Chapter Text
Vox had lost. And if there was one thing he fucking hated it was losing. Velvette and Valentino had left him in a trash-bin outside Vee Tower for the night, his own personal version of a timeout, but they’d underestimated him. Of course they had. Everyone always underestimated him. He’d done what he’d set out to do, after all. He’d punched that hole through Heaven, had gotten Charlie fucking Morningstar to admit he was the strongest sinner in Hell. The only problem was that he had underestimated Alastor. Again. The two of them were trapped like that, caught in an endless cycle of believing they’d finally gotten the upper hand, while the other plotted ten steps ahead. It would be thrilling if it wasn’t so fucking frustrating. Or maybe that just made it all the more thrilling. Even now, reduced to nothing but a hunk of metal laying limply on a pile of stinking garbage, Vox couldn’t help but wish Alastor was here in front of him, gloating. At least that would get the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Veins…
He reached out with his signal, trying to connect to the rest of his circuitry inside the tower. There had to be something in there that would hear his call the way Shok.wav had during his final showdown with Alastor. He felt it subtly at first, then bolder, the pulsing inside that building, the wriggling warbling presence of his electronic network. He focused on the sensation, gritting his teeth, tugging on it like a rope. Slowly but surely, it paid off. Wires began to emerge from the Tower, sliding like snakes beneath the closed doors, surging towards him. He constructed himself part by part, torsos, arms, legs. This was how empires were built. One piece at a time.
He could pick himself up from this. He had to. Because God forbid Valentino got the last laugh at the end of the day. It was different when it was Alastor. At least he deserved to win. At least he played fair. But Valentino had ripped his head off his shoulders at the peak moment of his glory, laying him low, humiliating him in front of everyone, in front of Alastor. That was not a slight Vox could forgive. But he was back on his feet now. And he would have his revenge.
He did not think about anything else as he made his way through the doors of Vee Tower and up the stairs. The servants were too shocked to say much of anything and even if they weren’t, what were they going to do about it? His name was still on the damn building for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t exactly irrelevant yet. He might have fallen down a few pegs on the ladder to godhood but he was still leagues above the rabble below.
He made it all the way to Valentino’s bedroom without attracting much attention. Good. He didn’t want Velvette to be involved in this. Her only crime was sympathizing with the Princess, singing that inane friendship-is-magic bullshit to save everyone in Hell. The thought made his recently reconstructed skin crawl. If only he’d gotten to blow them all kingdom come. Oh, well. Maybe Alastor had been right after all. You want something done right, you do it yourself. He didn’t need Carmilla Carmine’s weapon or Lucifer’s power to kill Valentino. It’d be more fun with his bare hands anyway.
Valentino was asleep when Vox entered his room. Valentino was sleeping stomach up, so Vox climbed on top of him, straddling him around the waist, his weight waking the other man. His red eyes opened with a delayed twitch. He peered blearily at Vox, clearly still on the verge of sleep. “Baby…?” he asked and Vox scowled so wide he could feel his mouth against the edges of his screen.
“You. Tore. Off. My. Fucking. Head,” he hissed.
Valentino blinked at him, still not fully awake, furrowing his brows. “What are you-”
Vox cut him off. “I’m going to kill you now.”
Then his hands were around Valentino’s neck and he was squeezing the life out of him and it was like a hangover cure, ointment over the burn to his ego. He’d missed this. How long had it been since he’d killed someone himself instead of having someone else do it for him? He used to like the dirty work. When had it gotten too dirty for him?
But Valentino was no longer dazed. One of his many long arms flailed outwards towards his nightstand. He grabbed a gun and put it straight to Vox’s screen. He shot. The bullet went in, knocking him off the bed.
