Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Being stuck in his human form wasn’t ideal. 

He was isolated from his powers and from the protection that came alongside his carefully cultivated reputation. Worse still, he was… rather small compared to the other sinners. Almost laughably so. He had never imagined that Lucifer would decide to not only humiliate and endanger him in such a way, but be so profoundly incompetent as to not know how to change him back. 

The absolute cherry on top? 

There was an Overlord meeting today with mandatory attendance. Of course, so soon after Vox’s very public meltdown and the attack launched on heaven, it was pertinent for them to all attend. 

Alastor didn’t want to go. Oh no, there was actually nothing he wanted to do less that expose his humiliating weakness to all of his associates and rivals. 

Yet here he was, smile hanging on by a fucking thread as he’s bombarded with questions.

Alastor? Is that you?

How did this even happen? 

Is that your human form?

Are you stuck like that?

Do you still have your powers?

Do you even qualify as an overlord in this state? 

Alastor had bluffed easily, swearing that yes, he had his power, and no, he was in no way trapped in this form. It was only temporary and no he wasn’t going to explain. Of course, he intoned quite a bit more snark and teasing into his tone, as if the whole thing was maddeningly entertaining and all for his own fun. 

He layered his threats just vaguely enough to maintain plausible deniability whilst Rosie, bless her, supported his false claims as smoothly as if she’d stake her life on them, laughing along and calling him terms of endearment as if he hadn’t just shattered their deal and backed her into a proverbial corner in fixing his staff.

His staff that was merely decoration now that he had no magic with which to use it.  

Carmilla hadn’t cared much once the shock of his appearance had worn off, and forcefully directed the attention to resume the meeting. The other overlords all had their questions and wanted to take turns in their pestering, but Carmilla was nothing if not efficient and plowed through their interruptions to refocus on the reason for their gathering. 

After several long minutes of enduring the stares and gawking, most everyone relents and shifts their gaze to Carmilla. 

Most everyone. 

Alastor could feel the weight of Vox’s gaze against him.

Those mismatched orbs trace over his appearance almost reverently, lingering in a way that makes Alastor’s skin crawl and his heart stutter in his chest. It is… unnerving. 

He really doesn’t need to deal with a confrontation from that overly loud picture box. Especially not today. Despite how adamant he’d been about having maintained his power despite the loss of his demonic form, it wouldn’t take long for his bluff to be called. 

He’s tried everything. His teleportation, his shadow tentacles, his transformation, his healing… all gone. There’s not even a flicker of his magic no matter how hard he tries. He’s been stripped of it all. Thanks to one immature and reckless monarch that got his feelings hurt and took it out on him in the most damning way. 

Just after he’d finally regained his power and broke free from his chains. It’s almost funny how hard life works against him sometimes. 

But no matter, he was nothing if not resourceful. 

 The only thing that remained of his power was his microphone and his shadow. A powerful relic that was utterly useless due to his inability to properly wield it and a shadow that still obeyed his requests, despite Alastor’s newfound lack of any real control over it. 

Perhaps the little shadow creature merely figured that if Alastor died, then it would too.

 Not an unreasonable assumption, although he’s never had cause to consider it before. Still, he doubts its willingness to sacrifice itself simply to prolong Alastor’s miserable life. Not when it technically wasn’t bound to him any longer. Or at least, when it knew that Alastor could no longer enforce his control over it.

So a fight with Vox would probably end humiliatingly quickly and with a horribly poor outcome. In fact, he’d wager that Rosie and his shadow alike would probably laugh as he was torn limb from limb or fried to a crisp. They both so loved the violence that came with the kill, much like himself.

 Ironically, Vox is the only Overlord that hasn’t yet spoken a word. Rather unusual behavior for the normally loud, attention-seeking idiot. His eyes speak for him, though. Alastor hasn’t bothered to grace him with a look, not wanting to initiate any conversation or confrontation between them. Of course, he knows Vox will interpret the lack of response as arrogance or snobbishness. 

That’s fine by Alastor. Vox can think whatever he wants as long as he doesn’t sniff out the vulnerabilities he’s trying to mask. 

Despite not meeting his gaze, he can still feel it as it traces along his frame, unabashed and languid. The attention presses against him like a physical force, as if he were being devoured by gaze alone. 

He clenches his fists underneath the table in an effort to keep the tremor from working its way to his spine. 

Holding Vox’s sole attention for this long doesn’t bode well for his odds of escaping without some sort of an incident. Especially due to their recent… ‘falling out’. 

