Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jenny, darling, you're my best friend

But there's a few things that you don't know of

Why I borrow your lipstick so often

I'm using your shirt as a pillow case

   Blood.

  Blood isn't supposed to be a bad thing, damn it. It's red. And red means good things are about to begin. Red means I'm about to ascend. Red means I love you.

  And Alastor... Al...

  He's always been red. Always been beautiful. Always been there for me with his smiling mouth and his sharp humor and his cheerful laugh. That damn laugh. He's not laughing now.

  Why isn't he laughing?

  He should be sitting up and scorning the big puddle of red forming around him. Mocking it. Mocking me. Why... why is he so still? Please, Alastor. Get up, mock me. You have to. You're so good at it, aren't you? Damn it, why won't you move?

  As my vision bursts in blurry pixels, the color is all I can make out. Red.

  On that coat he cares about more than his health, on the stupid bob I've told him to get trimmed a thousand times, on a foggy monocle that's half-shattered over a frozen eye.

  He doesn't blink.

  He just stares at me.

  Or stares through me.

  "...no."

   My voice glitches harshly. The pain hasn't begun yet, but I can feel it building in my chest, a feedback loop circling around and around as my sensors pick up on a failing pulse, a fluttering, dying thing that's going so fast, so fast, so...

  "ALASTOR!"

  I'm running. Or trying to. There's a stabbing sensation computing in my right shoulder socket and my lower stomach that makes it hard, but I don't give a fuck. I slip in the red and crumple to my knees beside him, breathing shallowly.

  Error. Error. This can't be happening.

  "Al," I rasp, modulators worn thin from screaming. "Pal. Just look at me. Please..."

  But I don't think he can.

  I don't think he ever will again.

  And it's all my fucking fault.

Chapter Text

Your hand in mine and

I could never choose to love another

Maybe one day, I could learn to love... you...

...too.

Several weeks earlier...

  VOX:

  "–you're inspiring! Really! And when you think about it, modern entertainment actually STARTED with radio."

  I've been rambling for way too long, I know I have. But how can I resist? It's just me and Alastor right now! Sitting at the bar, chatting the night away like the old pals we are. The air is warm, and smells faintly of whiskey and comfort– things I've rarely gotten the chance to feel anywhere deeper than the surface of my metal skin.

  I picked this place specifically because it has that... bit of warmth. That touch of Southern charm that Alastor has always brought to the table. It feels perfect for him, perfect for me, perfect for this...

  So perfect that it gets my transistors whirring and my tongue dangerously loose.

  He hums, looking into his whiskey glass with a polite smile. "Mmm."

   I know that tone. "Am I boring you with my compliments?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  "Perhaps," he teases.

  Mhh. That's Alastor-ese for 'yes', but he says it so fondly that it makes the pixels on my screen heat up. I feel each individual byte sizzling and I look away quick, hiding the blush-like glow in my cheeks. Can't have him seeing my silly-ass grin, can I?

  "Knew it," I chuckle. "Well, look, I'll just... get straight to the point."

  I lean in a little. He won't mind, I'm sure.

  "We've been close for a few years now, right?" I begin, confidently reciting the words I've spent almost two days straight rehearsing at myself in a mirror. "And people know us. They love us. And what with new Overlords popping up every day– and before you hit me with the 'well, you're pretty new yourself!'–"

  I sit up rail-straight and drop into an imitation of Alastor's dramatic tone, even momentarily changing my pupils into radio dials. And Lucifer be praised, he chuckles. My heart leaps in my chest. FUCK YEAH, I NAILED IT!

  "–I know, okay?" I go on with a laugh. "But I'm much more forward-thinking! You know that. So it's in your best interest to hear me out."

  "I'm listening, pal." He taps the counter faintly. "Barkeep, another whiskey~?"

