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“—As long as I wipe that smile off of Alastor’s fucking face, I don’t care what happens.”
Those were the last words Emily heard before her entire view was painted red…before that TV-headed sinner had lunged towards Alastor. Her vision was briefly obstructed, threatening to blind her temporarily as golden ichor sluggishly dripped down from what little remained of one of her wings. The feathers had been disintegrated entirely, with only bits of flesh still stubbornly clinging to ivory bones.
She doesn’t regret it, of course. Losing that one wing…even if it means she’ll fall. Afterall, every soul is worthy of salvation, and what sort of seraphim would she be if she allowed a mortal soul to perish under her watch?
Emily had never met Alastor prior to this. Well, she never met him at all, period. But she heard a bit about him from Charlie. She was the hotel’s patron of sorts…even if he didn’t believe in redemption. Yet. Though, most of her information on the deer came from Sir Pentious in Heaven, and that darling little maid, Niffty, down here in hell.
From what everyone said, Alastor was more than capable of fending for himself. But that’s not the issue here. Capable or not, no one deserves to be alone—
And surely, surely, he doesn’t deserve any of this.
It all happens in a whirlwind of colors, though not the soft pastels of Heaven. Alastor had been pitifully crawling on the ground, blood pooling all around him, rivaling the shade of his hair, his clothes, his eyes.
But in the next second, Vox pinned him to the down, sinking his claws deep, deep inside of his chest…and, wait, Emily had noticed something a bit different about Alastor when she managed to save him from that robotic shark. She detected a hint of ‘divinity’ about him, but she hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
In Heaven, she’s encountered quite a bit of winners who were descended from Saints. She figured the same logic could apply to hell, though she was in far too much pain to dwell deeply on it.
The feeling of such a vital part of her being burned off, leaving nothing but golden ichor and sinewy muscles attached to charred bones. It was unbearable, the agony of it all. She’d never felt anything quite like it.
That TV-headed demon is…crying, but there’s something off about him. Something frightening and tragic and desperate, and he’s…he’s……
Emily wasn’t scared. She knew the Lord would always be there for her…for all of His creations. But she worried, regardless. Hoped that deer sinner hadn’t been injured too badly, and as selfish as it was of her to think about herself despite all of the poor sinners suffering around her, all she could think of was Sera.
Please, please, please, she can’t leave Sera alone. Not her big sister.
Sera’s made mistakes, sure, but that’s just a part of being alive. Emily made tons of mistakes, herself. She covered one of her favorite cathedrals with gargoyles, not knowing the head parishioner was terrified of them. She accidentally broke Sera’s favorite mug. She forgot about Abel’s music rehearsal one time, had nearly stepped on an archangel’s beloved companion [Uriel’s hamster, Mallow], and she may or may not have locked St. Peter outside of Heaven. Just once. Totally an accident, but like Emily said, everyone makes mistakes.
Some people just make bigger ones. Earth-shattering mistakes, maybe, just like this deer.
But she’s seen just how fondly Niffty talks about him, or how she’s still keeping that pot of…cannibal food on the stove ready for him, even though he’s been gone for roughly one week. Surely, he can change.
Sera did, so why can’t he?
Though, even if he doesn’t want to…even if he doesn’t think that he deserves redemption, he doesn’t deserve this. No one does.
“Someone needs to help him, Charile!” Emily exclaims as she weakly attempts to fly over to Alastor, only for Charlie to suddenly grab onto her wrist, yanking her backwards.
Emily slightly winces as Charlie profusely apologies. Tears in her eyes as she brings her hands up to her mouth.
“I’m so, so, so sorry, Emily, I didn’t meant to do that, I swear! But…you can’t go there. Vox is going to…you don’t know what he’s capable of. He’ll hurt you.”
Oh, but Emily knows fully well what that sinner is capable of. She never knew it was like, to experience having an integral part of her being ripped away like this. And she wonders and fears for these sinners. If she felt this bad, then she can’t even imagine what it must feel like to wake up one day. Dead, traumatized, in hell…completely isolated from the life they lived before. From their family, from everyone that they loved and held dear……
Emily’s made up her mind. She can’t turn back on this sinner. She can’t play favorites and choose who is deserving of salvation or not. All she wants is to help. So many potential winners had been slaughtered. And even if they would have never been able to redeemed, they didn’t deserve to die twice.
