Archive of Our Own

part one

“Parties are a waste of time,” grumbles Vox, and it’s sour.

There’s acid rain pattering outside, splattering the window. It’s sleet, probably on its way to snow, and Vox isn’t sure which is worse, really. Pride, in all its miserable glory. Fuck, he’d love to see the other eight rings. They had to be different, surely?

“Parties, my dear,” says Alastor, somewhat dangerously as he smiles just a bit too wide. He tightens the knot of Vox’s tie and the tv demon chokes. “Are never a waste of time.”

“Only old-timers like you would say that,” wheezes Vox, rubbing at his neck while his screen glitches. He’d be lying if he said he minded the rough treatment. Really, he’s fine with whatever Alastor does to him so long as he’s here doing it. “Not everyone loves mingling-“

“You ‘mingle’,” says Alastor, dismissive. He pulls his bow tie straight in the mirror. Smug. The asshole. Except he’s Vox’s asshole, so whatever. “Didn’t you say it was essential for that little ‘noteriety’ you keep going on about.”

Vox cracks a smile at the distain in the Radio Demon’s tone. “Sure, Al.”

Alastor twirls his cane, leans his weight on it when he adds, “hurry up, dear.”

Vox shrugs into his coat, tugs the lapels straight. It’s a deep blue, simple. Picked by Al, actually, because apparently he’s taken over their wardrobe and he’s tired of Vox’s various turtlenecks and sweatervests. Vox’s heels click on the linoleum of the room as he says, dry, “I should warn you that Val’s going to be there.”

Alastor cocks his head, smiles without teeth and it’s somehow even more terrifying than with them. “If that overgrown insect tries to engage me in conversation,” he grits out, sickly sweet, twisting the silver ring on his finger. Vox feels it in his own ring like an echo, takes a greedy moment to relish the fact that they’re bound together. “I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

“I doubt that’ll be a problem,” says Vox, grinning. “Since you nearly had him pissing himself last time.”

(He used to get himself so drunk he couldn’t even breathe straight. Back then, in the early days, the static was so loud. Every waking moment full of the szzzckkkttttttz until he’d been sure he’d go mad. Maybe it was just waiting for Alastor.)

Alastor hums, but there’s so much glee in the sound that Vox has to laugh. Al’s many things, and petty is occasionally one of them. “I made my position clear-“

“Yeah, I know.” Vox flaps a hand. “You don’t care who I fuck so long as it just stays Fucking. I don’t renege on deals, Al.”

Alastor throws an arm around Vox’s shoulders and his claws dig into the tv demon’s arm. Possessive bastard, thinks Vox fondly, before he shrugs his husband off and gestures towards the door with a raised eyebrow.

Alastor hums, holds out his arm and Vox links their elbows in a time-tested gesture. If you told him, while he was alive, that he’d find love in Hell, he would have laughed himself into the grave.

(They’d had dinner earlier, Vox some of Al’s homemade Jambalaya while the radio demon himself fried up what looked like cross sections of some random sinner’s leg with spices and herbed tomatoes.)

The streets outside are quiet, devoid of the usual throng of wayward sinners, and Vox doesn’t say anything when they get into his car and start off down the street. There’s a strange eeriness to the silence. Like a power imbalance.

Alastor glances over as Vox turns a corner without indicating. “If you truly detest parties, dear, then you could stay home.”

It’s a little flat, and there’s that old stab of worry in Vox’s chest that he’s said or done something wrong without realising he has. It’s not like they don’t piss each other off on the regular. There’s been the whole initial rivalry when they’d first met- the mockery, the sneering. (Until they realised that they were perhaps feeling other things than hatred. Then they’d traded blood and pain for drinks and careful steps forwards. The marriage contract had been a headache. Overlords of their caliber didn’t just give shit away. There were always strings attached. They found a loophole, like always, and Vox still remembers getting it witnessed by Carmilla and Zestial, the only promises made being “no one else gets to kill you.”

Romantic enough, sure.)

“It’s fine,” says Vox now, and he tips a smirk for good measure. His neck is aching today, it’s been aching all week. Sometimes this fucking crt monitor head of his weighs too much. He’s used to it by now. “If you’re there I’ll deal.”

Alastor’s smile twitches at the corners. Vox still doesn’t know the real reason for the sickle-like curve. He’s heard Al’s ‘a smile is a tool’ spiel like the next sinner, sure, but surely that can’t be it? Is the radio demon’s face stuck like that? Can he frown? Or is it a choice?

Vox knows the benefits of a smile- uses them as much as he needs to, but…

He’s getting off track.

Alastor sighs, deep in his throat. On the window his claws go tap tap tap. “Explain why the insect will be there?”

Vox shrugs. “Overlord shit? I don’t know, maybe someone invited him.” Alastor narrows his eyes and Vox smirks. “Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t me.”

Alastor says, “good,” in a tone that sends a shudder up Vox’s spine, his back fins aching to ripple upright. God, he loves Al’s voice.

“I think I like you possessive,” he says lazily, raising an eyebrow.

Alastor’s eyes darken into ticking radio dials and his claws scratch the door. “I hope you remember it cuts both ways,” he says, and Vox reaches over to squeeze his arm.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

He won’t leave. He won’t be able to leave. If Alastor ever gets sick of him he’ll have to prise him off with a crowbar and then douse him in turpentine and set him alight. He’s so fucked he doesn’t even know where it starts or where it ends.

There’s an ugly itch under his skin, the one that means he feels something bad is coming and he won’t be able to stop it. Vox wants to go out- to prowl the streets. To kill something and feel the hot splash of blood up his arms.

He’s not made for kindness and caring.

He’s not made for love, but sometimes he feels it so strongly it chokes him.

—//—

It didn’t go well the first time.

Alastor likes to pretend he doesn’t remember their first fight. Likes to pretend he didn’t stand over Vox’s motionless body while his cracked CRT monitor leaked coolant onto the tar.

That’s Al’s way- he deflects. Brushes shit off. Smiles wide and turns conversations around until you’re no longer in charge.

“Join me,” Vox had said in that bar, and god he feels like a fucking idiot now- he can see it better with the lens of time. But he doesn’t regret it. It made way for change. It led to Alastor’s laughing, his cutting cruelty, and it lead to blood and snarling violence, and Vox- offline, glass scattered in broken snowflakes and colored royal blue from his blood.

It made way for the ugly pink chains around the Radio Demon’s throat, there and gone so fast that Vox thought he’d been imagining it. It lead to Rosie.

It was after that, shivering alone in his shitty flat, that Vox curled his claws into his palms until blood smeared his skin and vowed he’d prove it wasn’t a lie. He’d fight back. He’d show Alastor that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he could take whatever shit the motherfucker decided to throw at him.

He was staying.

The glitches came soon after. It took him longer than it should have to find a mirror and his crooked antenna. No matter what he did, what he does, repairs won’t stick. He thinks he remembers Alastor biting it. Maybe, it’s all a bit blurry.

But he healed, slower than he’d have like but healed nonetheless. And once he was able to crawl onto his own two feet, he went out again, alone.

He hunted souls. He trawled hell for days. For weeks he subsided on the sound of screams alone. Of pain and suffering as he coaxed power from sinners with silver-tongued promises and threats when all else failed. Vox felt the power shift through his veins. He felt himself grow stronger, his abilities keener. The ever-present itch in his eye split into hypnotic compulsion, and the new tool became a blade in his hand as he stalked the streets, always starting with a soft, “trust me.”

And then-

And then he went after Rosie.

She wasn’t expecting him. Maybe Alastor had never mentioned him before. Maybe he really hadn’t cared even that much.

“Ohh,” she said when he stepped foot into her parlour, sitting in a high-backed armchair like a little girl at a tea party. “You’re new.”

