Chapter Text
Crossed Wires
The heavy front doors of the Hazbin Hotel swung shut with a weary, wooden groan as Alastor stepped out onto the porch.
Outside, the morning was perfectly dismal. Pentagram City stretched out before him in its usual palette of bruised purples and deep crimsons, the horizon choked by the hazy glow of distant neon signs.
Somewhere in the distance, the muffled sounds of a street brawl added a rhythmic melody to the air. Under any other circumstances, Alastor would have found the atmosphere quite refreshing.
Inside the lobby, however, the ambiance was decidedly less charming.
"We need you to fix the wall, Alastor!"
Vaggie’s voice tore through the air, sharp with exasperation. She stood rooted in the center of the lobby, her hands buried in her hair as she glared at the carnage. To her left, the once-sturdy wall was now a jagged crater of pulverized plaster and splintered mess, with debris fanning out across the carpet.
Angel Dust didn't look much happier. He stood a few feet away, his neck craned back as he peered through a gaping wound in the ceiling. "Yeah, well, we need you to fix the roof first," he chimed in, his tone flat and unimpressed. Above him, a few fractured support beams dangled precariously by their nails, framing a jagged patch of the sky that was definitely not supposed to be visible from the lobby.
Leaning against a relatively intact section of the wall, Husk remained a silent observer. His arms were locked tight across his chest, and his weary expression made one thing abundantly clear: he wasn't lifting a single wing to help.
The real chaos, however, was Charlie. The Princess was a blur of blonde hair and nervous energy, pacing a frantic path between the wreckage. She looked from the shattered wall to the exposed roof and back again, her eyes wide with dread.
"Oh no, oh no, no, no, no..." the words tumbled out in a frantic, low-pitched mutter. "This is bad. This is really, really bad."
The damage was the handiwork of a few sinners who had dropped by earlier that morning. They weren't there for a second chance; they were the type who thought the hotel’s mission was a joke and wanted to make sure everyone knew it. They’d made a scene, mocked the place, and smashed things up.
Now, the lobby was a wreck, and the crew was left standing in the middle of the mess. Upstairs, the King of Hell was light-years away from the drama. Lucifer was tucked away in his room, totally tuned out. He sat at his table with a focused look, carefully working on another rubber duck. To him, there were no chaos—just the tiny project in his hands and the quiet of his own space.
Down at the entrance, Alastor lingered by the door, listening to the meltdown behind him.
Vaggie was still losing it over the wall. Angel was still staring up at the sky through the roof. Husk was still leaning against the wreckage, looking like he’d checked out hours ago. And Charlie was pacing a frantic circle, her voice trembling as she tried to convince herself it wasn't that bad.
The Radio Demon’s smile stayed perfectly fixed.
"My dear," Alastor said, his voice smooth and crackling with that familiar flare. He adjusted his coat and gave them a cheerful look. "I’m afraid I have an errand to attend to."
Vaggie froze, staring at him in total disbelief. "An errand?" she repeated, her voice flat and dangerous.
"Yes indeed!" Alastor replied, sounding far too happy for a man standing in a disaster zone.
Angel Dust raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. "So you're just gonna walk out? throw us a bone here Smiles?"
Charlie looked over, her face pouting; hoping that he was about to fix it all with a snap of his fingers. For a second, Alastor just stood there, letting the tension build under that wide, eerie grin. Then, he let out a soft, dry chuckle.
"Ta-ta!"
Without another word, he stepped out onto the street. The steady tap-tap-tap of his cane against the pavement was the only sound as he started to walk away.
Behind him, the noise from the hotel started up again. Vaggie was shouting, Angel was complaining, and Charlie was trying to keep the peace, her voice full of that nervous energy. But as Alastor moved further down the sidewalk, the voices began to fade. The chaos of the hotel turned into a distant hum, then finally drifted away into the general noise of the city.
Alastor didn't look back once. He didn't care about the broken wood or the shattered plaster. He was going to see Rosie. He had a very important discussion to with the other Overlord.
—-
Alastor moved through the streets with his usual effortless grace, his cane providing a steady, rhythmic click against the sidewalk. He was heading toward the familiar, old-timey charm of Cannibal Town to see Rosie, looking every bit the refined gentleman on a morning stroll.
The neighborhood was strangely quiet. A few demons lingered on the corners, but they all gave him a wide berth, sensing the dangerous aura that always hummed beneath his polished exterior. Alastor didn't mind; he preferred the space. His senses were always dialed in, his reflexes as sharp as a razor. Nothing ever managed to surprise the Radio Demon.
Which made the next few seconds all the more jarring.
Just as Alastor rounded a sharp corner, the air in front of him suddenly fractured. A jagged flash of blue light tore through the space, accompanied by the sharp, ozone smell of crackling electricity. Vox materialized out of thin air, sparks still dancing off his screen as his physical form snapped into place. It was a teleportation glitch or perhaps just terrible timing, but he appeared directly in Alastor’s path with zero warning.
