#Retry!R | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bapple117 · 6 months ago

Text

File Not Found a radiostatic one-shot - AO3 link

Vox x Alastor (Unrelated to my main radiostatic series)

Minor angst, fluff, romance

During a system update, something goes awry for Vox and the update messes up, reverting his memories back to ones he'd saved from 1976... back from when he and Alastor had still been friends and partners in crime.

Confused and scared in a Hell he doesn't recognise, Vox searches out for the one familiar presence he knows will always be there - his old friend, his mentor, the Radio Demon.

6k words

(thank you @impale-me-radio-daddy for the guidance and inspo on how to format this nicely, ily)

The afternoon that Vox finally decides to relent to the ceaseless, nagging notification buzzing in his head daily - system update ready - happens to be a pretty dreary one. Rain falls lightly from the inexplicable skies of Hell; frail little drops that pitter-patter against the sleek windows of the Vee’s building, smearing like tears on the glossed glass.

Vox has been putting off the update for about a week, groaning every time the reminder pops up; remind me again tomorrow, he opts for, waving off the alert with an impatient hand gesture. Vox has better things to be doing. Spending an hour sitting static, plugged into the mainframe, waiting for files to finish installing - it feels as tedious as it sounds.

But then, Vox stumbles upon this day; this sleepy, rainy Sunday afternoon, with nothing much on his schedule and no-one around to play with. Valentino is off filming; Velvette is at some conference, of all things. Vox finds himself milling about in the lounge, reclining on the sofa, dangling his leg in a fidget as he scrolls through his phone.

The alert strikes again.

System update ready! Initiate now?

“Ugh, fine,” Vox sighs out, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get this out of the way, then, shall we?”

Staggering sluggishly into his control room, Vox flicks a few switches to boot systems up and then scrambles around, looking for the right cables. He mutters to himself; hushed, irritated mumbles of nothings and curses as he sorts through the mess on his desk.

The alert bleeps at him noisily, again.

“Yeah! Yeah,” Vox says, his annoyance and exasperation tinging his voice with a sharp edge. “I’m fuckin’ going as fast as I fucking can, just fuckin’…”

Vox’s narrow fingers land, finally, on the correct set of cables; he snorts to himself in victory. There we fuckin’ go. Settling into this chair, the Television Demon snaps the cable attachments into the back of his head, feeling an immediate surge of tingling power and connectivity in his nerves.

“Alright, initiate mainframe interaction,” Vox says aloud, to no one but himself and his interface. “Update install, authorisation granted.”

An option pops up on Vox’s screen, and he can see it in his mind, too; allow system override?

“Uhhh, fuck, I forgot what that does,” Vox says, weary. “Let me get more info on that.”

System override will enter you into stasis. The system will commence the update and will automatically authorise any necessary backup installations should any errors occ-

Vox waves away the information screen, scoffing.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” He says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, blah blah blah. I haven’t needed to restore from fuckin’ backup in ages, who gives a shit. I could do with a nap anyway, so. Let’s fuckin’ go.”

Vox authorises control of the update over to the system AI, and the initiating process slips him into a deep but comfortable sleep-state.

Initialising…

Preparing to install…

Update installing…

….

Update unable to complete. Retry?

/ AUTHORISE RETRY: YES (SYSTEM proc)

….

ERROR

error

—

Restoring from backup

….

r e s t o r i n g …

Vox wakes, unsure as to why he was even asleep in the first place; his eyes open and reveal to him an unfamiliar space. What the fuck? He looks around, startled, confronted with a legion of strange screens and devices that he doesn’t recognise.

Standing, stumbling, Vox lists forward and something prevents him from moving; cables, latching on to him like the gripping tentacles of some great beast. Grunting in confusion, Vox yanks at these, pulling them out of his head; his head… It’s… flat.

Vox feels at his own face, fingers frantic and seeking a familiarity that he does not find. His own head is alien to him, thinner and flatter than he’s ever had it before. The TV Demon steps forward and peers into the reflective surface of one of the blacked-out screens before him, catching a foggy view of himself; a face he only half-recognises peers back at him, its expression alarmed.

What the fuck is going on?!