Normally, Alastor escorted Rosie back to Cannibal Town after Overlord meetings, staying for a cup or two of tea before teleporting back to the hotel. This time, however, he was planning to ask her to escort him to the hotel. He could offer to cook for her, as any good host would, but she’d most likely see right through him. 

He doesn't mind, though. It is far better than the alternative, at least, as long as she doesn’t try to force his hand in brokering a deal between them once more.

He’d only arrived here unharmed due to Lucifer teleporting him just around the corner. It had been pitifully easy to goad the King into assisting him. His guilt was quite easy to twist in his favor. All it took was batting his eyes and pointing out just how much he’d lost due to the King’s temper. 

Oh, a pity. I suppose I’ll have to miss the mandatory meeting. Hopefully no Overlords pop up at Charlie’s dear hotel to check up on me. I just can’t fathom being able to make the whole trip by myself after… well, you know. 

Lucifer had folded easily with a roll of his eyes and a golden blush rising to his cheeks as he’d pouted but asked the location of the meeting regardless. He’d even said please once Alastor stubbornly refused, pretending that accepting his help was beneath him. So the King had pleaded, and Al had pretended to relent only due to his persistence. 

 He hadn’t had to travel far after being teleported before being amidst the Overlords. No one would dare pick a fight in front of the hoard of powerful sinners, especially whilst he was Carmilla’s guest within her territory, but once he was on his own? He’d be dead before he left the block. 

As much as he loathed to admit it, he’d need Rosie’s protection. Sinners would be far less likely to approach him with an Overlord like her at his side. She probably already knew that he’d ask her for help. He’d probably have to endure her chiding and teasing the whole walk, but it’s not like he had many other options. 

Hell, she was probably already debating on which deal she’d want him to make with her in return. 

Joy. 

He just hopes she’s not holding a grudge over him breaking their deal. If she outright refuses to help him, then he’d have to goad Charlie’s duck-obsessed father into teleporting him back. He doesn’t even have a way to contact Lucifer without borrowing someone else’s phone. 

If Rosie walking him home fell through, he didn’t have many options. Nor did he have much time left to figure it out. 

The meeting was swiftly drawing to a close, as they so often did. Holding the attention of this many Overlords for too long was a near impossible task. Carmilla kept things brief, divulging the necessary information and taking requests and suggestions in stride with impressive composure, regardless of how outlandish they were. 

Alastor hadn’t absorbed a single word of what was said at this meeting, far too focused on his enraging predicament. No matter, Rosie will surely catch him up later on any important details he’s missed. If she agrees to walk him home, that is. 

Honestly, he can’t even fault himself for not listening. It’s difficult to focus on anything other than the slimy sensation of Vox’s gaze boring into him. He suppresses a shiver, fighting to keep his smile pleasant and relaxed as Carmilla stands, thanking them for their attendance before dismissing them. 

Vox is the first to stand, chair scraping behind him as he heads directly for him. Alastor stands as well, much slower and less enthusiastic than Vox, before offering a hand to Rosie. It’s almost comical, him helping her to stand despite the fact that she towers over him. Still, he’s nothing if not a gentleman. Rosie pats his hand sweetly after she stands, tucking her chair back under the table. He does the same before offering his arm. She takes it, although it must be awkward due to their height difference. 

They don’t make it two steps before Vox is before them, his mismatched eyes locked on Alastor. 

They stare for a long moment before Alastor breaks the tension with a bright and calm smile that contrasts horribly with his racing thoughts. His mind is running rampant with different scenarios and ways to diffuse or escape before there is a chance for escalation. 

Fuck Lucifer. 

Because of him, he’s been pitifully reduced to playing nice with Vox of all people. 

“Good evening, Vincent. How are you?” He says, tilting his head to the side and trying to ensure his voice is controlled and smooth. Oh how he loathes being weaker than Vox right now. 

“I’m fine,” he responds distractedly, more on autopilot than anything before directing the conversation to his true purpose. “Where are you headed?” He asks, gaze briefly flicking to Rosie, who offers him a small wave. 

Alastor hums in thought, the sounds of the other Overlord’s chatter distracting as they all group up to leave. Why would Vox care where he was headed? Why would he expect the truth? He should deflect with a soft tease. Enough to be cordial without arousing suspicion. 

“Hm, I’m not sure why you would want to know,” he says lightly, letting his smile grow sweet. “Did you need me for something?”

His eyes glance past Vox to the other two Vee’s still lounging in their seats. Velvette is dressed as sharp as ever, filing her nails while shooting them an occasional assessing glance. She may seem to be in her own world, but she is paying close attention. Valentino is on the phone, feet propped up on the chair beside him as he gestures wildly with his hands, voice loud and obnoxious. 

