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Vox actually visiting the hotel had not been something Alastor could’ve ever predicted. It had been years since the man had gotten so involved in any of his own broadcasts – something Alastor thought more than a little pathetic – so to realise Vox was here, to look up from the notes he was scrawling with a shudder as the signals dancing through his airwaves twisted and warped with the presence of the other Media Overlord?
To say he’d been surprised would have been an understatement.
Though Alastor had no interest in helping Charlie with her failure of a hotel – it was far too entertaining to watch her founder – he couldn’t help but wonder what Vox was doing here. Had he finally come to grovel, properly, for Alastor’s attention and regard once more? To apologise for his very public mental breakdown those few months ago; for trying to denigrate him on the airwaves?
Alastor was not an unreasonable man. If Vox had come to make things right, he might be tempted to hear him out. He had precious few avenues of assistance right now, and with the wound on his chest growing worse by the day, it might be useful to have the thread of Vox’s attention firmly back in his own hand. His leash, as it were, though the metaphor had his lip curling from his teeth in a sneer and his ears pinning to his skull.
He’d planned on waiting for Vox to come and find him – or at the very least, to ask Charlie where he was, ask her whether she could call him down.
The emotion that twisted his stomach when Vox strode in with Velvette by his side, seemingly focused on nothing more sinister than discrediting the Princess of Hell and her endeavours could not be described as hurt – because Alastor would not let it be described as such. He narrowed his eyes as he stared down at the man he’d once generously called his pal, watching as he went for Charlie’s throat again and again with unerring accuracy.
Were this anyone else, Alastor might almost have been impressed. His techniques were textbook, and if his opponent had been in the least bit capable, they wouldn’t have been so effective – but that wasn’t the case, and his barbed comments, sarcasm and constant criticism successfully pushed Charlie closer to the edge with every venomous word uttered from that two-dimensional mouth. Similarly biting insults had been levelled Alastor’s way, over the years, though all had missed their mark. He watched as Vox put a condescending hand on Charlie’s shoulder, his own skin heating with a phantom touch at the memory as he stayed hidden within the shadows.
Vox was always putting his hands on other people.
He’d never appreciated – really, properly appreciated – the fact that Alastor had allowed it between the two of them.
That part of Vox had stayed the same, despite so much else about him changing. Something in the back of Alastor’s psyche scratched at his tenuous grasp on sanity as the wound in his chest sent out a dull throb of pain – and he wondered whether Vox’s attention had truly wandered so far. Whether it was possible that he’d learned to prioritise something above his petty obsession with winning Alastor’s affection, never understanding he’d already won as much as was possible.
His grip on the railing tightened, to the point that metal soon creaked under his claws. Every slight lately seemed weighted tenfold, every insult and dismissal. Lucifer’s presence in the hotel was a thorn in his side that he didn’t need, not now. He knew he needed to be ingratiating himself to Charlie, but how could he, when her damned father was watching him like a sparrow eyes up a worm? His importance within the hotel was fading; every day, he could feel his relevance slipping through his claws.
He would not become irrelevant to Vox. Not to him.
Vox would be begging to have Alastor by his side once again – and Alastor would delight in pointing out that he’d long ago lost any chance of that. In trying to twist their friendship so that Vox might use Alastor to claw his way higher in Hell’s hierarchy, he’d broken what fragile trust existed between them.
It didn’t matter.
Alastor didn’t need to trust Vox to know that he was still the most important thing to the TV Overlord – and he was sure that the time to prove it would arrive sooner rather than later.
* * * * * *
So cute you think I care.
Vox's words echoed in Alastor's skull, his skin still pinging with the residues of the bolts the other man had shot through him. He didn't care about that – didn't have any room for terror or complacency in his heart, no matter how much Vox might have liked it to be the case.
No – the only thing he had space for was doubt, and he was thoroughly disliking the feeling.
Perhaps it could be attributed to everything else that had been bringing him low, lately. To the wound still aching on his chest – all the worse for the fact Vox had torn his stitches out earlier that day – or to the arguing with Lucifer that had driven him first to Rosie, then on to Vox. The person guaranteed to remind Alastor of his own importance, because whilst he might try to belittle him, there was always something charged hiding under his attempts.
Something that said 'please. Don't you see me, Alastor?'
It might once have been the case that Alastor's attention was all Vox needed, and Alastor could ration it out like one might give a starved man small bites of bread. Enough to sustain him, but not enough that he could glut himself. Well, Vox had certainly been glutting himself in Alastor's absence; the masses fawned over him, cheering and hollering as he paraded through the streets, and Vox didn't even seem to care that Alastor was ignoring him, sat by his side, tied up and muzzled.