He wasn’t. It had been long enough by then, and Vox’s claws had curled into trembling fists by his side.

She leans forwards, sniffs the air like a fucking poodle. “Another upstart,” she coos. She stands, hat askew, and the rage that curdles up Vox’s throat almost chokes him. His eye switches to hypnotic, electricity crackling up his frame like an old friend. “You have a bone to pick, sugar? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“Only the one bone,” says Vox, and his voice comes out so fucking cold. He tastes metal, and his smile is nothing friendly.

Rosie smiles too wide. Is that where Alastor got it from? She looks a little amused. He doesn’t give a shit. He’s not here to entertain her. “Looking for a soul contract? I admit you’re a little…” She wriggles her fingers. “Unusual for Cannibal Town, but-“

“No,” says Vox. “I’m here because of Alastor.”

Rosie goes so very still. She’s like a spider that’s reached the centre of its web. She cocks her head. Now she doesn’t look amused. “Alastor…” she says.

“Yes,” grits Vox. He’s not in the mood for this shit. “Tall, thinner than a rail with an irritating smile and a voice like the radio?”

Rosie hums. The lights in the room flicker. Dim. Vox feels the sparks jumping between his antennas. “And what do you want with Alastor, little one?”

Vox raises an eyebrow, brushes down the lapel of his coat. “Call me little one again, and you won’t like that happens.”

“Hm,” says Rosie, and it deteriorates from there.

Vox limps out, scratched and gasping for air, but he behind him are scorch marks and burns on skin, and in his hand is a small roll of pink.

The air pulls back around him, thin and sticky with static and he casts his power out across Hell, searching for that FM signature he knows so well.

There.

there.

“Alastor,” says Vox, and it’s full of so much fucking anger that the Radio Demon looks startled.

It’s been fifteen minutes of raging- fifteen minutes of Alastor telling him to go fuck himself. To piss off and find someone else to hang off. And it fucking stings because Jesus fucking Christ- “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

The sinner bristles, eyes flaring, but Vox just jabs a claw into his neckline. There’s scanlines bleeding from his mouth but he doesn’t care. That’s the first time he glitches in front of Alastor, and it… it hurts. Vox tries to roll with it, to tramp down on the emotions that are no doubt making it worse, but the blue electricity crackles through him like judgement day. Alastor is staring, when he manages to gain control again, almost startled.

“You don’t need other people’s power,” says Vox, sharp. He lifts his finger, stabs again, emphasising every word with a little bead of blood- one of the only ways Alastor knows. “You never did. You don’t need Rosie, you don’t need her deal.”

“I don’t need you,” spits Alastor, but there’s a split second flash in his eyes that makes Vox think he doesn’t believe it.

“You don’t,” says Vox.

Alastor bares his teeth, but his smile is… wary? God, the day the fucking radio demon is scared of Vox will be historic. That’s never going to happen.

“I didn’t ask you to team up because I thought you needed me,” says Vox, and it’s so careful it feels like he’s trying to swallow glass. There’s blood running in little beads down Alastor’s collar. Down Vox’s thigh. “And I sure as fuck didn’t ask you to use you. I asked you because I like you and I didn’t want to say goodbye.”

Alastor’s shaking his head, but his ears are twitching and he’s staring at Vox out of those wide red eyes like he’s not sure of what he’s looking at.

“Maybe that makes me weak.” Vox shrugs. He’s tired. He needs a fucking drink. Or several. Maybe he should chain-smoke until the walls of his lungs turn to ash. “I still say that’s bullshit, because I’m only weak for one asshole. I don’t have room for more.”

Alastor opens those teeth, but all that comes out is static. The radio demon swallows, tries again. “Rosie?”

“I figured it out.” Vox tries for a smile, but the memory of those black, black eyes makes him shudder.  “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone.”

“You’d better not,” growls Alastor, and his antlers bud into solid shadow.

Vox’s smile turns small but real. “I’m trying to make a fucking point here,” he says ruefully.

Alastor pauses, narrows his eyes. Waits.

Vox holds out the soul contract. It looks a little like a wedding invitation, pink and lettered in swirling cursive. “Grow your power your way.” He smirks, “Hell, you’d probably end up stronger if you did. You don’t need her loan.”

Alastor reaches out, stops, like Vox is going to pull it back and laugh in his face.

Vox reaches out and tucks it into one shaking fist. Closes the deadly red claws around it until it crinkles and crumbles into a fine shower of pink dust. “You’ve always been strong, Al,” he says softly.

Silence.

Vox waits. He waits for the blow that will open him up from throat to thigh. Waits for Alastor to vanish. Waits for the inevitable shitty luck-

Alastor reaches out, unsure but steady, and digs his claws into the crook of Vox’s arm.

He stays.

—//—

“You spend too much time with that analogue horror,” grumbles Val. He’s sprawled on the bed, watching as Vox does up the buckle on his belt.

Vox gives him an unimpressed look from narrow red eyes, hand cocked on his hip. “That ‘analogue horror’ is my husband.”

“He can’t even fuck you,” says Val, leering. “Really, Voxxy, you’re hung up on someone who’s-“

“Do you really want to finish that sentence?” says Vox, mild, but his smile is sharp-edged and static crackles between his antennas.

Val shrugs, lazy. This… thing they have, might be purely transactional, but Vox sincerely wishes Val would stop saying shit like this. It really pisses him off. The fucker has countless other, lesser souls contracted, can’t he be content with them?

The moth demon gets up off the bed, lights a cigarette. Fuck, Vox would kill for a smoke, but he’s sure as shit not using whatever Val’s sucking. He’s not sure what it would do.

“All i’m saying is maybe you’d benefit from a better relationship,” drawls Val, spanish accent like a hidden razor. He grins, gold tooth winking. He leans over, trails a hand up Vox’s chest and the tv demon swats it away hard enough to sting.

Val jerks back with a squeak.

“Alright, clearly I need to elaborate,” says Vox, tiredly, then he straightens and his hypnotic eye comes online as his voice twist, overlaid by mechanical static. It echoes with power. He’s only amassed more souls after fighting Rosie. He’s far from weak now. “Our agreement was sex for the sake of it, remember?”

Val’s wings snap out with a whoosh. They’re elegant, furred. The moth narrows his eyes. “You don’t make the rules here, amore,” he croons.

“I’m not making rules.” Vox stabs a claw at him, and blue electricity crackles down his arm. “If you’re not happy with out arrangement anymore I’ll find someone else. I don’t give a shit, it’s no skin off my back, but Alastor?” He steps forwards, and he can see the moment Val registers just how serious he is. “That’s not up for fucking discussion. Got it?”

Val growls, but doesn’t argue so clearly that’s the end of that. Hopefully, anyway.

Vox shrugs into his coat, heads for the door. He stops, calls back, mocking, “Don’t tell me the ‘king of porn’ is lacking for whores.”

“Fuck you,” snarls Val, but Vox is gone before he can spit out a proper retort.

—//—

“You know,” says Vox, “I’ve been thinking-“

Alastor looks sideways at him, monocle flashing.

It’s a quiet evening, the chessboard is on the coffee table and they’re both bundled up in knitwear because apparently Alastor doesn’t mind stitching if no one can see him in it. The grey turtleneck does wash him out a little, but that’s probably Vox’s fault for not owning red ones.

There’s condensation on their whiskey glasses, forming rings on the wood of the table, but everything else has been forgotten because of the slightly mocking curve to Al’s constant smile.

“Does this perhaps have something to do with that awful speech I found rolled up in the drawer?”

Vox glitches, and when the static clears from his vision Alastor is laughing with his head tipped back. “How the- fuck you, you fucking snoop!”

