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Vox paced in the dim alley outside the bar. His antennae crackled, electricity snapping into a heart-shaped loop before he noticed and violently forced them straight again.
“Okay,” he muttered, tugging at his tie, “you’ve done worse than ask a demon overlord slash crush for partnership… probably.”
That was a lie. This was the kind of moment that made him vulnerable in front of someone who could see everything and took pleasure in doing so.
He glanced down at the post-it note clenched in his hand: carefully scribbled bullet points meant to keep him from spiraling into complete disaster.
- Compliment.
- Mention how well they work together.
- Don’t make it weird.
The fourth, added later in smaller writing: Kiss him if it works.
“Is the kissing part really necessary?” Vox thought, panic buzzing under the surface of his thoughts. Of course not. It’s not like he was into him. And if it happened, well, he definitely wouldn’t enjoy it.
He swallowed, trying to steady his voice. “Alright, Vincent. Nothing bad’s gonna happen. Worst-case scenario, he laughs. Whatever. After this, we go hunt, and I’ll let him eat some sinners.”
Vox stepped through the door of the bar. The murmur of demons and the clink of glasses hit him like a wall as he braced himself for the conversation that could potentially be the best or worst day of his afterlife.
Alastor was leaning against the bar, fingers drumming idly on the wood, “Nice of you to finally join me, Vincent.” Alastor said pleasantly. “I wonder what took you so long to come in? I could see you pacing outside for the past thirty minutes.”
Vox’s stomach dropped.
His screen flickered, “You were watching me?”
“Mm,” Alastor hummed. “Quite the performance.”
Great. Perfect. He’d been reduced to a spectacle before he even opened his mouth.
“I wasn’t pacing that much, right?”
“Oh, I think you were… thorough,” Alastor replied, swirling the glass in his hand.
Vox forced a grin. “Right. Thorough. Not embarrassing at all.”
A beat passed, words stacking behind his screen, tripping over each other.
“I invited you here because,” he said finally, rushing it a little, “there’s something I wanted to say.”
“Do tell, my dear,” Alastor replied smoothly, lifting his glass just enough to acknowledge him without fully turning.
Vox leaned in, screen flickering with a blue-tinted blush he absolutely refused to acknowledge. “You’re inspiring, really! And if you think about it, modern entertainment started with radio.”
Alastor didn't look up. He simply hummed a discordant note.
"Am I boring you with my compliments?" Vox asked, the blush deepening.
Alastor tilted his head, "Perhaps."
Vox cleared his throat, "Well, look... I’ll just get to the point. We’ve been close for a few years now. People know us, they love us. And with new Overlords popping up every day-"
He caught the look in Alastor’s eyes and raised a hand quickly. "And before you hit me with a well you’re pretty new yourself," Vox shifted into a perfect, mocking imitation of Alastor’s transatlantic accent, "I know, okay?"
Alastor smiled fondly.
Vox took that as encouragement, something dangerously close to hope.
“But it’s in your best interest to hear me out,” he pressed.
“I’m listening, pal,” Alastor replied, signaling the demon behind the bar. “Barkeep, another whiskey.”
“So,” Vox continued, lowering his voice into the tone he used for closing deals, “I’ve been thinking. With your power and my massive influence, we’d be unstoppable. Radio and Video. Me and you; we could rule Hell together—”
He reached out a hand. “—as partners!”
Silence.
Oh, my sweet, naive little picture box… did you honestly believe it would be that simple?
Alastor let the moment stretch, watching Vox’s antennae twitch, the faint flicker of blue across his screen betraying nerves Vox would never admit to. There was something almost endearing about it—the confidence wrapped around such obvious vulnerability.
And then, as if the tension had been too delicious to contain, a sound escaped from his throat: a laugh. It started strained, uncertain, then blossomed into a bright, melodic peel of amusement that filled the bar.
"Oh... oh, you’re serious?" Alastor leaned forward, "Come now, Vox. I knew you could be pathetic at times, but I didn't realize you were so weak."
Vox's chuckled face paled. "What?"
Before Vox could react, Alastor’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Oh—fuck!” Alastor wheezed, eyes wide before collapsing into laughter again, sharp and breathless, the kind that hurt to hear. “You need me to join your team?”
