Chapter Text
A door chimes.
A pleasant ching-ling sound as the woman walks in, darkness enveloping her as she eyes the person at the counter, the person that owns the establishment.
"Rosie" She chirps, voice smooth like velvet.
Rosie stalls, hand mid air in the middle of a purchase as she catches the woman's eye. She quickly waves someone over to take over for her. She walks over, pleasant smile straining.
"What are you doing here? I didn't-"
"I came here to offer you a solution to your... little problem." She drawls, crossing her legs elegantly as she sits in one of the plush chairs. The ones that her and Alastor normally sit on when he used to come for his weekly visits.
"..Did she send you?" Rosie questions.
"I sent myself." She looks at her nails in boredom. Black, like the rest of her hand.
"Hell is.. getting a little out of control and our illustrious king isn't doing a whole lot of anything about it. I've heard about your situation and have come to help. We need to..." She pauses, seeming to look for the right words, "Get rid of some troublesome sinners... Don't we?"
Rosie sits, fidgeting with her dress, she really really doesn't want to go through with whatever plan this woman has come up with, but he's becoming too much trouble, he's free now. And now she knows how far he's willing to go to get what he wants. Her brows furrow at the memory of him threatening to just.. walk away while everyone blows up.
The scariest part of it all being she doesn't even know what he wants. Doesn't know what his end game is, and now nothing is holding him back. And she needs that hotel. Needs it more than anything.
She clears her throat, gathering her wits and plasters on a pleasant non threatening smile.
"What are you imposing, and who are we speaking about?" Rosie tries to stall, summoning some tea and biscuits, non human kind.
She thinks for a moment, running her finger around the rim of her tea cup, it makes an unpleasant scraping sound against her nail and Rosie wants to tell her to knock it off.
"The radio demon. You're little pet project yes? He's run loose... a stray now." She murmurs, "And that..." She waves a hand in a circle, "-..TV man, the one that managed to destroy Heavens barrier... As useful as he may be to me.. He's too unstable, too egotistical... Not willing to take orders from anyone that isn't himself. Too... Rash."
She pauses her cup scraping.
"But he's as strong as your failed pet. Always has been, so he's also a thorn in my side. I can deal with almost any overlord - you included." She muses, glancing out the window at cannibal town. Rosie chuckles lightheartedly, trying to control her tremors. "But those two... They're.. Annoyingly strong, cunning.. Smart. Much smarter than anyone down here. I need to deal with them elsewhere. I can get that mutt of yours out of the picture, make him not a problem for you anymore. And the media overlord will also be a threat no longer."
"Vox is no longer a threat anyways, and he's not my threat." Rosie counters, she doesn't care much for him. Hell- She could deal with him herself.
"No.. not yet anyways.. But he's still harboring hundred of thousands of souls, once he gains in power back he'll be back on top- and again, a thorn in my side. So he needs to be dealt with as well. The princess herself claimed him as the strongest overlord in Hell."
Rosie grimaces, "There will be a massive power vacuum... The Vees.. they'll-"
"I'll deal with the power vacuum, I'll deal with the Vees." The woman drawls, calm as the tea in her cup, no ripples whatsoever, "Don't forget who I am, and what I'm capable of."
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Alastor wakes. Gasping violently and ripping himself out of the bed, landing in a disgraced heap on the floor.
He trembles, looking at his hands. His very human hands, Why the FUCK does he have human hands?
He almost runs to the bathroom, disoriented, angry. hands in his hair, the curls. Looks into the mirror - A human face looks back at him.
He has to fight back the urge to scream. Physically fight it back. Fights it back so hard he vomits into the toilet beside him.
Curly hair-
Brown skin-
The outfit he died in-
What year is it??
What-
Did Lucifer?-
He rips open everything, every drawer, the medicine cabinet, the wardrobe, upends the bed, Anything for a clue-
He needs to find something to say where he is, what year it is- why is he HUMAN-
A knock at the door freezes him in his tracks, He stops. Glances at the door, then at the window, debates on just jumping out of it entirely before his feet make up his mind for him and walk him to the door.
"Hi, room service?" The woman cheerily asks, before her face falters and he remembers the colour of his skin.
"Hm...What?" Alastor elegantly answers.
She stalls. Eyeing him up and down in a way that he hates.
"Do you... require room service?" She asks again, his brain is still short circuiting, struggling to catch up with what's going on.
He glances in the room, clean. Pristine. Other than the slightly upended bed and the open drawers.. Actually no - it looks like a tornado came in and completely destroyed the place. The only 'pristine' thing about the room is the man currently standing in it. Almost no hair out of place, like he just 'plop!' right into it. Which - Hell, might've been what happened.