Everything hurt. Everything buzzed and buzzed. He glitched and the world went black and white. There was a ringing all around. It was worse than the sensation of his head ripping off. It was worse, it was all worse. His breathing was ragged and Valentino was standing now, naked but for his ridiculously garish red robe, towering over Vox like he had the fucking right. He was aiming the gun at Vox again and there was something unreadable in his expression. That’s what scared Vox the most. Usually Valentino was so disgustingly simple. But this was something else, a new dimension to him. Like he didn’t want to shoot, even though he did. The duality was almost impressive. About time he got some fucking nuance.
“Do it,” Vox gurgled, red spilling out the side of his mouth. “Shoot me, you bastard.”
He didn’t know what he was saying anymore. All he could think was that another gunshot would be more permanent than getting his head ripped off. At the very least it would make the buzzing stop.
But Valentino didn’t shoot. He just growled, “Get out of my building.”
My building. So that’s how it was.
Vox tried to stand, but his whole body was quaking. He saw his reflection in a vanity across the room and nearly hurled at the sight. He hadn’t been able to retrieve much of his outer plating, so he was mostly just a collection of wires, some frayed at the edges, some actively shooting sparks. He looked like a skeleton, or the skeleton of a skeleton. He looked like a dead end. Not to mention, there was a fucking bullet lodged in the side of his head.
“F-u-uuck,” he spit at no one in particular.
Then Velvette was in the room. Servants flooded in behind her. There was a lot of yelling. He thought maybe he was crying. Or maybe he was laughing. What was the difference, really?
Somehow he found the energy to send a bolt of lightning through himself, into the ground, stabilizing him for a second before taking him far, far away.
---
When Vox opened his eyes he was in a bar. He couldn’t be certain, but he had a feeling he’d been in the bar for a long time. That it had been several hours since he’d tried and failed to kill Valentino. Maybe more, judging by the amount of empty glasses in front of him. He hadn’t been this drunk in a long time. He hadn’t set foot in a bar in a long time. He’d had his drinks hand-delivered to him by servants instead. Damn being famous had been so, so good. What the fuck had happened? Alastor, he thought with a scowl. Alastor had happened.
He looked around for the exit and saw a sign that said Cigarettes are Good For You.
He groaned, absently downing another drink. “Kill me now.”
“Oh but a clean death is much too forgiving a fate for you now, dear” a simpering voice said beside him.
Fuck. As if this night couldn’t get any worse.
Reluctantly, he turned his neck enough to see Alastor seated primly on the barstool next to him, looking proper as ever, his sharp attire perfectly punctuated by his permanently self-satisfied smile.
“Wha are you doin’ here?” he slurred, practically flopping over onto the bar counter.
“I simply thought you might need a designated driver,” Alastor crooned, and Vox could have killed him for the playful light shining in his eyes.
Ah, who was he kidding? He couldn’t even kill Valentino.
“Fuck you,” he sniffed.
“Ah, there’s that world-class wit of yours. I’d rather thought you might have lost it when you got your head ripped from your shoulders. A pity that condition didn’t last. I would have liked to see you tossed out like another man’s garbage.”
Vox snarled, remembering the trash heap. Alastor couldn’t have known about that. He couldn’t have.
He stood from his bar-stool, swaying on his feet, but still managed to point a sparking finger at the smug demon.
“You listen here, you spiky prick! If you’re here to sssee me at my lowest, to laugh at my rock fuckin’ bottom then… then…”
He couldn’t think of what came next. He knew something should come next. Promises of how he was going to pull himself together again, how it wasn’t over, how next time he would win, but standing there, wobbling like a fucking slinky, he didn’t even want to win anymore. He just wanted to sit down. He tried to do that, but he fell backwards onto the floor instead, no doubt bruising what was left of his ass.
Alastor looked at him patiently, like he’d expected this. Then he looked to the bartender and said, calmly, “Be a dear and close my tab, please.”
The next thing Vox knew Alastor was carrying him out of the bar, one of his half-constructed arms draped over Alastor’s shoulders, Alastor’s lithe fingers gripping it softly but firmly. His other hand was at Vox’s waist. Only no. That couldn’t be right. The Radio Demon didn’t touch people. He certainly didn’t help people. He certainly didn’t help Vox.