  I watch as he flicks a coin to the guy behind the counter, then turn my gaze away in soft shyness. Ugh, it's so hard not to stare at him tonight! He's dressed so nicely, his hair is crazy as usual, and the way his eyes light up just a little at the ice clinking in his frosted whiskey glass makes my digital heart go fucking pitter-patter.

  He's gorgeous. He's funny. He's my best friend. But... for the first time ever, I think I want more than friendship.

  I want the Radio Demon. 

  Plain and simple. I want the simple pleasure he brings into my life to be something that stays. And I want to share even greater pleasures with him, pleasures he's never even dreamed of. I can give him everything and more. So much more...

  Ugh, there I go again. Getting in my head. I reflexively try to tuck my hair behind my ear before I remember I don't have hair anymore. Or ears. Damn it.

  "Sooo... I've been thinking, Alastor," I say, trying to summon back my confidence, "with your... incredible power, and my massive influence, we would be unstoppable, wouldn't we? Just think about it! Radio and Video!" I push back my chair and stand up, letting the passion of my idea fill my lungs. "Me and you! We could rule Hell together." I extend a hand to him. "As partners!"

  He glances up from his glass at the word partners. 

  I experience a moment of heart-stopping fear. Which is– hah– crazy, right? Because I've made a perfect argument! I've covered all the bases, I even explained why it would be a great idea for us to join forces, so he has no reason to say no...

  "...did you say partners?"

  Uhh. Ummm.

  My transistors churn into overtime trying to read his tone– the fuck is that tone? I don't like that tone.

  "Uh, yeah. I said partners..."

   "That's... what I thought you said." He pauses, takes a slow sip of his whiskey, then shows his teeth in a wide smile. "Hmmm~ hilarious, Vox. Truly. As always, I applaud your impeccable sense of humor."

   My heart sinks. Wait. No way; he thinks I'm joking? "I'm being serious, Al," I say. "I want you to be part of my team. No... not just PART of my team. I want you to be on top of me-"

  I pause like my remote control got stomped, because FUCK NO, that was NOT how I meant it!!

  "–uhh, errr, I mean, I want you to be... at the top. With me. Yeah." Good one, Vincent, real fucking smooth. "I've already got a ton of followers! And a few potential... investors... interested in our– my cause. This isn't some second-rate empire I'm trying to build. I have a dream, Al."

  I place a hand on his shoulder and gesture out the window. At the whole hellish city waiting for ME– for US.

  "I look out at those streets, and you know what I see? I see a television in every storefront. A billboard with my sigil plastered to every building. I see radio waves broadcasting our message to every home in Hell, every sinner with a listening ear and an open mind! We can reach them all, Alastor. We can be the MOST powerful sinners Hell has ever seen-!"

  "Sweetheart." Alastor waves my hand away, withdrawing into his glass again. "I'm already the most powerful sinner in Hell. I definitely don't need your power. Or anyone's, for that matter. So I fail to see the point of this... ridiculous partnership you're suggesting! It would serve little to no purpose other than to waste our precious time."

  I freeze up. For a moment, even my best algorithms can't find a way to get out of that... word-knot he's tied me into.

 So, in the grip of a meltdown, I just blurt it out.

  "Well, look, maybe you don't need me, but... but I need you."

  Alastor's ears stand on end.

  My eyes veer away from his like reverse polarity. "Al. I'm gonna be like, super-duper honest with you here. I know my power isn't... up to snuff with yours, I get it. But this isn't... really... about power." I rub at the base of my neck. "I just... I want to be able to share my empire with you. I want to put your face on my brand. I want it to be..."

   My heart practically flips over with nerves.

  "...us, Alastor. Always us. From here on out."

   There. I don't know how to make my feelings clearer.

   His unreadable expression terrifies me. There's no joy left in his smile, not even a glimmer. Biting my lip, I read him as best I can... his pulse feels a little higher than normal, but that's the only reaction he's giving me, and that's fucking scary. For the first time, I feel the probability of him saying no climbing higher. And higher. And higher...