Vox trudges through his memory in an attempt to figure out what he last recalls; after all, perhaps he got drunk and ended up… here, wherever this is, and he simply doesn’t remember… Yes. That’s the likely option, although he supposes that doesn’t account for the new face, so…

Okay, okay. Stay calm.

Something in the mass of strange technology in front of him bleeps some kind of alert, and Vox jumps; with wide eyes and a heaving chest, Vox looks around for the source. A notification, blinking on the smallest screen on the console table. New message. Vox lifts this device, peering at it; from what he can tell it seems to be some sort of small, handheld television. Disregarding this, Vox places the strange gadget back down, gingerly.

This isn’t his home, after all; wherever he’s managed to get himself, he needs to get out, as fast as possible, before the owner shows up. Another screen amongst the larger ones has a wall of text; curious, Vox gives this a quick glance.

Update was unable to install: reason, unknown

System was unable to restore from backup: reason, backup not created

System created custom backup made from uploaded / offloaded memories

Date of most recently uploaded memory: 1976

Memory backup install: complete

“What the…” Vox’s eyes dart quickly as he rescans this information repeatedly. “1976, but… But that’s now…”

A quick look at the bottom of the screen would happen to reveal information to quite the contrary; according to these devices, the year is actually almost fifty years later.

“You gotta be fuckin’…” Vox’s words catch in his throat as a strange, disquieting feeling of nostalgia mixed with déjà vu washes over him like a cold dread.

No. No. This can’t be happening; he has somehow time travelled? To the future? No; this can’t be possible - Vox assumes he is merely dreaming.

When the Television Demon attempts to escape the strange labyrinth of a building he is in, he’s met with images of the bizarre new face he seems to have, plastered in every corner. Posters. Cut-outs. Advertisements of all kinds; it is overwhelming. Breathing heavily and feeling like he might be going insane, Vox looks for an exit in the bottom lobby of the building. A small, nervous-looking demon approaches him, its hands trembling around a thin, flat device.

“Uhh, Mr Vox, sir?” The demon asks. “Can, I, uh, just get you to si-“

“What year is it?” Vox says to the demon, urgently. “And how the fuck do I get out of here?”

“What… uh, what year, is it, sir?” The demon asks, perplexed.

“Ah, fuck it,” Vox says, distracted by a sudden glimpse of the way out.

On the streets of Hell, the nightmare continues; the city is a pulsating, noisy blur of lights and neon and voices, so many voices, all chattering together. Sinners walk down the sidewalks, gazes glued to devices in their hands, despite the dappling rain drops that paint every surface. Vox careers around, unsure who to talk to or what to even say - what does one say, when they believe they’ve woken up in the body of their future self?

There’s only one demon Vox seeks, now; his oldest, truest friend. The one he knows will have the answers.

His trustworthy, ever-reliable mentor; the Radio Demon.

Alastor sits in the lounge of the Hazbin Hotel, a mug of coffee in his hand and a headache throbbing in his skull. The cohort of the hotel squawk together in delight over some ridiculous new something-or-other on Angel’s phone, and Alastor has had enough. Eye twitching, he focusses instead - for once - on the television set which has been left to run idly in the background.

The Radio Demon would never normally give the confounded television any time of day, but something catches his eye - a report, an urgent report.

CEO of VoxTek Enterprises Missing For Several Days In Unusual Disappearance

Alastor’s eyes narrow as he takes this information on board; he lets it roll around in his mind like a weighty marble, occasionally bumping into spongy feelings. Amusement, at his rival’s misfortune. Indifference, at the consequences it poses. Satisfaction. Victory.

But there is curiosity, there, too; and something else. Something deeper. Something that sits embedded within Alastor, a left over remnant from all the decades he and Vox had been the closest of allies.

Concern.

A part of him, even now, festers for Vox - worries about his whereabouts, at this revealing of his disappearance. Where in Hell is he? What is he doing? Is he plotting, or has he perished? Alastor does not know, and the lack of knowing bothers him so wholly that he cannot help but meddle. Without uttering a word, Alastor releases his shadow, commanding it as if it is a scent hound, given only one purpose; find Vox, and tell me where he is. Alastor’s shadow slips out, unseen by anyone, and is gone. Out the door. Out, into Hell; searching.

