Work Text:
“We’re just friends,” you assure Angel as he invades your personal space rather unapologetically. “Though, very good ones at that.”
“Oh, come on!” he groans, throwing himself across your lap even more dramatically than before. “You can’t tell me that you haven’t once looked at that twink and thought about what those claws could do to you. You spend all your time with him!”
You laugh and roll your eyes, petting Angel’s hair pityingly. “There are such things as platonic relationships between men and women, you know. We’re friends.”
“I’m gay!” he cries, swatting your hand away. “Don’t get me wrong, doll, you’re hot as here, but you’d have to pay me to even consider—”
“Must you always be so lewd?” you interrupt, trying to wiggle your book free from underneath him.
“I’m contractually obliged.” He smirks, tucking two hands behind his head and arching his back over your legs so you can finally retrieve your book.
“Thank you,” you murmur as he settles back over your lap and into the sofa. “Maybe you should get that looked at by lawyers.”
“Eh, I’ve fucked a few’a them. Trust me, they’re not worth the hype.” He fixes you with a look. “Conniving, cannibalistic, radio hosts on the other hand—”
You ignore him and continue reading your book.
“We’re just friends,” you giggle while Niffty darts about your room to dust, sweep, vacuum, and disinfect. Watching her bolt around and around made you dizzy, so you settled into your pillows to talk to her without necessarily having to play tennis with your eyes as you did so.
“But you’re a girl,” she points out as she shakes out your curtains on the balcony before leaping right back into the room to hang them up. “And he’s a boy. You’d look so cute together, and you’d love each other forever and ever, and no one would stand in your way because he’s powerful andhewouldtakecareofyouandyouwouldtakecareofhimandhe’dslaughteranyonewhotouchedyouandyou’ddevourany —”
“Niffty.” You laugh, throwing your hands over your eyes. “You know I can’t understand you if you don’t slow down.”
She jumps up onto your bed and sits beside you, picking your hands away from your face. “I’m just saying,” she says, with a distinct look of disapproval on her face.
You barely start to shake your head before she bounces back to scrubbing the windows.
“Hmm? Oh, no, we’re just going as friends.” You wave your hand as you look through the dresses. “He was going to go with Rosie, but she ended up having a dinner date that night.”
“I don’t kno~ow!” Charlie says in a sing-song voice. “You two would make an awfully good couple. You get along so well, and as far as I know, you’re the only one he trusts.”
You admire the look of a sleek red evening dress and wonder if you won’t need something shorter to dance in. “Well, we knew each other in life, Charlie. He and my brother were . . . friends. And after Bo died, he helped pay for my doctors before I died.”
“Some people would call that romantic,” Charlie very nearly squeals.
You scoff. “Some people would call that sad,” you correct her, adding the long red gown to your pile to try on. “We both died young. Both went to hell. Both of us hardly knew anyone else here.”
At the mention of that , Charlie’s mood dampens considerably and you immediately feel a little guilty. You know how much people and redemption and love mean to Charlie, and Lucifer only knows how much you wish you still did too.
“Hey,” you touch her arm. “Alastor is my best friend, you know? How can I see him any other way?”
She smiles warmly, the sparkle of redemption-material! in her eye. You turn back abruptly to the dresses.
“Oh, for the love of Satan, just kiss him already,” Husk growls before taking an unnecessarily large drink from his bottle. He’s technically on the clock for the party, but there are more than a few guests waiting impatiently for refills on their drinks.
You glance one way and then the other, your eye out for Charlie and especially Vaggie, before deciding the coast is clear. You pull the skirt of your dress up in one hand and hop over the bar, nudging the feline to the side with your hip before taking over the bar operations.
“You know we’re just friends, Husk,” you remind him, tossing a bottle through the air and back into your hand with practiced ease. “And besides, you know him. He’d probably let me get close just to laugh at me.”
“Uh-huh.” Husk hides behind his bottle and scuttles off into the corner to sulk.
You fall into the familiar motions of bartending, the low lights of the party at night reminding you almost of life, except for the drastically different music hammering through the speakers. Although a few slow or familiar songs come on, most people in Hell are more content to jump and grind to the base and beats of modern music.
