Work Text:
Vox hated the smell of roses. He hated roses in general, honestly.
Admittedly, he didn’t know shit about the meaning behind different flowers. Knew even less about taking care of them. He was more of an animal guy (shark, he was a shark guy) anyway. He only knew what roses meant to him.
Roses meant love. But they also meant weakness.
More than anything, however, they meant pain. They meant the sensation of thorns digging into the tender flesh of his lungs, tearing at the muscle around his heart, scraping his rib cage.
Roses meant love for Alastor. Weakness for Alastor. Pain - all for Alastor.
Everything smelled strongly of roses.
Consciousness gripped him procedurally.
First, his general awareness - primarily how fucking heavy and damp everything felt. Vox had no idea where he was, or how he got there, just that it was entirely too humid to be Vee’s tower.
Then, his hearing. His head filled with dozens of noises all at once . To his left, the sound of a chattering through suspiciously thin walls. Conversation, maybe, but nothing he could make sense out of. To his right, crickets conversing over a gentle breeze. Above it all, a steady static deafened the rest of his senses. The interference was… familiar, almost nostalgic, and it buzzed through his hollow casing, dousing him in an alien comfort.
Finally, his vision. A blinding flash of white light and his surroundings faded into view.
To his left, burgundy striped wallpaper obscured by books and the shadows cast from whatever inadequate lighting was nearby. To his right, a forest clearing that stretched into baffling oblivion, doused in blues and greens.
He was used to the already limited scope of his vision since Val decapitated him. Consistently cut off from his cameras and relegated to a 24×16 inch screen, the only direction he could look at any given time was forward. But this was different, everything felt narrow, as though his field of view had warped and shrunk.
His head sat at the top of the neatly made bed dressed in a plush duvet that matched the wallpaper enough to border on tacky. Laid out on the bed was his body - the same one that Val had forcibly separated his head from four months prior.
Vox had assumed it had gotten destroyed - maybe picked up by some freaks that would parade it around town to mock him while he couldn’t defend himself. Not that he would defend himself, after that pathetic display.
It’s not like his approval rating could get any worse.
At a glance, his body was in one piece, though not without damage. His gills were flared, a mess of wires and residual coolant spilling from his neck. A “Y” shaped incision stretched from each side of his collar and down to his abdomen, skin and bone pried back to reveal his half-organic innards. Well, where his half-organic innards should have been. The mechanized parts that pumped blood through his arteries and allowed him to breath through his gills were missing, removed from his body with surgical precision and replaced with something -
Something even more inhuman.
Caged behind his ribs was a tangle of thorny vines that encased his lungs and heart. Rosebuds, some tightly wound and new, some drooping from a lack of nutrients, poked out from the bramble, teasing their red petals.
Four months - it had been four months since he’d last seen Alastor. Four months since they fought. Four months since his last broadcast. Vox combed through his network dozens of times, fearing that the great Radio Demon may have perished during the first extermination. That wasn’t the case, couldn’t be, he had surveillance footage of him leaving Cannibal Town that night, he just didn’t know where he went after that-
Vox heaved, clumsily pawing the cables that linked him to his computers to ensure the connection was solid. It felt like he was drowning, his condition worsening every day that Alastor’s infuriating presence was absent from the Pride Ring. At first, it seemed like a blessing - maybe without the constant reminder that he would never be enough, he could start to recover. Maybe.
How naive?
He couldn’t breathe with the knowledge that Alastor didn’t want him, but he couldn’t die either. At least he could use that to his advantage.
Blood spilled over the control panel. He’d have to clean that up later when he was done with this project. Claws cut through the vines like string, scraping against his ribs as he searched blindly for the path of least resistance to his diseased lungs. Admittedly, he wasn’t as knowledgeable about human anatomy, he just knew that when he found thorny vines to pull and keep pulling until every ounce of useless affection was purged from his chest.
His heart, pathetic and weak and useless useless useless f̷u̷c̶k̴i̶n̷g̵ u̵̬̇s̵̋͜e̷̱̊l̴̮͆ẹ̸̾s̴̡̑s̵̰̚, fluttered beneath his hand.