Vox has been in a state of deranged hiding for several days. The Hell he knows from his own time has warped and shifted, and is rendered unfamiliar and unforgiving to him, now. Having come to terms with his reality, somewhat - that he has been displaced in time, somehow - Vox had attempted to seek out Alastor in locations he knew would be likely haunts.

He had even shown up to where he’d known Alastor - at least in his time - lived, a shoddy apartment in a dodgier end of the city. The hunt was fruitless; Alastor was nowhere to be seen. Desperately seeking the comforting face of his dearest friend but only finding his own face littered on every street corner billboard, Vox grew manic. Unused to the level of notoriety he clearly has in this reality - he cannot step a yard without some sinner approaching him, apparently - Vox sought out the one corner of the Pride Ring he knew would never change.

And so, Vox has been seeking refuge in the blissfully familiar and thankfully never-evolving Cannibal Town. A place he knows that Alastor himself regularly frequents, and yet… Vox hasn’t even had so much of a glimpse of the red-coated Radio Demon.

With nowhere to go and no friendly strangers offering assistance, Vox is alone, and afraid. He feels pathetic. He sits in an alleyway, avoiding the hungry gazes of cannibals, clutching at himself, fighting back tears. Vox hates himself for feeling so weak, for sinking this low. The version of himself that had grinned so smugly back at him from posters and strange, glowing screens had looked so self-assured and confident. Is that who he is, in the future? Vox feels like he might be going mad.

“Well, this is a sorry state of affairs, don’t you think?”

Vox’s flat head whips up; Alastor is there, before him, standing prim and proper as usual, staff clasped behind his back. Oh, what a sight for sore eyes he is - Vox is immediately cheered, a grateful grin spreading across his screen, his soul feeling lifted.

“Al!” Vox exclaims, rushing to stand. “Oh thank fuck, I’ve been looking all over for you, something fuckin’ insane is happen-“

Alastor steps backwards, repulsed, as Vox attempts to get closer. There is clear disdain and mistrust in his red eyes, and Vox feels a blade of confusion and hurt stab him somewhere.

“Al, it’s me,” Vox says, laughing nervously. “It’s me, Vox?”

“I know who you are,” Alastor says, slowly. “Well, I just came to see for myself if the rumours were true, that you’ve fallen to rock bottom, and here you are! Quite the show, old pal, now, I will be getting on my way-“

“No, Al,” Vox says, tone despairing. “Please, you gotta help me, something is… Look, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, okay? I went to your apartment, but someone else fucking lives there now, I don’t fuckin’-“

“Which apartment?” Alastor says, raising an eyebrow. Curious, despite himself.

“The one in fuckin’ Dodge,” Vox says.

“I haven’t lived there in decades,” Alastor huffs, unamused; he turns away.

“No! Look, Al, please,” Vox says, grabbing Alastor’s arm; Alastor’s furious eyes burn at the sight of Vox’s claws clutching him. “This is what I’m trying to tell you. Something has happened to me, I’m not the me you know, uhh, right now…”

Alastor is clearly affronted, vexed beyond comprehension; but he hesitates, and doesn’t flee. His pupils glide over Vox’s screen in frantic movement, seeking understanding. What has gotten IN to him? All he finds in Vox’s expression is sadness, fear and hope.

“Something has happened to me, Al,” Vox says, loosening his grip a little. “One moment I’m there, 1976, we’d just done the Edsharp job, right, remember that? Anyway, the next moment, I wake up, and I’m fucking here.”

Laughing; Alastor is laughing. Vox is bewildered, heart sinking; Alastor brushes Vox’s hand off from his coat sleeve, then smooths the fabric down. After he is done letting out his stream of wry cackles, Alastor exhales out a mockingly contented sigh.

“Very good, Vox, old pal!” Alastor says, brightly. “Deeply entertaining, I must say! I suppose you expect me to believe you have forgotten all that has passed between us? My, my, Vox! You should know better than any that I know a performance when I see one.”

“What?!” Vox breathes out, exasperated. “Al, no! I need you, I need your help right now, I have no fucking idea what’s going on. I mean, my fucking face is everywhere and it’s driving me crazy!”

