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If this circus freak show keeps going on for a second longer, Alastor is completely, factually and, to his absolute dismay, regrettably sure he will snap.
As he walks through one of the corridors in the newly reconstructed hotel, leaning on his roughly put together cane to assist him more than he usually does, he wonders the pros and cons of tearing the apple and snake patterns off the walls as a way to relieve some of his stress.
Who could have anticipated escaping near death and keeping up appearances would have been so exhausting?
Charlie, sweet and naive Charlie, doesn’t suspect a thing about his sudden disappearance during the fight against the Exorcists and, on another occasion, Alastor would have worried about her lack of analytical skills.
Right now, Charlie happy to have her little group of misfits complete – well, almost, if the painting of Sir Pentious hanging in the main hall is to go by – serves him just fine for the time being.
And when did he start to view himself as part of this gathering of lost souls? When did they start to look at him not with apprehension or distrust, but with genuine happiness at the confirmation he came back alive?
Only Husk and Lucifer had the reactions he expected, when he appeared from a pool of shadows in front of everyone. The others, excluding dear Niffty and Charlie, were a novel surprise.
Alastor doesn’t like it.
One thing is people relying on him, asking for his help with their troubles, as long as he gets something in return; the other is these demons caring about his well being, caring about him and seeing him for something else other than his reputation and the monster he is.
No one needs to know he almost died for these sinners, first and foremost said wayward souls he was idiotic enough to protect. He can picture the disgustingly grateful expression Charlie might cast his way, he can perfectly envision the pity in her eyes if she finds out about the departing gift Adam left, the slash running from his shoulder to his flank; he can hear her words or reassurance, a “everything will be okay” spoken softly, and if he needs help, he has to simply ask.
The mere thought of asking for help to her, to anyone in this forsaken place, almost makes Alastor laugh.
It hurt when she hugged him in her exuberant joy, her arm circling his chest and squeezing so much it was only because of the bandages and his many layers of red clothes she didn’t notice he was bleeding, the lingering smell of blood after the battle hiding the scent.
It’s wonderful news Charlie is not trained to feel angelic power, either.
If he caught Lucifer side-eyeing him with an unreadable expression after leaning away from the group and voicing his disdain at seeing the sinner again, Alastor chose to blame it on his fatigue and blood loss playing tricks with his mind, for as long as he can.
“Alastor? Are you okay?”
He blinks and, internally, grimaces. Charlie is in front of Alastor, a visible hint of concern painted on her face. Concerned directed at him.
“Of course, darling! Is there a particular reason why you’re casting me such a displeased look? Do I have sinner flesh between my teeth?”
If the hints at his peculiar diet would have deterred Charlie a few months ago from asking questions she shouldn’t ask, maybe make her pull the corner of her lips up in barely restrained disgust and remind her who she’s dealing with, followed by an apologetic look at such an impolite display, now they don’t seem to do much other than convince her she’s on the right track.
“You look… off?”
He blinks, again. Slowly, this time, so she can mull over the ridiculousness of her statement and move on with whatever they are doing in front of room 334, brew his cup of coffee and successfully survive – no, enjoy – another day in his own company.
“Charlie, dear. It’s pretty early in the morning right now, and you barged into my room with such urgency I almost believed the Exorcists came back to attack us.”
At that, Charlie’s pale skin turns a light shade of red, a hand on her nape as she sheepishly locks her gaze on the wooden door. “Right, sorry! I’m just a bit nervous, after the reopening, with the new guests and all, and we already have weird shenanigans in the rooms, and–”
Alastor rolls his eyes, taking advantage of Charlie’s attention on the closed room. The girl worries for the simplest of things, sometimes, her stuttering endearing during the better days and irritating on the worst ones. Unfortunately for her, this morning is dangerously falling on the second category.
He extends a hand on her shoulder to get her focus back and stop her babbling nonsense. “Now, now, that’s nothing we can’t solve with a little charm, isn’t it? Just tell me what the trouble is and I’ll see what I can do!”
He realizes with a barely audible hint of static it must have been the wrong thing to say, because Charlie is now looking at him suspiciously.
“Al, I told you while we got here, and you were nodding along. You even replied from time to time.” The concern she had a few minutes ago is back in full stride. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Ah.
That won’t do.
“Rest assured, I’m perfectly fine.” He would preferably burn his tongue off rather than show anything amiss, but he could extend something that would finally move this inferno along and extinguish it before things end up too complicated for him to handle. “I believe I haven’t slept enough these past few days and the consequences are catching on me.”
Charlie’s face falls, concern leaving in place of guilt.
Good. Let the girl focus on her shortcomings instead of his health.
“Oh, I’m sorry Alastor! I should have asked my dad, he’s probably awake right now–”
And leave that clown master to deal with his affairs? Not a chance. “Darling, no harm done! There’s no need to inconvenience your father for such trivial matters, I’m sure he has much more important things to do.” If Childe notices the mockery in his voice, she doesn’t mention it. “Now, would you be a gem and kindly remind me what’s the issue here?”
Said problem ends up being an assortment of musical instruments blasting Entrance of the Gladiators – better known as a circus theme rather than the original idea the composer had in mind, surely, and no, the irony of this particular choice unfortunately doesn’t escape him, considering who reconstructed the hotel –, the poor sinner taking residence in the suite covering her ears as she waits for the cursed song to cease at once.
If Alastor has to snap his fingers twice for his magic to finally work as it should, it’s his problem to deal with at a later time.
When the problem has finally been dealt with, the sinner showering the hoteliers with words of gratitude – and cowering slightly away from Alastor the moment the demon focuses his attention on her with a sharp smile –, Alastor lets Charlie leave the room first and closes the door behind himself.
