Chapter Text
Everything was so needlessly complicated with Vincent.
Alastor had tolerated it, even come to find it amusing somehow. Vincent always made things complicated with other people. Business proposals, territory wars, grand ideas. But it had stayed mercifully simple between them. Though Alastor wouldn't admit it, he had come to enjoy the little TV-man's presence.
He didn't need to say it. They didn't need to say useless things like that to each other. They just were. And they were, at some time near the end, enough to fall into each other's arms.
It was simple, still, Alastor told himself, when his claws dug into Vincent's back in the throes of pleasure. Pleasure is the simplest thing of all. Nevermind that carnal pleasures were not ones he'd cared to try, not until Vincent. Nevermind the way he locked his legs around Vincent to keep him from pulling out as he spilled his seed. Nevermind that they fell asleep in each other's arms. Nevermind all that.
Pleasure is simple.
Vincent, of course, had to make it complicated.
"Let's be partners," or something like that. Oh, how utterly vomit-inducing. How needlessly complicated. Just because they had a roll around in the sheets… That had to be why. People always conflated that kind of thing with more complicated concepts. Vox was apparently one of those people.
Maybe Alastor was a bit mean, but Vincent blew it way out of proportion. Alastor was just putting things in the right perspective! Begging Vincent in his own way to just forget about it. To go back to how it was.
Suddenly things were complicated between them. Of course it was. Nothing could stay simple with Vincent. Not even them.
Oh, and for a while, Alastor thought himself to be feeling complexly about the situation. That he missed Vincent, of all things. Thought he was actually getting sick over it. That was silly, of course, he was just pregnant.
Now, maybe this doesn't make sense. That doesn't happen to sinners. Well, it made sense to Alastor. Hell was a punishment, he knew. This was just part of it. Hell would do whatever it wanted, whatever would serve its grim prupose best. He panicked for all of one moment when he realized what was happening to him, but quickly came to a conclusion about what to do about it.
Whatever was inside him was no doubt going to be some… wretched thing, probably didn't even have a soul. But what a thrill, he thought, to eat whatever wretched thing came out of him. Punishment no more, just a delightful snack.
He didn't tell Vincent (or Vox as he wanted to be called now), of course. And he certainly couldn't let himself be seen in public when things got more visible, which was easy enough to arrange by appeasing Rosie with frivolous errands and buttering her up with flowers and snacks. She agreed to let him off the hook for a few months while he took "a vacation".
Which brings us to the present.
Alastor had made himself a cozy nest to give birth in, but now he sits on the floor of his room, naked, sheets too warm, mattress too warm, everything too warm. Nothing is comfortable, nothing is good.
Hours tick by like molasses, at least he thinks they do (he's not exactly keeping track), and he considers that he could just… cut himself open. But every time his claws hover poised above his abdomen, something very human, very animal in him prevents him. He logics it away, he won't do it because it'll take him longer to regenerate. He won't be able to be on his feet as fast. He isn't scared. He isn't.
At some point, there's blood and amniotic fluid. There's so much blood, he can't quite believe it all came from him. He's laying in a pool of it, now too cold instead of too hot, but far, far too weak to do anything about it. He closes his eyes to rest.
He hadn't died in Hell yet, at least, until now. He wakes up with a start from pure blackness, still in the same pool of blood, ever growing as it just keeps regenerating. Of course, never regenerating enough to bring him out of a hazy stupor, only enough to keep him technically alive.
Panic sets in as he slips into darkness again, and shot back out once more. Control slips from his grasp and he does something he hasn't done since his falling out with Vin— Vox.
"Vincent, come here, now."
A signal sent directly to Vox over their dedicated frequency. Frantic, demanding.
Given that they haven't talked at all in the months leading up to this (outside of publicly shit-talking each other), it's a surprise to Alastor that Vox shows up near instantly, zapping himself in through a wall outlet.
"You can't fucking call me that anymore, Alastor," Vox growls, searching in the dim light of the room for his once-friend, until the light of his screen turns upon Alastor's pitiful figure. Covered in his own blood. Dying over and over. Pregnant. Vox just stands there for a while, staring. Any and all fury he felt upon arriving is replaced by confusion, terror, a racing heart.
"Huh?!" he says dumbly.
Alastor looks at him like a normally aggressive injured dog looks at its savior. Resignation. Contempt. A wary sort of hope.
"Huh?" Alastor mocks. He isn't coherent enough to elegantly articulate why he called Vox here. What's going on. "Help."
Vox panic-flaps his hands, kneeling next to Alastor in the pool of blood. "How? What— What??"
Alastor grabs his hand. If he had more strength, it might have hurt, but at the moment the grab was more of a gentle hold. He knows the thing inside him is hurting him. Continuously. Badly. "Get it out."
Vox looks at his claws, then to Alastor, then back at his claws. He swallows thickly. He feels sick.
Alastor passes out again, wakes up again, gasping, shaking.
Questions in Vox's mind are pushed to the back, far back. He rolls Alastor onto his back, fully exposing his swollen belly. With shaking hands, his index claw digs in. Starting at the top. Piercing skin. It's Alastor's instinct to kick him away, but there isn't any strength behind it. Vox counts in his mind.
