chapter four
Note: Alastor-typical unhinged-ness ahead. Be warned lol. Also, this chapter is not beta-read. Mistakes will be corrected later on.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Alastor has always prided himself in being in complete control of his emotions. Having lived during a time of social strife and debilitating disadvantage for people like him, Alastor had to put up with a number of humiliations and indignities just to get by. But instead of spiraling into despair, depression, or what have you, Alastor kept his chin firmly up and simply moved forward.
And he did all of that with a smile. Because like his dear mother once said: one isn't fully dressed without one.
In the end, his efforts and endurances bore fruit: he landed his first radio gig one day when a well-to-do passer-by heard him speaking in a butcher shop one day. This man happened to work at KDKA Radio, which had announced the live returns of the presidential elections a year prior. This gig, which was mostly to provide secondary commentary to Harlod Arlin's play by play, instantly opened doors to him, granting him a taste of what could be—no, what should have been his from the very beginning.
His pockets were considerably lighter compared to his lighter-skinned colleagues, however. A tragic side effect of the times, sadly. Regardless, Alastor paid that no mind, busy as he was with his… hobbies. There were many nitwits who just so happened to be easily beguiled into lowering their guard, after all, making it easier for Alastor to… vent his frustrations.
All with a smile.
And that is Alastor's secret weapon. A smile empowers his allies, leaves his enemies guessing, and best of all: deflects all unwanted attention on any form of weakness. With this, Alastor has no difficulties achieving his goals and getting what he wants. And he does this with no compunction. No remorse.
Because no remorse means no attachments. No attachments means no sacrifices. And no sacrifices ensure that Alastor is always at the top of his game. Always in control. Always getting what he wants.
He admits this has made him quite… arrogant. Especially as of late.
Lately he is prone to misstepping. Prone to mistakes. Pride has gotten him to where he is now, but it has made him—dare he say it?—sloppy. That same hubris is what made him underestimate that pathetic Vox and his close bond with his two compatriots. What made him wear this fucking collar to save his own hide. It's what caused his humiliating defeat by Adam, and up to this day Alastor is overcome with hot, burning rage at the thought of that simpleton easily beating him—like Alastor were a mere insect! That stupid, mocking grin haunts him daily, and the reminder is as stark as the bright and burning gash on his chest.
The fact that Alastor can't even fucking touch it without burning makes him want to scream.
'How humiliating,' Alastor thinks hotly, watching little Niffty clean around the edges of his wound. It is the middle of the day, and the other residents are busy with their own tasks. No one is around to see Alastor so… so fucking pathetic.
Except, of course, Niffty. But she has seen him far worse than this. He can live with it.
"Sorry, Alastor," Niffty says after a few beats of silence, sounding uncharacteristically demure. Her lone eye shines as she stares at the glowing gash on Alastor's chest. He is certain that the glimmer in that bright red iris is not just from the holy light. She mutters something in her native tongue, but even without understanding, Alastor can tell it is another iteration of her penitence. "I tried. But it's hurting me, too. See?"
Alastor's eyes soften as she holds up her hands to him: black as the shadows that he controls, though smeared with stripes of blood from all the times she had accidentally touched his wound. Gingerly, he holds her tiny hands in his and—in a bout of sentimental whimsy—blows onto her fingers.
Immediately, she lights up and laughs, which in turn makes Alastor smile more genuinely as well, despite the pain.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear. You were of great help." Alastor leans back in his armchair, wincing when the movement aggravates his wound and releases a flash of holy light into the room. Both of them close their eyes, wincing. "We will find another way to fix this. Nothing is incurable."
(Though that begs the question: can something deemed pure and holy be cured in the first place?)
"It's been more than two weeks, though," Niffty says, frowning. She zips away to pick up the first aid kit and discarded strips of bloodied bandages on the floor. After disposing the bandages… somehow, Niffty is back staring up at Alastor, hugging the first aid kit to her chest. "So what now? Do we find someone who can fix it? Or are you gonna walk around with that extra not-fun hole on your chest for the rest of your life?"
Alastor's grin doesn't quite falter at the thought, but it does strain slightly at the edges. "Preferably not. To either option. I'm not fond of the idea of someone else knowing about this. This is Hell, after all. Foolish opportunists lie in wait."
"Meh, I guess," Niffty concedes, trailing off to make grumbling gremlin sounds. Then she lights up and bounces. "Ooh, ooh, what about Charlie? You have a deal with her, don't you? You can just ask her to help you out!"
Alastor pauses. That… is a technically sound suggestion. Surely the driven but terribly delusional princess has access to resources Alastor doesn't. But Alastor is hesitant to call in the favor so early, given the potential benefits he can reap from it in the near future. And while powerful in her own way, Alastor doubts that Charlie can do anything about this. She herself is not completely immune to the ill effects of holy light, as far as he is aware.
After a few more beats of consideration, Alastor shakes his head with a low growl. No, he won't call in the favor. Nor will he let Charlie of all people find out about this weakness of his. Call it pride or self-preservation, but Alastor refuses to let her—or anyone in this hotel, for that matter—see him like this. He will simply have to find another way.
"Okaaaay, not Charlie, then. Touchy." Niffty side-eyes his reaction, pouting. Tapping her chin with a finger, she looks up at the ceiling and paces the length of his room, muttering under her breath in her native tongue.
Then there's a knock on the door. They both freeze at the sound, and in a matter of seconds Alastor is completely wrapped in his shadows, while Niffty zips around the room to get everything in order. There is more flurry of movement in the room before the shadows recede, and in the center is Alastor in his standard glory: fully-dressed, grinning, and perfectly fine. "Come in!"
The door opens, and after a few tense beats, Husk's head peeks from the gap. Immediately, Niffty and Alastor relax. But only just. "Husker, my good man! What brings you here to my quarters? Come in!"
