Chapter Text
Sometimes, when Alastor lets his mind wander away from his responsibilities as an Overlord, facilities manager, and radio show, he thinks about his death. Not very often, it’s not something he likes to dwell on. Why would he? He had thought himself so mighty in life, only to be brought so low by a case of mistaken identity that led to a bullet between the eyes.
He wonders if it was intentional. If in the grand scheme of things those with the most pride always meet a fate that brings them so low.
It didn’t matter anyway. Regardless of the nature of his death, he was genuinely powerful now. Powerful enough that when people saw him on the street they darted into alleyways to avoid him. Powerful enough that people always thought twice about saying or doing something that might invoke his wrath.
But as painful as it is to admit, he might not be powerful enough for this.
Adam’s wound hasn’t gone away. It stays there, an open gash that never closes, pulses with horrible golden light that feels like it’s burning him from the inside out, crawling into the marrow of his bones and seeping into his blood. And the smell . It’s one of the foulest smells he’s ever had to endure, and the only reason the others don’t notice is because he masks it with magic.
He’s powerful enough that it hasn’t outright killed him, he supposes. It’s a cold comfort.
He remembers once, when he was young, his father had backhanded him when his mother wasn't in the room, splitting his lip and turning his cheek into a throbbing mess. His mother had come in and seen what he’d done, and she’d ran to Alastor and looked his father square in the eye and told him that if he ever raised his hand against their son ever again then she’d kill him in his sleep. The fury in her eyes, not an inferno but a cold, seething rage, had been enough to convince the man that she was being truthful.
Alastor had always thought she was wrong about one thing though; he was never their son. Only hers.
But she had iced his wounds, as he’d so often seen her do for herself, and now he wonders what she would have done if she could see this gaping wound in his chest.
He doesn’t dwell on it. He’ll never see her again.
He thinks it’s killing him. He hopes not, hopes that eventually that holy energy will fizzle out and die being away from its source for so long. But it probably won't. It spills more of his blood every single day. It doesn’t matter how many times he applies fresh bandages, how many times he tries to use his own demonic power to reach in and snuff it out, how many times he takes a minute just stand and be, because these are the two truths of the matter; he is slowly bleeding out, and it is killing him.
Just today the blood had soaked through, and his darling Niffty had come in to collect his clothes and asked him about it.
“Oh my dear! I’m afraid I’ve been a bit sloppy recently,” he had said to her. “Made a bit of a mess.”
Her lone eye had widened and looked around, as if searching for the mess he had referenced and so blissfully unaware it was right on his chest. “A mess? Can I help?” Oh, the darling was so eager. He hated to disappoint her.
“No Niffty, dear, I’m afraid not. Just keep this between us, yes?” He looked down at the shirt, blood red and hiding evidence of his injury from everyone except one crafty little maid.
She nodded, gathering up his clothes with a look of fierce determination that told him those little stains on his shirt didn’t stand a chance.
He sits here now with fresh bandages, grateful for the demonic anatomy he possessed after his death. He’d have died long ago if it hadn’t been for this body, ears and tail be damned.
He’s not sure what the next step is, although there is a voice in his head that he snarls at and dismisses as soon as it makes itself known.
It tells him that in the entirety of hell, there is one being that could fix this for him. Of course, the king may be a fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless. Alastor has seen evidence of his holy powers as well as his demonic ones, and if there was anyone that could fix up this ugly gash then it would be him.
Ha! Never going to happen. Alastor would die a painful death a thousand times over before he struck a deal with Lucifer. No one works for free, and Alastor cannot offer his soul to the King of Hell. He thinks he would if it was still in his possession, but the thought sickens him. The price for a favour such as this is not something he can pay, so Alastor sits and stews, and each day the wound grows worse.
***
He’s not sure why he decided to sit in the lobby today. Maybe it was peaceful, one of those rare moments where most of them were gathered around but no one said anything, the only noise coming from that infernal picture box that Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb were watching with rapt attention. Alastor was successfully drowning it out by playing a tune through his staff, quietly humming along to it while he sat on one end of Husker’s bar, albeit the song was a bit weaker than he would have liked. An unfortunate side effect of his wound.
He was so comfortable in fact, that he could even ignore the eyesore in his periphery that was Lucifer himself.