“Well,” Alastor says, inspecting his claws. “We agree on one thing, at least.”

Something drips in the background of the alleyway; a leak in a water pipe, perhaps. Vox blinks, confounded and not understanding why his dearest friend isn’t listening to him - or even willing to look at him.

“Look,” Vox says, trying to compose himself. “I know it sounds insane, Al, okay? But I’ve fuckin’… I’ve time travelled some how, and I dunno what the FUCK is going on. Like I said, the last thing I remember is being in 1976, doing the Edsharp job, with you, and then I woke up here in this body with this crazy thin head, and I couldn’t fuckin’ find you, and… Al! Please!”

Alastor is walking away, having heard enough; this is some ploy of Vox’s, clearly, he thinks. His bruised heart has no energy for it. It is a cruel joke, a game that Vox is tricking him with, and Alastor wants no part in it.

“Alastor!” Vox cries out, desperate. “You said you’d never let me down! You said you’d always be there for me! Don’t you remember?”

Alastor stops, his blood feeling thin and cold in his veins; flashes of his own memories bully their way into his mind. Flashes of the friendship he’d once treasured; Vox, his old boxy head. Smiles. Drinks. Jobs. Dances. It’s all still there.

“You’re the only one who can help me,” Vox says, sounding hopelessly dejected. ��You gotta believe me, Al, please. I’m so fucking scared right now, I don’t know what the fuck to do. Please.”

Turning on his heel, Alastor isn’t sure what compels him to do so, but he decides to humour the moment. Alastor analyses the micro movements and changes in Vox’s expression, observing carefully, and he opts to test the waters for a reaction.

“Can’t you speak to Velvette? Or Valentino, perhaps?” Alastor asks, the names tasting like bitter filth in his mouth.

“Al,” Vox says, squinting in clear confusion. “Who the fuck are they? You just making up fucking names now, or what?”

It hits Alastor like a brick wall to the face; Vox is telling the truth. He truly doesn’t remember, and here is a version of Vox who still adores him, plucked straight from the past. It makes no sense, but then, things rarely do make sense, in Hell. Alastor’s intrigue overrides his suspicion, and so, he relents.

“Fine,” Alastor says. “Come with me. I still keep a private dwelling, fairly close to here, actually. Come along, then.”

Around a dining room table, two Overlords sit; a stiff drink in hand for both, and an awkward silence drifting between them. Alastor is still on edge, guarded and tensely watching Vox with keen circumspection. Vox is exhausted, ragged-looking and slumping in his seat. His clothes are mussed and the creasing lines around his on-screen eyes seem to deepen with each moment that passes.

The TV Demon looks up at Alastor then, and the shrewdly evident dislike in Alastor’s gaze tells Vox a story he does not want to accept. Something has happened between them, in the years he no longer remembers.

“What went wrong?” Vox asks, suddenly. Alastor’s grin is unfaltering but his left ear flicks, twice.

“That’s a rather big question,” Alastor muses, wry. “And not one I’m sure I am qualified to answer.”

“No, not everything,” Vox says, sighing. “But what happened… between us?”

Alastor lets out a short huffing sound, looking away; his grip around his whiskey glass tightens. His expression darkens, his frown evident in all but his smile. Alastor feels an internal conflict pulling at him, wondering how much he should say; his eyes flicker around the room as he contemplates. Vox observes this, worried. Eventually, Alastor lets out a long exhale, and shrugs.

“We fell out,” he says, simply.

Vox is immediately distraught, his mouth opening and staying open in a slackened shape of clear upset.

“You and me? We fell out?”

“Yes, that is what I said,” Alastor snaps, the topic clearly sore. “We don’t speak anymore, save for the odd spat over the airwaves.”

“Al, what?” Vox asks, sounding pained. “We don’t fuckin’ speak anymore? But you’re my best friend!”

Vox reaches out, his claws seeking Alastor; they rest on Alastor’s arm, and the Radio Demon flinches immediately, withdrawing his arm with a snarl, his whole body tensing. Alastor’s eyes blacken, his ears are flat against his head. There’s a crackle of screeching radio feedback.