Three
Two
One
The claw glides down effortlessly through flesh, tearing a slit vertically down. Blood pours out, intestines pour out. It's not deep enough, there's another layer. Alastor writhes and hisses static, Vox has to physically restrain him. One hand gripping and pushing down on Alastor's shoulders while he sits on his hips, the other hand swiftly stabbing into the womb and slicing down. More blood. More gore. And a creature.
No, not a creature. A baby. Just as covered in blood as the both of them. It has a head like a box, which… Might explain the difficulty.
Vox wants to help Alastor, but he knows the only thing he can do is wait for him to regenerate enough to help himself. The disemboweled sight of Alastor is one he can hardly stomach anyways, so he turns his attention to… This other thing.
He picks it up. It writhes, but does not cry. Clumsily wiping blood away from it with his own bloody hands, he uncovers just enough details to answer some of his questions, and leave him with so many more.
Its head is a CRT TV encased in a wooden frame, apparently with a radio built in. Its antennae look suspiciouly like tiny deer horns made of wire. Its tiny body is covered in gore-soaked black fur, and it has two tiny hooved feet.
Vox has no question in his mind, this is his. This is theirs.
It's still connected to Alastor through the umbilical cord. He should cut that, right? Vague memories from his living days surface where he wasn't paying all that much attention in the delivery rooms of the various wives he'd gotten pregnant then later divorced. He remembers enough to tie it off with one of his wires before cutting it.
Alastor jerks awake. He'd died, again, on account of the disembowelment. Waking up this time feels slightly different, seeing as there isn't something actively sabatoging his ability to heal anymore. He can feel himself grow slightly more lucid as time goes by instead of being trapped in a cycle of futility. He lay still, staring at the ceiling for several minutes, too scared to close his eyes again.
With some shreds of strength returning, Alastor takes to scooping his organs back in. The wet squelching catches Vox's attention once more. He stares blankly.
"Well, make yourself useful and hold things in place while I sew, would you?" Alastor says, waving a hand to try and get Vox out of his stupor.
"R- right!" Vox finally registers after a moment, creating a cradle of wires to hold the baby in to free up his hands.
The silence between them is… palpable. Vox holds either side of the wound together while Alastor sews with a green spectral thread. Vox holds his tongue until Alastor is finished working.
"…I have some questions," Vox timidly starts, picking up the baby to cradle it once more.
Alastor rolls his eyes. "Of course you fucking do."
"Oh like that's some big surprise! Yeah of course I have fucking questions!" Timidness immediately gone. "You were—! You were pregnant and didn't tell me! I thought sinners couldn't get pregnant at all! Normal thing to have questions about, frankly!"
Alastor grumbles. All this shit because he couldn't just cut himself open. He laboriously sits up, holding his arms out in a silent request for the child. He wants to get a look at this vile creature.
Vox passes it over. He's very gentle with it, Alastor notes. It's cute— amusing.
The creature is not as monstrous as he was expecting. Still, all he sees as he looks at its face is some hideous hell-thing without a soul. Not a real person. Merely a symbol of his carelessness.
He also sees a snack he worked very hard for.
Oh, Vox is talking. How long has that been going on?
"— I mean if I knew you wanted this… Whatever I did wrong, I-I can fix it, we can work things out—"
"Let me stop you right there, pal."
Vox freezes.
"I didn't follow through with any of this because I wanted to see you again." Alastor taps the screen of the creature in his arms. No mouth. How tragic. "I don't even want a child."
That same pathetic look Vox gave him in the bar returns now.
"Then why do any of this?! Why—" Vox pleads, "why call me for help?!"
"You think everything is about you. That's what I hate about you, Vox. If you're not the center of the fucking universe then it's not worth your attention, hm?"
"Wh—"
"I did this for myself. To beat Hell at its own game."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Hell isn't going to give you a family, of all things. Really… you think this is even a person?"
Vox is trembling. Fists balled in his lap. Some kind of coiled snake has his throat. He cannot speak.
"Everything that happens here is a torment. I refuse to suffer it—"
"Was I a torment? For you?"
Alastor pauses. Vox's pathetic gaze bores into him. Even though he's been entirely unclothed this whole time, Alastor hasn't felt naked until now.
"…You know what they say. Hell is other people."
Vox buries his face in his hands.
To regain some kind of control, Alastor rips the child's head off and begins to devour it. Teeth rip through bone and sinew, adding yet more to the puddle of gore they all sat in.
Vox looks up and all he can do is watch in horror. Some kind of light is snuffed out in his eyes.
"This… is all I wanted from this," Alastor says, licking blood from his lips.
Vox stands up and stumbles back.
"Don't tell me you care."
Vox shakes his head in disbelief and zaps back out of the room.
Alastor sighs, finally left by himself. He stands on wobbly legs, still all kinds of sore, and cleans his space and slips into comfortable pajamas. Perhaps it was a blessing his ordeal took place mostly on the floor, as his bed remains clean and fresh for him to return to.
He tucks himself in, turns out the lights, and curses the memory of Vincent's haunted visage that won't leave him to rest.
Vox, meanwhile, drinks to forget, in the same bar where they parted ways. So, not much forgetting really happens.
—
Come morning, Alastor feels… Strange. Like he ate something dubious. His guts don't feel quite right.
As if on cue, a tiny clawed hand bursts out of the stitching along his abdomen.
Of course it's not fucking gone. Of course it regenerates. Why wouldn't it. Hell would have its way with him in spite of his efforts.
Needlessly complicated.
He needs other solutions.