“If we don’t do anything, that poor deer’s going to get hurt…” Emily’s blood freezes, chills running down her spine as Vox suddenly pulls Alastor up to his knees. Wrapping his arms around the deer demon’s waist, acting as if they weren’t enemies, but rather, lovers.
Well, more hurt than he already is…
There’s a flicker of something in Charlie’s eyes, and for a brief moment, her gaze almost appears cold. Though, Emily must’ve been imagining it, because Charlie looks on the verge of tears as she clasps onto her hands…reminding Emily of a prayer. “Alastor will be fine,” Charlie says, much to Emily’s bewilderment considering that deer sinner is bleeding out before their very eyes—
“I don’t understand,” Emily retorts, confusion painted over her features. “Alastor’s hurt. He needs our help…”
“Alastor’s strong. He can take care of himself.” Charlie offers Emily a smile that’s meant to be comforting, though there’s something about it that reminds Emily of Sera’s when she had learned about the exterminations…or with countless other elders in Heaven when Emily asked about what happened to all of the archangels, or why everyone other than Uriel had disappeared.
There’s so much about hell that Emily doesn’t understand.
Emily doesn’t even know what it means to be alive, but she’s trying and learning and even though she made more than her fair share of mistakes, all she wishes is to bring hope to these sinners. As long as they’re still alive, they can change for the better…
“Isn’t he your friend?”
“Of course he is,” Charlie retorts, still holding onto her smile. “But he’s an overlord. He’s killed people, Emily. Demons...humans……”
“But that’s not…” Emily’s voice tapers off. She doesn’t understand what’s going on here, or why Charlie’s acting…why she reminds Emily of her elders in a way. Maybe this is just how things work in hell, but she can’t stay here. Not when that deer is going to get killed, not when—
There’s a suddenly screech of static, and what sounds like a soft ‘bleat.’ Emily turns on her heels, heart plummeting to her stomach as that TV sinner is…as he’s kissing Alastor, or licking him. Or trying to bite his face off with those big shark teeth of his.
Charlie sharply gasps, bringing her shaking hands up to her face. “He’ll be fine,” Charlie says. “Alastor will be fine,” but even then she doesn’t look quite too sure of that.
“He needs our help,” Emily says, desperately trying to get her wings to work properly, only for a pained gasp to tear out of her throat as he injured wing involuntarily spasms, sending more golden ichor to drip down charred bones.
Charlie shakes her head, looking to be on the verge of a panic attack. Eyes wide, pupils dialted as she tugs at her hair. Again and again, she says, “Alastor will be fine. He’ll be fine. Mother says that men like him don’t need our help…”
Emily gently presses her hand against Charlie’s cheek, muttering a quick blessing underneath her breath…attempting to comfort the clearly panicking princess.
Though, this only seems to aggravate Charlie even further as she involuntarily flinches. A glassy look in her eyes as she merely stares back at Emily. “Alastor got himself kidnapped,” Charlie whispers, more to herself than Emily. Or rather, it’s as if Charlie isn’t even aware of what she’s saying in the first place. “And he can get himself out of this……”
Emily’s heart threatens to break, and her breathing is labored. Tears threaten to spill. She furiously wipes at her face, attempting to calm her breathing, trying to muster up enough strength to fly towards that deer’s side—
And to perform one final miracle.
---
“This sure does bring back old memories, doesn’t it?” And for the first time in decades, Vox almost sounds like…himself. Before the constant need to change himself, before his needless, boorish, uncouth multimedia porn ring, before Val, and…when he was still a recently deceased sinner…
Back when Vox was still Alastor’s handsome picture box. But then Vox changed, and Alastor stayed the same.
Or maybe Vox had been hiding his true self the entire time.
Alastor wasn’t an idiot. He knew for a fact that Vox was planning to use him, considering Vox was a cult leader. His modus operandi was to dispose all those in his line of business and usurp their positions. Alastor had always suspected that Vox intended to do the same to him, but then Alastor found himself…charmed by the man. It must’ve been his head.