Triumph had sparked in him when Vox had looked more at him than at Valentino, even in the midst of their coupling. He had no interest in being where Valentino was, crushed under overenthusiastic hips and dribbled on as Vox peppered something that was kiss-adjacent over the other man's purple skin. But Vox wanted him there, he knew it – at least until Valentino had yanked Vox's head back around to focus on him, his upper set of arms restrained but his lower set free to grab and to hold.
His teeth ground together as he stared out the window. He'd pushed himself over to it, his toes scrabbling on Vox's floor to drag the chair along it, and it certainly wasn't an easy method of movement but he was slowly improving at it. Vox had left him. Alone.
Alastor had finally given Vox what he'd always wanted – he had Alastor as his prisoner, had him at his beck and call whenever he might want him. And he'd left him.
Once again, that unwelcome, niggling poison that was doubt crept up his spine, crawling over his nerves and settling into the back of his thoughts. Had he been wrong? Did Vox finally have enough attention from elsewhere that Alastor's had lost its value?
It didn't seem possible.
Perhaps Vox really had changed more than Alastor could ever have imagined – which only meant that he would need to do something new. Something to remind the other Overlord just how much Alastor's regard meant to him. He had his sycophants, it was true, Valentino and Velvette acting as his little coterie of yes-men – and women – but Alastor knew Vox.
He knew Vox didn't care about the two of them. That Vox had only ever cared about two things. Alastor – and power. And the latter had always taken a higher priority on his list. All he needed to do was make that obvious to those other two, because they didn't strike him as the type of folks to be happy with the knowledge. To know that Vox considered them as little more than accessories. Driving them away from Vox would drive Vox right back to him, and though nobody could see it under the mask Vox had strapped to him, his jagged teeth gleamed in a grin.
That man was his.
He was the only one who would have any say in where Vox's obsessions lay.
If his thoughts were growing increasingly unhinged, Alastor didn't notice. With everything he'd already been through lately, he thought he deserved this. His favourite Picture Box, back under his heel where he belonged, begging for just a single scrap of praise that he might tuck away and cherish for weeks. He needed to want that praise, though. And for that – he needed to break.
Cogs turned within Alastor's mind, ideas slotting into place as he chuckled. Alone, staring out over the skyline of Pentagram City.
He could definitely work with this.
* * * * * *
Agony flared through him on a cellular level. His arm bled freely onto the pavement, his shirt was soaked with blood – and the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest whenever he moved spoke of more than one fractured rib. The humiliation of having been pulled out of the line of fire by an angel couldn't quite diminish the unbridled satisfaction flaring behind his cracked ribs at watching Vox losing his mind.
Oh, Hell was burning. Buildings were still crumbling in the distance, rubble and brick falling to land amidst terrified screams. The sweet sound of panic was in the air, even as those nearby scrambled to figure out how to stop him. How to stop Vox as he cackled, firing that weapon of his with abandon – aiming it at nothing and everything all at once, not even hearing the pleas of his two long-term associates.
No. Vox was deafened to everything but Alastor, and as he stood atop that overheating cannon, his breath whistling harsh in his throat and his shoulders heaving, Alastor's sight narrowed until Vox took up entirely too much of his vision. The wounds he'd given the other man were splashes of colour against his suit, standing out like a masterpiece painted by Afremov. Cables dangled from his chest, a map of veins exposed to the world – and as Vox dismissed each and every attempt at reason, Alastor's smile grew into something positively deranged.
Though his ears were pinned with his agony, his body wanting nothing more than to curl in on itself and flee to some darkened corner so he might lick his wounds, he stared Vox down, smile fixed in place even as Vox declared that all he wanted was to see it wiped off his face. That so long as he could have that, he didn't care what else happened.
The moment stretched between them, this declaration stronger than any love confession or proposal could ever hope to be. It had taken time, but Alastor had watched the wedge he'd driven between Vox and his partners grow thicker by the day, knowing his victory was within his grasp the moment Vox had declared he wouldn't need them any longer – not once he'd achieved his goals.
He had said, then, that once he'd made it to Heaven, he'd slit Alastor's throat and watch him bleed out. It was a pretty promise, but one Alastor knew he was incapable of keeping. There was a familiarity in the way Vox looked at him, a fervour in his eyes that burned hotter with each passing hour. With every dismissal, every barbed comment Alastor threw at him, Vox's desperation for his admiration grew almost strong enough to taste.