At some point, Husk falls into a drunken sleep and stops handing you bottles, but you hardly suffer to pick up the slack.
“Well, well, well!” A loud voice interrupts your content revelry as Alastor leans over the bar. “This is a sight I haven’t seen for a while!”
You smile and pick out a clean glass and a very old bottle that doesn’t have a label. You toss the two between your hands and above your head, making a great show of pouring the simple and admittedly ghastly drink, but everything about it warms your corrupted heart with nostalgia. From the weight of a bootlegged bottle to the dazzling and attentive smile, to the smooth and lively jazz that has suddenly begun to play, much to your delight.
When your theatrics are done, you finally slide the drink in front of him and watch him take a sip. “Why, that’s exactly how I remember it,” he says appreciatively, swiping up your hand. “Tell me, dear, do you still remember how to dance?”
There are several other Sinners who know this kind of dancing. A few other couples remain on the floor when the trumpets and clarinets warble through the speakers and the rest take the chance to get more drinks.
But all of them fade away. It feels as though there is a spotlight on you and Alastor, and maybe there is. He likes to show off and you’ve always been his favorite partner.
He leads strong and wild. You fall into every spin and toss without hesitation. Even if your head swoops close to the ground when he dips you or if your stomach drops out of your body when he throws you in the air. He always catches you. He always pulls you back close before you can get too far away from him. When you dance, he has eyes only for you and it takes your breath away more than the exertion of the fast-paced steps.
The song ends and you are in an especially extravagant pose, one of his hands clutching yours, the other around your shoulder, and the small of your back over his knee as he dips you. You grin as wildly as him, and part of you laments when he pulls you back to your feet.
Some of the other party-goers are clapping. Some are demanding that the "real" music be brought back. Alastor bows and lightly kisses your knuckles.
“As graceful as always, my dear,” he says, straightening so he can look down into your eyes. You still stand within a breath of each other.
“You’re the one who leads,” you tell him. “All I have to do is follow.”
He chuckles. “True, true. But don’t sell yourself short!” He pats your hand and takes a step away from you, summoning his microphone as he does so. The other music has returned, the spotlight disappears, and the rest of the party comes into better focus as Sinners flood the dance floor yet again. “It takes quite a lot of skill to follow like you do, doll. Let’s do this again! I’ll have a word with our fine manager about the music selection this evening.”
He turns around and marches into the crowd, people parting to let him pass. Your eyes follow him until another couple bumps into you and nearly knocks you to the floor. You barely catch yourself and when you look again, Alastor has disappeared.
You return to the bar where Husk is half-heartedly serving drinks again and you absentmindedly hold the hand Alastor kissed to your lips.
The party lasts long into the night. Between the laughing, the drinking, and the dancing, you have a very good time.
When at last the party is winding down, everyone bolts from the room to avoid clean-up duty, which promises to be a herculean endeavor. Even a little lightheaded as you are, and a little stiff as well, you don’t want to leave all the work for Niffty alone, though she seems quite determined to fix as much as possible immediately.
Vaggie shares your sentiment, and you suspect Charlie would as well, except that she has fallen asleep at one corner table with Vaggie’s jacket tucked around her.
“So . . ." Vaggie purposely avoids looking at you as she begins to sweep away the trash by the bar. “That was quite some show you and Alastor put on.”
“Oh, thank you,” you say, easily flustered in your slightly intoxicated state. “It’s really nothing. We used to dance all the time.”
She glances at you briefly. “Really seems like you were enjoying yourself.”
“I was,” you say, your brain beginning to catch up to whatever she might be on about. “I really enjoyed the party, it was a good idea.”
“Yeah it was,” she replies shortly instead of taking your bait to gush about Charlie’s successful night. She sighs and stops sweeping, finally looking you in the eye. “Look, I saw the way you were looking at him. The way you look at him.”
You pause in your own work cleaning off the bar counter.
“I’m just worried about you,” Vaggie says, abandoning her broom altogether, and resting it against the bar.
“We’re just friends.” You smile as you continue to swipe empty beer bottles into a trash bag. You can’t quite meet her gaze. “Just really good friends.”