The collision was instant and unavoidable. Alastor walked straight into him, the impact solid enough to knock the wind out of both of them. Even with Alastor's agility, there simply wasn't enough time to pivot or step aside.
"What the—" Vox started, his voice a distorted glitch of static, but he never got the rest of the thought out.
The momentum sent them both reeling. They stumbled, limbs tangling in a mess of pinstriped coats and expensive fabric. Alastor’s cane slipped from his grip, clattering loudly against the pavement as they lost their footing entirely.
They hit the ground hard.
In the blur of the fall, gravity took over in the most chaotic way possible. Alastor ended up pinned on top of Vox, his weight driving the television demon into the concrete. And in that split second of tangled movement and pure accident.
Their lips pressed together.
The world seemed to stop. The crackle of Vox’s electricity died down to a faint hum, and Alastor’s ever-present radio static flatlined into a high-pitched ring.
For one agonizing second, Alastor’s lips remained pressed against the cold, smooth glass of Vox’s screen. It was a brief moment in time, but the weight of it was unmistakable. A kiss.
The silence that followed didn't even last a second before Alastor snapped. His reaction was immediate and violent. His eyes blown wide with shock, his face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated loathing. He jerked his head back with a sharp, jagged motion, recoiling from the contact like he’d just been burned by holy water. For the first time in a very long time, the cheerful, effortless smile he wore like a mask was gone.
"You..." The word was a low, dangerous hiss.
Before Vox could even reboot his processing power to understand what had happened, Alastor’s hands moved like lightning. He grabbed Vox by the collar, his knuckles tightened as he hauled him slightly off the pavement, only to slam him back down against the concrete with a bone-jarring thud. His grip shifted instantly to Vox’s throat, pinning him down.
The smile returned, but it wasn't friendly. It was a wide, jagged tear across his face, overflowing with fury.
"You—" Alastor’s voice was thick with heavy, distorted static. He leaned down, his eyes narrowing into glowing radio dials as his fingers dug into Vox's neck. "How dare you."
Vox’s screen flickered under the pressure, lines of glitchy color dancing across his face.
"Explain yourself at once," Alastor demanded, his tone dripping with offended rage. "You materialize out of thin air, collide with me like some clumsy street fool—" His grin sharpened, revealing rows of yellowed, predatory teeth. "And then, you have the audacity to steal something so... personal."
The air around them began to vibrate, a high-pitched frequency that made the nearby windows rattle in their frames. Alastor’s shadow stretched out across the pavement, growing tall and jagged, manifesting extra limbs that twitched with his anger.
"My first kiss, no less," he whispered, the words sounding like they were being broadcast from a dying radio.
The street grew dark, the light being sucked into the vacuum of Alastor’s presence. He leaned in closer, his grip tightening until the metal of Vox's casing began to groan.
"So," Alastor finished, his voice returning to a terrifyingly sweet, polite tone. "You will kindly explain why I should not tear you limb from limb right here."
Alastor’s grip didn't waver. If anything, his fingers dug deeper into Vox’s collar, the fabric groaning under the strain. His smile was a static-charged jagged line, but his eyes were pure, crimson malice. He wasn't just annoyed; he was offended on a spiritual level.
Beneath him, Vox was a flickering mess. Blue and pink light strobed across his screen in a chaotic rhythm, his internal processors struggling to reboot.
For a few long, agonizing seconds, he just lay there, caught in a loop.
Red. Lips. Alastor’s lips. On his screen.
The realization hit him in waves. He’d been fuming after a blowout with the other Vees, teleporting into the street just to vent some steam, only to slam full-tilt into the one person he didn’t expect to run into that day.
And then the fall. And then... the unthinkable. Alastor’s hands were clamped around his throat with that theatrical, over-the-top intensity. He wasn't actually choking him—Vox didn't exactly have a windpipe to crush so it was futile.
Vox was completely speechless, his systems redlining, until Alastor hissed those three impossible words.
My first kiss…
Vox’s entire display froze. The glitching stopped instantly, replaced by a single, pulsing "ERROR" message in the corner of his eye.
First kiss? Alastor? The idea was a total system crash. It was ridiculous. It was insane. This was Alastor—the terrifying, sharp-edged, impossibly composed Radio Demon. He was gorgeous in a way that pissed Vox off daily, and he was telling him that in a century of soul-tearing and deal-making, he’d never...?
Sparks erupted from Vox’s shoulders, his cooling fans spinning so loud they sounded like a jet engine.
“Bullshit,” he finally blurted out, his voice cracking with a heavy layer of electronic distortion.
After a moment, Alastor’s grin sharpened into something predatory, his teeth bared as his eyes narrowed into glowing radio dials. The air around him didn't just hum anymore—it screamed with the weight of a century’s worth of radio static.