He pulled-
It had been six years, eight months, three weeks and five days since he tore the infected organs from his chest and had them replaced with something mechanical. Something more functional. It was never an intentional fix for Vox, but to his surprise it helped. He had been sick for so long, nearly seventy years, and extracting the rosebush also extracted a litany of useless, pesky feelings about Alastor of all people. Without his more tender feelings for the radio demon, the pain was gone too.
It didn’t get rid of his insatiable hatred, however. There was something pathetically ironic in how he had gone from a love that threatened to burn him alive to a hatred that threatened to burn the world with him. But it was better than pain.
It was pretty cool having gills, too.
Anxiety set in - someone had been collecting his body parts and piecing him back together like a broken doll. He had no idea where someone would even find his love-infested heart and lungs, let alone why they’d go to the lengths of reinstalling them. A brief struggle proved fruitless. Normally, he could wobble or hop - it was pathetic, but it was the only shred of self sufficiency he had recently, so he wore it like a badge of honor - but even that seemed impossible.
Besides the very intentionally laid out body in front of him, Vox couldn’t see anything. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know where the Vees were, couldn’t move-
The sound of glass against hardwood prompted his attention to the right.
“Who’s there?”
There was no answer, only a brief pause before the sound of crinkly grass and mud somewhere in the peripheral hit him. The static got louder as whoever-or-whatever approached, cigarette smoke drifting into the vents on the side of his casing-
Vents? It’s been decades since I had them on the side…
“Hmm. You’re awake earlier than expected, Vincent.”
Alastor.
No one else called him ‘Vincent’. It was disgusting.
And odd. Odd to think that there was a time that Alastor’s voice would have made him weak in the knees. But that was decades ago, and he had no knees, and Alastor was the craziest motherfucker he knew.
“What- What the fuck is going on, Alastor?!”
For once, Alastor offered no answer. No playful hum, no obtuse diatribe, no quips or digs or jabs. The radio demon simply rounded the bed, entering and leaving Vox’s line of sight. As Alastor tended to something on the left, Vox looked back at his partially dissected body.
Disgust drowned out the mounting anxiety he’d felt since he woke up - that was the only thing Alastor had him feeling these days, but something about the situation was particularly disconcerting.
Vox grit his teeth. “What is this, Al?”
Alastor approached the bedside, but still offered no explanation.
“Where’d you even find this shit? This is weird, even for you.”
No answer, still, though the demon finally stepped far enough into his peripheral to give Vox a glance of that fucking Cheshire grin. There was something strained, almost subdued about it, woefully lacking in his normal smug confidence. The last time he smiled like that…
Anger dulled Vox’s fear for a few moments - there was nothing Alastor loved more than to pull at his strings to get a reaction. He was as pathetic as Alastor was relentless, allowing himself to get played like a fiddle every fucking time. It was beginning to seem that everything the demon did was in service of getting under his skin. Literally.
The situation was beginning to feel nefarious, and Vox struggled to find hints of Alastor’s normal levity.
Alastor reached out, long fingers curling around one of the thick wires sprouting from his neck. A second glance showed that the wires had been stripped and primed for some sort of connection - something that wouldn’t be necessary if not for his recent decapitation.
Decades ago, in what felt like a different life, Vox had divulged some information about his demon form to Alastor, and Al had done the same in return. He reasoned that he was one of the only people that knew that, in place of vocal cords, Alastor had anatomy that resembled a crystal radio set in his esophagus. Likewise, the demon was the only person (besides the Vees) that knew his head was, effectively, interchangeable. Sure, it wasn’t exactly simple to do, but anyone with a basic understanding of AV electronics could figure out which wires went where.
And Alastor’s understanding was certainly more than basic.
“Alastor, whatever you think you’re doing, just-”
Static leapt between exposed electronics as Alastor dragged the first wire to the back of Vox’s casing. A cacophony of neurological input hit him like a truck, vague awareness of a body - his body - settling over him. His foot twitched, his claws dug into the mattress beneath them. There was no sensation of touch, or even the feeling of pain, just the prickling cognizance of fingers and toes and no capability of controlling them.