Alastor’s voice was distorted now, "And here I thought you might actually be approaching my level. But asking for assistance? A partnership? I am quite disappointed in you."
Vox’s chest burned. The rejection felt like a physical weight in his chest. He’d spent months rehearsing this. He’d thought the lingering looks, the shared drinks, the way they carved through the Pride Ring together meant something.
"I just thought..." Vox’s voice breaking despite himself, "Since we were friends..."
"F̸̡͚̗̘͕̰̳͙̖̹̊̍̐́̿͜ȑ̵̡̛̗̤͕͖̳̳̤̫̫̻̈́̒̀̈̕ḯ̴̢͍̯́̋̀͐̋̈͋͆ͅë̶̛̟́̎̏̓̏̓̽͂̒̓͋̾̚n̴̛̰̭̂́̓̾̊̈́̋͌͋̉͘͝d̶̰̙̟͚̣̘̺̟̝͙͍̱̣̩̞́͋́̈̌̆̽̏̚͠ş̶̛̛̦͙̟͎͖̠̦͙̅̈́̾̀̀̎͛͋͌?̷̢̜̮̺̠̰͗͂̽̈͋͗͒͒̅̓̈́̑͝͝͠" Alastor leaned in closer, "There are no friends in Hell, Vincent. I thought that was something you understood. How embarrassing for you."
Alastor stood up, tossing a few coins on the bar for a drink he hadn't even touched, walking away.
“Oh, that’s rich,” Vox spat, hands trembling. “That’s fucking rich coming from you.”
Alastor paused.
“You don’t get to just—” Vox started, then stopped, jaw tightening. He forced his voice to steady. “You don’t get to say all that and walk away like it didn’t mean anything.”
Slowly, Alastor glanced back over his shoulder.
“You stand there preaching about strength,” Vox continued, “but the second someone suggests standing with you instead of under you, you treat it like a goddamn insult.”
Alastor turned fully now. “You misunderstand me, Vincent. I don’t require allies.”
“Bullshit!” Vox snapped. “You require control. You just hate that I don’t kneel when I offer it.”
A few demons backed away. Someone muttered, “nuh uh im outta here,” under their breath.
Vox stepped closer, gesturing wildly now, “You think asking for partnership makes me weak? You think I clawed my way up Hell just to grovel at your feet?”
His voice broke, sharp and humiliating. “I came to you because I thought you’d get it.”
Alastor’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Ah,” he said softly. “There it is.”
Vox froze. “There what?”
“Expectation,” Alastor replied. “You didn’t want a partnership. You wanted validation.”
Vox’s screen glitched violently, “Don’t psychoanalyze me like I’m one of your stupid listeners.”
Alastor chuckled. “Ah, but you flatter me constantly.” He pointed his staff at Vox’s screen. “The compliments. The invitations. The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
Vox froze.
“That doesn’t mean shit,” he snapped, too quickly.
“Mm.” Alastor stepped just close enough to lower his voice. “Then tell me why my refusal feels like such a personal wound.”
“I respected you,” Vox said, teeth clenched. “That’s all.”
Alastor’s smile sharpened, pleased.
“How unfortunate,” he said gently, “that you expected something in return.”
Finally, Vox let out a breath that sounded more like a hiss. “Then fuck you,” he said, quieter now but shaking. “Don’t come crawling when you realize you misjudged me.”
Alastor tipped his head, smile unwavering. “Confidence suits you better than desperation.”
Vox’s hands shook. He hated that Alastor saw it. Hated that he’d ever let himself believe the shared drinks, the conversations, the looks meant more than amusement.
Alastor straightened, already done. “Consider this a lesson,” he added. “Admiration is safest when kept unspoken.”
Then he turned away again.
This time, Vox didn’t call for him.
He just stood there, chest buzzing with static and something far more humiliating than anger, as Alastor walked off knowing exactly what he’d taken with him.
Vox didn’t talk about the bar.
He woke alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling while his screen stayed dark longer than usual.
Oh… oh, you’re serious.
The memory resurfaced uninvited. He bolted upright, static flaring bright across his display before he forced it down.
“Didn’t happen,” he muttered. “Just a bad dream.”
That was the story he settled on. Not rejection. Not ridicule. Just a miscalculation. A temporary lapse in judgment. Something he could fix later, if he ever chose to.
Yet, it had happened. Despite himself, he found his feet carrying him back to the bar.