"Hey, Boss," Husk enters the room, laughably and pathetically quiet and careful in his entrance. An effect of their last enlightening conversation, Alastor is sure, though it is no fault of his that Husk had forgotten his place. His seven-year absence is no excuse for people to forget about the Radio Demon. "Sooo… Charlie wants to go over some hotel shit with you. Something about hiring actual staff like cooks and more housekeepers or something. I wasn't really listening."
"Hey," Niffty cries out, placing her hands on her hips and puffing her cheeks. "We don't need more housekeepers. I'm more than capable of cleaning up this place by myself!"
Husk just stares at her for a few beats before turning his gaze back on Alastor. "Anyway, she's a bit too busy to go up here herself, so. You might wanna meet with her. Or something."
"Duly noted, Husker," Alastor says; his grin not meeting his eyes. He waves a hand dismissively with his eyes shifting between him and the door. "Now, if that is all, go and tell the princess I'll be on my way. I just need to… address a few things with our dear Niffty here."
Husk rolls his eyes and waves a hand as he walks back towards the door. "Yeah, yeah. I'll leave you to your brooding and scheming. I'll just—"
Husk stops in his tracks, causing Alastor and Niffty to tilt their heads at him. Then, he sniffs the air, blinking.
Husk turns to Alastor with a raised brow. "Is that blood—"
Alastor's tendrils grab onto a surprised Husk, covering his mouth and pulling him roughly into the room. Husk is wide-eyed and shaking, staring up at Alastor with a silent question in his eyes. With narrowed eyes, Alastor releases him, watching as Husk falls to the ground, face first.
Husk shakes his head, a little dizzy from the impact. Then, he glares up at Alastor, though his ears are still flat on his head and his hackles are raised. "Okay, what the fuck was that for?"
"Have a care, old chum," Alastor warns, bending down to meet Husk's defiant glare as close as possible. With a bigger grin, he adds, "If I didn't know any better, I would assume you want people to hear you blabber about things you have no business asking about. Perhaps Angel Dust is a bad influence on you, hmm?"
"Leave him out of this," Husk grouches, grabbing his top hat where it had fallen on the floor. He dusts it off and places it back on his head. "And I wasn't blabbering about anything! I just smelled blood! You'd think that would be enough to make anyone concerned."
Alastor laughs loudly—with each syllable accentuated with a twist and crack of his neck. Husk mutters something about him being such a freak, which, fair enough! "Oh, is that so? Well, you know me and my habits. I just let off a little steam this morning. You know how it is."
"Spilling your own blood? I find that hard to believe." Husk scoffs. When the air around Alastor glitches, he backtracks, holding his hands up in front of him. "H-Hey, look, I'm not looking for any trouble! I'm just… Are you hurt or something? Maybe there's something I can do."
"Even if I were hurt, which is a preposterous notion in itself," Alastor says after a long staredown. As Husk sags and sighs, he folds his arms behind his back and turns his neck first before his body, pacing the length of his room. "Why should that be any concern of yours?"
"Not everyone's a heartless son of a bitch like you, Alastor," Husk growls out. Standing up with his wings spread out, he blocks Alastor's path and sweeps a hand in the air. "And last time I checked, we have a contract. I specifically remember there being a clause about me not being able to hurt or kill you. And that if anything happens to you… you're dragging me down with you, like the rest of the sad fucks who are walking around with your leash. So forgive me if I have a vested interest in your well-being, asshole."
Alastor narrows his eyes down at Husk; the edges of his grin twitching. Then, he laughs, holding his hands up in the air. "Oh, is that what this is about? Goodness, you should have said so, my good man! Far be it from me to stop you from holding up your end of the contract. You must have been such a worried wreck during my absence."
"Not too worried. I'm still here, ain't I?" Husk crosses his arms over his chest, scowling. "And cut the nice guy act, Alastor, I've known you long enough to know that this is anything but deflection."
Alastor narrows his eyes further. "Perhaps too long, old chum. You've certainly gotten comfortable, at least."
Husk shrugs. "If you wanted to, you would have gotten rid of me a long time ago. I was an overlord once. I know how people like you… us work."
"OOOOOH, wait a minute! That's it!" Alastor and Husk flinch and turn towards the source of the sound. They had completely forgotten all about Niffty being in the room with them. "Husk used to be an overlord! Maybe he knows something about your little problem, Alastor?"
Husk raises a brow at her before turning back to Alastor. "So you are hurt. Is it from… you know? The last Extermination Day?"
Alastor growls softly; his ears dropped down low on his head. After a few beats, he takes a deep breath and nods, turning to sit back down on his armchair. "If you must know, yes. I should warn you that what you see here should be kept among the three of us. If I catch you blabbing about this to Angel Dust during one of your little bull sessions—"
"Yeah, yeah, I won't tell a soul," Husk interjects grumpily. When Alastor just glares at him, he raises his hands in the air. "Well? Let's get this over with. I have stuff to do."
"... Fine." Alastor lifts his hand and snaps his fingers. Instantly, his suit coat and dress shirt are gone, leaving his scarred torso bare for the holy light to fill the room. Niffty and Husk cry out and cover their eyes.
"Jesus Christ!" Husk curses, shaking his head and growling. "Fucking warn a guy, why don't you?"
"Not quite the Redeemer's handy work," Alastor quips. Glaring down at his wound, he snarls. "It is, however, a farewell gift from that fool Adam."
Husk blinks—both from adjusting to the light and Alastor's revelation. "Until now? Why isn't it healing yet?"
"Good question." Alastor's grin still keeps its snarl-like edge. Holy light flashes once, as if responding to his disdain. "Unfortunately, we have yet to come up with an answer. Perhaps you can shed some… light on the situation, Husker? What have those fuzzy ears heard in the deep, dark bowels of Hell's gambling underground?"