They’re making no move to leave, most likely waiting on their leader.

If all three of them wanted to push the issue, there would be no graceful exit. He couldn’t ask Rosie to fight them all. Not without doing something catastrophically stupid, like selling his soul to her again. 

He lets his gaze fix itself on Vox’s screen once more, trying to smooth the lines of his smile into something less strained. Vox turns to see where Alastor had been looking, and he’s almost thankful for the loss of his demonic form because he knows his ears would be pressed flat to his head right now at the growing discomfort of the situation. 

However, instead of taking advantage of their greater numbers, Vox instead makes a shooing motion with his hand, dismissing the other two of their trio with hardly a thought. Velvette rolls her eyes, obviously displeased at being given an order, but stands, grabbing Valentino and hauling him out as he curses at whoever is on the other end of the phone. Valentino looks up finally, his eyes meeting Alastor’s briefly before his sharp gaze turns to Vox, indignation and an ugly jealousy flashing across his features. Velvette shoves the moth out the door before he can say anything, and Alastor waves at them with a cheerful smile, just to spite them. 

Unwise? Probably, but honestly, the Vees just make it so painfully easy. 

Once they are gone, Vox turns back, his expression tight as if considering something. 

Alastor hums along to the sounds of Val shouting in the hallway, his smile much easier to maintain now. He can’t deny that he is marginally more at ease without Vox’s entire entourage present. Still, Vox on his own is more than enough of a threat while he’s in this form, and Rosie wouldn’t be inclined to fight his battles for him regardless, unless he offered her something in return, which wasn’t happening. He just freed himself from her chain. 

Still, Vox’s restraint feels deliberate. Either he doesn’t want to intimidate him, or is attempting to lull him into a false sense of security. 

“No,” Vox finally says, voice soft and careful and so different from the last time Alastor had heard it whilst he was atop the weapon meant to decimate heaven. “I don’t need anything from you. I just,” he says, voice trailing off and gaze darting around as if debating whether to speak what was on his mind. Or perhaps he was checking to ensure that everyone had indeed left the meeting room. 

He finally sighs, those heterochromatic eyes landing heavily on him once more, pinning him in place. “I don’t believe that you still have your powers,” Vox says flatly, the ugly accusation shattering the calm that had begun to settle in Alastor’s chest. “I think you’re completely exposed and are fucking stupid as shit for showing your face today.” 

Alastor's smile grows strained for just a moment before he expertly conceals it once more. Then, he laughs. He covers his growing discomfort at his weakness being bared to the world with loud, obnoxious laughter.

“O-oh, that’s rich, Vincent,” he says, leaning forward slightly, grin sharpening into something cruel. “Do you really think I’d be foolish enough - no, reckless enough - to parade myself through Hell while totally powerless? Do you honestly believe I’d risk my life just to… what? Attend a meeting?” He questions, voice mocking and low before he breaks out into laughter once more, as if Vox’s suggestion was laughable rather than damning.

He wasn’t supposed to be antagonizing Vox. Not now, especially, but it was just so natural with him. So enjoyable. Vox was like a drunk bastard stumbling home, barely able to stand much less sense the predator a mere ten feet behind wielding a bowie knife.

 Besides, strategically it’s a good bluff. 

Vox, however, doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he grins, eyes raking down his body, lingering just long enough for the hairs on the back of Alastor’s neck to raise. Those eyes lift deliberately slowly, before locking with his own once more. 

Rosie covers her mouth with her hand beside him, failing to stifle her laughter at Alastor being so openly oggled. 

The humiliation burns through him, eyes surely depicting his rage, but Vox’s smile only grows. 

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s exactly what I think.” 

Vox folds his arms, gaze flicking to Rosie as if seeking agreement or approval. Or perhaps he’s bold enough to challenge her to contradict him or deny his claims. Maybe he’s even testing the waters to see whether Rosie would make any sort of move to defend him. When she doesn’t, he continues. 

“I think you’re too egotistical to admit when you’re down,” he says, voice sharpening as he steps closer. Alastor holds his ground despite the flicker of panic in the back of his mind. “I think you’re arrogant enough that you’d rather gamble your life away just to cling onto the illusion of power,” he says, leaning down until they’re nearly at eye level. 

“I think that you are powerless and are relying entirely on that pretty little silver tongue of yours to keep you from being torn to fucking shreds,” Vox says, his red eye brightening, the slow spirals beginning to churn beneath the surface. 