The place hadn’t changed. Dim lights, clinking glasses, the hum of conversation—but it wasn’t the same. Alastor wasn’t there. Days had passed, and the empty space he left seemed to stretch wider each time Vox returned. He traced the counter with his gaze, hoping, expecting that it was all a cruel joke.
Vox ordered a drink out of habit, but the glass felt cold, useless in his hand.
Days blurred into weeks. Vox stopped tracking time outside of broadcast cycles and power surges. His antennae betrayed him more often now—sparking when his thoughts drifted, curling before he could force them straight.
He replayed the bar scene over and over again that maybe something might change.
If I hadn’t asked,
If I hadn’t expected anything in return,
If I hadn’t looked at him like that,
Then maybe… Alastor would still be here.
He found himself playing Alastor’s broadcasts without realizing it. One time, he let a broadcast run longer than necessary before catching himself and slamming it off.
Are you aware that I’m listening, Al? Or are you just going to choose to ignore me?
Vox’s mind drifted back to the first time Alastor had let him into the radio tower. He remembered stepping inside the spiraling staircase, the hum of machinery vibrating beneath the floor.
“Welcome to humble abode, pal,” Alastor had said, voice smooth, deliberate. He gestured at the equipment, the countless dials and sliders that controlled the world Vox had only ever glimpsed through his broadcasts.
“Al, can I touch this?” Vox had blurted out, unable to stop himself, his screen flickering with a faint blue blush.
“No—” Alastor had started, but Vox’s curiosity had already won. He reached for a dial, fingertips hovering above the smooth metal.
A faint, distant scream echoed from somewhere deeper in the tower.
“The fuck was that?” he yanked his hand back from the dial.
“Ah,” Alastor said, unfazed, “That’s the torture chamber. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, it’s part of the ambiance.”
Vox’s eyes darted to a large, soft object tucked in the corner. “Is that a shark plushie? Please tell me that’s a shark plushie!”
In the corner, a hammerhead shark plush with big googly eyes rested innocently.
Alastor followed Vox’s gaze, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Why, yes.”
“But why? I thought you didn’t even like sharks,” Vox stammered, his hands already reaching for the plush.
“Simply because I noticed your rather fond affection for them,” Alastor said smoothly. “I can’t even count the number of times you’ve talked about them. It seemed only polite to provide a companion for your visits.”
“You didn’t have to do this, Al…” Vox blinked rapidly.
Alastor’s grin sharpened, “It’s quite enjoyable, seeing you so thoroughly flustered over such a trivial thing.”
Vox’s antennae twitched uncontrollably. “I just like sharks. You know, if I weren’t a weatherman back then, I probably would’ve been a marine biologist.”
Alastor’s eyes lingered on him for a fraction longer than necessary, a soft, calculating hum escaping his throat. “Would you like to keep it then?” he asked, his tone carrying more curiosity than offer.
“Let him stay in the tower. I’ll name him Vark! Like dog bark, but with a ‘V,’ because V’s are cool,” Vox said as he held the plush closer to Alastor’s face.
“Hmmm… very well,” Alastor hummed in amusement. “Vark it shall be.”
Vox’s heart raced. ‘This is it, I can double die happily now.’
Later that night, after the tower had quieted, Vox returned. He made sure Alastor was “sleeping,” though the sight was unsettling, to say the least. He was just standing there, eyes wide open, that ever-present smile frozen in place.
Vox reminded himself he wasn’t here for Alastor tonight. He was here for Vark.
He crouched near the banks of dials and sliders, surveying the space carefully. The plush hadn’t moved since earlier, but Vox’s fingers itched with the need to claim a small corner for him. He spotted a ledge just beneath Alastor’s favorite microphone, where Vark could sit safely.
“Perfect,” Vox whispered, adjusting the plush so it leaned slightly toward the console, as if keeping Alastor company from afar. “You can watch, but don’t get in trouble, Vark. Don’t ruin it for me.”
He paused, and without thinking, he leaned in and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to the top of Vark’s head. “There. That’s for being good,” he mumbled. giving the plush a gentle pat as if reassuring himself as much as Vark.
He stepped back, inspecting his handiwork, antennae twitching nervously as he imagined Alastor noticing. Of course, Alastor would probably tease him mercilessly if he ever found out, but it was worth it.