"N-no." He stutters! He doesn't stutter! In his entire life he's never stuttered and now-
She excepts the clumsy answer, eyeing the destroyed room before nodding awkwardly, turning to walk down the hall, and he remembers himself.
"Excuse me!" He calls, putting on his best radio voice, "What... What city am I in?"
She stares at him. He probably looks insane. Which he definitely feels it!
He fumbles for an excuse, "I seem to have gotten rather.... inebriated last night so I don't quite remember where I am.. Or heavens! What year I'm even in!" He laughs at his own half-ass joke. Leaning against the door frame.
She nods.. stiffly, before answering. "You're in New York.... It's 1930." She answers flatly, clearly hoping this conversation will be over soon.
He nods stiffly, smile plastered on like armor before sliding back into the room, shutting the door without another word. He's barely registering anything over the rapid heartbeat that's starting to completely takeover his every thought.
1930
But why New York?! I died in Louisiana-
wait-
New York was the last place I went to before I died... When they tried to.. promote my voice to the North-
What the FUCK is going on?!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
An alarm blares, annoying, droning, weirdly familiar... but in a long time past type of way-
Vox groans, turning over in the bed, slamming his hand on the alarm clock and immediately winces in pain. Ow that fucking hurt what the hell-
He runs his hand through-
His.
Hair-
His eyes snap open, immediately flinching at the sunlight coming through before rocketing himself out of bed, running to the mirror in the bathroom and finding himself-
Human-
With hair-
..Younger..
No neck pain from an overweight TV-
Heterochromatic eyes staring back- Actual eyes-
He screams.
Screaming because this must be a bad fucking dream! This... shitty apartment, this doofus haircut, this...
He can't do this again-
There's banging on the other side of the wall, someone yelling at him to shut the fuck up because its Saturday at 6am-
He stops screaming, barely, more like.. Whining now, gripping his hair, pulling at it just to feel the sting of having it again after what? 200 years?
He runs to the window, throwing it open and realizing the sky is blue, the air is.. clean, as clean as it's going to get in New York but.. doesn't smell like sulfur and death, there are birds, disgusting pigeons but.. birds. He glances around the apartment, his apartment, the one he had when he was still a news anchor.
He cautiously walks through it, like something is going to come out and bite him, checking all the cupboards, the TV stand, behind it, looks under the bed, in the dresser, looks through all his cluttered notes, handwritten in handwriting he hasn't written in in a long time. He handles them like they're ancient. Which to him, they are.
He catches sight of a date on one of them-
September 4, 1930
He's in the 30s.
He's back in the 30s.
A time where food was scarce, and jobs were very, very, limited.
Jobs-
Does he have one? Does he have money? Is this a punishment from the Angels? Send him back to earth, make him do everything all over again?
He feels like he's going to hurl.
What about Velvette? And Valentino? His empire? His status?! What the fuck is going on??
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alastor takes a walk.
He spiraled for a good few hours in his hotel room before deciding that whatever fate has him here isn't going to fuck with him. They want to play games? He'll play along. He just needs to figure out the rules first, which ones can be broken. He's walking down a particularly busy street, obviously a banking district by how many people were crowded around, yelling and crying about lack of savings and money.
How Alastor's employers thought to bring his voice here was always baffling to him.
He never liked New York, thought it was too loud, too many people, got shoved aside by too many entitled whit-
"oof-"
"Watch it Negro."
Like that.
He stared at the man, fancy coat and hat making him stick out like the sorest of thumbs in this thrall of unemployed poor people, he thought about following him, about killing him. Gutting him like a fish.. He hasn't eaten yet today he thinks.. But this city was always too busy for murder. Less places to hide bodies.
"How're you liking it?"
He whirled around, coming face to face with a blond woman, smiling eerily at him. Too wide.. even for his standards.\ Piercing blue eyes looking into his very soul - assuming he still has one at this point.
"Excuse me?"
"The body." She chuckles, like he was particularly slow, "My, you were handsome in your living days weren't you?"
He bristles, glancing around frantically, all the other patrons stopped their frantic yelling at the bank and were now all zeroed in on him. Staring at him. Smiling at him.
"What.." He fumbled, getting angry now, "What kind of game is this hm? Who the hell are you?!"
She tutted, "Well that's no way to speak to a lady." She reached up and fiddled with his tie, he had the urge to smack her, "Didn't your mother raise you better?"