He can’t help the shiver that runs through him, static washing over his mind briefly before he has the sense to look away. Vox must notice, because the tension breaks and his eye dims instantly. 

Alastor blinks, breath coming shallow as he tries to compose himself before attention is drawn to yet another newfound weakness. Vox’s power works on him. The confusion and emptiness that had settled so heavily in his mind after only a glance is undeniable.

Vox stares, that gaze burning through him. Alastor finds that a small part of himself is afraid to look into those eyes once more.  

“Oh my fuck,” he whispers, voice awed as he realizes the drastic power imbalance between them. “You are, aren’t you?” Vox steps forwards once more, and Alastor steps back, Rosie's arm slipping away as she casually stands her ground. Of course, she doesn’t have a reason to be wary. 

Vox stops his advance upon noticing Alastor’s retreat. 

“You really don’t have your power,” Vox says, voice not taunting or mocking, just spoken with a stunned certainty. 

Alastor’s glare snaps back into place, lips curving into a vicious smile as he turns away from Vox and towards Rosie. 

“For your information,” he says casually, “I was about to ask Rosie to join me for lunch. Not that it’s any of your concern, but I am quite capable of defending myself.” 

Rosie smiles at him, sweet and knowing, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. She always did adore a spectacle. 

Vox lets out a harsh laugh.

“Then prove it,” he says, “Right now.”

He steps closer, spreading his arms and leaving himself exposed. “One free shot. I won’t retaliate,” Vox taunts, grin wide and mocking. “Come on, Al. Hit me. I know you’re dying to be a fucking bitch about this. So what are you waiting for?”

Alastor snarls, turning back towards Vox and daring to step closer. Those eyes widen in surprise for just a split second, but Alastor devours that flicker of doubt. Vox wasn’t certain. That slight look of fear that had danced across his screen was telling enough. 

 “Whatever obsession you have with me ends now, Vincent,” he spits, stepping closer until he has to crane his head to maintain eye contact. “Didn’t you satisfy your disgusting little fixation when I was tied to your office chair? Or when you paraded me through hell like a trophy?” He shoves a finger against the other’s chest accusingly, letting his face twist with his anger. “You keep clinging to some pathetic memory of what you misinterpreted as something more than me merely tolerating your obnoxious and garish presence,” Al bites out, relishing in the way Vox’s face falls. “But believe it or not I have better things to do with my day than coddle you and your odd little fantasies.”
Vox’s wide eyes and pained expression spell victory, but that face soon rips into a snarl, anger overwhelming his features. Rosie giggles from behind him, as if pleasantly amused at the spectacle they are making. 

“If you want to pick a fight then go ahead,” Al says, turning his head away and snubbing his nose in the air as if the entire discussion is beneath him. “But frankly, I’m trying to be nice to you since I humiliated you so badly the last time we fought.” He lets his voice drag, rolling his eyes until they land on Vox once more. His smile grows cruel. “Hell, I figured I ought to pity you for once and-”

Alastor’s words catch in his throat as Vox wrenches him forward by the front of his shirt before lifting him, his feet not even scraping along the ground. A startled sound is ripped from Alastor’s throat that he’s too slow to stifle. He grabs the other’s wrists tightly, his microphone forgotten and clanging uselessly on the ground beside him. Vox lifts him until they are eye to eye and far too close for comfort. 

There’s a beat of silence in which the only things he can hear are his own panicked breaths and Rosie’s distinct lack of help.

“Alastor, Alastor,” Vox says slowly, his smile twisting into a mocking, ugly thing. “If you have to stand on a chair to see eye to eye, then you should know that your insults don’t really feel all that, well, insulting.” 

Alastor’s teeth clench, locked into a broad grin, as he stares at Vox’s half-lidded eyes and smug smile.

“Well, I’m waiting,” Vox drawls, taunting him as he pulls him just a bit closer, until they’re almost nose to… well, screen. 

Alastor squeezes his wrists in a futile effort to ground himself, fury licking at his bones as he meets those pixelated eyes. 

“For?” He spits out, voice tight with rage.

“Retaliation? Hell, you told me to pick a fight if I wanted one so… this is me, picking a fight. You going to do something about it?” Vox says, shaking him a bit as if to prove his point even further.

Alastor feels his face burn with humiliation, only made worse as Rosie’s laughter cuts through the air, light and delighted, as if this were all nothing more than a particularly entertaining play. 

Vox looks elated at her enjoying Alastor’s degradation, eyes sharp as he watches Alastor squirm in his grip. His gaze drags along his frame once more, slow and deliberate. Alastor locks his smile firmly in place, fighting to keep his breathing steady despite the disgust churning in his gut at those hungry eyes drinking their fill. 