Satisfied, he lingered a moment longer, making sure Alastor was still asleep, though his gaze kept drifting back to the plush.
“Keep him company, alright, Vark? He may seem like he doesn’t care, but even Alastor gets lonely,” Vox whispered, straightening.
Because somewhere deep down, Vox knew it wasn’t just the plush he wanted near Alastor—it was a reminder, a tiny claim in the space where his heart ruled.
The next morning, Alastor stood at his console, fingers drifting across familiar dials, when something new caught his eye.
Perched neatly beneath his favorite microphone sat Vark.
“Well now,” he murmured, as he nudged the plush in front of him. “Isn’t this a delightful surprise.”
“Hm.” A soft, pleased hum escaped him. “I suppose you may stay.”
As Alastor adjusted the microphone, the plush remained exactly where it was. When the broadcast light flicked on, his voice flowed smoothly into the airwaves.
“Good morning, dear listeners! What a splendid day it is to be alive… or otherwise.”
His eyes dipped briefly toward Vark.
“Company,” he added lightly, as though it explained everything.
The broadcast carried on without interruption. The plush stayed. And Alastor never once questioned it aloud again.
“How could you move on so easily,” Vox thought, closing his eyes, “like I was never there at all?”
He didn’t miss Alastor.
Where did I go wrong? Was I naive, expecting something more?
Maybe he’d read too much into it. Into the gifts, the indulgences. The way Alastor had made space for him without ever naming it.
Or was I weak for wanting it recognized?
Whatever had almost existed between them, it hadn’t been enough to stay.
For the next few months, Vox barely left his apartment.
He stayed curled up on the couch beneath a too-large blanket, hugging a deer plush tight to his chest. The fabric was worn smooth where his fingers worried at it, stitched eyes slightly uneven, soft ears bent from how often he’d pressed his face against it.
Bambi.
He’d meant to give it to Alastor. Maybe Vark could have a deer friend.
At some point, that plan had quietly dissolved.
So instead, Vox kept it.
Right now, Bambi was playing again on the old TV across his darkened apartment. He sniffled quietly—always did when watching this movie.
A memory flickered unbidden—him walking with Alastor through Cannibal Town.
“You know,” Vox said, half distracted, keeping pace beside Alastor, “there’s this movie you should definitely watch.”
Alastor glanced at him, “Vincent, you know I don’t really watch the moving pictures you keep insisting on.”
“Yeah, but—” Vox waved a hand. “It reminds me of you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a deer,” Vox added quickly. “Like, literally, I named it after you. ”
Alastor studied him for a moment, smile sharpening. “How very flattering. Is that why you keep calling me Bambi?”
Vox flushed, scratching the back of his head. “W-well… maybe! I mean, it’s cute, okay? Not that you’re cute—wait, I mean…” He trailed off, stammering.
“Very well, Vincent,” Alastor sighed as they entered their destination. “I’ll indulge in your picture boxes. Just this once.”
“On one condition—if I hate it, we stop,” he added.
Vox froze. “Wait, really? Holy shit, really?!”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
They watched together in Vox’s apartment.
Vox sat stiffly, pretending to focus on the screen instead of Alastor.
Then the voice came.
“Your mother can’t be with you anymore.”
Alastor’s gaze didn’t leave the screen. His usual smile was almost absent.
“It was just me and my mama back then,” he continued, voice low and calm. “She didn’t belong in a world like ours. My father couldn’t stand her defiance. One day, he shot her.”
Alastor’s hands tightened in his lap. “I shot him back. Made sure he couldn’t hurt anyone else again. It was my first kill.”
Vox stayed silent as he listened, absorbing the unexpected weight of Alastor’s past.
“You can’t do everything alone, Bambi. You’ll have help when you need it.”
Vox fidgeted with the edge of his blanket, “I guess I like this movie because.. I don’t know. It’s stupid, really. But even when everything sucks, and everything falls apart, and you’re all alone, it will be okay in the end. And maybe someone might even be there for you. Even if it’s just a little bit.”
He thought about his past. The other kids had never understood him. His heterochromia, his strange little habits, the way he talked too fast or cared too much—people whispered about him. Called him names he didn’t have words for yet.
And then his father found out.