It had been so long since Vox felt like anything remotely humanoid, and watching his body respond independently of his brain made him feel even more alien.
Alastor looked downright curious.
Years ago, Vincent would wither under Alastor’s curious prodding over his various “peculiarities”. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, a lost, bashful affection threatened the walls he’d put up.
“My Vincent~”
HIS Vincent, HIS Vincent-
Vox bit his tongue to bring himself back to his senses. His body reached out, grasping at Alastor’s arm of it’s own volition. It was surreal, watching a part of him yearn for the demon that had caused it such pain. Surreal and so fucking pathetic. As if loving Alastor was hardwired into his being.
In a way, it was.
My Alastor, my Alastor, my Alastor-
Mustering as much energy as he could, Vox attempted to bridge the divide between his head and his body to zap Alastor off of him. He cursed, shaking hand off his arm before returning to his toiling.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Vox huffed, trying again to pull himself free. “Alastor, stop- This isn’t-”
The second connection hurt.
A sudden, searing pain tore through him - understandable, given that he was flayed like a fish. Vox screamed, his body straining to move against itself, hands flailing blindly for some sort of purchase. Alastor recoiled, as if the sudden movement startled him. Shadows darted from the radio demon’s back to hold his body down.
“Alas-zzz̷-̶t̴o̷r̵!”
Static jumped from his casing to the exposed wires and back, proximity threatening to reconnect him to the despair he’d forcibly removed from himself.
“Please! Don’t do this-”
How many times had he begged Alastor? For friendship? For love? Mercy? The storm of emotions and sensations emptied his head, leaving space for a singular coherent thought: He’d rather die - permanently, at the hands of some angelic blade - than go through the agony of loving Alastor Hartfelt again.
Hartfelt… What a fucking joke.
“You w-w̴o̸n̶!” Vox finally got out, his voice pitched and fizzled with stressed static. “You broke all your chains, you’ve got your ss-zzzz-s̷t̸u̶p̷i̶d̸ hotel, everyone fucki-i̷i̵i̸i̵n̵g̶ hates me! What els-z̷z̵ do you want!?”
Slowly, through waves of pain and panic, he got a grasp on his body, his limbs, his fingers, his claws. A tenuous connection that gave him the mildest sense of control over his body. He struggled, desperate to get to Alastor with lead laden limbs in an attempt to stop him. Whatever that meant -
The final connection. Vicious radio static flooded his head, seventy years of adoration and unrequited affection coursing through Vox’s body. Vines erupted from his chest, overtaking his rib cage as new rosebuds sprouted, bloomed, and withered in moments. He gasped, clawing at his open chest to try and free his open airways of the thorny bramble that tore at his insides.
Gills flared, and he was still fucking drowning.
Wires snaked out from his casing, easily wrenching Alastor’s shadows off of him with a sharp jolt. Denying what he knew about his body, Vox pushed himself forward into a sitting position. He heaved, his fans kicking into overdrive to try and cool the rising heat in his head as petals and congealed coolant fell from his open chest cavity.
Vox stumbled off the bed, wires catching his weight and keeping him upright. Alastor startled backwards, knocking his whiskey glass off the bedside table.
He looked… scared?
That- That can’t be…
Vox’s heart tore in two, one half freezing over with anxiety - what was wrong? Why was Alastor upset? Alastor wasn’t scared of anything - he had nothing to fear! He was untethered, the most powerful sinner in hell, newly freed of his contracts and ready to take the afterlife by storm.
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
No, he couldn’t be in awe of the creature before him, he had to hate him. He had to focus on the rage he felt at the mere suggestion that Alastor had any fucking right to be scared. He’d loved that bastard for longer than he was alive, and he fucking knew it! Yet he still stood there in silence.
“Is-z̸z̴z̵z̷-̶n̸’̴t̷ this what-t-t̵-̴t̸ you wanted?”
Alastor’s ears pinned back at the accusation.
