hadn't he done just the opposite when Vox had said he needed him? He'd laughed in the man’s face and then disappeared.
It wasn't me who changed but you and now you've gone away
No. Vox was the one who had changed. They'd had a good thing going. A good thing that Alastor at least, had known better than to fuck up with words. Vox, on the other hand, had blathered out meaningless compliments before trying to get him, the Radio Demon, into a deal of what, equality? They’d already had that, a beautiful, untarnished symbiotic relationship that Alastor held more dearly than he would ever admit to anyone. Equality. Like that would have lasted. He knows how Vox operated in life.
Don't you see that now you've gone
Here, the pianist misses a beat, almost throwing Vox off and Alastor rolls his eyes. Fuck it, so much for running away before he could be seen. He changes his mind in a second, tucking the cigarettes into his pocket before melting into his shadow form, his glass shattering on the floor, distracting everyone, including Vox.
In that split second, he reappears on the piano bench, his shadow form stealing the other accompanist into the night as he picks up the melody without skipping a beat. Vox’s eyes slide back to the audience, of course he wasn't the kind to confer with the musician, he was a terrible team player. Alastor had been right to turn him down. Sure, Vox probably couldn't see him even if he did look, unless his smile glows in the dark, but still. Alastor has to resist adding a jazz trill or two as he continues on. Later.
And I'm left here on my own
Vox had been fine.
That I have to follow you and beg you to come home
Well now that's really not about them. It's not like Vox had a reason to hang up missing posters when Alastor disappeared, after all, they were barely talking but really. Had the other man not known him well enough to know that his reaction had been extreme even for him? Or had he just respected Alastor enough to take him at face value, like a fool.
You don't have to say you love me, just be close at hand
Had Vox missed him, when he had left?
You don't have to stay forever, I will understand
Vox probably would understand, the simpering idiot. Out of the two of them, he always had been the better one with emotions and… feelings.
Believe me, believe me, I can't help but love you
Like love, for example. Alastor does not understand love. Such a useless emotion. Love was what had made him so destroyed when his mother died. Love had gotten half the sinners where they are now. The other half are there due to hate. In his opinion, caring that much either way leaves one open to weakness. He’d never asked Vox how he felt about it.
But believe me, I'll never tie you down
Vox should have taken that advice before he’d tried to propose a partnership. If he had truly appreciated Alastor for who he was, why did he need to make it formal? There was no quicker way to scare him away like the damn deer he looks like.
Left alone with just a memory
They had spent some good times together though. Hadn’t they? How many pleasurable nights had they passed together, Alastor noodling around on the piano while Vox rests his head on his arms on the lid, feeling the vibrations in his screen. How many tabs had they run up on this very bar, the whiskey flowing just as quickly as their patter of conversation. He usually didn’t let himself get drunk around other people as a rule, and if he did, he never let anyone know about it. However, Vox was the exception. Oh boy, was he the exception. Actually, if Alastor was being honest with himself, Vox had been the exception to quite a few of his rules. Touch, for instance.
Vox was a touchy guy, with everyone, and Alastor certainly hadn’t been his exception in that regard. He would clap a hand on Alastor’s back if he got excited, or shake his hand. Once, when they’d been faux fighting over a check they knew Vox would settle, he had lain his hand over Alastor’s and then left it there, neither of them saying anything, even Alastor, who would normally have had that hand boiling in a stockpot for such an offense.
No, the only time he had minded Vox’s touch was that one night, when he was making his sales pitch. He had laid his hands on Alastor’s shoulders, a move Alastor himself has employed oh so many times to souls he is on the cusp of owning. No one’s ever dared to do it to him and it’s that touch that had set off his warning bells. Whatever dewy eyed dreams Vox may have had going into that little scheme… well. They would have been crushed at the end no matter what. Alastor really did him the favor of a quick kill. He should have thanked him, instead of running out of the bar with tears in his eyes.