He wanted to say something smarmy. He wanted to be a brat or an asshole. He was good at that. Instead, drunk and half-conscious, he muttered, “Get outta my… dream. The real Alassstor would never…. hold me. Nnnno matter how much I… want him to…”
Dream Alastor who might have been Real Alastor hummed in response. Then the world went black.
---
This time when Vox woke up he was in a bed. Not in Vee tower. Not anywhere he recognized. The bed was soft and red. The walls were red too. “No fucking way,” he gasped.
He couldn’t be. Not that fuck-ass hotel. Anywhere but that fuck-ass hotel.
He heard voices coming from downstairs. Alastor’s he knew right away, could feel the static of it through the fucking walls. But the other voice, a feminine voice, he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Charlie Morningstar, that was for damn sure. So not the Hotel after all.
With a great effort, Vox stood from the bed. He started his way down the stairs, using the wall as a handrail, feeling smaller than he’d ever felt before, the words of the conversation growing more substantial with each step he managed.
“I’m not taking care of your napalm puppy-dog just because a miracle struck some small sprout of sympathy into your callous heart, dear.”
Not Alastor, but with the same lilt in the voice. Even the same pet name at the end. He’d once thought Alastor only used those names for him, but that had been false hope. Naivety that Alastor’s cruelty had eked out of him quickly enough.
“Oh, but an honest woman such as yourself is far more suitable for care-taking than a callous-hearted old cannibal such as myself, wouldn’t you agree?”
“He’s a liability, darling. Almost blew up all of Hell because of his repressed desire for you. If word got out I was harboring Hell’s least-favorite homosexual disaster, it wouldn’t reflect well on my reputation. And you of all people should understand the power in a reputation.”
Vox frowned. He didn’t care for ‘napalm puppy-dog’ or ‘Hell’s least-favorite homosexual disaster’ but at least one of them was accurate. The other was only half accurate. Charlie “Ray of Fucking Sunshine” Morningstar wasn’t the only one allowed to take pride in her bisexual identity. Vincent Whittman had been quite the lady’s man, back in the day. He just hadn’t slept with many women since reaching Hell. Well, he hadn’t slept with many women since meeting Alastor. He hadn’t slept with much of anyone since meeting Alastor, aside from Valentino, and he’d learned the hard way how poorly that little dalliance had turned out.
“Fine, then,” Alastor bit out, static brimming with frustration. “Just throw him out in the street. Let your cannibals eat him for all I care. Apologies for trying to be a gentleman. And here I thought you cared about manners.”
Oh, hell no. Vox had been humiliated enough without adding being cannibalized to the list. And if anyone was going to cannibalize him, he’d at least want it to be Alastor. Not that he’d want that either. Well.
God, he must still be drunk.
“Who's cannibalizing me?” he blurted nonsensically, rounding the corner to see Alastor opposite a woman in a slim-fitting burgundy dress and magnificently wide-brimmed party hat. He’d be lying if he said she wasn’t fabulous. Velvette could make her into a star in twelve seconds flat. But. Best not to think about Velvette right now.
“Ah!” The woman exclaimed, clasping her hands together with exaggerated fondness. “You’re awake! Alastor and I were just discussing you, though perhaps it would be a more pleasant conversation over tea. Care to join us?”
Alastor’s ears flattened in lieu of his smile wavering. “That’s really not necessary, Rosie,” he started, but she waved him off.
“Nonsense, darling, I was about to put a kettle on, anyway. And it will give us some time for your friend here to wake up, yes?”
Alastor’s eye twitched, but he sat down.
Vox sat next to him. Their legs would touch if he moved his knee an inch or two. He didn’t dare. Still, he thought about Dream Alastor’s fingers on his waist last night. Not Dream Alastor. Real Alastor. Why had he helped him? And why bring him here of all places?