Alastor wipes a tear from his eye with a claw, still chortling. “Oh, my dear, you really are ridiculous.”

Vox glares at him. There’s a part of him that fears what’s coming now. He can’t help remembering their first fight. The way Alastor crushed him with that mocking amusement. This feels different, but it feels wrong to hope.

“Are you going to get down on one knee?” croons Alastor, leering.

Vox rolls his eyes, smirks when he leans back. It’s half control, half pretence. “Yeah, I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Alastor hmms, but his eyes flash.

“I was going to broach the subject,” says Vox, because the cat’s out of the bag now. “Not make a scene. Besides, I…” Didn’t know how you’d react. Didn’t know if you’d…

Alastor fists a hand and Vox knows he’s thinking of the same memory. 

Silence. Always fucking silence. Vox leans forwards, moves a pawn. For someone of Al’s monstrous intellect, he’s pretty shit at chess, his king is wide open.

“Marriage contracts are messy,” says the radio demon. And it’s careful. He’s watching Vox through sober red eyes. “They have strings.”

And Al doesn’t want to be bound.

Oh.

Vox moves the chess board to the side, leans forwards with his hands clasped together. “What if ours didn’t?”

The air hums with FM and static. It’s hyper-tuned, vibrating like a tuning fork. Alastor doesn’t move, all his focus is on Vox and he fucking loves that.

“Go on.”

“We don’t need strings.” Vox gestures with a hand, claws flashing. “They’re a choice. We just need a vow.”

Alastor’s smile is something smaller, more secret than Vox has ever seen it.

The tv demon grins. “You have at least one idea already, don’t you?”

Alastor shrugs. “You’ll have to wait and see, dear.”

Vox thinks his heart stops beating. That’s… that’s a yes. Holy shit, he hadn’t thought-

“O-okay,” he says, and he tries to keep it from sounding too eager. “Okay s-sure! That’s fine.”

He’s going to fucking crash at this point, he can hear his fans struggling to kick on. Jesus-

“What, no proper proposal?” Alastor’s expression is a mockery of disappointment. “Cheap, Vox, I expected better of you.”

Vox laughs, chest aching from the mirth. “You’re an asshole.” He stands, tugs his sweater-vest straight, and folds onto one knee. It feels surreal, in truth. He’d never have thought he’d get here when he first arrived in Hell. He means to make it more of a joke, but it comes out stone cold sober. And there’s so fucking much tucked away in the five little words. “Will you marry me, Al?”

“Hmm,” says Alastor, smirking down at him, all angles and danger and cutting wit- when did he stand up? Then, off handed, “Perhaps.”

Vox grins, takes the offered hand and gets helped back up onto his feet. Bastard.

“Whatever you say, old-timer.”

—//—

“Oh let’s have another!”

The bar lights are glowing, and so is Alastor’s face, his smile bright and genuine and Vox isn’t ashamed to admit he’d do anything just to keep it there like that.

The crowd’s cheering, the night’s young, and Vox lets out a laugh when Alastor shakes his shoulder a little maniacally. “Jesus, okay, okay, keep your horns on.”

“Splendid!” Alastor stands, flags down the staff member at the edge of the small stage. “My good fellow, would you have another microphone?”

“Al,” says Vox, amused, “we can just share.”

Alastor snorts. “Your head is too big, my dear.”

That’s fair enough. Vox leans said head on a hand and watches the poor terrified staff member scurry off to find the equipment while he takes the chance in the lull to finish his whiskey. Alastor waits there, at the edge of the stage, bathed in light and grinning like the smug fucking bastard he is.

It doesn’t take long for the staff member to get back. He’s vaguely cat-like, Vox notices when he comes to balance another mic on top of the piano beside the first. Shades of grey and orange. Huh.

Alastor sits himself down when the sinner’s fled again, tests the keys with a quick arpeggio. He looks up, finds Vox watching him, and leers. “What?” he drawls. “See something you like?”

Vox knows his screen lights up in a stupid blush, but he says, charming, “Oh, no, sorry I was looking at someone else.”

There’s a wolf whistle from the crowd of patrons, Mimzy probaby, and Alastor laughs. He’s so unrestrained tonight. God, it’s something else. He wants to freeze this moment, keep it somewhere safe so he can always take it out and look at it in times to come.

Alastor starts the melody for Bye Bye Baby on the keys and Vox has to scramble out of his reverie to hit the chords on his half of the piano and Alastor smirks at him, the shithead.

The radio demon croons the words, Vox takes harmony, and when they belt the chorus, the bar’s singing along, and he wonders, fleetingly, how far through Hell you could hear the singing before Alastor bumps his shoulder and he grins back

Bye-bye love

Bye-bye sweet caress

Hello emptiness

I feel like I could die

Bye-bye my love, goodbye

—//—

Except then Al just… disappears.

He disappears for SEVEN FUCKING YEARS, and leaves Vox to try and pick up the pieces.

part two 

The acid rain is easing to a drizzle the day Alastor returns.

He’s bruised, aching, craving some semblance of normality that’s probably been forfeit since the day he vanished from Pentagram City.

He doesn’t make a big announcement. He doesn’t seek out trouble and a taste of sinner flesh. Maybe it’s weak, but there’s only one person he wants to see.

He follows the radiowaves until he can sense the familiar static crackling through the air. He sets off, heels clicking the tar, ducking the rain as best he can until it finally goes away.

He walks. Then he runs. It’s so fucking stupid, he doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe there’s a fear that he won’t be fast enough. That another few minutes after seven years will make a difference.

He rounds a corner and almost crashes right into… into…

Alastor drags in a breath, feeling brittle down to his bones. He’s… he’s feeling too much. Is it too much? It feels like too much, but he can’t make it go away, and-

And it’s… it’s clearly Vox, but he’s different. He’s… in a suit, for one thing. It’s sharper, bolder, electric blues and reds that pop like Alastor’s coats used to. His screen is thin, flat, and Alastor can’t help but wonder if it’s lighter on his neck.

The radio demon smells the sour stink of change, steps back. He hates uncertainty. He hates-

Maybe there will be nothing there. Maybe Alastor will have to slink away and go murder half of hell so he’ll never have to come out of his taxidermy room.

Alastor looks up, and doubt dies.

Vox is staring at him, wide eyed, trembling, and there’s a touch of a terrible hope when he says, "Al?"

God, that voice. That familiar voice.

Alastor fights to keep his smile in place, feels his throat scratch. He’s so tired. It took so much just to get back here. Phantom scars itch. “Hello, dear. Awfully sorry for being tardy.”

And Vox is hurrying forwards in time to catch Alastor under the elbows when his knees give out. He’s shaking, fuck that’s embarrassing. Alastor glares down at his offending limbs. Maybe he’s not as healed as he’d thought, even after all this time.

“Jesus Christ, Al.” Vox is staring at him like a man who’s just found an oasis but isn’t sure whether it’s a mirage. “What- where-“ He stops, breathes once. “Are you okay?”

Alastor fists a hand in the fabric of Vox’s shirt, feels his claws scratch through into the skin beneath. The blue blood that spots the threads is the proof at last, and Alastor makes a ragged sound and tips his head forwards to press it into Vox’s shoulder.

The TV demon’s hand slides up and fists in his hair, uncharacteristically gentle. And instead of making Alastor’s skin crawl, it’s a relief.

“Where the fuck were you?” Maybe it’s a demand, but Vox doesn’t sound angry. He just sounds… hurt. Weak, jeers a corner of Alastor’s head, the corner where all the vitriol bubbles over a fire around the clock. Sentimental.

Maybe Alastor become weak, because he only bristles a little and shoves half-heartedly at Vox with what remains of his strength. The TV demon doesn’t budge. He’s thin, but wiry. Rather like Alastor, really. They’ve always had too much in common.

