The Wife of My Enemy is My Wife
Alastor x Singer! Wife Reader x Vox
Summary: In life, you were married to the radio host, but in death you married Vox. Thus, drama ensues...
CW: No Smut in this part (Plot with Smut in next parts), Angst, Fluff, Canon-Typical Violence
Notes: The title of this work is taken from the phrase "the friend of my enemy is my enemy". This is more like a rom-com, so the radiostatic relationship will not be that sad and complicated (can't wait for in s2 hehe).
On my ao3 as well.
Word Count: 3.4K
Part 1| Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5| Epilogue
CHAPTER ONE: Introduction
New Orleans, Louisiana, 1930s
The air always smelled like tobacco and saxophones back then. The spotlight always just a little too hot on your skin. But you didn’t mind. You loved it, actually, thrived in it. The stage under your heels, the band behind you riding every breath you sang like a wave.
You met Alastor on a Wednesday. You remember because the club was half-empty. He sat alone at the corner table, that same seat he’d always take after that night. A gentleman hat perched perfectly on his head, gloves still on, smile carved with a kind of precise, almost playful menace.
He applauded the loudest when you finished that night. Didn’t whistle like the others. Didn’t leer. Just clapped, sharp and clean. And when you came down from the stage, he was already there.
“Enchanting,” he said. “Your voice could make the dead get up and dance, my dear.”
You’d laughed then. You didn’t know—maybe because you’d never been complimented like that, or maybe because of how he said my dear . We chatted for a while after your shift. You realised he was the voice you often heard on the radio, and he wanted to come to this place since his friend, Mimzy recommended it.
After that, he sent flowers. Took you to late-night cafés and jazz clubs you didn’t even know existed. He never missed your performance. He never tried to kiss you too fast. He always asked permission, always made you feel like you were the star of every show, even when they were alone.
You realised with your time with him that he went out of his way to avoid others’ touches, but whenever he was with you, his fingers intertwined with yours, or a slight brush of his shoulder against yours. That made you realise that he trusted you .
When he proposed, it was quiet. Just them in their little apartment above the bakery. You did set some conditions — considering how many women you’ve seen in unhappy marriages. You wanted to continue singing even after marriage, and having children was not your priority. Alastor quickly agreed, since he never saw himself as a father figure either, and as for your career, it was a sin for him to even consider stopping you.
Before you agreed, Alastor told he didn’t want any secrets between them. He told you he was the Bayou Butcher.
Your legs went cold. Your lungs forgot what to do. You remember blinking at him like you’d been slapped, not because of what he told you, but because of how he told me. Calm. Honest. Like he was telling you he didn’t like tomatoes on his sandwiches.
He explained everything. That he only killed ‘the worst’. That the police were too slow, too corrupt. That his radio show made him money off the very headlines he created.
You didn’t speak for hours. But by morning, you were still there. Still in his arms. Still his. Not because you agreed with him just yet. But because he’d trusted you enough to tell the truth. At least, he treated you far better than men who claimed to be the ‘nice guys’.
The rain was soft tonight. Not the kind that lashed or roared, just a steady silver hush against the windows. You watched it from the parlour chair, cheek resting on your palm as the curtains fluttered with the ghost of wind. The street outside was empty. New Orleans looked lonelier when it rained.
You didn’t even hear him come in. He moved like a wraith when he wanted to.
A gloved hand slid gently over your shoulder. You blinked, turned and there he was. Alastor. Smile soft for once. His dark eyes weren’t gleaming with mischief, just that rare stillness he only gave you.
“Dinner is served, my dear,” he murmured, bending to kiss your forehead. His lips lingered longer than usual, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been staring out that window like a ghost. Planning to haunt the streets without me?”
You laughed, eyes closing. “Only if you promise to come find me.”
“Oh, always,” he purred, straightening with that elegant grace he never quite lost. “Where you go, I follow. Through hell or high water.”
You watched him glide back toward the kitchen, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a flash of his wrist. He’d cooked again, insisted on doing it himself, like he always did on stormy nights. Said it relaxed him. You never argued.
You padded into the dining room and reached for the rye. The bottle was already half-empty, and the glass they’d bought together from a thrift shop sat waiting for him. You poured it carefully, like you always did…two fingers, not a drop more.
As you set the drink beside his plate, he looked up at me, just briefly and something in that gaze made your heart thud too hard.