It was a decadent thing, and Alastor knew he shouldn't indulge – but he shivered, something fluttering in his guts with the way Vox looked at him. The hum of his machine was drowning out the voices of everyone else, the ground shuddering under his hands. Vox would kill everyone in the city – including himself – just to have a chance at wiping Alastor off the face of reality.
If that wasn't relevance – if that wasn't the same kind of adoration that Vox had always harboured for him within his twisted metal mind – then Alastor didn't know what else to call it.
Alastor would almost welcome a death like this, knowing he'd dragged thousands along with him. He swallowed, eyes narrowing into a glare as Vox's screen glistened. The tip of one ear flicked when he recognised the shine for what it was – a tear.
Warmth swelled in his chest, deeper and more consuming than the heat of his wound – but his victory was short-lived. Valentino inserted himself into their narrative, striding up and seizing Vox by the screen. There wasn't time for anyone else to react as the taller sinner put a booted foot to Vox's chest and yanked – and the screech of feedback echoing from Vox's speakers should have been Alastor's, but it was too late. His body collapsed like a puppet with its wires cut, and others stepped forward in a desperate attempt to fix the chaos Vox had started.
Bitterness curled at the back of his throat, the satisfaction that had been building in his veins turning empty and cold. He clawed at his power, pulling on reserves that would exhaust him – just to fade into the shadows, to glare at Vox's abandoned screen on the ground.
Red eyes blinked open, and something sparked in his chest at the way Vox cast his gaze around – passing over Valentino and Velvette, ignoring his machine, all in favour of seeking Alastor out. It was a silent admission, but an admission nonetheless, and Alastor's ego practically crowed at the realisation.
He had won.
* * * * * *
He ought to have been satisfied. To have taken that victory from Vox’s limp claws and used it to sate the gnawing hunger within him, his own ambition far more honed that Vox’s had ever been. Back to the hotel, back to Charlie – and though he had a new target in Lucifer, his insults and attention rang hollow when Alastor replayed Vox’s last words about him.
Over and over they echoed in his skull, and his lids drifted shut to the memory of Vox’s violent declaration as he sat before his fireplace, bathed in the crackling glow of green flames.
Lucifer despised him, it was true – but his attention wandered. Like a lost puppy growling at a stranger, when Charlie walked into the room he was all wiggling hindquarters and bounding, nervous energy – and Alastor slipped from his mind as easily as if he occupied no space within it at all.
It grated at him. It wasn’t enough, and he didn’t know what to call the sensation in his chest when he made his way downtown and glanced at the security cameras perched on building corners, aware without having to be told that Vox was no longer watching them – but it was not a sensation he enjoyed.
Every billboard that had once featured his likeness had been covered over, advertisements for Valentino’s films and Velvette’s latest products taking pride of place within the Pride Ring. Some spoke of him in hushed whispers, but even the Overlord council seemed reluctant to mention his name – as if in falling from the status he’d once wielded, so too had Vox fallen from everyone’s collective memories.
Alastor should have found joy in this – should have been delighted at knowing that Vox’s quest to secure his standing had failed so spectacularly. He should have been laughing, snickering whenever Valentino denied even knowing his name – and yet.
Yet.
It seemed insulting. Not only to Vox – but to Alastor himself. Though he hated to admit it, Vox had very nearly killed him; had nearly killed everyone. That sort of achievement ought to be spoken about with a little more admiration than what everyone was demonstrating. If Alastor had the chance, he might offer Vox a smidgen of the approval he’d always craved – because yes, he’d been beaten. But he’d been beaten because Alastor was smarter than him, and he couldn’t really fault the man for that.
His attention snagged on an unresponsive security camera, its red light flashing sadly as the thing remained motionless. Even lowering the heavy layer of interference dancing in his airwaves didn’t tempt it into trying to follow him, and his ears dipped as passing sinners either ignored him – or dropped their gaze entirely.
Vox was not dead. Defeated, but not dead – and if the other Vees weren’t appreciating the value of his obsessive attention, then perhaps Alastor ought to take matters into his own hands. He couldn’t leave his Picture Box in the grasp of folks who saw no value in him, and despite everything – Alastor knew Vox’s value.
The man was valuable to him, and though he still didn’t know how to name the empty, aching hollow in his chest when he started his broadcast and didn’t even have to fight off a poorly executed hacking attempt, he absolutely hated it.
It had only started occurring since Vox’s defeat, ergo it must be his fault. He needed to fix this.
And Alastor was going to make him.
* * * * * *
“What the fuck what the fuck what the – fuck?” Vox yelped, his litany of curses finally ending in a screech of distorted sound as Alastor yanked his head from the bag he’d shoved it into. Vox’s muffled protests had echoed through the halls of Vee Tower – which was laughably easy to break into – but nobody had come to his aid.