Vox’s eyes widen briefly, as if in guilt, before he sets him down, surprisingly gently, and steps back to surrender space to him. 

Alastor’s breathing is fast. Too fast. It’s obvious. They both watch as he struggles and fails to reign in his mounting panic. He futilely fights to bring his body back under his control, fists clenched tightly at his side to try and disguise the tremors. The only thing he hasn’t lost is his habitual smile, although even it is strained.

“You’re shaking,” Vox says quietly, as if he suddenly cares. 

It makes something ugly and feral coil within him. Oh, how Alastor desires to erase him from this hellscape, now more than ever. His screams would sound oh so sweet. So desperate. The one-sided betrayal. His fragile, foolish trust, finally ruined for good. Vox’s naive soft-spot for him becoming the very thing to unmake him.

Oh, how Alastor wishes he could simply lash out and end this ugly thing between them, once and for all.

Alastor laughs immediately and it cracks through the air, too loud and too sharp. “Oh, please. I’m insulted you’d think I’d be rattled by you of all people.”

He straightens, forcefully stilling his body, teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw aches with it. He’s never thirsted for violence more than he does right now. Even tied to a chair and being dragged through town, his reputation torn to shreds… He’s never desired the other to die at his hand more than this moment. Ironic, that now is the one time he is unable to satiate his bloodlust.

He lifts his chin, smile stitched back into place, bright and venomous. If Vox desires his fear… if he wants to see Alastor at his mercy, then he’s about to be sorely disappointed. The rage within him is grounding. 

Vox steps closer, and Alastor holds his ground, vengeful eyes tracing the other’s every movement. Vox moves slowly, as if intentionally trying to appear non-threatening. He lowers his voice, the edge dulling just enough to sound concerned rather than mocking. 

“You’ve never needed Rosie to stand between you and me before.”

For a split second, Alastor’s smile falters. It’s barely there, a fracture, quickly plastered over, but he knows that Vox wouldn’t have missed it. It’s confirmed when that red eye flickers, not with rage, but… excitement. 

“Don’t,” Alastor says, voice thinly pressed into a visage of pleasantry hiding his mounting frustration, “presume familiarity where none exists.” 

Rosie hums thoughtfully beside him, saying nothing. She doesn’t need to. She, of all people, knows just how familiar he and Vox once were. He’s lying through his teeth. She knows him well enough to call him on it, but Vox? He’ll take it personally. He’ll see it as a dismissal of their past. Another knife that Alastor chooses to twist just to see a flicker of pain on that expressive, pixelated face.

Vox exhales harshly, a humorless sound. There it is. His smile falters and his eyes widen, a flash of hurt crossing his features before he hides it behind a laugh. Something he learned from Alastor. 

“You’re really going to try to keep up this charade, huh? Pretending to be untouchable in the hopes that no one decides to challenge it?” Vox asks, but his voice falls flat, as if he’s lashing out just to deflect his own feelings.

Alastor latches onto the other’s pain, stepping closer and reaching out, pressing his hand to the flat of the other’s chest. He tilts his head, looking up through his lashes and letting his voice dip into something unmistakably sultry. “Careful, Vincent. You’re bordering on concern.”

For a heartbeat, Vox’s composure cracks. Longing is plainly shown for just a second too long before his jaw tightens and his face flutters before slipping into something more composed.

Vox’s hands curl into fists at his sides and he steps back, ceding more ground between them. When he speaks again, the words come out harsher than he likely intends. 

“Maybe I am.”

Alastor blinks, smile shrinking slightly at his surprise. 

That… wasn’t the response he anticipated.

Vox similarly seems stunned for a moment at his own words. He recovers smoothly, shock twisting into a scowl as he straightens, reclaiming his sharp edges. “You walk out of here like this, like that,” he warns, gesturing at Alastor, “and someone’s going to be tempted to try their hand at taking down the ‘oh so scary’ Radio Demon.”

He gestures again at Alastor’s smaller frame and his human skin, as if he can’t quite wrap his dense head around his appearance, a cruel laugh ripping from his throat. “And when they do, you won’t stand a fucking chance. That sharp tongue of yours won’t be enough to save you.”

Alastor’s throat tightens before he can stop it. 

He swallows, smile fixed, eyes glinting. “How touching. Truly. I didn’t realize you’d taken on the role of my keeper.”

“I’m not-” Vox cuts himself off, teeth grinding. 