“Who’s the lady?” he asked instead.
Alastor avoided his gaze. Vox ached for it, wanting the attention even more than a hot bath or an aspirin, an old habit he thought he’d shaken a long time ago. But the events of the past few days had set him back a few years, he supposed.
“Someone who did me a good turn once,” Alastor answered vaguely. “And then a very bad one.” He crinkled his nose. “A very bad one indeed.”
“Then why bring me here?”
Alastor’s eyes slid to him then and Vox could have drank the gaze, lapped it up like a kitten. God, he was pathetic. “Because…” Alastor started and his voice was a low hum, “Your potential is wasted rotting away in Vee tower with the sycophants and freaks. I thought perhaps your most recent blunder might have opened your eyes to that fact.”
Vox stared at him, stunned.
Just then Rosie reappeared with a tray of tea. She set it down at the table with a cheery smile, not effacing like Alastor’s but not obnoxious like Hell’s Prancing Princess either. Just there. Sincere, maybe. It made Vox feel off-balance.
Alastor reached out and took a tea cup, holding it up delicately to his lips. Vox tracked the movement as if it was in slow motion, watching like a hawk as Alastor blew onto the hot water, then sipped, then swallowed. Vox felt like the floor was going to give out underneath him. Just a clusterfuck of days before he’d been slammed into the ground at an alarming velocity by this man, the violence of their rivalry crumbling actual buildings in Pentagram city. Now they were… What? Having a tea party?
“Like I was saying, Mr. Populi, Alastor speaks very highly of you for someone who was willing to murder thousands of Sinners to stroke your electronic ego.”
“… Just Vox is fine,” Vox mumbled, grabbing his own tea cup and trying not to focus too much on the notion of Alastor ‘speaking highly of him.’
“Vox, then,” Rosie amended. “But I already know your name, dear. What I don’t know is why I should let you stay here when I could just as easily bowl you over with one little shove at the moment. I fear it would save me a lot of trouble if I did, don’t you think Al?”
Vox bristled at the sound of the nickname. Who the fuck was this that she could call Alastor that without getting her head bitten off?
“Who said I wanted to stay here?” he mumbled into his teacup, feeling characteristically petty. Maybe he was starting to feel better after all.
Alastor stood, then, stamping his staff into the ground. “Well, I suppose that settles it. Sorry for your trouble, Rosie, but I’d best be going. Hell isn’t going to raise itself and, as you know, I don’t have an obligation here any longer.”
Vox’s mind swam, Rosie’s threat about letting Sinners eat him replaying back through his head. He tried to think of an alternative and came up short. He couldn’t go back to Vee Tower, half of Hell probably wanted his head on a spike, and there was no way he was going to Charlie’s little Castle of Kumbaya. Here at least he’d have a roof over his head and some degree of safety guaranteed. Not that he couldn’t take care of himself. But, then again, he did still have a hole in his head. He wouldn’t last long by himself out in the wild. Fuck, he hated this.
Maybe logic wouldn’t have been enough to convince him – it rarely was – but then there were Alastor’s words, his gaze on Vox’s as they’d waited absurdly for their tea... Potential wasted, he’d said. Which meant he thought Vox had potential. And what’s more, he thought he had potential now. Alastor had seen him at his absolute lowest and instead of mocking him, or gloating, or taking the opportunity to dispose of him once and for all, he’d preserved him, brought him here, looked him in the eyes and told him he’d be better off this way. He didn’t know what the fuck any of that meant, but he wanted nothing more than to find out. Even if every second he was left in suspense felt like a million bad endings waiting to happen. Hadn’t he learned twice over to never to trust the Radio Demon?
