Chapter Text
Vincent stood silent, his form obscured by the shadows as he observed his network's ‘newest gold goose,' the man flocked by his producers in the recording studio as he recorded a segment regarding the misinformation about the mortality rate of shark attacks.
It was the sole reason why Vincent hadn't strangled the radio man with his bare hands - he simply wanted to hear the broadcast till the end. It had to be it.
Having slowly climbed his way to the top, his boots stomping on the ever-growing pile of bodies he gathered throughout his run on air, the news that his producers decided to branch out into radio because the viewers wanted some variety in their entertainment was… insulting.
He was the network, having brought it from its knees to the current glory, his own blood, sweat, and tears- well, not his blood. But the point still stood. This was his life's work, and the fact that some… no face from New Orleans even dared to come to his building, charming his producers with his velvety voice, made his hands tighten at his sides, the nails digging into his palms.
The red, neon sign ‘ON AIR’ clicked off, and Vincent was jerked back from his thoughts at the sound of applause. His producers were fucking clapping for this nobody, clapping louder than he's ever heard in regards to him.
A grimace was dangerously close to appearing on his face, and his nails dug deeper into the skin, almost producing blood as pain grounded him in reality, stopping him from doing anything rash.
This… Alastor. He had to go.
With a sharp exhale, Vincent ran a hand through his hair, tucking away a strand that managed to escape from behind his ear, and walked up to the booth, his own hands joining the others in the scattered applause.
“Bravo! Bravo!” He praised, loud enough to cut through the overlapping voices, catching everyone's attention. Heads turned, and the chatter died down, with the only one moving being the new radio host himself, withdrawing his hand from one of his producer's grasp. Vincent's eyes followed the movement, narrowing in curiosity as Alastor subtly wiped his hand off his plaid trousers.
Either touch-averse or a clean freak, he noted. Interesting, but in the end, irrelevant. He'd be dead by dawn anyway.
“Told you he's the real deal,” the man who'd just finished shaking hands with Alastor laughed, his tone making Vincent's eye twitch. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, son of the whole network's CEO named James- because of course he fucking was. Vincent had been scheming to get him out of the picture for months, but his high profile was a solid shield, preventing him from getting close enough to put his boot on his neck…
He wrenched his thoughts back to the present.
“Yes, certainly.” Vincent nodded with a toothy grin, his eyes moving to capture Alastor’s gaze. The other man’s eyes - deep, almost pitch black shade of brown - stayed on James long enough for Vincent to notice the sharp, calculating weight they carried. That, and pure, unabashed hatred wrapped in a polite, tight smile - he would know, he used to wear the same expression back when he reported the weather. Just as it had appeared, it was gone, replaced by an expression of pure joy, the corners of Alastor's eyes crinkling as he smiled at Vincent.
The deep hue of his eyes made them look bigger than they actually were, casting him as a picture of the feigned innocence of a doe.
The switch was… unnerving. Dangerous.
Vincent felt his heart thump dangerously loud in his chest, and he quickly pushed the feeling down.
One more reason to get him out of the picture.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Whitman,” Alastor spoke, his voice smooth now that it was unfiltered through the static of the microphone. Vincent half-expected a handshake, but the other man’s hands remained neatly clasped in front of him, confirming his earlier suspicion.
“The pleasure’s all mine. I’m- We’re honored to have you here, Alastor. Your reputation precedes you. It's nice to finally put a name to the face.”
“How stellar indeed.” Alastor mused, holding his gaze so intensely that Vincent almost bent under the pressure and looked away. Thankfully, grand speeches and presentation were his forte, and so he held his head high, silently daring Alastor to make the next move.
“You are a celebrity back in Louisiana. too. It is rare for me to go a day without seeing your face on the TV screens.” The man tilted his head, the smile turning from bright to somewhat teasing. “And what an inspiring story you hold - putting up a brave face and taking up the mantle of your old news reporter after presenting the weather for… what was it, almost five years?”
Motherfucker.
“Ah, where would we be without Vincent. We owe him so much.” James butted in, throwing his arm over Vincent’s shoulders. It was forceful enough that it made the man stagger ever so slightly, forcing him to tear his gaze away from Alastor. It felt like he had lost the unspoken contest, and he was left seething.
“And now, with you on board,” James continued, throwing his other arm around Alastor, bringing him close to his chest - closer to Vincent - “we can only go higher! I’m looking forward to your work, gentlemen.”
It was almost comical how high the brows on Alastor’s face rose, the man stiffly trapped in James's hold. Vincent watched, wanting to see his composure break, to do something drastic… but it never came.
Alastor just laughed, a fake, obnoxious sound, yet so contagious it spread to the men around them.
“So do I,” he spoke, his voice a deep, dangerous rumble. His eyes locked with Vincent's as he added, “So do I.”
The breath in Vincent's throat hitched, the familiar, warm feeling of bloodlust flooding his senses, now charged with a dark and singular fascination.
He would enjoy snuffing Alastor’s voice with his bare hands.