Chapter Text
It was once again that rare period of opportunity — or at least, the closest that Hell ever had to such a thing. The days and weeks after an extermination were chaos, turf wars and battles popping up around the pentagram with unprecedented speed. Sinners were taking their chances against one another to gain territory, or better yet, one of the coveted titles of ‘Overlord’.
For those demons who already had that title, the period of chaos was less of a chance to gain power — though it was that as well — but a time to… let loose. To engage in ruthless bloodshed alongside everyone else. It was a tradition, almost, and well known that if you came across an Overlord in the weeks after the angels descended from the sky (if you were still alive that is) you ran the other way.
But truely, the bloodlust was nice to release, and for many sinners this particular night, there was celebration. Celebrating surviving another extermination. Celebrating new territories. Celebrating…
“Come on, one more shot!”
The pounding of fists meeting tabletops and the bar itself thundered through the smokey room, fluorescent lights flickering weakly, as if the amount of alcohol in the space was affecting them as well. The sinners chanted at the two challengers facing off at the bar, nearly a dozen glasses shared between them, another pair clasped in red and blue claws.
Static crackled in the air, slightly wilder than usual, as the dual frequencies of Hell's two most intriguing Overlords mingled: The Radio Demon himself, and the new up-and-coming Television Demon, or Alastor and Vincent to those who knew them best. Which, really, was very few people.
Vincent wobbled on the barstool, already several drinks in, but he was not one to back down from a challenge. And he was no light-weight either, no matter how much he had to blink to focus on the red deer in front of him.
The amber liquid sloshed over the side of the glass slightly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care over the pleasant fuzziness in his head; the combined force of the alcohol and the mere presence of the Radio Demon.
“One more?” he said, surprised his voice wasn’t as slurred as he thought it would be. Various sinners cheered around them, and Alastor narrowed his eyes, grin wide, but looser than it had been before the start of this evening.
“That desperate to lose, hmm? Because I assure you, I can handle quite a few more drinks than you. Aren't you feeling wobbly yet, box?” Alastor said, but there was a glimmer of delight in his eyes as a single clawed finder reached out to poke the space where Vincent’s nose would have been, if he had one, in an unprecedented moment of playfulness. Red eyes crossed to follow the motion, and a laugh bubbled out of the red demon, radio static distorting it and making the noise crackle against Vincent’s antenna.
“Ha ha, fuck you.” Vincent deadpanned, lifting his glass in the, what was it now, fifth? sixth? toast. What were they toasting again? Something something… Oh! Right. To another successful post-extermination manslaughter spree and their territories growing. Alastor raised his glass in turn, and…
The crowd erupted in cheers as they took the shots. The burn in Vincent’s throat that had yet to fully fade returned, another wave of warmth crashing over him as the two slammed their glasses down in unison. He blinked sluggish, registering the Radio Demon’s smug smirk as he waved the watching sinners away. Any other night he might have just eaten them for getting too close, but the alcohol had the incredible ability to pacify — at least for just a little while — the bloodthirsty sinner.
“If you all are looking for real entertainment, you know which frequency to tune into! Now-” he said, static crackling around his voice. “Return to your own miserable drinks and company. Unless you wish to be a g̵̰̤̼̠̑͛͜͠ü̵̧̦͙̲̍̾̃ȇ̵̻͊̀̏̿s̷̛̮̯̐̕t̵̟̖̰̠̩͂̈́̌̔́ on my broadcast.”
His eyes flashed black for a moment, glowing red radio-dials for pupils ticking ominously as the lingering sinners scurried back to their booths or respective stools, the scent of fear dancing in the air. The dials faded a moment later back to the normal red-on-red eyes Vincent appreciated oh-so-much. Undeterred by the display of power, and slightly, just a little, drunk, he smiled.
“So, does this mean I - I win?” Vincent hiccupped, turning back to the bar. He was definitely bagged by now, but he knew it was only a matter of time before his systems filtered out the alcohol, categorizing it as a toxin by his bio-mechanical system. Which, on the one hand, was great because it meant no hangovers, but he couldn't stay drunk.
Well, at least he was drunk enough now to have lured Alastor into a similar inebriated state. The man, despite being an absolute twig by Vincent’s standards, knew how to handle his alcohol. The only sign he had been drinking was a pretty flush on his high cheekbones, and slightly dilated eyes.