Rosie’s muffled giggles break through the tense atmosphere, and Alastor watches as a blue flush spreads across Vox’s screen. 

His own smile turns smug. He still has just as much sway over Vox as he did before he’d used him to break his deal. Even after destroying his credibility and reputation, Vox still holds him in high regard. Still lusts after him, desires him, as he always has. 

Vox drags a hand over the top of his screen as if running it through imaginary hair. He paces for a short moment, as if trying to rein in his frustration before turning back to face Alastor once more, eyes burning. “I just want you to be honest with me, for once in your miserable little life,” Vox says, frustration evident in his tone before softening dramatically into an echo of concern. “What happened to you, Alastor?”

Rosie tilts her head, attention fixed on him rather than Vox as if also curious of the answer. 

He feels the weight of the moment pressing down on him. If he admits anything, this all changes for the worse. He rolls his eyes, languid and slow, before bending to pluck his staff from where it had landed. He straightens, brushing imaginary dust off of it before lifting his chin, forcing his voice into its usual smooth cadence. 

“You already know the answer you’re really asking,” he deflects, eyes shifting from his staff to Vox. “You’ve decided I’m weak, and now you’re looking for permission to take advantage of it.”

Vox freezes, guilt evident on his face.

“Fine,” he finally says, eyes dropping to the floor. Then quieter, almost to himself. “Only because if I don’t then someone else will.”

There it is. 

The truth, bare and ugly and terrifying. 

Vox does still desire him. Does he intend to take what he wants, now, when Alastor can’t defend himself?

Alastor’s smile sharpens in desperation, hiding his fear behind an uncanny confidence. “And what, pray tell, would you do if that were the case?” He steps closer, hands behind his back where they grip his staff tightly, intentionally leaving himself open to challenging the other’s resolve.

Memories of being bound to a chair and treated like the other’s prized pet flash through his mind. An echo of the scent of Val’s toxins linger in his nose as do the sounds of the near violent coupling he’d been forced to witness. His grip on his staff grows painfully tight as he fights for his smile to remain intact.

Vox steps closer, as if pulled on a string. The proximity is enough for Alastor to feel the static buzzing faintly beneath the other’s skin, his excitement barely contained.

“I’d make sure no one touches you,” Vox swears, voice dropping into a deadly serious tone, full of both promise and threat. “Whether you like it or not.” 

Alastor’s heart stutters. That’s… not what he expected. Protection? Vox is offering to protect him? A possessive glint lives within the other’s eye and Alastor feels his smile die into something more subdued as he leans back subtly. 

He was expecting a gruesome explanation about how Vox would satiate his most carnal desires. How he’d bring Alastor to heel by force, ravaging him while he was powerless to fend him off. He was expecting Vox to threaten his life, his autonomy. He was not prepared for the devotion displayed within his words. The possessive, raw emotion dancing along his face.

For just a moment, real fear flashes across Alastor’s face, wide-eyed and unguarded. His thoughts regress to when he was bound to a chair and all but powerless, paraded around town like a trophy, his name dragged through the mud whilst entirely at Vox’s mercy. But… Vox hadn’t truly hurt him. Nor touched him… at least, not in that manner. 

Alastor had been prepared for it, when he’d made the deal. He figured Vox’s soft spot would guarantee him immunity from anything too permanent, such as maiming or death, but he knew that with the deal came the risk of Vox’s patience giving out. He’d been prepared for Vox to try and take whatever he felt he was owed by force. But he hadn’t. And it seems as if he doesn’t intend to, even now, after Alastor effectively destroyed whatever illusion the other held of them ever being business associates, much less anything more.

He tries to keep his face relaxed, but his fear and hesitation must be noticed by Vox, because something in his posture softens, anger giving way to something guilty yet relieved. As if this was the breakthrough he’d been aiming for. 

Alastor recovers a second later, smile stretching back into something falsely pleased and composed. “How utterly delusional. You always did have a flair for dramatics.”

Vox doesn’t rise to the taunt, this time. “Even now you’re too stubborn to accept a helping hand?” 

Alastor opens his mouth to respond, but Vincent holds up a hand, nodding slowly, as if confirming something to himself.

“Yeah,” he says dejectedly, as if disappointed. “You’re definitely fucked.” 

Rosie laughs, louder this time and Alastor turns to her, angry and indignant at her taking pleasure from his misery. He watches as she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye, laughter finally tapering off as she pats Alastor’s arm. “Well,” she says pleasantly, “this has been delightful, dear. But I do believe I’ve had my fill of drama for one evening.”