“Does it matter?” It comes out with a little too much bite. He’s aching. He’d prefer just to stay here and breathe.

Vox leans back, frowning. “Seven years, Al. Was it something I fucking said?”

Always worried about chasing him away. Alastor doesn’t know how to drill the truth of it into Vox’s thick processor, because then he’d actually have to be honest with himself and admit that he cares-

“No,” says Alastor, flat. His smile is hurting his face. He doesn’t remember what it feels like without one.

—//—

Before

It’s what passes for autumn in Hell when he and Val decide to ally with each other- Al’s been missing for almost a year.

Vox has been… slack doesn’t feel like the right word. Neither does mourning- unless mourning means moving into a new penthouse in Vee Tower because you can’t stand waiting alone in your living room, hoping someone walks through the door.

It’s been… darker, recently. Vox can’t find that small tangle of gentler cables inside him. He’s angry, brittle, and sometimes when he gets too drunk and spins the ring on his finger he wants to throw up. (Or take a flying fucking dive over the fucking balcony of what’s becoming Vee tower, but really, who’s taking notes?)

It’s the sensation of the nothingness. He hides his cathedral radio in a cabinet of his desk. Wears the button out every time he turns it on only to be endlessly disappointed. He doesn’t learn. Alastor called him a fool on multiple occasions, and while it was said in a tone of cruel amusement, Vox knew it for what it was.

They’re demons, after all. They were shitty in life and they’re shittier in death, and he’s not going to prance around on some motherfucking high horse and pretend that he’s anything other than what he’s not- which is a greedy fucking asshole who doesn’t give a shit who he hurts to get his way, unless it’s a lanky wendigo-esque analogue horror who can’t stop fucking smiling.

Vox didn’t realise just how lonely he was before he met Alastor until the other sinner is gone. Now there are spaces between breaths, moments that ring with the wrong kind of silence. And the dead air that crawls through the radio, heavy like it’s choked with powdered asbestos.

Val seems to think it’s a great opportunity- the alliance. That he’s going to be getting his money’s worth. He still flirts with Vox, around the clock, and Vox still lets him because it’s not as though he’s going to do something with it. And maybe a part of it is the fact that when Val’s around the silence isn’t so fucking loud in his audio processors.

VoxTek rises from the grime slowly. Slowly because he’s going to make sure he does this right. It’s always about power in the end, whether that be souls or influence, or even just a healthy dose of gold old fear, and VoxTek

will help him gain that shining light at the end of the tunnel.

He hears Alastor, in his head when he’s checking blueprints, or making notes. Or even just working on what might become potential upgrades to his fucking head that might help solve the neck ache. Technology advances, it waits for no man. That’s clear enough. And Hell will know his name- if he has to drag himself there by his own bloodied claws, and when they do, when he’s looking down on them, he’ll make sure that no one forgets Alastor’s either.

—//—

Vox takes Al back to the house. The old one. The bastardised rip-off brownstone they used to call home. He’d kept it, because nothing else was a real option, not when he could stand in its shadows and remember the sound of Alastor’s voice on the late nights they shared.

It’s dusty. But preserved, like a lace dress in a glass case. It feels like it should all break apart when he takes the first step inside.

He leaves Al standing on the landing outside the bathroom and fetches a towel and spare clothes from the bedroom drawer. Alastor takes them wordlessly when Vox presses them into his hands, unmoving, and Vox won’t fucking run away, but he doesn’t know what to do with this.

He sits downstairs at the table, scratching at the woodgrain with one blue claw, hears the water turn on. And then Vox lets the glitches roll over him, each one stronger than the last. He feels like he’s about to jerk awake and realise that this has all been a terrible nightmare. That he’s hallucinating Alastor again, except this time it’s not just his voice, it’s all of him, and Vox doesn’t know what he’d do with that.

He rests his screen in his hands, lets out a scratchy hiss of static that catches in his throat.

Fuck.

Fuck, if this is a dream then he never wants to wake up.

—//—

Before

“A toast?”

Val’s leaning forwards, smirking, champagne glass filled with little bubbles. It’s never been Vox’s favourite, he’ll admit, but it does add to the atmosphere.

Below them blink the lights of Pentagram City. Vee Tower is finally complete, but somehow Vox feels even more hollow than before. It’s so fucking hard, sometimes, to make sure he doesn’t slip up and start talking to Alastor. It’s such an old habit he doesn’t… he can’t…

Even Val. The number of times Vox has caught himself running the thought ‘Al wouldn’t’ or ‘if Al was here instead’ … he’s probably being pathetic, but he can’t help it.

He never could.

—//—

It’s evening before Vox notices- the dark congealed red of dusk seeping in like a threat.

Al’s sitting at their old piano, not playing, just staring down at the keys and a swell of nausea grips Vox’s stomach. He doesn’t know how to reach him- this new, closed off version of the man he loves. Doesn’t know what to say that might bring back the old smile. Not this brittle new one. Doesn’t know how to help if Alastor won’t talk to him.

They’ve both… changed? Have they changed? Vox knows he became… harder once Alastor vanished. Sharper. Maybe even crueler. He had to funnel the loss somewhere, right?

(Maybe they’ve both grown weak. Sentiment and emotion in Hell is like trying to keep blood off the blade as you sever an artery. Maybe they made a mistake. Vox just knows he’d keep making it, again and again, over and over, because he’s fucked and he doesn’t care.)

He eases down next to Al, hesitates a long moment then pressed down a key with one electric blue claw. The note is loud in the stillness, like a faded old memory.

Maybe music can reach where he can’t.

D

Vox ignores the lack of response, plays more keys.

C#-D-D#

Sings, under his breath like a question, “we’ll meet again… don’t know where… don’t know when,”

Alastor shudders, once, almost convulsive, and his hand creeps onto the keys to play the higher harmony. Red claws and blue, dancing lightly. It’s familiar, and it hurts that it feels like re-learning. Chords and notes, the hammers hitting the strings inside the baby grand, the scratches on its varnished wood that still linger after all these years.

(Vox doesn’t recall exactly why, but he thinks it was due to them trying to get it in through the door.)

There’s a moment, later, when Al’s weight settles agains his side, tentative in a way that feels alien of the radio demon. There’s tension coursing up Al’s ribs, even as his claws tenderly play the keys.

Tell them you won't be long

They'll be happy to know

That as I saw you go

You were singing this song

Vox never saw Alastor go.

All he got was dust in the living room and silence on the radio. Not mindless static- complete and utter silence. For seven years, no radio in Pentagram City made a single sound beyond the click of Vox turning his cathedral radio on with a slowly dwindling hope before turning it off again.

He moves his right arm out from between them and slips it around Al’s back, rests his hand on one bony shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, quiet. Neutral. He doesn’t stop playing.

“No,” says Alastor, horse.

But he doesn’t stop playing either.

—//—

It comes, inevitably: the battleground.

Or, rather, Alastor ends up asking what Vox has been up to which leaves him in a very uncomfortable position because the answer to that is… well.

It’s complicated at best. And about to get a whole lot more at worst.

“I assume VoxTek is your handiwork.”

They’re at the old kitchen table, Vox fidgeting with the collar of the sweater vest he found upstairs and tugged on over his undershirt. His suit’s on the bed upstairs, along with his phone and fifty missed calls from Velvette and Val.

This is more important. He’ll explain it to them later.

He’d asked, carefully, how much Alastor knew. The rest will be… explained with tact.

“Yeah,” says Vox, watching as Alastor sips his tea, ears pricked. He seems more like his old self today, and it’s a nauseating relief. “I… needed something to do.” To take up my time because you were gone.

“You’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

Alastor doesn’t sound mad. Just… mildly interested. Shit, that’s not going to last long.