Life seems dead and so unreal
Speaking of tears… Why is he crying? The Radio Demon Does Not. Fucking. Cry. He had barely cried in his life! Smiling was way more effective for warding off adversity. Crying, people know how to handle. Well, all people except him, apparently. Ugh. This... Emotion is getting his teeth all salty.
All that's left is loneliness, there's nothing left to feel
Loneliness, what a concept. He’s not lonely. He’s independent. He doesn’t need anyone, never has.
You don't have to say you love me, just be close at hand
You don't have to stay forever, I will understand
His tone is pleading now, something Alastor would dismiss as pathetic if it wasn't moving him, a lump in his throat.
Believe me, believe me
Vox trails off as the song finishes, to light applause. Alastor should go. Eventually the video demon is going to turn, eventually the spotlight will drop and he’ll be able to see who’s actually accompanying him. But Alastor lingers, feeling his adrenaline spike from the risk the longer he does. God, it’s almost as if he wants Vox to see him. Which he doesn’t. Which is good, because Vox is looking straight ahead, clearing his throat and saying into the mic,
“Thank you, everyone. You know, it’s… nice to be in this place again. I stayed away for way too long. Um, that song…that was dedicated to a friend of mine, one of the only ones I’ve ever had. He left me a long time ago and I never got to tell him how I really felt. That I… well. You heard the song.” He chuckles awkwardly before tacking on a suave smile and pointing. “Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, and don’t forget to get the VoxTech App, perfect for all your tech needs! Remember, trust us with your everything!”
His tone in that little speech is a rollercoaster, starting soft and sincere before transitioning into his salesman bravado. In fact, Alastor is so busy analysing that part that he almost misses the words Vox is actually saying. Those sink in a little later, hitting him with the force of a hunter’s shotgun.
Was Vox… talking about him? He’s never known the man to have any other 'friends' in their time together, and after all, hadn’t Alastor himself been drawing comparisons between their… relationship and the lyrics of the song the whole night? It stands to reason that Vox might do the same. He won’t pretend to approve of the level of vulnerability the man is sharing in public, but that’s not up to him, he supposes.
He’s musing on all of this when Vox’s tone shifts again, a mix between his two priors and he gestures, oh no, in Alastor’s direction, saying,
“Give it up for my accompanist, Leonard, will you…” He trails off, and Alastor slowly raises his gaze until he’s making eye contact with the TV as all the color drains off his screen and he drops his hand from where it had been casually curled around the microphone stand. Then he straightens up, faces the audience and turns his hypnosis on, commanding them all, “You all will not remember what you have seen tonight here in this bar.”
Alastor’s first instinct is to mock how broad his word choice is. He wants to say something to the tune of tut, tut, Vincent, why so non specific? What if someone had witnessed a CRIME tonight? Besides your singing, of course. WHAT would the authorities say? Of course, in the reality he would say something to that effect, Vox would probably laugh and toss something biting right back his way.
But this isn’t that reality and for once Alastor keeps his smiling trap shut, watching as Vox once again runs out the door of the bar, nearly 70 years fading away like nothing. He closes the lid of the piano, rising, debating on if he should just go back to the bar like nothing’s happened. But… fuck.
He rises out of the shadows directly in front of Vox, who is currently bent over in the alley behind the bar, hands on his knees, having some kind of attack of the panic variety. At least that’s what Alastor would surmise. He doesn’t crouch to Vox’s level, doesn’t try to talk, just stands there in front of him, basically daring the man to sully his shoes with vomit.
He doesn’t though. Instead Vox stares at Alastor’s wingtips for 3 minutes before his breathing regulates, eyes closing as it does. He straightens up before he speaks, looking Alastor in the eye with what is clearly meant to be a withering stare as he states in a flat tone.
“So. I see the Radio Demon is back in town.” Alastor says nothing, again, a first for him really. He should get a medal. Vox glares at this, spitting out, “What? That cat of yours got your tongue?”