Vaggie sighs and shakes her head. She leaves your view and gets back to sweeping. It’s quiet except for Niffty chirping as she zips about the room.
Then, Vaggie says, “I see the way he looks at you, too.”
You fumble in tying the garbage bag up.
“It’s the same way he looks at a shotgun.” You don’t know when she moved, but suddenly Vaggie is at your side, lightly laying a hand on your shoulder. “You have to know that, right? He treats you like you're one of his murder weapons.”
“I know better than all of you who he is.” You finally manage to tie off the bag, with a little more force than necessary. The satisfaction of a good night has worn off. You shove off Vaggie’s hand and pick up a washcloth. “I know everything he did in life that paved the path to here, and I know every sin he's committed since.”
When you look at Vaggie, you see pity in her eyes. You grit your teeth and start wiping down the bartop.
“He’s my friend,” you say again, mopping up spilled liquor, sucked lime slices, and white powder. Your feet suddenly ache in your dancing shoes. The lights in the room are too bright. You don’t see the shadow of a smile in the corner. “Believe me, I know what that means.”
“I’m not going to help you lie to them,” you tell him, trying to keep your voice civil and your expression pleasant. You can tell he’s mad and having the audacity to seem upset yourself would only make him furious. “I told you that many years ago. I keep your secrets. I don’t help you with the work.”
He smiles wider than a cheshur cat and his glowing eyes are narrowed. Static feedback drones loudly around the both of you and you can feel the shadows in the room growing.
You press your lips firmly together in a grim smile and look away. “You know I’m not going to stop you. I won’t tell a soul. But I’m also not going to go lie to Charlie and the others about what you’re doing. This place is supposed to be different than the rest of Hell. I’m not going to be the one who breaks their trust.”
His claws are at your chin in an instant, forcing you to look at him, his face right in front of yours. “Haven’t you, already?” The shadows leap around the room with peering faces and horrible whispers. “Do they even know what brought you here, their poor innocent little bunny? Have you told them exactly what kinds of secrets you’ve kept? We both know they’re not all mine.”
You try to stay as still as possible so he doesn’t know how fast your heart is racing, but you know he can see the fear anyway. Not only of him but of the idea of the others finding out about your Sins. About your brother. About your fiance. About the bodies in the swamp and the sticky blood under your nails. Alastor grinning from ear to ear in the shadow of a writhing oak, trailing moss obscuring his eyes-
“Then you know what lengths I’ll go to to keep our secrets safe,” you say, barely able to force the smallest smile to appease him. “But I will not lie to their faces. Besides, why does it matter what they think? They know you don’t care to be reformed.”
He taps his chin with the top of his microphone as if in thought. He releases your face and turns away, though none of the chittering phantoms disappear. “I suppose it doesn’t!” he muses. He casts a glance at you from over his shoulder, all gleaming teeth and glittering eyes. The static sound is so loud it feels like it’s filling your head and drowning out your thoughts.
“Disappointingly logical,” he says. Then continues on to the door. “You’re becoming quite the flat tire, old friend! Careful, now, before I start to get too bored with you .”
The shadows and the static disappear when he slams the door closed. His absence feels like a gaping pit in the silence until you feel your common sense returning. Frustration boils over into anger and you take the book you’d been reading when he arrived and throw it across the room with a scream.
“So, uh . . . What’d he do?” Angel asks, watching you pack your bags in earnest, and warily staying out of your way.
“Nothing.”
“Well, this is clearly not nothing.” He gestures emphatically at your luggage. “Where are you even going? I thought you lived here now?”
“I still have my other house,” you remind yourself. “I’m going there for a while.”
“Okay.” He draws out the last syllable and crosses all four of his arms. “But he did something, right? And now he expects you to leave? This is your home, it’s his hobby. Tell him to fuck off!”
You laugh humorlessly as you throw the contents of your nightstand haphazardly into your trunk. “You think I can tell him to do anything?”
“Well, yeah,” Angel persists. “Even that Bambi bastard had a heart at some point, and the only thing he cares about is you.”
“The only thing that man has ever cared about is himself.” You kneel down to make sure you retrieved everything from under your bed and then stand up on shaky feet to double-check your empty closet.
