Chapter Text
"Just fucking do it already."
His throat bobbed when met with a knife tip. Held by Alastor. Held up by Vincent.
Allowing a shaky breath to leave him. "Since you think you're so much better than me."
Pride could be taken in watching Alastor's form waver. Normally so proud, so confident, gliding through life with the grace only experience could offer.
Here, his smile twitched, where his hand otherwise refused to move.
"You are bold, I will give you that." A low grumble held itself in Alastor's tone, baring his fang. "And that is what worries me."
"Ohhh spare me with the pity," Vincent spat back. "I fucked up your kill, I fucked up your life. And now you finally choose to spare the white man?"
Vincent pressed the knife deeper into his own throat. Grip still as strong on Alastor's wrist as Alastor's was on the handle.
Why should he ever drop it in Vincent's presence?
"You did fuck up my kill," he admitted, "every single kill I've ever taken you on. You let them bleed, you let them scream."
"Because it's fun, Al!" With teeth sharp yet much less impressive, he bore them all the same. "We do this shit for the same reason. We're predators, swimming among fish who think they overpower us because they're bigger. Fish all squirm in the jaws of a shark!"
A swift kick to the abdomen met Vincent, shoved by the heel, knocked on his back.
"This," Alastor announced, pointing the knife at the other man once more, "is exactly why you are bound to get us both killed."
When Vincent tried to get up again, Alastor kicked his chest, keeping him down.
"Mmh–" He held his head, wincing. Ignoring the tears that pricked his manic eyes.
"You're cocky, overconfident, impulsive–"
"Exactly what you need–"
"–To end up dead by public hanging."
When Vincent reached forward, towards his leg, Alastor stepped back. Giving him space.
Fucking coward.
"Some of us value out lives. Even if, clearly, you do not."
Alastor walked over to the corpse from their botched kill. Salvaged by a more experienced hand. Left still by a predator who enjoyed his prey deceased instead of wriggling for any desperate gasp of life.
And Vincent could only watch, catching his breath as he stood once more, as Alastor's wiped his glasses clean. With a shirt much less stained, not coated like his own.
"So I will only tell you one more time." Alastor stared him down, smile fixed as it always was. Frustratingly so. "Leave. Never seek me out again. And if any word of what happened here tonight reaches the authorities... I will ensure you find a fate worse than death."
Vincent panted, brows furrowed, shoulder squared. Standing his ground like a bear ready to defend itself.
No weapon other than his teeth, nails, and sheer force of will. No need for it.
As foolish as Alastor deemed him.
Yet he still looked. Watched. Observed. Stare directed at the tip of the blade, mindlessly inching towards it.
Opting, in the end, to walk away instead.
"...Fine." All he could say to save his dignity as he turned away, forcing a snarl to fix itself, forcing hands to unclench.
Alastor didn't deserved his rage if he didn't smarten up and kill Vincent when he could, when he was begging for it.
Alastor didn't deserve him.
-
Puddles met his steps as Vincent hurried home. Not running, not cowering. The rain itself predicting his misery instead of pelting him with the cold, hard truth.
A gentleman must play his cards right, Alastor one told him.
Had he been smart enough, they would be in the cabin right now, washing the blood off their skin and scrubbing their clothes until they were spotless. Or burning them, if it came to it.
Because Vincent was supposed to be an endearing fool paired with a ruthless killer. Not a let down. Not a reject.
“Fucking Alastor…”
He rubbed the wound on his neck, wrapping the hand around with a soft squeeze.
No. He wouldn't give Alastor the satisfaction of thinking of him anymore.
He's done nothing to deserve him.
The second he got home, he locked the door, top and bottom and security slider up above. No one ever followed him and lived, he made sure of it.
Even if odd shadows stuck by his form.
“I did everything for him,” Vincent began to rant. “Went to party after party, underground bars, shanked a guy in the studio.” A huff left, baring his crooked fangs. “My good shoes are ruined from mud and gunk and I don't even get a thank you?”
He kept those shoes on, pacing his house until he reached the kitchen sink. Gripping it, cool steel bringing some sense to his brain.
“Could've killed him at any second… he's a distraction, a liability…”
He let the water run as he turned it on. Just as cold. Just as shocking.
“I should have killed him.”
He shucked off his coat and let it fall to the floor before rolling up his sleeves.
“No witnesses.”
Running water gathered in his hands, pushing his glasses up as he splashed it on his face, rubbing into the creases. The only relief offered to his skin after hours in this ridiculous humidity.