“Thank you, darling,” he said softly, reaching for the glass. “You always pour it just right.”
You smiled, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Someone’s got to keep your tastes civilized.”
He chuckled low. “Too late for that, I’m afraid.”
We’d finished eating, talking in between about each other’s day. The rain was harsher now, beating against the roof.
Alastor leaned back in his chair, sleeves still rolled up, the half-empty rye glass cradled between long fingers. You hummed a new melody as he tapped the rhythm against the side of the glass.
“No, no,” he said, cocking his head, “you’re rushing that third note, sweetheart. It needs to linger, give it just a touch of ache, like longing that won’t go away.”
You sang it again, slower this time, letting it ache.
Alastor hummed his approval, and you felt the warmth of it down to your toes.
When they finally rose to clean up, he kissed your temple in that affectionate way of his, drying the plates with a dish towel as you rinsed. The rhythm of routine soothed you until you noticed him reaching for the coat draped over the chair.
You caught his wrist.
He froze.
Their eyes met.
“You’re going,” you said quietly. No question. Just fact.
His smile didn’t falter, but it thinned like butter spread too far over burnt toast. “Of course,” he replied, tilting his head. “It’s been a while since I stretched my legs. There’s a name I’ve been saving. Nasty piece of work.”
“I’m not stopping you,” you murmured. “I never have. I just… I don’t feel right about it tonight, Al.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“It’s just a feeling,” I said, standing slowly, wrapping my arms around myself. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
He was quiet for a moment, watching you. The glint in his eyes softened, just a shade. Then he stepped closer, gloved hands rising to frame your face, fingertips brushing the curve of your jaw with almost painful tenderness.
“My darling,” he said gently. “You’re only worried because you love me.”
“Obviously,” you sighed. “But I’m not being dramatic, Al. I know how careful you are. But something about tonight... it’s clawing at me.”
“I promise you,” he said softly, “I will be quick. I’ll go, do what I must, and be home before the wax on that candle finishes melting. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”
You clutched the lapels of his coat, holding him there, heart hammering. “You don’t have to go tonight,” you whispered. “You could wait a day. Just one.”
His smile turned apologetic. “I can’t, dear. You know how it is.”
And just like that, you knew the conversation was over. Not because he didn’t care. But because once Alastor set his mind on something, it might as well be carved in stone.
You let him go. Watched him straighten his tie, tug on his gloves. He looked so dashing in the dim light, like something out of a painting.
He paused at the door, hand on the knob. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said with that bright, terrible grin. “And then you can sing your new song to me.”
You wanted to say something else. Don’t go. Stay with me tonight. I have a bad feeling. But you nodded instead, gave him the bravest smile you could muster. “Be safe, Al.”
“Always.”
And with that, he stepped into the night, his silhouette swallowed by shadow and rain.
And the unease in your chest turned into a weight you couldn’t shake.
*
The sun filtered through the curtains, casting long lines across the floorboards. You blinked against it, groggy and cold, your body twisted awkwardly on the settee. Your notebook of lyrics lay forgotten, half-draped over the armrest. Your neck ached.
You hadn't meant to fall asleep. You were supposed to wait up, as always.
Because Alastor always came back. And when he did, he always carried you to bed. Without fail. Even when you were pretending to be asleep or when you weren't.
But the couch was cold, and you were still alone.
You sat up slowly, the tightness in your chest returning with every second of silence. No rustle of coat and gloves. No smell of coffee or blood in the air.
Your heartbeat began to rise, throat drying as your bare feet hit the wooden floor. You glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:03 a.m. He never stayed out this long.
You crossed to the window on shaking legs, pulling back the curtain.
And there they were.
Three police cars. Officers milling outside our door, hats low over their eyes, murmuring in tones too careful for morning.
One of them had a notepad. Another lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. And one was staring up at the apartment.
Staring right at you.
Your breath caught, a noise clawing at the back of your throat. You stumbled back from the window, heart hammering now, vision swimming. Your hand flew to your mouth as bile threatened to rise.
He never stayed out this long.
He always came home.
He always came back to you.
Unless—
Unless he couldn’t.
Unless something went wrong.
Unless that sick, awful feeling you’d had the night before had been right all along.
There was a knock at the door. Three short raps, too polite for how violently your world was tilting.