Afterall, Alastor had never seen a sinner with such a unique, lovely head! Vox was so unlike any man Alastor had met before. He was more machine than blood and guts, and in-place of lecherous eyes and a sleazy grin, he was merely a cute little picture box.
Perhaps it was due to Vox’s less than human attributes that got Alastor to lower his guard.
It was all fine, really…until the one day that Vox completely ruined their relationship.
Until Vincent proposed that ‘partnership.’ He used sweet words, yes. And he was charmingly adorable with that sweater vest and that lovely smile, but that question was more or less a death sentence.
Alastor knew Vincent was planning to murder him…planning to play sweet, until to then turn around and stab him in the back.
If Vincent was planning to hurt him, well, Alastor would beat him to it.
That’s what Alastor had thought. He truly did think Vincent [Vox] would have gotten over it, but then again, all cult leaders are the same…white men like Vox never change. He held onto that grudge. Nurtured it for over seventy years, until Alastor willingly submitted himself to him.
Alastor should be used to this. It’s not that much different from prostituting himself…from allowing himself to be used in life for the sake of holding onto his position at the radio station, but…it’s different, somehow. Worse, even. At least back in his human life, he never had an inkling of love or adoration for anyone at the station.
But as for Vox? Alastor had actually found him charming, once upon a time…
This was all Alastor’s undoing, really.
Vox is holding onto him, his hands are placed on the small of Alastor’s back. Alastor involuntarily winces, a gasp tearing out of his throat as he Vox presses his lower half flush against Alastor’s.
Immediately, Vox uses this opportunity to force his tongue inside, and somehow…somehow, that violation is far worse than the electrocutions, than the unwanted touches, than that stupid fucking milkshake date or getting paraded all over hell in that stupid as fuck float.
Alastor weakly pushes his hands against Vox’s chest, desperately trying to free himself. He has his powers, yes, but they’re not at full capacity. And…that shark. Its teeth must’ve been made of angelic steel, because how is it that Alastor still finds himself weak and pitiful and incapable and—
The electrocutions and strangulation and torture and having his chest ripped open and blood spilled out was far more endurable than this…than Vox kissing him out here. Desecrated him, where everyone can see…where, fuck, Charlotte can see him and…
“We could’ve been together…I could have made you the happiest man in hell, Al……”
Despite the dire situation that Alastor’s in, he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of this all. “Oh, Vincent, I know I’m charming and all, but throwing a tantrum over a minor rejection is pathetic, even for you!”
“Minor rejection?” Vox lowly hisses, sinking his claws into Alastor’s waist and drawing out blood. He leans in close, flatscreen face inches away from Alastor’s. “I waited seventy fucking years for this moment…”
Alastor rolls his eyes. “Yes, throwing a tantrum about getting rejected over a business deal seventy years ago.”
“You really don’t understand anything, old man,” Vox retorts, pixilated tears streaming down his face. “After what you did to me, how the fuck can you sit here with that smile on your face.”
“Ah yes,” Alastor drawls. “How could I possibly reject a man who slit his coworker’s throat out of blind jealousy?”
Vox’s gaze hardens. “Someone like you could never understand how I felt……”
Alastor pleasantly smiles at Vox. “Right, right, I sure do hope this little ‘revenge’ of yours was worth it, sweetheart—”
“Please let go of that deer!!”
Alastor’s smile falters ever so slightly, bewilderment soon taking root as that angel from earlier quite literally crashes into both him and Vox, sending them crashing to the ground [The very same one who got her wing burned off for him of all demons].
And Alastor’s confusion only increases tenfold as this snowy-haired angel attempts to pull him into he arms.
“You’ll be just fine, Mister Deer,” she gently says, desperately attempting to fly both of them away from Vox…
Only for Vox to wrap his hands around her injured wing and push her to the ground. An agonized cry tears out of the seraphim’s throat as Vox sinks his claws into bone, nearly threatening to snap her injured wing entirely in half. She immediately collapses to the ground, weakly attempting to get up as she presses a hand over her chest.
Alastor is entirely frozen. Smile still in place as Vox suddenly pulls him into an embrace. And Alastor collapses in his arms, as if he were a marionette with broken strings.
He doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t fucking understand.
