A short radiostatic fic where Alastor and Vox is in the same timeline they were alive.
Alastor straightened his tie for what felt like the thousandth time, though he doubted it made a difference. His hands clutched the stack of portfolio papers like they were life preservers, proof that he had worked, studied, planned… all of it ignored by the room full of white men with too-wide smiles.
“So,” he said, voice steady, polite, “that’s why I think you should hire me. I have experience in broadcasting, in voice work, and I believe I could bring… a lot to your station.”
The men exchanged glances, slow and condescending. “You have potential,” one said, voice syrupy, like molasses dripping over grit, “but social jobs… well, they’re not really suited for people like you.”
Alastor’s jaw twitched, just barely. He forced a polite smile. “I see. Thank you for your consideration,” he said evenly, hiding the twitching. “Would you like me to—”
The office door burst open with a force that made papers leap. A sharp scent of expensive cologne followed a man barreling in, glasses slipping down his nose, elbows swinging with a precision that demanded attention.
“GET OUT OF MY WAY! OUT!”
Alastor blinked, startled, but the white men seemed more shocked than he was. The newcomer ignored their protests, eyes locking onto him like he’d just stumbled upon a hidden treasure.
“MR. ALASTOR! MR. ALASTOR! OH MY GOD, IT’S SUCH AN HONOR TO MEET YOU!” The man practically vibrated with excitement. “Your voice—it’s even better in real life!”
The dude was basically hyperventilating at this point.
Alastor raised an eyebrow, polite but cautious. “Excuse me, sir, but who are—”
“They aren’t important!” the man waved them off like they were flies. “I’m Vincent Whittman! Vincent Whittman!” He extended a hand so fast it nearly knocked Alastor over. “Listen, I–well, I work… I work in err.. business, media, you name it, and I need your voice, Mr. Alastor. Your talent, on the airwaves, to spread… my message. People will listen. People will follow the right path!”
Alastor blinked, subtly studying him, polite but skeptical. “The… right path?” he said carefully, fingers brushing the edge of his papers. “Hmm and what exactly does this path involve, Mr. Whittman?”
Vincent grinned, a little too wide, eyes glinting with excitement. “Oh, it’s everything good, Mr. Alastor. Hope, guidance… salvation. People want direction, and with you, with your voice, they’ll hear it. They’ll feel it. And you—you’ll help me make it reach them.”
“Some people call me a teacher or a shepherd ! ”
Alastor’s mind raced quietly. First time a white man actually offered me something… sounds like a cult. But who am I to judge really? He leaned back slightly, polite smile intact. But he looks… wealthy. Influential. Not racist. Big bucks, fame… why not?
He cleared his throat softly. “I see. And you believe I am… suited for this? That I can reach these people?”
Vincent practically bounced in place. “Absolutely! Your voice has charm, authority… charisma! People listen because you make them want to. Imagine, Mr. Alastor, you could be heard across the city! Across the state! I’ll MAKE sure the right people hear you!”
Alastor smiled, carefully, hiding the thrill that threatened to leak out. Polite, calculating, thinking of every angle. “It is… an interesting proposal.” he said, voice soft, polite. “And of course, I must ask about the… ethics of this endeavor. Surely you are not misleading anyone? No… deception?”
Vincent waved a hand, too quickly, almost like brushing away the question. “Oh no, no, nothing like that! Just guidance, just encouragement, showing people the right way. That’s all, Mr. Alastor. With you? We could reach more people than anyone else. BESIDES. The last thing I wanna do is spread misinformation! ”
Alastor’s lips twitched into a grin that might have been friendly if it weren’t sharp. He tapped the corner of his papers lightly. “Very well, Mr. Whittman. I will… lend my voice. Let us see where this right path leads.”
Vincent nearly collided with the furniture in his excitement. “Yes! Yes! You won’t regret this, Mr. Alastor! People will listen. They’ll follow! And you’ll be famous—heard, respected.. just as you deserve!”
Alastor tilted his head slightly, polite, measured, already plotting how much of this man’s influence he could exploit without losing himself.
Vincent practically bounced in place, eyes bright, hand extended like he was about to crown Alastor king of the world. “So… What– what do you say?? Is it a deal? Are we really doing this?”
Alastor adjusted his papers, keeping his smile polite, measured. “Yes,” he said softly, voice smooth, careful. “It seems… mutually beneficial.”
Vincent’s grin widened, and he leaned forward, grasping Alastor’s hand like he was holding a rare artifact. “Excellent! Wonderful! You won’t regret this, I promise. People are going to hear you , feel you—everywhere!”
Alastor’s fingers curled around Vincent’s briefly, firm but controlled. He studied the man for a heartbeat, polite, calculating. First white man to offer me something worthwhile… not racist… probably rich… sounds like a cult… hmm.
“Very well,” Alastor said, releasing his hand smoothly. “It’s a deal.” His smile stayed, polite, unreadable.
Vincent’s excitement practically vibrated through the room. “Yes! Finally! We’re going to do great things, Mr. Alastor! Just… you’ll see!”
Alastor nodded, sliding his papers under his arm, mind already racing with possibilities, calculations, and the faint thrill of power. Who am I to pass up an opportunity like this?
Tomorrow happens. First day of work.
Alastor arrived at the studio a few minutes early, posture perfect, tie straight, papers neatly stacked under his arm. He looked around the spacious room, which was far nicer than he’d expected. The polished wooden panels, the shiny microphone stands, the soundproofing panels that made it feelprofessional.Vincent clearly didn’t cut corners. He crossed his legs and adjusted his cufflinks, glancing at the clock.