“Hardly. I would advise you to take a look at yourself,” Alastor said, gesturing to the mirror behind the rows of booze and glasses behind the bar. The view was a little blocked, but he could see his boxy CRT head, a bright teal flush on his screen and a slightly dopey smile. Alastor continued in a pleased drawl. “But to place the final nail in this proverbial coffin of an evening…”
Alastor waved down the bartender, and the sinner poured him the singular drink, a mixed look of awe and fear on their face as Alastor turned to Vincent, winking as he swallowed the final drink in one gulp.
Vincent blinked. Warmth flared in his chest.
“I do believe that sets me one ahead of you, dear.” Alastor said, static coating his voice until it purred. Vincent nodded, momentarily stupefied. The other man chuckled, standing with a little difficulty, the six — seven now — drinks finally catching up to him. His ears flicked minutely on his head, betraying his inebriated state as they picked up on the little sounds of people around them.
“Ready to go? Or will you insist on me drinking you under the table yet again?” Alastor prodded, neck cracking loudly as he straightened. Vincent stood to join him, paying the bartender their tab with a hefty tip. His newest shows on his station had been doing well lately, which meant he had a little more money to throw around.
He grumbled non-commitally, and Alastor chuckled as they walked out into the streets of Hell. Night had long since fallen, the screams and explosions lessening by only a few decibels, and the red sky had darkened by shades. The sole light — aside from the few weak streetlamps, trash-fires, and the occasional lit cigarette — was the bright white light of heaven and the pentagram sealing them apart up above.
They walked absently, nowhere in mind for the moment, and Vincent noticed with satisfaction that the rare sinners that they crossed fled instantly. Sure, it was most likely from the Radio Demons presence, but he was sure he had noticed at least a few of them lock eyes with him first.
Vincent was still new to hell, in the grand scheme of things, having only been dead for a handful of years to Alastor’s decades, but he was still growing in power and influence.
He had good shows. He was smart with his deals and with where he put his money. Plus, he was stronger now than he ever had been as a human, so those he couldn’t make a genuine deal with, well, it was Hell after all. And Alastor was always so much more agreeable after he’d had a snack. Maybe even sweet on him, if you wanted to look at it that way. (Vincent did.)
He also liked to joke that it was because he had retained his “radiating sex appeal”, despite the TV for a head. This got mixed results from his companion, depending on the night and how much alcohol was currently slushing through their systems, responses ranged from an eye roll to a sharp thwack on the head from Alastor's staff. (This was mutually embarrassing, but for different reasons.)
They ambled through the streets of Hell, absent flicks of static passing between them when there were no words to be said. A tiny tune filtered out of Alastor’s internal radio, coming directly from him rather than one of the radios under his control. It was a low, jazzy song. Quiet. Atmospheric in a way that Hell rarely allowed.
Vincent found himself humming along softly, the words unknown, but the moment was calm around him, still muffled from the drinks. Any other day he wouldn’t have let himself become this… weak. But tonight was different. Alastor was different.
They continued their stroll down the street, enjoying the mildly less stifling heat that night provided. Enjoying the way sinners cringed when they saw them, some even crossed the street in a show of fear that was still new enough that it sent shivers of pleasure through his spine.
Vincent could still remember the jittery feeling of fading bloodlust that had crawled through his veins before he’d practically dragged Alastor to their bar of choice, replacing that pleasant adrenaline with something that felt like whiskey and the anxiety one had before making an irreversible decision.
He’d been thinking about it for a while. Playing with the idea, with the probable rejection. The pain that could follow. He’d drunk enough to convince himself the chance of success was low, but possible, and Vincent was nothing if not an opportunist. If there was a window open, even if just a crack, damn it, he’d find a way to slip though.
So he let the whiskey dull his raging logic and fear.
He’d let a plan form between shots.
There was still blood on them, but in Hell, when was there not? It wasn’t either of theirs, as far as he knew, so he wore it like a badge of honor. Especially because he’d earned it alongside the Radio Demon. Alongside Alastor.
It was still a miracle, if such things existed for a sinner like him, that Alastor allowed his presence. Vincent was aware of the other man’s reputation, of course he was. He’d researched everything about him the moment their circles crossed, the moment Vincent’s sphere of influence crossed the radio-waves and met Alastor's signal for the first time.
The gut instinct he’d had, the pattern he had followed in life and in hell, had been to destroy his opposition, to kill and make an example of any soul that dared rival-
But. He knew better. Of course he did. He knew about the Radio Demon’s power, his ruthlessness. He’d have to be careful if he wanted to rise above him.