Alastor knows fully well what Vox desires from him. Afterall, Vox made it more than apparent time and time again, but what use does Alastor have for an angel? And an all-powerful seraphim, at that?
“You fucking two-timing slut,” Vox lowly hisses into Alastor’s ear, but Alastor doesn’t understand what the fuck is going on.
He’s endured Vox’s taunts and degradations over the past week, with ‘bottomest bitch’ being a particularly grating, but also confusing insult. But as for this? Alastor doesn’t fucking understand what Vox’s problem is. Well, more than the usual—
“First, you seduce me, then the fucking king of hell and his bimbo daughter, but now you’ve also got that feathered bitch going after you?”
Alastor’s just…what?
“If I can’t have you, then no one can,” Vox hisses, tightening his embrace around Alastor’s waist. And Alastor hears something being unseathed, feels something sharp pressed over his back.
He hears rather than feels it…the sound of cloth tearing, of his flesh being pulled apart…of the sickening ‘crack’ of bones.
At first, Alastor feels nothing. He hears blood rushing in his ears, and distantly, he hears that seraphim calling out to him. And he sees Vox’s screen, tears still dripping down it despite the smile he’s wearing.
Alastor’s eyes are half-lidded, and…everything looks distant, blurry.
Pain erupts in his back, blood, hot and viscous, dripping down his ruined coat. Vox is holding onto him one arm, whispering sweet nothing into one ear, while his other hand pushes the knife even deeper.
Alastor is left gasping for breath. He weakly returns Vox’s embrace, both loathing and craving this touch…reduced to accepting even the barest minimum of comfort.
In another life, maybe this would have been nice.
But no, that’s impossible. If they met in life, Vox would’ve been the type of man Alastor would have killed. And Alastor knows for a fact that Vox would have never given him the time of day in life. Or at worst? That Alastor would be one of his targets. Either for his talent, for the color of his skin, for rejecting him, for countless other reasons, each more horrifying than his last.
Afterall, Alastor always knew what Vox’s game was.
If Vox was being sincere in his proposal, then why did he wait until Alastor downed an entire glass of rye before he asked Alastor to become is partner?
This isn’t the worst pain that Alastor has ever felt. Not by a long shot, but it’s still excruciating. The feeling of Vox’s knife going in deeper, his bones being scratched by the sharp blade of a knife. His flesh being pulled apart, and it’s made all the more worse as Vox is tenderly holding onto him. Treating him with reverence, as if he was something meant to be cherished and loved and adored.
Alastor knows fully well that if he knew Vox…if he knew Vincent in life, that he’d end up like countless other women in his city. Dead, with his mutilated remains rotting away in an alleyway.
It’s only due to luck that Alastor never met Vincent in life.
…That Alastor never met Vincent before the radio station, before Alastor committed his first murder.
He’ll be just fine. Alastor merely needs to endure this—
But it would be so easy to sleep and never wake up. It feels kind of…nice, like this. The feeling of Vox’s knife lodged into his back. Alastor knows for certain that he’s not a masochist, but he allows himself to be pulled further into Vox’s embrace. Feels himself growing cold, numb…
His vision recedes, threatening to fail him entirely. Alastor’s smile softens ever so slightly as he returns Vox’s embrace, and for a brief moment, he’s back at that bar again.
It’s 1959, and Alastor accepted Vox’s proposal.
They became business partners, or was that a pretense for something more? Alastor didn’t quite know, but all that mattered was that Vox belonged to him…and that he was somehow alright with offering half of his soul to Vox.
And he’s hugging Vox, now. Being embraced by him, but there’s something telling him that this isn’t right.
That it’s all fucking wrong…
All at once, white agony courses through his back, through the slowly healing wound on his chest as Vox’s knife is ripped out of his back……
And he feels himself being lifted up.
Alastor weakly opens his eyes, an agonized scream lodged in his throat as he discovers that he’s nowhere close to the ground. He turns his head slightly, finding that curious little angel is hoisting him up.
There’s an equally pained look in her eyes, but she still smiles at Alastor, telling him that everything will be alright.
He doesn’t believe her, but…there’s something about this little lady that he can respect.
Afterall, she really does have quite the lovely smile.