Alastor stands, feeling an ocean of thrashing emotions pulsing through him; it is too much for him to try and grapple with. The sight of Vox’s distress is making him feel unwell, which infuriates him, and the whole ordeal feels deeply unwanted.

“I will allow you to stay here until your memories return,” Alastor says, speaking quickly. “Other than that, I wish to have nothing to do with you, do you understand?”

“Al, I-“

“Goodbye, Vox, old pal,” Alastor says, and then he is gone.

Despite this, Alastor does visit the apartment again. And again. And again. And again.

The first time Alastor visits is caused by some wretched bit of gnawing curiosity that itches within his skull and will not leave him. It refuses to be satiated by simply sending his shadow out for reconnaissance; Alastor must see things for himself.

When Alastor appears in the apartment at some early hour in the morning, Vox is asleep on the sofa. Inspecting the bedroom, Alastor can tell Vox has left the bed entirely untouched. Has he been avoiding it? As what, some gesture of politeness?

Alastor rolls his eyes, and readies to leave again; but then, something stops him. He stares at the television demon, sprawled and snoring on the sofa. Vox is too tall for it, really; his legs dangle over the edge and one of his hands drags on the floor. His screen is off, black as night, but Alastor can hear the sound of his soft breathing.

The Radio Demon stares with brazen intensity. The thought of having a chance to converse with a version of Vox who still loves him is deeply tempting, Alastor has to admit; the Vox he knows now wants him dead. But this Vox - whatever has happened to him - doesn’t seem to recall any of that bitterness or hatred at all. Alastor finds himself feeling an odd sense of longing for his oldest friend.

Ridiculous.

Alastor leaves like a thief in the night, cursing his own pathetic sentimentality, and Vox is none the wiser.

The second visit, Alastor shows up to the apartment rationalising it to himself as a mistake - a misjudged bit of teleportation, or his shadow acting up, perhaps. Vox, reading in an armchair in the living room, hears a sound from the kitchen; slapping the book shut, he stands, wary, and approaches the kitchen doorway. Vox prepares himself for an intruder, but on seeing it’s just Alastor, he is delighted.

“Al!”

Alastor tenses, immediately; to hear his own name said so joyfully in Vox’s voice is both a tonic and a dagger to his heart. His lip curls above his toothy grin, but Vox is undisturbed.

“I’m so glad you came back, Al,” Vox says, grinning, his hands on his hips. “I’ve been wanting to-“

“I came purely to make sure you have all that you need, I assume you are not leaving here much,” Alastor says, haughtily. “Can’t let you starve now, can I? Although that would be rather amusing…”

“I can conjure stuff, I’m fine,” Vox says, his smile twitching upwards on one side. “Turns out future me has a lot more powers now, which is, uh, cool, I guess.”

Alastor rolls his eyes; Vox doesn’t let it discourage him.

“Wontcha sit with me for a bit?” He tries, screen beaming. “I wanna know more about what I’ve missed. Y’know. The years I didn’t see, or, whatever.”

Vox is left wanting, though; Alastor has reached about as much as he can tolerate, and disappears, without a word.

The third time Alastor appears in the apartment, Vox chooses not to make a big deal out of it. Instead, he simply stays where he’s sat, reading again; not his first choice of pastime, but Alastor doesn’t own a television and so there isn’t much else to do. Alastor stands, staring at Vox for a while, saying nothing. Eventually, Vox looks up from his page, frowning.

“You just gonna stand there, or…?”

“What year did you say you last recall?” Alastor says, bluntly.

“1976,” Vox says. “That’s the last thing I know. I know, uh… I know time has passed, Al, but I don’t have any memory of it, at all.”

“Hrmm,” Alastor vocalises, turning his staff in his hand. “I suspect something has gone faulty with your frivolous technology.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Come here,” Alastor says.

“What?”

“I said, come here.”

Standing, Vox paces over to Alastor, unsure as to where this is going. Alastor moves, too, closing the distance between them. Faces so near together that Vox can almost feel Alastor’s exhales, Alastor pinches at Vox’s screen with his claws, turning his head this way and that. Alastor is still tense, but he’s also really looking, his gaze washing over Vox with fixed intent.