“You fucking creep,” Alastor spat, the words cutting through the air like a knife. “To think of all people, it was you who—”
He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he seized Vox by the collar and hurled him against the nearest wall with a bone-shaking thud.
Concrete spider-webbed around Vox’s head, and the metal of his casing groaned under the force. Nearby sinners, who had been going about their dismal morning, froze in terror. They watched from alleyways and behind crumbling crates, too petrified to even breathe as the two overlords tore the street apart.
Vox’s screen flickered, a chaotic mess of color bars and static. But beneath the technical glitching, a deeper shockwave was hitting his system.
He had just been Alastor’s first kiss.
He groaned internally, sparks of blue electricity jittering nervously across his frame. No way. This couldn’t be happening. He did not have a thing for Alastor. He hated the guy.
He’d spent decades trying to erase him from the airwaves. And yet, he couldn’t ignore the tiny, mischievous giddy flicker in his circuits that refused to die down. He told himself it was just a power surge, just the impact, but every twitch of his screen felt like a betrayal.
Alastor, however, was past the point of subtle feelings. He was in a state of pure outrage.
“Die, you insolent picture box!” Alastor screamed, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register that made the shadows on the street crawl like living fingers.
Vox didn't answer. He couldn't. His vocal processors were stuck in a loop of stammering and glitching, his pride warring with a panic he couldn't name.
Alastor’s grimaced, before with a single, fluid motion, he summoned a surge of shadow and muscle, hurling Vox into the air like a piece of unwanted trash.
Vox arced across the street, a trail of pink and blue sparks following him like a dying firework.
Sinners scattered, diving for cover as the TV overlord came plummeting back to earth.
He landed squarely on a parked vehicle with a catastrophic crunch. The impact was pure, bloody slapstick—the driver inside was instantly flattened in a spray of red, rubber, and twisted metal. It was the kind of chaotic, over-the-top violence that usually made Alastor chuckle, but today, he just stood there, dusting off his lapels with a look of utter disgust.
Alastor finally had enough, stepping back with his cane hitting the pavement in a series of sharp, agitated clicks. His grin was still there—stretched thin and jagged—but his eyes were vibrating with a messy mix of fury and genuine shock.
Vox stayed exactly where he’d been thrown, sprawled on top of the crushed car while sparks hissed across his screen.
The driver was a total goner, leaving a bloody mess all over the hood and smeared across his expensive suit. It was pure, chaotic and Vox was right in the center of it.
For a second, the world felt dead quiet.
Alastor adjusted his lapels, his hands actually shaking a little. His brain, usually a perfectly tuned radio, was currently nothing but loud, fuzzy white noise.
“You miserable, loathsome…”, he muttered. The insult died in his throat, his voice cracking behind a wall of heavy static.
For the first time in forever, the Radio Demon had run out of things to say. He looked down at his hands, then at the flickering wreck of the TV demon, and felt a hot, prickly wave of embarrassment that made him want to set the whole block on fire.
With a sharp, huffy turn, he melted into the shadows, his coat tails snapping as he made a frantic, dramatic retreat.
Vox didn’t even try to move. He just laid there, his optical sensors rebooting over and over.
He had kissed Alastor.
The thought looped in his head like a corrupted file. “That…that just happened,” Vox whispered, his voice glitching into a distorted mess.
“I…I kissed him. I kissed Alastor!”
He leaned back against the crumpled metal, his cooling fans whirring so loud they sounded like a jet engine. His mind was racing faster than a fiber-optic signal.
He tried to let out a cocky laugh, but it came out as a series of jittering, electronic sparks. “They’ll never believe me,” he muttered, already imagining the Vees calling him delusional.
The annoying flicker of heat refused to go away in his chest.
—-
By now, Alastor had reached Rosie’s place. He’d completely forgotten why he’d even left the hotel in the first place. The errand was long gone, replaced by a frantic, high-speed rant.
“And then, can you believe the sheer nerve of it, Rosie?” he barked, waving his cane around like a madman. He was a whirlwind of nonsense and tangents, his voice a nonstop stream of curses and pure anger.
Rosie just watched him, keeping her polite smile steady. She could see it in the way his deer ears were twitching and how he wouldn't look her in the eye—he was rattled.
Under all that performance, Alastor was reeling, his mind stuck on the feeling of glass against his lips.
—-
Back on the street, Vox finally climbed off the car. He was a disaster—smeared in red, trailing sparks, and glitching every few seconds. He looked around the now-quiet street, his screen flickering with a shaky, half-mad smile.
“I kissed Alastor,” he muttered, a tiny firework of blue light dancing across his display.
He let out a sound that was half-sigh and half-static, his circuits humming with the total absurdity of it all. He didn’t know whether to scream or celebrate. But as he started the long walk back to the tower, that small, impossible thrill kept pulsing deep in his motherboard—a secret, giddy spark that told him that, for once, he’d actually gotten the upper hand.