  "...you've always relied far too much on others, Vincent."

  My breath hitches. My real name? Fuck, this is about to get serious. "Yeah, I get that, but–"

  "Couyon." He sounds cold now. "You're really willing to put your precious little dream into the hands of some... obscure corporate team? Come now, pal. I knew you could be pathetic at times, but I didn't realize you were so..." His hand squeezes his glass. "...weak."

  Pain flares in my chest. He still doesn't understand what I'm trying to say, does he? "I-I'm not weak," I mumble, even as my knees start to feel exactly that. "I'm just– I– look, it's not like I'm gallivanting around the entire Pentagram, asking all my followers to be my partners, Alastor-"

  "Hmmm. Could've fooled me." He takes a sip from his glass. "Was it not just last week that you asked that young eel lad if he was interested in... what was the word? Interning with you?"

  "That wasn't the same thing!"

   "It wasn't? Do tell me how."

   "That eel guy wasn't... YOU!"

    He arches a brow at me. "Dear me. Have you had too much to drink, Vox? I'm afraid you're making less and less sense with every word out of your mouth."

  Ugh! He's gonna make me come right out and say it, isn't he? Desperate, I shut my eyes and gulp down a lump of pride bigger than any cock I've ever swallowed. I want him too badly to not give everything I've got.

  Clack! I drop to my knees, clasping his hand in both of mine. He blinks at me in startlement.

   "This isn't about my power schemes, Al," I rasp, barely a whisper. "Please, just hear me out. I want you as my business partner because I don't want to face a future without you in it. I'm sick of waking up in an empty bed every morning, thinking about you, wishing you were there with me. Wishing you would..."

  My chest heaves. I can't choke out the words.

  See me. Want me. Love me.

  My eyes fog up with stupid tears. Shit, I'm just proving his point! I shut them hard, inhibiting myself fiercely. "Maybe I am a little weak," I murmur. "But my weak spot is you. Not anybody or anything else. So... so there it is."

  Silence.

  Fucking. Defeaning. Silence.

  I somehow work up the courage to look at his face again. And he's staring at our joined hands, his eyes wide, brow pitted... smile locked. It looks like a mask now. Like he's baring his teeth at me.

  My throat bobs. "...what do you say, pal?" I whisper. "Do you want to... upgrade our friendship?"

  His eyes shift to mine. There's a moment where real air almost fills my chest, because he's looking at me. He's seeing me.

   Then...

  "There are no friends in Hell, Vincent," he says quietly. "I thought that was something you understood."

  His hand escapes mine. My heart sinks as he stands, brushing his coat off with unsteady hands. He steps back, closing off the closeness between us like the slam of a gate.

  "I do believe," he mutters, "I need some air."

  He shoots out a black tentacle from his wrist and it snatches a whole whiskey bottle from behind the counter. A sazerac. Me and the bartender both watch in shock as he uncorks it and shows himself out without another word.

  We make eye contact.

  "...I'll... pay for that," I whisper, feeling raw inside.

   No friends in Hell. So... has Alastor never seen me as a friend? Have I somehow read him wrong all these years? Have I... royally fucked up everything I've been yearning for since the day I met him?

  I want to burst into tears. Bang my head against the counter and curse the day I caught feelings for that stupid deer. But something keeps me in check– one crucial, minute detail I'd noticed as Al shut the door behind him.

  There had been tears forming in his eyes, too.

   Which makes me wonder. Is he afraid?

  ...is there still hope?

  ...do I still have a chance?

Chapter Text

Everyone around but you're calling my name

Wanna be with you just to feel the pain

Oh, I really like you, yeah

But I could never be your valentine ♡

ALASTOR:

How positively ridiculous. 

  That's what my mind is so kindly telling me. Everything Vox just said to me has to have been a joke. Or drunken nonsense. Anything else would be... simply ridiculous.