"Maybe I know a thing or two," Husk says. Braving a few steps closer, he meets Alastor's gaze, silently asking. With a huff and a permissive wave of a hand, Alastor allows Husk to get closer to stare at the glimmering reminder of his humiliating defeat. "Damn. Almost got hit by one of those things, you know. Do they really just stick on you like that? Fuck."
"We tried everything," Niffty says sadly, resting her chin on the arm of Alastor's chair. She smiles briefly when he pats her head a few times, but goes back to pouting up at Husk soon enough. "We tried wiping it down, keeping it wrapped, and touching it with Alastor's shadow. The last one made it a little worse. I guess it's because it's holy light?"
"Maybe. I mean, the stuff is said to kill demons instantly, right?" Husk draws back to stand a respectable distance from Alastor. After a few beats of consideration, he looks at Alastor and says, "I think you're lucky to be alive, man. If this is Adam's dirty work, it ain't just regular holy light. Though… I'm guessing you shouldn't leave it on you for too long."
"Astute observation, Husker," Alastor says through gritted teeth. Still grinning, of course! "I never would have guessed that I should find a way to heal this, lest I suffer lasting, debilitating effects. Your attention to detail is surely the reason why you were Hell's greatest gambler. Were being the operative word, I fear, but your former reputation still precedes you!"
"I swear, every time you open your mouth…" Husk trails off under his breath. He starts pacing, rubbing his furry chin with a claw. After a beat, he asks, "So, is it safe to say that you're… dying?"
Alastor's eye twitches. Then, with a low laugh, he says, "I am quite certain I am not quite there yet, but I am keen on getting rid of this blasted thing as soon as possible."
"That's a yes, then." Husk ignores the static building up around Alastor as he stares at the ground, thinking. "Well, the exterminations are fairly recent. That's about the only time when sinners get killed by those holy spears. Before that… I don't think I've ever heard of sinners surviving it.
"Wait. I think I have. But it ain't a sinner," Husk blinks, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. "My casino used to get loads of guests everywhere, and some of them are Hellborn. I found out from them that sometimes the Goetia pick fights with the Fallen—some kind of sick game Paimon and Lilith play, I dunno—and the poor fucks whine about being collateral damage to their Goetia employers' shenanigans. I mean, there was this one guy who got caught in the middle of a fight and was hit with holy light and…"
"Yes? And?" Alastor prompts, perking up at the mention of the famed Goetia and Fallen folk. Hell, even tidbits about the lowly Hellborn are fascinating trivia. Why, the only times when Alastor would ever force himself to watch that annoying picture box is to see news about the other Rings. To think that Husk is a trove of multi-cultural information. How delightful!
(Not for the first time, Alastor finds himself seething at the idea of being trapped in this city with the rest of Hell's sinners when there is so much of Hell he can explore and antagonize. It's like being back on Earth again, when people would take a look at his dark curls and his mother's nose on his face and just sneer and spit at him. The injustice of it all, truly!)
Husk blinks, staring at a spot on the ground as the cogs in his brain start moving. "He was healed by the Fallen. Felt bad for him, apparently, so he healed him right then and there.
"Say, Boss," Husk turns to Alastor whose smile and body had gone stiff during his rambling. "Why don't you ask his majesty to heal you?"
"Don't ," Alastor warns; his voice distorted by static. He stands up and looms over a wide-eyed Husk, baring his sharp, yellow teeth. "Don't you dare suggest that to me ever again. If you do, I will rip you to shreds and broadcast your screams for everyone in this God-forsaken city to hear."
"... But why?" Husk finds himself asking despite shaking so much that he falls to his knees. "He's probably the only one who can help you! Do you seriously expect that to just vanish? You can die from this!"
"I won't," Alastor says through gritted teeth. His eyes, now spinning radio dials, flash a dangerous red, and the lights flicker on and off; turning a bright, neon green in some intervals. "And if you think I would stoop so low as to ask that… that pathetic pretender for anything, let alone help, then you don't know me as well as you think you do, Husker."
"Why do you hate him so much?"
Alastor turns to Niffty. Unlike Husk, she isn't cowering in fear, but standing just a few feet away with a quizzical look on her face. Alastor blinks at her. "Come again?"
She places one hand on her hip and gesticulates with the other. "You seem to really, really hate him, Alastor. I mean, I guess you hate everybody, but you literally picked a fight with Hell's ultimate bad boy the moment he arrived! What gives? Do you hate pretty people, is that it? But even if you do, you don't… usually let people get under your skin so easily."
Husk stops shaking, gazing at Alastor with something else than fear this time. "Say, she's right. You're not usually the one starting shit. Not so obviously, anyway. Have you two met before, or something? But he didn't seem to know you before that day."
Alastor draws back from Husk, straightening his back. Turning away from his… associates, he supposes, he says, "I've never met him before. But I, like everyone else, had heard of him. All the wild tales of his so-called ruthlessness and cruelty. Like a wretched, unforgiving monster from a fairytale. Though I suppose back on Earth, he truly was made to be the monster, wasn't he?
"But he is none of those things. Lucifer—the Great and Powerful King of all Hell, is an idiot. A sentimental, clumsy oaf who just so happens to possess unimaginable power, thanks to our silent Creator. A failure who barely uses his limitless influence… and has signed us poor souls to further damnation in the form of holy extermination.
"And yet he dares," Alastor seethes, hunching over as his body contorts and changes shape. His drool flows down the side of his mouth as he imagines that stupid, rosy-cheeked face in his mind's eye. "He dares to ignore me, the Radio Demon, when he himself has Fallen so low that not even Hell is a suitable enough punishment for his follies? To scoff at me, looking at this… thing on my chest! Like he knows. The gall! The absolute gall of that… that…"
Alastor screeches and lashes out with a black tendril, destroying his dresser and desk on the other side of the room. "FUCK HIM! HE WILL REGRET UNDERESTIMATING ME! I WILL TEAR OFF HIS LIMBS AND EAT HIS HEART IN FRONT OF HIS DAUGHTER! I WILL DESTROY HIM, AND I WILL RELISH EVERY. SINGLE. MOMENT."