"Don't you speak about my mother you-"
"you what?" She asked, yanking him down to her level, the gasp he made was undignified and he was pissed about it, "Go on, say it. Radio Demon.”
The patrons stood, unmoving. eerie smiles plastered on their faces, He grabbed her arm to get him to let go of his tie and whatever spell that was on broke.
The woman's face changed, glancing down, then up, fear etching across her features. She gasped, wrenching her arm back and looking at him in absolute terror.
He startled, raising his hands up in defense. “Ah- I’m terribly-”
She screamed, and all the patrons saw. They saw a brown man grab a white woman and he realizes he's fucked. Before he could register anything pain flared in his side as someone tackled him to the ground and started mercilessly punching him in the face.
He do nothing but laugh, because of course this would happen-
Soon they would grab him, tie a rope around his neck and hang him in the town square.
The thought made him laugh harder as more people joined in.
My what form would I take in Hell then?!
He shoved someone off, or tried to - but someone else pinned his arm and proceeded to continue the beating, shouting slur after slur at him. Everyone seeming to forget about their previous predicament and unleashing their anger on him instead.
The thought made him cackle even more. Loud enough to catch the attention of people across the street now. Blood was soaking the pavement. He didn’t even feel the pain anymore.
“-ey, HEY-”
Cops were getting involved now.
Perfect.
Perhaps he’ll get shot again, maybe he’ll take on the form of his human self this time-
he chuckled weakly as he heard muffled voices and felt himself be slammed against a wall, and handcuffed.
Fantastic.
He glanced over at the crowd, slowly dispersing. Getting ordered away by the police. Voices were still muffled as he caught the eye of the blond woman.
She smiled at him.
------------------------------------------------------------
He was flipping through the radio, he didn’t use it much when he was alive but seeing it made him think of a certain someone...
He didn’t want to think about him too much.
Vox went down to get his mail earlier, hoping to find something of interest, but finding nothing. On his way back he overheard someone listening to the radio, a southern channel. He couldn’t catch much, but the familiar transatlantic accent sent him rocketing himself up the stairs into his apartment to try and find the same station. He’s been at it for a few hours now and still hasn’t been able to find it.
“For fuck sakes..” He grumbled, sitting back on his chair, rubbing at his face in exasperation. “Why am I trying.. Why do I care-”
The radio crackled, it was off and it crackled.
Vox sat, heartrate climbing.
“...WDSU....Ne-orle-” kkkkshz
He fiddled with the antennae, trying to get the frequency right before-
Kkkshz “-Thank you for joining us, I know I may sound different but that’s because our lovely host Alastor is in New York this week! He’s on a ve..” Kshhz “- In new York!..- Alast-...” Ksshhzzzzzzzzzzz-
Vox had his face so close to the radio he might as well been kissing it, Alastor was here? In New York?!
He got up so fast his head spun briefly as he threw his jacket on, forgetting to check anything about keys or a wallet or anything before reaching for the door-
The radio station changed again-
on it’s own.
“kkkksssh- This just in, beloved southern radio host is currently being held in jail for the abuse of a white woman- kkkkshhhz- grabbing the woman by the arm- kkkzzz, -unknown what would’ve happened if bystanders didn-”
Vox spun around, staring at the radio like it personally offended him.
He wouldn’t do that... He’s never laid his hands on a woman- What the hell?
He raced out the door, flying down the steps and out of the building, turning right and booking it down the street before realizing-
He didn’t know where the police station was-
it’s been over 200 years-
also WHY was he bothering? What was his plan? Just waltz in and go "oh hey there I'm here for my buddy Alastor, No I can't tell you how I know him because we met in Hell!"
Yeah that'll get him sent straight to the loony bin.
He slowed to a stop, catching a look at himself in a store window, he looked so young.. boxy glasses, not a gray hair in sight-
“You should get to him before they kill him you know-”
He spun around, A man and a dog were behind him. The dog sniffing absentmindedly.
“What?” Vox stuttered
“Your friend. You two were friends. Right?” The man asked, head tilting, smile a tad too wide.
Vox bristled, anger flaring rapidly. “Who the fuck are you? Go back to walking your mutt.”
The man laughed, it sounded off- Distorted.
“Oh Vincent, you were always such a hothead weren’t you? Such a handsome man though.”
Vox barely had time to register his old name before his face lit up in embarrassment. He glanced anxiously around the street. No one was paying attention to them. “W-who the fuck are you? I’m... I’m not a fairy! I’m not interested, fuck off.”