“What else do you know?” he hedges, and now Alastor’s looking at him as if Vox is the deer down the end of the gun barrel.

“Is there something I should know?” croons the radio demon, but he’s doing a fucking shit job at hiding his growing tension. His eyes flick to Vox’s hand, as though he hadn’t thought of it before, where the silver ring still gleams.

Vox never takes it off.

That’s probably not going to help him.

He groans, presses a palm to his screen. “Probably.” He tramps down the twinging concern for his life and says, “I couldn’t do it alone, I have business partners.”

Silence. Vox peeks through his splayed fingers and finds Alastor watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“Now, really, my dear, why are you so on edge for a little thing like that?” Alastor chuckles, goes back to his tea. “Our rules never said we couldn’t collaborate with other sinners.”

Their rules were remarkably simple, really. They’d stand together above all other alliances; Vox could fulfil the occasional need somewhere else as long as it was just fucking; and they both would try their best not to die by someone else’s hands.

Vox feels the static snap between his antennas and the broken one burns. He thinks Alastor knows where the glitching comes from, but he’s never said anything. “Because one of them is Valentino,” he blurts, and then he has a split second to think OHHHHH SHIT WHY, before the room darkens with coiling shadows.

“Fuck,” he says eloquently.

Alastor stands, antlers growing like unholy razors. His eyes are dials, nightmares in the dim gloom when the light overhead pops in a spurt of glass shards and rains down onto the table.

Vox retreats, because he’s not a fool, static rising around him as he gets ready to defend himself. It’s not like they haven’t fought before. It comes with their marriage, but he’d prefer to make sure this doesn’t get out of hand.

“VALENTINO?” demands Alastor, and the sound comes from everywhere without him opening his teeth. “You partnered with that fucking insect?”

Cables rip from Vox’s back, coiling in the air like wary snakes. “Partners in name only,” he snaps, because this is a little stupid. Alastor has to know Vox wouldn’t betray him like that. Couldn't even if he wanted to.

Suspicion is probably fair though; Val has been trying to get between them for a long time. Too long.

The blow comes as a surprise. The shadow punches into Vox’s chest and slams him back into the wall, knocking the breath clean out of his lungs. He gasps, catches himself by digging claws into the brick, and then Alastor’s there, up in his face, all hot breath and leaking rage.

Vox goes to hit back, but a shadow swats his arm away as the radio demon’s hand snaps around his throat.

Fuck.

He struggles, more for the show of it than anything else, because if Alastor really was beside himself then Vox would be dead already.

This needs to be handled carefully.

“Alastor,” Vox grits out around the hand at his throat, harsh and fractured by static. He stops, forces his voice to steady. “You were gone. Gone. For seven fucking years. What was I supposed to do?”

The radio demon stops. There’s a flash of something- guilt?- and it’s such a foreign thing for him that Vox thinks he imagined it. He pulls his hand back and the tv demon falls to his knees with a cough.

“Why him?" he demands. “Why Valentino?”

Vox fights back the ache behind his eyes. Not now not now not now. His voice is flat. “Because he was there and there weren’t a whole lot of other sinners willing to form an alliance.” He debates getting up but that might just escalate the whole shitstorm. “Things were… fucked, after you left. Turf wars were breaking out, and stability was more important than who I had to smile at to get it.”

“Just smile?”

What’s that supposed to-

Oh.

No.

No, fuck this. That’s. It.

Vox lurches to his feet, sweeps a hand out to the side and snarls, “Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me, Alastor? Huh? You fucking up and go, let me think you’re fucking dead, but the fact that I had to pick up the pieces alone pisses you off? How can I make you trust me?” Oh motherfucking Satan he’s crying now, he can feel the burn. He bares his teeth, steps forwards. “How has it been so fucking long and you still can’t?”

Alastor’s mouth moves but no sound comes out. He’s rubbing at the middle of his chest like it’s hurting him, which is rich when he's the one doing the hurting right now just like he did all those years ago.

“What?” snaps Vox- his cooling fans have kicked on in his monitor. He’s breathing hard.

“I do,” says Alastor, and it’s so out of character that Vox shivers. It sounds so small. “I do trust you, dear.”

Vox chokes, grinds the heel of a palm into his screen. What the fuck. The glitch tears through him and it’s so strong he can’t keep himself up. There are hands, catching his forearms, digging in, keeping him upright as he shudders and shakes through the fog of static blue.

“Ff_U{K,” he manages.

It’s quiet outside. And for a moment, here in the darkness of their flat, Vox lets himself be held by the one man he trusts most in this fucked-up place, and dares to hope everything’s going to be okay.

—//—

Before

“You and your unholy trinity. Forget the father the son and the holy ghost, more like the pimp the witch and the sleezy salesman.”

Vox snorts a laugh at that, partly because it sounds so ridiculous, and partly because he’s not going to try and dredge up anger. Not tonight.

“We’re workshopping a better name,” he says, dryly, and the bartender smirks. “While I’m no believer, I don’t love the idea of God getting pissed with mockery.”

The weight of the exterminations hangs in the silence like a loaded gun. It’s ticking closer, the year pulling to an end. He wonders, sometimes, if Alastor got caught up in one. If he’s waiting for a ghost, and the only way he’ll ever see the radio demon again is double death.

His finger aches under the silver ring.

No believer… Vox had his fair share of religious fucking trauma while he was alive. Sometimes he feels like he turned into a crooked coat of lies and cruelty after Alastor vanished.

The bartender hums, but it’s amused. “If you say so.”

Vox doesn’t know why he keeps coming here. Just that the familiar walls and memories make him feel like he’s on the verge of being okay again.

Mostly, though, it just makes him feel sick

—//—

“Just one thing,” says Vox, and it breaks the silence of the air around them like a bell tolling a funeral dirge. “Would you try to refrain from killing them? Please?”

Alastor gives him a look, hands resting on his staff. There’s amusement there but Vox isn’t fooled. He’s known his husband too long. The smile is a little too wide. “What if they start it?”

Vox growls out a sigh, tapping a shoe in an agitated tic-tic-tic on the tar.

They’re not meeting at the tower, partly because Vox is giving up his penthouse suite for their old home, and partly because he’d prefer if Alastor and the others met on neutral turf. He doesn’t want to give his business partners an advantage over Al because Al comes first- he always will, and he knows Velvette’s done enough digging into his past to know that.

It’s an alley near the middle of Pentagram city. Far from Cannibal Town, because Vox doesn’t want to have to worry about Rosie’s ears listening to what’s going down.

Velvette arrives first, clicking her way down the street with her hair in a multitude of little braids. Her dress is short, chic, and her phone is in hand as usual.

She takes in first Vox, who’s dressed down in a shirt and slacks with one of his old blue coats overtop, and then Alastor, who tips his head sideways in a way a neck really shouldn't and smiles with all his teeth.

“Morning, shithead,” she says to Vox, which he probably deserves after ignoring her for so long. It’s pointed. “Good to see you’re still alive.”

“Charming as ever, my dear,” he retorts with a smile he knows will piss her off. Her eye twitches. “Where’s Val?”

She shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll show up sooner than later.”

She’s eyeing Alastor, more curious than wary, and the radio demon drags in a sigh before he sticks out his hand and says, “Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you.”

Vox doesn’t miss the fact that ‘quite a pleasure’ doesn’t get tacked on as a coda. Well, this is either going to go down okay or it’s going to end horribly. Great.

Velvette shrugs, shakes his hand. Hers looks so small in Alastor’s red claws. “I’ve heard about you.”

Alastor turns a look on Vox who snorts scuffs a foot and doesn’t try and argue. Yes, he’s mentioned Al a few times over the years. Or answered a question if Velvette came to him with one. He doesn’t want to push her away by being too big of an asshole, he does like her.