Husk and Niffty watch, wide-eyed as Alastor thrashes his room while threatening bodily harm on their king who is fortunately away on business. The two of them exchange looks and, after a beat, Husk says, "I guess I'll tell Charlie he's a bit busy today."
"Yeah," Niffty laughs a little. "I think I need to get started on those bugs, anyway. They came back right after the extermination! They could have helped us out."
"Sure, Niff," Husk scoffs. A loud crash pulls them back to reality, and they both blink, wide-eyed, at Alastor who is now rearranging the atoms of his bed.
They look at each other and nod, quietly tip-toeing towards the door. Opening the ticket to their freedom and safety, they exit the room slowly, keeping an eye on Alastor up until they close the door in front of them with a soft click.
As for Alastor? He seethes and rages and snarls, destroying his renovated room with little thought of the aftermath. When his wrath-addled brain sees nothing else to destroy, he climbs up to his radio tower. He cranes his neck, breaking it, staring out the windows towards the city that is begging to be destroyed.
Then, in the corner of his eye, he sees it: Lucifer's apple-shaped tower.
Briefly, he stops in his tracks, staring at the brightly-lit tower as it stands against the backdrop of Hell's eternal red sky. Looking at it now, Alastor realizes that there is a soft glow surrounding the tower… much like its owner who, despite his Fall, is still very much the angel from lore.
A legendary failure. A clumsy oaf. A loving father. Not at all what Alastor had expected him to be.
Alastor hates being wrong. Almost as much as he hates being ignored.
With a snarl, he paces the length of his radio tower; the shadows surrounding him and reverting him back to his regular form. His torso is still bare, and the wound casts a holy glow on his console. He sees this and faces away from it, unwilling to let anything remotely holy besmirch his precious equipment.
The same equipment that Lucifer must have rebuilt from scratch. Just for him.
Only to ignore Alastor, in the end.
"Have you gotten bored, good sir?" Alastor asks, facing the windows where he sees Lucifer's apple tower, clear as day. With an unhinged grin, he laughs, caressing the window like one would to a lover. "Has this… this thing on my chest made you realize that I am not worth your lordly attention? That I am no one?"
The very idea irks him. How dare he.
He turns around, glaring down at his weak, wounded form. It is bad enough that he is bound to that… that witch's chains, keeping him from truly using his full power. But then this had to happen, and now Alastor's only hope of surviving is asking their absent king for help.
And the worst part of it is the fool will likely say yes. Not before mocking Alastor, that smug little bitch, but he will still heal Alastor, no question. It will mostly be for the benefit of their dear daughter, of course, but he has this sinking suspicion that he will do it for Alastor as well.
Staring at the wound on his chest, Alastor grabs onto the edge of his broadcasting console and snarls.
Alastor hates being wrong. He hates being ignored. And he hates, hates, hates not being in control of his emotions.
All because of Lucifer.
Months pass after that unfortunate little episode. Alastor admits he has flaws, and brief moments of psychosis can happen to anyone here in Hell. Who can boast immense power and control over millions of souls and still hold on to their sanity? Anyone? No?
He would speak into his microphone and ask if it was on, but alas, the blasted thing is still under disrepair! The horror! The tragedy!
At least Lucifer is back to normal. Alastor doesn't know what had happened, but the little six-winged gremlin has started picking fights again. Has his recent rendezvous with the other Sins corrupted him so?
(The thought of their deer sovereign rekindling his filial bonds with the Sins leaves… a bad taste in his mouth. Something that not even scrumptious, human flesh can attempt to erase from his palette. How odd. And aggravating.)
But Alastor will not look at a gift horse in the mouth. As it is, Lucifer's attempts at getting a rise out of him by pointing out the size of his antlers is laughable. And strangely endearing. At least this is familiar.
"Come again, your majesty?" Alastor asks, bending down towards Lucifer while cupping a hand over his ear. He relishes in the gasps he hears from the other residents around him. Oh, how delicious. "I can't seem to hear you properly from that height. Perhaps you should invest in a megaphone! You are of the mind to be a better king, are you not? It will most surely benefit your many, many tall citizens!"
Puffing his rosy cheeks, Lucifer wags a sharp finger in Alastor's face and says, "I said your antlers are tiny, you fucker! Aren't antlers a sign of… dominance or power among deer? I bet you're like, the bottom of the food chain! Ha! Tiny-antlers having prick!"
Alastor laughs throatily; the static distorting his voice. With half-lidded eyes, he moves forward even closer, widening his grin when a golden hue colors the apples of Lucifer's cheeks.
"And you are just tiny." And oh, Alastor cannot resist tapping Lucifer on where his nose should be. "You little shit."
And so Alastor's life returns to normal—or as normal as it can be with a wounded chest and broken microphone. But while Alastor has yet to figure out how to properly repair his staff, he has noticed, as of late, that the light from his chest has dimmed ever so slightly.
In fact, it's such a subtle change that he doesn't notice it until a month after Lucifer's return to the hotel.
He stares at his wound suspiciously, wondering if he should consider this a victory… or a warning.
… He's not turning into a vessel for Adam, is he? Surely not! Alastor would rather slit his throat right here and now than be possessed by that neanderthal!
"Niffty, my dear," Alastor approaches Niffty one day as she is busy with her insect genocide. Today she is crafting what appears to be a tiny altar upon which to offer her roach sacrifices to the gods. Ahh, how Alastor dreams of being a spectator in the dank and dark theater of her twisted little mind one day! "May I ask you something? If you aren't too busy, of course!"