“I can't. It's Alastor. Everyone loves him.”
Alastor wasn't the morning slot anchorman or the peppy young night show host. He wasn't new to the industry.
Numbers spoke where hecklers fought for a voice. Enough people loved him that he would be missed, noticed, if his buttery smooth voice stopped gracing the airways suddenly one night.
“No, this isn't how this goes.”
Following Alastor's orders meant going against his own code – the code Alastor didn't believe he was capable of having. He didn't trust him. He believed his only driving force was bloodlust.
But perhaps it worked in his favor, letting Alastor believe he was obedient for nothing in return.
Vincent took a breath. Grabbed the dish towel and scrubbed his face.
He should demote Alastor to a pawn.
Instead, he began to pace once more.
“There has to be something I can do.”
Once more thinking out loud, making use of the darkest corners of his apartment to look around.
Shadows still followed him, granted by curtains parted just enough to keep him in the real world. Even as his fingers twitched, eager to wrap them around another throat and watch life drain out of parallel eyes, Vincent held the responsibility of being a functioning member of society.
Fuck that.
“Everyone's a fucking pawn,” he mumbled, “another fish idly swimming by in a big ocean of other fish. They all just swim around until they die or until someone kills them. Completely satisfied living meaningless lives.”
Vincent never wanted to be just that fish.
“It can't just be anyone, I… I need to make a statement.”
He turned on his heel.
“Make it count.”
Making his way to a bookshelf.
Outside of his own breathing and the wind knocking his window outside, Vincent tuned out the static of his home TV. Ignored the occasional flash of lights as he picked up a few books, flipping through them before putting them back.
“Come on, of all the times…” He groaned. “There's gotta be something here.”
Most were meaningless to Vincent's endeavor, quick to discard them after a lack of key words.
He knew he had one. Just in case. Even if he'd rather burn them all.
“Aha.” Towards the back of the bottom shelf, he found a thick red book with gold lettering. Looking almost blue and silver as he tilted it in hand back and forth.
A spark met his fingertips, meeting the old velvety texture of the book. Only giving a soft ‘ow’ at the shock of static.
Far too focused on the only one of these religious texts he bothered to keep.
“‘Demonology’.” Vincent huffed, flipping the book open and glossing over the titles. “Might as well give it a fucking shot.”
Carpets and chairs were kicked to the side. Crumbled, knocked over; given little attention as he mumbled to him.
“Clear your floors, draw a circle…”
He veered towards the kitchen for a moment.
“The strongest bonds are built by blood.”
Vincent tossed the book aside, kneeling directly on the hardwood floor. Biting his lip, stifling a grunt.
Keeping it there as his sights turned to his arm, eyeing a long gash; still red, even if sealed.
Creating a perfect guide for the tip of his knife.
“Mhh.” A stifled groan as it punctured deep, trailing to the end, creating a fresh cascade of blood down his arm. “Fuck…” The knife clattered to the floor as he gathered some blood on his opposing finger, eyeing its shine in the dim light. “This better be worth it.”
First he drew a circle around himself on the floor, tilting his body when he must, using more blood to trap himself in the shape. Then another circle inside of it, with equally spaced divisions.
“Leave your offering in the middle.” He swiped more blood, trailing the finger in front of his knees. “In this case, me…” Circling it around the rest of the way.
Several liners were drawn between the outer and inner circles, reaching out to the call.
What should reach his intended recipient.
“Don't follow a pattern. Just draw what your heart desires…”
A demon could look like anything. Powerful demons were all big and scary if the church and God-fearing old women had anything to say about it.
The first drawing became a skull with horns. Something that looked like that, at least.
“What else…?”
He tilted his body, adding scribbles of lightning along the inner circle. The ability to strike anyone down… now that would be useful.
In other corners he drew radio waves with various frequencies. If he could reach more people, he'd be fucking unstoppable.
While a bit silly, in the last spaces he drew sharp teeth and fangs, hoping his demon would look as terrifying as a great white shark – maybe make him half as impressive as the animal while human.
“Perfect…”
Vincent looked over the summoning circle, taking in all the details he added. The drawings in the book looked scribbled, so his shitty smudges painted by his own blood should be fine.
“Now I just need to…” Vincent reached for the book again, but before he could, his gaze veered over to the head of the circle. His demon skull drawing smudged over, almost completely gone. “...What the fuck?”