He doesn’t usually go out of his way to help people, it’s not in his blood.

He makes his first and last deal with her- swore never to tell anyone that he saved her ass the day they met. The static crackled around them when she took his hand to seal the promise, and the electricity made her hair stand on end.

She joined the Vees quite quick after that. Vel likes to put on a ‘devil-may-care’ attitude, but she knew that she’d be safer, stabler, with Vox and Val beside her.

“Oh, the fucking analogue freak is home,” drawls another voice and Val steps up onto the sidewalk, smoking and smirking. “No wonder you went silent, Voxxy.”

Vox doesn’t bristle. He doesn't. He fucking hates that stupid nickname. And telling Val that will probably just make it worse.

“Valentino,” purrs Alastor, and there’s so much malice in there that Vox is surprised Val doesn’t flinch. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but that would be a lie.”

The moth sneers. “Likewise, bitch.”

Velvette ignores the altercation, raises an eyebrow at Vox. “What’s this about? You had me stressing.”

Vox sticks his hands into his pockets, rocks on his heels. “Sorry about that. I… we, had some shit to work through.”

“Awwww,” says Val, grinning wickedly. “Your hubby get pissed that we were working together?”

“If you keep working that tongue,” says Alastor, mildly, picking at a speck of lint on his sleeve, “you might end up loosing it.”

Val opens his stupid mouth to snap back and a screech of FM feedback echoes from the alley and Alastor’s eyes switch to ticking radio dials. It’s gone in a blink, but Val backs off, perhaps a slightly paler shade of purple.

“I need to change a few things,” says Vox, because Velvette is still waiting for an answer and he’s left her on read enough lately. And Velvette, the drama queen she is, instantly jumps to the worst case scenario:

“You’re going to quit VoxTek?” she demands. She looks startled.

Vox won’t lie- he considered it, but, “No.” He keeps his tone neutral. “I’m just not gonna be living at the Tower anymore. And anyway, it’s about time Ethan took up some of the slack, it is his fucking job.”

Val lets out an angry-sounding squeak. “You’re just going to throw us under the bus?” he demands, and his wings flare and bristle. "After everything? This asshole creeps back after seven years and suddenly you're on his side again?"

“No, Val,” snaps Vox, and he steps forwards because if he doesn’t then Al will and that's not going to help anyone. “My priorities changed. VoxTek can handle me not being in the fucking office all day, it’s not a budding business anymore. And we’re allies; I’m not your fucking babysitter. I told you, before all this shit started, that Al would take top priority. Remember?”

Val opens and closes his mouth, sears a glare at Alastor, who leers back, smug. (The radio demon really is 80% possessive. Vox wouldn’t have it any other way) He’s probably fantasising about the moth’s grisly murder. And Val probably figures that out because he doesn’t push it.

Velvette, on the other hand, is looking at Vox with something scarily like respect. Which is… new.

“Okay,” she says, and they’re going to have to talk about all of this properly, but for now she’s nodding and she doesn’t look pissed so- She stabs a finger at him. “But if you ever leave me on read for that fucking long again I will fuck you up.”

Alastor’s smile widens considerably. “Oh, I like this one.”

Vox groans.

Fuck.

—//—

The bell starts tolling when they’re halfway home to the brownstone.

It’s loud, like a rattle through bone, and Vox’s processor can’t catch up with what that means until Alastor’s claws dig into his elbow. Vox can’t help a yelp of pain, glares his husband down. He has a collection of small scars snowed up his forearms from situations like this.

“Al-“

“It’s the extermination bell.”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

They’ve always been so careful- hiding away during the slaughter while Hell burns outside. They’ve never… Vox realises with a start that he doesn’t remember what day it is.

Fuck.

He grabs Alastor’s wrist, starts running, and the radio demon falls into lockstep. They race down the sidewalk, Vox’s snarl glitching as electricity crackles around him. Alastor’s eyes are narrow, his smile close-lipped. Almost a grimace. There’s fear now too. Not of double death, but of losing Alastor. Vox will kill all of Heaven himself if that’s what it takes to keep the other sinner safe. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

They make it around the corner and as they turn, Vox sees the exorcist loom, smiling like some spawn of Satan, and he has just enough time to drag Alastor back and twist around in front of him before the angel’s fucking spear rams through his side.

It bursts through his flesh, his suit, in a spurt of blue blood, and Vox glitches as a shriek of static feedback blares over his speakers. He hears someone shouting, hears a terrifying snarl- Al?- and then there’s a foot in his back and the spear is torn free. Vox falls, tries to catch himself, ends up on one knee with a hand jammed over the gaping wound, breath a thin wheeze of pain.

There’s shadows everywhere, lashing, and at the center is Alastor, a looming horror, horns like dead tree branches, his smile a rictus of malice. His shadow puppets seethe, chittering, and something’s hovering over Vox, shielding him from the sky as more angels sweep by overhead. Alastor’s shadow. It chatters at him, long fingers prodding his coat.

“Al-“ Vox tries, but his frame shudders from a glitch, and when his vocal control returns, all he can do is cough at the taste of blood in the back of his throat. He feels numb, tries to ignore the blazing BURN in the wound. Angelic Steel.

Fuck.

“Alastor-“ He manages to catch the hem of his husband’s coat. The angel’s gone. Fled, maybe. Or just drawn by easier prey. That gets Alastor’s attention and he’s turning, shrinking.

He crouches beside Vox, seizes his arm and hauls it over his shoulders. Vox rasps a sound of pain as the radio demon stands, dragging him up with him.

“We were sloppy,” grates Alastor. He sounds angry. But more at himself.

Vox mumbles an agreement, but his hand is slipping on the blood still tumbling from the hole in his side. He digs his claws in, tries to cover it better, except he can feel his blood running down his back too, and

“Fuck,” he manages, and then his knee buckles under him. Alastor keeps them standing with a snarl, keeps them moving. The house is so close now.

It’s funny, thinks Vox, as Alastor kicks the door open and heaves the both of them inside, away from the smoke and fire and screaming souls. He didn’t expect this today.

He needs to set some kind of reminder for when the fucking Extermination is. Why hasn’t he thought of that before?

Alastor crouches, slides them to the ground, props Vox up against the wall of the entrance hall. He’s ripping buttons off the shirt as he tears it open without a care. It doesn’t matter in the long run- it’s just fabric.

Vox winces, processor catching and skipping like a badly burnt CD. He feels drunk, but not in a good way, which is probably to do with all the royal blue blood soaking his sleeve and arm.

“Fuck,” spits Alastor eloquently as he gets a proper look at whatever that motherfucker managed to do with its pointy toothpick.

Vox tries to make a quip about it, but his voice is taken over by a glitch that shudders through his whole body, and by the time he’s come back to himself, Alastor’s rapping a claw on his screen with what feels like increasing concern.

“Keep yourself online,” snarls the Radio Demon, before he stands and hurries out of the room. Vox coughs, feels it in the wound, hears what sounds like the gas going on in the kitchen.

“Is snacking really the best idea right now?” he manages to grate out, because Alastor’s ears are capable of much softer jabs.

“Don’t talk!” comes the sharp reply.

Vox huffs a weak laugh, but falls silent.

The sounds of violence are distant through the walls. Faint screaming and the thunder of what might be flames? Or maybe it’s the wings of the exorcists. Maybe it’s just ambient noise inside the liminal spaces of Vox’s processor.

Fuck, he’s dizzy.

He blinks and Al’s standing over him, a steel spoon in one hand. It’s a big one- one he uses while cooking, and it’s glowing red hot.

Oh.

Shit.