Hm. He should consider asking Charlie to remove the snake patterns at least from the doors. Who would want to be reminded of their sins while trying to grow past them when they retire for the day?
Unsurprisingly, the day doesn’t get any better even after a cup of coffee, but it marginally improves when the late risers – namely, Cherri Bomb and Angel Dust – approach the kitchen and fight for the last drops of caffeine before commencing another wonderful day in Hell, or so Charlie would sing.
He manages to avoid Vaggie all morning, either by mentioning some personal projects he has to take care of, or alluding about a guest asking for assistance within their accommodation, which just happens to be at the top floors of the hotel where most of the problems seem to lie these days, so, as much as it pains him, he’s rather busy and can’t stop to chat.
Vaggie doesn’t regard him with suspicion, like she would have most certainly done barely two weeks ago, but it’s hard to not notice the questions he’s sure she would like to ask, especially about what happened after he failed to hold Adam back.
If Vaggie can sense something is wrong with him, she doesn’t mention it.
Truthfully, with the recent renovations, one would think there wouldn’t be much to do besides occupying yourself with watching sinners attend Charlie’s classes and fail spectacularly at the group activities, but, apparently, Alastor underestimates the new “hotel shenanigans” Charlie mentioned in the morning.
Which is why he’s standing in front of the hotel’s laundry, an agitated Niffty trying to snatch the towels from the clutches of a group of marionettes bouncing between drying bed sheets. Of course, as a way to mock him, the marionettes are dressed as jesters, and with the little trumpets in their hands, they’re certainly putting on a show. Alastor’s eye twitches.
“And, darling, you were saying this is not the first time such…” He swats away one of the puppets trying to climb on him with a little more force than necessary. “Occurrence, happens?”
Niffty manages to stab one of the puppets with her comically large needle and recuperate the cloth it stole, but with a pull of the strings stretching indefinitely upwards, it escapes her next attack. Her single eyebrow frowns even more.
“They’re worse than the mother cockroaches! They jump out when you least expect it, they don’t die and”, she catches the tail end of one of the marionettes, but it escapes before she could pin it down, “they’re so slippery!”
The poor girl lost her smile when one of the accursed clowns tugged too hard on the shirts hanging to dry, making the whole line of clothes fall on the floor. Now, she looks crestfallen, as the puppets hide once more behind the caskets of clean towels, making some of them topple over.
Knowing how dedicated Niffty is in keeping the place spotless, Alastor is sure she will spend all day re-doing the laundry.
“Rest assured darling”, he pats gently Niffty’s head, the short woman taking it as an invitation to climb on his arm and rest on his shoulder. Despite it not being his goal, he doesn’t mind. “While your pest control is top notch, I’m afraid these infernal creatures need something much more intense and destructive. Don’t you agree?”
He feels the telling pull of his shadows at his core, his puppets ready to be summoned at his volition; the restlessness of his magic travels up his arm and, with a flourish, snaps his fingers.
The horns of his underlings start emerging from the darkness of the room, shadows moving in tandem to give the incorporeal creatures bodies to work with. The first ones, after a few moments waiting for the darkness to solidify, move their first steps towards the laundry, prepared to hunt those damned clowns at Alastor’s command.
Only for all of them to fall back in the receding pool of shadows.
Alastor freezes.
“Sir?”
What’s going on?
“Alastor?”
He snaps back from his stupor, the corners of his mouth daring to curve downwards. He wills them to stay in place.
If his shadows aren’t up for the task, he’ll have to solve the issue with a different approach.
“Say, Niffty.”
He carefully sets Niffty on the floor, an oppressive ache on his chest makes the action feel like time has slowed down, stretching to eternity, when it could only have been a few seconds. He tries to take a deeper breath, but the expansion of his chest only worsens the pain, rendering it much less tolerable.
He tries to summon a rubber hammer, succeeding at the cost of a stabbing pain on his chest that takes his next breath away. He pulls his smile tighter.
“I’ve heard of this game where you have to hit moles with a hammer, from our resident spider.” He handles the weapon for Niffty to take. “Since I’m quite sure it is a novelty from Japan, and I know how much you love keeping up with the trends, I took the liberty to guess you’d be aware of such playtime. Mind showing me how it works?”
Niffty smiles sweetly, a display of pure excitement that takes his focus on the pain away.
It should be Alastor’s turn in the kitchen today but, to be frank, it seems like it is his turn most of the time. While he doesn’t mind cooking – quite the opposite, he enjoys the activity almost as much as running his radio broadcasts –, it feels like he spends more time in front of the stove than away from it during the day.
But after Charlie managed to burn down a bowl of pasta? Well, while he must compliment the girl for achieving the impossible, maybe it’s a good thing her spot has been taken by an incredibly concerned and distraught Angel Dust until further notice – maybe when Alastor has the time to halt Charlie’s errands and give her a quick run down to how to not set the kitchen on fire.
But, speaking of long legged spiders–
“Heya, Creepy Face, how are ya doi– Woah, ya look like sh–!”
Angel’s misplaced remark is interrupted with a well assessed elbow between his ribs by none other than Husk, followed by a quick side-eye. Apparently the shove was stronger than both sinners anticipated, as a bit of the pink, sloshy liquid in Angel’s hand spills on the bar counter. “Hey!”
Husk doesn’t acknowledge him with any words of apology, other than picking up a bottle of prosecco and refilling Angel’s glass. That done, he uses a cloth to clean the spilled drink from the counter; all without looking at Alastor for even a second.
“You need anything, Boss?”
Ah, Husker, always proficient in reading the room. It’s almost concerning how the sinner seems to understand what Alastor wants well enough, if he weren’t holding the chain around his neck.