But then, Vox never really learned, did he? He just kept trying. That was his fatal flaw. But it was his greatest strength too. And maybe, just maybe, it was what made Alastor still think he was worth his time. God, what he wouldn’t do to prove himself worthy of Alastor’s time. That’s what it had all been about in the first place, right? No use in pretending otherwise now that it had all gone pear-shaped. For all his talk of godhood, Vox was more of an overly volatile teenager misbehaving as some misguided attempt at gaining attention from the person who despised him the most. Though maybe Valentino had taken on that role now that he’d tried to strangle him to death. It didn’t matter. Alastor would always be the most important.
“Wait,” he bumbled, setting his teacup down. Alastor stopped and Rosie inclined her head, an invitation for him to continue. “I guess I could stay, for a bit. I mean, your wallpaper isn’t as bad as Manic Morningstar’s and at least you don’t have moths. I might even be able to help you spruce this place up a bit. Marketing is sort of my domain, you know.”
Alastor didn’t move. Rosie just lifted a brow. Then she began to laugh. She laughed and laughed and Vox frowned at the familiarity of it all. It was like Alastor had an evil Fairy Godmother he’d been keeping secret over here. Eventually, Rosie’s laughter subsided, but her smile remained wide. Vox still found it unsettling. It was almost… Warm. No, he didn’t care for that at all.
“Oh, Alastor, what a riot he is! Why, he reminds me of you in your youth! So ambitious. No wonder you’ve taken such a liking to him.” Alastor’s ears flicked, but he didn’t object. Vox fidgeted with his hands, torn between feeling insulted and flattered. Rosie looked to him as she continued, “Alright, dear, you’ve worn me down. You can stay here, but no pestering the locals. Their teeth are sharper then they look. Trust me.”
She winked and he shuddered. He had no desire to find out what that meant.
She lifted her tea cup, taking an innocent sip of her tea. “Ta-ta now, Alastor. Don’t get into too much trouble now.”
He snapped his head around, radio dials spinning in his eyes. “No promises,” he growled and Vox shuddered at that too. The Radio Demon was no longer tied down and surely that meant there’d be Hell to pay. Maybe all of it, as the case may be. It was a miracle Vox hadn’t been first on his kill list.
Alastor disappeared in a flood of shadows, leaving Vox alone with Rosie. Wonderful.
Rosie took another sip of her tea, then said, without so much as looking up, “Now that he’s gone, you and I can have a little heart to heart.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing,” he said, drily.
Rosie’s chin tilted towards him again. “That there is the exact attitude I want to address,” she said, voice dripping with honey, but Vox could tell it wasn’t sweet. There was something dangerous about her. He was beginning to see it now. She was letting it creep in to the edges of her presence, giving him a taste of how she’d managed to do the Radio Demon of all people ‘a bad turn’.
“You stay here you do it under my terms. No back-talk, no tomfoolery, and certainly none of your reckless explosions, hmm? Cannibal Town is my pride and joy, and I’m not about to let some bad-mannered himbo throw a wrench in it, understand?”
“I don’t know about himbo,” he pouted.
“Twink, then,” Rosie amended, and there was a hint of playfulness in the insult that Vox couldn’t help but find entertaining. She had spark, that was for sure.
“I suppose,” Vox mumbled, though Rosie’s answering smile immediately made him want to crawl in a hole and get dying over with already.
“We’ll equip you with good manners yet,” she grinned, setting down her teacup and clapping her hands.
“Right,” Vox spit out but he didn’t have the energy to make it as vile as he wanted. “I’m going back upstairs,” he muttered and began the long trek back to the soft red bed that awaited him up there. He couldn’t believe he’d been reduced to this. A bullet in his brain and a spare bed in Cannibal Town.
“Oh, and dear?” Rosie called and, despite himself, he turned back, pausing at the bottom of the stairwell. “Be careful with Alastor. His heart isn’t very receptive to love. No matter how much you give him.”
What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
“I know,” his voice came out soft, breathy. “I know that.”
Rosie fixed him with a sad smile. Sincere again. It haunted him all the way up the stairs.