No wonder they called him the Morningstar, the man was bright enough to be painful on the eyes. Alastor wondered if the mostly white attire was some attempt to hang on to the purity of his angelic days. If so, then it was pathetic.
What was done was done, the angel was as likely to be welcomed home as Alastor was to be greeted with his mothers open arms after she had inevitably discovered his true nature. They hadn’t exactly reconvened up in paradise after all, she had to have figured out by now that he had been due to take a trip downstairs.
That little boy with the split lip and bruised cheek hopes she doesn’t hate him.
He feels a prickling sensation, like he’s being watched. A quick glance out of the corner of his eye reveals he is, in fact, being watched. By none other than the self-proclaimed ‘Big Boss of Hell Itself’. Gaudy title for a gaudy man, in Alastor’s opinion.
He keeps staring. . . and staring. . . and staring. Another quick little glance tells him Husker has caught on, and is flicking his own eyes between the two of them in what appears to be confusion.
The two of them have become friends, Alastor knows. He would never have guessed it, but given Husker’s own developing relationship with Angel Dust, it seems the demon just attracts the flashy, showy types.
Unable to endure the staring any longer, he cracks his neck to the side to return it, looking at Lucifer straight on without moving the rest of his body. He knows it unnerves the king, which is why he takes such great pleasure in doing it.
“Something on my face, Your Majesty?” His voice is absolutely dripping with false friendliness the way it always does when he’s forced to interact with the little pest.
“Having performance issues there?”
Alastor lets his eyes narrow a fraction. This pathetic excuse for a king wants to criticise Alastor? Well, two can play at that game. He takes a moment to decide which button he wants to press to get Lucifer properly riled up and ready for a fight. His smile widens, and he gets ready to deliver a blow of his own.
The front door slams open, a very frazzled princess of hell and her lover running through. Although disappointed at his cancelled sparring match with the king, he must admit that the princess does do a rather good job of catching his attention with the screamed gibberish that pours out of her mouth. Vagatha does a rather commendable job of calming her down, but Charlotte had certainly caught everyone’s attention.
Lucifer stands and walks away from the bar, leaving Alastor frustrated at their argument cut short, Lucifer walking away with the last word.
He rights his neck and follows, twirling his cane as he goes to join the group, albeit standing a little ways back from them.
The Princess has finally been calmed, and she reaches up to her bow tie to fix it before her voice immediately raises to an unacceptable volume again. “WE WERE RIGHT! SIR PENTIOUS GOT REDEEMED! HE’S IN HEAVEN RIGHT NOW.”
Well, remind him to engage in more acts of sadism on the regular because that’s not a risk he ever wants to take.
The others raise a racket, but Alastor? He’s lost in his thoughts for a moment.
Honestly, when he had joined this little pet project he had never expected it to go anywhere. He had wanted entertainment, something to cure the boredom that came with immortality. He has to admit, he’d become annoyingly invested in it in a way, and mayhaps had developed some fondness for the people that inhabited it (with the exclusion of one ), but never by any stretch of the imagination would he have ever thought that the one singular goal of the hotel was possible .
Alastor didn’t believe people changed like that. He had long ago hunted down his fathers soul - amused at the form of a pig he had taken - and put him down for the second time, taking much longer than the merciful death of being thrown to the swamp wildlife. But, if in some strange reality he hadn’t put that scum down, and he had come to the hotel seeking redemption, he would have turned him away at the very least.
People like his father don’t change, and they certainly can’t be redeemed.
But Sir Pentious? Well, if that snake had one true victory over Alastor, it was getting him to admit, even just to himself, that he was wrong. Clearly the sinner - or winner he should say - had redeemed himself in the eyes of whatever cosmic power decided such nonsense. Alastor might even say he was a little impressed.
His attention is drawn back when Lucifer pulls his daughter in for a hug. Everyone else is too distracted, but Alastor notices the way Lucifer tenses up slightly. Strange . He’s never done that before. Every annoying display of affection was done with the utmost sincerity. |not to say that this wasn’t sincere, but something was off.
They separate, but Alastor’s mind has annoyingly trained itself on the king with curiosity instead of malice.