That fledgling plan of violence went out the window the first time he actually met Alastor.
Because he had never expected the monster, the whispered beast of shadows and voodoo, to also be so…
Utterly magnetic.
The power had clung to him like the shadows he controlled, an ease in his own demonic skin that said he was exactly where he wanted to be. It spoke of control, of sheer audacity. He was the type of man to smile in the face of armies, say he would destroy them and hang them by their own innards, and then do it. He was insanity and death dressed in the most beautiful skin Vincent had ever seen.
And he was entranced, instantly. He knew that power like that, presence like that, couldn't be destroyed or worn down. It gave off its own sort of high, to have one of the most powerful beings of the ring in your presence. To know you had been permitted to be near him.
Vincent wanted it all to himself, and that was before he had even talked to the demon. Before he knew how utterly perfect he was.
Sin in death-greyed skin, red hair, and perpetually smiling teeth. Words that cut and ached, but also thrilled whenever they didn’t, when they chose not to. Intelligent. Charming. Captivating. Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. He was perfectly designed to be a weapon. Vincent wanted to watch that weapon destroy, to disassemble it and put it back together to see how it ticked. A dark part of him didn’t mind if that weapon turned on him, because if it ripped him apart, he was sure it would be the highlight of both of his lives.
It had taken a long time for Alastor to begrudgingly accept Vincent's presence into his afterlife. He’d badger and pester, compliment and question. He made himself powerful, rising up even higher on his pedestal, all so Alastor would finally have a reason to look down from his own tower. By the time Vincent had achieved Overlord status, faster than any other in Hell’s history, Alastor had looked at him with something other than indifference.
Intrigue.
It had taken a long time, with many nights of blood and sweat shed in the name of attracting the demon's attention, but now, he had it. And every deal he had brokered, every gamble he had made and won, were worth it. Because he had Alastor’s attention.
It took even longer for Alastor to actually take advantage of it.
And Vincent was over the moon every time Alastor showed up on his doorstep, or suddenly appeared in his office or studio. Offers disguised as demands for Vincent to join him. Murders or drinks, it didn’t matter to him. The blood spilt between them was just as intoxicating as the whiskey or gin. They had started to complement each other in subtle ways, to know each other just past the surface that Hell had turned into a thick, nearly impenetrable hide.
And so, months turned to easy years. The persistent presence on Vincent’s part turned into something else. Something that felt like friendship.
Something that, on nights like this, where blood and drinks had poured freely, let him think of more.
His thoughts circled back to the plan he had been toying with in his mind, the offer he had already been drafting for months.
A partnership. A business between the two most powerful media demons in hell. They would be able to reach a level of control never seen before, able to decide what the population of hell saw and heard. They would decide the truth. They would be unstoppable. They would be… together.
Vox flushed, thrown back into the present moment. He shook the thought off, a cyan flush filling his screen for a second before he cut the signal off. Alastor was observant in an embarrassing way. If he saw, he said, with little concern for others' comfort.
It wasn’t until then, when the last of the alcohol was burned off by his systems, fans running overtime to keep him from overheating under his sweater-vest, that he was able to fully take in the man beside him.
The Radio Demon. Tall. Exceptionally red. Beautiful. The most powerful sinner in Hell. Deadly.
And currently, wobbling on his long legs like a newborn fawn.
Vincent cocked a brow, observing the gait of the other man. Where there had once been a steady stroll, an air of self-righteousness in every step, there was now the clear effects of alcohol. The precise control he had over his body dissolving with every uneven trod forward.
Vincent watched him for one more moment, his computer systems categorizing each detail and carefully filing them away. He’d seen the Radio Demon drunk before, but never like… this.
Soft around the edges.
His semi-mechanical heart thudded in his chest at the gone look in those red eyes, the way his ears, usually forced into attention, sagged and twitched. His internal music continued, soft, and incriminatingly bubbly, like someone had poured gallons of champagne into the music and set it free to dance around them in the air. He smiled, like always, but it was sleepy in a way that Alastor would have hated.
It was sweet, and so unlike him that it shocked Vincent to his very core.
He blinked, swallowing back the shock, trying to figure out what to do. They were nowhere near Alastor’s radio tower, and he had no idea where he actually lived, despite his best efforts to figure out. Alastor was careful with his secrets, with his sanctuary. It was a wonder Vincent was ever allowed into the radio station.