"I always have time for you, Alastor!" she says sweetly, because of course she will make time for him. She even drops the tiny little hammer in her hands to focus her one-eyed gaze solely on him. Like the devoted darling she is. "What is it? Are you finally gonna ask the holy hunk for help now? Can I watch? "
Alastor's smile almost slides right off at the face of that sinister, gremlin grin, but he perseveres. With a shake of his head, he laughs and says, "Hells, no, my dear. I will do nothing of the sort! I would very much rather die."
"Aww." Niffty's smile falls. With shiny eyes, she asks, "So you won't ask him to take off your shirt to heal you? Or sit on you?"
Alastor blinks down at her; his head full of nothing but static for a few beats. "... No. Why—Why in Hell would I ask him to do such a thing?"
"Eh, it could happen," Niffty says, shrugging. Then, with a grin, asks, "So what do you wanna ask me about? I'm all ears!" She cups her hands up her head and flicks them, one, two, as if mimicking Alastor's own ears.
As if in response, one of Alastor's ears twitches. "Right. Well. I would like to ask you more questions about your… battle with Adam. Would it be all right if we move somewhere more private?"
"Sure!" Niffty says, just as Alastor wraps them in his shadows. And within seconds, they are in his room, which has long been repaired and refurbished after his little mishap. Niffty buzzes around as she is wont to do, peeking underneath all the furniture and grabbing whatever trash she finds underneath. Let it not be said that Niffty was not dedicated to her craft!
"As I was saying," Alastor says, folding his arms behind him. Niffty stands in front of him, blinking her large eye rapidly up at him. "Your battle with Adam. How, exactly, did it go?"
"Uh," Niffty deflates; her pupil contracting in panic. "I don't really remember much anymore! It's been a while. All I remember is Charlie telling me to—"
"Yes, stab. So you did," Alastor finishes for her, holding up a hand. "Yes, yes, I've heard and read about it. I know everything that the news has said about your skirmish. Truly inspiring, my dear. If only all of Hell were as brave as you."
Niffty's eye glimmers with unshed tears. "Aww, thank you, Alastor—"
"In any case, I'd like your version of the event. And not some pretentious propaganda drivel by Vox's fleeting and fugacious multimedia outlets." Alastor's grin turns snarl-like briefly at that.
Niffty squints. "Huh?"
Alastor sighs. "How did you kill Adam, Niffty? And what led to it?"
"Oh! Well, I stabbed him. Multiple times." Niffty tapped her finger on her chin and looked up at the ceiling, pondering. "But before that, there was like, a big fight between Adam and Charlie. I don't really know what happened there 'cause I was busy stabbing some angels, but the hotel got split in half and Lucifer was there!"
Alastor raises a brow. "... Lucifer was the one who split the hotel in half?"
"Nah, it was Adam, I think. Though he was a little too happy during the rebuilding. I mean, people died and stuff." Niffty gasps. "Do you think he took advantage of the chaos to destroy the hotel? He did hate all of your renovations. It was a conspiracy all along! He really is the ultimate bad boy!"
"... Right," Alastor says, watching her cackle sinisterly to herself while promising to snatch one of his feathers for her collection. Alastor stomps down the spike of irritation at the thought of her touching his wings before adding, "And then? What happened after that?"
"Then he turned all Demon King on Adam and beat the shit out of him!" Niffty says. She transforms into a covetous goblin right before Alastor's eyes as she recalls, "Oh, you should have seen him, Alastor. Those eyes, those horns, that tail. One day I'll get a taste. One day…"
"Why didn't he finish the job, then?" Alastor asks after a few beats of silence. Niffty pauses from her hand-rubbing to look up at him. "If he was already handling Adam, why was it you who killed him in the end?"
"Charlie told him to stop," Niffty says, raising her hands in the air in a shrug. "So he did."
Alastor hums, considering. That's it? Lucifer could have ended Adam so easily, yet he decided to show him mercy because of… what? His daughter asked ? Just like that?
"But he is dead, yes?" Alastor asks. "That Adam?"
"Oh, yeah, don't worry. We burned his body and everything."
"I see. That will be all, then, Niffty dear."
Alastor lets Niffty get back to her job, closing the door behind her with a thoughtful frown on his face. Now that his earlier concern about Adam is settled, Alastor can't help but fixate on something else: Lucifer.
To think their all-powerful king would allow his idealistic daughter to have so much power and influence over him. How… very simple of him.
How very enticing.
He turns towards the wall where his shadow looms. It stares at him; its grin eternally held up by that cursed thread binding him to his absent master. The reminder makes him snarl and his ears to fall back on his head.
Alastor had been planning to use Charlie to get him out of this dreadful deal, but perhaps he had been looking at the wrong place all along.
He approaches his dresser and pulls out the first drawer. Underneath the false bottom is a tiny compartment where he keeps a few items of sentimental value. He holds up his mother's ring, and it sparkles and shimmers under the light. This was acquired after he had beguiled a delusional human to retrieve it for him in exchange for winning lottery numbers. It was a humble thing, but it was one of the few things of value she possessed back in the day.
Next are simple trinkets: A tiny and not at all accurate voodoo doll Niffty had given him on his birthday all those years ago; a plain black bowtie, slightly torn at the edges, and; a black and white picture of him and Rosie in front of her shop, commemorating the day they became friends after he had helped her get rid of that awful Franklin.
Finally, the last photo in his humble collection. It isn't actually a photo, but a ripped page from a magazine. It is brightly and gaudily colored like the rest of Hell, like this hotel, but Alastor kept it. It is the newest addition to his collection, and he justifies that it is for research. For posterity.
With an unhinged grin, he stares down at the stolen snapshot of their deer sovereign, chugging down a glass of Beelzejuice like it was his last drink in Hell. He is static in the photo, but he is obviously rejoicing among a crowd of uncivilized Hellhounds; his other hand presenting that god-awful fire-breathing duck like it were a sacred relic.
And that smile on his face, which looked far more stupid than the one Alastor usually sees, is unapologetically open and honest. Alastor hates it with a passion.