Vox’s pulse beats hotly in his veins, adrenaline flooding him; he is silent, stunned and frozen into place. Alastor’s eyes are all over him.

“I see no injury on you,” Alastor says, and he removes his hand; his fingers flex, feeling burned by the touch. Not entirely unpleasantly.

“No, uh. I’m not hurt, no,” Vox says, dazed.

“That makes one of us, then,” Alastor mutters, looking privately forlorn, his gaze diverted.

“Al,” Vox says, his tone gentle but pleading. “What happened? Between us, I mean? I can tell things aren’t like before, but… I fuckin’ hate that you can hardly even look at me.”

Vox reaches out a hand, meaning for it to come to Alastor’s cheek; before it can reach its goal, Alastor is gone. Lost to shadow. Vox stands alone once more.

Fuck.

The fourth visit of Alastor’s, Vox is prepared. Having magicked a bottle of rye - a brand he knows Alastor cannot refuse, his favourite - Vox has also dug through Alastor’s record collection to find the recordings he knows Alastor derives the most pleasure from. Knowing Alastor as well as he does, Vox manages to predict the timing of the next visit with impeccable accuracy; Alastor shows up, right on cue, one languid Sunday afternoon.

Can he resist a glass of whiskey? No, he can’t; neither can he resist another two after, either. Soon the two demons are tipsy together, sat on the living room floor, jazz spilling out in warm, woody tones around them.

As Vox had hoped, the truth comes out; the details of their conflict tumble out of Alastor like liquid poured from a bottle. How Vox had changed. How he had built his empire. How he had wanted Alastor to join him - had pushed it, hard, and had spoiled things. It’s a one-sided account, of course, tinged with Alastor’s bias and resentment and hurt; Vox feels guiltily to blame, anyhow.

“Gee, I’m sorry, Al,” Vox says, staring at the glass in his hand. “Future me sounds like a fuckin’ asshole.”

“Mmmm,” Alastor hums, briefly raising his eyebrows in wry acknowledgement. “I’ll say.”

“Well, he’s not me, Al,” Vox tries, clearly inebriated. “I mean, he was, or, I will be… I mean, that guy, he’s not in me right now, or I mean, I guess he is-“

Alastor is laughing, and Vox’s world feels like it will continue to spin, finally; Alastor’s laughter is the most glorious sound he could hope to hear. Vox grins giddily like an idiot, overjoyed.

“I forgot how entertaining you can be,” Alastor says, smirking. “Mmm. I suppose a part of me has… missed this, if I dig deep enough.”

There is truth in Alastor’s words, and this is evidenced by how frequent his visits to the apartment become; soon, Alastor is visiting every other evening. He stays for hours at a time, occasionally bringing things - old newspapers, ground coffee, cartons of cigarettes.

Vox catches up on years of history as best he can through the newspapers, but he struggles to really comprehend it. It’s all too much; all he really wants to focus on is the comforting familiarity of Alastor.

And, he does; they focus on each other, wholly now. Alastor lets his guard down somewhere around the eleventh visit. Each time Alastor materialises, Vox is ready for him with smiles and greetings. Alastor feels warmed by it; Vox’s adoring attention is addicting. They play cards, they listen to jazz, they talk.

One evening, Alastor attempts to teach Vox how to play chess. Vox, frustrated at struggling to grasp it, ends the game early, groaning. By the nineteenth visit, they can play a full game together. Alastor always wins, of course, but Vox enjoys it anyway. Any time spent together is a gift to him, bored and cooped up in the apartment as he is.

Eventually, Alastor speaks aloud what both demons know to be true; that Vox cannot hideout forever. Vox lets out a petulant moan, his mouth full; they are eating together at the dinner table, something delicious and divinely creamy that Alastor has made, all thinly sliced potatoes and copious butter. Alastor sips his glass of red wine and observes Vox carefully.

“I know,” Vox says, begrudgingly. “But can we just, y’know. Not think about the future for now?”

“How very unlike you,” Alastor quips, smirking. “But fine by me. You can stay here for as long as you like. Let the rest of Hell panic over your absence, for all I care. What a ruckus they’ve made.”