The Princess starts up again, the volume at appropriate levels but her spirit as bright as ever. “They want to have a meeting! An actual meeting to talk about it! And uh. . .” Oh? A look at the way Charlotte is looking at her father - apologetically - and the way Vagatha looks like she may be concerned about Lucifer’s reaction tells Alastor all he needs to know about what’s coming next. Charlotte reaches forward to hold her father’s hands. So tactile, these Morningstars. “I know that it may bring up bad memories for you and you are totally welcome to say no-”
She rambles on, Lucifer trying to catch her attention several times before he’s forced to raise his voice. Not threateningly, no, he never speaks to his daughter like that. Alastor must admit, Lucifer is leagues ahead of his own father, but that's not exactly a high standard to meet. He’s fairly certain there’s a million fathers in hell that his own couldn’t hold a candle to.
He agrees to come, and Charlotte and Vagatha visibly sigh in relief. Alastor just can’t help but wonder what Heaven is playing at here. No contact with their prodigal son for so long, and now they want him to come to Heaven and defend the hotel? Alastor doesn’t trust this, but then again, the number of people he truly trusts can be counted with one hand.
And then, to his absolute horror, Charlotte turns those sickeningly sweet eyes onto him. “Alastor, would you come too?”
He knows he should say no. He knows that under no circumstance should he ever step foot in that place. The thought of running into his mother, of seeing her distraught and upset because of him , is too much for his rotted heart to bear.
But then he sees Lucifer’s face, and it’s almost like the man is begging him not to join them. Demanding him not join them. Heaven must be leagues bigger than this place? What are the chances of running into her?
His pride wins before anything else. “Of course, my dear!”
He almost grins even wider at the look on Lucifer’s face when he says it, before he’s bombarded with the princesses affections and finds himself with an armful of Charlotte Morningstar.
He barely catches himself when she makes contact with his chest where the worst of the wound throbs and pulses with that terrible energy. He flinches, imperceptibly and confident that no one has noticed. He doesn’t bother praying, but he hopes upon hope that Charlotte doesn’t notice any of that holiness inside him, hopes that his magic is powerful enough to mask the smell, bandages thick enough to hide the glow.
He’s soon surrounded by most of the other hotel residents, cooing at him and praising him as he returns the affection with one arm. Touch has never been something he’d indulged in regularly, so he must admit that this is not one of his best performances. It seems to satisfy the princess though.
To his surprise, Lucifer isn’t even looking at the group. He seems to be staring behind him, at the bar where Husker hadn’t deigned to peel himself away from, only spitting liquor everywhere upon hearing the news of Sir Pentious’ redemption.
He wonders if he should be worried about their developing friendship. Annoyingly, he’s powerless to actually do anything about it. After all, what real chance does he have against the king?
***
The wound actually flares when he tries to close it. His bandages were bloody yet again, and he had foolishly hoped that this time would be the time where he managed to finally seal the damned thing.
It failed, obviously, and it takes a great deal of will to not cry out like an injured animal.
His shadow is flitting worriedly around him, panicking at the sight of more blood and more intensity behind the light. He wonders if the energy is alive, in its own way. If something like Alastor’s shadow could have a mind of its own, then why not this heavenly light?
Although in Alastor’s opinion, his shadow is a creature much more advanced.
That being said, for all his love of the creature he already knows what it wants.
“I’ve said it once,” Alastor spits out through a strained smile, “I’ll say it again: you are not to fetch the king .”
It hisses at him. Actually hisses . He’s well aware it’s out of concern, but it doesn’t make him any more inclined to beg the king for help.
Alastor can’t stand the man really, even if those verbal - and sometimes physical - sparring matches give him no end of entertainment, but his shadow is another case entirely when it comes to the little man.
It adores him. It loves to lurk in his shadow, to be near him, and when it’s sure no one else is looking, it just stares at him with a look that can only be described as adoring. Alastor always reigns it back in whenever he catches it, warning it to never do something so outlandish again, but the threat has apparently fallen on deaf ears.
He will never ask Lucifer. He will never bring his wound up to the others, regardless of his shadows opinion on the matter. Rosie would just fret and worry, and he knows that she knows that the only person who could actually do something about this is staying in the tower across from him in this very hotel.
There is no one to confide in. Nothing to do.
He closes his eyes and sleeps, his dreams full of light.