  And I must give a thank-you to the voice in my head that protects me from such foolishness! Whatever would I do without it! Heaven forbid I get to make my own decisions for once!

  A shiver traces up my spine as I dissolve into shadow and shift up to the roof of the bar. I cross my arms, leaning out over the railing. A faint wind is stirring up here. Lukewarm and stale, as it always is in Hell, but I daresay... it's a few degrees cooler up here. And do I need it to clear my head? Perhaps.

  I get in my own head far too much.

  "Asking for assistance," I mutter under my breath. "A partnership. How disappointing. He needs me to join his team? He could've had the run of the hen's house, and out of all possible rabble-rousers, he picks me?"

   I lift the sazerac to my lips and chug down several burning swallows. The heat is pleasant– it dulls the sharp edges in my head before they can cut.

   "Poor young fool. He has no idea what he's falling for."

  Still. It boggles me to no end. Why me? Why would he take our perfectly agreeable friendship and try to turn it into... that? Into something I have no experience with, and no wish to experience? Because certainly, I have never wished to have another in my bed when I sleep. I have never dreamed of being touched without wanting to tear my skin off. I've never wanted anyone or anything but my well-established occupation.

  Murder. 

  Murder makes sense, doesn't it? Blind justice is simple justice. I sleep well at night knowing that all the souls I killed deserved it, one way or another. Even if their criteria for deserving it was simply that I needed them to cease living. Simple justice.

  Vincent understands. He murdered, too. But only to satisfy an ever-deepening need for power. An endless black hole.

  I sigh heavily. "He's bound to get himself killed one day, Alastor," I mumble under my breath. "You cannot fall into his frivolous schemes, or you may end up catching that... power-hungry disease of his. Or worse–"

  I stop myself there.

  Because no, I do not care if I get him killed. I could not care less if his death were to end up on my head. I do not give a single fuck about Vincent Whittman.

  "Hear that, old woman?" I ruefully toast the empty air with my bottle. "Your pet hasn't changed. I'm still every bit the cold-hearted soul you met that day." I take another deep swallow. "Ahhh– thinking of you, Rosie, dear..."

  "Who's Rosie?"

   Static crackles around me. I don't have to turn to know it's Vox– my, my, it appears he's followed me to have a dramatic heart-to-heart on a rooftop overlooking Hell. How positively embarrassing.

  How... sweet.

  I glance over my shoulder. "If I thought you would listen, I would advise you to walk away, Vox."

  He does no such thing, of course. His eyes are wide, catching the moonlight on their reflective surfaces. "Who's Rosie, Alastor?"

  "Come now. If you had been in Hell anywhere near long enough, you would have surely heard of her..."

  "But I haven't." His voice is filled with pain. "And I guess that explains a lot. She's... you're..."

  He takes a deep, shaky breath. It's almost pathetic.

  "You're with her, aren't you? Somebody got you... before me."

   My eyes widen despite myself. He thinks– no, certainly not. He has altogether the wrong idea!

  "That's why you walked away so fast," he surges on, laughing brokenly. "I should've known. Perfect demon like you. Stupid perfect Radio Demon. Of course you already have someone. I just... I thought... fuck, I should've asked you. I should've–"

  "Vincent."

  He looks up, a tear tracing down his screen. I pull in a deep breath, sighing heavily. This is shameful for the both of us, showing weakness... what the fuck am I doing?

  "I am not with anyone." My voice is firm. "Heavens, no. I would call Rosie a friend. A chum. Nothing more."

   His eyes flash with disbelief. "I thought you said there were no friends in Hell."

  "Well. Take my words how you will, Vox. You never had friends either, only pawns. So I am sure you can understand my... confusion... at your proposal."

   I turn back to the railing, faint radio feedback popping around me. I grit my teeth down hard. It's never been so difficult to hold a smile before.

  Clink. 