“I’m not ready to face it, Al,” Vox shakes his head, prodding his food with his fork. “I don’t know this life that my future self has, I don’t know about any of the things you’ve told me he’s done or the demons he runs with. I don’t want any of it, I just want…”

“This?” Alastor offers, coyly. “Us?”

“…Yeah,” Vox breathes out, nodding.

“Then you shall have it,” Alastor smiles, sincerely. “For as long as you want. Or, until your memories return, in which case I shall be very sorry to see you go.”

“Pfff,” Vox scoffs. “I won’t forget this, I won’t forget you, Al.”

“We shall see,” Alastor says, mostly to himself; he swirls the wine in his glass, and tries to ignore the strange sense of urgency building in his gut.

Several weeks pass. Vox is kept like a willing cockatiel in its cage; waiting, always, for Alastor to visit. And Alastor does visit, as often as he can. Excuses given to Charlie range from believable to the absurd - oh, I have some business to attend to! A lesser-known demon requires my help on the other end of town. Oh, I thought about going to get a new hairstyle!

No one in the Hazbin Hotel thinks to correlate Alastor’s strange behaviour and absences with the decreasingly reported-on disappearance of Vox, the CEO of VoxTek; truthfully, no one gives a shit what Alastor gets up to in his free time. No one bats an eye.

Alastor has been generous, too, supplying Vox with all kinds of pleasantries; clothes he might like to wear, new books to read, new records to listen to. A functioning radio. A well-stocked fridge. Vox isn’t sure if it’s a case of slight Stockholm syndrome, or what, but he finds himself not really minding being the Radio Demon’s secret pet.

Vox is attempting to play a game of chess with himself when Alastor arrives; the sleeves of a soft sweater rolled up on his arms, and his tongue stuck out in concentration as he moves the pieces on the board. He’s been playing white, imagining the black side as Alastor, trying to predict how Alastor would play. The Radio Demon figures this out immediately when he glances over, and he grins wide.

“I’d never make that move,” Alastor says, sitting down without hesitation to join Vox at the chess table. “You’ve done this all wrong, Vox, honestly. Do you really think I’d-“

“Hey,” Vox smiles, eyes soft. “How was your day?”

“Urgh,” Alastor sighs, running his hands through his hair. “Exhausting. More bonding activities, wouldn’t you know it. I grow weary of it, Vox, truly. Makes me want to go out and kill things.”

Vox laughs, resetting the chess board by placing the pieces back in their usual homes. Alastor slips off his coat, letting his shadow take it from him and hang it up.

“Do you remember that loan shark mob, down at Ricky’s?” Vox asks, his smile mischievous. “You swallowed almost all of them whole. Remember that?”

“Oh! Yes, like it was yesterday,” Alastor nods, amused.

“It kinda was, for me,” Vox deadpans, shrugging. “’75, that was. I’m surprised you remember it still.”

Alastor pauses; there is a real reason he remembers that particular occasion, but he does not voice it. Still, the memory echoes in his mind; how Vox hadn’t been able to shut up about it afterwards, exclaiming praises and admiration for Alastor, how in awe he’d been at such a display of power. Alastor has never forgotten that feeling. How it feels to be accepted, fully, even the ugliest, most monstrous parts of himself; something Vox always did.

Later, before Alastor leaves, there is a moment. An important moment, one that weighs heavily on their minds for the next few days, after. As Alastor puts his coat back on, telling Vox about how he may not be able to visit for a little while, Vox stops Alastor with a hand on his arm.

Freezing, Alastor looks up; Vox leans forward, and kisses Alastor. Quickly, chastely, just a peck - warm, buzzing screen meeting cool, dry lips. Vox isn’t sure what drives him to do it - beyond the fact he’s been in love with Alastor his entire fucking damnation, of course - and he regrets it immediately, dreading Alastor’s reaction.

Vox pulls back, avoiding Alastor’s eyes. Alastor is reeling, wide eyed, his smile a faint, taut line; but he places his claws at the base of Vox’s screen, lifting, making Vox look at him. Vox’s expression is full of anguish. Alastor smiles, genuinely, and brushes his thumb over the base of Vox’s screen.