Alastor stiffens. “Rosie-”

She ignores him, eyes flicking to Vox with sharp, knowing amusement. “You’ll walk him home, won’t you?” 

Alastor’s head snaps towards her. “Excuse me?” His heart catches in his chest, fear licking through him. Perhaps she was still mad about him breaking their deal. 

Vox blinks, clearly taken aback at Rosie’s blatant abandonment of Alastor. There’s a faint blush spreading across his screen again, and Alastor’s jaw tightens as he looks between the two. 

“I can…” Vox agrees slowly, testing the idea aloud. “Yeah. I was going to suggest it, actually.”

“No,” Alastor says immediately, his smile brittle. “You were not.” He opens his mouth, armed with a litany of cruel insults, but is stopped as Rosie squeezes his arm, none too gently. 

She smiles warmly at him, leaning down so her voice is low and intimate. “Darling, I adore you,” she murmurs, lips grazing his ear and making his skin prickle with discomfort at the proximity. “But if I walk you home, every sinner in this city will assume that you need me to. If he does,” she says with a conspiratorial voice, glancing meaningfully at Vox. “Well, that sends a very different message, doesn’t it?”

Alastor opens his mouth to argue, then snaps it closed again, jaw tightening. 

She’s right. 

Damn her. 

“Besides, dear,” she says, her tone teasing. “Vox is right. Isn’t it about time you made some new friends?” 

She straightens, her smile sharp and mocking. He glares at her, ready to argue, but she’s already turning away. “Be good, boys,” she says lightly, waving as she heads for the door. “And Vox, dear? Please don’t mind his chatter. He’s truly rather sweet once you know how to tame him,” she says, tossing a wink over her shoulder. Vox smiles, his blush still evident as he waves at her. Alastor’s own face is red with anger and indignation, but he tries to keep his smile wide even as she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.  

The newfound silence between them is so thick that Alastor can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

He exhales slowly through his nose, turning his sharpest smile on Vox.

“Congratuations,” he says, voice mockingly sweet. “You’ve successfully isolated me. What now? Planning to parade me through the streets like a trophy once more?”

Vox gives him a long, assessing look before he scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He gestures toward the exit. “You’re not exactly the same prize you used to be.”

Alastor’s eye twitches. “I beg your pardon?”

Vox opens the door for him, and Alastor feels his jaw ache with how tightly it’s clenched, but steps through the door and out into the hallway, regardless. 

“I mean, be honest with yourself, Alastor,” Vox says matter-of-factly, following him out. “Like this, you’re not exactly someone I’d brag about beating. You’re like a little…” Vox pauses, rubbing his screen in lieu of a chin in thought as they make their way through the building before stepping out into the street. “Baby deer.” He settles on, shooting a shit-eating grin at Alastor. 

Alastor laughs, a harsh and ugly sound. Oh, that is it. 

“On second thought,” Alastor says, stopping and crossing his hands behind his back, gripping his cane tightly. “I think I’d rather take my chances on my own than to be seen publicly with the likes of you,” he spits, grin widening into a cruel thing.  

Vox merely chuckles to himself as he walks, not stopping or turning to look at him. 

“By all means,” Vox agrees, voice casual and uncaring. “You just won’t make it far. Imagine how it’d look for you to not only be seen in this pathetic little human form, but to then need me to rescue you!” He says, laughing loudly and unabashedly, as if savoring whatever hero-complex fantasy he’s conjured in his mind. 

Silence stretches between them for a long moment save for carefully measured steps as Vox leaves him behind. 

Alastor feels his pulse thudding in his ears. He hates that Vox is right. Hates even more that Vox knows it. He knows that Lucifer would transport him home if he asked, but only if he asked. Which he absolutely will not be groveling at the king’s feet for yet another favor. He’s lucky enough that Lucifer is too stupid to have already leveraged turning him back to his demonic form into some sort of deal.  

No, he won’t ask Lucifer for anything else, lest the other be tempted into demanding something in return.

“You don’t get to decide this,” Alastor says, voice low and dangerous, and just loud enough for the other to hear. Besides, why go after Lucifer when he already has Vox spinning circles just in an effort to maintain his attention? He already knows what buttons to press to get Vox to fall in line. “You don’t own me.”

At this, Vox finally turns, several paces away. Alastor can see the tightness in his expression from here. He looks… wounded. Like the mere thought of Alastor refusing to depend on him hurts. 

How utterly pathetic. And predictable.

“No,” he agrees. “I don’t. But you can either take that stick out of your ass and come with me or take your fucking chances,” Vox spits, voice taking on a bitter note. “But at the very least, can you stop behaving like a spoiled fucking brat?”