Alastor had found him propped up in his suite; the same room he’d kept Alastor in for those fleeting days in which he’d been a prisoner. He used the term ‘propped up’ loosely, because he was very nearly facing the ceiling, calling out in vain for Valentino to right him so he could at least see the TV the other Overlord had left playing. It really was a pathetic sight, and Alastor had stepped up to him on silent feet, coated in darkness until his looming antlers left a twisted shadow across Vox’s screen.
Something had flashed over Vox’s expression – some combination of somethings. Anger, gratitude, surprise, terror – and perhaps, for just the briefest of moments – relief. Maybe he thought Alastor was coming to kill him, to put him out of his misery. To end his mediocre existence as he’d ended so many other Overlords before.
Murder was not Alastor’s intention, and he truly never thought he’d see the day he said such a thing. Before Vox could do anything more than narrow his eyes and form half of a word, Alastor had shoved him into a nearby bag. It fit Vox’s head perfectly; it even had a flap on the side that could be unzipped. A window for Vox to look out at the world, maybe? It wasn’t a window Alastor was opening, not as he darted through shadows and hid himself in corners, once more leaving Vox’s glaringly obvious overcompensation of a building.
And now he was back in his own rooms, his heart still racing in his chest as the thrill of the hunt soared in his veins. It hadn’t been much of a hunt, it was true, but the way Vox’s eyes went wide as Alastor bared his teeth in the sharpest grin he could muster? Well, one couldn’t blame him for enjoying it.
Without warning, he picked Vox up and deposited him in one of his armchairs, settling himself in the one opposite. Vox’s eyes could dart around all they liked, but they had no real choice in the matter – Alastor was the only thing Vox could focus on.
“Did you bring me here just to gloat?” Vox asked with a scowl, even as Alastor poured himself a few fingers of whisky. Alastor might have made a joke, a reference to their roles being so reversed, but Vox had no throat Alastor could threaten to slit. His grin turned close-lipped as he sipped at his drink, wondering whether he ought to offer one to his companion – but he didn’t have any straws, and he didn’t feel like administering alcohol to Vox the way one might pour water into the mouth of an invalid.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m simply a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, and I could no longer bear to be away from you.” He said it lightly, mocking airs carried through his tone – but something in his chest stopped, a spike of dread crawling up his throat until he took another swig of his whisky to wash it away.
There might have been a louder ring of truth to those words than he’d realised before uttering them, and he wasn’t sure what to do with that realisation. Heat prickled up the back of his neck as he glanced over at Vox from under lowered lids – and he relented.
“How about a drink, old pal? A sazerac?” Alastor offered with a wry sort of grin. Vox looked for a moment like he was going to argue – before his expression fell, exhaustion showing in heavy lines beneath his projected eyes.
“Why would you want to bring me here just to share a drink? Are you really that pathetically lonely?” Vox muttered bitterly, though Alastor refused to rise to the bait. Vox’s voice fell to a mumble, Alastor’s ears twisting forward to catch the words.
“We’re not pals. You’re not my fucking friend.”
“Of course not. There are no friends in Hell, you remember,” Alastor reminded him, his claws clinking on the new glass he set on the table, filling it with heavy amber liquid. He didn’t make Vox his promised sazerac, largely because he couldn’t be bothered. His grin sharpened as he snapped his fingers, summoning a straw after all and pushing the glass to where Vox could reach it.
Something slotted into place in his mind, and he blinked.
“And you’ve finally realised that, haven’t you? Oh, yes. You were willing to cast off your squad the moment you stepped foot through those pearly gates.” A shudder raced down Alastor’s spine, warmth swelling in the space behind his ribs. It took him a moment to recognise it as pride, if only because he’d so rarely felt the emotion when thinking about somebody who wasn’t him. “More than willing to let them die so you might have your petty revenge. I could almost say I’m… impressed,” Alastor admitted, leaning forward and stretching an arm over the table to slide a finger down the edge of Vox’s screen.
Vox stopped trying to catch the straw with his flailing tongue, dragging it back into his face just before his mouth disappeared altogether with how wide his eyes had blown. It was a familiar expression on him, though one Alastor hadn’t seen in years, and he tilted his head as he sat back.
Perhaps Vox had changed – and perhaps there were hints of the old Vincent hidden under his casing. Whatever the case, Alastor could admit – if only to himself, in the privacy of his own mind – that he’d missed this.
There would be no confusion here. Vox knew what he was and which of them held the power, but the spark that chased Alastor’s retreating hand betrayed the truth. He did still need Alastor.
And Alastor planned to keep things that way.
~fin~