He took a clumsy step forward, then another, tripping forward when his foot caught on the carpet. His body struggled to keep up with his sudden need to get his hands around the radio demon’s scrawny fucking neck, but - Hey, if it kills me, that's still a win.
A flash of cyan in the corner of his eye drew Vox's attention to his reflection in the vanity. It wasn’t until that moment that he fully registered the clunky, worn CRT television in place of his sleek flat screen - that explained why everything was so damn heavy. Pixilated mania flashed across his screen, the image jumping from fragmented, pained expressions to blank error messages. He looked like a proper monster - limp body propped up by fraying wires, heavy head barely attached. The thorny chasm of his chest began to bleed as he shifted and the roses took root. Scarlet petals occasionally broke free of their stems, drifting to his feet with he coolant and blood that was soaking into the floor.
Vox almost didn’t recognize himself. Almost.
Vox? Vox. I’m Vox, I’m not- No! I’m Vox! Vox!!!!
Vincent. His silly little pathetic, desperate, unlovable picture box. His Vincent.
Shadows flit across the walls, pulling his attention back to Alastor’s strained expression. Tendrils converged between them defensively, earning a rasping laugh from Vincent.
“Whaa-aaaa̵̜͂à̵̭a̶͔͘aaa-t’s wrong, Al?” his head dipped heavily to the left before the wires pulled his joints back into place once more. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You put your little ṕ̴͇-̷̟́ṕ̷̪-̶̗̈́p̴̖̋laythi-i̷i̴i̸i̶-̸n̵g̵ back together after you b-b̷̖̈́r̸̗̕o̷̿͜-̶̧̕õ̸̮o̸̬͌ooke it.”
Black cords seized the shadows between them, energy that Vox, frankly, didn’t know he was capable of at the moment, coursing through them and back to their source. Alastor let out a fractured scream, the shadows dissipating as Vincent stepped through them.
“That’s all I am to you, right? A fuck-c̴͖͠k̷̨͠-ing plaaȧ̷͉ä̵̲́-ything? Your fucking t-t̶o̵y̵!”
Grating red light danced over Alastor’s form, the demon. His nails sharpened, viral hatred clawing its way to the surface as his body of spare parts gave way to a more demonic form.
“I’m sss-zzz̸z̴-̴s̷o̶o̴-o tired of loving you, A-”
Vincent heaved again, gagging on the brambles in his throat. He tore at the vines coiled around his ribs, blood washing over his hands, spurting from the newly opened wounds.
“You told me to stop loving you and I fuc-c̶-̷c̶k̷i̵n̷g̷ did! But that was-zzzz-s̶n̷’̸t̵ good enough, was it?” Thorns shredded his calloused hands as he desperately tore at his lungs to ease his love-struck pain. “You need me under your t-t-t̸t̶t̸-humb like this, d̸-̵don’t you? How fucking-”
A word caught on his tongue, acrid and thick like stomach bile and blood, defeat washing over him. Shoulders dropped, Vox couldn’t help but laugh, his voice cracking.
“How fuck-k̵-̴k̴ing ẽ̵̳v̷̧̈́i̴̛͚ḻ̵͆ are you…?”
Because that’s what it was. What it had to be. Evil. Vincent had refused to believe it for so long, clung desperately to the idea that there had to be some good will in that fucking deer. Because, for as long as he’d been alive, Vincent believed with all his being that the only good (like truly, honestly good) thing he had ever done was love Alastor. Alastor Hartfelt, the fucking Radio Demon. The same man that was so disgusted by his feelings for seventy fucking years. The same man who had ripped him to pieces on the floor of that bar, who had pieced him back together just to make sure the feelings were still there. And they were. Vincent loved him. Still. He loved him so desperately that the only he he waned more than death was to kill Alastor for putting him through this again.
God, he was stupid.
“F̴u̴c̷k̵i̸n̷g̸ ̴s̵a̸y̵ ̵s̶o̸m̵e̵t̴h̷i̸n̵g̵!̶” Vox thundered. The lights flickered.
