Chapter Text
“Fuck Hell, fuck Heaven, and fuck all of you,” Vox spat with venom. A tear fell down his face, and his eyes were only on Alastor. “As long as I wipe that smile off Alastor’s fucking face, I don’t care what happens.”
He stood upon the Might of Lilith, now shaking with Angelic power. Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his smile tugging up to fill the unoccupied space.
There was an unfamiliar feeling curling around him. Deeper than the pain in his chest wound. Deeper than the bullet had landed in his skull.
Fear.
He felt fear.
He felt fear in the face of a man so obsessed with him he was willing to kill all of Hell. And Alastor couldn’t bring himself to stop him.
There was another feeling, bothersome and nostalgic. It was deeper than even the fear making him tremble. It had been there since Vox first- well, Vincent at the time, since Vincent with his big round eyes and silly clunky screen had tried to woo him.
Brought him presents, alcohol, time spent well together, and occasionally even an overlord bound by wires and singed by electricity. It had struck him then, and it never left.
Not when Vox and him had a falling out. Not when Vox teamed up with that nasty moth. Not when he had become too modern, too different, too much not like Vincent. It was here, even now, despite everything.
Alastor dared not explore or name this feeling.
Because the Might of Lilith was about to explode. And Vox was still stood upon it. But no one could stop him.
The seraphim had begun to create a barrier around the weapon, and more and more souls joined. But Vox was still stood upon it.
Valentino was still wrapped in wires, on the verge of a temporary death. Velvette had a few too many needle stabs to pull herself together yet.
Alastor ran.
He turned into shadow and he ran.
Because no one who loved Vox was able to stop him. And Alastor was too much of a coward to face his feelings.
He cried out when the explosion eventually occurred, half of the pentagram shattered immediately, and the rest burned. Burned.
Alastor was burning.
No, not quite. He felt like he was. And his clothes did get burnt, but he was hot and in pain and it was all in his head. It was not real pain.
Tears streamed down his cheeks and that burned more than the residual angelic energy in the air.
Alastor took hours to recover, sitting at the very edge of the crater that was made. It was rubble and chaos around him.
Eventually, he pulled himself together enough to move. He was weak on his hooves as he stumbled to the center of the impact.
He ignored the ashes of his former companions, and the trembling form of the Devil who was unable to have the mercy of death. He moved past it all and grabbed the broken screen laying upon the shattered angelic steel.
The explosion was contained enough it went downwards, and it was enough to leave him with the empty screen of Vox’s head.
“You’re a fool,” Alastor snipped, flicking his remaining antenna. The bunny ear didn’t so much as twitch, or spark. He was truly gone. The tears threatened to come again. “A fool.”
He tucked Vox under his arm, talking to him, berating him, and he walked around aimlessly. He pays no attention to the sinners around him, all too weak, affected by the radius.
It was slow, and steady, but the sinners of Hell died around him. When he was alone, he and Vox’s screen, the King of Hell missing, he finally looked for a solution.
“Maybe I can fix this,” he said to the screen, rolling his eyes at an imaginary answer. “It’s your mess, stop complaining about it. I’m no altruist, but I’d prefer to save everyone than die. It’s perfectly in character!”
Alastor glares at the screen before he quite quickly sobered up. It wasn’t hallucinations, just hysteria. He knew how the TV would respond. He wished he could.
“Sorry,” he said, and he continued walking. It’s months after the event when he discovered his solution. He was wandering the remains of cannibal town, only half of it remaining, when he found it.
He was nibbling on some sinner jerky and walking in the archives when the solution offered itself to him.
Vox’s empty screen had been propped up against a shelf, and when he picked the screen back up to leave, he spotted a book.
“A spell book. A grimoire perhaps?” He murmured to the screen. He ran his claws over the spine before plucking it out.
He sat down, the screen on his lap, and he read through it. He stopped when a spell stuck out.
“This- this is-“ he laughed, eyes lighting up with life for the first time since the impact. “Oh fuck, this is it!”
He had found a time travel spell. Alastor had found a spell to fix it all! If he could go back, even to a month before Vox’s hysteria, or even to when he joined the hotel- He could manage during or before his sabbatical too.
Alastor didn’t care about the footnotes, the consequences, the punishment. He just needed the spell.
He casted it immediately, and the remaining power in Hell all poured into it. The feeling of his powers zapping away and into the spell was a relief.
Reality twists at his command, and he was sent back in time.