But that openness is something that he can guide.
Alastor returns all the trinkets in the compartment, softly closing the dresser. He hums to himself; a jaunty tune that he used to listen to back on Earth.
Just as he walks out into the hallway, he sees Lucifer coming out of his own room at the end of the hall. Alastor doesn't need to be close to see the tiny king flinch at the sight of him—right before frowning and sticking his nose up in the air, vanishing back into his room with his middle finger raised at Alastor.
Alastor chuckles. Truly predictable. He shakes his head and lets the shadows consume him. There is much to do at the hotel, after all.
If Alastor can't have that power himself, then maybe he can control it. He'll just have to figure out how.
But just as Alastor thinks he has it all figured out, this happens.
Why?
Why does that little cretin insist on invading every corner, every space of Alastor's mind?
And why, for the love of all things unholy, does Alastor let him?
This is a mistake. Alastor should never have let this happen. He had been content to let the idiot do as he pleases, but the more he sees him in the day, the more he craves for him in the dark. He has his shadows follow him, listening in on his nonsensical, one-sided conversations with himself. He hears about his… external activities, and he is possessed with an urge to strangle him. Because how dare he.
How dare he get under Alastor's skin, only to fraternize with lowly lifeforms?
Alastor should just devour him and be done with it. See him try to ignore Alastor then!
… This is a mistake.
Alastor narrows his eyes, trying to focus on the plans that Charlie is showing him. She believes it would be a good idea for them to have some kind of open area to turn into a ballroom or conference room if need be, as is typical of actual hotels. The parlor is… well, perhaps not a nice place, but a sufficient enough area for them to do their team-building activities. But it is too out in the open, and if the hotel does end up receiving guests in the future, it only makes sense to have a dedicated space for group activities.
How out of it is Alastor that he finds himself agreeing to all this?
After he points out a little flaw on Charlie's blueprint—there is no need for four hearths in a fitness center, good gracious—Alastor rubs his chest, where a wound is very much close to healing completely. Anyone looking at his grinning face would not expect him to have such dark thoughts about what is generally perceived as a good thing, but Alastor has more than enough reason to worry.
Why is it healing so quickly after being stagnant for so long? Is this a symptom for something far worse to come? An illusory, insidious lull into a false sense of security? Is Alastor himself turning holy? Or is he turning into a secondary vessel to Adam, like he had first feared?
So lost is Alastor in his thoughts that he doesn't hear Charlie's question the first time. After a few beats, he brightens up and grins down at her, laughing. "Oh, sorry, my dear! I didn't quite catch that. What was your question?"
Charlie sighs, pinching the space between her eyes. "No, it's—it's nothing. It's not related to the hotel, anyway. It's a little personal."
"Oh, relationship troubles?" Alastor sends a sly look in Vaggie's way, and the former angel's response to his sneer is her middle finger. How unladylike! "I'm afraid I can't be of help there. I myself am not interested in such things. But I can make an effort, if it would ease your concerns."
"Vaggie and I are fine, Alastor." Charlie rolls her eyes. Then, after another sigh, she sits down. After a beat, she looks up at him, looking oddly stern. "This thing that you have with dad. I'd like you to stop it, please."
Alastor blinks; his grin frozen in place. With a laugh and a bouncy hand wave, he says, "I'm not sure I understand what you mean, my dear! What thing would I ever have with your deer father?"
"That. You're doing it right now." Charlie waves her hand over his form vaguely. "Look, I understand that not everyone will get along here. I mean, I would very much love it, but I can be realistic. I do hope, though, that you guys learn to be civil at least? Every time you two fight, it sends everyone into a panic because you destroy things!"
Alastor rolls his eyes. "Oh, nonsense, we get along just fine, Charlie! Your father is just an immature oaf who likes attention, and I simply indulge him, lest he tries to find entertainment elsewhere. With our deer sovereign staying at our hotel, we should be concerned with what image he presents, yes?"
"You know, he's got a point," Vaggie says, drawing their attention. At their disbelieving faces, she scowls and crosses her arms over her chest. "Not that I like agreeing with the asshole, but from what I've seen, Lucifer is the one picking the fights. Mostly. I don't want to point fingers, but with him recently hanging out with the Sins…"
"Not to mention, consorting with Hellhounds," Alastor adds; his grin sharpening. "Filthy little mongrels. Best check your father for fleas, my dear."
"They're not filthy, Alastor. And I'm pretty sure they don't have fleas. The Hellborn are my people too, so be nice," Charlie says, yet she herself doesn't sound too convinced. "Anyway, I'll talk to my dad about this, as well. In the meantime, can you try to be a little nicer to him? You two seem like you would get along so well if you get to know him. Please?"
Alastor turns away from her puppy dog eyes and scoffs, finding the idea absolutely preposterous. He glances at the bar where he saw the king last, and true enough, the man is still there… watching them. The idea of Lucifer keeping his eyes on Alastor and Alastor alone sends a thrill of satisfaction up his spine, causing his grin to broaden without him even meaning it to.
In response, Lucifer snarls and, much to no one's surprise, gives him not one, but two middle fingers. Alastor rolls his eyes at the absurdity of it all.
"Alastor," Charlie says, sighing and shaking her head. "What did I just say? Don't provoke him, all right?"
"I did nothing of the sort!" Alastor denies, holding a hand to his chest.
Charlie raises a brow. She turns to her father who, upon seeing her face, stops making ridiculous faces. As if in prayer, Charlie closes her eyes; once again sighing and shaking her head.
Alastor laughs deeply, static building up around him as Lucifer looks away, scowling. What a buffoon.
For the next few minutes, he and Charlie resume their discussion, and they have both agreed to draft their own suggestions to present to each other by the end of the week. But when Charlie is pulled into a private conversation by Vaggie, Alastor decides to see what Lucifer is up to now—only to find him missing.