Since time to get dinner ready is not due yet, Alastor elects to vanish his cane and sit on one of the bar stools. “Just wanted to see how one of our candidates for redemption is doing!” He directs his attention to Angel Dust, who pointedly looks to the side. “As I remember correctly, Charlie would be explaining one of her marvelous group activities for the day right at this moment.”
Angel takes a sharp inhale through his teeth, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Yeah, ‘bout that.” The corner of his lips curls downwards, as he drowns the drink in his hand in one gulp without savoring it. “Val’s gonna call soon, don’t wanna ruin the fun, yanno?”
An understandable sentiment. While not privy to Angel Dust’s contract details with the moth sinner, it takes only one conversation vis-à-vis with Valentino to know the type of unsavory individual the Overlord is. Sometimes, he wonders what Vox has seen in the sinner all of those years ago.
No matter. Angel chose his path, the consequences are his to deal with.
Wordlessly, Husk sets a glass of whiskey in front of Alastor, which he gladly accepts. “Why, thank you, Husker! You didn’t have to!”
If the nickname would have enticed a grunt, a growl or, during the best of days, a “fuck off”, the former Overlord does nothing of the sorts. Instead, Husk regards him with a strange look, something Alastor has seen on the other sinner a handful of times, half of them not even directed at him.
The last time he has seen it, was when Mimzy brought her problems on the hotel’s doorsteps.
Alastor doesn’t pick the whiskey up, but he can recognise the strong smell and the color as a glass of rye. He doesn’t have the patience for this.
“Husker.”
The cat’s tail does a rapid swing, his ears pinned slightly backwards; other than that, he doesn’t give any indication of restlessness, as he focuses on cleaning the spotless counter. Alastor’s smile widens, more teeth than anything else. It hardly resembles one.
“Is there something on that fuzzy head of yours you want to tell me?”
Before Husk could say anything, Angel, who has been looking between the two back to back with a nervousness he tries to hide with a smile, interjects.
“Well, ya don’t seem to do so… hot, these days?”
Husk tries to signal Angel to stop talking, but either Angel chooses to not heed the warning, or he’s completely unaware. Alastor can’t decide which option between the two is worse.
“Actually, ever since Extermination Day, yanno, when ya disappeared on us.” As if sensing the danger only at this moment, Angel quickly adds, “Not sayin’ there’s somethin’ wrong with that!”
Angel raises his four arms in surrender and leans slightly backwards, away from Alastor. Husk has put an arm in front of Angel’s chest, shielding him. Strange, why would they react like this? Alastor is not doing anything to warrant such a reaction – not that it doesn’t please him the spider still has some survival instincts left in his body.
Alastor feels his chest constrict more than the way it did in the morning, his shadows coiling around his core.
“Just, if ya need help, anything! All ya have to do is ask.”
Suddenly, the lights of the new bar feel a tad too bright, the apples and snakes patterns on the counter much more irritating than they should be, the poorly covered concern in Angel’s and Husk’s faces downright offensive.
“And why–”
Alastor feels his antlers growing, his ears moving backwards, sheer willpower forcing them to stay in place. When did he stand up from his seat?
“–would I ask for anything, to any of you?”
No, Alastor was wrong in believing Angel has any survival instinct left in his body; the spider has thrown all of them into poorly planned decisions and mistakes in favor of suicidal tendencies, because no one, in front of an irritated Radio Demon, would have had the sheer stupidity to frown in anger, instead of backing down with an apology.
“Fuckin’ asshole, ‘cuz we’re all your frie–!”
A ringtone interrupts him, obnoxiously loud, demanding everyone’s attention. Husk now properly growls, and Angel’s frown leaves his face in place of dread.
Alastor’s smile curls into something sinister. “I believe someone is looking for you. Why don’t you answer the phone, Angel Dust?”
As the spider pulls the device from his chest fluff, he casts a quick, final look at Alastor and Husk, before standing up and leaving from the front doors with only a forced cheerful “Hey, Val!” as his goodbye until the late hours of the night.
Since the conversation has reached its conclusion, Alastor believes it’s time for him to retire for the day.
“Husker, would you be so kind as to ask dear Niffty to take my turn for dinner tonight? I remembered an important task I have to take care of, and I can’t delay it.”
He turns away from the bar without waiting for an answer, his steps kept deliberately at his usual phase, when all he would like to do is melt in the shadows and remerge in the privacy of his tower.
The throbbing of his injury and the smell of iron tell him it wouldn’t be a wise choice.
“Alastor?”
He stops on his tracks.
“Say whatever you want, but Angel was right.” A pause. Then, “you don’t have to tell us what’s your problem, but there’s something wrong with you. You can’t bottle it up forever.”
Alastor turns his head slightly towards the bar. He can’t see the cat sinner well from the angle, but he can hear the man’s tail feathers brushing against the floor.
“Careful, Husk. I might start to consider you care.”
He resumes his steps, a slight change of direction from the staircase towards the elevator. The quicker he reaches his rooms, the faster he can redo the stitches that snapped during the endeavors of the day.
Meanwhile, Husk remains silent.
They will find out soon.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The voice only chuckles at Alastor’s rudeness, amused. She stopped taking offense to his rarely rude language a long time ago, now trying to see more of what lies behind his carefully constructed persona more often than not. They'll think you can’t take care of yourself . They’ll think you are not strong enough to protect them.
“That isn’t of your concern.”
Phantom touch travels up his arms to his shoulders, painfully slow, deliberate.
Oh, sweetheart, I’m aware.
Alastor keeps working on his injury, green threads sealing the limbs of flesh together. Despite the morphine he ingested almost an hour ago, the pain of the nail passing through his skin hurts more than it should. The last time he worked on the slash, the pain hadn’t been this intense, especially after taking opioids.