Alastor titters, playing idly with his staff as he takes in the figure in front of him. Seven years hasn’t done much to Vox. His clothes are still a pale imitation of Alastor’s own classic coat and tie, though they’re more well tailored than they had been. His screen is flatter now, but his face is the same. His eyes are the same. His snarl hasn’t changed either, and Alastor sees his fists balling, energy coursing through them. He waves his staff in front of one of them, finally saying,
“I don’t want to fight you, Vincent.” Vox flushes, in anger, Alastor’s sure, before he catches Alastor’s gaze. His fist stops pulsating and his expression turns confused and wide eyed as he realizes out loud,
“Oh shit. You’re serious.” Alastor nods and Vox looks even more flustered, rubbing the back of his neck just like he used to. In a second, he’s that bulky headed newbie to Hell again, offering his hand to what he presumed to be his old friend and having him laugh in his face.
It’s at this very moment that Alastor realizes he made a mistake that night. At least… he thinks he did. He thinks back to what Vox had said after performing. Thought about how the man’s eyes had closed while singing about loving someone on their terms. Looks now into the mistiness of the man’s screen. Oh yes, he had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
Alastor swallows, wondering how one can say such a thing, how to get the message across without words. Because if there’s one thing the Radio Demon hates more than anything else, it’s apologizing for his own mistakes. He looks at Vox’s trembling lip, thinks once more to what he had said. I never got to tell him…
“What?” Vox blinks at Alastor’s one word question, parrying it right back with a
“What?” of his own. Alastor clears his throat, waving his staff towards the entrance of the club, elaborating,
“What did you not get to tell me?” Vox squeezes his eyes shut in clear embarrassment, knocking his fist against his forehead as he groans,
“Fuck, I forgot you were there for that part.” Alastor nods, adding quietly,
“Yes… I was… close at hand the whole time.” Vox looks up at him, a question in his eyes and Alastor asks again.
“What did you need to tell me, Vincent? If I’m correct that you were speaking of me and my absence earlier?” Vox nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and knocking his head backwards against the alley wall, sighing.
“God, this is weird, Al. Fine. You really want to know? I… never got to tell you that I think… I think I was… when I asked you to be my partner…” Alastor has never heard the man at such a loss for words. Perhaps he can assist. He clears his throat, not opening his mouth as he uses the space behind his teeth as a speaker, broadcasting a certain line of the song they had just performed.
'You don’t have to say... you love me.' Vox huffs a laugh, eyes still closed, head flopping forward in what must be a terrible strain on his neck.
“Heh. Yeah. That.” Alastor nods, suspicions confirmed. He approaches the other man cautiously, using his staff to lift the rather heavy TV head to study it at close range, counting almost every pixel before he leans in, brushing his lips against the other man’s softly, Vox’s eyes flying open just as Alastor’s snap shut.
That action in and of itself speaks volumes. He hates having his eyes closed around other people. Too risky. Especially the man in front of him, who has been trying to kill him for 70 years. And yet… Vox doesn’t attack him. He doesn’t even keep his eyes open, something Alastor notices when he sneaks a peek.
No, what Vox does is sigh into Alastor’s mouth and haul him in closer, putting his hand on Alastor’s neck as the kiss deepens, Alastor’s claws digging into the wall behind him. Alastor’s never had another man’s tongue in his mouth before. Well, not in this context anyway. He should hate it, all slime and heat, but he doesn’t. He bites Vox’s lip deeply, tasting blood. Now that’s a familiar taste and feeling. Intoxicating.
Eventually they break, breathing almost as heavily as Vox had been when Alastor found him. Vox, for one, is incredibly flushed, and he keeps touching his mouth. Though whether he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream or just trying to blot blood off his lip it’s hard to say. Alastor moves over to stand next to Vox instead of in front of him, actually leaning his precious coat against an alleyway in Hell. What a day of firsts.
It’s quiet between them for a while, both seemingly processing the moment. Then Alastor stretches, leaning down and taking the other man’s hand in his, surprised at how he doesn’t hate this either, just as he hadn’t all those many years ago when they were fighting over the check. Vox’s claws curl around his own tentatively and Alastor’s smile widens, humming slightly as he remarks,
“Hmmmm. You know what, Vincent? It’s good to be back.”