The man hummed, watching the dog for a moment before looking back at him, “You clearly want to go save him, so go on. He’s at the station on the other end of town. Make this fun for me won’t you.... papito?"
Oh fuck this guy and his dog.
Vox’s anger boiled over, snarling he threw a punch, about to land right on this guy’s smug face but before it could connect-
A searing pain launched itself into Vox’s body-
He felt like he had all the bones in his arm broken all at once-
He gasped, clutching his arm, a ragged cry ripping out of him before he collapsed to the ground, unable to move- unable to breathe as he willed his body to calm the fuck down-
The man chuckled, leaning down into Vox’s peripheral vision that was currently trying not to completely black out-
“Yes, this will be interesting won’t it? Vincent Whittman?”
Vox snapped his head up, snarl on his face and a threat at the ready but was met with the indifferent face of the man, eyebrow quirked up at him in confusion, there was almost a look of disgust on his face as he muttered ‘drunky’, before cautiously walking by him to continue to walk his dog.
He watched the man go in befuddlement before glancing at his arm, ripping the sleeve up he held his breathe, expecting bone to be jutting every which way but... it was fine.
Completely fine.
He flexed his hand, watching the muscles in his arm work. People continued to walk by him. Like he didn’t exist.
He stood up shakily, completely lost.
There was a whispered, ‘go to your friend Whittman.’
He spun around
and found no one.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“No gal made has got a shade on sweet Georgia Brown...
Two left feet, but oh so neat, has sweet Georgia Brown...”
A clang on the metal bars.
“Shut up negro.”
Alastor lazily glanced over at the officer, hummed and stayed silent.
For all of 10 seconds.
“They all sigh and wanna die for sweet Georgia Brown..
I’ll tell you just why, you know I don’t lie, not much-”
Another clang.
The officer was getting angry now.
“If you don’t knock it off I’ll come and add some more bruises to your collection, you hear me radio man?”
Ah so he does know me.
Alastor chuckled, glancing down at the handcuffs on his wrists he was fiddling with dangling in between his lazily spread legs.
“Ah alright, seems you don’t like that one... hmm how about a different one then?”
“How ‘bout non at all?” The officer deadpanned.
His smile grew.
He cleared his throat and waited for the wretched officer to tell him off again.
Nothing.
Perfect.
“No one to talk with-
all by myself
No one to walk with
But I’m happy on the shelf-”
“I said - Knock it OFF-”
“-Ain’t misbehavin’
Savin’ my love for you-”
He raised his hands towards the glowering officer, jingling handcuffed accompanying as he waved them dramatically.
“-for you, for you, for you-”
The officer ripped the door open, stomping over to the singing man, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming him into the wall, the wind getting knocked out of him, but still continuing to sing.
“..I... know for certain the one I love
I’m through with flirtin’, it’s you that I’m thinkin’ of
Ain’t misbehavin’-”
A punch to his face, snapping his glasses off its chain.
“...Savin’ my love for youuuu-”
Another punch, throwing Alastor to the floor.
He coughed, spitting blood out onto the cement floor. “Why do you hate love songs? Someone break your heart? Or do you just hate music.”
“The only thing I hate is your kind.” The officer spat, kicking him on his way out. Alastor sneered, growling lowly.
You would make a fine broadcast.... The things I would do to you.. wretch.
He laid on the cool floor, humming a tune the officer didn’t seem to get mad at him for. So humming is ok I guess...
Another officer approached, looking at Alastor with disdain before mumbling something into Officer 'music haters' ear.
Someone was here.
For him.
Was it the woman?
“Bring him in.”
No. Not a woman.
The officer left, and came back moments later with someone else. Alastor stretched out onto the floor, wincing slightly but putting his hands lazily behind his head and crossing his ankles like he was on some vacation. Still humming his tune.
He glanced up, the man upside down in his vision.
He froze, looking at the man in confusion.
Who.... Why does he look.. Familiar?
Wait-
Nothing was remarkable about the man that Alastor could find, just another brown haired white man but.. Those eyes..
Those.. different coloured eyes...
He’s seen them before..
The man looked just as shocked to see him, confusion etching his face before giving way to recognition and.. smugness.
And he smiled.
That cocky smile...
He’s seen that so many times..
“Well.” That baritone voice came out, that familiar voice-
“Don’t you look like shit?”
The other man rolled over, getting off the floor and walking very slowly
to the bars
Tilting his head in question
eyes narrowing
they were face to face now
and the realization hit like a train.
He could laugh if his ribs didn't hurt so bad.
Of course it is...
“Vincent.”