A gentle scratch at the base of his ears makes them move away from the touch, even knowing it wouldn’t deter her in the slightest. She doesn’t mock him for his trembling fingers.
But that doesn’t mean you aren’t concerned.
The ghostly touch reaches for his hands and he stills. He wishes he could shake it off. He wishes she would just leave him alone until he’s done with this mess.
What would the little princess think, if she finds out about your failure? How will Hell react, finding out the big and bad Radio Demon has grown soft ?
Another phantom touch caresses his flank, mercifully not the one where the injury stretches downwards. How would they look at you, knowing you’re weak and pathetic ?
“Enough.”
She ignores his protests, like she always does. That other deal of yours won’t keep you away from me forever.
His eyes flash to radio dials for an instant, before he forces himself to calm down.
Soon, Alastor, you’ll return to the Roots.
And will not allow you to escape.
Alastor refuses to stop his work; he doesn’t want to acknowledge her, but he learned the hard way she can’t be ignored for long. Not when her presence starts to blend strongly in the airwaves. “What do you want this time?”
Why do you always assume I want anything from you? Her next words feel like they are spoken directly in his ear, instead of being just echoes in his mind. Can’t I just visit my favorite pet ? See how he’s doing?
“I’m doing perfectly fine, thank you for asking. And I’m not your pet.” He steadies his voice, trying to not latch his words with aggression and, instead, keeping his tone as neutral as possible, masking his anxiety with indifference. He won’t show fear. “If you don’t have any task for me, I’d like to wrap this up. Alone.”
He feels a hand in his hair, doing nothing other than resting there. Somehow, that feels more threatening than any mockery of affection.
Why don’t you ask me to heal you? I can be charitable when I want.
The green thread between his fingers wobbles slightly. “Do you want to be charitable?”
A press of what he recognizes as lips on his cheek is his answer. He knows they’re upturned into a derisive smile.
“Thought so.”
He registers the sensation of the hand in his hair move, petting him between his antlers, as another hand moves along the column of his neck to the threads of stitches and the still open flesh. He tries to take a deep breath to stop his heart from leaping out of his throat.
But he can’t do anything to suppress a gasp.
The sudden stab of pain in his chest almost makes him jump, sharp enough to cut his breathing in half. The darkness, however, doesn’t stop at the exposed flesh, but goes deeper, deep enough to feel it wrap around the core of his magic that has chosen to reside there ever since angelic steel almost ended his life.
He pants, much to his horror, the feeling of being touched so intimately makes him desire to leave his flesh to rot, away, the sensation of the hand not even technically present won’t stop his ears from pinning back and his exposed skin crawl, pupils constricted and frantically searching for an escape route, a weapon, anything that would make the touch stop .
She never goes as far as to touch him like this. He can endure her wandering hands, her fleeting touches and the pets she gives him, but this… tampering from her is as novel as it is awfully invasive.
He won’t give her the satisfaction of a scream, suppressing every little noise that threatens to escape past his tightly sealed lips, as he digs his claws into the armrests, fabric tearing easily under them. His smile is small, too much for his liking, his only real weapon against her, his last defense he won’t allow her to take away from him.
She has already taken so much more than Alastor was willing to give.
Fingers – or what he assumes are such – poke at the mass of shadows coiled in his chest, prodding, provoking the tendrils for a reaction he doesn’t have the slightest hint of an idea she might be searching for.
Fascinating.
Too fast for him to process the stabbing pain ends, the hand that reached down inside of him completely disappears. His back, held upright until now, hits the back of the armchair, the impact doing nothing to alleviate the persistent throb of his exposed flesh.
He takes a few moments of respite to collect himself before opening his mouth. “What–?”
Hush, Alastor.
He shuts his jaw with an audible click.
Resume your work.
As he feels her essence finally recedes from the shadows of the room, leaving it in blissful silence for a good half of an hour, Alastor finishes the stitching, dried blood and red, inflamed flesh on his torso completing the picture of sickness he very much feels himself to be, stronger by the minute.
Maybe the spider was right. He looks – and feels – like shit.
He tries to reach for the bandages he prepared on the coffee table, not wanting to risk agitating his injury more by summoning them with his magic, when stretching his arm forward rewards him with an aborted gasp and his face almost hitting the wooden pavement.
It’s like someone decided to punch the air out of his lungs.
As Alastor attempts to stabilize back into a sitting position without hunching over the armchair, he instinctively brings a hand up his chest over the gash.
The wetness he registers aborts all of his movements.
He moves the hand away from his torso and in front of his face, only to find it, trembling, completely covered in dark blood.
He looks down and finds some of the stitches are completely gone.
Blood keeps oozing from the parted flesh the stitches he finished applying mere minutes ago left behind, further dirtying his skin and the opened shirt he left pooling around his waist. The remaining green threads stretch, trying to keep the flesh together, but some of them have already surrendered, evaporating in smoke in front of his eyes.
“Fuck.”
The first time he tried to close the wound with normal stitches they didn’t hold for longer than a few hours, enough to go back to the reconstructed hotel and demonstrate to everyone he was alive and, most importantly, fine . When he found his way to the new tower – which he detests to admit suits his tastes well enough, but it’s not like he’d go compliment the man responsible for the design – he barely had the time to save his coat from getting completely ruined, again, with his blood.
He should have considered, if his powers aren’t responding properly, the stitches created with his magic wouldn’t last.
He considers summoning Niffty, ask her to stitch him back up and not allow a word to spill, yet the mere thought of searching for her soul between the chains in his possession exhausts him greatly.
With a hand over his eyes, he gives himself a push and falls back on the chair. Maybe he could invoke his favor with Charlie so she would be forced to help without being able to tell anything to the others, but the idea to waste such a card up his sleeve and, worse, let her see the state he’s currently in, leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth.