“Al-“ he starts to protest, but his husband cuts him off with a smile that doesn't leave room for argument. It’s not even a smile, anymore, really, just a rictus of bared teeth. The radio demon kneels, rests a hand on the skin beside the wound, just over Vox’s electric blue gills. It’s cold. Ow, fuck.

“Maybe next time, dear,” says Alastor, dangerously. “You will think before you act all noble and just fucking jump.”

“I didn’t-“ it breaks off into a shriek as Alastor shoves the blazing steel against the wound. The sound is harsh, sticky with static, and electricity crackles down Vox’s arm as his claws gouge into the wooden floorboards. Alastor’s free hand is on his breastbone, pinning him in place, and fuck it hurts like a bitch, but he’s seized up under another glitch that leaves him panting once it’s over and why is he on his back on the floor now? When did that happen?

At least the burning is gone.

Vox thinks Alastor rolls him over. Or at least pushes his back up off the floor, because when the second wave of burning agony comes, all he can do is jerk weakly. Everything’s spinning. There’s an error code flashing inside his processor, persistent, and Vox feels like he might throw up, except his limbs aren’t obeying him right and he glitches as he fights to keep his vision clear of static snow.

“Stay online, dear,” demands Alastor’s voice. It sounds like it’s being forced out through gritted teeth. “Vox.”

Vox rasps a staticky groan, before his left eye shorts out.

"Vox!"

Error Code: damage sustained. Damage extensive. Recommend shutdown-

Shutdown cancelled

Error Code-

Error Code- program code: Vox.exe unstable due to damage, recommend shutdown.

Error Code: unable to isolate damage.

E3rRoR C0dE-

ErR0r-

Sorry Al, he manages to say, or maybe he just thinks it, because there’s suddenly nothing and he falls backwards into it, silent.

—//—

…initi-

… Initialising reboot…

Systems coming back online. Reboot com- ERROR CODE. ERROR.

ErR0R C-

3Rr0-

—//—

Vox comes around eventually, upstairs on the bed. Alastor is curled beside him, fast asleep, with his claws a shackle around Vox’s wrist, like he’s worried he’ll wake up and find the other sinner missing.

Vox glitches a smile, reaches out to brush a lock of Al’s blood-red hair out of his face. His hand shakes, the dull throb of waking pain starting to flare in his side, and his hiss of discomfort is probably too loud because Alastor bolts upright with a half-snarl before he catches on to what’s happening.

He digs in his claws, tightly, and Vox lets out a whine of pain. “Fucking ow! Al-"

“If you ever scare me like that again,” says Alastor in a voice calmer than death and no less terrifying. His antlers grow, and his shadow looms behind him as he grates, “I will fucking kill you mysel-“

Vox brushes a thumb over his cheek, just above the curve of Al’s dangerous smile. God, he still can’t believe he’s back. It feels so fucking fragile.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps.

It’s enough, for now. Alastor growls, but lies back down, his head pillowed on Vox’s shoulder. The tv demon curls his arm tighter around Al’s shoulders, says, “I’d do it again, though.”

“Spineless fool,” says Alastor, sharp, but he doesn’t pull away.

—//—

“And the sudden change of heart?” Vox rasps a breath as his lungs struggle for air. His leg’s shaking, the tremor reverberating up into his hip. His ribs. He aims it as an amused sneer. “Don’t tell me you’re a believer in that redemption bullshit, Al.”

He’d been surprised when the radio demon had brought it up. Sure, he’s heard of Charlie Morningstar’s pet project same as the next sinner, but he’d laughed it off as a fucking decent joke. Perhaps she’s delusional. (She’s aware this is Hell, right?) he’d managed through his mirth when Alastor had first brought it up. He hadn’t gotten anything in return but a sudden, violent anger. That and the revelation that Al’s been helping her for the past week, apparently.

Alastor walks faster, ears pinned back. Bastard. Vox wheezes, has to stop and brace himself against a streetlamp as his vision shorts out into static snow for one awful second.

“Al,” he snaps, when he’s got some semblance of control again, panting. Fuck he hates being the weak one. He hates having to stop, to slow down. To heal like some motherfucking- “Slow the fuck down- what’s gotten into you?”

Alastor’s not looking at him, but at least he’s standing still now. His shoulders are tense like barbed wire about to snap, and his claws are fisted at his sides. “I have a plan,” he grates, like static on steel. “Don’t worry your pretty little head-“

“You’re walking like God’s on your heels.” Vox tries a step, has to hang onto the streetlamp when his knee threatens to give out. His claws dig into the metal with a screech. Fucking- he wants to slaughter someone. Wants to walk straight through one of the pools of blood in the road just because it wouldn’t be HIS. He wants to pretend he can’t remember the burning agony of the Angelic spear ramming through his side in a spray of royal-blue blood.

“I can’t keep up-“

“That. Is. The. Point!” Alastor whips around, words snarled through his wide, wide smile. His eyes are radio dials, ticking ticking ticking, and his antlers cast tangled shadows over the pitted tar underfoot. He seizes Vox’s wrist, and the grip is so tight that his bones creak alarmingly. Vox doesn’t care- he’s looking into Alastor’s face and seeing something that looks remarkably similar to… fear?

What’s the- oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

“You almost died,” says Alastor, and it’s so, so soft, and so, so full of danger.

“I know.” He doesn’t want to think about it.

“I- you- it-“

“Use your words, Al,” Vox teases, in some sad effort to lighten the mood. Neither of them do well at heart-to-hearts. It’s taken them decades to get this far. Usually they’ll just go out and spread fear by killing someone. “Aren’t you supposed to be a Radio host?”

“This,” Alastor grits out, “isn’t a joke, dear.”

Vox bares his teeth, suddenly fucking pissed. He tries to yank his wrist free but Al’s grip is too tight, and he’s not going to make an ass of himself by struggling, so he just snaps, “I don’t need you to tell me that. You think I didn’t realise I got turned into fucking sashimi?!”

Alastor growls, low in his throat, and his shadow chitters behind him, watching.

“Yeah, real scary,” taunts Vox, before he tugs again because fuck it he can’t help it, he’s not a fucking baby. “Let go-“

Alastor hauls him in close. Very close. It’s warm here, so close to the radio demon. A familiar kind of warm. Like how he wakes up in the morning to Alastor’s weight draped over him. They both pretend it doesn’t happen.

“I will not do that again,” hisses the Radio Demon, and his voice is on the fucking fritz with rare emotion. Vox glitches, electricity crackling in tendrils around his body. The air is so charged it feels like the moment before a nuclear strike. Vox half-wonders if Alastor is about to take his ring off and throw it in Vox’s screen.

Instead he stabs a claw into Vox’s chest, vicious. “You are not allowed to die. Do you remember our vows, Vox? No one except me gets to tear open that throat of yours.”

There must be something deeply wrong with him (unsurprisingly) because that’s terribly fucking romantic. And… shit, Vox is smiling at him, isn’t he?

"Take this seriously!"

“I am,” says Vox, and his voice is sticky with static. He swallows, tries again. Puts his free hand on Alastor’s shoulder, squeezes. The radio demon is still busy breaking his other wrist with his iron grip. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. I know that’s a shit excuse, but-“

Alastor loosens his grip at last and Vox’s fingers tingle with pins and needles.

He doesn’t remember where they were going, but when he looks up he sees their front door.

Oh. Right. A walk to see how his healing is coming along.

“I…” Alastor lets go, steps back, and it’s a testament to their relationship that Vox doesn’t follow him. It’s been four months. He’s been back four months, and Vox would be lying if he said he doesn’t worry that Al will just vanish again. “I need a moment. Alone.”

Vox swallows, but he offers a small smile. “Okay.”