He glances at Charlie and Vaggie. After a beat of consideration, he blends into the shadows, searching for prey.
And he finds his first hunt on the second floor; his mind seemingly elsewhere as he rubs his nose. With a grin, Alastor decides to appear right in front of Husker, relishing the surprised shout he releases as he falls down on his ass.
"Ugh, can you stop that?" Husk grumbles, rubbing the back of his head. He stands up and dusts off his pants, muttering under his breath. "I swear to God, everyone here is going to drive me fucking crazy one of these days…"
"Husker, good chap, nice to see you!" Alastor greets belatedly, laughing throatily at the little eye roll the cat gives him. "I couldn't help but notice our beloved ruler stomping off somewhere. Could it have anything to do with what you talked about? Or is he due for his afternoon nap?"
"Christ, you're obsessed," Husk says. When static builds up around Alastor, he waves his hands in the air and says, "Okay, okay, fine. To answer your question… I don't know. He asked for a drink, and I gave him apple juice. He got a little tetchy about it, but I strongly advised him not to drink anything alcoholic for the time being."
"Hmm, I assume all that Beelzejuice is catching up to him, then?"
"Huh? Oh no, Beelzejuice is the shit, man. You should try it. It'll change your fucking life."
"I will have to pass for now, old chap."
"Your loss."
"Anyway," Alastor says, holding his hand up in a flourish. "Why prohibit his alcohol intake? Has Lucifer unknowingly passed the Eighteenth Amendment here in Hell? Goodness! We should prepare for the riots."
"Nothing like that, he's just…" Husk trails off, grimacing. He shakes his head and turns away from Alastor. "Look, it's not my place to tell. You can probably just ask him. Or better yet, smell him. You got… that deer thing going on. You'll find out in no time once you take a whiff."
Alastor narrows his eyes at Husk, silent for a few beats. Then, with a nod, says, "Perhaps I shall."
"All right, just… you didn't hear it from me, all right?" Husk says over his shoulder. With a half-hearted wave, he adds, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm the one who's going to take a nap. Christ."
Alastor watches him leave for a few moments before receding into the shadows, his curiosity piqued. How… queer. Smell him? Take a whiff, as Husk said? What on Earth can Alastor possibly find out from doing such a thing? The little pest will likely just smell like cinnamon and apples like he always does.
… Alastor should not know that. But he does.
It takes him a while, but his shadows eventually find Lucifer. He doesn't reveal himself yet, content to just watch the idiot stare at the ceiling, looking oddly pensive. Alastor tilts his head to the side, trailing his gaze up and down the king's petite form; lingering on the exposed skin on his neck as he leans his head back against the wall.
How does angel blood taste, he wonders? He is suddenly ever so curious to find out.
Alastor observes Lucifer for a little longer, and for a moment he considers hiding in Lucifer's shadow and jumping out to scare the shit out of him. But then he sees Lucifer rub his midsection which, upon him pressing on it, reveals a subtle, but very present curve.
… What the fuck?
Very suddenly, Alastor finds himself unable to resist his curiosity. And so he reveals himself.
"Oh? What's this?" He fully materializes in front of Lucifer, who seems to jump. Upon seeing him, he rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. Alastor narrows his eyes at that, suddenly taken back to a time when the only reaction he could pull out of Lucifer was silence.
Well, that certainly won't do.
"Is our esteemed leader down in the dumps, as they say?" Alastor asks, following up his query with canned laughter. He relishes the scowl on Lucifer's face; oh, how that never gets old! "What ever could be the cause, I wonder? Why, can it be a quarrel with a Sin—his so-called family of failures? Or perhaps it's simply fatigue, as he has been seen spending nights overindulging and cohorting with lowly beings such as Hellhounds, of all things!
"Have we become too boring, your majesty?" Alastor follows up, watching as Lucifer stares intently at his chest. Stretching his smile wide, he adds, a little cruelly, "Why, I would assume your daughter is enough reason for you to stay at this hotel, but I suppose you have always bitten off more than you can chew. Historically speaking."
Nothing. Lucifer continues to stare at his chest like it has all the answers to the universe. Then Lucifer sighs, deeply and tiredly, like Alastor is a petulant, spoiled child who is desperately trying to get his attention.
Alastor pauses, narrowing his eyes. Is that what he thinks?
"Smell him," he remembers Husk saying.
Well, since the opportunity has presented itself…
With a grin, Alastor looms over and, to Lucifer's horror, takes a whiff. True enough, he still smells like apples, but instead of cinnamon, there is a trace of cold mintiness—a new shampoo, perhaps? But just as Alastor thinks about cursing Husk for making him do something so unlike him, he finds that tell-tale scent and freezes.
He smells ripe. Like he is…
Oh.
Oh.
"Interesting," Alastor grits out as he stands up straight—slow and steady, like a predator ready to pounce. But he stops himself from grabbing Lucifer by the neck to squeeze and shake him. To demand he explain himself. But barely, oh, just barely. "Most interesting."
Is this what he had been doing for the past few months? While he is provoking Alastor, getting under his skin… he is busy getting in someone else's bed?
And now he is carrying that person's young?
Alastor's eyes turn into dials before he even thinks about it. What transpires next is seemingly a blur. He mocks and pushes Lucifer, distorting the space around him and flickering the lights. He also sees Lucifer in his frustratingly beautiful demonic form for the first time, and he can't even summon the will to truly fight back as he is pushed to the ground, looking up at Lucifer as if he were an acolyte, and Lucifer were his god.
A god who had wronged him by getting knocked up.
Alastor hates being wrong. He hates being ignored and not being in control. And he hates, hates, hates this feeling of betrayal festering in his soul.
Why?
Why does it matter so much to Alastor?
He hates it. Hate, hate, hate, hates it.