Besides, Alastor reasons, for all her goodwill and candid intentions, he’s not sure she would be able to fix the mess his poor decision to fight against the first man rewarded him with.
“And here I thought I would have found you dead; color me surprised.”
Alastor jerks up, his torso protesting at the sudden action be damned.
“The fuck are you doing here?”
“Charming as usual, I see.”
Lucifer is not even looking at him, but rather at the absolute mess of threads hanging from his flesh – because, right now, rather than careful handiwork it looks like a crude imitation of sewering a child would do – and all he feels is the wrongness of being exposed in front of another person. A predator.
“It’s worse than what I sensed days ago.” The fallen angel moves closer, standing beside the coffee table. “How are you still alive?”
Instinctively, Alastor tries to back away, pulling at his shirt to cover his chest as much as he can and stop the bleeding, only for his back to meet the cushion of the armchair. He barrens his teeth. “If you’re here for a chat, I’m afraid I’m not in the right mood for entertaining one.”
Lucifer rolls his eyes. “Believe me, I would love to be anywhere else.”
Alastor looks around the room, considering the pros and cons of just melting into the shadows and avoiding the monarch at all cost; he can’t allow anyone else to find out he’s injured.
The shadows not even answering his call taste like betrayal.
“Then, why are you still here?”
The King makes another step, rounding the table and standing directly in front of the armchair. Alastor pretends the proximity doesn’t make him want nothing more than to crawl out from his flesh.
“Heard of an idiot,” Lucifer gestures at him with a wave of his hand, “hiding an angelic injury from everyone else in the hotel until it becomes bad enough he’s not able to stand on his own two feet.” With a smirk, the angel leans on his cane. “Guess who I’m talking about?”
Alastor’s ears twitch, as he can’t help the barely restrained sarcasm from replying. “My, Sir, you caught me by surprise. I have no clue.”
With a sigh and a murmur of some words Alastor doesn’t care to acknowledge, Lucifer lets his cane vanish, along with his white coat and ridiculously large hat. “Alright, it’s gonna go like this.” He claps his hands together and points at the sinner. “You stay still, I remove Adam’s residual power from you so that wound can heal properly, we’re not going to talk about this ever again. How does that sound?”
“Doing all of that work asking for nothing in return?” Alastor now focuses on Lucifer’s face, which doesn’t give anything away. “Pardon me, but that doesn’t sound quite right.”
Lucifer shrugs. “Would you believe me if I say I’m doing this from the goodness of my heart?”
Alastor can’t help the incredulous laugh that escapes him. “The only goodness you would willingly spare is for dear Charlie alone.”
At that, Lucifer’s smile turns mischievous. “Well! Good thing Charlie asked me to check on you, isn’t it?”
Alastor feels the world still; the cracks of his antlers protruding and his bones adjusting for the expanse of his flesh barely registering in his mind. What does it mean Charlie asked her father to check on him? Did this little, pathetic excuse of a monarch tell his daughter about his condition?
Now that he thinks about it, everyone has been acting strangely after his return, and not only since the start of this day. For how long have they known, and why didn’t no one say they do? Does he really look worse for wear, or were those just the sinners’ poor efforts to approach the topic? Like the glass of rye, or Angel’s words?
Just who they think they’re dealing with?
A touch on his forehead halts his thoughts and, like a deflated balloon, he collapses once more on the armchair. His head throbs almost as painfully as the wound.
“Nuh-uh, no eldritch horror stunts, or your magic won’t be able to stop Adam’s power from reaching your soul. It’s barely holding it together as it is.”
He presses his hands on the sides of his skull, the pressure doing little to alleviate the headache. Marvelous. “For someone who claimed would be able to help, you’re doing an incredible job at it.”
“You really talk too much for a guy who’s on death’s doorstep.” A pause. “Again.”
“Hilarious.”
No, certainly dying because of a lapse of judgment, that would be considered an heroic sacrifice nonetheless, is not the way Alastor wants to go, if that ever happens – which is not any time soon. He has spent years crafting his reputation as a merciless, cruel demon, and he won’t allow for it to shatter, to be seen as “soft” or “compassionate” or even “amicable”, because that’s not what he is and not what he needs to be. Besides, he knows what would await him, if he departs from this plane of existence. Giving her more leverage to completely fasten the leash around his neck is not something he will allow.
That, however, doesn’t mean he should accept Lucifer’s so-called help ; as much as it loathes him to admit, the monarch is the King of Hell, far stronger than Alastor would ever be, Temptation in person and the Sin of Pride. Being indebted to him would only bring trouble, which he has plenty of to deal with already.
What can he offer to a man who has everything, anyway? His soul is out of the question, for reasons the fallen angel doesn’t need to, and shouldn’t, know. A deal struck with the Devil just doesn’t sound the best of options, even if the man might be really just doing this for Charlie’s sake. In that case, the deal could potentially go in his favor, without the King obtaining anything substantial from it.
He could use their newly repaired bond to his advantage. Besides, if what he says about Adam’s power is true, there’s nothing he could do alone to remove it. His magic not responding is proof enough of that.
“Alright.”
Lucifer blinks a few times, as if his mind hasn’t been entirely present until this moment. “Huh, alright what?”
This man. “I’ll allow you to assist me, since you so graciously offered, for dear Charlie’s sake.” Before Lucifer can reply, he quickly adds. “But, I want to put the terms down on paper, so to speak.”
Lucifer lets out an exasperated sigh, running a hand down his face as if exhausted. A soft, resigned “right, dealmaker” leaves his lips, before he finally locks his gaze with Alastor’s. “And why would you want to make a deal for this? Isn't it more convenient for you to just take my generous offer and be done with it?”