Static loudly crackled from his TV, humming softly and tinted bright grey. Illuminating his kneeled form in the sad attempt of a circle that surrounded him.
“Tch, attention whore.” Much of what he was, just like his television. But what was his life if not a desperate fight for as many eyes on him as possible?
Vincent looked back down at the smudged drawing. Then the TV, seeing a small spark of neon blue.
“Hm…”
Along the cut line of his arm laid just enough draining blood to do one more, simple drawing. He sucked his teeth, wincing as his finger pressed against it, gaining enough paint to draw a square on top of the old spot.
The lines were thicker, like a plastic border. Slightly rounded. A shape he saw every day, no matter where he turned.
Antennas were the final touch, given just enough blood to define his drawing. But as he went to draw the one on the right, his circle lit up, making his hand shake.
One antenna straight, the other bent.
And yet, it worked.
“Holy fuck!” Aside from the bright blue basking his face, Vincent's smile lit up, wide and toothy and overjoyed. “Alright demon, show yourself…!”
Vincent pushed his hair back, letting it flop back into place. He exhaled, arms resting on his sides, leaving his palms open. Chest puffed out, eyes closed, offering and ready.
Yet… nothing came. The space in front of him remained empty, glow of the circle dimming softly.
“...What?”
“Over here, genius.”
Vincent's head turned to the crackling TV, tone only half clear in the mix of static and flickering lights. The image on the screen was quite simple, only blue and red – but the big, cartoonish eyes were… moving. Looking at him.
“How the fuck?” Vincent scrambled over, sitting in front of the TV and gripping its sides, staring right back at those eyes. “Is this the demon?”
“Sitting too close to the TV will hurt your eyes.”
“No fucking way…”
“Uh, yes way. The little brats you humans broadcast to will need glasses soon enough if they keep at it.”
The logistics of the talking TV's argument fell on deaf ears as Vincent looked around, clicking the on and off button a few times. His remote was nowhere near. And the screen never changed, just wearing a raised brow.
So unless he was being haunted…
“It worked.”
Demons were real.
And he had one living in his TV.
“Ahhh, so you summoned me.” The voice on the television chuckled. “Never thought the day would come. Usually people try to call up the scary red ones, the dragon looking ones, the imps. Or whoever the sexiest demon of the year is.”
Despite his heart pumping in his ears, Vincent kept his toothy smile. “What does that make you?”
The smile reflected his own.
“Vox, the Media Demon.”
Sharp teeth, static signals crackling, speaking through the TV…
The perfect demon for Vincent's needs after all. Practically tailor made for him.
“Well Vox, I have a proposition for you.”
Vincent stood, dusting off his pants. Even if blood coated the ends, soaking into the cloth and drying by the second.
“It can be a trade, an offer, quid pro quo… but, my request is a hefty one. Not just any demon can handle it.”
With his head turned, Vincent hid a smirk, appearing genuine and charismatic on the half he showed Vox.
The demon's projected face matched his. “I'm a fucking demon, I can handle a little smiting or whatever it is you want me to do.”
“A simple way to put it.” He huffed, turning again. “No. For what I need to do, I'll need a boost in power. My own power. It must be me who does this.”
“You want my power?”
“All of it.”
“Pretty tall order if you ask me.”
“I'm not asking you, I'm telling you what I need.” His fist bunched before unflexing. “In exchange, I will give you anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
Vincent extended his hand, even if none would meet him.
“Trust me, with our deal.”
A wide smile met him. Then a chuckle, turning to a cackle, filling the room around them.
“Oh, I like you.”
The air crackled around them, lifting the hair on Vincent's arms. Voltage struck his hand, almost looking like lightning.
Feeling like it too.
“AH!”
The voltage coursed through his body, wrapping around him as he collapsed, falling onto his knees and holding the ground. Gasping for air as it seeped into him, like a fish out of water.
Out of his element.
Taken to another plane.
“Mmgh…” As the static settled, he stood. His skin buzzed with electricity. He felt fuller, taller, stronger.
Maintaining as stoic of a face as he could, Vincent found the couch, plopping him down onto it. Across from him stood the TV, now shut off, displaying only his reflection.
The demon's voice swam in his mind, settling in, as heavy as the same conscience of being watched.
The Vincent staring back at him bore a smile, left eye momentarily swirling with the same red and neon blue Vox's eyes held.
“So…” Vox's voice began, like a low rumble in his brain. “Tell me more about your little ‘plan’.”