  His fingers settle on the rail beside mine. I glance midly at him. He's staring out into the cityscape as well, a pensive look on his face. And we are silent as the wind.

  "You know," he finally chuckles, "the last time I was on a rooftop like this, I was throwing somebody off. The owner of my network. The last person to ever say no to me." He casts a shy look at me. "I guess you probably think I'm gonna try something similar with you, huh?"

  "Mmm." My fingertips drum against the metal. "I assume you're smarter than that, old pal. But if you were to attempt something so foolish, I can assure you, I would quickly put an end to your afterlife."

   It's a joke. But he gives me a look, and the softness in his eyes is... foreign to me.

  "Are you scared, Al?"

  "Scared?" I echo. "HAH! Of what, pray tell?"

   He holds my gaze, unpreturbed by my mockery. "Of this." His hand inches closer until it's resting over one of mine. "Of us."

   The air around me buzzes with warning. "There is no 'us'," I mutter. "And if I were you, I would keep those hands of yours to yourself before you lose one."

  "Al." He doesn't move. "What are you so afraid of? You know I can't hurt you. So why?"

   He really must be jesting with me. I straighten up, smiling haughtily. "Fear is not a welcome guest in my head, Vincent, and I do not keep house for it," I pronounce. "At best, it is a tool. Something to be used against others. At worst, it is an inconvenience, and I always squash inconveniences."

  Vox nods slowly. "And am I... an inconvenience?"

   "Mmm. You're starting to become one." My gaze flicks down to his hand, still touching mine; I want to bite that damn thing off. "But, no. You have always been somewhat of a pleasure to be around."

  His screen glitches, pupils darting in confusion. Suddenly he rips his hand away and drags it across his TV box of a head, looking positively stumped. "So... I don't get it," he whispers. "If it's not fear, and you LIKE me–"

  "–I never said I like you, dear."

  "Then WHY?" He turns to me, eyes wide with pain. "Why are you pushing me away? Just be honest, for once! Why can't you see that I just want..."

   "Because you DON'T."

   My voice finally snaps. He draws back an inch as radio symbols start to fizzle and pop in the air around me. Burning. Like the churning in my chest. Why does he have to be so incessant?!

   "You don't want me," I growl. "Nobody in their right mind would want me. Look at me! Blood-obsessed radio freak whose death was a pathetic shot in the dark. I'd sooner eat your heart on a spit than cherish any part of it!" I squeeze the neck of the whiskey bottle, resisting the urge to shatter his screen with it. "Who would want to be with someone who can't feel anything?"

  The silence that follows is deafening. Thoroughly chagrined, I gulp down almost the rest of the sazerac, ignoring both him and whatever it is I'm feeling. Ignorance is easier, isn't it? Ignorance is bliss.

  He looks out at the city, then up at the moon. Then he sighs, turns... leans his back against the rail. And closes his eyes.

   "It's not a shot in the dark..."

  My ears flatten again my head. Singing? Oh, how much more sappy can this moment get?

   "Not up to chance, 'cause I've got plans

  to make a fire from this spark..."

   He nods his head at me, smiling shyly. 

   "Fish like to swim next to sharks–

   Well, I guess I'm going fishing

   'cause I'm wishing for your heart~"

   He gestures out at the city sprawled wide before us, a flash of hopeful energy sparking in his eyes. "Come on, Al. It couldn't be that bad, could it? Trying something new? We could learn together, we could grow together! We could be something more than just Overlords. You and I–"

  He glances at my hand. I have a split second to realize he's going to grab it, and should I pull away? Perhaps. But do I? No. So his fingers close around mine, and suddenly he's pulling me into a wild waltz across the roof.

  "–we could be... brighter! Brighter than the Heavens in the skies above

  We'll be... brighter! Nothin' in creation stronger than our love

 Just me, just you, BRIGHTER!" 

   He dips me. I grunt, smiling patiently through a rush of vertigo. "You owe me a small essay of reasons not to rip your throat out, Vincent."