“It would be.” Alastor keeps his eyes on the monarch, observing his reaction. “But nothing in Hell is free. You should know better than anyone, considering you created the rules.”
“Officially speaking, yes,” Lucifer concedes, “but that’s not important.”
Understanding there’s no way Alastor would allow him to assist with the injury otherwise, Lucifer makes space on the coffee table and sits down. If they were in any other setting, Alastor might have teased the King for being able to sit mostly comfortably on such short furniture. The man is particularly sensible about his height, but alas, if he wants to survive, it’s best to not provoke him. Much.
“Anyway– you don’t have much time left.” Lucifer crosses his arms, a neutral expression hiding whatever he might be thinking. “State your terms and I’ll see what I can do.”
He would prefer to bite his tongue instead of admitting his main concern, but he has to take it out of the way. “I’d have preferred no one knowing about my… predicament, but considering the reason you’re here, I believe that’s already out of my options.”
It takes a few seconds for Lucifer to realize what he means, a frown of confusion on his pale face. “Oh, you mean Charlie? She doesn’t know, and I didn’t tell her anything to anyone– obviously.” A strange look crosses his face, something Alastor has seen only on a parent’s face when praising their child. “She’s just much smarter than people give her credit for.”
The look is gone, something much sharper is cast on Alastor. “I don’t know what she sees in you, of all sinners, but clearly she knows what she’s doing.” A grin, all teeth, pulls at the corners of the King’s face. “So don’t go around underestimating her. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.”
Far from Alastor to underestimate Charlie, but at least he can assume Lucifer doesn’t know of the deal hanging on his precious daughter’s head. “I’d like to keep things that way. No one has to know about the injury, or anything related to it. That includes your intervention.”
Lucifer doesn’t seem bothered. “Yeah, that’s fine. I won’t mention anything. Anything else?”
“You won’t bring this up, ever, whenever we are in the presence of other people or alone.”
The monarch chuckles. “Bold of you to assume I would stay in your presence long enough to bring this up.”
Alastor very much agrees.
“Very well.” Alastor lets the grip on his shirt, at this point unsalvageable, go slack, and observes the wound; the blood has slowed down, but considering how weak he feels, how his skin is paler than usual aside from the one around the slash, angry red decorating it, he’d have to attribute it to blood loss. The stitches are now completely gone, leaving the flesh exposed, and he could barely suppress shivers from the cold. “What do you want out of this?”
“Since you insist on this to be a transaction – genuine, honest, answers to a few questions I have, after I’ve extracted the angelic power from you.”
“The questions being...?”
“Hah!” He hears the other man stand up before he could catch him in his peripheral vision, much closer than before. “There’s no fun in it if I tell you.” The white pants make Lucifer much easier to locate, even to his bad eye, especially when he discarded his monocle hours ago. “But I suppose you can die here and now, if you don’t want to answer them.”
As if. “Fine, deal. Now, on with it.”
“With pleasure.”
His head feels heavier than before, but Alastor raises it regardless, and lets it hit the backrest. At least he’ll be able to see what the King will do.
Which, right now, is examining the wound again, assessing the damage. “It’s bad bad . Again, how are you still alive? With all the angelic power you have inside of you, you should have been dead maybe a few hours after taking the hit, at best .”
“As much as I would like to elaborate on the answer,” really, Alastor would love to for himself first and foremost, but even he doesn’t know why , “I’m afraid there are more–”
A tug at his core steals from him a strangled cry, static feedback makes his ears ring and the dim lights of the room flick. To make things worse, the blood loss must be taking its toll on him, because he feels incredibly lightweight and on the verge of collapsing.
Lucifer takes Alastor’s hand in one of his own, and Alastor has to use all the willpower left in his body to not jerk it free. “Look, I need you to stay awake, because you have to do something for me or I won’t be able to help you.”
“What–”
The King doesn’t let him finish. “When I said ‘remove Adam’s residual power’ I meant it in the most literal way possible.” Sucking in for breath, Lucifer clarifies. ”I have to physically – huh, more or less? – yank it out, but your powers will reject me. You have to restrain them as much as you can.”
Raising the thumb of his free hand to his mouth, Lucifer punctures it with his teeth, letting golden blood flow; then, he moves the finger near Alastor’s lips with an expectant look. “A few drops will be enough to numb the pain but won’t get you intoxicated to the point of passing out.” Red pupils glance quickly to the side before setting back on Alastor. “Whatever you’ve taken earlier won’t be enough. This will also seal our deal.”
To think this is the way Alastor gets to savor the blood of the Morningstar. The scenario he envisioned – once, before realizing the prospect would never come, not with how the fallen surpasses him in power – was much bloodier, but none of said blood would have been his own.
But in order to have a taste, and get rid of this pesky angelic power digging into him to kill him permanently, he’ll have to be vi– no . That’s the wrong word. He’s allowing it. It’s not a… invasion, this time. Alastor is willingly giving his permission for this to happen.
He unclenches his jaw, gritted so strongly shut until now the action gives the aching muscles of his mandible a sense of relief, and exposes the tip of his tongue.
The first drops of golden delicacy are like a balm to his senses.
Tensed muscles relax, his form allows the cushion where he’s lying on to envelop him a bit more. Warmth spreads down his throat to his chest, soothing the incessant ache in a way the morphine or the alcohol could never do.
But more than that – the taste. His mind is fuzzy, buzzes of static start to envelop his thoughts into inputs he couldn’t decipher; however, the bittersweetness of the liquid reaches his mind as clearly as the night sky, full of stars in the bayou back on Earth he once knew like the palm of his hand. It doesn’t taste like anything he ever had, not even like the little sample he took from the decapitated head of the Exorcist back at the Overlords meeting months ago.