Alastor didn’t answer, but he didn’t flee either. The radio demon merely stared at him that fucking grin of his, ears pinned back. Angry static nearly drowned out the squeal of the demon’s radio - the same noise that Alastor always made when he was distressed.
There was something satisfying in knowing that.
Wires snaked around Alastor’s limbs, pinning him to the bookshelf behind him. Vincent lurched forward, reaching toward him with his clumsy claws, reveling in the way the demon before him flinched.
He laughed.
“You’re the w-worst person I’ve ever met, and I still l-lo̶o̷-̶o̷o̵ove you. How fucked is that?”
Vincent balled the red lapels in his hand, claws digging into the flesh of his hand as he dragged Alastor closer. There was almost no fight, something that would’ve given him pause if he wasn’t so intent on killing him. “You won’t let me leave, you won’t let me love you…”
Weakly, Vincent shook Alastor. “At least dignify me with an answer, Al…”
Nothing.
“F̸i̶n̸e̵… Fuck you!”
With a sharp tug, Vincent tore through Alastor’s jacket and shirt. There were no stitches, only the darkened remnants of an angelic scar that he couldn’t wait to reopen. Even in his weakened state, his claws easily dug into Alastor’s flesh.
Shadows curled around his limbs as if to stop him, but Vincent pulled free with adrenaline alone. “Come on, A̷͇̓l̶̻̇a̴̗̒s̸̪͐t̵͈̓ō̵̙ò̷͜o̸͎͊o̵̼̊ṛ̵̾r̷͓͑~ Is that all you can give me? Or is that what you want?”
He sent another shock through the wires, grinning as Alastor strained against him. “You act like you don’t get off to this shit. I̴ ̷f̷u̵c̵k̷i̸n̶g̴ ̶k̴n̶o̴w̸ ̸y̵o̷u̵!”
Blood splattered across his screen as he clawed at the demon’s chest. A small part of him wondered if he was taking it too far - another part hoped he was. He hoped that Alastor felt every ounce of pain that he’d experienced over the last seventy years.
“I’m gonna t-t̴e̸a̷r̴ you apart, p̶i̴e̵c̵e̵ by fucking p̵̱̕ȉ̷̧ẹ̷̀c̵̩̊e̴̲̒. It’ll take you weeks to regenerate!”
Vincent wasn’t in control of his body, otherwise he was certain the exhaustion and pain would have withered him. Something about the red that stained, well, everything, had him transfixed and he wanted more. More, more, more. Alastor always said that was his problem, he was greedy-
“And while you do- Ha haa-” He wheezed out a laugh. “I’ll get weapons from that bitch Carmilla-”
He was greedy, and he loved too much too loudly, but god dammit he wanted MORE. He wanted to feel Alastor’s insides between his fingers, he wanted to dismantle the crystal radio set in his chest one bolt at a time.
“I’ll use them to put us both out of our f̸̯̽ū̴̠c̶̯͐k̷̳̃i̴͔̽n̵̖̆g̵͉͑ ̶̼̕m̷̬̓i̷̗̓ŝ̸̙ê̸̻r̸̃͜y̸̔ͅ!”
Hit hit bone, claws scraping against the demon’s sternum, ribs creaking with as Vincent hooked his fingers around them. Alastor heaved, antlers sharpened like the claws gripping wildly at the wires holding his wrists in place.
It didn’t make sense, when did he get so weak? Logic (Ha! If he had any of that left) told Vincent that he shouldn’t have the strength to overpower Alastor the way he had, even on his best day - even with a properly attached body and functional gills. But the radio demon bled beneath him, gritted teeth glowing despite his wordless heaving. His fingers dug between the demon’s ribs, relishing in the way his flesh gave way until he felt the sting of something needling his finger. He pulled his hands back, the sharp angles of his claws catching on a bundle of thorny vines.
Woven between the man’s ribs were -
Roses?
Roses.
A singular rosebud threatened to bloom between Alastor’s ribcage and clavicle. Vincent looked down at his own hands, quickly noting the shreds of electric blue petals covered in viscera and blood.