___________________________
The dress was too tight at the throat. Black satin, long sleeves, modest hem—picked out by the neighbour downstairs because you couldn’t be trusted to choose anything yourself. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept.
The police had come the morning he died, their words careful, shaped like blades sheathed in sympathy.
“Your husband… was identified running through the woods near the bayou.”
“We believe he was the man behind the killings—the Bayou Butcher.”
“We fired because he refused to surrender.”
You had dropped to your knees right there in front of them.
You think one of them tried to catch you, but it was like falling through water…everything muffled and distant and wrong. Your sobs hadn’t been for their benefit. They thought you were devastated that my husband had been a killer.
But they didn’t understand. You cried because Alastor never broke promises, and he promised he’d return to you.
You cried because somewhere in that soaked forest, he’d been alone. They shot him like an animal, and buried him like a secret.
You pressed your lips together, fighting another wave.
The black veil clung to your face. It made the world dim, mercifully blurred. The condolences dried up as quickly as the cheap coffee. Most of the guests had left hours ago.
But then… you heard them. Your parents. That sharp, clipped tone in your mother’s voice. The way your father stood like he owned the room, even after all these years of silence.
“We came to pay our respects ,” she said tightly, hands clutched around her handbag like it held her last bit of pride.
My father gave a soft grunt. “We always knew he was no good, that man. You never listened. Look what he’s brought on you now.”
You said nothing.
“We heard what the papers said,” he added. “That he was… a killer. God in Heaven, girl…what were you thinking?”
“You were supposed to marry George ,” my mother said, voice rising like steam. “A good man. A banker.”
Your eyes burned behind the veil.
“And yet,” she added quickly, her voice softening in that awful, patronizing way, “you’re still young. There’s still time. You could remarry. You never had children, thank the Lord. You could—”
“How dare you,” you said.
The words cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Both of them stopped, blinking as if they hadn’t realized you could still speak.
You stood slowly, your fists curled at your sides. “You abandoned me,” You hissed. “You cut me off. And now that he’s gone, you think you can waltz back into my life?”
Your father bristled.
“And no,” You said, softer now, but dead serious. “I will not marry again as long as I live. Not ever.”
*
You lived a long life, though after your husband’s death, you never sang again as long as you lived.
*
Hell was never quiet.
Alastor liked that. He thrived in it.
But even as the Radio Demon wandered through the streets, he always listened for something else. Something softer.
You.
He knew it was foolish.
You were never supposed to come here. He’d made peace with that long ago, or pretended to. He remembered.
The last thing he heard before the bullets took him was your voice, in his head , begging him not to go. The sound had echoed even louder than the gunfire.
He knew, knew , you were meant for Heaven. Surely even God in His twisted sense of justice wouldn’t send a soul like yours here.
Just sometimes, he fantasized what it would be like to have you by his side.
Would you still look at him the same way?
He told himself you were safe. He’d taken comfort in the idea that the one good thing he ever touched hadn’t been stained by him forever.
You were too good for this place.
But still—he listened.
Because God had always been cruel to him.
*
The bar was dim, smoky, and smelled faintly of scorched bourbon. Just how Alastor liked it. Alastor pushed the door open with a gloved hand, cane tapping cheerfully at his side. His crimson eyes scanned the place and there he was.
Vox.
Perched at the bar like he owned it. His CRT screen head displayed a faux-placid expression. But it wasn’t the usual sneer or cocky grin displayed today.
Vox and him had immediately hit it off because both of them had great ambitions, and Al didn’t mind a new ally.
Al noticed in his lap was a bouquet of red roses.
Alastor blinked. “Well, well,” he said, voice bright as ever. “What’s the occasion?”
Vox looked up sharply. “‘Bout time you showed,” he muttered, sliding the bouquet slightly to the side like he didn’t want to talk about it.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed. He approached, sitting beside his friend at the bar. The ring on his finger—silver, modest, old-fashioned caught the low light and sparkled faintly. He had brought it when he saw it had a similar design like the one you had picked for them.
The bartender, a miserable pile of slime in a vest, slithered over and poured their usual drinks without a word.
“So,” Alastor took a slow sip of his whiskey, crossing one leg over the other, gaze sliding toward the flowers again. “Planning to woo someone tonight?”
Vox didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he muttered, “They’re for you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t tense, not really. Just… paused. Alastor’s smile didn’t falter. But it froze.