It’s like the fallen angel described it: intoxicating. And the threads of power latched on the blood, sealing their deal, somehow, all the more so.
Before he could wrap one of his hands around the King’s wrist, keep it there, keep the blood dripping into his mouth, Lucifer moves away as if burned, the little wound already closed. “Yeah– yup! Uh-hu, that’s enough for you!”
The monarch coughs, a hand on his mouth to cover it, but Alastor could see a bit of gold on white cheeks. “Okay, splendid, yes. So, when you’re ready– nevermind.”
Alastor’s hand, the one Lucifer held until now, falls, and moves to his shoulder, the grip firm. He barely feels it.
“I’ll go on three. Don’t pass out and do as I said. One–”
Alastor doesn’t hear the rest, but he didn’t really need to, really. Not when the next moment of clarity he has is occupied by heavy pressure on his chest, something foreign and unwelcome reaching inside.
It hurts, probably less than it would have done if he hadn’t ingested Lucifer’s blood, but it hurts because it burns , angelic powers tainted with sin are still angelic powers, and his chest protests, his throat protests as he suppresses any noise of discomfort from escaping, his head protests with the incessant screech of static, the distorted chorus echoing in Lucifer’s magic background noise but somehow insistently present.
It hurts.
But he does what he can to stop his shadows from lashing out, holding them back from attacking the intruder and defending their owner, as he expects them to do. But his hold on them is weak, frail, it will snap at any given moment, and if the King doesn’t get on with this faster Alastor is going to lose his grip and all of the pain, the hotel residents’ worried looks, and the humiliation he endured until this moment will have been for nothing.
If he has to die, he’ll go on his own terms, and it won’t be on a leash.
He strengthens his hold on the darkness attempting to push against the King, he finds the man closer to his core than he would have liked and his soul aches at the proximity, it cries , like it wants nothing more than to cower away and never be touched again, and Alastor wants to shield it, the most precious thing a sinner has, the memory of her claws prodding, digging, scratching still fresh in his mind.
Hours have passed, or maybe a few seconds, or maybe an eternity, or maybe time has lost its meaning and it doesn’t matter anymore. But eventually, finally, Lucifer’s magic reaches the target, and it pulls .
Adam’s residual imprint had been pretty close indeed, because fuck , the sensation feels like pulling a tooth out without anesthesia, and he would know a few things about that, as accustomed with pain he is.
Everything ends rather abruptly.
Alastor gasps, pants, tries to take down as many gulps of air as he can, despite not really needing to breathe– sinners don’t have to breathe . His chest still aches a little bit, but the pressure is gone, and he can’t feel anything attempting to reduce his soul into pieces anymore.
The hand on his shoulder is no longer present, and Lucifer is a few paces away from him, his calves almost hitting the table. In his hand something that glows, almost blindly so. An orb, made of angelic light. Such an insignificant little thing, that almost killed him.
Then, without taking his eyes off Alastor, Lucifer brings the orb in front of his face, a forked tongue rolls out wrapping around it and, without any hesitation, takes it into the fallen angel’s mouth, who swallows it down with an audible gulp.
Immediately, Lucifer makes a face of disgust. “ Ew . It tastes like Adam’s personality. Like shit.”
Alastor disguises his laugh with a cough.
It takes a few more days before the wound heals completely, thanks to the natural regenerative capacities any sinner possesses and Alastor’s magic finally working properly, but it gets there. The only proof of its presence is a thin pale scar, that no one would be able to see unless he takes off his clothes, which won’t happen anytime soon – possibly never.
Charlie greeted Alastor with enthusiasm the day after Lucifer’s he– intervention, Husk and Angel just gave him a look he didn’t care to decipher when he passed in front of the bar, and Niffty… well, he’s sure she figured out something was wrong with him right after he returned from his destroyed radio tower, but the girl knows to say nothing about it, unlike someone else. As a bonus, Vaggie has stopped her attempts to question the Overlord and simply smiled from the corner of the room when he entered the main hall. Maybe that’s a sign he gained something out of this.
He’s in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee when he feels the airwaves shift behind him. How he missed it the last time is anyone’s guess.
“Do you need anything, Sir?”
Even if his back is turned away from him, he can imagine Lucifer rolling his eyes.
"I believe you have some questions to answer."
"Oh yes, that!" He turns, facing the King with his signature cup in hand, smile wide. "But of course! Although, you haven't specified the number of questions, and I remember you said answers for only a few of them." Lucifer looks unimpressed, as the sinner takes a sip from his coffee. "So I'll answer three of them, with the truth, as you requested per our deal. Is that acceptable?"
Lucifer shrugs. "Fine by me. Two are the things I really care about, anyway."
The King sure likes to run his mouth. "Then I suppose we can reduce them to two?"
"Hah, no. Three is fine."
"Then ask away, Your Majesty! The audience is dying to know what you are so interested in."
The King murmurs something under his breath, but before Alastor could ask him to repeat, he shoots his first question. "Do your plans with this hotel involve hurting Charlie?"
Well, the answer is easy. Lucifer never specified how much he has to elaborate on his answers, just that they have to be honest from his part. Besides, there are things he wouldn’t be able to reveal, even if he wants to. "No, my plans don't include harming Charlie." Then, he adds on, for good measure. "Nor anyone else in this hotel, for that matter."
Lucifer studies him, trying to pick apart his answer. He must conclude there's nothing to extract from it, so he moves on. "Would you put her in harm's way, if anything happens?"
"No." An inexplicable lump in his throat makes its presence known, and his shoulders tense slightly. Before Lucifer can comment on his stiffness, eyes already narrowed to slits with the promise of retribution and a bath in hellfire, he continues. “Not willingly.”