“Focus,” he thought. Senses sharpening as lines of code switched on in his system. Danger assessment, risk calculating. His senses heightened to keep an eye on the dark shadows around them. Alastor wasn’t helpless — he’d eviscerate Vincent if he ever even thought it — but he was drunk and out of it, Vincent could tell.
He cleared his throat, electricity jumping between his antennae at all the different signals his body was currently dissolving and redirecting.
Alastor’s ears twitched violently, twisting like satellite dishes picking up a signal. He stumbled as his head turned, and Vincent automatically caught him, ignoring the hiss of static that pricked up his spine. Alastor grumbled out an undignified “What?”, voice thick with static and sounding like Vincent had just ruined his whole day. Meanwhile, his pupils were blown wide and his smile was as close to a frowny pout as he had ever seen it. Vincent didn’t know whether laughing out loud would be worth getting eaten alive. Probably not, but eating something would probably help Al sober up faster.
Vincent kept his arm slung around Alastor's back, loose enough that he could remove the arm quickly if Al decided he was in the mood for TV-demon after all, but tight enough to keep him from stumbling again.
“Al, you’re not looking too well. Are you sure you can get home all right?” he said. He would have offered to walk him home again if he didn’t already know that Alastor would never let him within a mile of whatever creepy murder house he called home. Even as drunk as he was.
Alastor scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“I am just fine,” he said, the effort damaged by the drunken hiccup halfway through.
Vincent chuckled lightly, shifting his grip carefully, and Alastor finally slipped his own arm around his neck. Vincent forced his heart to not scream and flail in his chest at the closeness. It pounded despite all the signals he sent it. He just had to hope that Alastor was too drunk to notice the war drum thrumming in his mechanical body only inches away.
“Yeah, no you’re not,” he hesitated, mentally flipping through all the cards he could play. Variables played out in his mind. Alastor had to get home safe, and while Vincent knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself, a shrill possessiveness told him not to let him out his sight while he was like this. This sight, this softer version of the Radio Demon, was for his eyes only.
It was absurd, but it was one of the many voices clamoring for attention.
But back to task. Al had to get home, or someplace he could recover. Vincent couldn’t take him to his house and didn’t want him to wander the streets of hell on his own. Someplace safe. Someplace he could go…
Ah. Duh.
He hesitated all of another second, and maybe there was still a liiiiittle bit of alcohol clinging to his processors, but hey, what the hell?
“Listen,” he began, and Al’s ears flicked in acknowledgment below his boxy screen. He couldn’t see his face at this angle. “Why don’t you spend the night at my place?”
Well now he could see his face. Alastor pulled back, the affronted and scandalized look on his drunken face making Vincent blush cyan again. His processors spun for a second before he blustered, continuing on.
“No- Not like that! Not like that. I mean, I can take the couch, obviously, I just thought since it’s late, and well, you’re kind of drunk-“ he blabbered on for another few seconds, and Alastor’s expression shifted to exasperation as he hummed, blinking slow. The dull amusement was clear in his foggy eyes.
“Vincent,” he sighed.
“- And I’m not saying you couldn’t get home if you wanted to, I just thought-”
“Vincent.”
That shut him up.
Alastor chuckled, a low, indulgent sound that only escaped after one too many drinks.
“You’re lucky I find your ceaseless rambling” - a hiccup - “amusing.” He tittered, like the whole situation was a mildly humorous show put on only for him. Vincent waited with a dull mix of nervousness and anticipation that only Alastor could drag out of him anymore.
“There is no need to… twist my arm,” he drawled, a brief flash of wicked consciousness flaring in his red eyes. His grin widened, danger dressed as indulgence. His tone dropped to a purr that sent skitters down Vincent’s antennae. “I’ll oblige you just this once.”
He had to blink again, stupefied.
Wait. Really?
“Right! Of-of course! It’s this way then,” he said, swallowing the stutter as best he could.
Holy shit. This was really happening. He was taking the Radio Demon to his home. It would have sounded like a death wish to any same person, a threat waiting to happen.
To Vincent it was a gift, and as he shifted grip on the demon beside him, who tolerated his touch like one would a persistent background noise — which was already a vast improvement from mere hours ago– he was determined to make the most of it. Trust, however fleeting, had just been handed to him. Easily, though obviously calculated on Alastor’s part, despite his condition, and with the same punch to gut of a thousand soul deals. A thousand wins.
Suddenly, his thoughts of a partnership didn't seem so hopeless.