Angel grabs your arm, however, and forces you to face him, an earnest and sincere expression on his face. “Then why do you still care about him?”
Pain flares in your heart followed by its defender, anger. That’s what all of this is really about. Time and time again, his words cut you deeply and his flippant attitude about you leaves you reeling with a vindictive need for his approval. And you still care ! How can you not? How can you truly give up a century of loyalty at his side even though it hurts so badly to be near him? After all, your dedication has to mean something to him! The fact that you are in Hell with him forever has to mean something , doesn’t it?
You close your eyes and compose yourself at least enough to growl, “Because. He’s my friend.”
“You know that’s not what I mean, toots.”
You look at Angel, your friend, and you conjure a smile from the hurt. “I’m going to miss you,” you say and give him a hug. Then you pull away from him, shut your trunk, and take your things out of the room.
There’s a knock at your door that you are determined to ignore. You are curled up in your bed with a book you’ve barely read in the days since you came back to your house, and although you’ve been staring at the same three sentences for far too long, you are more than content to continue to do so.
The knocking is equally as persistent, however, and soon the doorbell is ringing too and someone is trying to throw pebbles over your fence at the bedroom window.
With a lofty sigh and a grunt of effort, you pull yourself out of bed and slip your dressing robe over your nightgown. You pause to glance once in the mirror to make sure you’re decent—you’re not, you look like you haven’t slept since you left the hotel and everything about you is a mess—and then with yet another sigh, you set to work on a pathetic braid in your hair as you go to open the door.
You knew it wouldn’t be him , but that doesn’t stop the disappointment from sinking in your chest either way when you open the door to the rest of the hotel’s staff.
“Oh my Satan.” Angel makes a face of disgust. “It’s worse than I thought. You look terrible.”
“Thanks, dear.” You scowl, tying off your braid, and crossing your arms over your chest, suddenly wishing you had at least gotten out of bed long enough to shower that morning. “Can I help you all?”
“We were just super worried about you.” Charlie rocks back and forth on her feet, her hands behind her back. “We haven’t heard from you in a week and Alastor’s been really, uh, bummed without you around. Have you—”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.” Your body itches with the urge to shut the door and go back to bed.
“We brought food,” Vaggie says, holding up a pan of something covered in tinfoil.
Behind her, Husk holds up a large, dark, unlabelled bottle.
“Look, kid, we’re your friends.” Angel steps into your doorway, holding out his arms. “We’re not gonna let you sulk ‘cause some douchey overlord is givin’ ya grief. Come on.”
Three arms wrap around you and the fourth pushes your door further open as Angel leads you back into your house.
After the food is cleaned up, everyone bids their goodnights and heads back to the hotel.
Except for Husk, who places the old bottle of gin on the table as soon as Angel closes the door with a last suspicious glance your way.
“Seriously, kid,” Husk mutters, working the cork out of the bottle with a claw. “What happened?”
You huff as you place two glasses on the table and you let Husk pour you a generous amount of old-fashioned bathtub gin. It is strange to think of such things that way. Old-fashioned. As if all the mundane nuances and tiny normalities of your life amounted to nothing. Just an insignificant blip of time in the grand scheme of things. Everything you’re most familiar with is nothing but quaint, novel, and obsolete.
“He got bored.” You take the drink from your friend and take a long slow sip of the badly made alcohol you grew so familiar with in your life. “You know what happens when he gets bored.”
“Yeah.” Husk chuckles and settles into his seat with his own drink. “We all get to tune into screams for the morning commute.” After taking a few large swallows from his glass he raises an eyebrow at you. “And let me guess, he asked you to cover for him.”
“I said no,” you snap, looking into the glass with a scowl. “When he got here and he started going on his stupid killing spree, I told him I didn’t want to be a part of his bunk. When we were alive it was more than enough to know all the things he got up to without ever telling anyone. And here, nobody particularly cares what he does as long as he leaves them alone, but I still told him I was never going to help him do anything.
“I’ve always kept his secrets. Always ! All these decades while the few bastards we did know got bumped off by the angels, I’ve stayed by his side! But as soon as he gets too bored or goes too long without bloodshed, he’s so quick to treat me like shit.