  "And the point of that would be..?" he asks with a wink. "Look, I know you wouldn't. You're hearing me out now, aren't you? Think about the possibilities! Aren't you tired of those same old radio broadcasts, Alastor? I'm sure you are! You want something bigger, better! BRIGHTER!"

  He spins me under his arm and a noise escapes my lips– a chuckle. No, a laugh. I mentally berate myself: damn it, Alastor, you are NOT letting his grand words sweep you up...

  But I have to admit... this pathetic musical display is making me consider it.

  "What would we even do if we joined forces?" I sigh. "The same mundane things we've been doing since we met, only with a new label slapped onto it like a cattle brand? Come now. Why not simply remain pals, Vox?"

   He fixes me with a look that makes me falter. Something intense, something I swore would never, ever have an effect on me.

  "We've been pals long enough," he says quietly. "I'm ready to make our futures... brighter."

   One more spin, a few more steps, and he ends the dance with... me pressed against the railing. Leaned back into empty air. My ear twitches in annoyance. What a precarious position I've let him put me in.

  He could push me off if he wants. I wait for it, preparing to surge back up and stab him in his weak little heart. But he just looks at me, too close and too soft, and... the softness is catching. 

   My expression relaxes.

   Ever so slowly, his hand rises, like he's preparing to pet a wild animal. I watch it closely. Growl deep in my throat. And when his fingertips brush my face, I fight down a manic urge to eat his whole hand in one bite.

  But for some reason I can't fathom, I let him do it.

   "Can't you see that this is what we're meant to be?" he sings, slowly.

   "Take my hand, and let me help you make yourself complete

   Just you and me

   Brighter..."

   We stare at each other for what is surely an uncomfortable amount of time. Which is... peculiar, because I don't feel wholly uncomfortable. Even bent backward against a rail, with his fingers unceremoniously lanced through mine and his gaze running over my chest, I feel on top of the world. 

   What a fucking fool. He loves me, and he's such a fucking fool.

   It should be so easy to say no.

   But it feels impossible.

   I sigh heavily. "Vox," I mutter, "my eyes are up here."

  "Oh." He blushes, pulling his gaze away. "Right. Sorry, I– ahem– got a little carried away."

   He starts to withdraw. But once he gives me enough space to stand straight again, I tighten my grip on his hand. He blinks at me, mouth falling open.

  "Perhaps," I say brightly, "a partnership would not be so disagreeable, hm? If you are so sure it would be an improvement over our current stature, then– mm! Who am I to disagree with you, my friend?"

   Static electricity shoots up my arm as he gasps, tears building in his eyes. "Is that a yes–?"

   "Oh, no, no, no. It's a perhaps! Call it a preliminary, a trial run! I move in with you, I give you my time, and we do our best not to strangle each other for a while, hm? Just until we figure out where this is truly going."

  He compresses his lips against tears. Poor soul, he looks overjoyed. "Yes," he almost sobs. "Oh, god, Al... yes. You won't... you won't regret this. I-I promise, I'll..."

  He all but falls to his knees before me, squeezing my hand.

  "...I'll make you the happiest fucking demon in Hell..."

  "Hmmm." I pat the top of his box. "Happiness is never a given, Vincent. But you're welcome to try, if you wish. Whatever floats your pretty little boat."

   I let go and he lets me. He's far too much of a jittery, joyful mess to try and stop me. Sweet Vincent, I pity you.

  "Well!" I straighten my tie. "Dear me, I really must be getting back! I have frittered away far too much time here! But rest assured, my dear, I will gather my belongings and meet you at your tower before tomorrow is out."

  He babbles wordlessly for a moment, then shoots to his feet. "Yes– yes! See you then! I'll, uh–"

   I shadow-shift away before I'm forced to suffer whatever gushy goodbye he's about to stumble through. But I leave him what's left of the whiskey.

   He is surely going to need it.