“Give me a little time,” Alastor says, quietly. “I need to digest this. I will return.”

“Al, I’m so sor-“

“This isn’t a rejection,” Alastor says, kindly. “I just need to collect my thoughts on the matter. I’ll be back just as soon as I can be, alright?”

“O-okay,” Vox breathes out.

Alastor doesn’t visit again for a week.

Vox feels like he might go mad; he paces the apartment, overthinking and worrying, wondering if perhaps it would be better if he regains his memories, so he can simply move on with his life. Alastor had said it wasn’t a rejection, but where is he now? Vox has been alone for days, left ruminating, trapped in this prison of his own choosing.

Another evening with no sign of Alastor appears to be drawing to a close, and Vox readies for sleep, pulling off his sweater; but then there is a noise, and Vox knows Alastor has come. Breathing heavily, dressed only in his slacks, Vox pokes his head out of the bathroom doorway.

Alastor is there, looking like a lost child, his pupils blown out and his hands wringing; he turns, and sees Vox, and their hearts connect silently. There is a palpable energy, and Alastor’s chest is heaving.

“Alastor,” Vox starts, his voice a whisper.

“Promise me,” Alastor says, his words ragged as he tries to still his breathing. “Promise me you won’t ever remember.”

Vox’s entire nervous system feels rigid with the tension of the moment; he swallows, a myriad of promises he could make swimming through his mind, none of them breaching the air. He lets out a shy laugh, not knowing what to say. Alastor walks over to him, slowly, looking like a startled animal; he eyes Vox’s bare chest. Vox’s deep blue skin is freckled with scars, some of which Alastor knows he will have no memory of gaining.

“Al, you know I have no control over-“

“Promise me,” Alastor says, sounding desperate. “If you remember, it will all be spoiled, Vox. I can’t… I can’t… I don’t know why I want this, but I do, I do-“

Alastor’s words are halted as Vox rushes into him, pushing him against the wall, the heat of their bodies combining as they are pressed together, and then they are kissing, and it is the only thing either of them wants to feel, ever again. Moaning into each other’s mouths, hands grabbing and frantic, tongues colliding hungrily; the two demons hold each other, craving further and deeper closeness. When Vox pulls back, panting and breathless, Alastor lets out a needy sound of longing.

“I l-love you, Al,” Vox breathes out, stroking at Alastor’s face. “I’ve loved you, for a really, really long fuckin’ time. And if this is a second chance, or, or-“

“I have fallen,” Alastor manages, gasping somewhat. “Also.”

“Wha-what?”

“I, too,” Alastor’s words shudder out of him; his voice is nought but a whisper. “I don’t understand it, but… I suppose a part of me always did, deep down, but, I…”

“You… You love me?” Vox says, hardly daring to believe it.

“Yes,” Alastor says, his grip on Vox’s arms tightening. “And if this is to be a second chance, then I shan’t let it go to waste. I know what the other side of losing this looks like, and I won’t let it happen again.”

Vox laughs, his heart filling with exhilaration, and Alastor laughs with him, still breathless. They kiss, again; and it is the sweetest taste either of them has ever savoured.

“I think me losing my memory might be the best thing that ever happened to me, huh?” Vox jokes, his whole body feeling flushed with love and joy.

Neither demon knows what the future holds; how they will proceed, how Vox will live his life. Alastor has some ideas, but truly, neither of them care, in this moment. They have found each other again, against all the odds, and have truly found each other, deeply this time. The Radio Demon has finally fallen in love back, not even understanding how; but not all questions need answers.

“Yes, Vox, old pal,” Alastor grins. “I think we happen to be in agreement, on this one.”

The faults of technology have saved them, and neither Vox nor Alastor could be any more grateful. Memories lost, a friendship restored, a love created.

Perhaps, in the end, it was the best system update Vox has ever received.

#radiostatic #radiostatic one shot #bapple writes #voxal #vox x alastor #alastor x vox #staticlovetune #staticradio #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin fanfiction #voxal one shot #vox hazbin #alastor hazbin #memory loss #radiostatic fanfiction #radiostatic fanfic #radiostatic fluff #radiostatic angst #mutual radiostatic

84 notes · View notes