The looks at home changed first. Less warmth. More silence. Disappointment hanging in the air like smoke. When the shouting started, Vox learned very quickly what ‘wrong’ meant. What ‘normal’ was supposed to be.
At school, the rumors spread faster after that. The spaces beside him emptied. No one wanted to be too close, in case whatever made him different was contagious.
So he learned to keep his head down. To be quieter. To rely on himself.
For a long moment, Alastor said nothing.
Then, softly, “You mistake it for sentimentality, Vincent,” he said, eyes still on the screen. “But it’s endurance you’re drawn to. The refusal to disappear simply because the world would prefer it.”
He glanced sideways at Vox, smile faint, unreadable. “A rather familiar trait.”
The final notes of the film swelled. The screen faded to black.
Alastor stood, straightening his coat.
“Hm. I suppose it wasn’t entirely intolerable.”
Vox beamed, unable to stop himself. “So, uh.. wanna watch another movie?”
Alastor arched a brow. “Don't push it.”
Vox laughed, sheepish, antennae flickering. “Right. Yeah. Totally. Got it.”
There was an awkward beat, the kind that hovered when something important had happened, but neither of them was willing to name it.
“Well then,” Alastor said at last, as he turned toward the door, voice slipping back into its usual polish. “I must take my leave. Goodnight, Vincent.”
Vox hesitated, then nodded. “Goodnight, Al.”
He flopped back onto the couch.
He liked it, Vox smiled. Not enough to admit it. But enough to sit through the whole thing.
That was when the idea settled in his mind.
Something small. Something soft. Something he could give without having to explain all the feelings tangled up behind it. A stupid little deer, maybe.
Vox smiled to himself.
Yeah. He’d buy the plushie.
Vox exhaled slowly.
Alastor hadn’t rejected the movie.
He’d rejected everything else.
He didn’t even get the chance to give Alastor the plush. He hadn’t been brave enough.
Vox pressed his palms against his face, “God, you’re pathetic,” he muttered, though there was no real venom in it. Just tiredness. The kind that came from hoping when you should’ve known better.
He’d read into it. Of course, he had. He always did. A shared couch. A rare confession. A moment of vulnerability, and Vox had built a future out of it like a fool.
He let his gaze fall to the plush in his lap. Soft, stupid, still warm from where his hands had clutched it.
Come back.. I'm sorry.
Time passed anyway. It always did.
It had been almost a year since that night. Since Vox had built fantasies on crumbs and been left with nothing. The plush lay beside him, seams slightly faded, its stitched eyes staring blankly. A quiet reminder of the gap between what he wanted and what he’d actually gotten.
Sinsmas was near. It would be the first he’d spend without Alastor. The thought pressed against him like a weight he couldn’t shake. He had done his best in avoiding the radio waves that connected them.
But tonight, Sinsmas Eve, he couldn’t resist.
Closing his eyes, he whispered into the empty room, “Just once. If not for the last time.”
He reached for the familiar hum beneath his skin, fingers curling around the invisible pull of the radio waves. Static brushed along his antennae as he focused, voice trembling.
“Alastor,” he said softly. “It’s me. Vincent. Just… hear me, please.”
The waves shivered at his touch, carrying his voice across the unseen air. He pushed a little more, sending a thread of himself outward, hoping it would reach him.
Then it happened.
Through the hum, that familiar voice cut cleanly through the noise.
“Merry Sinsmas, Vincent.”
Vox froze. His screen flickered faintly as a small, foolish spark of hope flared inside him. He held his breath. He heard me.
“I.. just wanted to say—” Vox’s words tumbled, faltering in the intensity of the moment.
“Please don’t call.” The voice cut off sharply, leaving only the static in its wake.
Nothing else mattered after that. He wasn’t a partner. He wasn’t a friend. He was just a nuisance that had finally been muted.
He lifted the plush and pressed it closer to his chest, as if the fabric could absorb some of the ache.
“I’ve been foolish,” he murmured. “A fool. Always a fool.”
The plush stayed silent, stitched eyes unblinking. Vox let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Great audience you are.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth anyway, almost imperceptible. Maybe next year he wouldn’t feel so alone.
“I’ll buy you a friend someday, Bambi,” he whispered, almost like a promise. “Someone who might actually stay.”
For the first time that night, tears blurred his screen as he allowed himself to imagine a world where Alastor could have been part of it.