Alastor’s grin sharpens, wishing, not for the first time, for him to have the ability to rip that screen from its body once more. He liked Vox better when he couldn’t follow him around like a drooling hound. 

Vox takes a breath, holding up a hand and motioning for Alastor to wait before delivering the inevitable insult. It was always the same with Vox. If they weren’t trading blows, they were trading words sharp enough to cut. 

Vox finally laughs, a hollow sound, before his eyes lock onto Alastor’s own once more. 

“You know what? Nevermind. I don’t even know why I’m offering you the illusion of choice.  Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to walk with me. You’re going to play nice. And in return, if anyone so much as looks at you wrong,” he says, red eye flaring in an ugly and almost possessive manner. “They’ll regret it.”

Alastor’s fingers curl at his sides. His shadow shifts uneasily beneath him, stretching toward Vox before recoiling again, as if uncertain whose side it’s on.

“…You’re enjoying this,” Alastor accuses quietly.

Vox’s smile stretches. “Perhaps.” He motions for Alastor to step closer, and he finds his feet moving before his own indignation at being ordered around can register. “Although, if the roles were reversed, wouldn’t you?”

Alastor scoffs, straightening his spine and brushing past Vox to continue his journey to the hotel. Before he can describe exactly what he would do if he’d found Vox in such a position, the picture box continues, voice low and teasing. 

“Besides, a tiny thing like you? The guilt would eat me alive if I let you die stupidly trying to prove a point just to salvage that bruised ego of yours.”

For a long moment, Alastor doesn’t speak. Honestly, he’s caught somewhat off guard by just how brazen Vox is being with him. When he does speak, his voice is thin and tight with barely restrained rage. “Make no mistake, Vincent, it has not gone unnoticed that you’re only bold enough to speak your mind now. The moment I regain my strength…”

Vox smirks faintly, genuine pleasure flashing across his face before he schools it. “You’ll try to kill me? Yeah. I know.”

Alastor is filled with a near indescribable fury. No one has looked down on him this way in decades. Not since he was human. 

Vox still has a smug expression plastered across his face as he gestures for Alastor to come. 

He doesn’t want to. His pride is telling him to pick a fight. To simply say something devastating before waltzing away on his own. But logically, he knows, and despises, that he does need Vox. At least at this very moment. 

Isn’t it about time you made some new friends?

Rosie wasn’t… incorrect. But Vox? Really? 

Why would she think that Vox would be an ideal ally to have? Sure, his misplaced yet obsessive devotion to him works to make him an easy pawn to manipulate, but a friend? 

And now? When just looking into his eyes could strip Alastor of whatever pride and autonomy he’s managed to salvage in this weak form?

He rolls his eyes, looking anywhere but at the other as he finally steps forward. He’ll follow Vox for now. But friends? 

What the hell was Rosie even thinking? She knows exactly why Alastor turned him down all those years ago. And as much as it pains him on those late nights when he’s had one too many alone in his room, he knows that nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change between them. 

So he’ll follow. He’ll ‘play nice’ as Vincent so gracelessly demanded. But as soon as he has his power once more, he’ll finally do what he should have done all those years ago when Vox first propositioned him. 

He brushes past Vox, head low and eyes forward, not willing to give him another second of his attention. Vox catches up easily, pace deliberately slow, but not enough to draw attention. He keeps his presence broad and relaxed, his energy loud and unmistakable. It’s a clear warning to anyone watching that he is not to be approached. His hand reaches down and settles along the small of Alastor’s back, ushering him along. 

His smile grows strained at the possessive gesture. It’s clear to anyone that sees that Vox is claiming him as his own. 

As much as Alastor hates it, he can’t argue that it's not working. The eyes that were locked onto him, full of curiosity, immediately turn away. Those walking on the same sidewalk dip into storefronts or cross the streets, lest they inspire Vox’s wrath. 

Alastor hates how effective it is.

He hates even more that, with Vox beside him, the streets suddenly feel less lethal.

Fear eats through him, despite the new fragile safety he has at Vox’s side. He can’t do this. He can’t. 

He refuses to depend on anyone any longer. It’s why he fought so hard, risked so much, just to escape Rosie’s chain. It’s why he’s still at the hotel, offering his services despite no longer being forced to. He’ll be damned if he trades one master for another. 

His mind is made up. 

He’ll allow Vox to aid him, and then he’ll ensure he’ll never have to endure that hungry gaze or those sickeningly sweet words ever again.

It’s time he ends this festering thing between them.