Adrenaline drained from his body at the sight of rose stems coiled through Alastor’s chest - just like the ones in his own. Shadow and wire retreated, and Vincent’s knees finally gave way to the weight of his clumsily held together body. Alastor was quick to follow.
“Y̶͈̿ö̴͉́ų̷̽-” He choked. “When- How long?”
Of course, Alastor said nothing - honestly, Vincent wasn’t even sure if he could in the state he was in.
So he kept going.
“Is that why-”
Vincent looked down at his own chest, at the mess of blood and bramble that trailed down his torso. The roses lacing his ribs had already begun to wilt, petals drifting to the puddles of blood between them.
Alastor’s silence cut him deeper than any thorn. Vincent grabbed the demon’s shoulders, jostling him to try shake loose some sort of answer.
You’re a fucking creep-
Vincent withdrew his hands, his own shoulders slumping in defeat. There was a time when he could say with confidence that the only person who’d ever seen him cry was his father, but for what felt like the millionth time, his eyes began to burn for the one person he couldn’t bare to see it. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Alastor, resorting to balling his fists in his lap like he had all those years ago at the bar. “I don’t get it… Why now?”
The quiet hum of a familiar signal vibrated through his antennae and down his spine. Vincent glanced up, gaze met with the faint illumination of Alastor’s eyes and teeth. The demon spoke - not with his voice, through the frequency that they hadn’t shared in decades but that Vincent refused to close.
“I… I don’t know.”
Alastor refused to look at him, eyes focused intently on the blood-soaked garden between them.
“Bullshit.” Vincent huffed, unsatisfied with his answer.
He shifted forward, caging Alastor in further. A shaky claw found the demon’s chin, forcing their eyes to lock. It felt like a sin, like he was breaking one of the foundational rules of their fucked up relationship. Alastor didn’t do eye contact, at least not with him. He’d never run the risk of catching a glimpse of his hypnotic eye-
I’d never do that, I kept telling him-
He steeled himself. “Just… Tell me, Al. No more bullshit, n-n̸̰̑o̶͍̅ō̵̯-ot after- all t̶̥͝h̶̥́i̵̛̺s̵̳̆.”
Alastor’s ears flicked. Silence settled over them, though not nearly as violent as before. Vincent never thought he’d see the demon so… Uncertain about anything.
Again, their frequencies tangled.
“I thought all you wanted was power. My power. And control.”
Vincent stiffened. That was a fair assumption to make, but he thought he’d made himself clear. He wanted them to be equals, he wanted-
“And if not for the Vees, you would have given that all up and killed us both.”
Anger gripped him once more. “I don’t need reminded-”
“Shut up, Vincent-”
A frantic hiss of radio static laced with the distance sound of an animal screaming flooded their intermixed frequencies, projecting over various radio sets throughout the room. Alastor yanked his arm free, seizing Vincent’s collar and dragging him closer.
“What kind of fool gives up everything he ever worked for just for the attention of another person?”
Vincent slapped the hand away from his collar. “‘Not another person’, Al. You! It was always you! I just wanted-” A sob wracked through his body. “I just wanted you. Us. Together.”
Alastor deflated against the bookshelf behind him. “I was wrong, Vincent. That is what changed. I realized what your offer actually meant.”
Vincent was certain heaven would fall and hell would freeze over before he ever heard Alastor admit he was wrong about anything. And yet, there he was, on the receiving end of the most insane statement ever uttered. He couldn’t believe it - every logical neuron in his head was screaming that he shouldn’t believe it.
“S-So what now?” Vincent’s voice cracked beneath the weight of realization. "“How… do I just… trust this? Al? It’s been so long, and it hurts so fucking much-”
“Yes, well-”
Two fingers caught the corner of his casing, tilting the CRT back to the demon’s face. New-moon eyes that looked entirely too soft for Alastor’s features melted every insecurity Vincent ever felt. The fingers beckoned him forward, Alastor pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his screen before lulling his head back against the bookshelf.
“We’re both fools.”
Between them, a rose wilted.