Of course. He thought, he probably tricked me with all that talk about influence and opportunity. I’ll be waiting here all day while he’s off somewhere, pretending he’s a visionary.
And yet, when Vincent finally walked in, a little flustered but smiling, Alastor caught himself off guard. The man’s presence was commanding yet oddly familiar, and before Alastor could even extend a polite greeting, Vincent’s hands were on his shoulders, patting lightly, almost approvingly.
“Ah, Mr. Alastor! You look… impeccable, as always,” Vincent said, his voice warm, vibrant. “I’m so sorry I’m a touch late. Traffic was horrible this morning.”
“I assumed this might be a test of patience.”
Vincent grinned, brushing a hand over Alastor’s arm almost unconsciously. “Patience is a virtue, yes, but I assure you, I would never intentionally waste the time of someone with your… talent. You are far too valuable for that.”
Alastor lifted a brow, letting a faint smirk creep across his face. Touchy, but careful. Observant. Slightly overzealous… very human.. “It’s quite all right, Mr. Whittman. Shall we proceed?”
Vincent’s hands lingered for a moment longer, brushing subtly as he gestured toward the main broadcasting desk. “Absolutely! Let’s get you on the airwaves. You’re going to sound divine, I promise.”
Alastor stepped in, settling behind the microphone, papers spread neatly before him. Vincent moved to the controls, leaning close enough that Alastor could see the faint crease in his brow as he adjusted knobs and sliders. “I’ve prepared a few scripts,” Vincent said, voice eager but smooth. “Of course, your interpretation is important. I want the audience to feel your words, not just hear them.”
Alastor nodded politely, scanning the scripts. “I appreciate your preparation, Mr. Whitttman, though some of these..phrasing, choice of words.. are rather… emphatic. Perhaps a subtler approach would carry more weight?”
Vincent’s green and blue eyes sparkled as he leaned closer to the glass, resting his hands lightly on the ledge. “Ah, but I want them to listen. I want them to feel– compelled? to… follow the guidance. But you are the artist. Pray to tell me how?”
Alastor tapped his papers lightly, polite but curious. “Very well. I shall endeavor to interpret your intentions faithfully.”
The show went off without a hitch. Listeners called in, captivated, drawn by Alastor’s rich, melodic voice . Afterward, Vincent clapped him on the back—hard enough to startle, gentle enough to flatter. “You were spectacular! Absolutely spectacular. People are going to remember you. We’re going to… change things together, you and I.”
“Oh. I'm very sure of it, Mr. Whittman . ”
Day after day, Alastor grew more efficient, more confident behind the microphone. Vincent’s studio became a second home. He noticed little things—the way Vincent wrote scripts with oddly repetitive phrasing about guidance, hope, and obedience. Alastor’s brow would furrow briefly, a polite smile on his lips, thinking: Very cult-y phrasing. Subtle. Convincing. Manipulative. Clever. He was almost impressed.
Yet, every broadcast went perfectly. Ratings soared. Donations, letters, and calls poured in. Vincent’s church—or whatever name he used to make it palatable..
It had been exactly four months since their first broadcast. Vincent insisted on taking Alastor out to celebrate. The bar was warm, softly lit, the kind of place that wrapped around you with the scent of wood polish and old books. Vincent had loosened his tie, sleeves rolled up, looking almost relaxed. Alastor, still precise in appearance, settled into a chair, studying the ease with which Vincent moved.
“To us,” Vincent said, raising his glass, eyes shining, “and everything we’ve accomplished. I cannot imagine this without you.”
Alastor lifted his glass politely. “It has been mutually… advantageous. Your guidance has been… enlightening.”
Vincent leaned forward, hand brushing lightly against Alastor’s knee, fingers grazing. “Enlightening is nothing without your voice, Alastor. You bring… soul. You bring life to every word.”
Alastor allowed himself a small, reluctant smile. Annoying, touchy, infuriatingly sincere.
“I see,” Alastor said, voice calm. “And your… appreciation is purely professional, of course?”
Vincent’s cheeks tinted faintly. “Of course… professional. Always professional. The work is what matters. But I… I am glad it is you. Seriously. I am very lucky that i have found you that day.”
Alastor blinked, internally rolling his eyes but refusing to show it. I must hate to admit it, but… I’ve grown… fond of this man. Very inconvenient.
”The feeling is mutual, Vincent. ”
They talked long into the night, laughter spilling between polite discussion of broadcast techniques, minor arguments about phrasing, playful banter. Vincent’s hands remained lightly on Alastor touching, guiding, comforting. Alastor noted it all, quietly amused and uncomfortably warm.
Later that night, Vincent knelt before a small altar in his dim apartment. Candles flickered, religious statues lined the surface, and his hands pressed together in desperate prayer.
“Lord,” he whispered, voice strained, “please forgive me. Forgive this… sickness in my heart. I should not feel this way for him. I am a shepherd, a guide, a beacon for others. I must not falter. I must not let desire cloud my purpose.”
He bowed low, lips pressed to his palms, trembling. “Cure me. Cure me so I may rise again, a proper influence, a proper figure. I cannot let these feelings interfere. I must be what they expect. I must…”
Vincent’s eyes clenched shut as tears threatened, his body shaking slightly. The warmth and brilliance of Alastor’s voice haunted him, but the prayer continued. Begging. Fighting. Hoping. Denying. Denying his feelings were nothing but a mere challenge.
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