The tension that built up in the room fell away with Lucifer’s broad smile. "Splendid!"
With a stride, the King approaches, moving past Alastor and noticing the coffee machine, still containing some of the bean juice inside, the usual amount the sinner leaves for the other residents. Lucifer’s gaze is curious.
“So you’re the one that brews coffee in the morning– wait, don’t answer that.” The shorter man faces Alastor and points an accusatory finger at him. “Asshole you are, you would take it as my third question.”
To be quite frank, the idea didn’t even cross Alastor’s mind. Such a shame he can’t tease the King about his poor choice of words, or dodge the question entirely, but he can work with it. “Why, Sir, you really think so low of me I wouldn’t have pointed out such an obvious slip from your part and save you from an answer you can come up with by yourself, if you’ve asked?”
Now he sees Lucifer look up exasperatedly at the ceiling. “As I said, you’re an asshole.”
Alastor simply elects to watch the short man as he attempts to reach the cupboard, fails, looks behind him to see if Alastor has any snide comment to make about his unimpressive stature, fully expecting it. The sinner pretends to study his nails instead.
Giving up his fruitless endeavor, Lucifer snaps his fingers and summons his personalized mug – for someone who always has to point out how weird Alastor’s stitch around deer skeletons and radios is, the King isn’t too far behind with the apple motifs and the ducks, not to mention the tacky circus themes – and pours himself the coffee, before adding a sinful amount of sugar into it. Like father, like daughter.
“Actually, for the third question,” a sip of that disgustingly sweet amalgamation cuts his sentence in half, and Alastor has to exert his impressive patience to not comment on it. “I had something in mind that keeps bugging me.”
Alastor stares at the King, waiting for him to continue. His smile is frozen on his face.
Lucifer leans on the kitchen counter and returns the stare. Alastor pretends the anticipation doesn’t make him uncomfortable. “Your shadows, or maybe your powers in general, I don’t know, they don’t feel like they’re innate to your magic. How did you obtain them?”
And Alastor, well, Alastor is not panicking. His heart is not beating faster and he’s breathing regularly, probably, although it feels like his breaths are shorter and he doesn’t need to breathe, damn it, he doesn’t, no one dies once they’re dead.
He doesn’t feel like his knees will fail to support him at any moment and his hands are not trembling as he tightens his hold on the coffee mug.
It feels like hands are coming close to his throat, closer, a bit more, they’re so close they’re almost around his windpipe, but not yet. Not yet. They’re near, nearer than they should be, closer than he should have thought better to allow them to be, but they’re not there yet.
They’re not there yet.
Someone is calling him.
“–stor? Geez, you good?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What?”
The King is closer now, a frown on his face, as he looks down at him– down? Oh, he’s sitting on one of the chairs around the table. When did that happen?
“My shadows. I can’t tell you.”
“Oh.”
Lucifer retracts and gives him enough space to calm down, without saying anything more. They stay a few minutes in silence, Alastor eventually finishes the coffee gone cold, before the monarch speaks again. “Sooo… how do you make the coffee taste like this?”
Alastor takes the offered olive branch. “You ought to be more specific, Your Majesty.”
“Ah yeah,” Lucifer waves his hand not occupied by the coffee mug, “enough with the royalty titles. I know you don’t respect them anyway.”
It wouldn’t be an entirely incorrect statement, so Alastor doesn’t argue. “Anyway, coffee. the taste is…” Lucifer rubs his free hand on his chin in thought. “Adequate?”
“Only adequate?” A chorus of ‘aww’s plays through the airwaves, a hand to his chest for the dramatics. “You wound me, Lucifer.” The name of the King tastes strangely in his mouth.
A weird look passes over the King, but it goes away in an instant. “About that–” The shorter man stops, shakes his head, and lets go of whatever he wanted to say. “Yes, adequate. Passable. Marginally better than whatever the others make when they come down here in the kitchen first.”
“How flattering.” Alastor manages to stand up without feeling like toppling over, bringing the coffee mug into the sink. “I can tell you it’s a family’s secret.”
“Is that your way to say ‘I will never tell anyone here in this hotel so they won’t be able to make good coffee without me?’”
“Not yet.” And oh, this is new. He never considered sharing his culinary tricks before. Perhaps, she was right: he’s really growing soft.
“I thought you had daddy issues by the way.”
“It would be more appropriate to say it’s my mother’s secret.”
“Ah-ha! Knew it! You didn’t deny the daddy issues!”
“I’m simply not going to humor the first being in creation to experience parental neglect.”
“Hey!”
They keep going on for a while, until voices and tired groans start to emerge from the main hall, signaling the residents of the hotel are waking up to start a new day.
“Well, I’ll be taking my leave now.” Lucifer waves a hand behind his shoulders, before opening a portal to his quarters. His next words barely hold any bite. “Don’t want to be caught with you of all demons!”
“Believe me, I feel the same way!”
He's not going to mention it, ever, unless he wants to boost an already inflated ego – the biggest of all egos, actually –, but the King can be enjoyable company, especially when he's not throwing jabs at Alastor's work.
As the sinner makes it to the other side of the kitchen where the door is, an observation he made days ago stops him in his tracks. “May I ask a question before you disappear on us for an entire week?”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow in silent acknowledgment.
Alastor's neutral smile turns into a mischievous grin. “Does seeing someone drink your blood always makes you feel that– how does Angel Dust say it…” He rubs his chin for show, pretending to think it over. “‘Hot and bothered’?”
Watching the King un-regally choke on his own words, golden blush traveling all over his face and neck, makes all the trouble of the last two weeks all the more worth it.