—//—

Alastor comes home to find Vox lying face down on the sofa, snoring softly into the old ratty fabric. One arm’s hanging down, claws brushing the carpet, and for a moment Alastor just… watches. His chest feels tight when he remembers the blue blood. The spear. The Exorcist smiling. Vox’s fucking stupid sacrifice, the motherfucking idiot.

Except Alastor would have done the same thing, and that sits in his throat like sandpaper.

Vox twitches in his sleep, hand fisting, before he relaxes again. His worn cardigan has rucked up, showing the burn scarring over his gills, and Alastor wants to choke. He wonders how bad it hurts. He wants to find the angel and pull out its spine and then burn the rest of it in a pyre so fucking big that the entirety of Heaven will be able to smell it.

Alastor breathes.

Vox isn’t going anywhere. He’s still here. He’s alive.

Good.

It’s dark outside, the sky like congealed blood. Alastor leans over to shake at Vox’s shoulder. He can feel the bony jut of it under the knit sweater, keeps it up until Vox lifts his screen and blinks blearily up at the radio demon’s grin. The light from his screen is dim, his eyes too wide. He looks so fucking vulnerable in that moment that Alastor wants to rage at him to make it stop. Shit like that gets you hurt. Has gotten Vox hurt, again and again, and by Alastor himself no less. He hates the guilt.

“Al, what the fuck?” he mumbles in protest.

“Bed, dear. You’ll get a crick in your neck.” Alastor drags him off the couch and starts shoving him towards the stairs.

“Fuck you,” snipes Vox, but he lets himself be guided up, one step at a time, until they reach the bedroom. He squints at Alastor, like he’s having trouble focusing. “H’was your walk?”

Alastor makes him get onto the bed before he joins him, sitting up against the headboard.

“Hmm,” says the radio demon. “Inspiring.” He needs to introduce Vox to Charlie. He needs to make Vox understand that it’s not about her misplaced hope in redemption. It’s about finding a way to stop the exterminations. It’s about keeping Vox safe.

Sparks jump between Vox’s antennas, and Alastor looks away. The crooked one’s a constant reminder of his own foolishness. He probably deserves the guilt, even if he fucking hates it.

“Vox?” says Alastor. The tv demon lets out a sleepy hum that buzzes at the edges. His eyes are closed. It’s late. Alastor wants to kill something.

“Never mind.”

He’ll tell him tomorrow.

It’s not like they don’t have time.

—//—

In the end, Vox only agrees to meet Morningstar because Alastor’s being pissy about it.

The Hotel’s… a work in progress, though Vox can see Alastor’s handiwork in the railings and the decor, and while it’s a little… tacky, he should be able to tolerate this for a little while.

Probably.

Maybe.

He tried his best to keep his distain off his face. Wrong-footing Hell’s royalty really isn’t on his bucket-list.

“Wait,” says the Princess, once they’ve joined her in the lobby. She’s pointing, face scrunched like she’s searching her memory, and then her eyes light up. “You’re Vox right? The Media Overlord?”

Vox gives Alastor a bemused look. No wonder he’s a little tetchy when he comes home after spending time here- being exposed to this much cheer and happiness all day must be exhausting. He keeps his tone neutral and polite, even if it irks to have to defer. “Among other things, yes, your highness.”

Is he feeling a little tense? Probably. Royalty in hell is always a double bladed sword. He wonders if she has any of her father in her. The Morningstar does so love to make his hate of Sinners clear. Vox remembers thinking that perhaps the fallen angel should just have kept his mouth shut then, if he hadn’t wanted to end up down here. It’s not something he’ll ever say out loud- he’s far from stupid.

She looks between them, to how Al’s hand is gripping the crook of his elbow, to where the rings glint and says “oooooooooh” knowingly.

Vox tries not to bristle. He wishes he could be more like Alastor- never caring about what people think.

“I brought Vox because you seem to disagree with my add-making expertise!” says Alastor, the little shit, and Vox raises an eyebrow.

“You can’t even use a camera, how the fuck were you going to make a commercial?”

“Mmm that’s what you’re for, dear,” says the radio demon smugly.

Oh great. Lucky him. How does one sell redemption?

Which is when Morningstar jumps in with all her ‘big ideas’ and Vox realises that the answer to that is with sheer force of will, a seasoning of misplaced hope, and sparkles and glitter and shit that probably would be more at home in Heaven than down here in this shithole.

“What the fuck, Al?” hisses Vox under his breath. “I get you want to save my ass from angels but this?”

Alastor, the fucker, just pats Vox’s arm.

Charlie finishes her spiel, throws her arms wide. Jesus fucking Christ. He’s thought Lucifer was a pain in the ass. She’s something else.

“Well?” She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes sparkling. “Would you? Help us make a commercial? Oh! Would you let us air it? On 666 I mean! You do own that, right? It would help so much- getting the message out’s been really hard and i don’t-“

Vox snorts. Why crush her pipe-dream when it’ll do it on its own? If Alastor wants to play this shitty game for a while then who’s he to argue? It’s probably going to be entertaining as fuck. “Sure," he says smoothly. "Just keep that redemption shit away from me, your highness. I don’t want it to stick.”

She grins. “Maybe I’ll win you over.”

“Yeah, no. Not going to happen.”

“Ohhh he’s grumpy,” she says to Al in a stage-whisper and the radio demon cackles.

Vox goes to roll his eyes, but then shifts gears because he can be incredibly petty too, and grins with all his teeth, throwing an arm around his husband’s shoulders. Two can play that game. “You clearly haven’t seen this old man in the morning if you think I'm grumpy.”

Charlie turns her laughter on Al who gives Vox a look of deep betrayal.

The tv demon smirks. Ha.

—//—

Of course even that doesn’t go well.

Morningstar gets called away to a meeting at the Heaven Embassy, something that makes Alastor’s ears pin back flat to his head.

She’s off in a whirl, singing her way out the door, and Vox watches her go with bewildered amusement before he turns on Alastor and says, “Genuinely, Al, what the fuck?”

“Charlotte is best taken in small doses,” says the radio demon, ruefully.

Vox says, “That’s not what I meant,” because this is called fucking ducking the subject, and Alastor doesn’t care to elaborate, clearly.

Fine. He’ll play along. Even if he’d rather pull all his fucking claws off.

—//—

Except then Morningstar gets back, and it doesn’t matter than Vox and Alastor have been helping her girlfriend and the staff to film a new commercial, because it’s instantly swept under the rug when Killjoy and Trench start screaming about the new Extermination Deadline.

Vox checks his audio processor is working, struggles to take in what he’s hearing, standing behind Alastor’s armchair, leaning on the backrest.

It’s been moved forwards?

Charlie doesn’t look surprised, tears welling in her stupidly expressive eyes. Vox’s personal phone-line goes off like a durge, and he sees every message before it reaches his inbox. texts from Velvette, Val, even his assistant. He doesn’t look at them, just turns a look on Alastor who’s sitting straight, smile still in place, but his hands are fisted in his lap like knots, and his eyes are narrow. Everything he’d gotten pissed over and planned to fix… ruined.

Charlie moans something, hides her face in her hands and the woman who looks like an exorcist (Vaggie?) puts her arms around her.

The silence feels like being waterboarded- it’s hard to breathe through. It’s been a few days since the last slaughter. Days. And now this news? Vox can still feel the healing wound in his side spidering pain up his ribs.

If he had a way, he’d crawl up there to those fucking pompous assholes and murder the lot of them to see how they liked it. Preaching kindness and other bullshit- yeah right: at least here in Hell people owned the fact that they were awful.

Maybe Alastor has the right idea, because right now? This Hotel might be the only way to stop Heaven’s trigger-happy finger.

“Our deadline seems to have changed,” says Alastor into the silence, and it’s cold.

Well fuck.