My dearest viewers, he may not care, but you will. Because this spell sends the user back to when they can solve the problem. But it’s tricky. Time cannot be played with frivolously.
The spell often finds a way for everything to return to how it was. The butterfly cannot simply flap his wings. Alastor cannot fix the situation by fixing Vox.
Alastor goes back in time to fix himself.
But it would be a very long time before he discovers this, if he ever does. Because if he doesn’t, the consequences will result in something worse.
But it will be a century before Alastor needs to care.
Because now, he wakes up as a scrappy 20 year old in 1928.
Vincent Whittman was just a meteorologist, so when a colored man was to join the studio, he was told to do the greeting. No one else wanted to, and he wasn’t even the weatherman yet.
He always got the short end of the stick.
With a sigh, he brushes his hand over his lapels, smoothing them out and forcing a bright and innocent smile on his face as he steps through the doorway.
He falters.
Before him was a well put together and admittedly handsome man. Pretty, even. With small glasses on his nose and well maintained curls, it was every bit of charming Vincent strives to be.
His heart stops when the man looks up, beautiful brown, almost golden eyes stare at him, searching, curious.
”Are you the intern sent to show me around the radio equipment?” He says, an addicting tone to his voice, right alongside his transatlantic accent. Vincent feels himself flush.
”I- I’m not an intern,” Vincent frowns, rubbing his neck awkwardly before clearing his throat. “I’m a meteorologist, I make maps and study the… weather.”
”Ah, so, not much better?” He challenges, searching for something. His eyes light up when Vincent’s smile drops to a scowl.
”I am not- it- I am more than that! It’s a temporary arrangement-“ Vox fumbles, his hands tensing by his sides.
The man just smirks, tilting his head. “It was just a joke! Goodness, are there no comedians on the noisy picture shows? Humor is truly lost. What is your name?”
Vincent stares in disbelief, gritting his teeth and offering him a fake smile. “Funny joke. Vincent Whittman. And you?”
“Alastor Francoeur,” he introduces, offering him a hand to shake. Vincent takes it, shaking firmly before wiping it off on his pants. Alastor looks pissed after that. “The new radio host during prime time here. It’s an… important. Position.”
”Who listens to the radio anymore?” Vincent scoffs, taking a few steps away. “Follow me to your side of the studio.”
Alastor narrows his eyes and nods, following Vincent as he leads him. Vincent tries to think of what he did to gain this hatred. When he doesn’t find a reason, he decides he doesn’t care that much. He drops Alastor off before running off to deliver his reports to the current weather man.
Vincent takes it when he’s shouted at, and he takes it when coffee is spilled on his head. He refuses to take it when his position as lesser is questioned, and his eyes are insulted.
He doesn’t think of the consequences when he excuses himself to go home and change. He doesn’t think of them when he waits in a supply closet instead. He doesn’t care about them when the weather man steps inside to sneak some alcohol.
He ignores them as he wraps his hands around his throat, pure adrenaline in his veins as he chokes him out, bruising and crushing his throat. The corpse slumps to the floor and Vincent lets out a raspy laugh, running a hand through his coffee soaked hair.
His blood runs cold when he hears a slow, patronizing clap.
”My my Vincent, what a show! Maybe those noisy boxes have a point to them, if it’s performances like this! Although the stage you set… it’s not quite suitable. Very public,” Alastor taunts, unbothered by the dead man. In fact, he seems impressed.
”Get- Get out!” Vincent shouts, grabbing the alcohol bottle off of the floor, pointing it at Alastor. “You’ve seen what I can do- I’ll do it to you too!”
“Oh go ahead, I’m not afraid of death,” Alastor laughs, a nostalgic sparkle in his eyes. “I know what awaits me.”
That makes Vincent go still. He slowly puts down the bottle. “Are you-“ he starts, hand brushing his thigh before he tenses and grits his teeth. “Just- shut the fuck up and get out of here.”
”Oh alright,” Alastor sighs, turning on his heel. “But at least cover that body with some trash sacks. Make the time of death more uncertain.”
Vincent is speechless as Alastor leaves, but he doesn’t say a word about it. He covers the body in some trash sacks, and he ensures no one sees him as he runs home for real.
When the company hosts a memorial, Vincent, the new weather man, gets a genuine smile from Alastor.
And immediately suppresses the feeling he gets from it.
But maybe the new radio host isn’t so bad.