“I see,” he said lightly, setting his drink down with a soft clink. Alastor felt the itch of getting out of here as soon as possible. His fingers played with the ring. “I don’t have romantic feelings for anyone.”
The silence between them, once companionable, was now brittle.
Vox was the first to break. “Y’know what?” His voice crackled through the bar, distorted and sharp. “Forget it.”
Alastor didn’t move. Just raised one brow, hands neatly folded over his cane.
Vox stood up so fast his stool toppled, clattering against the stone floor. He didn’t even glance at it. “You’re the damn Radio Demon, one of the most feared Overlords in Hell and you spend your nights clutching that stupid ring like it’s going to bring her back? Didn’t know you could be this delusional and pathetic .”
It was a call for war, mentioning her name. Of course, not many people knew this, but he had let his guard down while they had their good times, drinking in this very bar.
“You will not speak of her,” he said, each word bitten off with deadly precision. Alastor quickly turned away. “I think we’re done for tonight.”
And with a flick of his wrist, he vanished with his shadows.
The bouquet of roses was left on the floor, trampled and forgotten.
_____________________
A year later…
The streets were emptier than usual. Some sinners were still looking for places that the angels won’t anticipate.
Vox tugged his long coat tighter and kept walking, cigarette fizzing weakly between his fingers. He had an hour before sunrise. His base wasn’t flashy, but it was reinforced.
He just had to get there. "Stupid fuckin—”
BAM.
He hit something hard. Correction: someone.
He stumbled back with a yelp, his CRT screen catching on a jagged brick wall as he fell flat on his ass.
“FUCK—” he snapped, screen glitching violently. Cracks spiderwebbed across the upper corner. He opened his mouth, ready to bark something rude.
You looked down at him with a wince, then extended your hand. “I’m so sorry,” you said, voice warm and strong. “Are you alright? I didn’t see you.”
Vox blinked and nothing came out. Then, cautiously he reached up and took yours. It was warm.
He grumbled under his breath, brushing himself off. “Tch. Perfect. Just what I needed. Fuckin’ screen’s cracked.”
“I really am sorry,” you said again, stepping back just enough to give him space. “Can I pay for it? Though I don’t know much of the new tech—”
“…It’s fine,” he muttered, voice lower now. “You’re lucky I don’t fry people for less.”
He was about to turn and head to his base when the sky was split open with portals.
He winced. “Ah, fuck me.”
Out poured the angels.
“Of course ,” he muttered, pulling his coat over his head. “Sunrise in Hell’s got no goddamn schedule.”
“...What are those things?” you asked, your voice tight but calm.
His screen glitched again. “You’ve never seen Exterminators?” Vox snapped. “You’re new… of course you’re new. That’s Heaven’s golden clean-up crew. And they don’t care how pretty or polite you are—they see a sinner, they kill.”
Three of them spotted you both.
“Shit.” Without thinking, Vox grabbed your arm and yanked you behind him.
“Hey!” you protested. “I can handle myself.”
Vox ignored you, slamming one hand to the nearest wall. Sparks hissed through the broken city grid as wires pulsed and lights burst. Electricity lashed out from the wires above like vipers under his control, shooting straight at the angels.
Two went down instantly, smoking, twitching wrecks. But five more were already descending.
“Shit, shit— too many! ” Vox snarled, backpedalling, dragging you with him.
You yanked your arm free. And then you stepped in front of him.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Vox yelled, actually stunned. “You’ll get killed— !”
You opened your mouth, and sang.
The first note was haunting. Clear. Unshakable. The angels in the sky faltered. They twitched visibly as if your voice had grabbed their spines and yanked. Then the pitch climbed higher, silvery and radiant and sharp
The Exterminators began to fall. They hit the pavement like dead flies, sprawled at awkward angles.
Vox stood rooted to the spot. His screen flickered wildly, not with panic but with awe.
The way the golden light hit your skin, the way your eyes burned with something bigger than rage or fear… it was beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful.
You turned slowly to face him, the faintest shimmer still behind your eyes, and said, calmly, without gloating, “Told you I could handle myself.”
Vox didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He stared, not even bothering to hide it. You quirked a brow. “You’re welcome.”
Vox realized something horrifying: That was the moment. He knew. He knew he was done for when you find someone attractive with dead bodies around.
He’d never seen anything more beautiful.
And he was absolutely, utterly fucked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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