"I tire of your games," Lucifer warns; his voice a delicious mix of demonic and holy. It sends shivers up his spine, but before he can decide whether he likes that or not, Lucifer continues to speak. "Whatever you think you know about my activities outside the hotel, it matters not because you have nothing to do with it. If I choose to share a drink with a dear friend who is like family, then I will do so because I am Lucifer, and I am your fucking king."
Alastor has nothing to do with it? The gall.
"Y-You—you would endanger that… that thing?" Alastor looks Lucifer up and down, crying out when he is pushed further back against the floor. Despite this, he braves a grin, all the same. "Why, I never thought you to be so heartless to your own flesh and blood."
"ENOUGH!" Alastor chokes as Lucifer uses both hands to squeeze his neck. His vision blackens around the edges as Lucifer says, "Leave Charlie out of this. She has nothing to do with this. And if you mention her again—calling her a thing—I swear to my Father, I will eat your soul."
What?
Alastor's eyes, which had been rolling at the back of his head, roll back to stare at Lucifer. He waits for Lucifer to take it back, to amend his statement and clarify that he had been speaking about the child in his womb, but nothing. Silence stretches between them, and he feels Lucifer's grip on his neck loosening, as if he too is unsure of what to make of this stalemate.
But Alastor does.
Before he can stop himself, Alastor erupts in loud, grating, joyous laughter. Symbols form around his head, and his black tendrils wait in the shadows; quivering in anticipation.
He doesn't know.
By God, HE DOESN'T KNOW!!
"What are you—"
With the help of his shadows, he reverses their positions so that he is the one looming over Lucifer. The fallen angel looks so deliciously trapped, and Alastor wonders if this is the face he made just before he was cast out of Heaven. A failure. A fool.
Alastor wants to eat him right up.
He indulges his need to be as close to Lucifer as he can, but he dares not actually touch him. There is a fire in his groin that is completely foreign to him, and he makes a note to dissect his rather… unique reaction at a later time. For now, he wishes to relish this rare vision of a powerful, god-like creature writhing underneath him.
"Goodness me. You have no idea what is growing inside of you, do you?" He lowers his head in a flash so that their faces are perfectly lined up. Grinning wickedly, he adds with relish, "Your majesty."
"What do you mean?" Lucifer asks. His demonic form recedes, and Alastor quickly realizes that his normal face looks just as delightful when overcome with fear. "What is it?"
What is it, he asks. He doesn't even know where it could be from! The little tart. Feeling oddly merciful, Alastor leans over to whisper in his ear:
"Shall I do you a favor, my deer sovereign? Shall I rip that offending abomination from your womb and devour it in front of you?" He croons softly, wrapping them both in a blanket of shadow. Oh, he will never, ever forget that look on Lucifer's face. Oh, how he must be suffering.
But just as he thinks he has Lucifer all figured out, Lucifer reaches for his chest and makes him scream.
What happens next is a blur—a flurry of movement that not even shadows can hide. The proof is in the torn wallpaper. The broken picture frames and vases. Alastor finds himself in fight or flight mode, but he has never been one to back down, even in the face of death. If Lucifer wishes to end him today, then Alastor will make it a struggle.
Then all of a sudden, the pain ceases.
He is left standing on his two feet, staring wide-eyed at Lucifer. His gaze is so focused on him that Alastor sees it: a tell-tale wisp of holy energy gathering in Lucifer's palm… and then disappearing.
Realization dawns as he stares at the red blood pooling in his hands.
It was him. Lucifer had been healing Alastor all along. And Alastor had absolutely no idea.
Alastor screams, ripping his hair out of his scalp.
Time seems to stand still. And then—
"DAD!"
Alastor watches intently as Lucifer disappears through a portal, looking spooked. He barely registers Charlie and Vaggie kneeling by his side—and when, exactly, did he fall to his knees?
He finds that he doesn't care. All he cares about is reaching through that wall and forcing Lucifer back to face him even though he knows that Lucifer is fucking gone.
But Lucifer will be back. He cannot resist Charlie for too long, though Alastor prepares himself for a long wait. But it will all be worth it, in the end.
Because Alastor hates being wrong. He hates being ignored and not being able to control his emotions. He hates feeling betrayed by the fickle actions of this sentimental fool—a fool who, right under his own fucking nose, was ridding him of his deadly bodily burdens all along. Leaving him… indebted. Which he hates. Hate, hate, hate, hates.
(But despite all this, Alastor cannot, for the life of him, bring himself to hate Lucifer Morningstar. And he hates that most of all.)
Notes:... wow.
Honestly, you guys, I'm getting really concerned here. This chapter was supposed to include Bee and Mammon's visit, and some bantering between Bee and Alastor should have also occurred but this... this suddenly became a near 10k-words chapter of Alastor being his stimky, crazy, obsessed deer-like self. Dude wanted his own chapter so badly he literally possessed me to write it.
I should probably get an exorcism. Maybe.
But yeah WHOO, that was a ride! Honestly, I'm a little proud of how this turned out because dramaaa. Poor Alastor is such a noob at having feelings. He can't cope, you guys. Wonder how he'll react to being the baby daddy HAHAHAHA I can't wait to write it.
I hope you enjoyed this impromptu Alastor POV chapter! I did some very superficial research on the history of radio and whatnot, but if anything turns out to be wrong, just... ignore it? Please? Haha. Also, eeeee, I really like how soft Alastor is for Niffty. She's his daughter for sure. If only he was as kind to Husk, though to be fair, Husk shouldn't be sticking his... nose into everyone's business. *finger guns*
And speaking of Husk, I am a firm believer in him having owned his own casino once upon a time. It is fact. *nods sagely*
Anyways, enough rambling! Thanks so much for taking the time to read! I updated a little early because I won't be able to update at all next week. Work deadlines and all. I'll do my best to update again by next weekend though, so you don't have to wait long.
See you next time, folks <3 and have a great weekend!