“Never mind that I always try to respect his boundaries and never get in the way of his hunts. Somehow I always end up here , drinking and sulking, while he’s off committing murder!”
It’s more words in a row than you’ve spoken since you left the hotel, it’s more than you’ve shared with anybody in a long time, and it’s all ugly feelings and thoughts you immediately regret.
You swallow down the tears with more god-awful gin.
“Satan, he’s done a number on you, kid,” Husk growls without venom, shaking his head, and scratching his ear awkwardly. “I just don’t understand. We both know he’s as bad as they come and he doesn’t want to be saved, so why do you still go back to him every time he tosses you away?”
You place your glass down on the table and furiously rub at your wet eyes. “Because,” you mutter. “We’re friends.”
Husk shakes his head again and downs the rest of his glass.
“ We’re friends, honey. You an’ Al? You’re toxic.”
You’ve finally finished the series you intended to read whilst home, and as soon as you place it on the table by the easy chair, there’s a knock at your door.
You’re ready to tell Charlie that you really are fine , now, thanks, and just need some time to yourself, when your eyes catch on the clock on the fireplace mantelpiece, and you see that it is nearing four am. Not even Charlie’s sense of goodwill extends to this hour of the morning.
A spike of anxiety overwhelms you.
This is Hell , after all, and honestly, the promise of near-immortality does nothing to assuage the concerns of the real threat of maiming, theft, rape, arson, or any other crime that could rapidly turn your afterlife even worse.
Cautiously, you dart to the front closet and pick out your rifle. The person at your door knocks again, more insistently, and you check the barrels to make sure they’re loaded before snapping them back in place and making for the door.
When you glance out the peak-hole, however, there is not any sort of thug or ambitious sinner on your front porch.
You undo the locks and open the door to Alastor, who is leaning heavily against the door frame and is covered in blood.
“Dammit,” you hiss, all but tossing your gun back into the closet before catching the Overlord as he collapses into your house. “Alastor?”
“‘M fine, doll,” he slurs with more of a drawl in his voice than you’ve heard in decades. “Mind if I join you?”
You drag him the rest of the way inside and kick your door shut behind you. It’s hard to support most of his long, gangly weight when he’s uncoordinatedly trying to move of his own accord, but you wrestle him into the salon and onto a sofa.
He’s in bad shape. You can’t tell what of the blood is his and what is the blood of whatever poor damned souls he was hunting, but he’s expended a lot of his energy and power and his palms and wrists are mutilated with self-inflicted cuts and pricks. He must have used a lot of voodoo.
He stops resisting you as you help him lay down, and instead wearily closes his eyes in a wince as you hover carefully beside him.
“May I help you?” you whisper. For a moment, he is still and smiling with only his teeth. Then, stiffly, he nods, eyes still closed. “Hand,” you mutter, before taking one bloodied hand and holding it tightly in yours. You sigh as you begin to look over the damage and try to determine how best to fix it.
“Why is it,” he purrs with less static than usual, “that whenever I knock, you always answer? After all these decades?”
“You’re my dearest and oldest friend.” You squeeze his hand and smile when he looks at you. “You know you can always rely on me.”
The teeth disappear, but the smile remains. It’s as close to honesty as he gets. His claws bite into your skin when he grips your fingers back. “Oh, I know, my dear. I know.”
You return to the hotel on his arm, his wounds completely vanished. Your suitcases are neatly transported without issue.
Everyone welcomes you back enthusiastically and congratulates Alastor on his recent massacre with far less sincerity.
He leads you to your room and then leaves you to unpack in privacy. On your bed is waiting an old-fashioned, patterned box made with thick cardboard and crepe paper. The tag is decorated with your name in looping letters, a carefully flourished “A” is inked underneath it, and a little stack of carefully pressed hell-flowers is pinned to the corner.
Inside of the box, under a few layers of delicate tissue paper, is the gorgeous red velvet evening gown you’ve had your eyes on for a while, and a pair of clean, white, satin gloves.
You sit down heavily on the bed as you admire them and then close your eyes against the gift.
“Just friends,” you remind yourself quietly.
Then you begin to unpack your things.